The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and pressed a hand to her belly. No new life had replaced the other. Her cycles were irregular, and there were times she felt a weakness all through her. Maybe it was best no life took hold. What if she couldn’t sustain it? She thought of Divina’s belly full with child. Whether Nicolo’s or Flavio’s, it didn’t matter. She would hold a baby in her arms, suckle it at her breast.

  Carina’s loss overwhelmed her. She climbed onto the bed and cried. When Mamma came in, sat down, and embraced her, she wished for one moment she were a little girl again, playing with her brothers, her cousins, even Divina, who didn’t play fair. She wished she could go back in time before she knew such grief as this.

  “Shh, shh.” Mamma stroked her hair.

  But all Carina could think was how Quillan’s mother had done the same, and how he had remembered the feel of her hair from infancy. Mamma had to understand. “I love him, Mamma. As much as you love Papa. I had his baby inside me, but it’s dead now. They beat it out of me.” She crumpled into Mamma’s arms.

  “Dear God, dear God.” Mamma rocked her.

  “You have to help me. I can’t live without him.” She didn’t want to.

  Mamma said nothing, but held her.

  Carina pulled away. “Papa has to see.”

  “It’s not only Papa.”

  Carina swiped her tears. “The others will listen.”

  Mamma shook her head. “Tell me why, Carina. Flavio gave you his heart, you, out of everyone he could have chosen. You know it’s true. He could have had any girl, but he loved you, loves you still.”

  Carina stiffened. “He wasn’t faithful, Mamma.”

  She shrugged. “So he’s young. He would settle down when his children came.”

  Carina bit her lip hard to keep from saying his child was on the way. Mamma was not stupid. She knew Divina’s belly was not a four-month size. But was it possible she knew nothing of Flavio’s part?

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I have a husband.”

  Mamma dropped her eyes. “Did he force you? It could be annulled if—”

  “No!” Quickly she told Mamma about Berkley Beck and how Quillan had protected her from a terrible marriage. It sounded impossible, but Mamma had no experience of Crystal, of roughs, of vigilantes.

  Mamma gathered her black lace shawl and tied it around her shoulders. “The marriage could be unlawful on grounds of coercion. You were forced by circumstances.”

  Carina stared at her. Had she heard nothing? “Mamma.” She caught her mother’s face, made her look at her. “Quillan is my husband under God. Nothing will sever that.”

  Mamma didn’t answer. She stroked Carina’s cheek, and a tear pooled in her eye. Fear filled Carina, fear of something in Mamma’s thoughts. But her mother stood up. “Why don’t you come down and eat?”

  Just like that? Carina looked up. “I’m not hungry.”

  Mamma shrugged. “As you like.” Willowy and graceful, she left the room.

  Carina stared after her. If she had agreed to annul the marriage, would Quillan now be safe?

  SEVENTEEN

  Hatred:

  Forged in the heart, like poisoned air it seeps, from lips and eyes finding escape. And I? I am the smith who hammers it into the hearts of those I would esteem, those I wish esteemed me.

  —Quillan

  QUILLAN LAID ASIDE THE JOURNAL. The room he’d found in the Union Hotel was suitable. But looking around it, he almost felt homesick for the simplicity of his tent on the creek in Crystal when he was answerable to no one but himself. He thought over the words he’d written, bitter words borne of yet another rejection. This time he had tainted Carina, as well. He closed his eyes, but her tear-streaked face was in his mind. Eyes open or closed, he saw her.

  Because of him, her family resented her. How far would they go? He slammed his fist into his palm. His first thought was to run, to desert her. Wasn’t desertion grounds for annulment? Then he realized it was impossible. He had made a covenant before God. He intended to keep it.

  So the only thing to do was what he said before. He had to learn to be Italian. The thought sent a flicker of amusement, which was quickly quenched. Too much rested on it. But then, how did he know he wasn’t? Wolf ’s people could have been from Italy. What’s to say they weren’t? Carina’s father was fair, blue eyed. Joseph and Lorenzo, as well. Maybe Wolf ’s golden hair and gray eyes came from the same stock. But he was being fanciful.

  Quillan stretched his legs out on the bed and thought of Carina and her family. How had he seemed to them? He was educated, yes; possessed extraordinary memory. And he had money, plenty of it. But the flood had taught him that didn’t make the man. And he knew that even if he had named the amount, Carina’s family would have rejected him. He was flawed. He must be.

  Quillan lay back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe Mrs. Shepard had it right. She had seen his deficiency. No matter what he did, it would be there. The DeMornays had seen it, the railroad detectives, too. And now the DiGratias. But that would not stop him. Quillan closed his eyes and pictured the room full of DiGratia men, Carina’s father and brothers. One day he would stand among them, if not welcome then respected. His chest rose and fell. He owed Carina that much.

  Sitting up he dug into his pack for Cain’s Bible, his Bible now. He’d committed large portions of the first three gospels to memory. The Shepards had forced him to learn verses as a child; now he devoured the text by his own desire. He opened to the fourth gospel, Saint John’s, chapter fifteen. I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman.

  Quillan pictured the fields he and Carina had passed through, lined with root-shaped trunks cloaking the hills between squares of wheat and oats. Pale green, gold, and vibrant yellow amid the stark brown vines that looked more dead than alive. Those were the vineyards, those rows of gnarled blackish stumps. He looked back at the text, sensing a message he was meant to grasp, but not understanding.

  Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Quillan looked up at the ceiling. Did he bear fruit? He was trying to. So that put him in the next category. He certainly felt that some of his old behaviors had been purged. “All right, Lord. You’ve been working on me. Now what?”

  Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.

  Those were Jesus’ words, but what was He saying to the people who had gathered? What was He saying to Quillan now? Abide in Him, though everything else be stripped away? That only through the Lord’s help would he keep the covenant he had made? Be~come what he was expected to become?

  I am the vine, ye are the branches. He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing.

  Quillan felt the truth of it. For all the years he’d fought God, there was little to show. A moderate fortune made by the sweat of his labor and blind luck. A few friends, but also enemies. And Carina. Carina had seen his flaws, suffered the worst he had to give, but loved him still. That was a wonder he could scarcely comprehend. But it sustained him as he committed the first ten verses of the fifteenth chapter to memory, then closed the book and went to sleep.

  The next morning he went out. The first order of business was employment. The hotel clerk had suggested the imposing store on the northeast corner of the plaza, so he headed that way, assessing the building he approached. It had an attractive Victorian front complete with cupola and porch and looked nothing like the adobe barracks the man assured him it had been.

  His view was blocked abruptly by Flavio and Nicolo, emerging from a narrow gap between two buildings. At the sight of him, they stopped talking and moving. Pausing his stride, Quillan stepped to his right. They stepped the same way, confused or contrary he couldn’t tell. Quillan moved to his left as a third man came up a little behind them. Three to one. Not good odds if they mean
t to get ugly.

  Quillan hesitated then stepped off the sidewalk and went around, not as much of an issue as it would have been in Crystal with the streets clogged with people and either rushing mud or choking dust. Quillan returned to the walkway near enough to hear the smug guffaws. If that was the worst Flavio could do, Quillan had dealt with it every day in primary school. He found a man unlocking the doors of the store.

  “Good morning.” The man spoke pleasantly enough.

  “Good morning. My name’s Quillan. I’m looking for employment.”

  The man turned the knob and pocketed his keys. “Solomon Schocken. What are you looking to do?”

  “Well, if you’re Mr. Schocken, the clerk at the Union Hotel said you had several interests I might consider. I have a freight wagon and team of four.”

  Schocken opened the door and admitted him. “This is my store.”

  Quillan looked about, noting the orderly, well-stocked shelves and tables. “Successful enterprise by the looks of it.”

  That obviously pleased him, but Schocken wasn’t puffed up. “I have several such.”

  Quillan cocked his head. “I’m versatile.”

  Schocken appraised him, seemingly undaunted by whatever the DiGratias had found offensive. But Quillan had fit easily with working men, businessmen, even those like Horace Tabor who had come into better times. It was only personal acceptance he seemed to fend off without trying.

  Schocken said, “I could take you on in the store. I’ve been looking to save myself some hours. But that seems a waste of your wagon and team. I’ve not much need for that sort of hauling here, with the railroad passing directly before as it does. Of course there’d be occasional transportation of furniture and such. But I’ve another enterprise you might consider.”

  Quillan waited while Schocken removed his coat and tied on an apron. “A basalt quarry. You might have seen it on your way in. We supply cobbles for San Francisco, Petaluma, San Jose. Quite an operation. I need wagons to haul the stones down Schocken Hill to the depot here at the plaza.”

  Quillan pictured it. Not so different from hauling ore, though he’d eschewed that out of preference. “What do you blast with?”

  “What blasting we do is with nitro sticks. Dynamite. Safer than powder and far more stable.”

  “Until it freezes.” At Schocken’s surprise, Quillan added, “I’ve had some experience there. Hauled for the Leadville mines. Those white crystals of frozen nitro are no picnic.”

  Schocken reassessed him. “True. But we’re not contending with mountain climes. Still, your experience would be helpful. What do you say?”

  Quillan considered the offer. It could serve to get him established.

  Schocken pulled open the window shades. “I’ve got a good crew. Mainly Italians. I import them.”

  Italians. That should prove interesting. And now his pluck quickened. “All right. Do you have anything for the evenings?”

  Schocken turned with the feather duster he’d lifted from the corner socket. “The evenings?”

  “I don’t like much slack time.”

  For a moment Schocken seemed without an answer, then said, “How about stocking the shelves here at the store?”

  Quillan looked around again. The store was long and filled with groceries and provisions, furnishings, dry goods, and yard goods. He saw racks of clothing, boots, and shoes. Shallow crates held cutlery, tin ware, and hardware. That should just about keep him busy enough to stave off the ache for his wife. At least until he figured out what to do about that. “Okay.”

  “You’re an enterprising one. I admire that.”

  “When do I start?”

  Schocken tapped the duster against his palm. “As soon as my clerk arrives, we’ll go out to the quarry. Mr. Marconi is the foreman. He’ll direct you from there.”

  Quillan nodded. “I’ll set up my team.” He went out and surveyed the plaza. The narrow gauge tracks ran along Vallejo Street on the corner of which sat Schocken’s store. The cross street alongside the store was named easily enough First Street East.

  Across the plaza, he saw two other general merchandise stores, a hardware store, and a couple blacksmiths and bakeries—one named Union like the hotel and livery; it wasn’t hard to tell where the sympathies of these folks lay. There was a meat market, druggist, and stationer. He also counted several Chinese stores around the plaza. They included two laundries, three restaurants, a grocery, and one establishment that said simply Chinese Store and listed fireworks for sale. Sonoma was like any another town except for its pleasing layout around the square and what seemed regular quadrants flanking that. Very neat, though the pressed dirt streets were none too clean. Was there no provision for waste?

  As he stood catching his bearings, a diminutive Chinese man stepped from the grocery and started down the street calling, “Fluit, cabbagie, ladish, splouts. Allie same plice.”

  Quillan’s ear twisted around the pronunciation as the man in a shiny dresslike getup pushed his small wheeled cart past.

  “Fushie and slimps. Vely flesh. Allie flesh. Allie same plice.” The little man looked at him, then passed by, no doubt pegging him for a stranger not likely to buy. The man’s braided hair reached almost to the street. Quillan was duly impressed.

  He started for the Union Livery and Feed, where he’d left his wagon and team after removing them from Giuseppe’s care. The furniture remained covered with a tarp in the DiGratia’s barn. It was Carina’s, after all. But he had to stop thinking like that. It wasn’t his wagon and her furniture. It was all theirs. He couldn’t allow division in his thoughts or the division in their lives could take root.

  The livery was right next to his hotel, and after calling for his team and wagon, he went up to his room, donned the buckskin coat to protect against stones kicked up by the horses, and his broad-brimmed hat for the sun. He felt like a freighter again, and the familiarity settled him. It may not be his final vocation, but for now it was one familiar thing among so much strange.

  He met Solomon Schocken in front of the store. Schocken climbed up beside him. “Fine rig.”

  Quillan nodded.

  “Are the horses heavy shod? The stone in the quarry can be sharp and troublesome.”

  Quillan hadn’t thought of that. They were shod for long hauls on rough roads, though. “I think they’ll do. I’ll check them over tonight.”

  They shared small talk on their way to the quarry, Quillan revealing as little of his situation as possible, partly because he didn’t understand it himself. He had brought Carina home, but what did that mean for him?

  Carina’s eyes ached from weeping, but she could pursue sleep no longer, so she forced them open. The morning was well advanced, but no one had wakened her. She sat up groggily, reminiscent of the effects of laudanum. This time it was only grief and worry that made her heavy and slow. She sighed.

  Pulling herself up, she washed and dressed. The morning sun was muted as always by the haze that lingered on the valley though the sky was clear. Much of the rain for the season was past. Now the slow warming would begin, the awakening of the land, the waking of the vines. She twisted the front strands of her hair back over her ears and plaited them together, leaving the bulk of her hair hanging down her back.

  She saw in the looking glass that she had lost weight. With her corset merely snug, the side seams of her dress were no longer tightly fitted. She put a hand to her flat belly. Was it possible she’d never bear a child? She vaguely recalled Mae asking Dr. Felden about that, and his nebulous reply. He had cautioned her again before she and Quillan left, cautioned that her kidneys might not support a pregnancy.

  And anyway, with Quillan gone how would she conceive? She quickly shook the gloomy thought away. Quillan was not gone. He had promised to stay in town. She would make some excuse to find him there today. To see him, to touch him, to hear his voice.

  She dropped to her knees. “Grazie, Signore, for this day. All things are in your hands. Melt my will to yours, but .
. . per favore, give me back my husband.” That had to be God’s will. How could He will otherwise when He had given her Quillan before? Surely God did not give only to take away.

  She might have believed that once—had believed it. But not anymore. The God she came to know on the mountains of Colorado was not a capricious God, playing with her heart. He was faithful and true. Goodness and grace. If she must suffer separation now, it was somehow for her good and Quillan’s. “But how, Signore? I don’t understand.”

  And maybe she wasn’t meant to. Maybe she had only to trust. She stood up and smoothed her skirts. She might not be plump and soft, and her eyes were red and dry, but she would not sulk. Somehow she must make peace between her family and her husband. She went out.

  Mamma was in the conservatory dribbling water over the newly sprouted tomato plants that would go into the garden after all chance of frost was past. Carina watched her with pride and fury. She’d always been proud of Mamma, so capable and lovely, so fiercely protective of her own. Was that it now? Did she feel threatened by Quillan?

  Carina walked in, watched Mamma test the soil in the little clay pots with her finger, then drip water over the plants. She imagined the round red tomatoes that would make rich chunky sauces pungent with herbs and garlic. She looked over the other plants, squashes and eggplant and peppers, melons and beans, and then the herbs on shelves along the glass wall, tended all year. The conservatory carried their fragrance through deepest winter, which of course, was nothing to Crystal’s snow-covered freeze. Nonetheless, the greenhouse gave Mamma an advantage over other wives in the area.

  Papa used herbs for his medicines, also. His area of the greenhouse had plants arranged and labeled according to phylum, order, and species. Carina remembered him teaching her how to recognize and use them. She wandered over. Buttercup for asthma, arnica for sprains, slippery elm, aloe, chamomile, and clover for burns. Colds called for mullein plant made into candy. Coughs: onion syrup, unless they were severe, then Papa used paregoric, which he made from opium and camphor. She knew so many of his remedies, had applied them herself.