The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  His fingers tightened. His lips formed a tight line. “Get on the horse.” He spoke softly, but as always his tone compelled. Like Papa, Flavio did not holler, did not need to. Was she a little girl again to be controlled by his strings?

  “Grazie, no.” She tried to pull away.

  He nudged her toward the animal. It shied, but Flavio tugged the reins. “Get on, tesora.” An edge now in his voice.

  She could hardly outrun him. It would be humiliating to try. Seething, she took hold of the animal’s back and swung up onto the saddle, which was hardly more than a shaped and padded blanket. Flavio had always preferred bareback riding. Her skirts caught up around her knees, but she had worn her high leather boots to walk to town. What did she care if it looked less than ladylike? Did she care to impress Flavio? Beh!

  He removed her foot from the stirrup and replaced it with his own. Carina quaked at the thought of him behind her. She recalled Quillan’s chest against her back after he had saved her from the mine shaft, his arm holding her steady.

  Flavio put his weight into the stirrup. At the same moment, Carina kicked the stallion in the soft area between its flank and belly. The animal reared, and Flavio fell. Then she was flying across the field upon an enraged beast. But she knew as she flew that the stallion’s fury was nothing to what Flavio’s would be.

  With effort, she gained control of the animal and steered it toward the road. It had been a long time since she’d ridden astride, and the jarring chattered her teeth, especially with one foot out of the stirrup. Her back ached. She yanked on the reins and at last brought the horse to a walk. Flavio was out of sight.

  Arriving home, she tethered the horse in Papa’s courtyard and started toward the house. She had half a mind to pack her trunk and go. But now her fighting spirit was kindled. She would not run, and they would not win. If Quillan was willing to earn their approval, she would give him the chance.

  Tony suddenly blocked her way. “That’s Flavio’s horse.”

  “He lent it to me.”

  “Where is he?” Tony looked out through the gate.

  She shrugged.

  “Carina.” He caught her arm. Of them all, Tony was closest in age and spirit. “Be careful.”

  She looked into her brother’s face. “I shouldn’t have to be.” She walked by and went inside.

  Strained with fury and frustration, she slept poorly and awoke in a temper. The mission bells were ringing at five o’clock Sunday morning, and she rose automatically and dressed. Without breaking their fast, the family filled two large carriages. Since Lorenzo still lived at home with Sophie, he drove one carriage with Ti’Giuseppe and Tia Marta, and Divina and Nicolo, who had walked over from their villa on Papa’s land, which Nicolo earned by working the fields.

  Vittorio drove the second with the rest of them, and a third carryall rattled behind with the servants, driven by Jerome. It was almost a parade, Carina thought, who had never considered it before. Here we come, the DiGratias. She disembarked sullenly and approached the large wooden doors of the adobe Mission Chapel of St. Francis de Solano.

  Its red-tiled roof was lined with pigeons that the huge bell, suspended out front from a massive timber arch, had failed to dislodge. She smelled the sweet scent of the prickly pear whose gnarled woody roots and flat thorny leaves stood as tall as she, copious with cone-shaped fruits from which the Indians made many dishes. Then there was the more pungent scent of the blue flowering rosemary—low, dusty green bushes planted the length of the front porch. And then the mellow, mysterious scent of the incense as she entered the chapel.

  With her head veiled in black lace, Carina dipped her fingers into the black metal font on the back wall, genuflected, then started down the narrow aisle between the benches. The lower portion of the white plastered walls were striped in ochre, maroon, and turquoise, ornamented with simple geometric and plant designs. The altar rail and five-stepped pulpit were painted a variant green.

  They were among the first to arrive, and the silence welcomed her. She closed her eyes for a moment and let its peace enter her. She opened her eyes to gaze at a Spanish painting of Gesù being stripped and mocked. A painting on the opposite wall showed men nailing him to the cross. As she sat between the scenes, Carina’s heart quailed.

  She had seen these pictures day after day as she’d attended Mass with her family. But they had never touched her so deeply. Christ’s pain and humiliation. Was there any hardship she could complain of that He had not borne? So she was scorned by her family, in disgrace. Had Gesù not been taunted and spat upon? So her heart longed to be united with Quillan. Had Gesù not wept for Jerusalem to be united with God?

  Her temper fell from her like discarded rags as she knelt and folded her hands in prayer. Once it had been only form, but then Gesù had revealed himself, taken her into himself. I am sufficient. He was asking her to trust.

  There was a rustling as the Lanzas took their place in the pew opposite the DiGratias, and Carina saw Flavio, stone faced among them. How angry he must be, but he didn’t look her way. He forced a casualness that mocked the carved suffering of the eighth station of the cross above him on the wall. He was trying to look as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Carina sighed, then lost herself in the ageless words of the Mass, chanted by the mission brothers and the priest. After Mass they went home to breakfast with everyone: Angelo and Renata with six-year-old Carlo, Joseph and Sophie with their daughter Marta and two-year-old Giovanni, Nicolo and Divina, and Sophie and Lorenzo. Tony had asked young Marianna Rossi to join them, and she shyly agreed. Carina looked at them all gathered around the long table, the young ones at a low table of their own. It could have been any Sunday of her life, except that somewhere her husband ate alone.

  Outside the peace of the chapel, she was again besieged by fears and longing. If only Quillan sat beside her now, her life would be complete. Mamma made a fuss over Marianna as she hadn’t before. Was Marianna so much better a choice than the others had been, or was Mamma trying to show Carina how good it could be if she had looked closer to home?

  Not only was she out of favor, she was watched even more closely.

  All day Mamma found things for her to do, or her brothers warded her off. Flavio had, no doubt, told them of her escape, and they were determined not to make the same mistake. She should put her foot down and demand an end to the absurdity, but that could mean complete ostracism, and she was not willing to give up yet.

  For four days there was no note at the desk, and Quillan went from the quarry to the store, grabbing a bite in between. Was he crazy? Why didn’t he go fetch his wife and take her away? She had offered Alaska the last time they spoke, and the thought was heady now as his ache for her grew.

  But he knew she hadn’t meant it. If he tore her away, she might never heal. Her family was the most important thing; she’d said so herself. He had to find a way to win their acceptance, to prove himself worthy. Wasn’t he trying, working every day with her people to learn their ways, their language, even their gestures and mannerisms?

  He threw himself down on the bed and took up the Italian grammar book he had procured. In just four days of studying it, he understood more of his quarry companions’ speech. But now he couldn’t concentrate. His body had adjusted too easily to the workload, not so different from what he had shouldered before. It wasn’t enough to distract him from Carina.

  Where was she? What was she doing? And with whom? It was driving him crazy. He reached for the Bible on the bed stand. But even before he opened it, the words of Jesus came to his mind: I am the vine, ye are the branches. That phrase persisted. But what did it mean?

  Quillan knew the entire chapter by memory. He understood, or thought he did, the promises therein. If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you. But wasn’t he asking? Why, whenever he thought of that one phrase, I am the vine, ye are the branches, did he feel that he was missing something?

 
God had a purpose, yes, and Quillan was trying to accomplish it. Wasn’t he? If he could just prove that he deserved Carina . . . but that was the rub. He didn’t deserve her. He was flawed. Something inherently wrong inside made him know that he didn’t deserve her. But he was trying. Surely God would bless that?

  Quillan slumped down on the bed, returning the Bible to the stand, unopened. Discouragement ate him, fury as well. What had he done to earn the ire of Carina’s father? Yes, they’d married without his permission, but this was hardly the dark ages. And circumstances had forced it, hadn’t they?

  Could he have whisked her safely from Crystal and sent her home to her family? His chest contracted. He’d have never known her as his wife, never felt the healing balm of her love, her acceptance in spite of his flaw. Was that it? Did he have no right to that acceptance? He could hear Leona Shepard’s words: “You have no right to the care we give you. You’re a devil from the pit of hell.” Did her illness let her see more truly than sane minds?

  Quillan thought of Carina’s father, so like William DeMornay. You are not my son, not my grandson. You don’t exist. You couldn’t be my daughter’s son, my daughter’s husband. He pulled the locket out from inside his shirt where he wore it next to his heart. He popped open the lid and stared at his mother’s lovely face. He saw some of his own features there and certainly parts of his nature as well.

  What would it take for him to prove himself and earn their respect, their acknowledgment? Was he a bastard soul? He’d lived with the epithet his whole life, everyone assuming the worst of his conception.

  Was he a bastard son of the Most High?

  Carina stood, arm snaked around the trunk of the young almond in the courtyard, head gazing up to the foamy blossoms faintly pink against the beauty of the evening sky. If only things were as peaceful as it looked up there in the heavens. Signore, I thank you for your grace. Without it, she would be reduced by now to rage and despair.

  Even so, she felt fractious and worried. What must Quillan think when she had promised to meet him, then not come even once? Mamma had insisted Giuseppe take his meals with the family. “It’s not good for him to be so much alone.” How right and kind it had sounded, but Carina knew it was only so she couldn’t use that way of escape again.

  It was absurd. They could not legally separate her from her husband. If she walked away today, they couldn’t stop her. But she would lose them. And Quillan would lose his chance for family. He wanted her to stay; he had said so. Why couldn’t they see his goodness?

  Someone touched her from behind, and she cried out and spun.

  Smiling, Flavio slid his hand along the small of her back. “I’m sorry, tesora. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She tried to back away, but he locked the fingers of his other hand with the first, trapping her waist. “Your papa said I’d find you here.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.” His voice softened. “And I know what you want.”

  She stared into his face. If he really knew, would he persist in tormenting her? If he just said the word, maybe her family would relent. Engagement promises were broken. If both parties were willing. What could he possibly gain by continuing his suit with her already married?

  He sobered, dropping his chin just enough. “I was wrong.”

  Her breath caught. Had he finally seen? Could they make their peace and be done with it?

  “But you have to know Divina never meant anything to me.”

  What? What was he saying? What had Divina to do with it?

  “It’s always been you, tesora. Don’t you know that? I told you in every letter, every kiss.” He pulled her closer.

  She put her fists up between them, heart rushing. “What are you doing?”

  “You want me to apologize. Very well. I deeply apologize for wounding you. It was foolish and . . . unfaithful.”

  Carina bristled. “Who told you to say that? Mamma?” She struggled, but he held on. “Did she think if you admitted your fault I would fall back into your arms and swoon?”

  His eyes flashed. “You’ve grown a tongue like Divina’s.”

  “Can you blame her, the way you used her?”

  “Me?” He raised his brows with a snort. “It was she who came to me.”

  Carina glared. “And you merely accommodated.”

  He pressed her into the tree. “I’ve apologized, Carina. Now you must pardon me.”

  She stiffened. “I forgave you already.”

  He raised one hand to cup her face. “Yes?”

  She swallowed the tightness in her throat. This was Flavio, whom she had loved most of her life, with whom she would always have a connection. Could she make him see? “I left here to hurt you, to make you pay for hurting me. A thousand miles I wanted you to come and beg my forgiveness. But in Crystal, I learned another way. I forgave you without an apology because the bitterness would have destroyed me. And I no longer wanted to hurt you.”

  He dampened his lips. “Then why did you marry him?”

  Had Quillan no name to Flavio? He could not honor him even so far? “Because I love him.”

  She saw stark hurt in Flavio’s eyes, and it saddened her to put it there. It wasn’t what she wanted after all. There was no joy in breaking his heart. Then his face changed, and he went to that place inside himself where she couldn’t follow. His breath thinned, and his hand tightened on her jaw. Something savage came from inside him, something she had never seen before. His voice rasped, “For that, I will destroy him.”

  She trembled. Flavio’s hands left her abruptly, but she stayed pressed to the tree until he had left the courtyard and stalked away into the deepening dusk. She must go to Quillan, warn him. She gathered her shawl. Outside the walls of the courtyard, the wind was cold. Spring had not yet gained control, and she shivered as she hurried through the deepening darkness. No brother stopped her, likely because they had given Flavio his privacy. And they wouldn’t guess her foolish enough to go out so late afoot.

  There was enough of a moon to show her the road, little more. But she knew the way. Her chest heaved inside her corset as she all but ran. What if Flavio had gone directly? But that would be murder. Flavio could not, would not . . . She had time, she tried to tell herself, but her feet wouldn’t listen.

  At last she reached the plaza. Unlike Crystal, where music blared and hollers and gunshots broke the night, Sonoma was merely pleasantly lively. People enjoyed themselves at the hotels and restaurants, but there was a lazy quality to their passing. In contrast, Carina’s pace was frantic.

  Where would she find him? The store? No, it was all closed up and dark. She rushed to the Union Hotel and passed through its front doors.

  The clerk looked up from his book. “Good evening, Miss DiGratia.”

  She glared, then realized he had no way of knowing she was married. “Good evening, Mr. Renault. I must see one of your guests. It’s urgent.”

  “Who is it, miss?”

  “Quillan Shepard.”

  The clerk looked at her a moment, then checked the register and said, “He’s in room thirteen.”

  She hurried up the stairs and banged on number thirteen’s door. In less than a breath it swung open and Quillan grabbed her inside.

  “What is it, Carina? What’s wrong?”

  “I looked for you at the store.”

  “I haven’t gone over yet.”

  She clutched his hands. “You can’t go.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  His tone and expression were far too stoic. She had to make him see. Her words came in a rush. “It’s Flavio. He’s going to hurt you—destroy you, he said. We have to go. Now. Before it’s too late.”

  Quillan stared into her face as though he hadn’t heard.

  “I don’t care about my things. Let’s take the wagon and leave.”

  He let go of her. “I can’t run, Carina; don’t ask me to.”

  “But—”

  The side of his mou
th twitched. “I thought you said he was a pacifist.”

  He would joke? “You heard Ti’Giuseppe. Whatever he believes, or thinks he does, is subject to his heart. And right now his heart is violent.” She gripped his forearms. “You must believe me.”

  “I do. But I won’t run away. I won’t give him the satisfaction.”

  “Oh!” She shook him. “This is not the time for pride.”

  “It’s all I have.” He jerked his arms free. “If I can’t think well of myself, who will? Your family? The DeMornays?” It was a bitter tone she’d not heard from him in some time. But that was less important than his danger.

  She had to make him understand. “Flavio will do what he says. And he will have the whole community behind him.”

  Quillan didn’t answer, just stood opening and closing his hands at his sides. “I won’t run.” He turned and walked to the fireplace, stared into the brazier.

  “It’s not running, Quillan. It’s . . . starting over.”

  “It’s admitting I don’t belong.”

  He didn’t belong! That was the point. He was not one of them and never would be. But she couldn’t tell him that. She dropped her hands to her sides, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Please.”

  He came to her and held her shoulders. “I know you don’t understand. But—“his voice thickened—“if I were driven away again, I don’t think I could stand it.”

  She covered his hands with hers, seeing his pain. She hadn’t known, hadn’t realized the depth of his need to be accepted. He would rather die than fail again. And he might. “Signore, help us.” She closed her eyes on her tears.

  “Don’t cry.” His hands tightened.

  “What are we going to do?” She clung to him.

  He brought her gently into his arms. “I don’t know.”

  Her hair fell over his hands, and she held onto his waist as though to a buoy at sea. She remembered the time in his tent when he had impulsively held her just so, trying to calm her hysterics. He’d been so solid, so convincing. She wanted nothing more than to hold him, to feel him warm and breathing and strong. “Don’t make me go back.”