The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “You have to.”

  “Not now.” She clung tighter.

  He rested his face in her hair, his breath warming her scalp. “No, not now.” And he kissed her.

  Quillan lay beside his wife, too agitated to sleep. Her breath was a warm mist on his arm, and he studied the fall of her eyelashes on her cheek, the curve of her lips. They were slack and slightly parted, just showing the edge of her white teeth. He would have to send her back. There would be no end to strife if he kept her at the hotel. And only from within the bosom of her family could she resolve her need.

  He would not let her choose him out of desperation. But as he looked out at the heavy mist of the gray, dawning day, he felt desperate himself. Was he wrong? He forked his fingers into his hair. Carina stirred. Her eyes opened drowsily. She smiled.

  He touched her smile, giving her one of his own. Dear God, I love her. He shifted his position to face her. Maybe he shouldn’t have kept her last night. People would see her going out; the clerk would know when she came. But maybe it was time people knew. He was not going to skulk behind some cactus wall even if that was good enough for Flavio. Carina deserved better.

  She raised up onto her elbow. “What are you thinking?”

  “That I’m the luckiest man alive.”

  She shook her head. “You have every hand raised against you, and you’re the luckiest man?”

  “First, it’s not every hand. There are more than Italians in Sonoma. Solomon Schocken said last night that he’s very pleased with my work. Mr. Marconi, as well. And he’s one of yours.”

  Carina gave him a sad smile.

  “And secondly, I wasn’t referring to anyone but you. If I had nothing but you, I’d still be luckiest.”

  She cupped his shoulder. “Then let’s leave. This morning.”

  He looked down at her velvety skin. “All right. Never mind your mother’s broken heart, the sorrow you’ll give your father. They had their chance. And as for your brothers, they’re hardly sentient beings; no reasoning with them. Ti’Giuseppe . . . now it would have been nice to say good-bye, don’t you think?” He looked back into her stricken face. He’d known what expression he’d find, but it cut him anyway. They were all still her most important thing.

  He cradled her face in his palm. “No, Carina. We can’t leave. We have to see it through.”

  She didn’t argue. She knew she had shown him her feelings. “I’ve prayed and prayed for the Lord to make my family see. But they’re blind and deaf to me. Is God, too?”

  “I’m not the one to ask.” He shook his head. “I keep trying to understand, to find His purpose.” He smoothed his fingers over her hair. “I’m too green to have any answers.”

  Carina fingered the locket that hung at his neck against his bare skin and sighed. “So what do we do?”

  He hated to say it, but knew he must. “You go home. I go to work.”

  “Quillan, why do you have to work so hard? Didn’t you get money from the mine? Couldn’t you buy . . . something?”

  He looked down at the sheet. How could he explain that he didn’t deem that money his, and even if it were, that he hesitated to use it. Mrs. Shepard had accused him and Wolf of greed so many times, he was afraid to consider himself a wealthy man. He said simply, “I have money.”

  She waited for more, and he shook his head. “It’s not about money, Carina. It’s about respect.”

  “You think my papa’s not respected? Does he work himself to the bone?”

  “I have to show that I’ve earned it.”

  “Why?” She sat up abruptly.

  How could she possibly understand, aristocrat that she was? He didn’t even understand except—except maybe he’d believed more of Leona Shepard’s words than he should. “You’re greedy and lazy and worthless. You’ll never amount to anything. Idleness is the devil’s tool, and you’re the devil’s spawn.” He knew better in his head, but in his soul?

  “I just do, Carina.”

  She sighed. “So that’s it? I go home, and you go back to work. Then what? Wait until Flavio makes good his threat?”

  “Ah, yes, Flavio’s threat.”

  She pushed his chest. “Don’t scoff.”

  “I’m not.” He stood up, walked to the washbasin, and poured water into the bowl. He tossed it onto his face and rubbed the back of his neck and his chest, then toweled dry and turned. “I’m not defenseless, Carina. I can protect myself.” She should know that already.

  She nodded. “But . . .”

  “I need to know what he is to you.”

  She stared at him uncomprehending. “To me?”

  Quillan grabbed his shirt and threw it on. He took her hands and stood her up from the bed. “What if self-defense becomes deadly force?”

  Her jaw dropped softly as understanding dawned. She shook her head slightly. “I hadn’t thought. I’d thought only of your safety.”

  At least he had that. She’d thought of him first. But now he saw the struggle inside her. “I don’t . . . I can’t—Quillan, I can’t have his death on my conscience. He’s my . . . I’ve known him forever.” She turned away. “I don’t condone his actions, but . . .”

  “That’s all I needed to know.” And the gun would stay stowed in his room. That limited his odds, but he would not harm someone who mattered to Carina. His gut twisted. Of course Flavio mattered. He was one of them. And he’d been more, much more to her than any of the others. For Flavio, she’d left her family. Quillan turned away and buttoned his shirt.

  Carina walked listlessly to the basin and bathed her face and hands. She dug her finger into his toothpowder and ran it over her teeth.

  He grinned. “You could have used the brush.”

  She shrugged, more crestfallen than he’d expected.

  “Carina, it’ll be all right.”

  She turned. “Oh sì. And chickens lay golden eggs.”

  “Well, if they did we’d not have scrambled or fried, would we?” He caught her hands. “Get dressed. I’m walking you back to the house.”

  “You are?”

  “I am. And I’m asking permission to court you.”

  Her breath came out in a little huff. “Asking Papa?”

  “Unless you think Giuseppe’ll do. My chances are better there.” He pulled on his pants.

  She stamped her foot. “Stop making fun.”

  “I’m not.” He sat on the bed and tied on his brogans.

  It took Carina longer to dress, but she had more layers, ties, and buttons. When she was finished, they went out together. Quillan stopped at the desk. “If Mr. Schocken comes asking for me, tell him I’ve taken my wife home, and I’ll be to the quarry directly.”

  The clerk raised his eyebrows. “I will.” Then to Carina, “Good day, er, Mrs. . . .”

  Carina smiled. “Good day, Mr. Renault.”

  The mist was thick and chilly, collecting on Quillan’s face like a mask. Carina’s hair pearled with tiny droplets by the time they reached the livery just next door. Quillan shook the moisture from his own hair. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was raining.”

  “It will be soon.” Carina ran her hands back over her hair as they stepped inside.

  “I don’t have a cover.”

  “I can stand a little rain.” She nudged him with her hip. “I won’t melt.”

  Quillan called for his wagon and team. “It’s not that you’ll melt. I don’t want to return you looking like a drowned kitten. Hold on a minute.” He went back and helped the liveryman harness his team, checking the animals and giving Jock a pat as he crossed to the bed. He pulled out his extra tarp. It was an ungainly cover at best, but he’d used it a time or two.

  “Fine animals.” The man said.

  “Yep.” Quillan laid the canvas tarp on the seat. Once he had Carina seated he’d arrange it.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  Quillan turned. “Quillan Shepard.”

  “Well, Mr. Shepard, if you ever look to sell them, look
here first.” The man held out his hand. “Corbaley’s the name.”

  Quillan shook. “Well, I don’t imagine I’ll be looking to sell. These animals have been with me awhile, except for the gelding. Picked that one up when I lost this black’s twin.”

  “A real twin?”

  Quillan nodded. “Lost him in an avalanche.”

  “Darn shame.”

  Quillan felt a twinge, but the ache had passed. Together they led horses and wagon to the doors where Carina waited.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, Miss DiGratia,” Corbaley said.

  “Actually, she’s with me.” Quillan gave Carina a hand into the box that replaced the spring seat. “And it’s Mrs. Shepard.”

  “Well.” Corbaley smiled. “I hadn’t heard. Felicitations.”

  Quillan had to smile. If only. He mounted the box and snapped the lines. They lurched forward and he remembered the canvas. “Pull that canvas up over you, Carina.”

  She did, and it tented her well enough. When they arrived at the DiGratia house, Quillan stopped outside the courtyard. The gates were closed, but he jumped down and unfastened the wrought-iron catch. Instead of taking the team and wagon in, he helped Carina down and gave her his arm. Together they walked through the courtyard to the door.

  Dr. DiGratia opened it himself, reading the situation clearly enough. His frown was infused with indignation and grudging respect. He had to know Quillan could have kept her.

  Quillan spoke first. “Dr. DiGratia, I’d like permission to see my wife.”

  “See?” He quirked one arched eyebrow.

  “See.” Let him read into that anything he liked.

  Carina’s father stood a long time without speaking. Then he said, “It was also for your sake that I denied you before. You’re the cause of a broken contract.”

  “The contract was broken before me, with better cause.”

  “I know nothing of that.” Dr. DiGratia turned his gaze briefly on Carina. “I only know that my daughter begged leave for a time, distraught, yes. Against my better judgment, I let her travel. But nothing was said about breaking a valid contract to which I gave permission. As far as I’m concerned, that’s grounds to annul your claim.”

  Annul his claim? After last night, after all their nights, their days, their struggle, their love? Annul the fact that they were one flesh, inseparable, indivisible except by death? “I request permission to see my wife.”

  “I deny it. You have no business with her. I spoke with the priest. He’s looking into it.”

  “Papa!” Carina’s voice broke. “How could you?”

  “It is my responsibility.” He held himself stiffly, in firm control of his emotions.

  Quillan admired his determination, and the irony was not lost on him. Hadn’t he told Carina again and again that the marriage was flawed, as he was flawed? Here was yet more proof. Quillan dropped his chin. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. But Carina is legally my wife.”

  “There are things beyond the law. Moral codes.”

  Quillan bristled. There was nothing immoral in his love for Carina, and it inflamed him to hear it.

  Dr. DiGratia drew himself up imperiously. “I suggest you go.”

  “Why, Papa?” Carina caught her father’s arm.

  “Because you are my daughter. Now go inside.”

  Quillan saw Carina stiffen, knew she would refuse. He said softly, “Go, Carina. This isn’t over yet.”

  She looked up at him, confused and torn. He didn’t want her to be hurt. But for the life of him, he didn’t know what else to do. Carina went inside. Dr. DiGratia only looked at him, then followed his daughter inside and closed the door.

  I am the vine, ye are the branches.

  “I don’t understand,” Quillan said to the closed door.

  NINETEEN

  Matthew 8:20:

  The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head. What man am I to long for that which Christ himself denied? What right have I to hearth and home when Jesus bled and died?

  —Quillan

  FIFULLY, CARINA DRESSED. It was two days since Quillan had brought her home. Papa had willfully ignored her pleas and arguments, and now she was expected to accompany them to the Garibaldi Hotel for a ball in honor of some accomplishment of its namesake. Since everything Giuseppe Garibaldi, the unifier of Italy, had ever done was considered grounds for celebration, there was hardly a date that couldn’t suffice for some gala.

  She looked at the dress Mamma had lovingly provided. Carina had to admit its stylish cut and lace-flounced bustle would set her off elegantly. If she could walk in on Quillan’s arm, she would be the happiest woman of all. But of course that was impossible.

  Frustrated, she slid her arms into the dress, bowing inside it, then swooping up to let it descend over her in a white lacy cloud. She reached behind and started on the buttons. “Come in,” she called at the tap on the door.

  Maria, the maid Mamma had retained from the mission, came in. Silently, she finished the row of buttons to Carina’s neck, then seated her at the maple vanity—no easy trick with the volume of her bustle. Then Maria brushed her hair, drawing out the tangles until it shone and crackled. Carina suffered it silently, upset by the attractive twists and rolls that Maria formed to enhance her beauty.

  She didn’t want to look beautiful if Quillan were not there to see. What did she care that the other men would find her so? The other men and Flavio. She burned at the thought. She had not spoken with him since he made his threat, but she knew he would be there tonight. Was there any chance she could avoid him?

  It was all so absurd. She should leave. Yet the thought of losing all her family was more than she could bear. Quillan had said it; to know she had broken Mamma’s heart, pained Papa, to never see Ti’Giuseppe, just as she had missed Nonna’s last days . . . She couldn’t do it. They were too much a part of her.

  But wasn’t Quillan? Of course he was! And more. Oh, Signore, it’s too much for me.

  “Miss is unhappy?”

  Maria’s voice startled Carina. But she looked at her own face in the mirror. As Quillan said, it was there for all the world to see. She sighed. “Unhappy and frustrated and confused.”

  “I will pray for you.” Simple words from a simple heart.

  “Maybe God will hear you.”

  “God will hear.” Maria’s hands brought up the last strands of hair, worked them into a braid, and intertwined the braid with the roll on one side. She tucked it in with pearl hairpins. The effect was masterful and lovely.

  Carina wanted to cry.

  “It will be all right, miss.”

  Quillan’s words. But it wasn’t all right. She should be with her husband, and more and more she knew it.

  Since Solomon Schocken had not needed him that evening, Quillan perched at the picnic pavilion in the plaza and watched the goings on at the Garibaldi House, the arrivals of the Italian powers-that-be. He was coming to realize they held more sway than he’d imagined. Tuscans and Sardinians, used to their elite roles in the old world, had set up their miniature kingdoms in the new.

  He was feeling bitter. They weren’t all that way, but unfortunately the others seemed cowed and followed their lead. The men at the quarry had turned distinctly cold and gave him dark glares when he tried to communicate. The men loaded his wagon sullenly, making his team stand longer and his loads fewer. He found himself doing the bulk of it himself, and he felt it now in his back. But it was better to work alone and be effective than stymied by the others.

  He rubbed his back. So Carina was right. Flavio held sway with the men at the quarry. Or the community at large accommodated her father in refusing to acknowledge him. A depressing thought. Again rejection was becoming a goad.

  Another carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. With a flourish, Flavio emerged, followed by a shorter man—Nicolo, wasn’t it? They’d been together in the courtyard when Quillan first brought Carina home.
Yes, because Nicolo now helped Carina’s sister from the conveyance. Would Carina be next?

  A rush of fire inside warned him he was at a dangerous point. But Carina did not get out of that carriage, and it was led away. The next held an older couple, very elegant in bearing, he in a black Prince Albert coat and walking stick, and she bearing so much fabric it was amazing her back didn’t snap.

  The next carriage to arrive came from First Street East. It was open to the air, and as it approached, he saw clearly Dr. DiGratia’s head and shoulders. His wife was beside him, and Carina must have been facing backward, hidden by the driver and team.

  What would they say if he walked up to greet them, took Carina on his arm, and went into the hotel? He wore the getup he’d assembled for his about-town times, beige ankle-length pantaloons, white shirt, green quilted vest and cravat, with a brown broadcloth coat over all. He looked passing fine, if he did say so. He’d tied his hair back, which in his opinion, looked as pirate as leaving it loose, but drew less attention. And though his mustache was as brazen as ever, he’d removed the beard that had accumulated over the last four days.

  He stood up as the carriage halted before the doors of the imposing front of the Garibaldi House with its red, white, and green flag and the motto Italia Unita proudly across the front. United Italy. Yes, indeed, they knew how to unite. His throat tightened painfully as Mr. DiGratia handed Carina down. She looked like an angel in white lace.

  As she lighted, she looked about . . . for him? He stepped out from the pavilion, and for a moment their eyes met. Then her father put his hand to her elbow, and they went inside the doors beneath the ornate balcony upon which several young men stood with mandolins and guitars, serenading the partygoers’ entrance.

  Stiffly Quillan sat back down. What had he expected? That she would run to him and desert all else—the trappings, the patriotic music that carried across the plaza and promised dancing within. His gut wrenched. What was God doing?