Sweet Boundless (14 page)

The muscles in his back flexed and stretched with the motion and tension. He was thankful for the strain. Crate after crate he handed down until his bed was empty. Then he jumped down himself and started around the wagon to unharness the horses.

“Quillan.”

Quillan turned to meet Horace Tabor’s mustached face. Quillan’s own winter beard couldn’t match the man’s bulging whiskers. The eyes smiled and probably the mouth, but you’d never know it.

“Mr. Tabor.” Quillan held out his hand and they grasped hold like two old friends.

“Thank you for bringing my powder.” Tabor always made it personal, his gratitude sincere.

“You’re welcome. It’s not in the best condition just now.”

“Well, it’ll thaw. Just let it roost a bit in my storehouse.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tabor huddled Quillan’s shoulder companionably. “Would you like to have lunch with me?”

Quillan raised his brows. This was even beyond the normal courtesy he received. He nodded.

“Good. We’ll have it over at the hotel.” He motioned Quillan into his buggy.

Quillan ordered Sam to stay, waited until the dog had settled at Jock’s hooves, then climbed into Tabor’s buggy. As they rode, Quillan eyed the city around them. For a city that had sprung out of nothing, Leadville was truly magic. They passed the gas works, which fueled the gaslights on the main streets and the more affluent homes. It made Crystal seem arcane, and Quillan thought briefly of Carina’s small shelter with the wood stove to warm her. Frowning, he looked over at the new reservoir.

Tabor caught his gaze and laughed. “Where else than Leadville will you find a city water system with pipes soldered with silver bullion?”

It was true. Quillan had already heard how the city had used silver, which was more plentiful than any other soft solder. Even the streets were paved with the slag from the mines and shone with hints of silver.

Tabor pointed his crop to the cold, shimmering water. “The reservoir itself was excavated from land with promising color, Quillan. Indications of good mineral now lie beneath that water. Why, there’s more money under the waterworks than in it.” He laughed again.

“But people can’t drink mineral.”

“No.” Tabor sobered. “More’s the pity. So,
voilà,
the waterworks.”

As they neared the center of town, Quillan saw a tall pole with wires strung from it. Leadville was serviced by a Western Union Telegraph, running lines over Mosquito Pass, but this was something new.

“There she is.” Pointing to the pole, Tabor looked ready to pass out cigars.

“What is it?”

“Telephone. I’ve organized the Colorado Edison Telephone Company. Much of the city can now converse over those wires without ever leaving their doors.”

Quillan stared. He’d seen telephone wires in Denver, but to think of them here in Leadville seemed . . . impossible.

“I tell you, my boy, Leadville is second to none, legendary and almost mythical.” He spoke as though it were his private kingdom, and so it nearly was.

Quillan looked around. He wasn’t oblivious to the wonder of it, but neither was he inured to the undesirable aspects of the rapid and disorderly manner in which the city grew and flourished. The niceties did little to establish respectability. The place was as much a den of corruption as Crystal and more when you considered the numbers.

But there was a contagion in Leadville, an undaunted spirit—the promise that one hundred dollars could set up a miner to make his fortune. It was true, though the hundred-dollar miner stood little chance against the consolidated interests that were quickly making any real competition impossible. One man, or even a handful of men with hand steels and a wheelbarrow, could hardly compete with an adjacent consolidated interest that could be underground already laying claim to his mineral.

And then there were the tangled claims, counterclaims, and jumped claims, and sometimes only three feet of stone separated men with steels from men with rifles ready to keep one outfit out of territory they considered their own. No wonder the place swarmed with lawyers, many as crooked as Berkley Beck or worse.

But Quillan didn’t care about the community aspects. He’d been burned in Crystal by caring. Let the roughs in Leadville have their way. Let the crooked lawyers connive and the saloons and fancy houses rule. He was there only to get rich and get out. And even getting rich was only because he needed something to do.

They stopped at the hotel and Quillan stepped down, suddenly not very hungry at all. “What did you want to see me about, Mr. Tabor?”

Tabor crooked a brow. “See you about? Quillan, I just want to express my gratitude for the job you do. There’s little enough appreciation for your work, and I want you to know I’m aware of the danger and hardship you suffer for me and my operation.”

Quillan wasn’t certain how to take that. If the man was anything but sincere, it would take a keener wit than his to discern it. But why would Tabor feel the need to express such gratitude for his work? Work was the elixir that took away the pain.

At least it kept his mind from brooding on his loss. Maybe it was inordinate for him to grieve Cain so deeply. But he’d had so few people to really love, and he hadn’t loved Cain as well as he should have. He’d resisted Cain’s efforts to bring him to God. For the old man’s sake he should have made a show of it.

But then, Cain would have seen that it wasn’t real. And that would have hurt him more than Quillan’s honest refusal. At any rate that question was settled. Without Cain, Quillan had no need for God. He could live his life by his own compass and conscience. It was better than most men’s, and even some who claimed to revere God.

Quillan nodded to Mr. Tabor, and they went in together to eat.

Joe Turner was the first to seek a table, and though she wouldn’t earn a penny from him, Carina was thrilled to see him at the door they had fitted into the hall between Mae’s kitchen and her own room. The hall kept people from parading through her private space to the dining room behind.

She smiled broadly and led Joe Turner and his two Cornish mine managers to a table directly before the fireplace, where a cheerful blaze warmed the room against the cold October chill. As they seated themselves in the newly wrought pine chairs, Carina was thankful she hadn’t considered benches. Hers was not a feedlot where men could press in and shovel food into their bellies.

The fare for this opening night was a favorite of Papa’s,
gnocchi
con salsa di fegatini
, potato dumplings with liver sauce. But to start the meal, she had
antipasto di peperoni e pomodori
, pimento and tomato antipasto, which she was forced to make from canned tomatoes, though the pickled pimentos had been a grand find.

By the time she brought this first course to Joe Turner and his companions, men were lined up outside the door. Èmie brought them in until the six tables were full, and still others waited outside for someone to leave. Carina stared out the window of the new door. “Goodness,” she muttered under her breath. Where had they all come from?

In the kitchen she threw up her hands. “What will I do? I’ll never have enough to feed them all.”

Mae snorted. “Raise your prices.”

“I’m already charging four dollars a plate. It’s indecent.” Carina crossed the room and back.

“Make it five and send the rest away when you run out.”

Carina squeezed her hands together. “I don’t want to disappoint them.”

Mae laughed. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Let them sign a list.” Èmie took four plates of antipasto from the board and started back toward the dining room. “That’s what I did when the hot springs filled up. Then they’ll be assured seating for the next night.” Èmie walked straight and unwavering through the door with two plates on each arm.

“I need trays. There’s so much I didn’t think of.” Carina threw up her hands again.

“You’ll learn. Fill the need as you see it,” Mae said.

“I thought I was ready. How could I overlook so much?”

Mae only laughed and poured a serving pot full of stewed beef. “You’ll learn to keep it simple.”

No. Not simple, not plain, not monotonous. Even if every night showed some oversight, she would not compromise her vision. The Piedmont House would be a place of refinement, a distinguished restaurant in which she could make her fortune and her name, in true Crystal fashion. Hadn’t she ordered the room finished with ornate moldings and painted the walls a rich mulberry?

Her own room might be scarcely more than a shack, but she had made the dining room something special. The food would be no less. It was how it should be. She must learn to do it well; that was all. She hurried into the dining room with three plates of gnocchi for Joe Turner and his men.

Joe Turner leaned back as she set the plate in front of him. “Mrs. Shepard, just look at this place. Every seat filled. I told you, you were lucky. Everything you touch turns to gold.”

“No.” She smiled. “This isn’t gold, just gnocchi con salsa di fegatini.”

Joe Turner laughed. “My digestion will prefer it.”

As Èmie brought another steaming plate to the table, Carina gathered up the antipasto plates. “
Buon gusto
. Enjoy your meal.” She hurried back to the kitchen, staring at the crowd that waited outside. Bene. Did they think she was magic? How could they fit? How could she feed them all? “Èmie, can you serve alone if I make more gnocchi?”

“Yes. But it’s you they want to see. Every table’s asking, ‘Where’s Mrs. Shepard?’ ”

Carina squeezed her hands. “I didn’t know it would be so . . . popular.”

“You’ve never been in business before.”

Carina crossed the kitchen and looked out the door window. Just a few short months ago, Crystal wanted to hang her with the roughs. Now men stood with their breath misting in the cold air for a chance to taste her wares. Among them she saw Alex Makepeace and Ben Masterson, the mayor. She caught her breath. “Èmie, the mayor’s out there!”

Èmie laughed. “Why not? He eats.”

“I can’t make him stand in the street!”

“Well, there’s nowhere to put him.”

“Oh, Signore, why didn’t you warn me?” Carina opened her hands to the ceiling, then yanked a large bowl from the shelf. “Quickly, Èmie, serve the rest of the tables. I’ll make a fresh batch of gnocchi.”

“What about the sauce?”

“This one will be served with butter and oregano.” Even as she spoke, she was putting potatoes on to boil. Her supplies would not last long if every night was like this. While the potatoes boiled, she sautéed the butter with minced garlic and oregano and two precious anchovies ground to paste. Already she saw she would have to be creative. But that was how she liked to cook. A little of this, a little of that.

She lost herself in the process, rubbing the boiled potatoes through the sieve into the bowl, then working in the flour, butter, four equally precious eggs, and salt and pepper. When it was smooth, she dampened her hands and shaped the mixture into small balls, then dropped them in to boil until they floated to the top.

Èmie hustled back in. “Joe Turner wants to say good-night.”

Carina wiped her hands. “Good, there will be a table free.” He might be insulted by her sentiment if he had heard it, but she couldn’t think past the men outside expecting to be served. She hurried down the long hall, wondering how many others might be ready to leave.

Joe Turner stood. “I congratulate you, Mrs. Shepard. That meal was delicious and satisfying. Expect me tomorrow.”

“I’ll expect you every night until I’ve repaid my debt.”

His eyes softened. “I told you it’s not necessary. I owe all I have to you.”

She waved her hand, dismissing that. “You come tomorrow for ravioli.” She headed for the door and saw them out, then looked in dismay at the line. It stretched almost to Central Street. Without another word, she went into her room and brought out a sheet of stationery paper. Then she stepped outside. “Put your names on the paper. If you don’t get served tonight, you’ll be first tomorrow.”

“Are you serving lunch?”

Carina pressed a hand to her head. “Not until I can think straight.” She passed the paper among them, then looked at the next men in line. “I have four chairs if you want to share a table.” She thought ruefully of benches.

The first four stood forward eagerly, and she led them in. Another table had cleared, and Èmie showed her the money. “What should I do with it?”

Carina looked about the kitchen. “Here.” She dried out the small jar from the pickled pimentos. “Put it in here.” Carina hurried back to the dining room. Quickly she shook out the cloth from the empty table and mentally noted two others ready to clear. She took their money, then led another four men inside.

One cheesecloth covering was soiled, and she carefully wiped it clean. She would need extras of those and twice as many dishes. When Quillan came, she’d . . . No, she couldn’t wait for him. She’d have to make her own arrangements. She hurriedly reset the table.

When she opened the door, she met Alex Makepeace’s smile. It settled the bees in her stomach. “Hello, Mr. Makepeace. How many are with you?”

“Just me.”