Sweet Boundless (35 page)

Maybe he didn’t understand, but he knew what he had to do. God might be the source of the good, but Quillan would have to make it happen. The source needed an instrument. He could almost hear Cain cackle.
“What tickles me is how the Lord chooses His instruments.
Not the high and mighty, who think they deserve it, but the lowly, the
motley, the old cripples like me.”

Quillan wasn’t sure where he belonged in that list. Motley maybe. But he’d do his best anyway. He had watched Cain operate. Prayer and unflagging zeal. Like the Reverend Shepard’s.

The reverend served God in his church, but not just there. He served in his life. Available to anyone in need. Most of all in his care for his wife. Each spoonful he placed between her lips, each soothing word that eased her fears, each gentle touch served God.

Quillan had felt it himself when he did the same. He just hadn’t understood. While he thought he was making peace with Leona Shepard, was he making peace with God? Could he do so now with Carina?

He pushed the covers off and stood up from his bedroll on the floor. Alan didn’t stir. Only a dim light brightened the window, but Quillan made his way into the lean-to and washed. He took his razor and cleared the beard from his face and neck; even the mustache he removed. Then he combed and tied his hair back with a leather thong.

Carina might not care, but he’d present himself suitably. He studied the reflection a moment. How like his father was he? Stormy eyes, his mother’s diary had said. His were shot with blood and darkened with fatigue and worry. He looked more than his twenty-eight years. He felt more.

How must Carina feel? Bruised, beaten, and deserted. He had yet to know the extent of it. That was his first priority. He slipped out the back and went to Dr. Felden’s home. He banged on the door, knowing as he did that he was waking the man.

The doctor came to the door with exactly the expression Quillan expected. “Well, what is it?” he barked, then, “Quillan! You couldn’t wait for the sun? No, I suppose not. Come in, then.”

Quillan followed the doctor inside.

“I suppose you want to know about your wife. You’ve seen her?”

Quillan nodded. “How was she injured?”

“Beaten with a stick, a stout one.” The doctor slid a chair his way.

Quillan didn’t take it. “How badly?”

Dr. Felden shoved a log into the stove and put a pot of water on to heat. “Contusions. Swelling. I’m concerned about her kidneys. Took a blow high to the right side.” The doctor turned. “She lost the baby, you know.”

Yes, he knew. Now. When it was too late. “How far was she?”

The doctor frowned. “As far as your last visit, I’d say.”

Quillan looked away. She’d conceived the child in that angry union. And now the child was lost. “Is there damage?”
Besides the
damage to heart and soul. Would she have another child? Would she
even want to try?

“Too early to tell.” The doctor raised the lid and checked the water in the coffeepot. “You want some . . .”

But Quillan had already reached the door and stepped into the brisk morning. The sky had lightened and cast a pinkish hue on the snow-covered slopes. The air was still, winter quieting Crystal as nothing else could. He found Mae in her kitchen, heaping slices of smoked venison onto a platter.

She turned when he pushed the back door open and entered. “Don’t let the draft get my hotcakes or they won’t fluff up.”

He looked at the scorched and stiff hotcakes, the blackened venison. But he wasn’t there to judge her cooking. He closed the door and approached her. “How is she, Mae?”

“Still sleeping.”

He glanced toward the door that connected Mae’s kitchen to Carina’s hall. Behind that door his wife lay beaten and in pain because he’d failed to keep her safe. What had she ever asked of him? That he stay home. That he eat her food. That he love her.

Mae flipped the row of hotcakes and set the plate near to remove them one by one. Her silence was heavy. He knew what she thought.

“Tell me what happened, Mae.”

Mae poured the pitcher of batter onto the hot griddle in circular mounds. “You know Carina. Every time she turns around, she’s landed in it again.”

Quillan’s throat tightened. Yes, he knew that. She’d caused him trouble from the first time they met. He’d saved her life three times. How could he have thought she’d be safe without him? He hadn’t thought. He’d reacted. And run.

“She meant well. But she doesn’t understand the industry.”

His thoughts caught up to Mae. “What do you mean? What industry?”

“Mining.”

Quillan was farther out than he realized. “What does Carina have to do with mining?”

“You own a mine, don’t you? Landsakes, Quillan! Don’t you understand anything?”

Quillan raised his foot to the bench and leaned on his knee. “Start at the beginning, Mae. I knew she had this restaurant.” He waved behind him toward Carina’s dining room.

“And a fine success she is, too. She’s done you proud.”

“But the mine?”

“Oh, she and Alex Makepeace have had a time of it.”

Quillan’s stomach clutched.

“Carina thought she was doing good, seeing to the families. All those men dead and all.”

“What men dead?”

Mae turned from the stove and swiped the steam from her brow with the flesh of her forearm. “Sit down, Quillan. Have you eaten? Coffee?”

He shook his head twice.

“Well, no wonder you’re so thick.”

He didn’t want to eat. He wanted answers. But when she shoved the plate in front of him, he obeyed, hardly tasting a bite. As he ate, Mae told him about the disaster at his mine and the trouble that followed. His jaw clenched when she described Carina and Alex Makepeace collaborating. But he saw Carina in all of it.

“She went personally? To the families?”

Mae sighed. “Couldn’t have been plainer than that. Those who approved applauded her. Those who didn’t . . .”

Quillan laid down the fork and sat stiffly. “Who didn’t, Mae?”

She shrugged. “The four men in her restaurant were just hirelings. You know how it is. And don’t bother looking. They’re long gone, whisked away before anyone could tie them to one operation or another. Likely all of them together.”

“Why?”

“You’re as innocent as Carina, aren’t you? She set up expectations no one else could meet.”

Mae was right. He was ignorant. He hadn’t learned the first thing about his mine or mining in general, hadn’t wanted to. He’d left it all in Alex Makepeace’s competent hands. Left Carina there, too. It was only natural that what they’d done together would bond them someway. The twisting inside him was almost a physical pain.

Of course Makepeace would crumble under Carina’s insistence. Even against his better judgment. Could either have guessed the repercussions of their solicitude? Quillan pictured the four men insulting his wife, the deft twist of her wrist that sent the scalding soup down the man’s face, that simple twist that had brought the men back to injure her. They might have killed her. What if he had returned to a grave? The food was lead inside him. He pushed the plate away.

Mae took the plate and set it aside. “So now you know all I do. No one saw a face. When Mr. Makepeace started shooting, the assailants ran.”

“Alex Makepeace started shooting?”

“Are you listening to me, Quillan? He fired the shots that sent the men away.” Quillan frowned. Makepeace had gotten there in time to save his wife. Had he held her? Soothed her? Is that why Carina thought it was Alex she snuggled into when Quillan held her? But then, why would she think it was he? Had
he
been there? Had
he
sent the thugs running?

Mae hunkered down on the bench across from him. She crossed her arms and leaned forward. “Truth is, you’ve come back none too soon, Quillan. I’ve always thought highly of you, starting as you did with too many disadvantages. But I’ll say this now, and then it’s on your own head. If you’re not intending to stay, don’t go in there at all. Just walk away, and let her heal from you and the baby together.”

Quillan met Mae’s eyes, saw in their violet flash that she meant every word of it. “Just tell me one thing, Mae. Does she love Alex Makepeace?”

Mae pursed her lips and studied the door that separated them from Carina. “I think she could, given the chance.” Mae turned her gaze back to him. “But before God, Quillan, she’s your wife. And if you let her go, you’re more the fool than I ever thought you.”

“I won’t let her go, Mae.”

“Then good luck to you.” Mae shoved up from the table. “I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

Quillan half smiled. “Thanks for the confidence.”

Mae rested a hand on her hip. “Putting the two of you in a ring, my money would be on Carina.”

“Not this time, Mae. Lay your bet on the underdog.”

She laughed. “This I’ve gotta see.”

Quillan went outside to the woodpile behind Carina’s dining room. Her ax was sharp, and he bet any number of men kept it that way for her. Or maybe it was only Alex Makepeace. Quillan frowned. He had to stop thinking that way. He’d all but abandoned his wife. Why shouldn’t someone else step in to help?

He sank the ax into the log, raised it, and swung with such force the ax cleaved the log and bit deeply into the chopping block. He yanked it free and picked up one of the halves that had flown free with his blow. When he had splintered enough wood, he gathered it into his arms and turned for Carina’s door. The latch was broken, pried out of the wood, and Quillan guessed this was how the intruders had entered.

He opened the door and went inside, carrying the wood down the hall and through the door into Carina’s room. It was warm but not overly. Quietly he set the wood beside the stove and added a stick or two to the coals. Carina stirred, and he turned, but she only slipped back into sleep.

He wished he’d asked the doctor how long it would be before she wakened. Quillan looked around the room, noting the things Carina had added. A cut-glass lamp, a new pitcher and bowl, and books, of course, on a shelf along one wall. He’d known that bookstore would entice her.

He glanced at the crate beside the bed. What was she reading currently? The one that lay there was plain. Carefully, he lifted it and searched the spine for a title. No title. He opened the cover and realized it was a journal. Carina’s?

He looked at her face, flushed slightly with sleep . . . or was it pain? He flipped to the center of the book, just to know if the words were hers.
Dio, you are faithful. I know my prayer will be answered. But how
long must I wait, loving a man who doesn’t love me in return?
Doesn’t love her? Is that what she thought? He closed the book, ashamed to have pried even that much.

And then it occurred to him that she might not be speaking of him at all. What made him think he was the one she loved? Hadn’t she loved Flavio before him? Couldn’t her affections have shifted to yet another? He was tempted to open the book again and find out.

Firmly, he set the diary beside his wife. He would not pry into her private writings, even though reading his mother’s had given him a love and appreciation for her he could have gotten no other way. But that book was given him to read. By Carina. He owed her so much.

He bent and touched his wife’s hair. She sighed, but her eyes didn’t open. He leaned close.
Look at me, Carina. Know that I’m
here
. But he didn’t speak it aloud. If she did look, she might not like what she saw.

Carina woke to Mae’s hand on her forehead. It felt cool and soft, and when she tried to open her eyes, they opened easily, no fuzzy heaviness holding them shut. Her mouth, though, was dry as down. She tried to swallow.

Mae must have anticipated her need. She held a cup of water to her lips. Carina drank. Slowly she became aware of the pain, feeling the bruised areas with even the smallest motions. It was bearable pain though, and she struggled to sit up.

“Easy now. You’ve been medicated for two days.” Mae stuffed pillows behind her back.

Carina sank into them stiffly. Two days of dreams and pain. But she felt sure now she would heal. Of course she would heal. Papa had come to heal her. No, that was the dream as well. It wasn’t Papa who held her. Papa never wore a beard. She knew that much.

The bed sagged as Mae sat beside her. Carina looked into her face and froze. What was wrong? Mae took her hand and held it in silence. Carina’s heart rushed. She wanted to send her away. Whatever it was Mae had to say, Carina didn’t want it spoken. Not now, when she finally felt that the nightmare might end.

“Carina . . .”

“Don’t. Whatever it is . . .”

Mae turned away, but not before Carina saw a tear trickle from her eye. Blood pounded in her ears. There was something she should know, but she couldn’t make herself recall. Something in the dream, then, had been real, as real as the blows that bruised her now. She closed her eyes, shutting Mae out.

But her voice came through anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting?”

Carina wet her lips painfully and opened her eyes. Was she?

“I don’t know what good it would have done.” Mae waved a hand. “But I just would have liked to have known before . . . before you lost it. Carina, I’m so sorry.”