The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (18 page)

She tossed her chin. “You only needed to be reasonable.” She held out her hand.

Instead of taking it, he caught her waist and swung her down. “It wouldn’t have taken much.” His grin pulled sideways. “Even with your best grip.”

“I would have made a horrible scene.”

He cocked his head. “A shame I missed it.”

She started to retort, but he sobered and went about readying the wagon. She swallowed her gall. After all, they were taking the train, and that meant she’d be home in days, rather than weeks.

They surrendered the full wagon and horses to a Union Pacific railroad man loading the flatcars and stock cars. She waited while Quillan instructed him pointedly about the horses, then a porter took the bags they would have onboard. Following him, Carina glanced back at the wagon as its wheels were lashed to the car and rendered immobile. She had a brief flash of her own wagon tumbling down the side of the mountain. Quillan’s freighter held gifts and reminders as precious as the things she had carried east.

But now they were heading west. She had traveled first class from San Francisco with Guido and Antonnia Mollica, then second class with the maiden aunts Anna and Francesca Bordolino, who thought it sinful to bask in such extravagance and probably couldn’t afford it. The second-class car, while not the squalid illness incubator of the emigrant cars, tested one’s capacity for discomfort.

She didn’t know which tickets Quillan had purchased. Would he think the best extravagant also? They passed the emigrant cars, bleak and stark. Already a smell emanated from the passengers who had been westward bound from the Atlantic coast. Poor people—how could they bear it? But then she thought of herself at Mae’s in the beginning. One adapted she supposed, as one must.

Carina breathed a sigh of relief as they passed the shabby third-class coaches interspersed with the baggage cars. She glanced at Quillan as they also passed the second-class day coaches to the elegantly appointed Pullman Palace cars. She raised her brows as he held out a hand for her to mount the stairs. So they would travel first class. Her husband quirked a smile. Was her face so revealing?

They found a pair of plush seats facing each other, and Quillan motioned for the porter to relieve himself of their load. With a night’s growth of beard, his buckskin coat, and his hair loose, Quillan drew curious glances from the other passengers. And some not merely curious. The gentlemen at large appraised him, but the ladies seemed to think him an exciting spectacle. In their eastern titters they discreetly pointed him out to each other.

Carina sat down and smiled. Maybe they would think her a daring partner to this western pirate. But she dismissed the thought when she noticed one red-whiskered gentleman perusing her boldly. Suddenly she resented the scrutiny of these coddled sophisticates out for a lark. She had seen them before, well-heeled adventurers traveling west for an excursion. The transcontinental rails of the Union and Central Pacific Railroads joined a decade ago at Promontory Point had made her home their playground.

With hardly any delay, the train headed out of the station. Across from her, Quillan looked out the window, seemingly unaware of the scrutiny—a fact that made him all the more mysterious to the women in their car. Carina couldn’t help but see what they saw: a man unlike any other.

Quillan chafed on the train as he hadn’t with his own reins in his hands, even though their speed tripled anything his horse-drawn wagon could manage and traveled where he could never have pressed his team. He looked across at his wife, lost in a periodical. She had been reading aloud from
Harper’s Weekly
, then had noticed his slack attention and fallen silent.

He rubbed his hands over his knees, unable to catch the pace, the rhythm of the train. Would he rather be traveling the rough stage road that paralleled the iron rails across the land? Rather see Carina with road dust and weariness in her face? At least he’d have that sense of connection. They’d be alone together.

Though the Pullman car allowed space and comfort, he squirmed under the curious gaze of the passengers around them. Carina seemed oblivious, though not a man aboard was oblivious of her. What could he expect? He could hardly go around gouging eyes. At least people gave them space. His visage, no doubt.

Carina glanced up.
“Agitato.”

“What?”

“You’re restless. Agitato.”

He shrugged.

She closed the magazine. “I thought you liked hours and hours of traveling.”

“Alone on my wagon, in the open, with my hands on the reins.”

She waved her hand. “Ask the engineer to let you drive.”

“No thanks.” He stretched his legs out under her seat and crossed his ankles. “Only live animals.”

“Antiquato.”

“There you go, calling names.”

She laid the magazine on the seat beside her. “I said you’re old-fashioned.”

“Maybe.” He uncrossed his ankles and hunched up in his seat. Had his hindquarters ever plagued him so on the box? “But I would be in control.”

“Relax for a change. Let life happen.”

“I don’t like it when life happens.”

“Testardo.”

He glared. “At least insult me in a language I understand.”

“Testardo—stubborn.”

“Testardo. Now that one I could use back.”

“Then it would be testarda.”

He straightened slightly. “So adjectives change form.”

She nodded. “To match the noun. Some nouns are feminine, like
saggezza
, wisdom. Others masculine:
disturbo
. Annoyance.”

He crooked his brow. “Is there a point?”

She laughed.

He straightened the rest of the way, pressing his back to the seat cushion. “How do you say contrary?”

“Contrario.”

“And contraria?”

She waved her hand. “It would never be used that way, of course.”

“I sense biased instruction.”

“You want to learn?” She flicked her fingers toward him.

He folded his arms across his chest again. “Okay.”

She said,
“Buon giorno.”

He repeated it.

She tapped her ear lobe. “You have a good ear.”

“Buon giorno means good ear?”

She laughed much harder than his error could have warranted. “It means good day. A polite hello or good-bye.”

“Buon giorno.” He committed it to memory.

She said, “
Come stai?
How are you?”

Come stai?
That, too, went into recall. “And what do I answer?”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “At the moment?”

“Watch it.”

Again she laughed. “You say,
Bene
. Fine.”

“And all this time I thought you were cursing me.”

“It can also mean,
Fine!
or
Well!
” She threw up her hands.

He nodded. “And if I’m not fine?”

“Male!”

“Very descriptive.”

“Italiano is a beautiful language.
Bella lingua!
And easy. Much more regular than English.”

He leaned forward. “In words maybe. But the inflection and sign language . . .” He shook his head.

“What are you talking about, sign language?”

“The hand motions.” He caught her hand as it flew by. “I don’t think I’ll ever get the hand motions.”

She tugged, but he held on, laughing. “And the fire of it. Every sentence is exclaimed.” He threw up both hands. “Buon giorno! Come stai! Isn’t life incredible! I just met you on the street!”

She slapped his knee. “I won’t teach you, then.”

He settled back. “You can’t help it.”

“What do you mean?” Her lower lip pouted in pure prima donna irk.

He should stop before she really got mad, but he couldn’t resist. “I’ll learn whether you intend it or not. It just slips out.”

“What slips out?” Her hands formed fists atop her knees.

“Your language.” The train wobbled over a rough portion of track. His hat dropped off the hook and landed on the seat. He hung it back up.

“It does not.”

“Sure it does. That time in the mine shaft? You talked all night in Italian. And provoke you? Whew! There must be a switch. Gather enough emotion, out comes Italian.”

“Omaccio!”

He laughed. “Un gross’uomo.”

She slapped the magazine across his knee.

“And that’s another thing. Are all the women in your family slappers?”

Her mouth fell open with a huff. Then she snapped it shut and glared.

“Not that I mind. You can’t damage this tanned hide. But—”

“Oh!” She threw the magazine flapping into his face.

“And throwing things. I suppose I’ll get used to that.”

She jumped to her feet just as the train took a sharp turn. Quillan leaped up and caught her waist as she swayed. “It’s all right.” He addressed the startled faces around them. “Just a cramp.” He settled her back down to the seat, looking all fired to spit nails. “Careful, now. Don’t want to tumble into some gentleman’s lap.”

“Certainly not yours!”

“Now, Carina.” He laughed.

She crossed her arms and pouted.

He nudged her knee with his. “How do you say
I’m sorry
?”

She looked to the window and clamped her mouth shut.

He leaned across. “Pardon me? Forgive me? Anything like that in Italiano?”

“Mi dispiace.”
She spoke without looking.

“Mi dispiace for having hurt you.” He took her hand. “I deserved the violence.”

She sniffed.

“Let’s see . . .
bella signora
.”

She turned. “What are you trying to say?”

“My wife is the most beautiful woman on the train.”

She waved him off with her hand.

“The most wonderful woman I know.” He pulled a wry smile.

“You can count on one hand the women you know.”

He imitated her gesture. Her eyes flashed. He caught her hand before she could slide to the corner. “Carina, you may not realize it, but your hands are more communicative than words. It’s the first thing I loved about you.”

“It is?” She softened.

“It is. Your gestures mesmerize me.”

“They do?” But now she looked suspicious.

He laughed. “I mean it.”

She threw both her hands up. “How would I know? One minute you tease, the next—”

“It’s in the eyes, Carina. You have to watch the eyes.”

“It’s more in your mouth. Sometimes you make your eyes like plates, but your mouth, that’s what gives you away.” She paused.

Quillan wondered what she was thinking. She reached under her seat for the satchel, drew it up, and plunked it into her lap. Carina reached in and took out a handkerchief. Was she going to cry? Surely he hadn’t upset her that much. But she unfolded it and cradled something in her palm.

“What’s that?”

She held it out. “It’s for you.”

“You bought me a locket?” He took the chain and dangled the heavy gold necklace.

“I didn’t buy it. Look inside.”

He rested the locket on his knee and worked the catch. The lid flipped open. He stared at the photograph inside.

“It’s your mother.”

He jolted, then shot his gaze to Carina. “Where did you get it?”

“Mrs. DeMornay. She was forbidden to see you, but she risked bringing it to me. She wanted you to have it . . . with her love.”

Quillan’s hand started to shake. He pressed the back of it to his knee. “I don’t understand.” Why would the woman give him a picture of his mother when she wouldn’t even admit they were related, wouldn’t say a word of acknowledgment when her husband denied the possibility, then sent her . . . love? Fury wrapped his heart like a boa constrictor, tightening until there was pain in his chest.

Carina’s words rushed on. “The locket was hers. She gave it to you, her grandson. She said you have your mother’s mouth.”

So she believed him, but wouldn’t tell him to his face. Throat tightening, he looked at the photograph. Even allowing for fuzziness in the image, his mother was lovely. And he knew her. Again his infantile mind had captured something and gave it back to him now as memory. He said, “Her eyes were blue. No, green. Something in between, very bright.”

Carina smiled.

“And I remember her hair, the feel of it. Like yours.” He looked across at his wife. “How can I remember that?”

“It’s a gift.”

Holding his mother’s face in his palm, he searched his mind. “I wish there were more.”

“But you have more than you might. You have her picture, and some memory. And your grandmother knows you.”

“My grandfather doesn’t.” Fury flared afresh.

“Mrs. DeMornay said he has to believe Rose died. He deceives himself. Maybe he doesn’t know the truth. Or it hurts too much. Maybe it isn’t judgment but pain that traps him.”

Carina was naïve if she believed that. A man like William DeMornay didn’t delude himself. But he might easily delude others. Quillan closed the locket. “When did she give you this?”

“This morning.”

“You didn’t tell me?” How could Carina keep something like that silent? He hadn’t thought she could hide anything, yet he’d had no idea.

Carina waved a hand. “She risked too much bringing it. If you got angry, confronted William DeMornay . . .”

His hand clenched around the locket. He might have done so. Just as he had confronted his foster father, he might have forced DeMornay’s hand. “So you reined me in.”

She shrugged one shoulder, a girlish gesture that softened his mood. He slid the locket into his coat pocket and sat back in silence.

At last Carina spoke. “Are you angry?”

He shook his head. “No.” He could be—with Carina for withholding, his grandmother for conniving, his grandfather for outright rejection—but right now he sensed his mother. Anger would get in the way. He didn’t want to lose the feel of her.

Carina sighed. “Maybe I was wrong.”

“I’m not angry.”

She waved her hand. “I should have told you.”

“Carina.” He met her eyes. “Could we not talk right now?”

Her hand dropped to her lap. “You are angry.”

He dropped his head back. “I just don’t want to talk. That’s all.”

She grabbed the periodical and flipped it open to the page she’d hit him with.