The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (31 page)

“Behind the mission there’s a wall.”

“The mission?”

“The church across First East, right by Schocken’s store. Listen, there’s a patch of cactus higher than your head along the wall behind the mission yard where the Indians work. Flavio—” She stopped. “Well, Flavio kissed me once between the cactus and adobe walls. No one can see in there and try to interfere.”

Quillan frowned. He had no desire to tryst with his wife where she once lingered with that dark-eyed darling. But since he had no better plan . . .”All right. I’ll check for a note when I go in to clean up.”

She touched his cheek. “Now kiss me before I die of wanting it.”

E
IGHTEEN

Oh sweet and painful love, thou needle in my heart; should I draw you forth and let the bleeding start?

—Quillan

C
ARINE WATCHED UNTIL HER HUSBAND
was lost between the buildings. His kiss was warm on her lips, but it still remained that he went his way and now she must go hers. What had she thought, that everything would be different? That somehow he would have solved it overnight?

And she was far from certain that she could sneak away every evening using Ti’Giuseppe as a decoy. It wouldn’t work for long. But maybe in a few days it wouldn’t matter. Her brothers would relax. Papa would forgive. She quickened her stride. God would make a way.
Per favore, Signore
.

She started back through the fields along the road leading to Papa’s farm. Dusk was deepening when she heard a horse trotting and looked up, startled. Flavio reined in as he caught sight of her. The fiery stallion tossed its head, back-stepping a pace. Flavio swung down with the fluid grace she knew so well, then led the horse off the road toward her. She stopped walking.

He came and stood over her, not so tall as Quillan, but the force of his nature had always made her feel small. She raised her chin defiantly. “What do you want?”

“I came to find you.”

She started to walk. “So you found me.”

He fell in step beside her. “It’s getting dark for a walk.”

“I don’t care.”

“Let me give you a ride,
tesora mia
.” His voice turned to velvet.

She stopped, fists at her sides. “I’m not your darling.”

He reached into her hair. “You will always be, your sham husband notwithstanding.”

She jerked away. “He’s not a sham.”

“He left you.”

Her fury ignited. “Because of you! And Papa! And my
imbecile
brothers.” She stalked forward, but he caught her arm, pulled her around.

“Tia Franchesca says the marriage is invalid.”

“Mamma knows nothing.” But Carina started to shake. Mamma had told Flavio that? After seeing her weep, hearing her plea? Would they try to cause an annulment in spite of her? Could they?

Flavio caught her other arm. “I love you, Carina Maria.” He spoke it with fervor.

Could he mean it, after everything he’d done? She remembered the first time he had said that, when she was only fourteen years old. How thrilled she’d been. Even now it was intoxicating that he wanted her still. But that was dangerous and terrible. “I am already married.”

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.”