The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (42 page)

“That’s best for now. Let’s see what his body does today.”

It did nothing but burn, and though the fever rose no higher, it subsided not at all. Quillan lay as though dead, sapped by fever and lulled by morphine. His breath was shallow now with a slight wheeze. Papa raised Quillan’s head with a second pillow, but feared to move him more than that. He held vigil with Carina, reading from one scientific text or another and continuing his ministrations.

Carina’s eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. In spite of her fear, she could not hold them open. Her head nodded, then dropped to her breast. Papa’s hand restored consciousness, but he only said, “Go to bed.

I’ll wait with him.”

She looked into Papa’s careworn face. Could she trust him? They had been at odds from the day she returned, and Quillan was the center of the conflict. But looking at him now, she had to believe Papa was expending himself to the best of his abilities. She nodded and went upstairs. Sleep engulfed her almost before she had undressed and fallen in a heap to her bed.

Burn, burn, he was burning. The fire had caught and filled him. His
flesh melted from his bones. His tongue cracked. His throat ached. How
long could he burn before he was consumed? Eternal flames. He could burn
forever. No!

Quillan heard voices, but there was something wrong with the words. They were different somehow, yet he imagined he knew what they meant. Not all, though. Some were just sounds, interspersed with the others.
Fever—bones—dangerous—cool, not cold—keep him tied—might awaken
soon—no, no fire—we must keep the air pure
.

Air pure. He was burning, yet he smelled no smoke. Did he imagine meaning in the strange words, and what was it that was wrong with them?

He swam closer to the surface.
Eye motions—not long now—pain—no
more morphine
. Morphine? That word had sounded right, different from the others. And then he realized the speech was Italian.

A jolt of panic sent fire through him. He fought to open his eyes. But they were as immobile as the rest of him. He had tried to shift, or thought he had. None of his limbs would move, nor, he was fairly certain, would his head. At least nothing responded to his efforts. Had he really tried, or did he just think he had?

It was too hard to figure out. He was so tired. There was something else, something demanding to be recognized. Pain. Yes, there was pain.

Starting down the stairs the next morning, Carina saw Father Esser leaving the treatment room. Panic nearly took her legs from under her.

Had Papa called him to give last rites? Was Quillan dying? Or dead?

She flung herself down the stairs as the priest passed through the back door.

She ran down the hall and crashed into the sickroom gasping, “Quillan!”

Papa spun, splashing the bowl of water down his front, and stared at her.
“Santa Maria!”

With inexpressible relief, Carina heard Quillan breathing, strained and thick but not rattling and, God forbid, not stopped. And then another terrible thought occurred. She stalked inside. “Why was Father here?”

“Shh.” Papa frowned, looking behind him. “Do you want to wake him?”

Carina lowered her voice but not the intensity. “Papa, why was Father here?” Though she was willing to live without Quillan if God wished it, she would not stand for their marriage, their love to be called invalid.

“He brought me a letter.”

“What letter?” She would not be put off so easily.

“From someone you know.” Papa set down the bowl, grabbed a cloth, and wiped his shirt.

From someone she knew? To Father Esser? “From whom?”

“Father Charboneau.”

Carina’s heart jumped. “Father Antoine! What did he say?”

“Read it for yourself.” Papa motioned to the sheet of stationery lying on his instrument table.

She snatched it up with greedy fingers, her eyes passing over the greeting to the body of the letter. “In response to your concern, I can only say that I know this marriage to be not only true but blessed of God.”

Oh, blessed Father Antoine!
“Any efforts to sever that which I joined in God’s holy presence would be wrongful and dire. I trust to your holy calling to show wisdom in this matter.”

She pressed the letter to her breast, closing her eyes on tears of joy.

God did not want her separated from Quillan! Her marriage was not wrong; it was blessed of God. She turned and met Papa’s eyes. “What do you think now?”

He sighed, glancing at Quillan’s still form. One eyebrow twitched.

“I think we must do our best for this man, your husband.”

Carina rushed to him, caught him in her arms, and buried her face against his chest. Her papa! Her papa understood. At last he understood.

Papa stroked her hair, then caught her head between his hands.

“Which doesn’t excuse your marrying without my consent.”

“I’m sorry, Papa. Truly.” Sorry for hurting him, surely, but not for marrying, not for the marriage God blessed.

“Yes. Well.” He separated from her and glanced at Quillan.

She followed his gaze. “How is he?”

“The same.”

She dropped to the chair beside the bed and touched Quillan’s chest.

It was like a hot loaf from the oven. “How long can he bear it?”

“It could be helping. Not all fever is detrimental. If it goes no higher . . .” Papa spread his hands. “There’s no smell of putrefaction.”

He refilled the bowl and dropped the cloth in. “Bathe him with this, what parts of him are not covered in bandages and plaster.” There was a note in Papa’s voice, a familiar tone of sympathy she knew so well. He cared about his patient.

Carina squeezed the water from the cloth. Quillan’s left arm was bound across his chest to keep his collarbone immobile. A band had been stretched across his chest and upper arms, tying him to the bed, she guessed, in case he tried to move before Papa thought him ready. There was also a band across his forehead, probably to protect the collarbone. His ribs were wrapped, his right arm cast and his leg, as well. Yes, there was little of him that had not been hurt in some way. But strangely, looking at him now, she felt hope.

Flavio could stand it no longer. He had to know. He left his retreat, the small frame building the Lanzas had erected for him to paint and draw in, a place of light and breezes. But today it suffocated him. He had to know if God had charged murder to his soul, and if there would be an earthly punishment as well as eternal flames.

He went to the stable and called for his stallion, ill-used these last days but hopefully forgiving today. He paced while the servant saddled the horse and brought it to him. Then he swung astride and took off for the DiGratias. He was not certain Quillan would have been taken there. If he had died at the quarry . . . But no, he couldn’t think that way! At any rate, Carina would know where he’d been taken.

Flavio reined in sharply. Carina. She would also know the truth, that he had done that violence to her husband. How could she not when he had struck her with his own hand? The horse sidestepped, tossing at the rein. Flavio looked over the hills to where the DiGratia land joined the Lanzas’.

The horse pulled in an impatient circle, bad tempered about being told to run then made to stop. Frowning, Flavio brought the horse back toward the Lanza farm. He couldn’t go, couldn’t look Carina or her father in the eyes and inquire whether he had done enough to kill or only enough to maim and torture. He who despised violence in any form. He, the great pacifist.

What must they think of him? Carina would hate him. There would not even be pity in her eyes now. And the dottore? Would he regret that he ever took that six-year-old boy under his wing? Flavio hung his head. “Oh, God.” Those two words had been his steady diet ever since they were uttered by Quillan Shepard in the extremity of his pain.

Flavio’s chest burned. He should put an end to it. A rope from the studio rafter? He urged the horse forward. Was he such a coward? But the thought of release from this guilt was potent. Like Judas Iscariot? Hadn’t Judas betrayed the one he loved as Flavio betrayed Carina?
Oh, God
.

He returned the horse to the stable and secured a length of rope. With its coils on his shoulder, he went back to the studio. It was no longer a haven. No place was. He was like Cain, saying it’s too much to bear. It was himself he couldn’t bear. He had become an animal, the antiphony of all he despised. As wicked and dark as the rioting crowd who had killed his papa. Flavio was one of them. He sat on the stool before his easel and rested the rope across his knees. He felt its strength, its coarse fibers.

He swallowed, looped one end and began to form a noose. When he had it finished, he looked at it with fascination. How simply the rope slid through the knot, open and closed. The sunbeams crept across the floor, finally lengthening and slanting as he sat hour after hour, looking at the hangman’s knot in his lap.

“When you find a man’s weakness, use it.”
He’d found his own weakness, hadn’t he? His anger had driven him to violence, in spite of his beliefs. It was only time until he did it again, wasn’t it? What if Quillan Shepard didn’t die? What if he recovered and lived happily with Carina? Would Flavio strike again? But somehow the thought didn’t bring rage. Not even choking despair. Why not? The cool gray early evening light replaced the golden shafts.

“Flavio!” It was Mamma Lanza. “
Pranzo
—dinner, come and eat.”

He blinked as though coming out of sleep. How had the hours passed without his carrying out his intention? He looked at the rope in his hands, raised it, and studied the knot. Then he coiled it and laid it against the wall. When the despair came, as he knew it would, then . . .

At last the awful stillness eased. Like shackles from his mind, Quillan felt the heaviness depart, and he swam up and up into . . . pain. Oh, God, was there any part that didn’t hurt? He blinked, taking in a soft gray light, broken by a dim golden glow somewhere to one side. He tried to turn to see, but his head would not obey.

“Wait a moment.” A male voice, not unfamiliar, yet he couldn’t place it. Someone fumbled with something near his head. “I have permission to unbind your head as long as you understand that any sharp motion will put torsion on the collarbone.”

Quillan couldn’t see who was speaking. The voice seemed to come from behind him.

“There.” A figure stood and pulled a cloth band from his forehead. Quillan looked up with his eyes only.

“You’ll know if you disturb the bone, believe me.” It was Carina’s brother Vittorio.

Quillan closed his eyes. He must be more confused than he thought. Something wet dabbed his lips, and he sucked before he realized what he was doing. It was an automatic motion, something from the fog he’d climbed out of.

“Are you in pain?”

Quillan didn’t want to probe that question. “Where am I?”

“Dr. DiGratia’s treatment room. Do you remember anything?”

Quillan frowned. Dr. DiGratia—Carina’s father? He didn’t understand. But it hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. And he still couldn’t move. Wait . . . one leg seemed to respond. His left.

“Don’t do that. You need to be very still. You’ve had a delicate surgery.

Well, more than that, but that’s most fragile at the moment.”

Yes, Quillan felt fragile. His throbbing right leg was completely stiff; he could do nothing with it at all, and the hip pained him sharply. His right arm also seemed stiff, and both were bound against his chest. He tried to lift his head to see down his body. It was more than he could manage. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so weak, so helpless. He swallowed, wishing desperately for water.

As though Vittorio had read his mind he brought a glass and a spoon. “Let this run down the side of your tongue so you don’t choke.”

Quillan took the water like a baby, then closed his eyes again, too exhausted to wonder anymore. After a time, he heard two voices conversing, the same he’d heard before. Again they spoke Italian.
He—awake a
moment. Yes—asked where—
so many of the words Quillan hadn’t learned yet. The other voice was deeper. Dr. DiGratia’s.
We will see
.

Quillan felt hands near his throat. Fingers probed along the collarbone. Quillan remembered. He had felt it break, heard it snap when he fell, before the wagon landed on top of him. He winced when the fingers found the spot, then forced his mind to clear. The hand stopped probing and reached for the edge of the sheet. With a tiny motion, Quillan gripped the wrist and opened his eyes.

Startled, the doctor looked at him. Their gaze locked. Quillan glared, or thought he did. He wasn’t sure his face obeyed, but the doctor seemed to get the message.

“You can relax. I’m only going to bathe you.”

Quillan maintained his grip. “No, you’re not.”

“Cleanliness is essential to recovery.” With his other hand, Dr.

DiGratia folded the sheet down across Quillan’s chest.

Feeling exposed and helpless, Quillan tightened the squeeze on the man’s wrist, though it sent aching throbs up his arm and across his shoulder to his neck. “I’ll wash myself.”

“Will you? Which hand will you use?” The doctor’s frank stare sent panic through him.

Quillan stared down his chest: the right arm trapped in plaster, the left bound up across his chest to the wrist. He had only movement enough to grab the doctor’s hand when it passed from his shoulder to his chest. Sudden claustrophobic panic choked up. He tried to sit but couldn’t, feeling the band strapped across his ribs. His legs were immobile, and one felt stiff as a log. An indistinguishable pain grew inside him. He felt like a trapped animal. “What’s wrong with me?”

“It would be shorter to name what’s not.” Dr. DiGratia folded the sheet again, exposing his belly. Quillan tensed. The air of the room was warm, but his flesh quivered. Vittorio came over with a bowl of scented water. Quillan sniffed.

“It’s arnica for bruising.” Dr. DiGratia said, gently working a bandage loose from the lower right side of Quillan’s abdomen.

Quillan recognized the source of burning pain, although it seemed to penetrate all through him. What had happened there? Something worse than anything he’d known before.