The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (47 page)

Vittorio merely nodded, so like Papa in demeanor she was sure that irked Quillan, as well. “Yes, I see.” This time Vittorio lifted the arm and studied the tendons as he closed the fingers himself. “That’s all for today.” He restored Quillan’s arm to his side and pointed to the left. “That one is better, eh?”

Quillan shrugged. “I’ve had some use of it.”

“Its injury was not so severe.” He touched the collarbone, and Quillan scarcely winced. “Good.”

Quillan might not have winced, but Carina saw him squirm. Was it Vittorio’s touch he disliked? An affront to his privacy? It was as natural to Vittorio as breath. Italian men touched, kissed, danced, and hugged. She tried to picture Quillan thus and failed. Oh, he touched her with fierce connection. But had she ever seen him reach out to anyone else?

Cain. He had regularly supported, even carried Cain in his infirmity. And Alan; Quillan gave his strength as Alan needed. That was it. He could touch to help others, especially the old ones, but he did not receive such touch himself. Nor, she supposed, would he take easily to affectionate touch from any but her. She bit her lower lip, smiling slightly at the learning he had yet to do.

Vittorio raised Quillan’s chin. “A shave, I think.”

“Just bring me a bowl and straight razor.”

“And watch you slice your throat?” Vittorio took down a shaving bowl and mixed a lather. He dipped a towel into the water held warm on the brazier, then laid it over Quillan’s face.

Carina leaned on the doorway. She’d never seen her husband get shaved. He had as much beard as any man in her family, and it reached down his neck, as well. Vittorio removed the towel and brushed on the lather, then took up the blade.

“I’ll do it myself if you’ll fetch me a mirror.”

Carina stepped into the room. “Behave yourself, Quillan, and let Vittorio shave you. Soon enough you’ll do everything yourself.”

He turned, gave her a fiery glance, then succumbed to the first scratchy glide of the blade. Carina watched the stripe of bare flesh widen with each stroke of the blade. Quillan’s hands lay at his sides, but she saw them clench slightly. Yes, he suffered the care, no more. Then Vittorio took out a small scissors to trim his mustache.

Quillan said, “Leave it.”

“Here, let me.” Carina took the scissors and sat at Quillan’s side. Carefully she clipped the overgrowth of his full, jaunty mustache. What if she took it all the way off? Would his mouth look vulnerable? What if his hair were cut? Would he look gentle and meek? She doubted it.

With her fingertips, she flicked the sides of his mustache free of loose clippings, then leaned in and kissed his lips. Quillan’s eyes flicked up to Vittorio, who stood grinning. Carina smiled, too, as Vittorio toweled the flecks of lather from Quillan’s throat and jaw.

“There. You are presentable to kiss my sister.”

Quillan looked from one to the other, exasperated. Poor man, he didn’t know how to take them.

“Go away.” Carina shooed her brother with her hand. Then she turned from Vittorio’s departing back to her husband’s expectant face.

“Do you intend to make a regular spectacle of me?” He raised a hand into her hair.

She shrugged. “Things are less private here. Our love is part of their lives. My brothers, my parents, cousins, friends—they’re all included.” She spread her hands. “We are family.”

Quillan frowned. “Feels mighty crowded.”

She kissed his forehead. “You’ll get used to it.”

His stormy glance argued back, but both arms came around her in a loose embrace.

She settled into his chest. “You just have to try a little.”

“You sound like Vittorio.”

She laughed. “How hard was it?”

“Hard.” He raised one shaky arm, then dropped it. “I’m weak as a baby.”

“But you’ll try again.”

He met her gaze. “You know I will. The sooner—”

She kissed his mouth, full and feverishly. She didn’t want to hear what he thought he would do when his strength returned. She was suddenly glad God might keep him weak some while. Maybe in that time he could learn to keep still.

T
WENTY-SIX

One lesson learned through loss of health is time can be a friend.

The plague it places on your mind cannot itself contend, with what great strides it grants your flesh while bone and sinew knit But how a friend can wear a welcome thin if overlong does sit.

—Quillan

C
ARINA LEFT HER WEARY HUSBAND
and went out to the courtyard. Lingering near the fountain, Divina and Nicolo looked up as she stepped out. Nicolo’s hand was on Divina’s belly, caressing the child—that wasn’t his? Carina stared. Did he treasure that baby because it gave him Divina? Or for its own sake? She looked at her cousin in a new light.

Unattractive in comparison to her brothers and especially to Flavio, Nicolo had never occupied much of her thoughts. And none of Divina’s, she was sure. Yet standing there together, they seemed content, Nicolo having grown in stature and comeliness by it. She joined them, but Nicolo’s hand remained on the swelling gathers of Divina’s skirt.

Divina smiled. “Nicolo thinks he can feel a kick.”

With a pang, Carina remembered her own baby’s soft flutterings. “Can he?”

“Try it.” Nicolo lifted his hand and motioned hers into its place.

Carina put her hand on Divina’s belly. “Do you feel it inside?” Carina looked into her sister’s face, trying not to envy her condition.

“Of course.” Divina waved her hand. “I’ve felt it some while now.”

A tiny thump touched Carina’s palm, and her eyes widened. “I felt it.”

“I told you.” Nicolo pulled Divina close to his side again. “He’s a strong one.”

“He might be a girl.” Divina nudged his ribs. “With a kick like Carina’s.”

Carina huffed. “She’ll have to work hard to aspire to that.” They laughed, Divina’s barb scarcely bringing a sting to Carina’s old pride. Having so recently kicked Mr. Pierce, she could hardly deny the tendency still existed, but she felt no need to defend herself. Maybe her oversensitivity had made more of Divina’s remarks than there ever was.

Anyway, it was Ti’Giuseppe she wanted to see, so she left them to each other and headed for his cottage. She tapped the door, then walked in.

Ti’Giuseppe was not in bed; he sat dozing by his stove, shoulders wrapped in a woolen blanket Flavio’s mother had woven for him. Carina crept close and kissed his cheeks, smiling when his gray filmed eyes opened and his lips parted. She held his face between her hands. “How are you, Tio?”

“Bene, cara. Dreaming of heaven.”

Her heart lurched in her chest. “Not yet, Tio. I need you still.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You have all you need in that young man and the little ones to come. Life is for the young.”

“And for the old. What would we do without you?” Tears stung her eyes again at the thought of Nonna’s absence. To consider Ti’Giuseppe passing away was too painful. But she knew he was frail, more so, perhaps, than he seemed. If he dreamed of heaven, was God preparing him to go? She caught his hand between hers and kissed his fingers.

“Life has been good to me, Carina.” His eyes warmed with the glow from his stove. “When it is time to leave this place, I will leave it content.”

“When the time comes. But not yet.” She squeezed his hand.

“I think I will see the little one.”

“Tio?”

He rested his head against the pressed wooden back of his chair.

“The baby.”

Carina glanced back to where she had left Divina. “Nicolo has felt it kick.”

“Not Divina’s baby.” Ti’Giuseppe tugged one edge of the blanket higher. “Yours.”

She looked into his face. What was he saying? That he would live to see her children? She could only hope so. But the old man did not know that her injuries might keep her from ever bearing a child. “Of course, Tio. You will bless my children.”

He closed his eyes. “This one, at least, I will bless.”

This one
. A ripple ran through her. What do you mean? she wanted to ask, but his breathing had deepened, fluttering his lips over his gums. She slipped her hand out of his and stood. He was still dreaming, her dear Giuseppe. She let him sleep.

Back outside the day’s warmth soothed the ache he had brought to her heart. So much loss. Her baby, Nonna, and now fears for Giuseppe.

But Quillan grew stronger every day. She must see the good, bask in the blessings.

She went to the stable and saddled a mare. A ride to town would help, and she had errands there. She mounted side saddle and brought the horse around, then rode at a brisk clip. When she reached the plaza, she stopped first at the post office. In some of her hours attending Quillan, she had written her friends in Crystal. Too much time had passed, but with all the strain of the journey, then the trials of their arrival, she had not corresponded with Mae or Èmie as she had expected to. One feverishly thankful letter she had sent to Father Antoine, but she had not heard back from anyone yet.

She waited behind Mrs. Gardener, thinking of the line of miners at the post office in Crystal and the kindness she had found in them as they moved her ahead and gave up their places. Mrs. Gardener collected her mail and moved aside. Carina stepped up to the window. Before she could ask, Mr. Halliford handed her a string-wrapped stack of letters, too thick to hold with one hand.

Her heart jumped as she read the top name. Joe Turner! She clasped the packet to her breast, not looking at the other ones. She would let them surprise her. Letters from people she hadn’t even written. Had Mae shared her letter with Joe? Had others heard and sent their regards . . . at three cents an ounce? She laughed. What was three cents to Joe Turner?

It was she and Quillan who were penniless. She laughed again and went outside.

What fun she would have reading each letter to Quillan. Would he pretend he didn’t care? Or would he listen with his pirate’s smile and tease? That depended on his mood these days, which reminded her of her other errand. She tucked the letters into her saddle pouch and led her horse across the plaza, past the train turntable to the goldsmith and jeweler’s. She tethered the horse, then went inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Grady. How is the locket coming?”

“Not finished yet, I’m afraid. Soon.”

“But you can repair it?”

The goldsmith looked up with deep-set triangular eyes. “Not as it was. I’ve had to replace the front. I’m tooling it now.”

“But the photograph?”

He smiled and nodded. “Some things are more valuable than gold, aren’t they?”

She agreed fervently. “Thank you for your work. Please let me know when you have it finished.”

Back out on the street, she prepared to mount when someone called her name—a voice she did not relish hearing. All her good humor vanished, and she stopped with one foot in the stirrup, indignation rising like a tide. He would show his face again? She turned, biting words on her tongue, but he was not daunted at all. What was he made of, this Mr. Pierce?

At the knock on his door, Quillan woke, a warm lethargy permeating his system. But Carina came in looking like thunder.

He jolted up, wincing. “What’s the matter?”

She put one hand on her hip. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Who?”

She motioned as though that someone might slither through the door, when in fact he came in behind her looking dapper as ever in a black Prince Albert coat and gaiters. The man had gall, Quillan gave him that.

“Quillan.” He came forward, hand extended. “Good to see you looking so hale.”

Quillan didn’t take the extended hand, even though he could finally have done so if he wished. He sent a chilling glare instead.

Pierce waved a hand. “Now I know . . . theft and all that. But see?” He held up the journal. “Once again, no intention to retain said stolen property.”

“You have a warped sense of ethics.”

Pierce grinned. “Wonder what else I’ve brought, do you?”

“No.”

Pierce laughed. “Well, I know you do, though you’d suck lemons before you’d admit it. I have a contract for a poetry anthology based on the excerpts from the biographical sketches in
Harper’s Monthly
.”

Quillan tensed. “Excerpts of what?”

“Your poems, of course.”

Quillan opened and closed his mouth. He had specifically and repeatedly refused Pierce’s requests. The poems in his journal were the words of his heart, not intended for public scrutiny.

“We had a handshake agreement. I had to give them something, and you were . . . unavailable.” Pierce spread his hands reasonably, as though Quillan should understand his necessary infamy. “The folks at Harper and Brothers are agog. They’re naming you with Emerson and Holmes. They’re crazy for American poets to compete with the Brits.”

Baffled by the man’s obtuseness, Quillan shook his head. What did he care about competing with the British or anyone else? Those poems were his inner turmoil, his . . . He looked at Carina, saw her own indignation. The corner of his mouth flickered. With very little provocation, she would kick Pierce again. He noticed Mr. Pierce stayed out of range.

Quillan fixed Pierce in his stare. “Mr. Pierce . . .”

“Rod.”

“I specifically told you those poems were not for publication. I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Maybe this will.” Pierce held out a bank draft. “In advance of your submission. Royalties, of course, would follow.”

Quillan neither took nor looked at the check. “What’s in it for you?”

“A small percentage from future projects.” At least Pierce didn’t hedge. “And of course the acknowledgment that I discovered you. That goes a long way in my field.”

Quillan laughed. Pierce’s audacity was no small thing. Nor what he offered. Another man might have jumped at the chance for fame and recognition. Quillan just wanted to be able to walk again with two sound legs and Carina at his side. His laugh died.

He sank back and crossed his arms, a motion he hadn’t managed in weeks. He hoped their paltry condition was not evident. At any rate Pierce didn’t look at him like an invalid. Quillan swallowed. “My poetry’s not for sale.”