The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (51 page)

“I saw that from the start.” Tony spread his hands. “But there was Flavio.”

“That’s settled now.” Quillan’s voice was even.

“A man of war and a man of peace.” Tony turned to her. “You’ve chosen well, baby sister.”

That, she knew already.

Quillan’s leg shook as he lowered the pail to the floor, this time controlling its descent. He grunted his relief of the burning in his thigh.

Vittorio nodded. “Buono.” He slipped the pail handle off Quillan’s ankle. “Now stand.”

With one hand on Vittorio’s shoulder, Quillan pulled himself up.

The leg was holding better each time he tried, though not without support. So much damage took time. But he was determined. Just as his arms were gaining muscle and dexterity—he’d walloped the breath from Angelo that afternoon—so the leg would get strong again, as well.

“And step.”

Such a little thing, to lift and place the foot. Yet he had to focus like a baby toddling its first awkward steps. Carina came in, arms crossed over a packet held to her chest. Her eyes shone with encouragement. Quillan stepped.

“All right.” Vittorio eased him back down on the couch. “More tomorrow.” “Naturally.”

“Missing even one day would set you back.”

Quillan had grown accustomed to Vittorio’s dry manner. Where Angelo was fiery and blusterous, Lorenzo smoldered, and Joseph jeered, Vittorio was quiet and reserved. Of them all, he preferred Tony’s quick laugh and earnest bearing. But in some ways he seemed to have earned their respect, even Vittorio, who like Papa DiGratia, showed little emotion beyond a warming of the eyes and occasional smile.

Vittorio put on his vest and turned to his sister. “He’s all yours.”

She turned with a warm smile. “I know.”

Quillan’s heart jumped. As soon as Vittorio was past the threshold, Quillan held out his arms.

She came to him, bent, and kissed his neck. “You stand so well now!”

“You don’t do so bad yourself.” He pulled her down beside him. “What’s this?”

She held out the thick envelope. “It came for you.”

He took it and read: “ ‘Quillan Shepard, care of Angelo DiGratia.’ ” No return address, but it had been stamped in Denver. Did all the world know he was in the doctor’s care? He frowned.

“Well, open it, Quillan! I’m dying of curiosity.”

Quillan turned it over and studied it, musing. “I’d like to see it in private, if you don’t mind.”

Her mouth dropped open in just the pout he’d expected. “In private? We have no secrets. I read you every one of my letters, even—”

“Alex’s?” He chucked her chin, and she thumped him in the chest.

“Yes, even Alex’s.”

He clicked his tongue. “Well, I’m not sure your emotional nature can withstand this, my dear.”

“Oh!” She swiped for the letter, but he jerked it out of her reach. She threw her hands into her lap. “You are a rogue to tease when you know I—”

His mouth crooked up. “You what, Carina?”

“Open the letter, or I’ll bring you no supper.”

He raised his brows. “And what is Mamma making tonight?”

“Whatever it is, you’ll wish you had it.” She jerked her chin pointedly. “Now open the letter.”

Quillan looked down at it. He’d been joking when he suggested reading it privately. But it did unsettle him. Why no return address? Tucking Carina’s head to the side of his jaw, he tore the envelope open and pulled out the papers.

The first was a copy of the train robbery article Pierce had written about him. Maybe it was another attempt by the unwavering rogue to get hold of his poems. But the second was another page from a Wyoming newspaper. That was something different. Quillan looked at the lead article.

Robber cut down by clerk’s foresight
. Quillan read on.
Notorious bank
and train robber Shane Dennison was shot dead Wednesday at the Fort
Laramie bank
. Quillan stared at the page. The Fort Laramie bank. He recalled the way his hands had trembled when Dennison had thrown him the bags and told him to run. Was the man insane to try that bank again? He pictured Shane’s cocky face.
“No one gets the better of me, Quillan. You stick around long enough, you’ll see.”
Had that one failure niggled inside until he had to tempt fate once more?

Bank clerk Simon Blessing claims he saw the notorious outlaw in a
poker game at the saloon. “I recognized the mole under his lip from the new
posters.” Certain there could be trouble, he alerted bank owner Thaddeus
Marsh. Law officers were ready when Dennison made his move on the bank.Dennison was shot trying to exit the window. Two partners were captured
and await trial
.

Still leaving his men to take the fall. But this time, Shane hadn’t made his escape. He’d found a bullet instead. Quillan read on.
“He looked
just like his face on the posters,” Blessing said. “There was no doubt in my
mind it was Dennison.”

And it was Quillan’s sketch they’d used for the new posters. He’d drawn the mole that clerk recognized. Quillan stared at the page. Carina leaned close. “They got Shane Dennison?”

“Shot him.” Quillan swallowed. It was a strange feeling to know he’d helped to bring the man down. Though he’d been willing to shoot during the robbery to protect those aboard the train, he felt only numb now. Dennison deserved the retribution of the law. But he had been the first friend Quillan had, even if he had been a false one.

He looked back at the other papers in his lap. The next was a cashier’s check for two hundred dollars. He pushed it aside to read the letter beneath.

My esteemed sir
. Quillan had to grin.
It would appear my earlier judgments
were in error
. Earlier judgments? Whose letter was this? He glanced to the bottom of the sheet and froze.
William Wallace DeMornay III
.

Quillan’s breath escaped in a rush. William DeMornay?

“What is it?” Carina took the letter and read, “ ‘My esteemed sir. It would appear my earlier judgments were in error. You must forgive my skepticism. Men of my position are often targets of unscrupulousness. As an officer of the Union Pacific Railroad, I am honored to present you this portion of the reward for the capture of the notorious Mr. Shane Dennison, the amount being one third divided between yourself, Mr.

Simon Blessing, and Mr. Thaddeus Marsh.’ ” She glanced up, still obviously unaware of who it was that addressed him.

“ ‘As to your previous claims, my wife has informed me that she believes your story and has legitimate reason for doing so.’ ” Now her eyes shot to the bottom of the page, and she gasped. “Quillan, it’s from your grandfather. He’s an officer of the railroad?”

Tabor had mentioned that, but Quillan had forgotten. He might not have been so eager to save the train if he’d remembered. “So it appears.”

“But this is remarkable. What fortunate serendipity. He says, ‘At some time in the near future, I would like to discuss the matter further with you. Yours very sincerely, William Wallace DeMornay III.’ ” Carina looked up. “Quillan, he knows. He acknowledges you.”

“He knew before.”

“You know the railroad barons are criticized and envied. He had to be cautious. It wasn’t because of you that he acted as he did. How did he say it?” She perused up the letter. “Men of his position are ‘targets of unscrupulousness.’ That explains his behavior.”

“Does it?” Quillan was not so sure.

Carina flicked her fingers across the page. “He wants to discuss your relationship.”

Quillan jerked his chin toward the wall, resisting her words. Here she was again, explaining matters of the heart. But it still stung that William DeMornay had accused him of wanting money instead of listening to his intentions.

She turned his face back, caught it between her palms. “Quillan, your grandfather made a mistake. He admits as much. But that doesn’t change the relationship any more than his denial changed the truth.”

Quillan sighed and looked down at the last paper in the packet.

Another letter in a genteel if spidery hand.
My dear Quillan
. It was from his grandmother.
You must know how deeply we regret our error. Perhaps it
will not be easy for you to forgive, but I pray you will not find it impossible. You have your mother’s nature
.

Quillan glanced up at Carina. He suddenly missed his mother’s locket with a piercing ache. He wanted to see, once again, that sweet face.

I can only beg you understand my hesitance. After so many years of
wondering, longing, weeping, and finding at last some thin peace, to resurrect
the pain was not easy. For William it was harder yet. He blamed himself
for his daughter’s ruin. Because he knew the man’s reputation, he refused to
countenance their courtship request, but Rose was snared by the scoundrel’s
iniquity. William would have forgiven her, I believe, if given the chance. It
broke his heart when she disappeared
.

Quillan wrinkled his brow. William DeMornay seemed too cold and stiff for broken hearts. But maybe, like himself, his grandfather built walls to protect against the pain.

Think kindly on him, Quillan. As you have loved your mother, so
William loved her first. Never were two so inseparable. Joy died in him the
day she left
.

A sharp pang lodged in his chest at those words. He’d spent most of his life hating his mother because he misunderstood. How could he blame William for coping as poorly?

Carina cupped his chin and turned his face up. “Are you all right?”

How did she see inside him? His throat tightened painfully. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What does she say?”

He looked back down. “ ‘Would you permit us to visit? William also extends this request. I pray you will consider it. Yours humbly and sincerely, Annelise DeMornay.’ ”

“Annelise! Rose was named for her mamma.”

Quillan folded the letter.

“And she wants to come visit. Write her back, Quillan. Tell them to come, of course to come.”

Quillan sagged. How could he see them now, with his pathetic arms, his crippled leg? He had gone to them strong and independent, and they had called him a thief. How would they look at him now? With pity?

“Quillan.” Carina reached into her pocket, then caught his hand and placed her closed fist inside it. When she opened her fingers, something heavy and round rested there. She drew her hand away.

His mother’s locket, the front different and the catch, but he knew the weight and shape of it. He looked up, questioning.

“It was damaged in the accident. I had it repaired.”

He pushed the release that opened the new front and saw his mother’s face. The photo bore one scratch, but the rest was unmarred. He stared into his mother’s eyes, remembering their aqua brilliance. The same color as Annelise DeMornay’s.

Carina folded both hands behind his neck. “They’re Rose’s parents, Quillan. And they need you.”

He looked from the locket to his wife’s face. Did she always have to be right? “So I should let them come.”

“You should welcome them.”

His mouth pulled sideways. “With something more than grim acceptance.”

“Exuberant joy.”

He laughed. “Being not overly endowed with exuberance, I’ll leave that to you.” But he felt suddenly light. Not only had God given him Carina’s family, but it seemed he meant to extend it once again. Grandparents. He took a moment to savor the thought. The Lord’s abundance amazed him. He had gone from being totally alone to winning Carina, being accepted by her family—though that was still a mixed blessing with her brothers—to having the DeMornays acknowledge him.

He lowered his forehead to Carina’s. “Do you suppose he’d foot me a loan for a new wagon?”

Carina punched his chest.

“Ow. I’ve had my reflex training, thank you.” He caught her face and kissed her, then hung the locket around her neck.

“What are you doing?” She pressed the locket to her breast.

“I want you to have it.” He stroked back her curtain of hair. “I have nothing else to give you these days.”

She caught his face between her hands. “You have yourself.” She kissed him back. He had thought she might.

Still warm inside from the meal they had all shared around the table, Carina helped Quillan down from the small grape wagon. Ah, what a wonderful time it had been, all gathered together at the long table for Quillan’s first meal with the family. They had all been there, her brothers and their wives, Divina and Nicolo, Tia Marta and Gelsomina and Ti’Giuseppe, beaming his bare gums in delight. Quillan had swallowed Mamma’s lasagne like a ravening wolf, then held up his goblet when Papa and the others raised theirs.

Papa’s voice was strong and sincere. “This wine was made from grapes grown and ripened before phylloxera weakened a single vine on our land. With God’s help, we will all grow this strong, mellow this deeply, and warm this well.” He had raised the goblet an inch higher to Quillan, sitting alongside her at the table. “Welcome to the family.”

Though his arms were stronger now, almost what they’d been, Carina had noticed the shake of Quillan’s goblet as he drank. Now, as she helped him, his muscles tightened and bunched as he eased his weight onto the cane and stepped down. The foot of the cane sank into the soft ground at the edge of the vineyard, the one she had discovered in bud, now burgeoning with green leaves and trailing tendrils. Quillan breathed deeply as he looked out at the scene.

“Do you like it?”

He nodded silently, his larynx working up and down.

“From the edge of this young vineyard, across that field and citrus orchard, up to the top of the hill there.” She pointed to the oak-capped hill. “This is the land Papa gives us.”

He stood in silence a long time, his eyes absorbing what his mind struggled to take in.

“It’s a gift, Quillan. He wants us to have it.”

“But I haven’t earned it.”

“You don’t have to.” She slipped her hand inside his free one. “It’s Papa’s gift, Quillan. Only accept it.”

He started slowly down between the vines, using the cane to balance.