The Rose Legacy (13 page)

Carina tried to imagine it. “Does everyone go?”

“Most everyone.”

“Henri Charboneau?”

Mae snorted. “Not that one. Some go just for the show, but Reverend Paine hooks ’em.” Mae dug a thumb into the flesh beneath her jaw like a fish yanked by a gill.

Carina was fascinated by the display. “How does he hook them?”

Mae laughed low. “You come see for yourself.”

No grazie
. Was it not enough to face the priest? A sudden thought struck her. “Do you know Father Charboneau?”

Mae heaved an iron skillet the size of a wheel into the tub. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone here I don’t know.”

“Then you know he was a—”

Mae sank the skillet in the tub, put her dripping hands to her hips, and faced Carina. “We need to get something straight, right off. I don’t gossip, especially about folks I might depend on for my life.”

Carina flushed. Wasn’t gossip part of life? Didn’t the stories grow and grow better with each telling? Didn’t it lend stature and long-suffering to the tellers and even the tell-abouts? Was it not a sharing of hearts and souls? Even Scripture said what was whispered in darkness would be shouted in the light.

“I don’t hold with hanging people’s lives out like laundry.”

Carina frowned. Did dark deeds not deserve hanging out, and brave deeds not shine brighter? “Why is it wrong to tell our stories?”

Mae pushed herself back from the tub. “Nothing wrong in telling your own. Just not someone else’s.”

Carina considered that. How she had cringed when Divina told and retold of her falling from the roof, squirmed at the telling of her kicking Tony because she could not win the foot race. How they had laughed and called her Giusseppe’s mule. Many times she had wished to shush Divina. Could Mae be right? Could the very fabric of her life, of her person, of the people she knew and held most dear, prove faulty?

Before she could answer, Carina was cloaked with shadow—Quillan Shepard’s shadow.

T
EN

Is it possible to live someone else’s life? If so, I have left mine and entered the mind and body of a stranger … whom I don’t much like, and trust not at all.

—Rose

C
ARINA JOLTED LIKE
a rabbit in the carrot patch, certain he could see her guilt. She had pried into Quillan Shepard’s life. Like Eve after the fruit, did she look different for the knowledge? Anger vied with shame. Had she learned so much? No, but she had intended to, and the guilty feeling wouldn’t pass. Mae’s reprimand was a barbed hook, holding fast against any excuse she might make, and she pictured herself as Mae had been just moments ago with a thumb hooked into her jaw.

If Quillan noticed her discomfort, he made no sign. He was clean and groomed, his hair tied back and mustache trimmed so its line ended just below his mouth and no longer reached his freshly shaved jaw. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were rolled to the elbow, the collar open two buttonholes.

He tipped his hat. “Mae. Miss DiGratia.”

Mae hunkered back. “Well, Quillan. What brings you around this time?”

“Unfinished business with Miss DiGratia.”

Carina startled. What unfinished business?

“Mind if I steal her?”

“Steal away.” Mae waved a sudsy hand.

Carina bristled. What was she—a horse, that they made her plans without her? “What business have you with me, Mr. Shepard?”

For an answer, he motioned to the pair of blacks, saddled and waiting by the wall of Mae’s house.

Vanitoso
. How confident he was that she would accept his inelegant invitation. But then, she could be grateful he wasn’t a hand-kisser like Berkley Beck. Such behavior from Quillan Shepard … She cringed inside.

Bene. Let him tell her his business. Whatever his offer, she would refuse—and enjoy the refusing. He put a hand to her elbow as she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung up. The black she mounted was strong with heavy hooves. A man’s horse. A work horse. She could feel its strength in bone and muscle.

Quillan swung onto the horse beside her. “Ready?”

She felt a quiver of excitement astride the powerful horse. It had been long since she’d ridden a fine-blooded steed with a man beside her. Not since … She shook away the thought.

She would not consider it now in the presence of Quillan Shepard, whose gray eyes seemed to look into her soul, though he rode like stone beside her, offering no explanation, no congenial conversation. Whatever his plans, he kept them to himself.

She wouldn’t ask, would not let him know she wondered. What unfinished business could he mean? There was no need to ride if he meant to haggle further over the gun. Besides, a deal was a deal. He would know that. What then?

There was nothing more on the mountain where her things had spilled. If he meant to sell her something, he would have brought the wagon, or at least presented it there at Mae’s. Why the ride? The secrecy? Did he know she had looked up his records?

No, that was her own conscience accusing her. No one knew except Berkley Beck. Surely he would not have told Quillan Shepard. So she had gone to the mine—many others rode that way. She had found a trail and followed it. That was all.

Yet … Father Charboneau’s expression played in her mind. If there was something, something to hide, and Quillan suspected she had pried … Oh, why was he there? Why would he not explain himself?

As they passed the last of the dwellings that fringed Crystal City, she could take it no longer. “Where are we going?”

“A record.”

She glanced sidelong.

“I’d wager that’s the longest you’ve gone without sating your curiosity.”

She started to retort, but he interrupted with, “Wasson Lake.”

“Wasson Lake? Why?”

“It’s far enough away you won’t be heard.”

She tried to rein in, but her black kept prancing with his, neck to neck, defying her. Somehow Quillan Shepard controlled even the horse he didn’t ride. Fear sprang up inside.

“I’m teaching you to shoot, Miss DiGratia.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I don’t deliver useless goods.”

Her hands relaxed on the reins. He had done that purposely, used innuendo to frighten her. He was teaching her to shoot? Then he didn’t know. Besides, what had she learned? That his parents had died. It was nothing to hide. But why had they borne no surnames?

“You have the gun with you?” He might have asked that before they came so far.

She brought up her chin. “I told you I would carry it. What use is it in a box somewhere?”

“What use is it if you can’t shoot?”

She gave no answer.

“Can you ride?”

“Of course.”

“Really ride?”

Was he challenging her? She felt the power in the horse beneath her, saw the ripple of muscle and sinew. This horse was not her slow plodding Dom, but that didn’t mean she knew nothing of riding. “What’s his name?”

Quillan quirked an eyebrow.

“This horse. What do you call him?”

“Jack.”

“And yours?”

“Jock.”

With a sudden motion, she leaned over the horse’s neck and dug in her heels. “Fly, Jack!”

This time the horse sprang forward, and Jock quickly followed, the excitement of the race upon them. She felt Jock vying for control, but Jack had a nose lead on him, probably the difference between her weight and Quillan Shepard’s. They pounded across the stony ground onto softer growth as the valley widened and leveled. The horses ran neck and neck, so closely matched in stride as to be one.

She tried to make Jack pull ahead, shrinking herself down and applying the rein. But he was either at his full speed or held back by something else; he resisted her prodding. Ahead, a low fringe of willow and swamp grass marked the line of a stream. She saw a narrow gap in the growth and headed for it. That was her chance. If she could edge him out …

Pressing herself lower to the neck, she caught hold of the saddle horn. The willows drew close. With only seconds to make her move, she bore down for the thrust, then raised up from the saddle. With a wrench, she was in the air, flying over Jack’s neck and landing seat first in the tall, wet grasses. The narrow stream lapped her skirts.

Quillan swung his leg, leaped off his mount, and crouched beside her. “You all right?”

Frowning, Carina pulled herself up by Jack’s rein. “What sort of horse can’t jump a stream?”

“He can jump it. Just not without Jock. He thought they were pulling together.”

Pulling together? And then she pictured them hitched to the wagon. Were they so trained they responded to him as one horse? What kind of power did Quillan Shepard wield over his animals?

“They’re twin foals, you see. They almost think as one.”

She ran a hand down the wet side of her skirt, feeling the damp all the way to her skin. “And you knew that would happen?”

“I suspected.”

Bene
. “But you said nothing.”

“You might have reined in at the stream and called it a draw.” He stuck his tongue in his cheek to keep from laughing.

She was not amused as she pulled wide her soaked, soiled skirt, the beige linen she had worn into Crystal. “You have a habit of spoiling my things.”

He sobered only slightly. “The choice was yours.”

Her anger flared. “As it was the first time?”

He met her eyes without flinching. “The first time there was no choice.” He looked off to his right, toward the lake just visible beneath the peak. “This way.” He started to walk, tugging both Jock and Jack’s reins. She stood a moment, stubborn, then released a sharp breath and followed.

They walked along the stream, which was tucked so deeply into the overhanging grasses that only an occasional sparkle marked the water’s path. She watched a bumblebee the size of a pecan hum over a globe of clover, then make its weaving way to the next. She would not be the one to speak this time.

“Ever pet one?”

She looked up, confused, and he pointed at the bee. He was teasing, of course. “Like touching the rattler’s head?”

His mouth quirked. “It’s safe. Especially if you find one dozing, late afternoon, evening.” He straddled the stream and held out his hand. After a moment’s pause, she took it, and he lifted her over the marshy ground.

His grip was firm and strong, but his voice low and silky. “You reach out nice and slow and stroke it right down the fuzzy back. You can almost hear it purr.” There was playfulness in his eyes, something she wouldn’t have credited him.

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Shepard.”

“Quillan.” He gave her time to step away, then urged the horses across. They looked eager to join him again, as though his bidding was their delight. He started walking. “You think I’m lying?”

“I think you stretch the truth.”

He shrugged. “Try it and see for yourself.”

“And have a sting for my trouble.”

He studied her a moment. “Only if you telegraph fear, Miss DiGratia.”

She frowned. “I’m not afraid of bees. I just don’t ask for trouble.”

“No?” He sauntered past her a step and turned. “What sort of work do you do for Berkley Beck?”

His change of subject surprised and bothered her. What business was it of his? But then, what business were his birth and the death of his parents to her? Conscience demanded she answer. “I keep his records.”

Quillan raised his brows. “His books?”

She shrugged. “I file his cases and keep his ledger if he gets behind.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where’d you get legal training?”

She scoffed. “What training is there to putting dates in order?”

“You only look at the dates?”

She wiped the dampness from her skirt. “They are all the same. Land disputes, claim disputes. Too many.” She waved her hand. “I will not get my house back.”

“Your house?”

She had forgotten he didn’t know. Why should she tell him and reveal the depth of her ignorance, of her plight? She sighed. “After you destroyed my wagon, three men took my house.”

Quillan stopped walking. “What three men?”

She made a scornful sound. “Carruthers.”

“On what grounds?” There was something in his expression, some knowing, some … but then it was gone.

“I don’t know.” She waved her arm in frustration. “Mr. Beck thinks a fraud; Mae says forgery. It must be a forgery because another man—” She bit off her words.

“Another man what?”

She blew out her breath in exasperation. “Another man had the same advertisement and deed. He came to Mr. Beck for help, but I sent him away. How can Mr. Beck get the house for us both?” Her voice rose to a petulant pitch in spite of her efforts.

Quillan stood slack-hipped. If he cared at all for her hardship, it scarcely showed. “Why did he go to Mr. Beck?”

“I suppose he saw the sign, same as I. Berkley Beck, Attorney at Law. Where else do you turn when you’re wronged?”

Quillan looked as though he had an answer to that but kept it to himself. “Where’s your deed now?”

“I gave it to Mr. Beck. He’s handling it.”

Quillan snorted.

“I know what you think of him. But—”

He raised an arm and pointed. “That spot should do all right.”

Carina followed his arm. Away from the stream, the ground had firmed into clumps of fine gold and pale green grass. Masses of kinnikinnick and red-berried bushes grew beneath the white-barked aspens amid thorny rock roses with pale pink blooms. The leaves of the aspens trembled in the breeze, twisting on their stems so that the sunlight glinted off them like paper-thin stained glass.

Quillan stopped walking when he reached the place he’d chosen. “Hand me your gun.”

She pulled the gun from a deep pocket in her skirt and gasped when he wrenched it from her with such force it burned her hand. She jumped back, her eyes wide, her breath catching in her throat, his speed and power and brutality of motion overwhelming her.

He scowled. “Never point unless you mean it. You hand over your gun grip first.”

She met his scowl with her own. “My finger was not on the trigger.”

“You think anyone will wait to find out?”

She opened her mouth, then accepted the reproof in silence. With her gun in hand, he walked the horses to an aspen that stood to the side of the clearing and loosely wrapped the reins, then returned to her side. He slid the barrel forward and dumped the rimfires into his hand.

“Didn’t I load it right?”

“You did.” He slid them back in. “Now the firing pin rests on these so you can’t bang it around. If I’d known you had it in a pocket …”

“You would not have thrown me from your horse?”

“I didn’t …” He paused, rested the gun in his palm, and examined it. “No, I wouldn’t have. My Colt revolver would have blown through your limb. This Sharps …” He handed it to her. “Don’t take that chance again.”

As though she had planned to fall from the horse. He was the one who knew, who watched to see it happen. No warning, no explanation.

He adjusted the weapon in her grip. His palm was callused, yet smooth from the rubbing of leather reins. “All right, pull back the hammer.”