The Rose Legacy (14 page)

She did.

“Now, when you pull the trigger, the firing pin strikes the charge around the rim of the factory load. The fulminate of mercury ignites and sends a spark to the powder inside the shell. But then, you already understand the mechanism, don’t you.” Again his mouth pulled into a sardonic smile.

She didn’t actually know all he had just told her, but she nodded anyway.

“Then shoot that aspen with the scar.” He pointed.

She squeezed the trigger. The shot splintered the bark of an aspen some twenty feet off. Not the one she had aimed for.

“You closed the wrong eye. If you’re shooting with your right hand, close your left eye. That gives you a straight line down your arm.”

She raised both arms, centering the gun between them. This time the bullet grazed the side of the tree she meant to hit. He raised his eyebrows as her third shot took a chunk from its other side. The last one nicked a branch. She turned to face him.

He took the gun, extracted the shells, and reloaded. “Try again.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you. I don’t deliver worthless goods.” Quillan handed it back. “Try it from your pocket.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll shoot my limb?”

“Don’t hold the trigger when you pull it out.”

She sank the gun into her pocket, then tugged it free and fired. She couldn’t tell where the bullet hit, though she heard the faint click of it somewhere.

“Don’t take the time to close your eye. Just pull it and shoot as though you’re pointing your finger.”

She put the gun into her skirt again, pulled it out and shot. It caught a branch of the aspen.

“Again.”

She shot and missed. And missed again. He reloaded and she fired until they’d run through a box of rimfires.

“One more.”

Her arms ached as she raised the gun for one last shot. She nicked the side of the trunk. Sighing, she extracted the shells as she’d seen him do. He dropped the last four cartridges into her palm. Still silent, she slid them into place, closed the barrel, and dropped the gun into her pocket. She rubbed her arm below the shoulder, knowing she had shown little aptitude for the weapon. Reluctantly she looked at Quillan Shepard.

“The trees better watch out.” He smiled, his well-formed features and bent brows over dark-rimmed gray eyes looking more rakish than ever. A pirate’s grin. A rogue’s grin. Then it faded. “What you won’t know until it comes to it is if you can point at a man and pull that trigger.” His scrutiny delved deep, searching her, seeking her mettle.

She imagined herself putting a bullet into living flesh, recalled the time Papa had dug a lead ball from a man’s side. He’d held it up between his pincers and said,
“Behold man’s cruelty.”
In spite of her papa’s efforts, the man had died, poisoned inside by the wound. He’d come too late.

Looking now at Quillan Shepard, her voice shrank. “I hope it never comes to that.”

His answer came, low and caustic. “Hope is for fools. Are you a fool, Miss DiGratia?”

She bit him back. “I am no fool. I am the daughter of Angelo Pasquale DiGratia, physician and advisor to Count Camillo Benso di Cavour.”

Quillan Shepard eyed her darkly. “Do you think a lofty birth makes you anything more than you are?”

Her breath released in a haughty rush. “It makes me everything I am.

If I were born a contadini, a peasant like …”

“Like what?”

“Like you.”

“What makes you think I’m a peasant, Miss DiGratia?”

“Are you not?” She trembled with the accusation. She hadn’t meant to go so far, but her anger dulled her instinct.

He started for the horses.

“What else could you be, born in a hole on the mountain, the son of Wolf?” She could think of no worse insult than a nameless parentage.

He turned, his face defined in chiaroscuro, light and darkness, like a portrait by the masters. A renaissance face: handsome on the outside, deadly within. “What do you know about Wolf?”

And now she trembled in earnest. She had gone too far, betrayed herself.

His jaw twitched. Above it, his eyes stormed, a fierce, deadly force showing itself in their depths. His voice grated. “My father was a savage, my mother a harlot. Is there anything else you want to know, Miss DiGratia?”

Quaking inside, she refrained from crossing herself. She could scarcely listen to such words, never consider applying them to her own mamma and papa. Yet he said it with such defiance, such loathing. Her voice wouldn’t come, so she shook her head quickly, ineffectively, then watched his back as he untied the horses for their escape. He was, no doubt, as eager as she.

Quillan let the silence lie between them. What did Carina DiGratia know of the hole in the mountain—the Rose Legacy? Where had she learned his father’s name? And why? There were some who knew, some right there in Crystal, but why would Miss DiGratia know? Had she asked? Again, why?

Quillan controlled his breath, forcing it to come in short, even spurts. He wished he could be rid of her, this woman who mouthed the name of Wolf, who shot it at him like a weapon. How could she know the very mention conjured thoughts and emotions too deep to contain?

They were too far from town. Why had he brought her so far? Some lingering guilt or misguided desire for gentle companionship? To keep their gun practice quiet, as he’d said? Or to make certain Berkley Beck caught no wind of his courting her?

Courting?
Hardly that. Rather winning her trust to make use of her familiarity with Beck’s business.

He refused to glance her way, that beautiful Italian princess who thought she could throw his past at him. How could she know? Mae? No. Mae kept secrets close to the vest. She had never betrayed him before. Beck? It was possible. She had Berkley Beck panting at her skirts like the miserable dog he was. But did he know? What use could that blackguard make of it? Plenty.

Quillan dismounted before Mae’s porch. Miss DiGratia waited, no doubt her breeding requiring his assistance. He lifted her down from the horse, the feel of her narrow waist nothing more to him than any other piece of baggage he might haul. Her feet were on the ground, and he was free. He caught up the reins and pulled the twin geldings behind him. He should at least take his leave. Common courtesy demanded it.

But he kept walking. He never turned until he reached the livery and took the horses inside. Then he released the breath that had stagnated in his lungs.

“I dinna think a bonny day with a lass could bring such a face.” Alan Tavish reached for the reins.

Quillan’s scowl deepened. “What makes you think I was with a lass?”

Alan tapped the side of his head. “I keep me wits about me and me eyes open.”

“Well, don’t carry on like an old maid. It was business.”

“Aye, I can see that by yer sour look.”

Quillan dropped his chin. “Just reminded me why I prefer the company of men.”

“She’s a fetching lass, Quillan.”

“She’s a fury.” Quillan patted Jock’s wither and left Alan to the task.

Carina stood where he had placed her, firmly, silently. Not one word had he given her to ease the tension. And the look on his face—stark, embittered fury … She brought her hand up to finger the crucifix on her neck.
Madonna mia
, the man was pazzo.

E
LEVEN

To think is pain; to remember, torment; but to consider the future—more than I can bea r.

—Rose

“Y
OU LOOK AS THOUGH
you’ve seen a ghost.”

Carina jumped when Mae spoke from the chair in the shaded corner of the porch, but she took the two steps up and joined her. Not a ghost. He was far too real for that. “I should know better than to trust Quillan Shepard to be civil.”

Mae’s laugh was little more than a mezzo rumble in her chest. “You don’t look much the worse for wear. What did he want with you?”

“To teach me to shoot. He said he doesn’t deliver useless goods.”

“And that’s a fact.” Mae brushed an iridescent fly from her arm. “Takes pride in his goods. That’s why folks pay his price with no thought even to bargain him down.”

No? Had she not done just that with the gun? Her chest swelled at the thought. Only a fool wouldn’t quibble. And he had accepted without countering, then presented himself as instructor. He was not the idol Mae thought him, only a man with a bad temper.

Carina leaned on the rail. A strain of birdsong sounded from the corner of the roof, and she watched the sparrow flit to the side rail. Mae held out a lump of fat from the bowl beside her chair, and the bird hopped closer.

“Come on, you little beggar. Come on over.”

The bird’s feet made tiny clicks on the wood as he advanced, cocking his head to one side, then the other. His eyes were shiny beads of onyx, his beak a delicate ivory point. Would he go all the way to Mae? Would he take the food from her hand? He puzzled it, hopped, puzzled it some more. Slowly Mae reached to the side and set the fat on the rail.

Carina held her breath. The sparrow hopped, bobbed his head, hopped again, then took sudden flight as a man rushed around the corner, knees and elbows akimbo.

“Mae! Mae, I can pay my bill.” It was Joe Turner, who slept in a dead man’s bed. “The Ulysses S. Grant hit ore.” He swiped the hat from his head and crushed it to his chest. “Miss DiGratia, will you marry me?”

Carina startled. “Marry you?”

“It’s all on account of you!”

She looked bewildered.

“You see, the night you took my room I was so angry I stomped off in the dark and started to dig. I didn’t even look where. The next morning I figured I may as well keep digging there as elsewhere and, well …” He pulled a black chunk of rock from his pocket. “Here she is. Silver- and lead-bearing ore.”

Carina smiled to think her wrongdoing had played a part in his good fortune. “I’m happy for you, Joe Turner, but you’d do better to ask Mae.” “Well, I would if she’d have me. But I know better than to expect it.”

Mae laughed. “And right you are. My marrying days are done.”

And I am already spoken for
, Carina thought, then chided herself.
No longer, Carina. Don’t be a fool
.

“Well, I’m off to have it assayed.” He kissed the rock. “Wish me luck!” He plopped the hat back on his stringy brown hair and darted off.

Carina watched him run down Drake to Central, knees to the side like a gray cricket, then turned back to Mae. “I’m absolved.”

Mae’s belly rolled with the laugh. “And more. His blood’s so thick with prospector’s fever, nothing’ll thin it save embalming fluid.”

“I hope his strike is rich.”

“You’ll become a legend if it is. He’ll likely tell that tale all over town. You’ll have folks asking you to put them out so they can find a hole just like Joe Turner.”

Carina put a hand to her chest and strutted. “And why not? Haven’t I the DiGratia good fortune?” She cocked her chin and tossed back her hair. “Perhaps I should dig a hole myself, as I, too, was put out of my house.”

“Perhaps you should. But then you’d have to hire men to work it and grubstake them to boot.”

Carina waved a hand through the air. “With my luck, they’ll grubstake me.”

“Grubstake? You’re not thinking of deserting me?”

Carina spun at Berkley Beck’s words, at once subduing her manner as he climbed the steps. It was one thing to prance before Mae, another altogether for Mr. Beck. “I was making a jest, Mr. Beck.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” He smiled. “I came to say I’ll be out of town several days, and I was hoping to leave the shop in your hands, so to speak.”

“Of course. But what can I do without you there?”

“Just keep track of anything that comes in, and keep me alive to any new possibilities. I’ll surely be back by Wednesday.” He smoothed a hand over his hair. “I’ll leave some small tasks for you at my desk.”

Carina nodded as he left, but her mind was not on his small tasks. An uneasy feeling started inside. She should not have told him about searching Quillan’s records. If Quillan Shepard knew she had involved Berkley Beck, he might prove more frightening yet. The look in his eyes …

“You swallowed the goat?” Mae leaned forward in her chair, causing a creaky complaint from the old rope seat.

The tone of his voice and the underlying power, the menace of his silence …”He frightens me.”

“Berkley Beck? He’s harmless.”

Carina jolted. She had spoken without thinking, and it had not been to Mr. Beck she referred.

Mae continued, oblivious. “He thinks a lot of himself. Still, he’ll likely do all right. Wouldn’t be a bad match.”

Carina frowned. “I’m not looking for a match, good or bad.”

“Well, you sure couldn’t tell it by Berkley Beck. He’s an eye for you and no mistake.”

Carina drew herself up straight. “Our relationship is business.”

Mae rocked back and folded her arms across her bosom. “Hmm.”

Quillan sat, unmoving, behind Cain Bradley as the old man jammed his crutch into the ground like a bishop’s crook and drew his bushy brows together into a hedge. “What do you mean, it’s gone?” Cain moved his pale eyes from one face to another.

D.C. met the gaze, then glanced off. “Just that, Daddy. It wasn’t a vein or even a pocket, just a thin shelf and it’s all used up.”

So much for hope. Quillan had heard the same too many times to recall. Either a hole never reached ore, or it played out too soon. Crystal had too few rich strikes to hold on for long. Men were jumping to Leadville like fleas from one dog to the next.

“You’re tellin’ me there’s no more ore in the Boundless Mine? No more a’tall?”

The boy shook his head, glum as a soaked marmot, and the two men behind him confirmed it with their own gloomy faces. Quillan hurt for his friend. This was not the sort of news a man took easily.

Cain leaned on the crutch, suddenly older than he’d been. “Well, maybe you just dug through the first part. What it wants is to go deeper, don’t ya know.”

The thin man behind D.C. raised splayed fingers. “We dug sixty feet to find the first ore, and it wasn’t good grade anyhow. It’s not worth searchin’ deeper.”

“Not worth—” Cain shook his head. “All that work, and me losin’ my leg. And it’s not worth searchin’ deeper?”

“I’m sorry, Cain. You can keep diggin’ if you want to. The mine’s two-fourths yours and the boy’s. But I want out. I’ll sell you my share, or I’ll sell it in town.”

“Sell it! You said it was worthless!”

Slow Jim shrugged. “It may and it may not be. I’m just tired of digging that hole. I’ve lost my faith in it, and when a man’s lost his faith, the tunnel’s too long and dark to make sense of it.”

“So you’re quittin’.”

“No.” Slow Jim stuffed his pockets with his hands. “I’m sellin’ my share and goin’ to work for Joe Turner. He’s hit it rich. Some of the richest ore yet.” He gave a crooked grin. “The DiGratia woman found it for him by putting him out of his room.”

Quillan stirred. What was this? More meddling by that woman.

Cain sagged. “Well, what is it you want for your share, worthless as it is?”

“Eight hundred dollars, gold dust.”

“Eight hundred!” The blood vessels stood out in Cain’s forehead.

Slow Jim reddened. “That’s what it’ll cost me to jump in with Joe.”

“Well, I hope you break your neck jumpin’. I don’t have eight hundred dollars gold dust or horse manure. And you know it!”

Slow Jim looked uncomfortably at his companion. “Morty, here, wants the same. He’s comin’ with me.”

Cain’s throat worked up and down, but no sound came out. His face went gray, almost matching the pale blue eyes. “That right, Mort? You, too? After all we been through?”

“It don’t make sense to stay, Cain. The hole’s no good.”

“You’re askin’ eight hundred, too?”

“Andrews got forty thousand for his. It’s just down the way.”

“His is producing.” Quillan’s voice was low and flat. “And that price was for the whole works, the buildings and machinery and proven assays.”

The two men looked past Cain to meet Quillan’s gaze. “There’s greenhorns who’ll buy our shares, none the wiser.”

“And leave Cain to explain?”

Slow Jim colored again. Mortimer Smith shrugged one shoulder in eloquent embarrassment. They knew what it would do to Cain to be saddled with newcomers in a mine with no ore. Mortimer reached a supplicating hand. “You can sell out, too, Cain.”

“And go where?” Cain wheezed the words, too used up to care.

Quillan stood up from the crate. “I’ll give you eight hundred for both shares together, cash or gold dust. You can go in halves on a share of Turner’s hole.”

Cain’s mouth gaped.

“But you’re not a miner,” D.C. started to argue.

Quillan ignored them both. “It’s the best offer you’ll get—honestly, anyway. Mort? Slow Jim?”

The two men conferred with their eyes, then sighed. “Eight hundred for both. We’ll likely have enough for a second share before the month’s out.”

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll fetch you the money.”

“Dust if you got it. Joe’s wantin’ dust.”

Quillan pressed the hat to his head and went out. He hadn’t intended to go by Cain’s tonight. He’d been angry enough after leaving Miss DiGratia to kick his horse and spit. He’d done neither, but now he was almost as angry at himself. Eight hundred dollars for a worthless hole, and he’d sworn he’d never mine, never succumb to the lure of the ore.

He ducked inside his tent and stood a long moment staring at the canvas floor. It wasn’t the lure of ore that made him do it. It was pity … and friendship. He dropped to his knees, his arms stiff and reluctant as he tugged the canvas free and felt the board beneath.

He wasn’t reluctant lifting the board to drop his savings in, but it felt like lead to reach in and take some out. He could go back and tell them no deal. Cain would understand. Cain knew how he felt about mining. His own face had shown it. D.C. had blurted it.

He touched the pouches of gold dust stacked to one side, the bills on the other. His bank. His future. His worth. His fingers closed around two pouches, and he balanced their weight in his palm. About right. Maybe some from a third.

His hand rebelled, but he made it reach in for one more. Some of that one would go back. They’d weigh it, make the deal, and he’d return the rest to the hole. He again heard Cain’s wheezing voice.
“And go where?”

Quillan knew well enough what it was to be uprooted, to leave what you know for what you neither knew nor wanted. Hadn’t he been dragged from place to place on the excuse of saving souls when all he wanted was a home and folks to love him? Eight hundred dollars was nothing to what some holes were going for. But then, this one was worthless.

He’d have to make them believe he doubted that, keep D.C. digging, maybe take on a man or two to help. Otherwise Cain would know he’d done it out of pity, and that would shame the old man. He’d cut out his own tongue before he shamed Cain.

It would cost plenty to keep the mine working, and D.C. couldn’t do it alone. Cain could hardly wield a pick with half his leg gone, blown off by a charge with a defective fuse. Quillan refused to consider the job himself. He would not under any circumstances scratch the ground for a living, nor willingly work a mine tunnel, especially one likely played out. The thought alone left a bad taste in his mouth. Well, he’d better get back and make the deal before either he or they changed their minds.