The Rose Legacy (16 page)

Wednesday morning, as Carina worked at the small desk across from Berkley Beck, she noticed his glances. He had watched her all morning since his return last night—not blatantly, but not furtively, either. It made her realize how much she’d enjoyed the days without him. Why? Was he not the first in Crystal to help her, to show her kindness?

She glanced up and her eyes met Mr. Beck’s. He made no move to look away. Instead, leaning back in his chair, he tapped his lips with his pen. “Forgive me, Miss DiGratia. Nowhere in my absence did I find anything so pleasant to gaze upon.”

“Mr. Beck, you turn a shameless compliment.”

He smiled. “If only it furthered my suit.”

She returned his smile but gave her attention to her work.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “By the way, did you find what you were looking for?”

She raised her brows in query.

“The Placerville records.”

“Oh.” She had tried not to think of that, still quaking when she recalled Quillan’s anger. She gave a small shrug. “Nothing important.”

“What if I were to tell you Quillan Shepard has things to hide?”

Did he think her blind as well as foolish? But her curiosity quickened, anyway. “Why would you do that, Mr. Beck?”

His smile was genuine this time, amused. “Why indeed, Miss DiGratia. Suffice it to say, there are things Quillan Shepard and I don’t see eye to eye on.”

That was hardly surprising. Quillan Shepard had said the same, though less politely. But she was intrigued in spite of herself, and it must have shown because Mr. Beck continued.

“What if I told you he was wanted for robbery?”

Her mouth dropped slack. Robbery? She pictured the flash of Quillan’s gun severing the snake’s head, heard the single report that did the job without error. So he
was
a pirate, an outlaw. She had not expected that, not with Mae singing his praises and a priest guarding his story, and he, Quillan Shepard, conducting himself like the king of Sardinia.

“You see, I did a little checking on my own the days I was gone.”

“That was your business?”

“No.” Mr. Beck laughed lightly. “I merely took the opportunity while I was about my business to aid you in yours.”

“How can he come and go if he’s a wanted man? Why doesn’t someone stop him, arrest him?”

Mr. Beck stood and walked around his desk. “The warrant is old. And it’s issued in the Wyoming Territory. Besides, more than a handful of the men in Crystal could boast likewise. Places like this draw the unlawful.”

Carina’s breath seeped out from slightly parted lips. And she had been alone with him. What might he have done when she angered him so? Her heart hammered her chest at the thought. “But if you know …”

Mr. Beck leaned forward, pressing his palms to her desk in a familiar manner, as though they were old friends, family. “I just think it might prove mutually beneficial for us to … share information.”

The thought frightened her, especially recalling Quillan’s anger at her prying. “I only learned that he was born in Placerville to Wolf and Rose, and that—”

“What!”

Carina had been about to say that he was orphaned, but Mr. Beck’s whole demeanor had changed, sharpened.

“Did you say Wolf?” The black pupils inside his blue eyes seemed to widen.

Carina nodded, certain now there was some dark secret in Quillan’s past.

Berkley Beck pushed off her desk and straightened. “So.” He tapped his chin with the side of his index finger. “So.” He was no longer speaking to her. “This is better than I hoped.”

“What is? What does it mean?”

“More than you guess, Miss DiGratia.”

“But—”

“We’ll leave it for now.”

Carina spread her hands. “I don’t understand.”

“No. But you don’t need to. Not yet.”

What was he saying? Why the secrets? Did he think to protect her? Had she learned more than she knew? Told more than she should? Why did she feel so uncomfortable?

“Miss DiGratia, do you have plans for tonight?”

His change of subject surprised and annoyed her. “No, Mr. Beck.” Innate in that “no” was her refusal of what would come next. She was not here to be courted.

He cocked his chin and eyed her over his shoulder. “Then I’d advise you to stay inside. As you may have heard, Crystal has a new city marshal, Donald McCollough.”

Again she was confused. She had heard the former head of the police had resigned, but what did the election of a new marshal mean to her?

“Trust me, my dear, and don’t go out tonight. I assure you it’s best.”

He knew things he wasn’t telling. But from the look on his face, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She turned back to the papers on her desk.

He lingered a moment. “If you should learn something more about Quillan Shepard, it would be safer to bring it to me than elsewhere.”

“Shouldn’t the new marshal know he’s wanted for robbery?”

“My dear Miss DiGratia. Two weeks is scarcely long enough for you to understand the workings of a city like Crystal. But for your benefit and your safety, I’d recommend you not rely too heavily upon the marshal, whoever holds the office.”

His voice was gentle, reassuring.
Trust me, Carina DiGratia. Trust me
. She almost heard his unspoken thoughts. She didn’t understand, but what choice did she have? Mr. Beck was in a position to get her what she wanted, to restore her property and provide the means for her to support herself. If it came to choosing sides, she would take the man who fought for her rights over the one who discarded them like her wagon over the side of the mountain.

T
HIRTEEN

Of all my sins, one stands out above the others. That I ever took my first breath.

—Rose

W
AS SHE CRAZY?
With scarcely three hours before sundown, even after Mr. Beck’s cloaked warning, Carina rode again up the winding path to the Rose Legacy mine. What insidious speculation had Mr. Beck planted in her mind? Carina shook her head at her own foolishness. With what she had learned of Quillan’s past and seen of his temper, she was pazza to go back.

What if he found her there? What if he, too, visited the sight of … of what? His parents’ death? Was he an outlaw? A rogue certainly and secretive, showing nothing of himself, yet … She saw again the deadly rage.
“My father was a savage, my mother a harlot.”

She shuddered. He would not go to the mine, not honor their memory. A cold hollow pit formed inside her. Had anyone mourned them? Father Charboneau? Had his face not been merciful when he spoke of them buried together? Was the man of God more merciful than their own son, Rose’s child, borne from her womb and suckled at her breast?

Robbery. Could it be possible? Would Mr. Beck mislead her? What reason could he have? She left the gray buildings of Placerville behind and climbed. Ahead, she saw the small circular clearing, the gaping hole of the mine, the stone-toothed foundation. The Rose Legacy. What
legacy?
What was left of Rose’s memory? To be called a harlot by her son? Such hatred, such malice. Could a person deserve it?

Yes
. The venom coursed through her veins. Did Divina not earn such malice from her? And Flavio … Her stomach clenched. She didn’t want to hate him. She’d loved him too long. But had she not cursed them both, shouting furious words of destruction on both their heads? And Divina laughing.

With a sigh, Carina slipped from the mule and rested her forehead against his neck, then left the mule and sat on the piled stone foundation. Long rays of sunlight shot through the trees, gracing the ground below with a final benediction. Carina looked down. She felt the spinning begin. She would fall to her death….

She shuddered. No. It wasn’t real. It …

“Are you all right, Carina?”

“Papa?” She turned, startled.

Father Charboneau wore a look of true concern. “Are you ill?”

She shook her head. What was he doing there? When he had used her name, it sounded so like Papa….

“May I?” He pointed at the stones beside her.

“Yes. Of course.” She pulled her skirts aside. Her head was clearing as she kept her gaze close, on the ground, on the wall, briefly on the priest. His expression was still concerned. She owed some explanation. “I have trouble with heights.”

“Ah.” He took his place beside her. “Yet you’ve climbed high.”

She frowned. “Must I succumb to the weakness?”

“Certainly not.”

“And you? Why are you up here?”

“I wander these hills. I’ve spent so many years walking from camp to camp, my legs don’t know how to stay put.”

Carina looked around, imagining him visiting Wolf and Rose in their tiny cabin. Had they received him? Of course they must have, he spoke of them so gently.

“This is the farthest mine up.” He eyed her quizzically.

“Yes.”

“The Rose Legacy.” His look grew pointed. “May I ask why the interest in Wolf and Rose?”

What would she say? She could tell him anything. How would he know? But to lie to a priest? “I thought to avenge myself.”

His brows came up, and the smile broke from his lips. His teeth were yellowed but strong. It wasn’t a smile of disbelief, but surprise at her candor. “For what wrong?”

“Quillan Shepard sent my wagon down the mountain. I lost everything but what I could scavenge later. I thought to learn something to use against him.”

“And are you given to revenge, Carina?”

No. Yes. Was she? Had she come to Crystal for revenge? To strike back, to hurt Flavio? She recalled his face, stunned and amazed that she would go so far, that she would leave him over such a small transgression. It was not small to her, and yes, yes she wanted revenge. On Flavio, on Divina, on Quillan Shepard. “Aren’t we all?”

He tipped his head. “Perhaps. In our basest nature.” He flicked the edge of an algae plate from the rock’s surface beside him. “And have you found it, your revenge?”

“No.” She had found only questions and an odd, brooding sadness. Thoughts of a son who could be an outlaw, the son of a wolf. And thoughts of a woman, Rose, that would not leave her in peace.

“Justice is more noble than vengeance. And far above both is mercy.”

Mercy? What mercy was she shown? She should be merciful to a man who destroyed her belongings? To another who destroyed her heart?

“Look there.” Father Charboneau pointed.

Carina followed his arm to the sky, stretching an indigo silk blanket above them. In it soared an eagle, the slanting sun igniting the white plumage of its head. Its wings spread like fingers outstretched in blessing, peace and joy to all below.

“There is God.”

Carina returned her startled gaze to the priest.

“And there.” He pointed to the spruce, so old and thick with foliage its branches swooped down, then up again in graceful arcs, pale blue bristles capping their ends. “And even here.” He put his hand to his chest. “Feel it.”

Carina pressed a palm to her own heartbeat.

His voice was low, barely more than a whisper. “
Thump-thump, thump-thump
. Do you feel it?”

She nodded. “Are you a pantheist, Father?”

He laughed. “No. A realist. Nothing exists that God did not bring into being. Nothing happens that He doesn’t allow. Not one breath, not one beat of your heart, not one flap of the eagle’s wings.”

“But the eagle isn’t God.”

“In true essence, no. But it is His signature. We can’t see God, but we can know Him in His creation, in His people. God is all, in all.”

Not all
. She frowned. God could not be in Divina. Such cruelty, such shamelessness, such a mockery she made of Him, veiled and pious, the dutiful daughter, yet in the quiet of the night …

“You don’t believe me.”

“How can God be in someone wicked?”

“Wickedness is an action of the human will. God is wholly independent of it. He loves regardless, and because of that love, many come to goodness.”

“But you can be separated …”

“ ‘For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.’ ”

She looked down at the town below. Though it twisted her stomach to look, the shades were silent. “But you can refuse God’s love and deny it to another.”

“Refuse, yes. And deny it, possibly. But God is relentless in His pursuit.”

“As a wolf to a lamb?” She imagined God’s teeth on Divina’s throat.

“As a mother wolf to her lost pup.” The softness of his voice wrapped and permeated her anger, turning it back, dissolving it. This was not the place to harbor it, nor the time.

Carina met his eyes. “How did they die?”

He didn’t ask who. “They burned.”

She felt the blackened stones beneath her. “Could they not get out?”

“Their bodies were recovered clasped together on the bed they shared.”

“They never woke?”

Father Charboneau looked out across the gulch, his eyes the same indigo of the sky. His shoulders rose and fell almost imperceptibly with the breaths he took. His hands rested in his lap, one curled into the other. The slanting sunbeams faded, the indigo deepening to violet. A star shone out a single light.

Slowly he turned. “Unless you care to sleep here tonight, you’d better start down.”

Carina shuddered and crossed herself. “No, Father. I don’t intend to sleep here.” And she had stayed far too long. It would be dark soon.

He smiled, but the smile was dim, as though small joy could be wrung from him. She mounted Dom and started for the path, then looked back over her shoulder. “Where are they buried?”

“Up the mountain.”

Higher still. And not in consecrated ground. “Good night, Father.”

“God bless you, Carina.”

Carina clutched the reins in her right hand, a handful of mane in her left. With her knees held to Dom’s sides, she started down. The path cut sharply to the right, then meandered steeply down, and Dom grunted as he placed his hooves. Her head spun.

Down was always worse than up. Down afforded a view of what lay below. Each small glance made her stomach jump, sending quivers down her legs. She pressed her eyes shut, kept them tight. She made her body slack, letting Dom carry her down, trusting the old mule more than her own senses.

She would fall if she looked, die on the mountain. A shudder ran up her spine, bursting at the base of her skull. Eyes closed, she saw in her mind the burned-out foundation, pictured it with flaming walls, while inside Wolf and Rose lay clasped together. Why had they not run?

Where was the grave? Where did they lie? Up the mountain, away from Placerville. Why?
“My father was a savage, my mother a harlot.”
Were they outcasts? Shunned? Even with her eyes closed, Carina sensed the expanse of mountains about her, the immensity of star-speckled sky above, the camp below, tiny and unreal.

Had they gone down there to shop for supplies, to visit, to lose themselves in the ragged humanity robbing the mountain? Or had they stayed to themselves, alone in that high place…. No, not alone. They had each other.

She blinked, catching a brief sight of treetops below and trunks around her. Something jarred her mind, and she opened her eyes. The trees were thicker than they ought to be, old growth undisturbed. Dom had wandered in his search of an easier way, but he followed no track she could see.

Carina hazarded a glance down the slope. Perhaps she should turn Dom, but which way? With her eyes closed she had lost her sense of direction. Better to let the mule carry her down, then follow the creek.

She didn’t close her eyes again, instead keeping them fixed on Dom’s mane and the ground immediately beneath them. Then the sound reached her ears. Running water … no, rushing, falling water. She came out of the trees and caught her breath. In the last of the light she saw the creek, white foam rushing from the narrow rocky crags, plummeting down with a roar to the rocks below.

It must be the falls Father Charboneau had mentioned. She stared only a moment, then took stock of her location. She was farther up the gulch than she’d ever been, but she could just make out the edge of Placerville nestled below. She had lost time, but not herself.
Grazie, Signore
.

From a high peak somewhere something howled. A wolf? Shuddering, she crossed herself and turned Dom’s head.
Wolf
. Did he haunt the mountain, unable to rest in unconsecrated ground? Did he howl his protest to the darkness? Her heart thumped inside her, hard enough to feel without a hand pressed there. She kicked Dom’s sides furiously. Could he no more than plod?

There were only stars to guide her through Placer, past the spectral buildings full of eyes and whispers. A chill gripped her neck, running icy fingers down her spine. Something ran to her right, and her heart filled her throat. They were watching. The shades were watching. She felt eyes all around. And they knew her.

Her fingers fluttered up to her forehead.
In nomine Patris
… to her heart …
et Fili
… her left shoulder …
et Spiritu Sancti
. She touched her right shoulder, then gripped the reins and kicked Dom’s sides.

Perhaps he sensed her fear. For once he galloped as she desired. Leaving the ruined camp behind, she drew deep, full breaths. Who was she to be afraid of empty buildings, shells of houses filled with mice? Afraid?
Beh
. Yet her heart still pumped and her ears were tuned to the darkness around her.

The running of the creek was a low comfort carrying her along.
I will not lose you. Only follow, follow, follow
… God is all and in all. If the eagle was God’s signature, was the creek His voice? Carina shook her head. God was far above, somewhere beyond sight, waiting to judge her. The thought was less comforting than Father Charboneau’s view.

Carina clenched her jaw. She would get a hearing at least.
You cursed your sister
. Yes.
You denied her my love
. She stole the love that belonged to me.
You cursed your love
. I didn’t mean it.
You damned him to hell
. No. I only meant … oh, Flavio.

Carina dropped her face to her palm, and Dom slowed to a walk. The night deepened with every plod of a hoof. The darkness was complete. Only the stars glittered on the creek, Cooper Creek. Who in the world was Cooper?
One of the forgotten dead
.