The Rose Legacy (18 page)

“Quillan?”

Cain rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “For all it’s worth. He won’t touch a pick, don’t ya know.”

“Well, he can’t hardly work a mine without folks connecting him to his pa, now, can he?”

Cain shrugged. “Don’t rightly know why not. None of that affair was ever proved to any degree. And anyhow, the sins of the father cain’t rightly pass on to the son when the son never knew the father.”

Evans shook his head. “I don’t know, Cain. That was a bad business, and memories are long up here.”

“Not so long as cain’t be set right.”

Evans leaned close. “I heard it, Cain. You heard it yourself. It wasn’t human.”

Cain opened his mouth to reply, but Evans looked up as someone swung in through the doors. By William’s scowl it wasn’t someone he cottoned to, but Cain didn’t turn. He’d learned to melt into the scene by not drawing attention to himself. Came in handy more times than not.

William Evans wiped down the bar to Cain’s left and set up a glass. “What’ll it be?”

“I haven’t come to imbibe.”

The voice was Berkley Beck’s, and Cain wasn’t surprised by William’s poor welcome. Will’s opinion of Berkley Beck wasn’t high, and he had a quick-trigger temper. With William Evans as marshal, Berkley Beck would watch his p’s and q’s, even if he was in cahoots with the roughs.

Beck didn’t take the stool but leaned an elbow to the bar and scanned the room. “I have business to discuss, though I notice yours is rather off.” Evans scowled deeper as he poured a cup and set it out. “Someone ought to take a shotgun and clean out the whole mess of them.”

“I presume you mean the roughs.”

“I mean everyone deservin’.”

“Well, we have our marshal, though I haven’t seen him this morning.”

By the look on Evans’ face, he was too close to speaking his mind. But he only said, “You won’t,” then waved a chunky finger in Beck’s face. “Doc put thirty stitches in his head last night.”

“Thirty?”

“More or less. And that’s not to mention a broken arm and all the other cuts and bashes. He’ll be as worthless as the last.”

Beck rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that does bring me to the business I mentioned. But …”

Through the corner of his eye, Cain saw Beck’s gaze fall on him.

Evans crooked his arm and rested his chin on his palm. “Don’t worry about him. That old coot’s deafer than a post. Let’s hear your business.”

Beck hesitated, but Cain stared into his cup, then took a leisurely mouthful, swished it through his teeth, and swallowed. Turning, Beck gave him his back and leaned a little toward Evans on the counter. “What if I could assure that you and your customers would go unharrassed after this?”

Evans’ dark woolly brows drew down until they joined. “And how could you do that?”

Beck’s voice was smooth, reasonable. “I don’t know that I can. But what if? Would it be worth something to you?”

“That’s a big fat if.” Evans looked skeptical and more than a little perturbed.

Beck rested his palm on the smooth polished surface of the bar and glanced briefly at Cain. “Let’s say I can. And let’s say it would cost you a hundred dollars a week.”

“Bah!” Evans pushed off from the bar.

“What would you lose in revenues if every night became like last night? All the miners hiding in their tents, holed up in their rooms, afraid to go out …”

“They’ll come back. Last night was on account of the marshal.”

Beck smirked. “And of course he’ll be ready for action tonight.”

Evans’ shoulders hunched. “Even if he’s not, the men won’t stay holed up long. They’ll just watch their backs and each other’s.”

Cain almost grinned. William was goading the man, but it was a dangerous thing to do.

Beck’s eyes narrowed. “Things will get worse before they get better.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course not.” Beck straightened. He pushed back from the bar. “But you’ll change your mind.”

“You’re bloody crazy to think I will.”

The flush crawled up Beck’s neck. He looked once more in Cain’s direction, and this time Cain turned a little, drained his cup, and watched Beck walk out with a stiff step.

“So that’s his game,” Evans growled. “I say who needs proof? You tell Quillan I got all the proof I need.”

Cain grabbed his crutch and pulled himself up on his peg. “ ‘Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.’ ”

“That’s all well and good.” Evans rubbed his chin. “But they sure seem to prosper in Crystal.”

Quillan splashed the cold biting water over his arms and chest, rinsing away the soapy lather. He felt the stubble on his chin but decided against a shave. Reaching for the towel, he caught sight of a figure and turned to watch Cain make his slow, ungainly way to the creek side. “Mornin’, Cain.”

“Howdy, Quillan. You sleep last night?”

“Not much. You?”

“Not hardly a wink. Prayin’, don’t ya know.”

Quillan didn’t answer. If Cain wanted to believe God cared, let him. “D.C. up and ready?”

“Up maybe, but ready’s another trick altogether.”

Quillan splashed a last double handful over his face. “I want to make an early start.”

“I spoke with Will this mornin’.”

Quillan swabbed his face. “And?”

“Seems Berkley Beck’s offerin’ protection to them as can pay.”

“Protection? From the roughs?”

“That’s how I heard it. Will says to let you know he don’t need more proof than that.”

Quillan slung the towel over his shoulder and stood. “Maybe not where Beck’s concerned, but there are others in high places. I want the whole nest clean. Leave one or two rats, and before you know it there’s another infestation.”

Cain leaned on his crutch and studied him.

“What?” Quillan asked, feeling uneasy under the scrutiny.

Cain crooked an eyebrow. “Just curious why it’s so important to you.”

“Shouldn’t it be? Don’t you want Crystal free of violence?”

“Oh yessiree. But it’s not eatin’ me up from the inside, neither.”

Quillan jerked an arm into the sleeve of his shirt. “What makes you think it’s eating me?”

Cain didn’t answer.

“I just want to make Crystal a safe place for folks. The same as you do, Cain,” Quillan said, pulling the shirt across his back and sliding the other arm in.

Cain nodded, but Quillan knew his thoughts. “There’s no more to it than that.”

“Okay.”

“Send D.C. over.”

“Will do.”

When D.C. arrived a short while after, Quillan could see already the boy’s ill humor. D.C. was silent, stewing no doubt about his fate as a freighter, which he seemed to like little better than mining. But there was money to earn. Even if D.C. didn’t regret the debt himself, Quillan wouldn’t let him forget it. Not when Cain had scratched and sacrificed so long for every cent of the money lost.

Leaving D.C. with the wagon, Quillan strode away from the tents. He walked along the ruts toward the street, quiet now and clear of bodies. He pictured the scene last night, and his jaw tightened. If he had just gotten closer … But then he couldn’t have grabbed Miss DiGratia. He shook his head and turned toward the livery.

It wasn’t the last chance he’d have to catch a look at the roughs. Unfortunately, it was the best chance he’d have, short of getting himself robbed. Even then he’d only see the plug-uglies and not the face of the one who had threatened the marshal. That would have been done personally, flagrantly.

Someone was spearheading the violence, though maybe not all of it. Maybe some of the pickpockets and thieves worked on their own. But last night was orchestrated, he was sure. And if he only had proof—he looked up and saw Berkley Beck heading for his office—he’d guess he knew the name to put to it. But it was still only a guess, thanks to Carina DiGratia.

He passed Beck without word or acknowledgment. Beck gave him the same. Theirs was a shaky truce. Quillan had been vocal when suspicions were raised against the man a year ago, suspicions that Beck was working a land claim scam, with the poor and unsuspecting getting the worst of it.

Cain had lost his first claim at Beck’s hand and settled for the lesser sight of his Boundless Mine. Cain and the others had no mind or means to counter Beck’s mumbo jumbo, and the snake had wriggled out of the accusations. Since then he’d been more circumspect, though hardly more honest. And Quillan guessed he’d learned who his enemies were, with Quillan Shepard heading the list.

Why hadn’t Miss DiGratia told Beck he was there, hiding in the shadows? She could have, and it would have meant blows. Beck was hardly a physical match himself, but if he had others at hand—and Quillan didn’t doubt that he did—it could have been ugly. Beck would have jumped at the chance to silence him, maybe for good.

Quillan crossed the alley and stepped back up onto the walk. Directly before him, Miss DiGratia rounded the corner, caught her breath sharply, and brought the letter she held to her breast. Just above the cuff of her sleeve, ugly blue marks glared in the morning light, and he recalled his hand gripping her wrist. Had he done the damage?

Her eyes were cautious, her lips unsmiling, yet not frowning either—simply a natural curve and delicate line. With her hair loose down her back, catching the morning sunrays in its black ripples, she was lovely, stunning … the marring bruise more accusing than ever. His throat felt like dust.

With one hand he took the hat from his head, allowing her a courtesy he gave very few. “Miss DiGratia …” His eyes found the bruise. “I apologize for my rough treatment last night.” He didn’t mention that his own arm still throbbed where she’d bitten.

Her lips parted, then came together again. She shrugged, bringing the hand down from her blouse and covering the wrist with the fingers of her other hand. “I shouldn’t have fought you.”

“You didn’t know.”

She tipped her head, and the hair swished back. It was incredible, really. He wanted to thread it with his fingers, just to feel its softness. He recalled the feel of her in his arms. That was something that shouldn’t have happened. He’d had no intention of holding her, but now he had, twice, though in duress both times.

He drew a long breath and replaced his hat. “Good day, Miss DiGratia.” He breathed her fragrance as he passed. The livery was ten paces away. He could make it without turning. He was acting like a fool over a woman he had no interest in pursuing.

Why not? She was beautiful, if a little bony and long in the nose, intelligent, though not always sensible, and by all appearances principled, her choice of employers notwithstanding. But he was not looking for encumbrances. What in the world would he do with her? Aside from the obvious.

Carina released her breath. It seemed her ribs automatically froze in Quillan Shepard’s presence. First her wagon, then the snake, then his terrible words. And last night’s demonstration of his virile strength, the worst of all. She felt the tremor down her spine. Bene. In considering an outlaw, how was a woman to feel?

True, there was no
prova
, no proof. Nothing but Mr. Beck’s words. Had he shown her a warrant? A poster? Anything? No. There was nothing. As she crossed over to Fisher’s to mail the letter, her fingers trembled on the thin stationery. The words within filled her mind.

Dear Mamma, how I miss you. I am lonely for all of you
. And Flavio most of all, though she didn’t write that.
I am settling in now, learning so much. Crystal is
—how had she put it?—
so different
. Dangerous. Deadly.
I think of you always, especially when I’m hungry. There is no food here to compare with yours. But mostly I miss working beside you and the talking, talking, talking.

I have made two friends, Èmie and Mae, and of course Mr. Beck, for whom I work. He is very gracious. There is a miner who thinks I made his fortune. Mae says I will be a legend
.

She had signed it with all her love and imagined Mamma crushing it to her breast with tears in her eyes. Mamma, who knew what Flavio had been to her, who only guessed what had come between them.
“Why, Carina? Why so far?”
Because I must.
“But what of Flavio … of your future?”

And she had stood silent, knowing Mamma would defend Divina, would tell her to forgive Flavio. It was a man’s way, eh? But it wasn’t Papa’s way. Mamma had never been betrayed, and Carina would not accept an unfaithful man. So why did she watch every day for his coming?