The Rose Legacy (19 page)

As always, Mr. Beck rose when she entered. “Miss DiGratia … Carina.” His smile spread around his teeth and narrowed his face. “I may call you Carina?” He raised one dark brow.

Not him, too. Wasn’t it enough to face Quillan this morning without Mr. Beck carrying on as well? “I think it’s best—”

“After all, it’s a small thing to ask. ‘Miss DiGratia’ keeps us at such a distance.” He waved his hand between them. “You may call me Berkley.”

Berkley. He was extending such an honor? By his expression, he thought so. She thought of Quillan’s similar insistence. Somehow his wanting her to use his given name was different from Mr. Beck’s. But what argument could she make? Mr. Beck had seen her safely home after Quillan’s less than gentle treatment.

“Very well.”

Mr. Beck came around the desk. “Carina, I’m devastated you witnessed that nasty business last night.”

“Had I not been out, I would hardly have slept through it.”

He shook his head. “I only hope it hasn’t dimmed Crystal for you. I assure you I mean to do all in my power to make this city safe and prosperous.”

He needed his street stump. It made him more impressive—and believable.

He hooked a thumb into his vest pocket. “In fact, I’ve been out this morning seeing to that very matter.”

He meant it? “How?”

He smiled again, more disingenuous than before, with a measure of cockiness. “By whatever means I may.” He straightened his gray linen coat and gave her his profile. “I’ll be out most of the day.”

She nodded. “Mr. Beck.”

He turned with a frown.

“Berkley,” she corrected. “When will you see to my house?”

Eyes dropping, he lowered his chin with a sigh. “Carina, you force my hand. I intended to keep your hope alive, but—and I do regret this tremendously—”

“You can’t get it back for me?” She sounded like a child in her disappointment.

“If you want someone else to try …” He spread his hands in supplication.

“What can someone else do?”

“Nothing inside the law.”

Surprisingly, her heart did not sink as much as it might. Maybe she had expected it. Maybe she’d grown accustomed to her small space. It was time to face reality and make of it what she could. “Thank you for trying.” True regret shadowed his face, and she was reminded again of his kindness. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“Under the circumstances. You see …”

“It was a forgery.”

His eyes widened.

“Another man came in with a deed exactly like mine. I sent him away.”

Beck took a step toward her and lifted her hand. His palm was warm and dry. “I’m terribly sorry you were victim to such a cruel hoax.” Eyes gently holding hers, he brushed her knuckles with his lips. “Were it in my power …”

“I’ve no doubt of that.” For a moment Carina thought he would press his advance as he lingered, lost for words, yet saying more with his eyes than she wanted to hear.

Then he smiled with apparent regret and took his leave. Carina took a long slow breath and released it. Now how would she pray?

F
IFTEEN

What is fear but an irrational longing to retain what I do not want?

—Rose

T
HE WAGONS ROLLING IN
reminded Carina of the gypsy trains she’d seen in her travels, Romany wanderers with colorful ways, though why she drew the comparison, she couldn’t say. The two wagons were not colorful, though the sign painted on the front wagon was quality workmanship.
Preacher Paine’s Tent Revival
.

The women walking after were modestly covered, neck to wrist, skirts hanging to the dirt, not at all the short-skirted gypsy women who danced behind the garish green and gold and red of the caravan wagons. Perhaps it was the tambourines, though these were employed almost militantly and not draped with ribbons and jangled amid swirling skirts.

Still, there was an air of excitement in the passing band, the wagons moving purposefully through a street remarkably clearing before them, and the women, faces aglow, banging the tambourines with determination. Carina heard Mae’s breath like a bellows beside her and turned.

Swiping her face with a handkerchief, Mae stopped beside her on the boardwalk. “Now you’ll see for yourself.”

“See?”

“Don’t you remember I told you Preacher Paine was coming?”

Yes, Carina remembered, but she had no intention of experiencing it.

“They’ll put the tent up in the field west of town, just up the gulch along the creek so Preacher Paine can use it to baptize those who need it.”

Carina shook her head. He would douse people in the frigid rocky creek? That might be worth seeing.

Mae cracked her knuckles. “All the townswomen cook up something to donate toward the picnic. I suppose I’ll bring—”

“No.” Carina surprised even herself, but she couldn’t bear to hear Mae say she’d bring stewed beef. Somehow it seemed … sacrilegious. “Let me make something.”

Mae cocked her head in surprise. “You? What would you make?”

“You’ll see.” What on earth was she saying? How would she find anything she needed to create the sort of things she knew how to cook? Quillan. The thought was incredible, but she didn’t dismiss it. “When is the picnic?”

Mae rested her hands on her hips. “Well, they’ll spend today setting up the tent and passing the word. Not that they have to do that, as folks hereabouts spread it faster than brushfire. But the women go around exhorting people to think of their souls and prepare themselves for Preacher Paine.”

“And Preacher Paine?”

“He keeps to himself until Saturday night—fasting and praying, is what they say.”

Carina raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think so?”

“Oh, I believe he does it, just not sure exactly why.”

“His suffering opens his spirit to God’s will.” Carina thought of
i padri della Chiesa
, the Early Fathers who fasted and prayed and lived as ascetics, denying themselves material comforts to bring spiritual growth.

“Seems to me there’s suffering enough without doing it to yourself.” She shrugged. “It’s his choice.”

“The picnic is tomorrow afternoon?” Carina was warming to her impulsive plan.

“That’s right.”

Somehow she would get together the ingredients for something special. Why? She would not even be there to see it eaten. She drew a long breath and released it slowly. Perhaps it was just the making that mattered.

Quillan was surprised to find Miss DiGratia at the stall where he kept his blacks. A quick glance about the livery did not reveal Tavish anywhere, and he was annoyed by his reaction to encountering her alone in the dimness of the stable. Did she know what the muted light did to her features?

He raised a sardonic eyebrow and cocked his head. “Waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

He had meant the question in jest, so her answer took him by surprise. He recovered with a brusque business tone. “What can I do for you?”

“You said you could replace things from my wagon.”

He waited.

“I need certain ingredients.”

“Ingredients?”

She combed her hair back with slender fingers, held it there while she waved the other hand elegantly. He’d noticed before that she spoke as much with her hands as with her mouth.

“Plain flour and salt Mae has, but I need eggs and olive oil and spinach and butter. Most of all I need ricotta and
grana
… parmesan cheese. Then I will need tomatoes, garlic, and anchovies, mint, basil, and parsley—”

“Whoa.” He put his own hand up. “All this was on your wagon?” He saw her flush. So she was trying to dupe him.

“Well, I didn’t have eggs or spinach … or anchovies or ricotta …” The truth came reluctantly.

He tucked his tongue between his side teeth, enjoying her discomfort.

“But the rest—”

“You want at my cost.”

Though she drew herself up, her eyes still leveled out at his collarbone. “You made the offer. I’m only accepting it.”

Both of her hands waved this time, and he found himself liking it, as though it took all of her to express what others did stiffly with only the voice. This was the opening to win her trust, but it wasn’t an easy task.

“And where, Miss DiGratia, did you think I would find these things?”

She sagged. “I … you would know that better. I thought you would know.”

“This isn’t Sonoma, California, with vine ripening tomatoes just waiting to be plucked.” Her eyes widened as he’d expected. So she didn’t like to be found out either. He didn’t tell her Mae had offered only that small piece of information without his even asking. “Why exactly did you need the ingredients?”

She patted Jack’s nose as he jutted it into her shoulder. “I’m making a dish for the picnic. Preacher Paine’s picnic.”

“That’s tomorrow.”

She nodded.

“You think I can fly, too?”

Her eyes flashed. “So you can’t make good your promise?”

“Now, wait a minute.” He leaned against the stall. “You said yourself half these things weren’t on your wagon—”

“Some were.”

“And I never said I could have them overnight.”

She raised her chin with a haughty scoff. “I should have known.”

What she needed more than anything was a shaking, but he was not the one to deliver it. Not if he wanted her cooperation. “Did you write up your list?”

“I can.” She held her condescending pose.

He pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and handed it over. “I’m not making any promises. But there’s an Italian in Fairplay who might have some of it. God knows where he gets the stuff and how he keeps it. But if you’re paying for my trouble, I’ll make the trip.”

She wrote the list, then handed it back to him. “How long?”

“I can be to Fairplay and back by late tonight.” He’d have to trade horses and leave his four in Fairplay.

She nodded. “That will do.”

Jack nuzzled her neck, and Quillan pushed him away. “Mind your manners, Jack.” It didn’t help at all to have the horse acting out what he only imagined.

She smiled into the horse’s forelock, stroking down the bony nose. “He remembers me.”

As if anyone could forget. “Well, I’d better hit the road if I’m going to make it back.”

She turned briefly to the gelding and caught his head between her hands. “Fly for me, Jack.”

To Quillan’s annoyance, the horse bobbed his head exactly as if he were accepting the mission.

Carina felt satisfied as she left Quillan Shepard to hitch his horses and start on her business. They hadn’t discussed cost, but she knew now he could be bargained with. It was a shame he had guessed her ploy. In fact the only things on the wagon were the jarred tomatoes, the olive oil, and the
parmigiano
cheese.

No, she’d had some packets of dried herbs as well, and she was fairly certain basil and mint and garlic had been among them. So that left only the eggs and butter and spinach and … she shook her head. Whatever he named, she would talk him down. Then soon—in the morning even—Mae’s kitchen would fill with the smells of rich Italian cooking.

Carina breathed the air, imagining the aroma of pungent garlic and tomatoes, the spicy basil, the unforgettable parmigiano … The sight of Berkley Beck across the street jarred her back to the present. She had forgotten. He would expect her to work tomorrow, the same as today. But if she did, when would she simmer the sauce, mix and roll the pasta, stuff and cut the ravioli, bake the bread?

Why hadn’t she thought of that before she commissioned Mr. Shepard’s business? And now Mae was expecting her to provide for the picnic. Carina squared her shoulders. There was no help for it. She would have to request the day off.

How Mr. Garibaldi had bellowed the only time she had dared make that request of him. He wanted to know if she were on her deathbed. If not, why could she not work? Eh? Eh? His fingers had smelled of garlic as he’d extended them toward her, demanding.

Surely Mr. Beck could be no worse than that. She crossed the street and met him in front of his office window. “Good morning, Mr. Beck.”

“Carina …” He cocked his head disapprovingly.

“Forgive me … Berkley.”

His smile spread like the keys on a piano, and he cut a pose in his fine beige gabardine suit and starched white shirt.

She could accomplish so much with one small gesture? Now was the time to strike. “I must make a request of you.”

“Oh?”

His smile took on a look of anticipation that both daunted and encouraged her. She would get her request, but what would he require in return? “I need the day off work tomorrow.”

“Oh?” he repeated, and his eyes went casually across the street to the livery from which she’d come. Quillan had just emerged with his horses in tow.

“I’m cooking for the picnic.” “What picnic?”

The question surprised her, and its sharpness. “Preacher Paine’s tent revival.”

“Ah.” He seemed suddenly relieved. “Yes, of course. The revival. It slipped my mind.”

“The wagons came by this morning. They only just passed.”

“Did they? I must have been buried in the newspaper.” He caught her elbow and turned her toward the office door.

Quillan passed them on the street as Berkley Beck led her inside. “Now then, you need the day free, you said?”

“It is a Saturday and—”

He raised a hand. “Carina, you have only to ask.” His hands folded across his chest as he studied her a moment. “Under ordinary circumstances I could deduct your daily wages, but our agreement is rather loose, isn’t it? Just consider it my generosity.”

Her chest tightened irrationally. “That’s kind, but I’ll be happy to make it up.”

“Then it wouldn’t be a gift.” He caught her hand and brought it slowly, effectively, to his lips. He was holding her captive by this gift and meant her to know it.

Carina wished now she had never started any of this. Mr. Beck was kind, but he expected too much. Her fingers stiffened in his hold. It was on her lips to say she would prefer to make up the hours, but she knew he would take offense. It was better to say nothing.

Though the discussion had ended and was not mentioned again, Carina felt uncomfortable throughout the day. How much easier it had been to take Mr. Garibaldi’s uproar. Then she had felt satisfied, vindicated even by the hours she shorted him. Now she felt … what? Concerned.

But why? Mr. Beck had been nothing but gracious, if a little overeager. By his goodness she had a roof and employment. And she had kept would-be suitors at bay before. Why now did she worry?

Berkley Beck stopped before her desk as she finished entering figures into the ledger. “Carina, I’ve noticed you have a fine hand and a good eye. Do you think you could duplicate this?” He held out a form with some detailing at the top and bottom.

She studied it a moment. Nothing too intricate. “I think so. Why?”

“You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that Crystal has no printing press. I could have these done easily if we had a press, but as it is, I need them reproduced manually. Unfortunately, the man I had for the job met with an accident. He broke his hand.”

Carina glanced up. “That makes it difficult.”

“Quite.”

“What are they?”