The Rose Legacy (22 page)

The feeling inside him could best be called bleak. Quillan slumped on the cot. Once he had wanted to believe. Sometimes as he’d sat listening to his foster father, Reverend Shepard, he had wished so hard that it was true. If he became a new creation, would it take away the stain of his birth?

Would it win him his mother’s love? No. She was not his mother. His mother was dead, and the woman who might have taken her place despised him. To spite her, he refused the call and played out that refusal in countless transgressions, though Reverend Shepard applied the rod again and again to bring wisdom and obedience.

Tonight’s call was easier to resist. There was little he hadn’t already heard about hell’s fire, death, and damnation. There were no gaps in his understanding of the alternative to serving God. It was the gentle moments, those few times alone with Reverend Shepard when he’d explained the love of God … Those were the times Quillan had almost given in.

But never quite. There was in him an errant flaw, maybe the seal of his parents, Wolf and Rose. The sins of the father … He dropped his face to his hands. He’d known better than to go tonight. Cain would never have cornered and cajoled him if he hadn’t shown himself at the picnic.

Miss DiGratia again. All day he’d meant to set out; all day he’d found one thing or another that needed doing before he left town. And then it was time for the picnic and it had been an easy thing to satisfy his curiosity. The meal she’d made with his ingredients was both flavorful and satisfying, and he’d been fool enough to make her expect him next Friday.

He hadn’t said it though, hadn’t actually agreed. Starting out late as he was, he wouldn’t make it back by Friday, especially if he drove all the way to Denver for supplies. But he’d sold the goods from Fairplay at a decent profit. He could do that again and accept Miss DiGratia’s offer.

He lay back on the cot. She was his link to Berkley Beck. If he could just win her trust … He scowled. Yes, it was her trust he wanted. And what information she could provide him. The things he suspected were hard to prove. No one credited Beck with the ruthlessness Quillan believed he possessed. A wily scoundrel, yes—but violence? That lanky rake?

Quillan could argue his suspicions all day, but Beck’s boyish demeanor, his all-too-polished manners and fastidious dress—these were enough to put the others off. Was it his own personal run-ins with Beck or a true gut instinct that made Quillan think otherwise? He couldn’t answer that. All he knew was that Miss DiGratia provided a chance to know for sure.

He closed his eyes and heard Preacher Paine.
“Lazarus, come forth!”
But what if you were already too long in the grave?

It was as Mae had said. Sleep would not come. Carina huddled in the blanket expecting the flames of judgment to overcome her at any moment. Why? What had she done that compared to the sins against her? Was she not chaste? Could Divina say so? Had she broken her betrothal vows? No. Could Flavio say so? Were they not both deserving of the hatred she bore them?

Carina had done no more than wish God’s own judgment upon them. Why then did it seem the wrathful eyes of God were upon her?
Il Padre Eterno
… Almighty God. All mighty, all knowing, all seeing. Was He not wise enough to see the truth? She had been His messenger, damning them in the act. It was a holy mission.

Her heart lurched. No. She didn’t mean to damn Flavio, not … not forever. Not once he came for her. Then she would forgive, when he knelt remorseful at her feet. She would forgive and free him. Didn’t God’s word say what she held bound was held bound and what she forgave was forgiven him?

Could she not of her own choosing free Flavio and hold Divina bound still? But what if Flavio didn’t come? What then? The sick, sticky feelings of betrayal and rage cloyed her throat. Then he could not be forgiven either. What she did was right. Then why wouldn’t the fear of Preacher Paine’s words leave her?

Carina did not go to Mass the next morning, and that, more than her refusal to repent the night before, tormented her as she rode Dom up the gulch. If she was right, then why did she avoid worshiping God? Why dread encountering His messenger in Father Charboneau? Hadn’t the priest been called and answered the call? Hadn’t he turned from his ways to serve God with his whole being? If she was serving God also by pronouncing judgment on those who had wronged her, then why did she flee to the mountain?

Preacher Paine had poisoned her, his words like slow-acting hemlock eating away and dulling the edge of her righteous anger. But why should she be washed, she who was blameless? Was she not the one wronged? Had she her sister’s blood on her hands? It was the other way around! Divina had stolen the life from her.

She dug her heels into Dom and started for the Rose Legacy. He plodded up as though he knew the way and where she would go. She no longer asked why. It was her refuge, a place for outcasts and those who banished themselves.

Cain made his slow, lurching way to Quillan’s tent. He’d let him go last night, disappointed but not surprised. He’d hoped for, but not expected, a conversion. Still, morning brought new hope, always new hope. God’s love was like the sunrise, chasing back the dark and piercing the heart with joy.

Cain felt it overflowing this morning, all the souls saved last night, all the names written in the book of the Lamb. Not the names he’d wanted, maybe, but who was he to choose? God called whom He called. And each man had the free will to say no.

Cain stumbled on a tussock, and the crutch dug into his side. No, it hadn’t been D.C. washed in the creek like so much gravel from a shovel leaving only the gold behind. Nor had it been Quillan. But Cain’s hope was as fresh as the brisk air of the new day.

He reached Quillan’s tent and knocked the head of his crutch against the door post. “Are ya up, Quillan? It’s Cain Bradley.”

The flap pulled free. “I know it’s you, Cain. No one else puts a dent in the wood, knocking.” Quillan reached down and gave Cain’s dog an impatient pat.

Cain grinned. Preacher Paine had had some effect anyhow, or Quillan wouldn’t look so fiery and disheveled. Good, good. Better he be cold than lukewarm, or God would spew him from His mouth. The Almighty Lord loved a good fight, and from the looks of it, Quillan would give him that.

Cain followed him inside. “You spent a miserable night.”

“I slept fine.”

“You were tormented in body and soul.”

Quillan grinned. “Coffee?”

“Does a dog have fleas?”

“Not yours.” Quillan reached for the pot. “They wouldn’t dare desecrate the dog of such a holy and righteous man.” The dog wagged as though he understood every word.

“Ah, Quillan.” Cain dropped to a crate beside the cot. Sam laid his head across Cain’s knee, and Cain rubbed the dog’s floppy ears. “I’m an old sinner, as black-hearted as the worst desperado, don’t ya know.”

“No, I don’t.” Quillan handed him a cup. “You’re a good man, and you mean well, but this is not fertile ground.”

“Ain’t it, though?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend.” Quillan tucked a box of cartridges into the pack that stood open on the cot. “Preacher Paine did nothing but convince me I should have driven out early. His brand of salvation puts steel in my resolve.”

Cain slurped loudly the strong, bitter brew. “How so?”

“All those threats and warnings. I won’t come groveling because I fear some punishment I can’t bear.”

Cain considered that. It was a fair judgment. Preacher Paine’s words were meant to awaken the unenlightened to the peril of their condition, but one such as Quillan who knew already the consequences of sin … “You left before the baptisms in the creek, before he shared God’s love, grace, and mercy.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What would bring ya, then?”

Quillan added several jars of victuals to the pack. “I don’t know.”

Cain thrust a knobby finger at him. “He’s got his eye on you, son.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Quillan tugged the pack shut and tied down the flap. He was running off again, as though shooting out of town could somehow keep God away.

“Then why won’t you open your heart to Him?”

“I can’t, Cain.” Quillan raised his gray eyes, dark in their intensity.

Cain saw the honesty there and his heart stirred. “It’s the surrender, ain’t it?”

Quillan didn’t answer.

“I remember layin’ down my arms at Appomattox, puttin’ my rifle on the pile. I felt only half a man, stripped and bare as a newborn babe. I’d left the gold fields to fight the good fight, run the race I thought God had called us to. But I hadn’t won the laurel. Hadn’t won a thing.” He picked up the book of essays Quillan had on the pillow. “And I’d lost Gertie while I was off fightin’.”

He turned the book over in his hand, feeling the old wound as though it were new. “Took me years to see how God had brought me through unscathed, whole in body if scarred in mind. But He sent me back off to the gold fields with my newborn son, who I hardly knew what to do with, and every day He brought a measure of peace and understanding. He was with me through it all.”

Quillan reached for the book and tucked it into the side flap. “I’m glad for that, Cain.”

“Just not interested yourself?”

“I don’t want to disappoint you—”

Cain raised a hand. “It ain’t me who’s callin’, Quillan.”

Quillan stood and walked to the back of the tent. As he reached for the bedroll nestled there, Cain saw his silhouette on the canvas wall: a fine, strong profile, tall, muscular build, quality workmanship all around. No wonder God wanted the use of this particular vessel.

Quillan turned slowly. “I don’t hear it.”

Cain nodded solemnly. He knew what Quillan was saying. Cain’s own faith had come without trying. But Quillan would have to wrestle God and have his hip broke. “You will, son. You will.”

Èmie descended on her as soon as Carina stepped out of the livery. “Where have you been? Father Antoine was asking for you.”

Carina jerked her head up, then dropped her gaze, the weight of guilt suffocating the freedom she’d found alone on the mountain. What would she say to him? How could she describe the tempest inside her? Èmie looked as fresh and cheerful as she could with her long face. Had she not heard the scathing words, the dire threats?