The Rose Legacy (23 page)

Carina caught Èmie’s arm. “What did you think of Preacher Paine? It didn’t frighten you?”

“No.” Èmie shrugged. “Should it?”

“How could it not, with all that talk of wrath and judgment.”

“Only for those who refuse God.” Èmie covered Carina’s hand with her own. “I’ve known all my life I belong to Him.”

That was an uncomfortable thought, too close to Papa’s faith. Papa believed his work on earth was only an extension of God’s own mercy. He healed because God healed through him. He lived and breathed because God willed it. Carina had preferred Mamma’s faith. She prayed, and if God answered it, she thanked Him. If not, she blamed and scolded. He would do better next time.

“Besides”—Èmie pulled a twig from Carina’s hair—“I don’t think God wants people to come to Him through fear.”

Just hearing the word kindled its effects as Carina pictured again the green eyes seeking her out. “Through what, then?”

“Love. If we serve out of fear, it isn’t really serving because it’s ourselves we’re concerned with. We serve because we love. We serve God as our heavenly Father, and we love Him as we would an earthly father.”

Love God as she loved her own papa? Impossible. Papa was real and warm and good and gentle. God was—what had Preacher Paine said?—a wrathful being waiting to cast her into the fiery pit. Carina didn’t want to think about Father Antoine or Preacher Paine or what either thought of God. To talk of loving God was more confusing than fearing Him. Fearing one who could bring judgment she understood. How did you love such a one?

Èmie touched her hand. “Where were you, anyway?”

Carina sighed. “I was riding.”

“Where do you go?”

“Up to Placerville and beyond. There’s a mine high up on the mountain. It’s quiet there.”

Èmie nodded. “Why don’t you come for supper? Father Antoine said to ask you.”

“No.” Carina searched for an excuse. “Mae’s expecting me.”

Èmie eyed her a moment, and Carina realized she saw more than she said. “If you want to talk …”

“No. I have an early morning. Mr. Beck has more for me to do all the time.” Now she was avoiding her friend. Had Preacher Paine bewitched her?

Èmie smiled. “Another time, then. I want you to teach me how to make whatever that was you brought to the picnic.”

Carina nodded reluctantly. She wished she had never opened her mouth, never promised a meal for the picnic, never asked Quillan to find the ingredients, and never set foot in that tent.

When Èmie had gone ten steps, Carina almost called her back. But she didn’t. Because if she told Èmie what troubled her about Preacher Paine, she would tell her about Divina and about Flavio, and she couldn’t face the humiliation. Wasn’t that why she had left the verdant hills of Sonoma and all she knew and loved? Her pride had driven her. And pride would keep her silent.

Èmie turned at the corner and waved. Carina also waved, then trudged to Mae’s door. The smells of cooking greeted her. Stewed beef and potatoes. Her stomach rebelled. What was Èmie cooking for Father Antoine? Carina pressed her palm to her forehead. She had no appetite anyway. She went upstairs to her room and lost herself in
Agamemnon
. Just now someone else’s tragedy was a welcome escape.

S
EVENTEEN

I am no longer what I might have been, nor can I ever be. Yet this body is stubborn in resolve. It will not cease.

—Rose

T
HE NEXT DAY
the wrath came. It came with such violence Carina jumped, feeling the jolt of lightning through the floor. She rushed from the desk in Mr. Beck’s office to the window to watch the sky darken unnaturally to a frightening dim. Lightning flashed again, a straight bolt from sky to earth, and the crack of thunder shook the glass.

Carina felt the awful power. Was this the judgment Preacher Paine had called down upon them? His contingent had packed up the tent that morning, and the wagons rolled out of town, leaving the grass of the field flattened and dry. But now the sky was rent and rain fell in huge punishing drops like bullets striking the ground.

No. It was ice. Hailstones leaping and bouncing from the ground they struck, mules braying, men shouting, everyone rushing for cover. The backs of men pressed to the window blocked her view.

She jumped back when Mr. Beck pushed through the door, bringing the spray and wind with him. He closed it and turned, smoothing his soaked hair with a calm, practiced motion. “My word, it’s a deluge.”

She stared. Was he immune to God’s wrath? Couldn’t he see the sky was falling? How could he coif himself with such nonchalance?

He held his arms out from his sides. “I’ll just change into something dry.” He passed through the door that opened to his private rooms, speaking as though it were nothing more than a spring shower.

However, he had not attended the revival. He didn’t know. He was like those who perished in the flood, eating and drinking and giving each other in marriage until the rains came. Carina shook herself, annoyed at her own fear.
Follia
. What foolishness. As Mr. Beck said, it was only a storm.

But she stayed at the window, uncomfortable with the thought of Mr. Beck changing clothes just beyond the wall. Yet why should she be, when only canvas separated her from the boarders at Mae’s? Still, when he returned in shirtsleeves and trousers but no vest and coat, her discomfort increased.

The din, the lightning, the pouring rain; she felt trapped, closed in. It was dark in the office, and she reached for a lamp. Somewhere in the sky there was still a sun, but … A horrific crack of thunder shook the walls, and she cried out, dropping the lamp. Glass shattered and the oil spread over the pine boards.

Rushing forward, Mr. Beck caught her hands. “Leave it!” He hollered over the staccato hail on the roof.

“But …”

“It’s nothing, I assure you.” His hands on hers were warm and firm. “Come away from the wall.” He drew her carefully around the shards of glass. “If lightning does strike, you shouldn’t be touching the structure.”

Though she shouldn’t allow the familiarity, Carina stood with her hands in his while the sky fell on Crystal. Most of the men had now run for the saloons, and the window was clear enough to see the ground, white and drifted with ice. The street ran like a river, swamping the sidewalks, gushing up in miniature geysers at every obstruction. Splintered shingles flew from the roofs.

Carina trembled at the ferocity of nature set loose. She realized Mr. Beck was staring at her and turned her face from the window to his. Her hands suddenly felt trapped. She had given a little, and he would take more. “Mr. Beck …”

“Berkley.”

His eyes were deep, bluer than before, the pupils enlarged by the darkness. His face was smooth, a slightly oily sheen on his cheekbones, the cleft in his chin a pale gray. His lips parted and held that pose a full breath before he spoke. “My rooms would be better shelter.”

Carina’s stomach tensed. His rooms? Did he think her so cheap? A contadina with no name to protect? “Mr. Beck …”

“Berkley.” There was an edge this time.

Lightning crackled, an explosion of light glowing through the window, imprinting on the back of her eyes. The air tingled, and Carina’s hair stood out. She looked up and saw Berkley Beck’s hair standing like quills around his own head. Terrified, she gripped the hands that held hers. “It has struck us!”

Her nostrils flared at the sulfurous burning smell, though she saw no fire, no smoke, and the rain kept pouring. Had such lightning caused the fire in Rose’s cabin? Had it engulfed it so swiftly they couldn’t move, couldn’t run?

Berkley Beck pulled her close. “I’ll keep you safe, Carina.”

His voice was smooth as he wrapped her in his arms, yet she felt panic within. Would they find her charred body entwined with Berkley Beck’s? Her breath came in gasps. She felt the fresh starch of his fine shirt, crisp against her cheek, the smooth buttons and the tiny pleats pressed flat.

His thumb traced a line down her back. “We’ll be safer in my rooms.”

She smelled the pomade on his hair, some eau de toilette at his throat. She felt his arms tighten, and though they didn’t trap her as Quillan Shepard’s had, they seemed more menacing, more purposeful. No, she was not safe, and the hungry, fierce look in his eyes confirmed it. She pulled away, staggering back and pressing into the wall.

“Carina …”

“I must go.” Go? Out into the storm?

He waited a long moment, his eyes blinking once, heavy lidded. “No.”

Her heart thumped her chest.

“I require you.” His tone cut.

She had insulted him. She could see it in his stance, the tension in his jaw. “Require?”

He frowned. “Is it so much to offer shelter and protection?”

She jumped at the flash and crack of thunder that came almost at the same moment. The storm had somehow moved inside. Not the rain or the hail—only the malevolence, the power, the danger of it.

“After all, I put a roof over your head; I pay your board. Where would you be without me?” His voice was studied, forcefully reasonable. But he had lost his mind.

“I work for—”

“Do you think I need your little filing services?” He thrust himself toward her, and she shrank back. “It’s a favor I do you.”

She burned with sudden indignation. “I—”

“And if I didn’t, what then? Do you think Mae would keep you for charity?”

Carina brought up her chin. “For friendship.”

He laughed, an ugly, harsh laugh. “Mae is a businesswoman. She would gently, but firmly, boot your little backside right out the door. There’s no room in Crystal for charity, or half the population would be on it.”

Carina flushed with fury and humiliation, tempered by the nagging thought that he could be right. Mae did not show compassion to miners who forfeited the bills. Berkley Beck smiled, reading her thoughts. Incensed, she threw up her hands. “You think I need you?”

“I know you do.”

“I don’t!”

He laughed again. “And where will you go next? Madame LeGuerre, perhaps?” He gave her a moment to absorb his words. “I promise you no one else in Crystal will give you a position except the position she offers.”

An indignant breath burst from her chest, and now there was no mistaking the feral fire in his eyes. She backed against the wall as he advanced. If lightning struck she would at least be spared his touch. But she could retreat no further. Her throat pulsed and hitching breaths worked her breast. She had to do something, say something to make him stop. “You would take me by force? Do you think the miners will not come running if I scream?”

He paused at that with a slow, deliberate smile. “You
are
a legend now, aren’t you?”

She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t considered the recognition Joe Turner’s story had given her. She had thought only of the natural reaction men such as those in the mail line would have for a woman in distress.

“Yes, Carina, I’ve heard all about it. How you turned his luck and made him rich.” He reached a hand into her hair, coiling it in his fingers. His face came close.

She could feel his breath and inhaled it with the air she gasped into her lungs. No man, not even the crudest miner, had given her fear for her virtue. Yet this man she had trusted … She tensed herself to scream.

With a sigh, he slid his fingers free. The hunger left his face and turned it gray. “Carina.” His voice scratched and he swallowed hard. “I admit I lost my heart to you the moment you walked into my office. How could I not when I looked up from the floor into the face of an angel?”

The sincerity was back in his eyes. Her muscles went slack. She could believe him.

“Have you never been in love?” His voice begged understanding.

In love?
she thought.
Most of my life, Mr. Beck
. But she wouldn’t tell him so. “I’m not here to be won.”

He laughed painfully, waving his hand with forced carelessness. “Yes, I know. It is your sole desire to be my clerk.” He pronounced it “clark” like an Englishman.

“I—”

He raised a hand. “Spare it, my dear. I’ve acted abominably.”

Carina’s throat tightened. She was unversed in courtship, knowing only Flavio, who wore his heart like a banner. Yet hadn’t he also had his dark moods? Times she couldn’t penetrate his thoughts? Had he not also worn that look of hunger more than once? Could she forgive Berkley Beck when she could not forgive her one love? But she put on the best face she could.

Mr. Beck drew a shaky breath. “I believe the storm is clearing. You’d best go.”

Though the rain still fell from bruised and swollen skies, Carina made her way to Mae’s, thankful to be away from Mr. Beck. His intentions had been all too clear. Or had the storm made him say and do things he normally wouldn’t have? Papa said a shock from lightning could affect the brain. One man who’d been struck had walked around for three days thinking he was someone else.

With the way their hair had stood out and the tingle in the air, she could well believe the storm had done likewise to Mr. Beck. She pressed her eyes closed. Thank goodness he came to his senses when he did. Carina stopped suddenly at the sight of Èmie huddled at the side of Mae’s house. What was she doing standing there in the rain? “Èmie!”

Èmie startled, then looked quickly behind her. With a swift motion, she beckoned.

Che ora?
What now? She hurried to Èmie’s side. “What is it? Why are you out in the rain?”

Èmie gripped her arm, the long fingers strong in their need. “Something bad is going to happen.”

The words chilled Carina more than the rain soaking into her skin. Had everyone gone crazy? Had Preacher Paine loosed all of hell on Crystal with his parting? “What? What is happening?”

Èmie shook her head. “I only know Uncle Henri is part of it. And Father Antoine is gone. He left this morning.” She sagged. “No one else will stop Uncle Henri.”

“Stop him from what?”

“I don’t know. Only that he’s been paid—a lot. I saw the money.”

Carina shrugged. “Maybe he found good ore.”

Èmie shook her head. “He only pretends to mine. He hasn’t brought ore out of his hole in months.”

“Then how do you live?”

“I make some at the baths.” Èmie licked the rain from her lip and laid her soul bare. “Uncle Henri … steals.”

Carina gasped. “He is one of the roughs?”

Èmie pressed her eyes closed. “He picks pockets. When the mine played out, Father Antoine tried to help us, but Uncle Henri won’t have it. He forbade me to take one cent from the priest. And in truth, Father Antoine hardly has a cent to spare. I bring home every dime, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” Èmie pressed her hands to her face.

Carina stroked her arm. “It’s not your fault.” How could she have imagined Èmie so serene and complacent? It never occurred to her that Èmie faced something like this. Suddenly she felt angry, angry with an uncle who would torture the soul of someone as pure and selfless as Èmie Charboneau. “Why don’t you leave him?”

Èmie opened tear-filled eyes. “When I was very small my parents died. Uncle Henri found me alone and terrified. He wrapped me in his coat and carried me to his home. He didn’t know how to care for me, but he did.

By the time I discovered what kind of man he was, I already owed him so much. You may not believe it, but I love him. I hurt for him. And Father Antoine and I made a pact that neither of us would give up on Uncle Henri. Inside … inside he wants to be good.”

Carina shook her head. How could Èmie be so naive?

“But now I’m afraid for him.”

“Why do you think he’s been paid? Maybe he stole the money.”

Èmie suddenly gripped her shoulders, no longer the tall, stoic girl, but a woman shaken. “They’ve bought him!”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But he’s getting drunk, mean drunk, ugly drunk. And he’s mumbling about doing their dirty work. I’m scared.”

Carina looked off in the direction of Èmie’s cabin. Hadn’t Èmie said she didn’t fear God’s wrath? But this was not God’s wrath; it was man’s. And she felt Èmie’s need. “Stay here tonight. You’ll share my cot.”

Èmie’s chest moved up and down. “I don’t know what to do.”

Carina sent her gaze down the rain-soaked street to the marshal’s office near the end. She knew what had happened that night in the street, knew the marshal had been beaten. She knew also what Berkley Beck had said, to bring her concerns to him. She could hardly do that now. Not after what had transpired between them. “We’ll tell the marshal what you know. He can stop it.”