The Rose Legacy (28 page)

Quillan reached the clearing and stared dully at the gaping mine, empty, no huddling figure awaiting him. Fool, to think she’d gone there. Part of him was relieved, the part that was shamed by this piece of ground. He didn’t want her here, seeing what he came from. He dismounted, dropped the halter rein, and walked slowly from the mine to the foundation. He’d never set foot inside the square of his birthplace, not since he could step at all.

He looked down at the blackened stones and felt the familiar quiver in his spine. Every time he thought of them dying in the fire, lying there and dying … Mrs. Shepard had described it too well and too often, the smell of burnt flesh, the blackened, charred bodies. Yet standing there, he felt something else. A sadness at his loss, and a deep loneliness.

His arms were heavy at his sides, his mind and body weary. But it was his soul that hurt most. He was alive, but why?
For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways
. When he was small he had tried so hard to believe, to trust, to do what was right. But it was never enough to satisfy her, the woman who held him and whispered poison in his ear.

He sighed. It was getting dark, the clouds overhead clumped together, leaving patches of indigo sky spattered with the first faint stars. He should have brought a lantern if he could have gotten hold of one. But what use was it now? If Miss DiGratia had ridden up, she was washed away.

Angry and hurt, he started back for Jock. He bent to pull a twig from the left rear hoof and caught the glitter of something in the muddy gravel. Taking a step toward it, he made out the shape, reached, and pulled it from the dirt. A silver crucifix. Carina DiGratia’s crucifix.

Snatching it up, he raised his head and searched again the clearing of the trees, the mine. Was she inside? “Carina!”

Nothing. He stepped into the opening, nearly pitch black and void. “Carina?” He knew better than to holler into an old tunnel. The timbers might have rotted and the sound could bring it all down. A few more steps. “Carina?”

He felt the wall along one side and gingerly placed his feet. “Miss DiGratia, are you there?”

A whimper from below. His heart leaped as he dropped to his knees and felt the floor until he found the shaft. How deep? “Carina?”

“Sì.
Son qui
.”

She sounded dazed but not as far down as he’d feared. And she was alive. He took a moment to digest that. It seemed unbelievable, and he realized he’d steeled himself to find her dead. His mind had to make the shift, but it was sluggish in doing so. Then suddenly it burst on him. She was alive!

Emotions churned, the natural elation of having somehow accomplished what he believed he wouldn’t, then the surge of anger. Why was she here? What morbid fascination brought her to this shaft? He pictured her face riveted on the tale of his parents’ evil. His throat tightened, and he clenched his hands at his sides.

“Are you hurt?” His voice sounded odd, tumbling down the shaft.

She moaned, mumbling again, in Italian he assumed. Whatever his feelings toward her, she needed help. A lantern. A torch. Rope. How had he left with nothing? He stood and groped his way back toward the opening. Most tunnels had an alcove somewhere near the front. Maybe, though unlikely, he could find what he needed. He found the opening in the wall with his hands and felt for shelves.

They were there, his palms running over rough boards thick with dust and cobwebs. Empty. He turned and felt the next, and then the last. Long cylinders, tallow by the feel. He grabbed one up and felt for matches. None. But a metal box. Well, flint and steel were better than nothing.

He opened the box, found what he needed, and struck until his spark lit the candle wick. By its light he saw the lantern on the floor, but it was dry, whatever oil it once contained long since evaporated. Cupping the flame, he carried the candle back to the shaft, its light a pallid glow in the inky darkness.

He held it out over the shaft and saw her, caught on a shelf with the main shaft yawning black beside her. He went back, searched the alcove for rope, and found a short length, somewhat rotted but not past use. Stuffing extra candles and the tinderbox into his pocket, he brought the rope back to the shaft. “Miss DiGratia?”

No answer. She was shocked, dazed, and probably injured. “Carina, can you hear me?”

She moved, her head tipping up until her face came into the light. “I’m here.”

English! Good. “I have a rope. I’ll drop it down to you.”

“I can’t climb. My shoulder, it’s
ferito
.” She mumbled again, a string of Italian, then collapsed against the wall in pain.

He would have to go down after her. He looked for a place to attach the rope but found none. Frustrated, he returned to the alcove and rummaged the piles on the floor. The sacking fell away and he found what he needed: a handful of bent, rusted spikes. Outside he felt around for a rock that fit his hand well enough.

He headed back in. Propping the candle against the tunnel wall, he used the rock to drive two spikes, angling away from each other, into a timber across from the shaft. He tied one end of the rope around the spikes in a double hitch, then yanked it hard. It held, and the timber seemed sound. He’d have to take the chance.

With the lit candle between his teeth, he let himself down the shaft, hand over hand, feet finding whatever crevice they could. Some twenty feet down, he lighted on the narrow shelf beside her. She stared as though trying to piece together what she was seeing. Did she recognize him? Maybe it was better she didn’t.

He took the candle from his teeth and held it upright over the shaft. The light was swallowed up, never showing bottom. It would have been a silent grave, the mystery of her death adding to her legend, how she disappeared during the flood but her body was never found.

He crouched down, all too aware of her body right beside him now on the narrow shelf. Her arm was cradled against her, and he reached a hand to her shoulder.

“Aah,” she cried and slapped at him.

By the hang of her arm, he guessed the joint was out of place. He could jerk it back in, but not here on this precarious perch. He wedged the candle into a knothole, where it dripped and sputtered. Swiftly he took off his shirt and tied it around her, immobilizing the damaged shoulder. She fought him with her free hand, but her movements were weak, ineffective.

The candle’s flame reeled and staggered as he looped the rope around her waist, then drew her up against him and brought the rope between his legs and around his own middle. The flame shrank and died, leaving only the thin acrid smell of smoke, but he couldn’t have carried the candle anyway. By touch, he tied another double hitch and yanked the rope for give. It held for now.

Slowly he stood, drawing her up with him. It was just as well the darkness was complete. “Hold on to me with your good arm.” He put her hand behind his neck, and she must have understood because she clung, awakening feelings in him it was hardly the time or place to acknowledge.

Using his feet on the wall, he climbed the rope, straining with their combined weight and his already depleted strength. His muscles burned and shook, bunching and seizing. He wouldn’t make it, couldn’t … The connection between mind and muscle felt severed. His arms knew what to do but wouldn’t do it. Come on! Finding a strength beyond his own, he reached the top, pulled them to the tunnel floor, and collapsed, dragging her down with him.

She cried out in pain. “Per piacere, Signore.
Misericordia
. Misericordia, Dio.”

Hearing her language come in broken tones tugged his heart with a compassion he hadn’t felt before for her. Yet she seemed so small and harmless … and soft, tied against him. He smelled her fear, but also her, felt her breath on his neck. His own breath wouldn’t come naturally. Clumsily, he fumbled with the rope, the knot easier to make than unmake. At last it came free and he untangled them.

Carina rolled only enough to take her weight from the shoulder, then lay still. He couldn’t see, but he guessed she’d fainted. That was probably best. He dragged himself to his feet, then with a resolve that went beyond normal strength, he lifted her into his arms and carried her outside.

Though only the rim of sky just above the mountains glowed azure, it seemed almost bright after the inky tunnel. The rest of the sky had settled into a starry black, mostly clear and moonlit. The storm had passed.

Quillan stood with her in his arms and breathed the night air into his lungs, the clear, pine-scented air. He was keenly aware of all his senses. The night breeze in the pines, the chill of it on his skin.
They shall bear thee up

in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone …
The words again. Why?

Why would angels watch out for him when he’d gone out of his way to prove himself anything but angelic? The weariness settled back. Carina DiGratia’s insubstantial weight wore him down. He looked into her face, still in the moonlight. Maybe it was for her sake. The silvery light lined her face like a marble statue, only the dark brows and lashes breaking the pallor.

He stood for a moment, lost in the sight.
There is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow …
Thomas Campion’s words at a time like this? He was past exhaustion.

Jock turned his head and nickered, and Quillan carried Carina to the horse. She stayed limp as he lifted her up and mounted behind her. The air was sharply cold on his shirtless back, but he was warm enough where she leaned against him. Too warm, too aware of her. He would get down the gulch as swiftly as possible.

But that proved an impossible task. The mud and debris were more treacherous going down, and in the dark, crazy to attempt. When they reached the Gold Creek mine, he reined in. What was the sense of breaking her neck now, if she hadn’t in her fall? He jumped down and took her weight into his arms.

If she knew or cared, she made no sign, only whimpering in pain and muttering words he didn’t understand. He carried her into the mine entrance and sat her against the wall. The candles were in his pocket, and with some difficulty he struck a spark that lit one. In the flickering light, he found a storeroom and pushed open the door.

A lantern and a can of kerosene. It sloshed when he shook it. Someone must have used the mine in the last several years, maybe for shelter as they were now. Dropping to his knees, he filled the lamp and lit it. Light jumped into the small enclosure, throwing the walls into rough relief. A pile in the corner might have been a blanket once, but it was rotted and ragged, and there were no others. Whoever had come took anything else useful with them when they left.

He headed back toward the entrance, the light from the lantern swinging up and down the walls as he approached Miss DiGratia. Her eyes were open, watching him approach. Seeing her conscious put an end to his poetic musings. She was clearly in pain. He set the lantern on the rough dirt floor and began to untie the shirt that held her arm.

“What are you doing?”

English, but still he wasn’t sure she recognized him. “I need to fix your shoulder. It’s out of joint.”

She started moaning as soon as the pressure was removed. He worked swiftly, pulling down the canvas jacket so he could see the shoulder where the blouse was torn through. She cried and struggled. Without warning he jerked the arm, and she screamed, then closed her eyes, gasping as the pain subsided.

Easing her from the wall, he pulled the jacket back around her. It was adequate to keep her dry, but not so effective against the cold. At ten thousand feet in the cool of evening, his own wool flannel shirt, which he now put back on was hardly adequate. But between them … Well, propriety had no place in survival. He sank down against the wall and pulled her close to his side, careful not to jar her shoulder.

She didn’t open her eyes. In her shocked state, the night chill could be enough to finish her off. But with his arm around her neck and his own body heat tight against her, he just might get her through. Her mouth had lost the tight, pinched look of pain, and he knew he’d brought her some ease at least. Her lips were full and slack.
There cherries grow which none may buy, till “Cherry-ripe” themselves do cry …

He allowed himself the moment. After all, he was a man, and she … well, only a fool would hold her close and not be moved to poetry. Thankfully he was too bone-tired to act on anything. His eyes closed on their own. His knee throbbed and his leg was shaking again. He’d be stiff in the morning. Morning. He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to sleep.

T
WENTY-ONE

I am lost and despair of being found.

—Rose

C
ARINA FELT THE RHYTHM
of breath, heard its sound in her ear. First, she thought it was Divina as they nestled together in their bed when they were small, sometimes back to back, sometimes arms entwined. But there was something masculine in this breathing, and consciousness seeped in.

Her eyes flickered open to a beard-roughened jaw. Brown hair, dull with mud, lay across the shoulder where her own head rested. She felt his warmth.

In her sleep, she had been thankful for that warmth, clinging to it, absorbing it. To continue so in the first light of morning was
vergognoso
. Disgraceful. Yet she seemed unable to move away, and she realized his arm was around her shoulders, holding her close to him. It was that weight she had struggled with in waking.

His eyes opened. Quillan Shepard’s slate gray eyes, blending to a charcoal ring that added definition and depth. The lids were lined with black lashes and the brows had a slight peak before cutting darkly toward his temples. She had never seen his eyes close enough to study their shape and color, and suddenly she realized what she did. He was awake! Her breath caught sharply.

He half smiled. “It can’t be much worse than yourself.”

What was he saying? Why did he taunt? She didn’t understand the innuendoes, the irony. And then she did. She brought a hand to her face, felt the grime, her own matted hair. She looked swiftly around. Where were they?

“No, it’s not home.” His mouth had a rascal’s tilt. He pulled his arm away and scrubbed his face with his palms, then held his head a moment, elbows resting on knees. He groaned a little as he stretched, then pulled himself to his feet. One leg wouldn’t bear his weight, and he limped a few steps back and forth, wincing with the effort.

Carina watched him, unsure how she came to be in a mine tunnel with Quillan Shepard. Maybe she dreamed it. Maybe she was in the shaft still, and this was delirium. She pressed into the wall in case the darkness yawned somewhere out of her deluded sight. But if she dreamed, why was it Quillan Shepard her mind conjured?

He stopped pacing and reached a hand to her. She hesitated, not sure she dared take hold. What if it was some demon luring her over the edge? Her head spun at the thought. But the hand remained extended toward her. She reached up, and his grip was firm and real. He raised her to her feet and released her immediately.

“Can you walk?”

She quickly assessed her strength, noticing the earlier unbearable pain in her shoulder was now a dull throb. “How do you think I got here?”

Again the half grin. “How do
you
think you did?”

She looked around, disoriented. Where was she? It wasn’t the Rose Legacy. But she had only disconnected thoughts. She touched her shoulder and recalled him pulling the joint into place. She recalled him wrapping her in the jacket, but she didn’t recall … or did she? A flash of them tied together, of her arm around his neck as he climbed … A sense of his arms lifting and carrying her. She flushed with the realization.

“I guess you’re determined I haul you no matter what.”

That was unfair and she bristled. “I did not ask your help.”

He laughed, actually laughed. “No, Miss DiGratia, you just set in to bargain. ‘How much to haul this?’ ” he mimicked. “And waved your arm imperiously as though I were …” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’d say we’re even now. A square deal.” He pointed a finger at her face. “I put your wagon over, but I’ve pulled you out. Good enough?”

What was he going on about? Either he had hit his head or she had. “You make no sense.” She stepped to pass him but caught her boot in her torn skirt and stumbled. He caught her fall, but it jarred her shoulder, and she cried out, gripping the joint.

“Hold on. Let me get you untangled.” He stooped and freed the skirt from her boot toe, then held her elbow as she straightened. “Besides your shoulder, are you injured?”

She shook her head. She hurt all over—every muscle stiff and sore, bruises and scrapes, her head throbbing again now that she stood. But she wouldn’t say so. It was enough to be out of the shaft and alive.

He eyed her doubtfully a moment, then nodded. “Good. Stay put.” He turned and walked out of the mine.

A moment later she heard him hoot. She hurried painfully to the opening and saw him standing under the spring gushing from the rock. The icy water rushed over him, slicking his hair to the back of his neck and muscular shoulders, which he had bared by tossing the shirt onto the pants and boots he had also removed. He stood in nothing but his long johns under the spring, and Carina realized she was staring.

She had never looked on a man while he washed, and she shouldn’t look now. But Quillan Shepard was beautiful. His form, his strength, the way the muscles and sinews moved … She turned away, staring into the dimness of the tunnel until her heartbeat returned to normal and she heard him huffing through pursed lips as he pulled on his clothes.

“Cold. That’s cold.”

She stepped back out while he squeezed his hair, then shook it back over his shoulders, an unruly mane, tamed now by the water that dripped from its edges.

“Ready?”

She eyed him dubiously. “For what?”

He motioned to Jock grazing nearby. “To ride down.”

She touched her own matted hair. “If you would wait, I might do the same.” She motioned toward the spring.

“It’s cold. Bone-chilling cold.”

Bene
. She would not ride in her grubby state with him clean. She held her head straight and walked toward the spring. At its edge, she took off her jacket and paused until he made a show of turning away. Then she bent her head into the rushing water and felt her bones chill.

Quillan watched her sidelong. He couldn’t help it. Her hair came loose from the braid and shimmered like a crow’s wing in the sunlight as she worked her fingers through it, then turned her face to the spring, fending the water off with her small hands and staunch fortitude.

She was an enigma, in some ways naive and gullible and helpless, yet determined and feisty at the same time. He’d scrapped enough with her to know she didn’t back down, yet she’d accepted his help last night with the innocence of a child. Maybe only because she was dazed. She was anything but a child now.

When she stepped out of the spring, she gripped the injured shoulder, and he knew it was as much to cover her wet blouse as to give aid to the painful joint. He reached for the canvas jacket on the ground where she’d discarded it and wrapped it around her shoulders. She pulled it close, looking for all the world as though it was his fault he noticed her form.

What did she think? He was blind? Water ran from the bulk of her hair hanging in front of one shoulder, and she tried to squeeze it one-handed. His unease became impatience. The sooner he had her on the horse the better. “Here.” With both hands he caught her hair and twisted. It was thick and springy and resisted him. Wonderful hair.

She stood frozen as he worked the water from it, but he wasn’t sure it was the cold that did it. Well, if she was the protected daughter of some high-ranking don, she’d probably never had her hair squeezed dry by a man. For that matter, it was new to him, though he wouldn’t show it. He dropped the dark heavy mass, wishing now he hadn’t touched it.

“Thank you.” The quaver in her voice matched the feeling in his chest.

This was altogether precarious ground. “Don’t you mean to say
grazie?
”

She frowned. “Why should I?”

He pulled off his boot and shook the stone from it. “You were certainly going on in Italian last night.”

She raised her chin. “And what did I say?”

He tugged the boot back on. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe you were thankful for my efforts in not only finding but extricating you from your predicament.” He saw the fire in her eyes. She was too easy, rising to every taunt without reserve.

“Oh
sì, un gross’umo. Così importante
.”

Her defiance intrigued him, and he allowed the grin. “What did you call me?”

“A big man. So important.” Her tone was anything but sincere. Again she tugged the jacket close. “I’m ready. You can fetch your horse.”

Now he heated. Who did she think she was? But then he saw the drawn look of pain and exhaustion on her face. Compassion stirred, compassion she didn’t deserve and he didn’t want to feel. If he could feel sorry for her, what else might follow?

The morning light and the icy spring had cleared the poetry from his head. But there were more corporeal instincts at work just now. And those he would not allow. She was the woman who had made more trouble for him than he’d yet seen, he was sure.

Riding down, Carina was painfully aware of the solid chest behind her back, the arms that enclosed her while guiding the halter rein, the breath on the crown of her head. This was closer to Quillan Shepard than she had ever hoped to be.
Ingrata
. Was she not thankful?

She could be lying in the dark shaft with nothing but her thoughts to make her pazza. She could be starving, dying of thirst, waiting for someone who would never come. Who would look there? Who but Quillan Shepard?

It was a miracle of God that he found her. But why had he? What had brought him up the gulch? Was he searching for her? Why?

“Here.” He dug into his pocket. “This is yours.”

She stared at the crucifix he held in his palm and took it reverently. The cross she had worn and lost. It
was
a miracle. “Where did you …”

“Outside the Rose Legacy. I was leaving when I saw it.”

Oh, Signore
. Her breath fled her lungs. He was leaving? The impact of his words struck her, and she shuddered. If he had come there and gone away, who would have looked again? It would have been as she imagined. She winced at the jarring of her shoulder.

“Tuck it up here against you.” He pulled her arm across her waist. “Try not to let it swing.”

He had noticed her pain. Did he also see the discomfort, the unease she felt with him so near? Was this shaking fear? Did she still think him a monster, the son of an animale? He hadn’t looked like one. And if he were, why had God let him find her? Why this man and not another? “How did you know where to look for me?”

“You hardly kept your intentions secret.” His voice was gruff. “Half the town knows you ride up to Placer. And after your curiosity about Wolf, it was an easy deduction.”

She cringed when he said it. Suddenly the whole scene of their last meeting came fresh to her mind, his angry face, his wounded tone. And she deserved it. Her guilt wrapped her like a cloak. “Then why?”

“Mae sent me.”

Mae. Why would she go to Quillan? Why not Mr. Beck or Joe Turner or any number of others? Carina could have faced anyone more easily than Quillan Shepard.

He was solid against her back. “Carina, what is it with you and the Rose Legacy?”

She felt her throat tighten at his use of her name, and she realized he had used it last night. She remembered him calling out, and hearing her name in the darkness had brought her out of her dreams. Hearing it now in the daylight, she knew something had changed between them, something she didn’t want changed. But how could it not? He had given her back her life.

“At first I thought to hurt you, to learn something to use against you to retaliate for my wagon.”

“The tale of Wolf worked well.” His tone cut.

She sagged. “I didn’t know it was—”

“Well, now you do. And most of Crystal with you. It won’t be long before connections are made.”

She remembered the faces of the miners, some reliving the tale, most hearing it for the first time. She had made the connection for them, saying it could be no worse than William Evans’ murder. Worse or not, it was far too similar.

What would they think? How would it hurt Quillan?
Forgive me
, she wanted to ask, but couldn’t. “What can I do?” It sounded self-serving and presumptuous, as though she could undo the wrong. She was learning that a deed done had consequences, no matter how much she might come to regret her action.

He was quiet a long moment. “You can tell me what you know of Berkley Beck’s activities.”

The answer surprised her. “His work?”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“I told you already. It’s land claims and disputes.”

“Not that work.”

She half turned in the saddle. “What do you mean?”

His face was stern, unyielding, uncomfortably close and well proportioned. “I mean the other things he does, the forged deeds, the scams, the racket.”

“Forged?” Could he mean …

He smiled grimly. “That’s the irony, isn’t it?”

He believed Mr. Beck had forged her deed? “How do you know?”

“I don’t for sure. But I suspect, and I’m not the only one. The trouble is, he has the rough element in his pocket. Anyone who tries to speak out meets with an ‘accident.’ You don’t think Norman Crawford fell down his shaft and broke his neck by mistake, do you?”