The Rose Legacy (35 page)

Alan Tavish turned slowly. Their eyes met, but neither had the answer.

Father Antoine Charboneau stood over the grave. This stone was older, part of the mountain itself, hewed from its bed and crudely carved by his own hand. He bent and touched the names there. More and more, that grave weighed on him.

In the years between, he’d put it from his mind. Best forgotten except in his prayers on the lonely nights when memory returned. But now … why couldn’t the past remain buried? Why had Miss DiGratia asked questions that brought the horror alive once more?

Father God, what am I to do? Must the son pay for the sins of the father? Your own son you didn’t spare. But this one, this one who weighs so heavily on my conscience … surely this time I can save him?

A chill passed through him. What if he were wrong? Antoine dropped to his knees in the clumpy mountain grasses. He clasped his hands at his chest and dropped his chin. Was he wrong about Wolf? Had the tortured spirit of Cries Like a Wolf struck out with cruel and deadly force in some madness Antoine could not comprehend? And had that curse passed to the son?

His hands came up and covered his face. Antoine groaned.
What more can I do? God, what more can I do?

T
WENTY-FIVE

His name is Fate.

—Rose

C
ARINA TOSSED IN HER BED
, her dreams feverish and confused, feelings of falling, falling through the darkness, then arms catching her. Yet when she tried to see the face of the one who saved her, he was gone and she was falling again, no rock shelf to catch her. She jolted awake in the darkness.

Beside her, Èmie slept, softly solid. How could she sleep after once again fleeing her uncle’s drunken fury? When Carina had returned from meeting with Quillan, she’d slipped quietly into the livery. Neither Alan Tavish nor Cain Bradley asked her what she had told Quillan, but Alan again assured her he was there if she needed him.

It disconcerted her to hear it. Why did he think she was in trouble? And if she were, why had Quillan left town?
Innocente
. She was not Quillan’s responsibility. So he had saved her—not once, but three times. From the snake, from the roughs, from the mine shaft. Did that mean she could depend on him? She felt his arms around her. It was a ruse only to keep the freighter who passed from guessing their purpose. Yet …

Èmie sighed in her sleep, and Carina eased herself up on one elbow to see her friend. The evening had scarcely deepened when Èmie had once again sought her. This time her uncle had ordered her out, and Carina had seen the fear, that same fear as the other time.

Carina trembled. Did she still doubt Èmie’s intuition? Was it possible Èmie’s uncle had murdered William Evans? Was the priest’s brother capable of slicing another’s throat? With a sigh, Carina lay back on the pillow and studied the ceiling by the brightness of the full moon. The wood planks were tightly grooved and narrow, a defense against the elements, but what defense was there against evil?
“You must be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb.”

Signore, what does it all mean? Why am I here? I thought you had answered my prayers, but it was all a lie. A forged deed, a fraud. Are you a fraud, Signore? Pinching the bridge of her nose, Carina rolled to her side and stood.

She made her way on silent feet to the window. The streets were brightly moonlit, the shadows sharp. As she watched, the shadows moved and formed themselves into the shapes of men, stealthy and full of violence. She must be dreaming. Her head swam and the dizziness came on her, though she stood only one story from the street.

She was on the roof with Divina.
“Don’t sway so, Carina …”
And this time she heard the fear and concern in the voice, felt the hands reaching to clasp her, to stop her fall. No, it couldn’t be. Divina had wanted her to fall. Then why the grasping arms, the worried plea?

Carina gripped the windowsill. Had she misunderstood? Had her memory played her wrong? They were on the roof, but why? To see the nestlings under the rafter. A vague image of the nest, ragged and cone-shaped, the sharp beaks bobbing up and parting with noisy squawks … Divina’s arms lifting her to see.

Carina pressed her forehead to the glass, eyes closed. They were on the roof to see the baby birds. And she had fallen. Was it Divina’s fault, as she had told herself all these years? Except for the falling, the memory was too vague. She couldn’t make it out, yet she had believed Divina caused the fear of heights that she never had until that day.

Carina shivered. The window glass was cold against her skin, no remnant of the day’s heat present in the thin night air. It was cold, and she shivered again, her gown too thin for the mountain nights. She should climb back into the blankets, warm beside Èmie.

But she looked out to the street instead. The shadow men were still there, and now she realized they were real. One sprang upon another, cutting him down with blows. Farther down, yet still in her view, two more attacked a second man. It was happening! There before her!

Pressing her palms to the glass, she felt helpless, watching, unable to change what played out before her eyes. From somewhere in the night a howl came, long and lonely and savage. She shuddered, staggered back from the window as though the wolf might see her there and bound through to catch her throat with its teeth.

She backed into something warm and shrieked, then Èmie’s hands were on hers and they pulled each other close, an embrace of fear and helplessness. Then Carina pushed away. “We must do something!”

Èmie clung to her. “We can’t.”

“You know we must.”

“They’ll kill us. Uncle Henri and all the others working for—” Her eyes widened and she turned away, her breath ragged.

“For whom? For whom does he do his wickedness?”

Èmie shook her head.

Carina grabbed her shoulders, though Èmie stood a full head taller. “Tell me!”

“I can’t. God forgive me.” Èmie dropped to her knees.

Carina stood over her, hands resting on Èmie’s shoulders. She willed her friend to listen. “Tell me, Èmie.”

The answer was scarcely more than a whisper. “Berkley Beck.”

So Quillan was right. Carina was amazed by the cold stillness that stole over her. Berkley Beck was the monster. Berkley Beck, whom she had trusted, even touted to Mae and others. Did anyone know? Did Mae, who thought him conceited but harmless? Did Alan Tavish? Cain Bradley? Father Charboneau?

Quillan knew. But he needed proof. What proof could there be for this? She stared out into the night. Surely Mr. Beck would not keep a record of such acts. Yet what did the ledger under the floor contain?

The very thought made her quail. She was not foolish nor brave enough—it was out of the question. She crossed herself.
No, Signore, I cannot
. And she absolved herself with Quillan’s words,
“Then I won’t ask you to.”
He was not asking.

She turned to Èmie. “You must tell Father Antoine what you know.”

Èmie’s eyes widened, and she slowly shook her head. “I can’t, Carina.”

“Who else can stop your uncle?”

Èmie pulled herself up and stood stiffly. “He can’t stop Uncle Henri. Not after what’s been done.”

Carina looked past her to the window. Was Henri out there wielding a club? A knife? Slicing men’s throats? “You don’t know he did murder.”

“I know it.”

Carina threw out her hands. “You didn’t see him do it!” Èmie’s face went still as marble. “I saw the knife.”

Carina’s breath stilled, and the chill spread through her. “You must tell the priest.”

“I won’t.”

Carina waved her arms in sudden frustration. “Why are you protecting him after what he’s done?”

Èmie’s reserve broke. “It’s not Uncle Henri I protect. It’s Uncle Antoine, Father Antoine. It would kill him.”

Carina pictured the vigorous priest and doubted that.

“Every day he blames himself for not reaching Henri. If he knew … Swear you won’t tell him, Carina.”

Carina paced across the rectangle of moonlight on the floor back to the window. She could see bodies lying unconscious, but the shadow men had passed from her view. “Something has to be done.”

“There’s nothing we can do. He’s too powerful.”

Carina knew Èmie didn’t mean her uncle. She was suddenly aware of evil, palpable and present. The evil Mr. Beck wielded. At his command men robbed and plundered, maimed and killed. Because of him, men huddled in their tents, afraid to set foot outside after dark. He was a bully of the worst sort. And he had cheated her.

She straightened and turned. “He must be stopped.”

Èmie spread her hands, pleading. “He’s the devil.”

The words should have terrified her. But Carina’s breath came evenly now, slow and steady, as though all the fear and horror had been drained from her. She knew what she must do. She didn’t have the courage, but somehow she must find it. She had told Quillan she wasn’t going back and had intended to tell Berkley Beck the same. But she had to. At least once.

Lying awake in the moonlit tent, Cain waited for D.C. to come home, staring at the canvas walls dim in the moonlight. More than ever he felt his age. His arm was healing badly, the muscles growing weak and pulling away from the scar that caved into his flesh. He felt phantom pains from a shin and ankle and foot that were no longer there, and he was unable to get to the privy groping for crutches that pressed into the ragged skin of his sides.

He sighed. Sometimes living was hard. He rolled over on the bedding. D.C. had been all for building a fine house right beside the mine, but Quillan had said wait. Wait until the first assay confirmed the expectations, wait until the extent of the ore was ascertained, wait and see.

And it was sound advice. For once the boy had listened. But he didn’t listen tonight. With everything coming out just as he’d hoped, the money weighting his pocket from the early ore shipments, and Quillan not there to gainsay him, D.C. had left his daddy in the tent and gone to town.

And now Cain waited. The moon waned and still he waited. In the waiting, he realized how little the silver meant to him. The fever that had burned in him for two decades had burned itself out. For the first time, he had prospects worth tens, hundreds of thousands, maybe more. And it didn’t matter. He just wanted his boy to come home.

The morning sun fought for its piece of sky through the clouds crowding in from the north, carried on the wind. With her mind set, though bleary from lack of sleep, Carina made her way toward the office. Knots of men clustered on the walks and streets in angry discussion while the mule teams and ore wagons, the calls of the hawkers and tinny pianos, all seemed a part of a discordant opera with no libretto.

There were no bodies in the street. No murdered men with crowds gathered around. She almost believed she had dreamed what she saw the night before. Then her skirt swished over blood-spattered dirt, and the reality of the night’s events returned. Now she heard the conversations, the fear in the men’s voices, the anger.

“By gum, we won’t stand for it. We’ve got to put an end to it.”

“And end with our throats cut like Evans?”

“Or just wait till it happens anyway?”

“I say lynch them all.”

“And you’ll be the next with a slit throat.”

She crossed herself and walked by, wishing her feet might travel on for miles, rather than stop where they did. Per piacere, Signore, one minute only, a quick look, nothing more … Carina touched the office door, gripped the knob and turned, then went inside. Her heart sank at the sight of Mr. Beck, sitting at the desk with his feet on the board. So it would not be easy. She shot her silent disgruntlement to heaven.

She wanted only one chance to give Quillan what he asked for. But God would not make it easy. Bene. She walked in, trying not to tremble, knowing what she knew. Did the knowing show in her face?

Berkley Beck stood but did not extend his usual greeting, nor did he smile. She had hoped to be in and out while he lingered over coffee and his newspaper. Why this morning must he be prompt?

“Good morning.” Her voice sounded small.

Still he didn’t speak. His eyes were cold blue ice.

As he made no effort at cordiality, she chose to be direct. “I would like my grandmother’s silver.”

He quirked an eyebrow but didn’t reply. Did he think to intimidate her with his silence?