The Rose Legacy (36 page)

“My silver, Mr. Beck.”

“I heard you the first time. Unfortunately …” He stood and walked around the desk. “Since you made clear yesterday that you refuse my offer, I must hold the silver as collateral against your debts.”

“My debts?” Carina glanced at the floor where both her silver and the ledger lay. So close.

“Your keep has come dear.”

Her mouth fell open, her poise deserting her. Blood rushed to her face. “I demand my silver.”

He half smiled. “You’re hardly in a position to be making demands.”

He was right. She could not browbeat him. She forced a reasonable tone. “How much is my debt?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred! For room and board at Mae’s? You’re pazzo.”

“Room and board was trivial. Your protection was not.”

“My protection … from what?” She spread her hands.

“Surely you don’t think you roamed these streets unscathed because of some universal chivalry, do you?”

She stared. That was exactly what she thought. She didn’t fear the men of Crystal, the miners, the simple men who had welcomed her to their hearts. But she did fear Berkley Beck and those he controlled. If she was safe it was because he had not ordered it otherwise.

He picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “No, Carina, it was my goodwill that safeguarded you. And after last night, others will put their trust in me.”

“Trust?” She spit the word.

“Yes, Carina, trust. And they’ll pay to be protected as you have been.”

“They will pay to be cheated, swindled—”

“Temper, my dear. In what way have I cheated you?”

She almost blurted what she knew. But then he would guess she’d found the deeds, the ledger. “You … you never said I must pay for protection.”

He dropped his gaze. “I never thought it would come to that. As it is, you asked for my aid and you’ve received it.” He raised his head. “And you’ll continue in my service until the debt is paid. Unless, of course, you reconsider your refusal?”

She clamped her mouth shut. What she wanted to say would be dangerous.

“I thought not. In that case I have a task for you. Some collections to be made.”

He held out a large leather pack. It had a shoulder strap and a hand grip, two buckle closings, and a keyhole. In his other hand he proffered the key. “You may use this purse to carry them.”

Trembling with fury, she took the bag, then secreted the key in her pocket. As she did, she felt the Sharps Pepperbox Quillan had procured for her.
“What you won’t know until it comes to it is if you can point at a man and pull the trigger.”
Quillan’s words stung her. Had he guessed she might have to find out?

She drew her fingers away from the metal. She hadn’t used it since he had showed her how. Except for the one time Quillan had grabbed her in the night, she’d had no thought to use the gun in her defense. Now it seemed Berkley Beck must guess its presence. Could she point at him and shoot?

He held out a list. “These are the addresses you’ll visit. The owners are expecting you.” His arrogance was appalling.

A surge of anger filled her. “No.” She thrust the bag at him. Let him withdraw his protection.

His eyes pierced her suddenly, terrifyingly real. “You’ll make the collections and bring them here. Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for Èmie’s safety. Henri Charboneau is … unbalanced.”

Carina’s spine went cold. He would threaten Èmie?
Sì
. It was in his face. She felt the gun against her thigh through the skirts.
“Try it from your pocket. Don’t take time to close your eye. Just point and shoot.”
The thought horrified her. To send a bullet into Berkley Beck.
Oh, Dio
. She couldn’t do it.

Then he softened, nearly becoming the man she had first seen, first implored to help her. “It doesn’t have to be this way. I had other plans for you, for us….”

Oh yes, Mr. Beck. You had plans. But I have plans, too
. She raised her chin. With her blood running high, she gripped the bag and stalked toward the door. For now she must do as he said, but at the first opportunity she would get the ledger and give it to Quillan. As soon as he returned. She sent up a silent prayer that it would be soon.

She started down the street, glancing up at the rumbling thunder from the dark mass of clouds rolling in, battling the sun for the sky. The wind buffeted her. There was no rain yet, but it would come. Maybe this time it would wash away the rest of Crystal, Berkley Beck included!

She turned into the Emporium, walked straight through the nearly empty room to the counter and stopped. What would she say? How did one speak for Berkley Beck? But she didn’t need to.

The man behind the bar eyed her sourly. “It’s you he’s sent, eh?” He muttered an oath under his breath. “ … pay his doxy …”

The blood rushed to her face at the insult, but what could she say? Would he believe she was as constrained as he?

The man shoved a stack of bills at her. “There. Now get out.”

Furious and humiliated, she snatched the money and shoved it into the bag.
Porca miserio
. She reached the street, shaking, then moved on to the next. Her welcome was no better at the Boise Billiard Hall, though Bennet Danes didn’t insult her to her face. He waited until she turned her back, then let loose a string of names that made her shake with rage.

She cringed when the owner of the Gilded Slipper glared her way, then snarled, “You’d earn it more honestly working for me.”

His words hurt the worst yet. A saloon girl more honest than she? If they were so eager to trust Mr. Beck, so thankful for his protection, why did they treat her like the plague? Because they didn’t trust or respect him. And in their eyes, she and Berkley Beck were one. With this task, he had destroyed her name, her reputation. It didn’t matter that none of the things they said were true, only that they believed it.

And suddenly she thought of Quillan and the things being said about him, about Wolf and about Rose. Had Rose been maligned this way? Surely she was ruined. Why else flee to Placerville as … as the sort of woman the merchants now thought Carina? How long before everyone said such things of her? Holding herself defiantly, she started down the walk.

“Miss DiGratia.” Joe Turner doffed his hat before her. “I’m boring a new shaft, and I wondered, would you be so kind as to take a look before we dig?” His face was humbly earnest.

The knot in her stomach eased. His faith in her, no matter how silly, returned to her a measure of decency. She smiled. “Where is it?”

“Just a little way. I brought my carryall.” He motioned to the small carriage pulled by a single gray.

She had five more places from which to collect, and Mr. Beck would be angry at the delay. Well, let him be. She would show him he couldn’t bully her. Joe Turner helped her into the off side, then climbed in himself and drove her to his mine. The works were substantial already, with many men laboring. They all doffed their hats when she climbed down, and her heart sang over the noise of steel on steel and blasting powder.

Here were the men who believed in her, the men she trusted. To them she was still Lady Luck. Grazie, Signore, for these people. Mr. Turner walked her through the shaft house and out again, skirting the tailings. “Here it is, the spot I’ve chosen for the new shaft. And I’d like to name it after you.”

Carina looked up, amazed.

“The
Carina DiGratia
. I know it’ll bring me luck … again.”

Luck? Her throat tightened. The Rose Legacy had been named for Rose. Had it brought Wolf luck? Or Rose? Why did thoughts of Quillan’s mother keep intruding? Because Rose, too, had been shunned. All the buoyancy left her. “Mr. Turner, you’ve brought your own luck.”

He shook his head. “No. I intended to dig the next hill over, only I couldn’t find it in the dark. You’re my luck, Miss DiGratia. Please say I may.”

The money bag was heavy on her shoulder, as she hadn’t dared leave it in the wagon. What if Joe Turner learned of it? What if they all learned? She sighed. “You may name it anything you like.”
But my luck may have run out
. It certainly felt that way.

He whooped and tossed up his hat. “The Carina DiGratia it is!”

Carina forced a smile, though her heart grew heavy inside her.
Why, Signore? Why do you strike me? What have I done?
But she knew the answer, and it weighed on her mind as heavily as her heart.
Forgive and be forgiven
.

As Joe drove her back, she sat silently, perilously close to tears. When he left her she felt bereaved, standing alone in the crowd on the walk. The next two stops were as bad as the first ones; the last three were less painful. By that time she was numb. As she carried the bag back to Berkley Beck, she thought again of the gun in her skirt pocket.

What if she shot him? Would they hang her? The owners of the saloons knew what he was doing, but would they speak for her? She pressed her eyes closed, hearing the names they called her, the innuendoes. No. They would not defend her. She was now as guilty as he.

Drawing a long, bitter breath she went into the office and dropped the bag at Mr. Beck’s feet. Without a word, she turned and walked out. She had never felt so low, so wretched. Even Flavio’s betrayal had not taken away her self-respect. She was aware in a way she’d never been before of what flimsy fabric reputation was made. Born into respectability, one’s virtue was assumed until such slight breeze should snatch it away.

How would she hold up her head? How would she look people in the eye? She lifted her skirts and ran to Mae’s. Surely Mae wouldn’t judge her.

Cain sat beside his son, every year heavy in his limbs. The premonition had kept his eyes from closing in sleep last night, and he’d been wakeful and ready when they came for him. He knew by their faces it was bad, but he hadn’t guessed how bad.
God, if it’s a life you want, take mine. What good am I anyhow? An old, legless broken-down fool
. He sagged, feeling the sob building in his chest.

The doctor and the young doc together had helped him up the hill to Mae’s, and he’d sat there through the rest of the night and most of the day, alone with D.C. and unmindful of all around him. No pain, not even when he’d blown off his leg, compared to what he suffered now. He’d felt so secure in his faith. But now …”Lord, don’t take my boy. Don’t …” He dropped his face to his hands and wept.

Sam’s brown mottled head was on Cain’s boot, his eyes large and sorrowful. Sensing Cain’s distress, the dog whined softly. But D.C. lay still, no sign of life in his battered body but a faint pulse and breath too slight to notice. The gash on his head was stitched closed, but the swelling behind it was the demon, though it hardly showed. Under the skull, the doctor’d said.

Cain grasped D.C.’s hand as though he could hold him there as he’d held him back from so much as a youngster. “Don’t you leave me, boy. You hear? Don’t you leave me.” And he cried again, frustrated, frightened, and far too angry.

Who did this to my son? Who put his life on the scale? I’ll kill them!
Then he realized what he’d thought.
Oh, God … I’m a weak and wretched man. But my boy … he could be something wonderful if you’d just give him the chance. Just give him the chance
.

T
WENTY-SIX

What strange quirk of fate, to be saved from disgrace by a savage.

—Rose

C
ARINA HURRIED TO
Mae’s rooms, but upon hearing voices, she paused. Dr. Felden stood at the door with a grim countenance. What was he doing there? Was Mae ill? Carina thought of her labored breath, her easy fatigue. Had her heart …? She rushed forward, but it wasn’t Mae in the bed. It was D.C.

“What is it? What’s wrong with him?” She stared at the boy who thought his dreams had come true. The boy who had twice already suffered at the hands of the roughs.

“He was attacked. Robbed and beaten, hit with something hard and sharp, but blunt enough to cause a contusion to the brain. I fear the swelling is internal, beneath the skull.”

Mae stood in the corner shaking her head. Cain sat crumpled at the bedside, looking almost as bad as D.C. except that he looked totally miserable, while D.C. looked dead already, pale and discolored. He was a victim of last night’s violence, violence Mr. Beck had used to scare the merchants into paying. And she had collected the payments.

Cain looked up, turning slowly, his pale eyes meeting hers, his hand clasping his son’s. “Can you help him?” His voice was a ghost, but she saw in his plea the same hope she’d seen in the infirmary, men thinking she could do something she could not. What did she know? But suddenly a thought came to her of a case her papa and Vittorio, her brother, had discussed. Not the same perhaps, but similar. If the swelling was beneath the skull …

Her voice came weakly, unsure. “There was one man Papa treated with a swelling on the brain. A hole was drilled through the skull and a shunt inserted to drain the fluid.” She saw the doctor’s avid attention and spread her hands. “To take the pressure off the brain.”

“Did the man live?” It was Cain who spoke, his voice impressing on her his need.

“He lived, yes, and recovered. Vittorio said he would drill the heads of all the numskulls and make them right as he had this man.” She looked at Dr. Felden. “He meant it as a joke.”

The doctor stroked his chin, his brows drawn together in thought. “It could work. Seems barbaric, but if the pressure were relieved gently, gradually … How does one do it, though?”

Looking at D.C., Carina shuddered. Had she just spoken his death sentence? Or was it his only chance? Life was fragile. Papa learned too often just how fragile. But the times he beat death, the times he won …
Per piacere, Signore …
There she was again, asking and begging like a child, waiting for Him to do what she wanted. Yet she was unable and unwilling to do what He required.

She went out of Mae’s rooms and started for the stairs. But a knock sounded on the front door. Who would knock? Didn’t people know it was open? Carina changed course for the door and opened it to find Èmie. She felt a sudden, irrational anger toward her friend. “What is it?” If Èmie told her one more time something bad was going to happen, she would scream.

“I thought you’d like to take the air with me. It’s such a lovely evening.” Èmie’s face was eager.

Take the air? Promenade like two winsome girls without a care in the world? Did Èmie have any idea? Carina looked at Èmie’s long, plain face and wanted to cry. Instead, she snatched a shawl from Mae’s hook and went out.

What she wanted was the peaceful quiet of the mine. She rarely noticed Crystal’s din anymore. It was a constant barrage that no longer drew her attention except at times like this when she longed for the mountain’s silence. Why had Èmie come? Had she any idea what Carina had suffered for her sake? Sacrificed for her friend’s safety?

Would Mr. Beck truly harm Èmie? Would he stoop so low as to endanger a woman? How could she believe otherwise if he ordered the murder of William Evans? She thought of Quillan’s suspicions that other accidental deaths were also ordered by Berkley Beck. If only Quillan would come back….

“What is it, Carina? What’s troubling you?”

Carina startled. Had her distress been obvious?
“Does everything you feel always show to all the world?”
Quillan again, his words filling her thoughts, unsettling her mind.

“Carina?” Èmie stopped walking.

Carina waved a hand. “It’s been a difficult day.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you’d rather be alone.”

As you are all the time?
Carina thought, looking at her friend who had so little pleasure. She hooked an arm through Èmie’s. Whatever it took to keep Èmie safe, she would do it. “Shall we parade Central and show the young men what they’re missing?”

Èmie laughed. “I’d rather walk the creek.”

“The creek it is. The men can eat their hearts out.”

Èmie pulled the braid over one shoulder. “I doubt anyone’s losing rest over me.”

“Do you? Well, you’re wrong. You just haven’t given them the chance.”

“I have Uncle Henri to think of.”

Carina snorted. “Uncle Henri can think of himself. You have your own life.”

“I owe him so much.”

Carina didn’t argue. Èmie’s face had that beatific peace she’d seen the day Èmie told her she belonged to God.
Bene
. Let her belong to her uncle as well. “Do you ever complain? Ever want to … throw something or kick someone?”

Èmie laughed. “I see it was a very difficult day. Do you want to tell me about it?”

Carina pressed her hands to her face. Tell Èmie? Let her know she had lost her reputation and self-respect because Berkley Beck would order Uncle Henri … The thought was too horrifying with Èmie beside her. And it would crush her friend to know. “I just wish … I wish I’d never come.”

Èmie sagged. “It must be hard to leave all those you love behind. But, Carina, why did you come?”

Carina stopped walking and dropped her hands to her sides. She sighed, then looked into Èmie’s sympathetic face. How could she give her anything but the truth? “I was hurt. By someone I trusted.”
And loved, and believed in. Someone in whom I’d put my faith … and who proved faithless
.

Carina spread her hands. “I prayed, ‘Lord, what do I do?’ And then I saw the advertisement for a house in Crystal, Colorado, the diamond of the Rockies. Oh, I thought, that will show him! First he will beg me to stay, saying how sorry he was, can I ever forgive? But he didn’t.”

Shaking her head, she continued. “He got angry. Called me a foolish girl for making so much of it. Told me I knew nothing of life. That I was innocente. It was true.” She kicked a stone and walked swiftly toward the water sparkling in the streambed, the same water that had almost cost her her life.

“I thought God had sent me here. Now …” She shrugged her shoulders.

“God works in mysterious ways.” Èmie joined her at the edge of the creek. Her voice was soft. “Before you came, every day was the same. Sometimes I thought I would die of the boredom. Then I felt so ungrateful.

I had a home. I was needed, even loved by my uncles.”

She glanced over. “But when I saw you that day in the bath, you were like some wonderful bird from a land far away. I felt a longing to know you, to have … a friend.”

Tears stung Carina’s eyes.

Èmie smiled impishly. “Perhaps it’s for my sake you’ve come. Should I apologize for wanting it? God knows my desires.”

Swiping a tear, Carina laughed. “And so He whisked me out of California and carried me here?”

Èmie shrugged. “I’d believe anything of my God.”

My
God. Carina felt a pang, a hunger inside. Èmie believed what she said. Could she know God so well? Trust Him so fully? Love Him so intimately? It was in her voice as though God were her dearest friend.

Oh, Signore …
But no. What if He proved as faithless as Flavio? Besides, Èmie was good enough for God to love that way.
“You must be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb.”
She looked at the creek water mumbling over the rocks in the fading light.
Forgive
, it seemed to say,
forgive
.

Father Antoine Charboneau laid a hand on Alan Tavish’s head and pronounced the blessing. The confessions of such a one always humbled the priest and left him feeling wanting in his own walk. He with his robust vigor and hardly a sick day in his life—what could he say to one who spent every hour in pain, then asked God’s forgiveness for ingratitude and discontent?

He was only God’s ear, Antoine reminded himself, and the compassion he felt for the ostler’s suffering must dimly mirror the Lord’s own. “Go in peace, my friend. Kneeling this long is penance enough.”

“Aye.” Alan’s breath came thickly as he stood. “Thank you, Father.”

“God bless you.” Father Antoine walked Alan to the door of the cabin, noting the stoop of the shoulders, the disfigured knuckles and wrists.
Forgive me, Lord, for ever grudging a single ache or weary muscle
.

“Father …” Alan stopped at the door and turned. One sandy gray eyebrow bristled up like a comb above the rheumy green eye. “There’s one more thing. I’m worried about my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“Quillan.”

Antoine’s own concern flickered. “Why?”

“The talk, Father. ’Tis growing ugly.”

Antoine looked out into the street. “Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I know ye’ve done what ye can to stem it, but each day that passes without findin’ Will’s killer …”

“I know, Alan.” Antoine tugged at his long black cassock, which he wore to hear confessions. “Is he in town? I haven’t seen him for a couple of days.”

“He’s buyin’ supplies.”

“Maybe he’ll stay away.”

Alan shook his head. “He knows he’s needed.”

Antoine nodded once. From what he’d heard, Quillan Shepard was serving those hardest hit by the flood. Yet still the rumors persisted. He frowned. What more could be done? He patted Alan’s shoulder. “What does it avail us to worry? The Lord knows our needs.”

Alan looked unconvinced. “Maybe that’s so. But there’s a devil among us.”

Again Antoine felt the chill, the personal responsibility he’d felt over William Evans’ death. “I’ll see what I can do with your prayers behind me.”

“Aye, Father.” Alan tugged the flat, nearly brimless hat onto his head and started for the street.

Antoine watched him go, then followed reluctantly. It wouldn’t hurt to try once more with Donald McCollough. The marshal was not in his office, but Antoine found him with two of his constables in the Boise Billiard Hall.

McCollough raised his glass in toast. “Come to join us, Father? A glass for the priest.”

Antoine waved Bennet Danes away. He was not averse to a French Chardonnay, especially the fine vintage they’d produced at the monastery. But he wouldn’t poison himself with the shoe polish that passed for whiskey in Crystal’s bars. “No, thank you. I came for a word with you.”

McCollough’s face darkened. He was already into his cups and took affront at Antoine’s refusal. He probably also guessed what word Antoine meant to have. “If it’s concernin’ me work, I’m off duty.” He downed his shot and called for ale. “Not that I’ll find a decent drop. Oh, for a mug of black ale—”

“Donald.” Antoine spoke sternly. “I want to know what you’ve learned concerning William Evans.”

“Do ye now?” McCollough lurched forward, and the wave of his breath caught Antoine full in the face. “And maybe ye’d not be so eager if ye did know, eh, boys?”

The others with him shared an awkward glance. What did McCollough know? Suddenly Antoine felt the chill deep in his entrails. It turned to anger. “Where is your pride, man? Do your job. If you know—” The blast of sour breath that flew on the laughter made him step back.

“Do me job, is it?” McCollough held up his plaster casted arm. “Do me job? Me job is to look t’other way. And ye might be thankin’ me for it.”

The man beside McCollough dropped his gaze and flushed.

Antoine pinned him with a glare. “Out with it, Kelly. What is it you know?”

“Nothing, Father. It was some devil off the mountain that killed William Evans.” The man’s eyes never once met Antoine’s.

“Is that what you’ve been told to say? By whom?”

Kelly squirmed. “No one, Father. I swear it.”