The Rose Legacy (37 page)

“You’ll burn in hell for lying, Gerald Kelly.” Antoine rarely used such words, certainly not with such anger as compelled him now.

The man paled and wet his lips, but he didn’t reply. Antoine turned back to McCollough. “Because you delay, an innocent man is being maligned. If it turns violent, his blood will be on your hands for eternity.”

McCollough’s jaw grew rigid. “Look to yer own hands, Father. And leave mine in peace.”

There was a meaning behind his words, but Antoine couldn’t catch it. He turned with a frown and left them to their drink. He’d done what he could for Quillan. So why was his spirit dark with fear?

Quillan woke with a jolt, soaked with sweat and chest heaving. He held himself up on his elbows and willed his breath to slow. It had been many years since that dream had tormented his sleep. But it was as fresh and virulent now as ever before. He could almost smell the smoke and feel the scorching flames.

He rubbed the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and settled back to stare at the underside of his wagon. If he closed his eyes he’d feel their arms around him, the arms of his parents holding him between them as the cabin burned down upon them. He’d see their blistering flesh peeling off the bones, and the bones turning to black and charred skeletons.

At least he hadn’t wet himself. The first time the dream had come he awoke soaked in his own urine. He’d continued wetting for three years, even on the nights he didn’t dream of the fire. It was a deep humiliation. Lying there, waiting for the shaking to stop, he supposed it was natural the dream should return. He’d thought so much of Wolf these last days.

He hooked his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and drew a long breath to compose himself. Then he once again studied the undergirding of his wagon. He’d be in Crystal soon. Why? Why go back to the rumors, the hushed suppositions? People knew him now. He couldn’t hide who he was.

But there were Cain and D.C. and Alan, and all the others in a bind since the flood. And he’d had a stroke of luck this trip. He’d met a mule train on the road and relieved them for a fair price of all edibles save their own. They’d also been hauling a supply of steels and sledges that he took as well. That saved him driving all the way to Colorado Springs, the prospect of which had grown heavier and heavier with each mile.

He couldn’t focus, couldn’t put his mind to it. He was worried about his friends. Crystal was a powder keg ready to blow. And there was Carina. He shook his head, not wanting to ponder that again. Carina Maria DiGratia. Prima donna. Yet at times so achingly real.

The dreams she’d invaded were hardly less disturbing than the one he tried now to forget. And even his waking hours weren’t free of her. What was his obligation? Had he endangered her by telling what he suspected, by asking her to help him? The thought left him more agitated than before.

He sat up and hit his head. “Ow!” He rubbed the spot, gritting his teeth, then threw himself down on his side. Even if he didn’t sleep, the horses needed to rest. He reached into his pack for matches, lit the lantern he’d hung from the rear axle near his head, and pulled out the poetry anthology he’d purchased.

He let it fall open and stared, surprised and a little annoyed, at Thomas Campion’s “There Is a Garden in Her Face.” Why should it open there, on the very poem that brought Carina DiGratia’s visage to his eyes as she’d been that night in the moonlight in his arms? He could hardly think of that poem, of which he had every word in his head, without seeing her.

He flipped the page, then flipped it back.
There is a garden in her face where roses and white lilies grow; A heav’nly paradise is that place wherein all pleasant fruits do flow …

Well, she wasn’t all pleasant fruits. There was certainly a persimmon or two. Even a prickly pear. Cherry ripe her lips might cry, but were they chokecherries? He closed the book and took out
The Prisoner of Chillon
instead. That was more like it. Quillan settled onto his back, holding the book above his face. No more love poems or he’d have no chance of sleep at all tonight.

The next day, Mr. Beck added the houses on Hall Street to Carina’s collection list. She stood before him, stone-faced. “You can’t mean it.”

“Of course I mean it.” His tone was clear. It was punishment, she knew, for refusing him. He was breaking her, making her pay for his humiliation with her own.

With the blood of sheer incredulity rushing to her face, Carina gripped her hands together at her chest. “I will not go into a house of that nature.” She stood obstinate, but he was equally unmoved.

“I offered you an alternative.”

Did he truly believe he could humiliate her into marrying him? “I won’t do it. I’m leaving Crystal with or without my silver.”

His face turned to flint. “You won’t get as far as the lake.”

She flung a hand toward him. “Who will stop me?”

He was silent, but his eyes held such malice, she quailed.

“Why are you doing this?”

His face softened. “Carina, you force my hand.”

So he would force hers. It would only get worse. Berkley Beck would use all his power to subdue her. It infuriated her to feel so helpless against him. Everything in her wanted to fight. Her hands longed to slap, to scratch, to shake him.

But she was a lady, constrained not only by size and strength, but also training. She could not fight him like a street urchin; she must use her brain. Berkley Beck was no fool, but neither was she, and it was time to stop behaving like one.

Very subtly she let the fight drain from her. What if she said yes? What if she accepted his proposal of marriage? The thought sickened her, but it would buy her time and save her further degradation. Did she dare? A breach of promise would not be taken lightly.

But then, she had already broken one—to Flavio, though for reasons of his own making. Anger flickered inside at what his betrayal had brought her to, but the pain of it was lessened somehow. If she could break off with her darling Flavio, what was it to breach a promise to Berkley Beck, who was dishonesty itself?

She looked at him holding out the purse. Yes, she dared. She forced herself to look him in the eye. She must convince him of her sincerity, if not her desire. She let her hands drop to her sides. “You leave me no choice,

Berkley. I accept your offer of marriage.” At least he would know she bore him no sentiment.

His brows came up, then his smile spread broadly. “You won’t regret it, my dear. When I’ve accomplished what I intend—”

“Please.” She raised a hand. “I know what you’re capable of.”
Oh yes, I know
. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” She snatched up her shawl.

“Carina.”

He caught her arm, and for a moment she thought he would press his advance. Inwardly she cringed, but she showed only a cool control. “Yes?”

“We’ll have dinner tonight and discuss arrangements.”

She nodded. There was no use protesting. For now, he had the advantage. But soon …
Oh, it would be sweet …
She caught herself. She was in no position to anticipate victory when she had no idea how to accomplish it.

T
WENTY-SEVEN

To find beauty is to know mercy.

—Rose

B
ERKLEY BECK WORE
A daisy in the lapel of his gray linen suit, and Carina was reminded of the first time Mae had sent him away. If only he’d stayed away. Now her fingers trembled with revulsion when he brought them to his lips, then tucked them into his arm and began walking. She said nothing all the way to the hotel.

Again Mrs. Barton seated them with tight lips, and now Carina knew why. Mrs. Barton recognized Berkley Beck for what he was. Had Quillan told her? What would he think of her engagement? She shuddered. It was only a sham.

Mr. Beck held her chair and she sat. He smiled suavely as he took his own seat. She didn’t return it but tried not to glare. Mrs. Barton returned with a pad. Berkley Beck turned his smile on her.

“We’ll have the trout in almond butter. Make sure it’s not dry.”

Carina’s eyebrow twitched. Who was he to speak for her? But she held her peace. Let him enjoy his victory. It would be short-lived.

“My dear.” He reached across and clasped her hand in his. “I spoke with the judge, and he agreed to perform the ceremony next Saturday.”

Her breath fled in a rush. “No! That’s too soon. I can’t possibly be ready so soon.”

“What’s to be ready? We’ll honeymoon in Denver, and you can buy whatever you need there.” He leaned slightly forward. “I’m not without means.”

Carina shook her head in disbelief. “That’s too soon.”

“A week in Denver, or perhaps you have somewhere else in mind?”

“You can’t expect—”

“But I do.” Now his veneer grew thin.

“Propriety—”

“Propriety be hanged. This is Crystal, Carina. We make our own rules.”

She looked down at the plate Mrs. Barton slid before her. The steamy aroma of the fish turned her stomach, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth.

When Mrs. Barton had gone, Berkley Beck cut into his trout and inspected its flesh. “Hmm. Not perfect, but it will do. How is yours, Carina?”

She stared at him speechless, then slid her fingers to her throat. “I’m not feeling well.” She groped her way to her feet, and he was instantly assisting her.

She extricated herself from his grip. “Please don’t trouble yourself. No sense missing your meal. I can see myself home.”

He examined her a long moment. “If you’re certain …”

“Of course. I’m a little indisposed, that’s all.” And tomorrow she would be deathly ill, and Mae would keep Berkley Beck away. Or would she, when he told of their impending marriage? Carina hurried out.

She should tell Mae everything. But then, out on the street, she saw Quillan, returning from his trip, his wagon half full, his hair uncovered and blowing in the brisk evening breeze. It was sooner than she’d expected, but none too soon. When his eyes met hers, she felt an irrational elation.

She didn’t have the ledger. But she would tell him what she knew, how Mr. Beck was extorting the merchants, how the latest night of violence had made them pay. He could act on that. He must. Quillan passed with a short nod, a half smile. Would he go first to his tent? Or would he make his deliveries?

She struck across the street, fighting the evening melee. Though it was not the weekend, the city crawled with men, more and more each day with reports of Joe Turner’s success and others. Cain Bradley had hired enough men to hollow a bowl of surface ore from the hillside he claimed. Now the street teemed with them. Some tried to make a way for her, but there were many who didn’t know her, didn’t care that Joe Turner’s second glory hole was named for her.

She thought wryly how the Carina DiGratia was rising in fame and glory while the woman he’d named it for faced possible ruin. She cut across the field, then navigated through the tent city until she stopped outside the one she needed. She knew it was his; she’d seen him emerge from it once before he’d left. Now like a shadow, she went inside.

Quillan’s place was sparse, plain, and orderly, containing the bare essentials and nothing more. But then, whatever he had before had been lost in the flood. One thing caught her eye: a crate of books, water damaged. Had he rescued them from the flood as she’d rescued hers from the mountain?

She lifted the top book.
Tales from the Brothers Grimm
. She had read those herself. She looked through the others:
Moby Dick
by Herman Melville,
The House of the Seven Gables
, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and also Hawthorne’s
The Snow Image
. There were several anthologies of poetry. Some of the books were ruined, yet he’d kept them as well. She smiled at that.

His tent seemed less forbidding. She took up one book that seemed hardly dampened, the first of the
Leatherstocking Tales
by James Fenimore Cooper. She paged through it slowly, circling the tight space with her steps. How long before Quillan came? It could be hours. It could be dark before he found her there. She shrank inside.

What was she doing? It was not only foolish, it was dangerous. If Berkley Beck learned of it … Suddenly the tent flap opened, and she spun. Quillan’s reaction was so swift and immediate it staggered her, the gun free from the holster and aimed for her heart.
Madonna mia
…

Releasing a sharp breath, he holstered the gun and looked swiftly about. Then he stooped to enter and closed the flap behind him. The tent was not large enough for them both. His presence shrank it unbearably. She was pazza, out of her mind.

“Well.” He smiled. “This is a surprise.” He motioned toward the cot, the only thing in the tent on which to sit besides the ground covered with tarps.

She shook her head.

He pulled the pack from his shoulder and set it on the cot, then opened the flap and took out two books that he dropped onto the cot beside the pack. She couldn’t help looking. The top one was Lord Byron’s
The Prisoner

of Chillon
.

“Have you read it?” He’d noticed her glance. She shook her head.

“I’ll lend it when I’m done.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Unless you’d prefer that one.” He motioned to the copy of
The Pioneers
that she still held.

Carina looked down at the book as though it had come into her hands on its own, then set it on the cot beside the other.

He pulled a cloth-wrapped ham and several jars from his pack, then tossed it aside. “I could flatter myself that you’re here to see me, but I suspect you had a purpose?”

Must she always act the fool in his presence? “It’s Mr. Beck.”

He turned from the low shelf where he’d set the jars. “I figured that much.”

“He’s selling protection.” She could think of no better way to explain it.

Quillan’s eyes narrowed. “Protection?”

“The ones who pay are not harassed; the ones who don’t …” She spread her hands. “They all pay.”

Quillan studied her. “What proof do you have?”

She felt the blood flush her cheeks and stared at the corner of the tent. “I collected the fees.”

“What?” His face intensified.

“He threatened Èmie.” She turned away, hating to seem weak.

Quillan turned her toward him, his hand on her shoulder gentle but insistent. “You know that makes you an accomplice?”

She trembled. She was more than an accomplice now. “It’s worse than that. He thinks we’re to be married.”

Quillan dropped his hand. “Why does he think that?”

“I accepted his proposal. It was either that or collect fees from the businesses on Hall Street.” She saw him flinch. “Please, you have to get me out of here.” She hadn’t even formed that thought until she spoke it. But now she earnestly prayed he would.

He looked away, his expression pensive and stern. “I might get you out, but that wouldn’t solve it.”

“Solve what? He thinks we’ll marry on Saturday. If I—”

“Give me a minute, Carina.” He strode to the end of the tent and back, holding his jaw, which sported substantial whiskers. He stopped again before her. “He must be recording these collections in the ledger.”

The ledger? How could he think of the ledger now? “Didn’t you hear me? He wants—”

“I heard you. If he thinks you’ve accepted him, you’ll have no trouble getting to the ledger. It would be perfectly natural for you to come and go as you’ve been.”

She spread her hands desperately wide. “I don’t work there any longer.”

“That’s irrelevant. What eager bride-to-be wouldn’t drop in to see her betrothed?”

“He knows I’m not eager.”

Quillan caught her arms and pulled her close. “Pretend.”

Her heart raced in her chest.

“Get me the ledger, Carina.” His eyes commanded her attention.

She couldn’t look away. “And then?”

“Then we’ll see how the cards fall out.”

Carina pushed against his chest. “What kind of promise is that?”

He let her go. “I’ll see that Berkley Beck doesn’t marry you. If I get the ledger into the right hands—”

“You mean the marshal?”

Quillan shook his head. “Who then?”

“Someone level-headed enough to deal with it quickly and not let it escalate.”

“I don’t understand.” A strand of hair caught in her lips and she pulled it free. “Escalate how?”

“Vigilantes. Some who are calling for my neck right now. They want justice. They’ve had all they can take of the roughs and they’re scared. Beck has them believing I’m behind it. William Evans knew different, and he was silenced. The merchants won’t stand much more.”

Carina was silent. It was madness.

“Just get me the ledger, Carina. It’s got to contain what we need to stop Beck before it all gets out of hand.” His voice softened. “Trust me in this.”

Trust Quillan Shepard? As she had trusted Berkley Beck? Trusted Flavio?
Signore, it’s too much
. She dropped her gaze to the small space between them. She felt his hand on her shoulder, in the hair at the nape of her neck. He tipped her head up, and their eyes met.

“You have to trust me. Plans might already have been made, plans that include you.”

She gasped with sudden fear. Was it possible? She heard in her mind the invectives against her and knew it was. A high moan started in her throat, and Quillan pulled her into his arms. Pressed close to his chest, she smelled the dust of the road on his shirt and didn’t care. He would protect her. She had to trust him. She had nowhere else to turn. But could she do what he wanted?

The rap on his tent post brought Quillan to his senses, and he released Carina abruptly. “Who is it?”

“Alan.”

Quillan glanced at Carina, but there was no place for her to go. He opened the flap to Alan Tavish, who hurried in and saw Carina at once.

Quillan closed the flap. “Miss DiGratia brought me news of Beck.”

Tavish’s face was grave. “Dark news no doubt, but not so dire, I’m afraid, as what I bring ye.”

Quillan frowned.

“It’s Daniel Cain, Quillan. He’s dyin’.”

Quillan’s breath left his chest. D.C. dying?

“And it’s maybe part of what the lass was tellin’ you. T’was the roughs last Tuesday night.”

The night he left. He’d ridden out and left Cain and D.C…. No wonder he’d felt so anxious to return!

“There’s a surgery been done, but the lad won’t waken.”

Quillan searched Alan’s face, hoping to see there something that lightened his words. He didn’t. A hollowness stole over him. Nothing Carina had said mattered now. He was too late. Whatever he’d meant to do would not save D.C. He suddenly felt tired to the bone. “Where is he?”

“At Mae’s. And Cain with him, closer to the grave maybe than his boy.”

Carina stood alone in the tent after the two of them left. Quillan had not even realized she remained. How deeply he must care for that boy and his papa. She felt selfish for running to him with her news, her hopes that he would take care of everything. She had not even thought to tell him of D.C.’s condition, not considered his distress. She had thought only of herself.

Carina pressed her palm to her forehead, then let it drop. Now what would she do? She had told Quillan her news, and his answer was the same. Get the ledger. It was all he cared about. And it was impossible.