The Rose Legacy (42 page)

“Strong. And mysterious. When I think of him, I see you.”

Quillan turned away. “Unfortunately, so do others.”

“Not unfortunately, Quillan. Father Charboneau said he was the most humane man he ever knew. He doesn’t believe Wolf—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Carina laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe if you did …”

He shook her off and took a step away.

“Come with me to the mine,” she urged.

“No.”

Determined, Carina walked to Jack, slipped her foot into the stirrup, swung up, and hooked her knee into place. Quillan didn’t move. She turned Jack and started him up the remainder of the track to the Rose Legacy. She felt Quillan’s eyes but heard nothing behind her.

Why did she force it? What did she hope to gain by making him dwell on something so obviously painful? She reached the clearing and dismounted. The blackened foundation was cast in shade by the westering sun. She went and sat on the edge, watching the track.

Not a quarter hour had passed before Jock’s hooves clomped upward toward her and Quillan came into view. His face was set and hard. He dismounted beside Jack and returned her gaze. Then he crossed the gravel circle to where she sat. “If I’d known marriage would make you so impossible—”

“You’d have left me to Berkley Beck?” She waved her upended palm at him.

He looked down at it. “Why do you do that?”

“What?”

“Talk with your hands.”

She looked also at the palm. “I don’t know.” She stood up. “I just do. I suppose it’s in my family.” She reached down and picked a tiny daisy from inside the foundation. She breathed its fragrance, then twirled it between her finger and thumb. “Maybe there are things you do that were in your family, only you don’t know.”

He laughed dryly. “Oh yes. The men in town believe I run on all fours.”

A chill shimmied down her spine. He must have seen it because he stepped close. “Is that also how you imagine Wolf, Carina? At night, maybe?”

“No.” She said it with more fervor than necessary. Looking back at the foundation, she tried to find the words. “Sometimes I imagine him lonely. Haunted by memories, experiences that marked him, changed him.”

“What memories?”

She took Quillan’s hand, tugged him down to the foundation with her. He seemed repelled by it, but then he relaxed as one resigned to his circumstances. Gently and carefully she told him what Father Antoine had shared with her. He listened without comment, almost without expression. How did he hide so completely?

As she finished, she laid a hand on Quillan’s knee. “Wolf probably never belonged. He couldn’t have known who he was before the Sioux took him, and they never gave him the personhood he longed for.”

Imperceptibly, Quillan softened, then turned. “Why does it matter? To you?”

“Because it matters to you.”

It seemed he would deny it, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled her to her feet, cupped the back of her head with one hand, and kissed her. Carina reached her hands up into his hair and found it as soft as she imagined, softer than her own, which was springy with curl.

He likewise forked his fingerfuls and kissed her hungrily. “Carina …” His voice was thick, and he pressed her face to his chest. “We have to go down.”

She didn’t want to. She didn’t want him to stop holding her, kissing her. She looked up, and he kissed her again. Smiling, she begged, “Stay.”

“No.” He looked at the foundation beside them. “I know what you’re trying to do. But I won’t stay here. There’s … too much … pain.”

“For you?”

He shook his head. “For them.”

Carina felt satisfied. As least he now thought of his parents as people instead of the horrible names he’d called them before. He held her face between his palms, then kissed her brow right where her hair began. “Just so you know, from now on, I’m in charge.”

She smiled. “Ah. Un gross’umo.”

He laughed softly, then lifted and carried her to Jack, hoisting her into the saddle.

They rode down through the lengthening shadows, and for the first time in hours, Carina thought of what they returned to. “What do we do now?”

He crooked an eyebrow, causing blood to rush to her face.

“I mean about Berkley Beck.”

He drew a slow breath and released it. “There’s a chance he’ll accept defeat gracefully.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“No. But I gave the ledger to Ben Masterson, and the trustees will have determined a plan.”

Carina swiped a lock of hair from her eyes. “What was in the ledger?”

“Names of those in his less reputable employ, dates, monies received, monies paid out.”

Carina had a sudden thought. “Was …”

“Yes. But I told Masterson you were coerced.”

She brought a hand to her throat. “Did he believe you?”

“It was fairly convincing when I told him I was marrying you.”

She sagged in the saddle. “I don’t want to go back to it. I wish I’d never set eyes on Crystal.”

“Do you?” He gave her a crooked grin.

“We met before Crystal, remember.”

“And an auspicious start it was.”

She raised her chin. “I’ll expect everything replaced.”

“I’m sure you will.” He laughed, but she could see that he, too, was concerned as they approached town. People stared openly, and not all the stares were kind. There were whispers and dark looks. Why hadn’t they stayed on the mountain?

Quillan didn’t take her to Mae’s. Instead, he tied the horses outside the hotel in plain view, as though daring anyone to question his right. If the muttering and glares phased him, he showed very little. A tension in his arms when he lifted her down, a grim set to his jaw, but not enough to betray what he must be feeling. He led her into the lobby.

Mrs. Barton was at the desk. Her face lightened as always at the sight of Quillan. At least there was one person who still thought highly of him, though she scarcely looked at Carina. She held out a key to Quillan and asked, “Dinner?”

“Thank you.” Quillan put the key into his pocket.

She took them to a table, and Quillan held Carina’s chair. Carina sank into it a little shakily. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was unaccustomed to the side saddle. Mostly, it was that she hadn’t shared a meal with Quillan since the one she cooked for him, and she was suddenly very aware of his presence.

He smiled at her discomfort. “How are you such a tyrant on the mountain and such a cinch in town?”

Carina took umbrage. “I am not a cinch.”

“You sure let Beck gull you.”

“I admit I’m not versed in unscrupulous men.”

“Good thing you ran to my tent.” His pirate’s smile.

Carina pressed her palms to the table. “I almost liked you earlier.”

“You like me. Or you wouldn’t have asked me to marry you.”

“I asked!” Blood rushed to her face, but Mrs. Barton came and stood at their table.

Quillan demurred to Carina. “What would you like?”

“I … haven’t looked.”

“The chicken dumplings are nice tonight.” Mrs. Barton gave her a thin smile.

Carina nodded and Mrs. Barton turned to Quillan.

“Beef steak. Rare.” As Mrs. Barton left, he tucked his tongue into his side teeth with a mocking grin that showed he at least was not guided by someone else’s opinion.

He was insufferable. She leaned forward, almost hissing, “I never asked. And as I recall, you didn’t, either.”

“I didn’t get down on my knee. But it wasn’t really necessary, was it? You’d already played that one.”

Carina’s heart sank. Why was he being so cruel? If he thought she was different on the mountain,
he
was two distinct men. She brushed a wrinkle from the tablecloth and refused to continue the banter. Mocking her situation with Mr. Beck was not only brazen, it was uncalled for.

She looked over and saw the empty table along the wall, Berkley Beck’s table. Would he come and dine? Or did he even now search for her, thinking to make her his wife? What would he do when he learned of her marriage? She shuddered inside.

Looking up, she surprised a raw mien on Quillan. Did he know he’d been cruel? Did he care? Mrs. Barton brought their plates, and they ate quietly. Mr. Beck’s table stood empty. Where was he? What was he doing? Carina felt a stabbing fear for Èmie, then recalled that Doctor Simms was sitting the night with her—armed.

Carina tried to put Berkley Beck from her mind. He was small and mean, but now he would see there was no point in continuing. As Quillan said, he couldn’t marry her if she was married already. She looked up at Quillan. He offered her a conciliating smile, and she returned it.

She finished her meal just after Quillan finished his. He paid the cheque in cash and stood to hold her chair, then led her out to the lobby. She was unsure now of his intentions. Why had he spoiled the closeness they’d gained on the ride? Was he punishing her for taking him to the mine?

He led her up the stairs with a hand to her elbow. At the door he stopped and used the key. The room was a suite in blue-and-white watered silk with a lamp of blue crystal ringed with clear pendants on a corner table. It was all complementary and lovely, and the part of her that appreciated such beauty was soothed by it. There was a settee and a low marble table in the sitting room. Someone had put hothouse flowers, red and yellow, in a vase. Mrs. Barton?

Quillan closed the door, and once again Carina felt his presence shrink the room. He crossed the rug and opened the window to let in the cool evening air. The blue chintz curtain filled like a sail. Then he came and took her waist between his hands. She rested her palms on his chest. Would he apologize?

Searching her face, he dampened his lips, then, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

Her misgivings fell away. She must have mistaken his intentions, taken affront where none was meant.

He kissed her lips and then her neck. “I had Mae send over what you’d need for tonight.”

Carina could scarcely breathe. But then, she’d had little time to prepare herself, and even though she’d loved Flavio for years, she was innocent of many of the details. She went into the room that held the four-poster bed and saw her gown lying across it. The gown had survived any damage, since it had been in her carpetbag and not her trunk, and it was a lovely bit of fancy, as Mae would put it. But Carina felt awkward and self-conscious as she removed the sea green gown and put on the flimsy white batiste garment.

Her hair was already down, so she merely brushed it with the brush Mae had set on the washstand. Then she washed her face and hands and neck, touching gently the place where Quillan’s lips had been. She scrubbed her teeth and scrutinized them in the mirror. Each one shown like a slender pearl. She stepped back and waited.

It wasn’t long. Quillan tapped the door, then opened it. He, too, had washed, and stood there, bare to the waist as he’d been under the icy spring. She had a flashing thought of Wolf, but it was Quillan who took her into his arms. Carina was amazed how safe he could make her feel.

Nothing could have prepared him for the wanting. Quillan silently groaned as he moved his hand beneath her hair lying like a lake surrounding and drowning him. But the visceral wanting, potent, returning even now as Carina slept, wasn’t all.

Worse by far was the wanting of
her
, the essence, the depth of her, her mind, her heart, her devotion. All the things that made her who she was. And he knew this wanting would destroy him, day by day eroding the self he’d formed from denying the wants—to be known, to be acknowledged, to be loved. He pressed his eyes closed against the ache.

He’d spent the first half his life wanting the love of a woman, and the other half purging her from his thoughts and emotions. One kind word, one motherly touch … he’d have lived on it for years. But the first woman who had mattered had given him away. And the second never failed to remind him.

Now there was Carina. Carina Maria DiGratia. He’d taken her body with his own in a closeness more near to love than anything before, and in that he had jeopardized all that he’d achieved. He groaned again without making a sound. How could he have known that with one rash act he would tear himself open, pour himself out, lose himself in her? And want, want so much for her to feel the same.

T
HIRTY

Is hope a dream?

—Rose

C
ARINA WOKE TO THE
unfamiliar feel of soft sheets, soft bed. She brushed her fingers over the fine linen pillow slip, not recognizing the scalloped work along the edge. And then she did. She looked furtively across the bed, but it was empty.

Was it possible she had dreamed him there? Turning swiftly, she searched the room. It, too, was empty. She sank back into the pillow, as soft and different from what she’d slept on these last nights as the rest of it. Everything was different. She was different. She was no longer Carina DiGratia. She was Mrs. Quillan Shepard in name and reality.

Closing her eyes, she slipped from the bed to her knees on the floor and crossed herself.
Oh, Signore
… She hadn’t thought to love him. The man who sent her wagon over, the man with the pirate smile who could be dangerous, yet made her feel so safe …

She loved him. And it was both frightening and wonderful. It was not as she’d loved Flavio, the yearning to understand but never understanding. Flavio was a mirage. Quillan was real. She loved the realness of him, the rightness of him. She felt renewed, awakened, alive, eager for the things that would make up their life together.

He was pleased with her cannelloni, but would he like sausage and peppers? She would learn his likes and dislikes. She would tell him her stories, and he would tell his. They would laugh and maybe cry. And in the silence their hearts would join. She folded her hands and rested her forehead on the peaked fingers.
Signore, thank you for this day and for this husband….

There was a noise, and she turned to see Quillan in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a cotton flannel shirt. His gun hung at his hip, and his hat was in his hands. He took in her position with a slow gaze, then leaned his hip to the doorjamb. “Praying for deliverance?”

The taunt was back in his tone, the cruelty in his eyes. What was he doing? He wanted to hurt her. She couldn’t mistake it this time. She stood up. Self-conscious in her batiste gown, she clasped her hands beneath her chin.

His mouth softened, and for a moment she saw the tenderness in his eyes, then it was gone. “I’ve paid Mae to keep you.”

“Mae?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you’d prefer my tent?”

“But …”

“I’m not around much, Carina. You’ll be better off at Mae’s.”

She felt a stone in her stomach. He would not make a home with her?

He pushed off from the doorjamb and straightened. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

He was leaving? “Where are you going?”

“I have a job to do.”

She rushed toward him without thinking. “But what about Mr. Beck?”

Quillan put the hat on his head. “It’s all about town that we married. It won’t escape his notice.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She closed her hands into fists. “What if he retaliates?”

“I expect he will. What do you think this was all about?”

He might have slapped her, so unjust and painful were his words. Her jaw dropped with the shock of it, but he didn’t see. He had turned and walked away. Cinch. He had called her a cinch, and here was the proof of it. He had married her only to spite Berkley Beck, to force his hand.

Carina felt numb, stupid, unable to move or think. And then the fury hit with the force of the flood. It took an interminable time to wash and change into the beige skirt and blouse Mae had sent from Carina’s room. She was thankful she didn’t have to wear the wedding dress. She wished never to see it again and forced it into the carpetbag with disgust.

Omaccio. Cialtrone
. What did she care? He was a rogue. She snatched up her bag and left the room. Downstairs, she smacked the key on the counter and left without a word to Mrs. Barton, who stood all smiles behind the polished wood. She pressed through the milling crowd, ignoring the greetings. She turned the corner at Drake and fairly ran. Mae was in the kitchen frying hot cakes, and Carina threw herself into her arms.

Mae dropped the spatula and held her close. “There, there. The first time’s always the worst.”

If only it were that. Carina’s heart ached with more than maidenly discomfort. She sobbed, furious, humiliated, and once again betrayed.

“Now, lamb. It’s not so bad as all that.”

“He’s gone.” Let Mae think her heartsick.

“But he’ll be back.”

That thought was hardly comforting. But with a sniff, Carina pulled away and wiped her eyes. She was acting foolish, as foolish as she felt. How had she thought his tenderness real? He was Quillan Shepard, rogue, pirate, omaccio.

Mae smiled. “That’s better.” She bent and scooped up the spatula. “Now I’ve burnt these.” She turned back to the stove. Her life was undisturbed, unchanged from yesterday, the same as tomorrow.

Only Carina’s existence was turned about, inside out. With a shaky breath she gathered herself and left the kitchen. Stepping outside, she saw Dr. Simms, and suddenly the weight of everything returned. Èmie. Mr. Beck. What was Quillan thinking, leaving her to face it all? But face it she must.

She hurried to the doctor. “How is Èmie?”

He turned, his thoughts obviously occupied, then he half smiled. “Èmie? Remarkable.”

Carina’s concern eased. “Then she’s healing.”

He nodded, still bemused, then seemed to catch himself with a slight shake of his head. “Yes, she’s healing.”

“Thank God. May I see her?”

“Yes. Yes, actually she was asking for you.”

Carina picked up her skirts and ran, slowing only as she neared Èmie’s cabin. She didn’t see Father Antoine, but he could be inside with his niece. She didn’t want to be reminded of the rite he had performed the day before, the marriage she had entered into with good faith. Good faith.

Signore …
But the word was empty. What good was faith when no one could be trusted? What good was God, who twisted and spun her until she was reeling and bleeding inside? Carina stopped outside the door. She must go in, must succor Èmie, though her own heart was ragged.

She went inside. Father Antoine was not there. Only Èmie lay on her cot, sleeping and seemingly peaceful. Carina knelt beside her. She lifted Èmie’s hand, noting the length and shape of the fingers. The ends were blunt, but they were good hands, strong hands. Her heart ached.

Èmie stirred. Carina leaned over her. Èmie opened her eyes, both eyes now, though neither as wide as they should. The swelling was less, but the bruising darker. Èmie smiled faintly. “I knew you were here.”

Carina cupped her hand. “Yes, I’m here.” But she couldn’t be there always. Who else did Èmie have? Her uncle? Carina shuddered. “Èmie, who did this?”

Èmie’s face shadowed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?”

Èmie touched the swelling along one cheekbone. “Jesus said to turn the other cheek.”

“I can’t believe that’s what He meant.”

“He meant we must forgive the wrongs against us.”

Carina felt her chest clutch suddenly. Was that it? Did her own unforgiveness cause all this misfortune in her life? She recalled Father Charboneau’s words.
“Justice is more noble than vengeance. But better than both is mercy.”
Did the priest feel merciful now? Did he pardon his brother for this crime against Èmie? If so, he was no man.

“He didn’t want to do it.” Èmie’s voice was low, gentle, and sad.

She pitied her assailant? Her uncle? Impossible!

Èmie closed her eyes. “I forgive him.”

Carina pushed away from the bed and crossed the room. It wasn’t possible. How could Èmie forgive the one who did this? She rebelled at the idea. Then she recalled her own part in it. Did Èmie know it was because of her that Mr. Beck had ordered her beaten?

“Carina.” Èmie reached up a hand.

Slowly she returned to Èmie’s side and dropped to the floor beside the bed.

Èmie clutched her hand. “You mustn’t blame yourself.”

Tears stung Carina’s eyes. “Then you know. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. But I forgive you, too.”

With a sob, Carina brought Èmie’s hand to her lips. “Why? How can you forgive me for causing you this pain?”

Èmie smiled crookedly. “God doesn’t allow anything that isn’t for my good.”

Carina couldn’t speak. How could a loving God allow Èmie to suffer? How could it be for her good? It made no sense. She stood when Dr. Simms returned, but her hand and Èmie’s lingered together. Carina drew a long, shaking breath and broke the contact.

Èmie’s eyes turned to Dr. Simms. Carina watched in amazement as the bruised and swollen face of her friend transformed. Èmie was in love.

Quillan pulled himself into the box and took up the reins. Masterson had insisted he make himself scarce until things were sorted out. There was still the matter of Beck’s innuendoes, and Masterson didn’t want anything clouding the picture. But Quillan didn’t intend to go far, one day to Fairplay and back the next. In his absence Masterson and the other trustees would amass enough men to subdue the roughs, then remove McCollough from office and vote in another marshal, one with the guts to arrest Berkley Beck.

If the crooked trustees caught wind of it, they’d undoubtedly inform Beck, and he wouldn’t relinquish power without a fight. It could get ugly, but Masterson and company were willing to take that chance. With the merchants and those who’d suffered the treatment of the roughs behind them, Crystal’s notables were ready to make an end of it. It was a sound plan, and Quillan felt some relative confidence.

“Quillan!”

Quillan turned in surprise as D.C. strode up. His head still bore the bandage, but his color was high and there was a spring in his step. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I have a clean bill. Dr. Felden thought I should take the air. I thought maybe I could ride along with you.”

“I’m not taking responsibility for a kid with a hole in his head.”

D.C. grinned. “That hole’s as good as closed up. And if I sit around one more day with nothing to do, I’ll go crazy!”

“That’s strange. I thought you’d reached new heights in avoiding work.”

D.C. laughed. “That’s about what Daddy said.”

“Get up, then.” Quillan waved him over. “Does Cain know you’re coming?”

D.C. looked a little sheepish. “He knows.”

“D.C.” Quillan was not going to be party to D.C.’s shenanigans.

“It was his idea, all right?” D.C. pulled himself into the box.

Quillan considered that. Maybe Cain felt the boy needed a change of venue. Maybe he wanted him under a watchful eye as he tried his wings again, recovered his strength. Quillan could do that. This was a short trip.

“Get comfortable. Your backside will come to know that spot before the day’s over.”

“I remember.” D.C. looked none too pleased at the prospect.

It could have been any of the days he and the boy had started out before Cain’s mine had struck ore. Then D.C. had dropped freighting like a scalding iron. But he’d helped haul the ore on occasion, and Quillan liked his company. There weren’t too many he’d invite aboard, and of those he would, most were too arthritic and crippled to stand it.

But for all his youth and inexperience, D.C. was a fine companion. He knew when to talk and when to keep still. Quillan felt a degree of normalcy having D.C. on the box with him. And that was good. He didn’t want to think how his life was suddenly altered, though any recollection of last night made that impossible.

He’d taken a wife, and moreover, that wife was Carina. How had she bedeviled him? Worked her way in where he’d sworn no woman would? Even now he felt the softness of her skin, smelled and tasted and felt her there. It was like a poison in his mind, the wanting. At least D.C. could distract him.

“Quillan?”

He turned to the boy. “Yeah?”

“What was it like?”

“What?”

“You know.” D.C. rubbed his palms on his knees. “Last night.”

So much for distraction. Quillan frowned. “That’s a question no gentleman should answer—or ask.” Had his thoughts somehow filled the silence and brought on D.C.’s curiosity?