It surprised her how it hurt, though it was her own doing. No. It was Divina’s sin! Her chest constricted. She glanced up furtively as others filed forward, then pressed her eyes shut again and stood still on the pressed dirt floor of the cabin. She knew what was required.
She drew a long, slow breath. She could not forgive. Even if the pain lasted for years, she would not forgive Divina. She kept her head bowed as the priest spoke the benediction, then signed herself with the cross. She would slip away quietly. She had done her duty.
Èmie caught her arm as they filed outside. “Come and meet our priest.”
Carina’s throat cleaved. She did not want to meet him. He would know, would see the unforgiveness in her.
“Father Charboneau, may I present Carina DiGratia.”
“Welcome, Carina DiGratia.”
His handgrip was as powerful as she expected. His eyelids crinkled with the smile into pointed arches over blue gems, glittering warmth and genuine pleasure. In the sunlight she noted flecks of silver in the dark waves of his hair. “Thank you.”
He expanded his chest with a deep breath. “It’s a glorious day, isn’t it? Like all the days in heaven. One golden moment after another.”
Carina nodded dumbly.
Èmie seemed to have come to life, an awkward butterfly tasting the sun after too long in the cocoon. “Won’t you join us for breakfast, Father?” She spoke to the priest but tightened her hold on Carina’s arm, leaving no doubt as to her own invitation.
“I will. And have a word with your uncle Henri.”
Carina tried to escape Èmie’s hold, but it was firm. What choice had she but to surrender?
“Have you been here long, Miss DiGratia?” Father Charboneau strolled beside her.
So it began. He would question and probe, creeping closer and closer to the truth until he surprised it from her. I hate my sister, Father. I wished for her to die. “Only a week.”
“Then I doubt you’ve seen much by way of the sights.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers and proceeded at an easy amble, so relaxed.
“The sights?”
“Wasson Lake, Beaufort Falls …” He spread his hands. “You are touring?”
What could she say? This was no pleasure excursion. What was it? A misguided, ill-fated flight from humiliation to … to what? Better he believe her here to enjoy the sights. “I did tour Placerville.”
“Ah. Old Placer.”
Now she would turn it on him, draw him out, away from her business. She stepped over a rut. “Èmie said you were there? Did you have a church?”
“No. I said Mass in Mater’s Saloon.”
“And you prospected for gold?”
He smiled with a quick glance to Èmie. “I did some prospecting, but the best gold I found was in the people. Amazing the nuggets lying beneath the silt of life’s burdens.”
She thought of her findings from yesterday. “Did you know a man named Wolf?”
It was faint, but she caught the unease behind his look of surprise. “I did.”
“And Rose?”
His face softened, the flesh growing slack, brows leaning together, suddenly tired. “I buried them together.”
So Quillan had been orphaned. Did that explain his borrowed name? Èmie tugged her arm. “Carina, what are you talking about?”
Father Charboneau patted Èmie’s shoulder. “A sad story, not unlike many others, though perhaps more vicious than some. A tale, however, that time has put behind those who carried on.”
His meaning was clear, and his blue eyes pierced. He did not want her to ask more. Sensing that, Carina took it to heart. But she had accomplished her purpose. He wouldn’t pry if she did not.
He started on with a vigorous stride. “I feel that frying pan calling me, Èmie. What I wouldn’t give for a half-dozen eggs and the butter to fry them in.”
“The best I can do is flapjacks.” But she beamed as though even that was an honor to provide the priest.
Carina struggled to keep up. She was no competition for Èmie’s long legs and Father Charboneau’s powerful steps. By the time they climbed up to Èmie’s cabin, she was hot and winded. She worked the pump, splashed the icy water over her face, then smoothed back her hair.
She considered slipping away, but that would be cowardly and a poor trick to play on a woman who had seemingly befriended her. In a place like Crystal, she needed all the friends she could find. Still, it was with some reluctance she went into the small two-room cabin behind the others.
The back door was open to the mountain, and Father Charboneau shot a look at Èmie. “It appears your uncle got wind of our coming.”
“The smell of breakfast will bring him back.”
“But not with his tail between his legs.”
Èmie shook her head and turned to Carina. “Uncle Henri and Father Antoine have a long-standing dispute.”
“Feud. Tempest. War.” Father Charboneau rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Carina noted the familiar name Èmie gave the priest. They must be long-standing friends. Bacon sizzled in the iron skillet as Èmie skewered the thick, ruffled slices and flipped them over. With that aroma filling the room and the coffee steaming on the stove, it was no surprise when a large, dour man appeared at the back door.
He growled when he entered and took his seat at the table. Even with his French saturnine scowl, Carina recognized a resemblance between him and the priest. Both broad shouldered, a little barrel-chested, blue eyed, and sharp featured. She glanced at Èmie, who nodded slightly.
“You look old, Henri.” Father Charboneau pulled a stool to the table and hurdled it to land squarely atop.
“I work for a living.”
“Ah. But I work for the dying, and that, without exception, is all of us.”
“Save your preaching for fools like Èmie. Food, girl.”
Èmie laid his plate before him and another for Father Charboneau. She motioned for Carina to follow her outside with theirs.
As Èmie sat down on the stoop, Carina dropped beside her and balanced the plate on her knees. “They’re brothers? The priest is your uncle?”
Èmie nodded. “Father Antoine is Uncle Henri’s youngest brother.”
“Why do they fight?”
“Uncle Henri can’t forgive Antoine’s taking the cloth.”
Not forgive a man for choosing the church? Was it not an honor any family craved, to have a son become a priest? “Why not?”
Èmie leaned close. “Because before he did, they were outlaws.”
“What do you mean, outlaws?”
“Horse thieves.”
Carina stared.
“It was before I was born. But as long as I can remember, I’ve heard Father Antoine going after Uncle Henri to repent and make restitution.”
Carina shook her head. Horse thief turned priest. His own story was as black as anything she or Quillan Shepard had to hide. But she was hardly surprised. What else in a place like Crystal? “Why did the priest stop thieving?”
“They got caught. The ranchers strung them up from the only tree for miles around.”
Carina stopped her bite of flapjack halfway to her mouth. “To lynch them?”
Èmie nodded.
“What happened?”
“Father Antoine says God. A storm came with lightning and thunder. The ranchers thought that would spook the horses as well as a bullet, and their hands would be clean of it, so they left them there on horseback, hands tied and nooses on their throats.” Èmie circled her neck with her long, solid hands. “Can you imagine sitting there waiting for the horse to spook and …” She tightened her hands and sucked in her breath.
Caught up in the tale Carina pictured the scene. “They didn’t spook?”
“They spooked. The lightning hit the very tree my uncles were hanging from.”
“Then how—”
“It sheared the branch clean from the trunk. Father Antoine said it was a sign from God. Uncle Hen
ri called it good luck. But Antoine wouldn’t steal with him again. He knew he was called, just like St. Paul being struck off his horse.”
“So he became a priest.”
Èmie nodded. “He went to France to study with the Jesuits. They made him a missionary and sent him back to America. Now he travels, looking for the worst, down-trodden, hopeless souls he can find. But he can’t sway Uncle Henri.”
Carina chewed the bacon slowly. So there was more to Father Charboneau than one might think. Horse thief, prospector, priest. What next?
After cleaning up with Èmie, Carina took her leave. She wanted nothing more than a lazy day with her head in a book. She had finished Cervantes for the third time. She pondered her choices as she wandered slowly down the hill to Mae’s and found her out back in dishwater up to her elbows. The giant wooden tubs she used outside to wash and rinse the dishes in the daylight were almost as large as the pool in which Carina had soaked.
“Went to Mass, did you?” Mae sloshed a plate from the washtub to the rinse water.
“Yes.”
Mae’s hands were raw, but she didn’t seem to notice as she scrubbed away. “I’m not denying Father Charboneau says a right nice funeral, but if it’s preaching you want, bring yourself to Preacher Paine’s tent revival.”
Carina took up a towel and braved the scalding water for a plate to wipe. “Preacher Pain? And people come?”
“That’s Paine with an E. And yes they come, and come back. He puts the fire in the brimstone, if you know what I mean.”
Carina didn’t. Neither did she care. She had done her duty, no more.
“Preacher Paine comes up every summer. There’s a picnic first to sort of fatten the calf, then the tent meeting come evening. Most folks can’t sleep after, unless they went forward and unburdened themselves.”
Carina tried to imagine it. “Does everyone go?”
“Most everyone.”
“Henri Charboneau?”
Mae snorted. “Not that one. Some go just for the show, but Reverend Paine hooks ’em.” Mae dug a thumb into the flesh beneath her jaw like a fish yanked by a gill.
Carina was fascinated by the display. “How does he hook them?”
Mae laughed low. “You come see for yourself.”
No grazie. Was it not enough to face the priest? A sudden thought struck her. “Do you know Father Charboneau?”
Mae heaved an iron skillet the size of a wheel into the tub. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone here I don’t know.”
“Then you know he was a—”
Mae sank the skillet in the tub, put her dripping hands to her hips, and faced Carina. “We need to get something straight, right off. I don’t gossip, especially about folks I might depend on for my life.”
Carina flushed. Wasn’t gossip part of life? Didn’t the stories grow and grow better with each telling? Didn’t it lend stature and long-suffering to the tellers and even the tell-abouts? Was it not a sharing of hearts and souls? Even Scripture said what was whispered in darkness would be shouted in the light.
“I don’t hold with hanging people’s lives out like laundry.”
Carina frowned. Did dark deeds not deserve hanging out, and brave deeds not shine brighter? “Why is it wrong to tell our stories?”
Mae pushed herself back from the tub. “Nothing wrong in telling your own. Just not someone else’s.”
Carina considered that. How she had cringed when Divina told and retold of her falling from the roof, squirmed at the telling of her kicking Tony because she could not win the foot race. How they had laughed and called her Giusseppe’s mule. Many times she had wished to shush Divina. Could Mae be right? Could the very fabric of her life, of her person, of the people she knew and held most dear, prove faulty?
Before she could answer, Carina was cloaked with shadow—Quillan Shepard’s shadow.
TEN
Is it possible to live someone else’s life? If so, I have left mine and entered the mind and body of a stranger … whom I don’t much like, and trust not at all.
—Rose
CARINA JOLTED LIKE a rabbit in the carrot patch, certain he could see her guilt. She had pried into Quillan Shepard’s life. Like Eve after the fruit, did she look different for the knowledge? Anger vied with shame. Had she learned so much? No, but she had intended to, and the guilty feeling wouldn’t pass. Mae’s reprimand was a barbed hook, holding fast against any excuse she might make, and she pictured herself as Mae had been just moments ago with a thumb hooked into her jaw.
If Quillan noticed her discomfort, he made no sign. He was clean and groomed, his hair tied back and mustache trimmed so its line ended just below his mouth and no longer reached his freshly shaved jaw. The sleeves of his cotton shirt were rolled to the elbow, the collar open two buttonholes.
He tipped his hat. “Mae. Miss DiGratia.”
Mae hunkered back. “Well, Quillan. What brings you around this time?”
“Unfinished business with Miss DiGratia.”
Carina startled. What unfinished business?
“Mind if I steal her?”
“Steal away.” Mae waved a sudsy hand.
Carina bristled. What was she—a horse, that they made her plans without her? “What business have you with me, Mr. Shepard?”
For an answer, he motioned to the pair of blacks, saddled and waiting by the wall of Mae’s house.
Vanitoso. How confident he was that she would accept his inelegant invitation. But then, she could be grateful he wasn’t a hand-kisser like Berkley Beck. Such behavior from Quillan Shepard … She cringed inside.
Bene. Let him tell her his business. Whatever his offer, she would refuse—and enjoy the refusing. He put a hand to her elbow as she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung up. The black she mounted was strong with heavy hooves. A man’s horse. A work horse. She could feel its strength in bone and muscle.
Quillan swung onto the horse beside her. “Ready?”
She felt a quiver of excitement astride the powerful horse. It had been long since she’d ridden a fine-blooded steed with a man beside her. Not since … She shook away the thought.
She would not consider it now in the presence of Quillan Shepard, whose gray eyes seemed to look into her soul, though he rode like stone beside her, offering no explanation, no congenial conversation. Whatever his plans, he kept them to himself.
She wouldn’t ask, would not let him know she wondered. What unfinished business could he mean? There was no need to ride if he meant to haggle further over the gun. Besides, a deal was a deal. He would know that. What then?
There was nothing more on the mountain where her things had spilled. If he meant to sell her something, he would have brought the wagon, or at least presented it there at Mae’s. Why the ride? The secrecy? Did he know she had looked up his records?
No, that was her own conscience accusing her. No one knew except Berkley Beck. Surely he would not have told Quillan Shepard. So she had gone to the mine—many others rode that way. She had found a trail and followed it. That was all.
Yet … Father Charboneau’s expression played in her mind. If there was something, something to hide, and Quillan suspected she had pried … Oh, why was he there? Why would he not explain himself?
As they passed the last of the dwellings that fringed Crystal City, she could take it no longer. “Where are we going?”
“A record.”
She glanced sidelong.
“I’d wager that’s the longest you’ve gone without sating your curiosity.”
She started to retort, but he interrupted with, “Wasson Lake.”
“Wasson Lake? Why?”
“It’s far enough away you won’t be heard.”
She tried to rein in, but her black kept prancing with his, neck to neck, defying her. Somehow Quillan Shepard controlled even the horse he didn’t ride. Fear sprang up inside.
“I’m teaching you to shoot, Miss DiGratia.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I don’t deliver useless goods.�
�
Her hands relaxed on the reins. He had done that purposely, used innuendo to frighten her. He was teaching her to shoot? Then he didn’t know. Besides, what had she learned? That his parents had died. It was nothing to hide. But why had they borne no surnames?
“You have the gun with you?” He might have asked that before they came so far.
She brought up her chin. “I told you I would carry it. What use is it in a box somewhere?”
“What use is it if you can’t shoot?”
She gave no answer.
“Can you ride?”
“Of course.”
“Really ride?”
Was he challenging her? She felt the power in the horse beneath her, saw the ripple of muscle and sinew. This horse was not her slow plodding Dom, but that didn’t mean she knew nothing of riding. “What’s his name?”
Quillan quirked an eyebrow.
“This horse. What do you call him?”
“Jack.”
“And yours?”
“Jock.”
With a sudden motion, she leaned over the horse’s neck and dug in her heels. “Fly, Jack!”
This time the horse sprang forward, and Jock quickly followed, the excitement of the race upon them. She felt Jock vying for control, but Jack had a nose lead on him, probably the difference between her weight and Quillan Shepard’s. They pounded across the stony ground onto softer growth as the valley widened and leveled. The horses ran neck and neck, so closely matched in stride as to be one.
She tried to make Jack pull ahead, shrinking herself down and applying the rein. But he was either at his full speed or held back by something else; he resisted her prodding. Ahead, a low fringe of willow and swamp grass marked the line of a stream. She saw a narrow gap in the growth and headed for it. That was her chance. If she could edge him out …
Pressing herself lower to the neck, she caught hold of the saddle horn. The willows drew close. With only seconds to make her move, she bore down for the thrust, then raised up from the saddle. With a wrench, she was in the air, flying over Jack’s neck and landing seat first in the tall, wet grasses. The narrow stream lapped her skirts.
The Rose Legacy Page 12