The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Cain almost grinned. William was goading the man, but it was a dangerous thing to do.

  Beck’s eyes narrowed. “Things will get worse before they get better.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Of course not.” Beck straightened. He pushed back from the bar. “But you’ll change your mind.”

  “You’re bloody crazy to think I will.”

  The flush crawled up Beck’s neck. He looked once more in Cain’s direction, and this time Cain turned a little, drained his cup, and watched Beck walk out with a stiff step.

  “So that’s his game,” Evans growled. “I say who needs proof? You tell Quillan I got all the proof I need.”

  Cain grabbed his crutch and pulled himself up on his peg. “ ‘Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.’ ”

  “That’s all well and good.” Evans rubbed his chin. “But they sure seem to prosper in Crystal.”

  Quillan splashed the cold biting water over his arms and chest, rinsing away the soapy lather. He felt the stubble on his chin but decided against a shave. Reaching for the towel, he caught sight of a figure and turned to watch Cain make his slow, ungainly way to the creek side. “Mornin’, Cain.”

  “Howdy, Quillan. You sleep last night?”

  “Not much. You?”

  “Not hardly a wink. Prayin’, don’t ya know.”

  Quillan didn’t answer. If Cain wanted to believe God cared, let him. “D.C. up and ready?”

  “Up maybe, but ready’s another trick altogether.”

  Quillan splashed a last double handful over his face. “I want to make an early start.”

  “I spoke with Will this mornin’.”

  Quillan swabbed his face. “And?”

  “Seems Berkley Beck’s offerin’ protection to them as can pay.”

  “Protection? From the roughs?”

  “That’s how I heard it. Will says to let you know he don’t need more proof than that.”

  Quillan slung the towel over his shoulder and stood. “Maybe not where Beck’s concerned, but there are others in high places. I want the whole nest clean. Leave one or two rats, and before you know it there’s another infestation.”

  Cain leaned on his crutch and studied him.

  “What?” Quillan asked, feeling uneasy under the scrutiny.

  Cain crooked an eyebrow. “Just curious why it’s so important to you.”

  “Shouldn’t it be? Don’t you want Crystal free of violence?”

  “Oh yessiree. But it’s not eatin’ me up from the inside, neither.”

  Quillan jerked an arm into the sleeve of his shirt. “What makes you think it’s eating me?”

  Cain didn’t answer.

  “I just want to make Crystal a safe place for folks. The same as you do, Cain,” Quillan said, pulling the shirt across his back and sliding the other arm in.

  Cain nodded, but Quillan knew his thoughts. “There’s no more to it than that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Send D.C. over.”

  “Will do.”

  When D.C. arrived a short while after, Quillan could see already the boy’s ill humor. D.C. was silent, stewing no doubt about his fate as a freighter, which he seemed to like little better than mining. But there was money to earn. Even if D.C. didn’t regret the debt himself, Quillan wouldn’t let him forget it. Not when Cain had scratched and sacrificed so long for every cent of the money lost.

  Leaving D.C. with the wagon, Quillan strode away from the tents. He walked along the ruts toward the street, quiet now and clear of bodies. He pictured the scene last night, and his jaw tightened. If he had just gotten closer … But then he couldn’t have grabbed Miss DiGratia. He shook his head and turned toward the livery.

  It wasn’t the last chance he’d have to catch a look at the roughs. Unfortunately, it was the best chance he’d have, short of getting himself robbed. Even then he’d only see the plug-uglies and not the face of the one who had threatened the marshal. That would have been done personally, flagrantly.

  Someone was spearheading the violence, though maybe not all of it. Maybe some of the pickpockets and thieves worked on their own. But last night was orchestrated, he was sure. And if he only had proof—he looked up and saw Berkley Beck heading for his office—he’d guess he knew the name to put to it. But it was still only a guess, thanks to Carina DiGratia.

  He passed Beck without word or acknowledgment. Beck gave him the same. Theirs was a shaky truce. Quillan had been vocal when suspicions were raised against the man a year ago, suspicions that Beck was working a land claim scam, with the poor and unsuspecting getting the worst of it.

  Cain had lost his first claim at Beck’s hand and settled for the lesser sight of his Boundless Mine. Cain and the others had no mind or means to counter Beck’s mumbo jumbo, and the snake had wriggled out of the accusations. Since then he’d been more circumspect, though hardly more honest. And Quillan guessed he’d learned who his enemies were, with Quillan Shepard heading the list.

  Why hadn’t Miss DiGratia told Beck he was there, hiding in the shadows? She could have, and it would have meant blows. Beck was hardly a physical match himself, but if he had others at hand—and Quillan didn’t doubt that he did—it could have been ugly. Beck would have jumped at the chance to silence him, maybe for good.

  Quillan crossed the alley and stepped back up onto the walk. Directly before him, Miss DiGratia rounded the corner, caught her breath sharply, and brought the letter she held to her breast. Just above the cuff of her sleeve, ugly blue marks glared in the morning light, and he recalled his hand gripping her wrist. Had he done the damage?

  Her eyes were cautious, her lips unsmiling, yet not frowning either—simply a natural curve and delicate line. With her hair loose down her back, catching the morning sunrays in its black ripples, she was lovely, stunning … the marring bruise more accusing than ever. His throat felt like dust.

  With one hand he took the hat from his head, allowing her a courtesy he gave very few. “Miss DiGratia …” His eyes found the bruise. “I apologize for my rough treatment last night.” He didn’t mention that his own arm still throbbed where she’d bitten.

  Her lips parted, then came together again. She shrugged, bringing the hand down from her blouse and covering the wrist with the fingers of her other hand. “I shouldn’t have fought you.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  She tipped her head, and the hair swished back. It was incredible, really. He wanted to thread it with his fingers, just to feel its softness. He recalled the feel of her in his arms. That was something that shouldn’t have happened. He’d had no intention of holding her, but now he had, twice, though in duress both times.

  He drew a long breath and replaced his hat. “Good day, Miss DiGratia.” He breathed her fragrance as he passed. The livery was ten paces away. He could make it without turning. He was acting like a fool over a woman he had no interest in pursuing.

  Why not? She was beautiful, if a little bony and long in the nose, intelligent, though not always sensible, and by all appearances principled, her choice of employers notwithstanding. But he was not looking for encumbrances. What in the world would he do with her? Aside from the obvious.

  Carina released her breath. It seemed her ribs automatically froze in Quillan Shepard’s presence. First her wagon, then the snake, then his terrible words. And last night’s demonstration of his virile strength, the worst of all. She felt the tremor down her spine. Bene. In considering an outlaw, how was a woman to feel?

  True, there was no prova, no proof. Nothing but Mr. Beck’s words. Had he shown her a warrant? A poster? Anything? No. There was nothing. As she crossed over to Fisher’s to mail the letter, her fingers trembled on the thin stationery. The words within filled her mind.

  Dear Mamma, how I miss you. I am lonely for all of you. And Flavio most of all, though she didn’t write that. I am settling in now, learning so much. Crystal is—how had she put it?—
so different. Dangerous. Deadly. I think of you always, especially when I’m hungry. There is no food here to compare with yours. But mostly I miss working beside you and the talking, talking, talking.

  I have made two friends, Èmie and Mae, and of course Mr. Beck, for whom I work. He is very gracious. There is a miner who thinks I made his fortune. Mae says I will be a legend.

  She had signed it with all her love and imagined Mamma crushing it to her breast with tears in her eyes. Mamma, who knew what Flavio had been to her, who only guessed what had come between them. “Why, Carina? Why so far?” Because I must. “But what of Flavio … of your future?”

  And she had stood silent, knowing Mamma would defend Divina, would tell her to forgive Flavio. It was a man’s way, eh? But it wasn’t Papa’s way. Mamma had never been betrayed, and Carina would not accept an unfaithful man. So why did she watch every day for his coming?

  As always, Mr. Beck rose when she entered. “Miss DiGratia … Carina.” His smile spread around his teeth and narrowed his face. “I may call you Carina?” He raised one dark brow.

  Not him, too. Wasn’t it enough to face Quillan this morning without Mr. Beck carrying on as well? “I think it’s best—”

  “After all, it’s a small thing to ask. ‘Miss DiGratia’ keeps us at such a distance.” He waved his hand between them. “You may call me Berkley.”

  Berkley. He was extending such an honor? By his expression, he thought so. She thought of Quillan’s similar insistence. Somehow his wanting her to use his given name was different from Mr. Beck’s. But what argument could she make? Mr. Beck had seen her safely home after Quillan’s less than gentle treatment.

  “Very well.”

  Mr. Beck came around the desk. “Carina, I’m devastated you witnessed that nasty business last night.”

  “Had I not been out, I would hardly have slept through it.”

  He shook his head. “I only hope it hasn’t dimmed Crystal for you. I assure you I mean to do all in my power to make this city safe and prosperous.”

  He needed his street stump. It made him more impressive—and believable.

  He hooked a thumb into his vest pocket. “In fact, I’ve been out this morning seeing to that very matter.”

  He meant it? “How?”

  He smiled again, more disingenuous than before, with a measure of cockiness. “By whatever means I may.” He straightened his gray linen coat and gave her his profile. “I’ll be out most of the day.”

  She nodded. “Mr. Beck.”

  He turned with a frown.

  “Berkley,” she corrected. “When will you see to my house?”

  Eyes dropping, he lowered his chin with a sigh. “Carina, you force my hand. I intended to keep your hope alive, but—and I do regret this tremendously—”

  “You can’t get it back for me?” She sounded like a child in her disappointment.

  “If you want someone else to try …” He spread his hands in supplication.

  “What can someone else do?”

  “Nothing inside the law.”

  Surprisingly, her heart did not sink as much as it might. Maybe she had expected it. Maybe she’d grown accustomed to her small space. It was time to face reality and make of it what she could. “Thank you for trying.” True regret shadowed his face, and she was reminded again of his kindness. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

  “Under the circumstances. You see …”

  “It was a forgery.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Another man came in with a deed exactly like mine. I sent him away.”

  Beck took a step toward her and lifted her hand. His palm was warm and dry. “I’m terribly sorry you were victim to such a cruel hoax.” Eyes gently holding hers, he brushed her knuckles with his lips. “Were it in my power …”

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” For a moment Carina thought he would press his advance as he lingered, lost for words, yet saying more with his eyes than she wanted to hear.

  Then he smiled with apparent regret and took his leave. Carina took a long slow breath and released it. Now how would she pray?

  FIFTEEN

  What is fear but an irrational longing to retain what I do not want?

  —Rose

  THE WAGONS ROLLING IN reminded Carina of the gypsy trains she’d seen in her travels, Romany wanderers with colorful ways, though why she drew the comparison, she couldn’t say. The two wagons were not colorful, though the sign painted on the front wagon was quality workmanship. Preacher Paine’s Tent Revival.

  The women walking after were modestly covered, neck to wrist, skirts hanging to the dirt, not at all the short-skirted gypsy women who danced behind the garish green and gold and red of the caravan wagons. Perhaps it was the tambourines, though these were employed almost militantly and not draped with ribbons and jangled amid swirling skirts.

  Still, there was an air of excitement in the passing band, the wagons moving purposefully through a street remarkably clearing before them, and the women, faces aglow, banging the tambourines with determination. Carina heard Mae’s breath like a bellows beside her and turned.

  Swiping her face with a handkerchief, Mae stopped beside her on the boardwalk. “Now you’ll see for yourself.”

  “See?”

  “Don’t you remember I told you Preacher Paine was coming?”

  Yes, Carina remembered, but she had no intention of experiencing it.

  “They’ll put the tent up in the field west of town, just up the gulch along the creek so Preacher Paine can use it to baptize those who need it.”

  Carina shook her head. He would douse people in the frigid rocky creek? That might be worth seeing.

  Mae cracked her knuckles. “All the townswomen cook up something to donate toward the picnic. I suppose I’ll bring—”

  “No.” Carina surprised even herself, but she couldn’t bear to hear Mae say she’d bring stewed beef. Somehow it seemed … sacrilegious. “Let me make something.”

  Mae cocked her head in surprise. “You? What would you make?”

  “You’ll see.” What on earth was she saying? How would she find anything she needed to create the sort of things she knew how to cook? Quillan. The thought was incredible, but she didn’t dismiss it. “When is the picnic?”

  Mae rested her hands on her hips. “Well, they’ll spend today setting up the tent and passing the word. Not that they have to do that, as folks hereabouts spread it faster than brushfire. But the women go around exhorting people to think of their souls and prepare themselves for Preacher Paine.”

  “And Preacher Paine?”

  “He keeps to himself until Saturday night—fasting and praying, is what they say.”

  Carina raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think so?”

  “Oh, I believe he does it, just not sure exactly why.”

  “His suffering opens his spirit to God’s will.” Carina thought of i padri della Chiesa, the Early Fathers who fasted and prayed and lived as ascetics, denying themselves material comforts to bring spiritual growth.

  “Seems to me there’s suffering enough without doing it to yourself.” She shrugged. “It’s his choice.”

  “The picnic is tomorrow afternoon?” Carina was warming to her impulsive plan.

  “That’s right.”

  Somehow she would get together the ingredients for something special. Why? She would not even be there to see it eaten. She drew a long breath and released it slowly. Perhaps it was just the making that mattered.

  Quillan was surprised to find Miss DiGratia at the stall where he kept his blacks. A quick glance about the livery did not reveal Tavish anywhere, and he was annoyed by his reaction to encountering her alone in the dimness of the stable. Did she know what the muted light did to her features?

  He raised a sardonic eyebrow and cocked his head. “Waiting for me?”

  “Yes.”

  He had meant the question in jest, so her answer took him by surprise. He recovered with a brusque business tone.
“What can I do for you?”

  “You said you could replace things from my wagon.”

  He waited.

  “I need certain ingredients.”

  “Ingredients?”

  She combed her hair back with slender fingers, held it there while she waved the other hand elegantly. He’d noticed before that she spoke as much with her hands as with her mouth.

  “Plain flour and salt Mae has, but I need eggs and olive oil and spinach and butter. Most of all I need ricotta and grana … parmesan cheese. Then I will need tomatoes, garlic, and anchovies, mint, basil, and parsley—”

  “Whoa.” He put his own hand up. “All this was on your wagon?” He saw her flush. So she was trying to dupe him.

  “Well, I didn’t have eggs or spinach … or anchovies or ricotta …” The truth came reluctantly.

  He tucked his tongue between his side teeth, enjoying her discomfort.

  “But the rest—”

  “You want at my cost.”

  Though she drew herself up, her eyes still leveled out at his collarbone. “You made the offer. I’m only accepting it.”

  Both of her hands waved this time, and he found himself liking it, as though it took all of her to express what others did stiffly with only the voice. This was the opening to win her trust, but it wasn’t an easy task.

  “And where, Miss DiGratia, did you think I would find these things?”

  She sagged. “I … you would know that better. I thought you would know.”

  “This isn’t Sonoma, California, with vine ripening tomatoes just waiting to be plucked.” Her eyes widened as he’d expected. So she didn’t like to be found out either. He didn’t tell her Mae had offered only that small piece of information without his even asking. “Why exactly did you need the ingredients?”

  She patted Jack’s nose as he jutted it into her shoulder. “I’m making a dish for the picnic. Preacher Paine’s picnic.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  She nodded.

  “You think I can fly, too?”

  Her eyes flashed. “So you can’t make good your promise?”