Carina did not go to Mass the next morning, and that, more than her refusal to repent the night before, tormented her as she rode Dom up the gulch. If she was right, then why did she avoid worshiping God? Why dread encountering His messenger in Father Charboneau? Hadn’t the priest been called and answered the call? Hadn’t he turned from his ways to serve God with his whole being? If she was serving God also by pronouncing judgment on those who had wronged her, then why did she flee to the mountain?
Preacher Paine had poisoned her, his words like slow-acting hemlock eating away and dulling the edge of her righteous anger. But why should she be washed, she who was blameless? Was she not the one wronged? Had she her sister’s blood on her hands? It was the other way around! Divina had stolen the life from her.
She dug her heels into Dom and started for the Rose Legacy. He plodded up as though he knew the way and where she would go. She no longer asked why. It was her refuge, a place for outcasts and those who banished themselves.
Cain made his slow, lurching way to Quillan’s tent. He’d let him go last night, disappointed but not surprised. He’d hoped for, but not expected, a conversion. Still, morning brought new hope, always new hope. God’s love was like the sunrise, chasing back the dark and piercing the heart with joy.
Cain felt it overflowing this morning, all the souls saved last night, all the names written in the book of the Lamb. Not the names he’d wanted, maybe, but who was he to choose? God called whom He called. And each man had the free will to say no.
Cain stumbled on a tussock, and the crutch dug into his side. No, it hadn’t been D.C. washed in the creek like so much gravel from a shovel leaving only the gold behind. Nor had it been Quillan. But Cain’s hope was as fresh as the brisk air of the new day.
He reached Quillan’s tent and knocked the head of his crutch against the door post. “Are ya up, Quillan? It’s Cain Bradley.”
The flap pulled free. “I know it’s you, Cain. No one else puts a dent in the wood, knocking.” Quillan reached down and gave Cain’s dog an impatient pat.
Cain grinned. Preacher Paine had had some effect anyhow, or Quillan wouldn’t look so fiery and disheveled. Good, good. Better he be cold than lukewarm, or God would spew him from His mouth. The Almighty Lord loved a good fight, and from the looks of it, Quillan would give him that.
Cain followed him inside. “You spent a miserable night.”
“I slept fine.”
“You were tormented in body and soul.”
Quillan grinned. “Coffee?”
“Does a dog have fleas?”
“Not yours.” Quillan reached for the pot. “They wouldn’t dare desecrate the dog of such a holy and righteous man.” The dog wagged as though he understood every word.
“Ah, Quillan.” Cain dropped to a crate beside the cot. Sam laid his head across Cain’s knee, and Cain rubbed the dog’s floppy ears. “I’m an old sinner, as black-hearted as the worst desperado, don’t ya know.”
“No, I don’t.” Quillan handed him a cup. “You’re a good man, and you mean well, but this is not fertile ground.”
“Ain’t it, though?”
“I’m afraid not, my friend.” Quillan tucked a box of cartridges into the pack that stood open on the cot. “Preacher Paine did nothing but convince me I should have driven out early. His brand of salvation puts steel in my resolve.”
Cain slurped loudly the strong, bitter brew. “How so?”
“All those threats and warnings. I won’t come groveling because I fear some punishment I can’t bear.”
Cain considered that. It was a fair judgment. Preacher Paine’s words were meant to awaken the unenlightened to the peril of their condition, but one such as Quillan who knew already the consequences of sin … “You left before the baptisms in the creek, before he shared God’s love, grace, and mercy.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“What would bring ya, then?”
Quillan added several jars of victuals to the pack. “I don’t know.”
Cain thrust a knobby finger at him. “He’s got his eye on you, son.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Quillan tugged the pack shut and tied down the flap. He was running off again, as though shooting out of town could somehow keep God away.
“Then why won’t you open your heart to Him?”
“I can’t, Cain.” Quillan raised his gray eyes, dark in their intensity.
Cain saw the honesty there and his heart stirred. “It’s the surrender, ain’t it?”
Quillan didn’t answer.
“I remember layin’ down my arms at Appomattox, puttin’ my rifle on the pile. I felt only half a man, stripped and bare as a newborn babe. I’d left the gold fields to fight the good fight, run the race I thought God had called us to. But I hadn’t won the laurel. Hadn’t won a thing.” He picked up the book of essays Quillan had on the pillow. “And I’d lost Gertie while I was off fightin’.”
He turned the book over in his hand, feeling the old wound as though it were new. “Took me years to see how God had brought me through unscathed, whole in body if scarred in mind. But He sent me back off to the gold fields with my newborn son, who I hardly knew what to do with, and every day He brought a measure of peace and understanding. He was with me through it all.”
Quillan reached for the book and tucked it into the side flap. “I’m glad for that, Cain.”
“Just not interested yourself?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you—”
Cain raised a hand. “It ain’t me who’s callin’, Quillan.”
Quillan stood and walked to the back of the tent. As he reached for the bedroll nestled there, Cain saw his silhouette on the canvas wall: a fine, strong profile, tall, muscular build, quality workmanship all around. No wonder God wanted the use of this particular vessel.
Quillan turned slowly. “I don’t hear it.”
Cain nodded solemnly. He knew what Quillan was saying. Cain’s own faith had come without trying. But Quillan would have to wrestle God and have his hip broke. “You will, son. You will.”
Èmie descended on her as soon as Carina stepped out of the livery. “Where have you been? Father Antoine was asking for you.”
Carina jerked her head up, then dropped her gaze, the weight of guilt suffocating the freedom she’d found alone on the mountain. What would she say to him? How could she describe the tempest inside her? Èmie looked as fresh and cheerful as she could with her long face. Had she not heard the scathing words, the dire threats?
Carina caught Èmie’s arm. “What did you think of Preacher Paine? It didn’t frighten you?”
“No.” Èmie shrugged. “Should it?”
“How could it not, with all that talk of wrath and judgment.”
“Only for those who refuse God.” Èmie covered Carina’s hand with her own. “I’ve known all my life I belong to Him.”
That was an uncomfortable thought, too close to Papa’s faith. Papa believed his work on earth was only an extension of God’s own mercy. He healed because God healed through him. He lived and breathed because God willed it. Carina had preferred Mamma’s faith. She prayed, and if God answered it, she thanked Him. If not, she blamed and scolded. He would do better next time.
“Besides”—Èmie pulled a twig from Carina’s hair—“I don’t think God wants people to come to Him through fear.”
Just hearing the word kindled its effects as Carina pictured again the green eyes seeking her out. “Through what, then?”
“Love. If we serve out of fear, it isn’t really serving because it’s ourselves we’re concerned with. We serve because we love. We serve God as our heavenly Father, and we love Him as we would an earthly father.”
Love God as she loved her own papa? Impossible. Papa was real and warm and good and gentle. God was—what had Preacher Paine said?—a wrathful being waiting to cast her into the fiery pit. Carina didn’t want to think about Father Antoine or Preacher Paine or what either thought of God. To talk of loving God wa
s more confusing than fearing Him. Fearing one who could bring judgment she understood. How did you love such a one?
Èmie touched her hand. “Where were you, anyway?”
Carina sighed. “I was riding.”
“Where do you go?”
“Up to Placerville and beyond. There’s a mine high up on the mountain. It’s quiet there.”
Èmie nodded. “Why don’t you come for supper? Father Antoine said to ask you.”
“No.” Carina searched for an excuse. “Mae’s expecting me.”
Èmie eyed her a moment, and Carina realized she saw more than she said. “If you want to talk …”
“No. I have an early morning. Mr. Beck has more for me to do all the time.” Now she was avoiding her friend. Had Preacher Paine bewitched her?
Èmie smiled. “Another time, then. I want you to teach me how to make whatever that was you brought to the picnic.”
Carina nodded reluctantly. She wished she had never opened her mouth, never promised a meal for the picnic, never asked Quillan to find the ingredients, and never set foot in that tent.
When Èmie had gone ten steps, Carina almost called her back. But she didn’t. Because if she told Èmie what troubled her about Preacher Paine, she would tell her about Divina and about Flavio, and she couldn’t face the humiliation. Wasn’t that why she had left the verdant hills of Sonoma and all she knew and loved? Her pride had driven her. And pride would keep her silent.
Èmie turned at the corner and waved. Carina also waved, then trudged to Mae’s door. The smells of cooking greeted her. Stewed beef and potatoes. Her stomach rebelled. What was Èmie cooking for Father Antoine? Carina pressed her palm to her forehead. She had no appetite anyway. She went upstairs to her room and lost herself in Agamemnon. Just now someone else’s tragedy was a welcome escape.
SEVENTEEN
I am no longer what I might have been, nor can I ever be. Yet this body is stubborn in resolve. It will not cease.
—Rose
THE NEXT DAY the wrath came. It came with such violence Carina jumped, feeling the jolt of lightning through the floor. She rushed from the desk in Mr. Beck’s office to the window to watch the sky darken unnaturally to a frightening dim. Lightning flashed again, a straight bolt from sky to earth, and the crack of thunder shook the glass.
Carina felt the awful power. Was this the judgment Preacher Paine had called down upon them? His contingent had packed up the tent that morning, and the wagons rolled out of town, leaving the grass of the field flattened and dry. But now the sky was rent and rain fell in huge punishing drops like bullets striking the ground.
No. It was ice. Hailstones leaping and bouncing from the ground they struck, mules braying, men shouting, everyone rushing for cover. The backs of men pressed to the window blocked her view.
She jumped back when Mr. Beck pushed through the door, bringing the spray and wind with him. He closed it and turned, smoothing his soaked hair with a calm, practiced motion. “My word, it’s a deluge.”
She stared. Was he immune to God’s wrath? Couldn’t he see the sky was falling? How could he coif himself with such nonchalance?
He held his arms out from his sides. “I’ll just change into something dry.” He passed through the door that opened to his private rooms, speaking as though it were nothing more than a spring shower.
However, he had not attended the revival. He didn’t know. He was like those who perished in the flood, eating and drinking and giving each other in marriage until the rains came. Carina shook herself, annoyed at her own fear. Follia. What foolishness. As Mr. Beck said, it was only a storm.
But she stayed at the window, uncomfortable with the thought of Mr. Beck changing clothes just beyond the wall. Yet why should she be, when only canvas separated her from the boarders at Mae’s? Still, when he returned in shirtsleeves and trousers but no vest and coat, her discomfort increased.
The din, the lightning, the pouring rain; she felt trapped, closed in. It was dark in the office, and she reached for a lamp. Somewhere in the sky there was still a sun, but … A horrific crack of thunder shook the walls, and she cried out, dropping the lamp. Glass shattered and the oil spread over the pine boards.
Rushing forward, Mr. Beck caught her hands. “Leave it!” He hollered over the staccato hail on the roof.
“But …”
“It’s nothing, I assure you.” His hands on hers were warm and firm. “Come away from the wall.” He drew her carefully around the shards of glass. “If lightning does strike, you shouldn’t be touching the structure.”
Though she shouldn’t allow the familiarity, Carina stood with her hands in his while the sky fell on Crystal. Most of the men had now run for the saloons, and the window was clear enough to see the ground, white and drifted with ice. The street ran like a river, swamping the sidewalks, gushing up in miniature geysers at every obstruction. Splintered shingles flew from the roofs.
Carina trembled at the ferocity of nature set loose. She realized Mr. Beck was staring at her and turned her face from the window to his. Her hands suddenly felt trapped. She had given a little, and he would take more. “Mr. Beck …”
“Berkley.”
His eyes were deep, bluer than before, the pupils enlarged by the darkness. His face was smooth, a slightly oily sheen on his cheekbones, the cleft in his chin a pale gray. His lips parted and held that pose a full breath before he spoke. “My rooms would be better shelter.”
Carina’s stomach tensed. His rooms? Did he think her so cheap? A contadina with no name to protect? “Mr. Beck …”
“Berkley.” There was an edge this time.
Lightning crackled, an explosion of light glowing through the window, imprinting on the back of her eyes. The air tingled, and Carina’s hair stood out. She looked up and saw Berkley Beck’s hair standing like quills around his own head. Terrified, she gripped the hands that held hers. “It has struck us!”
Her nostrils flared at the sulfurous burning smell, though she saw no fire, no smoke, and the rain kept pouring. Had such lightning caused the fire in Rose’s cabin? Had it engulfed it so swiftly they couldn’t move, couldn’t run?
Berkley Beck pulled her close. “I’ll keep you safe, Carina.”
His voice was smooth as he wrapped her in his arms, yet she felt panic within. Would they find her charred body entwined with Berkley Beck’s? Her breath came in gasps. She felt the fresh starch of his fine shirt, crisp against her cheek, the smooth buttons and the tiny pleats pressed flat.
His thumb traced a line down her back. “We’ll be safer in my rooms.”
She smelled the pomade on his hair, some eau de toilette at his throat. She felt his arms tighten, and though they didn’t trap her as Quillan Shepard’s had, they seemed more menacing, more purposeful. No, she was not safe, and the hungry, fierce look in his eyes confirmed it. She pulled away, staggering back and pressing into the wall.
“Carina …”
“I must go.” Go? Out into the storm?
He waited a long moment, his eyes blinking once, heavy lidded. “No.”
Her heart thumped her chest.
“I require you.” His tone cut.
She had insulted him. She could see it in his stance, the tension in his jaw. “Require?”
He frowned. “Is it so much to offer shelter and protection?”
She jumped at the flash and crack of thunder that came almost at the same moment. The storm had somehow moved inside. Not the rain or the hail—only the malevolence, the power, the danger of it.
“After all, I put a roof over your head; I pay your board. Where would you be without me?” His voice was studied, forcefully reasonable. But he had lost his mind.
“I work for—”
“Do you think I need your little filing services?” He thrust himself toward her, and she shrank back. “It’s a favor I do you.”
She burned with sudden indignation. “I—”
“And if I didn’t, what then? Do you think Mae would keep you for c
harity?”
Carina brought up her chin. “For friendship.”
He laughed, an ugly, harsh laugh. “Mae is a businesswoman. She would gently, but firmly, boot your little backside right out the door. There’s no room in Crystal for charity, or half the population would be on it.”
Carina flushed with fury and humiliation, tempered by the nagging thought that he could be right. Mae did not show compassion to miners who forfeited the bills. Berkley Beck smiled, reading her thoughts. Incensed, she threw up her hands. “You think I need you?”
“I know you do.”
“I don’t!”
He laughed again. “And where will you go next? Madame LeGuerre, perhaps?” He gave her a moment to absorb his words. “I promise you no one else in Crystal will give you a position except the position she offers.”
An indignant breath burst from her chest, and now there was no mistaking the feral fire in his eyes. She backed against the wall as he advanced. If lightning struck she would at least be spared his touch. But she could retreat no further. Her throat pulsed and hitching breaths worked her breast. She had to do something, say something to make him stop. “You would take me by force? Do you think the miners will not come running if I scream?”
He paused at that with a slow, deliberate smile. “You are a legend now, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t considered the recognition Joe Turner’s story had given her. She had thought only of the natural reaction men such as those in the mail line would have for a woman in distress.
“Yes, Carina, I’ve heard all about it. How you turned his luck and made him rich.” He reached a hand into her hair, coiling it in his fingers. His face came close.
She could feel his breath and inhaled it with the air she gasped into her lungs. No man, not even the crudest miner, had given her fear for her virtue. Yet this man she had trusted … She tensed herself to scream.
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