The Rose Legacy

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Beck’s eyes warmed to the color of the Mediterranean sea. “Trust me, Carina.”

  She swallowed her protest. It would get her nowhere. “Whom do you suspect?”

  Very subtly his gaze changed, drawing her in like a riptide that drowned. “It would be premature to say.”

  “Why? If you know …” She pictured Èmie’s uncle being dragged off to judgment.

  He caught her hands, bringing them together to his chest. “I don’t know. Not for certain.”

  She searched his face, felt the firm grip of his hands pressing hers to his chest, but she felt no heartbeat. She didn’t trust him, not down deep where she needed to, but she was afraid. And he was a powerful man like her papa.

  “Right now I need your cooperation.”

  A different tune than yesterday. Carina was too confused to gloat. “What cooperation?” Again, the shifting in his eyes, something deep she couldn’t read.

  He closed his mouth, swiftly licked dry lips. “I must know that you will be impersonal. This can’t be a vendetta. Things could too easily get out of hand.”

  He had left her behind again. “What do you mean impersonal? How can it be personal for me?”

  He half smiled. “Because, Carina, you’ve already expressed the desire for vengeance.”

  Vengeance? What was he talking about?

  “Or should I say … reparation?”

  Her mouth dropped open. Quillan Shepard. He wasn’t meaning Èmie’s uncle at all. He thought Quillan Shepard …

  “My dear, I see your doubt.”

  Doubt? Did she doubt? Had she not already wondered this herself? Why had he been out there in the dark the night the marshal was beaten? What part did he play before he grabbed her? Maybe his snatching her was not for her sake, but to keep her from interfering with his plans. And this morning, his voice when he spoke of the murder … Had it been his own guilt that repulsed him? “An animal in human form.” A Wolf? Or the son of one? She shuddered.

  “Think, Carina.” Again Beck gripped her hands between his. “A man wanted for robbery at fourteen might be capable of far more at twenty-eight. And a man of questionable parentage with dark things in his past …”

  “My father was a savage, my mother a harlot.” Mr. Beck was spinning a web, but what if …? Cold fear crawled her spine. “What things?”

  “I could tell you. But I’d rather you heard it from others.”

  “Heard what?” Her head was spinning.

  “About Wolf.”

  “My father was a savage.” She knew there was something terrible in those words. She’d heard it in Quillan Shepard’s voice. But how could she delve into a secret so painful to him, a secret both Mae and Father Charboneau guarded? “How will I hear it?”

  He smiled slowly. “Ask the miners.”

  Ask about Quillan’s past. Had she not done so already? But that was before she knew him. Did she know him? She pictured him tasting her ravioli, how she had waited for his approval. Was he a monster in disguise? There was only one way to know.

  “Bene. I’ll ask.”

  NINETEEN

  Is there a God? An author of this madness?

  —Rose

  QUILLAN WATCHED Miss DiGratia leave the office and make her way through the falling rain. She was wrapped in a miner’s jacket twice her size, though her head was uncovered. He vaguely recalled a wide-brimmed hat sailing over the cliff and felt a twinge inside. Her walk was purposeful this time, yet it unsettled him more so than the last, and he turned to follow.

  If he could just learn what he needed from her, something to prove his suspicions. Now that it had come to murder, they had to act or the whole thing would escalate. He’d seen it before, vigilantes hanging anyone they suspected and becoming in the end as heinous as those they had set out to stop.

  He had the ear of one man on the board of trustees. Ben Masterson was level-headed and well respected. Quillan trusted him. But Beck as likely as not had others of them in his pocket, though Quillan didn’t know which ones. Unlike the marshal, the trustees weren’t beaten into submission. They were bought.

  And Beck was wily. He’d have his trail covered. Miss DiGratia was the key. She must see who met with Beck, maybe even hear their discussions. If she had Beck’s confidence and Quillan could win hers …

  He lowered his hat brim against the rain. Like a shadow he crossed the street behind Miss DiGratia, his footsteps melting into the steady patter. He was surprised when she turned into the Boise Billiard Hall. Had Beck sent her on an errand there?

  The place was packed with men, the rain driving them from their holes like rats, no one having pumping equipment adequate for this sort of ongoing deluge. The noise was substantial, though hardly jubilant, with the murder of William Evans hanging in their minds.

  From the door, he watched the crowd part for Miss DiGratia. Hats were doffed like a wind passing over. Their conversation ceased, and they closed in behind with murmurs and smiles. She was gracing them with her presence. One Italian called out something in dialect, but she merely smiled and nodded her head, a legend walking among them.

  Quillan had heard three versions already of Joe Turner’s tale. Miss DiGratia probably had no idea the weight such superstition carried. Then again, maybe she did. A seat was brought and she took it, regally.

  From the back of the crowd, Quillan watched, amused. A humble silence seemed to have fallen, the men waiting for her to speak. They had to be as puzzled as he. What brought her there among them? To what did they owe the honor?

  “Might I trouble someone for a root beer?” Her voice was sweet and plaintive. She’d have forty glasses in her lap. The first came almost immediately, and she sipped the foamy brew.

  Joe Turner pushed through to her side, raising his hands for attention. He’d earned the right to speak first by making her what she was. “Boys, for those of you who don’t know, this is Miss Carina DiGratia, better known as Lady Luck. She found my hole for me simply by putting me out of my room. Now gather round and I’ll tell you how it happened.”

  The men pushed in, eager to hear the tale even if they already had, now that the flesh embodiment of the heroine was in their midst. Quillan’s mouth quirked. She couldn’t have played it better. But what was she doing there? He cocked his head and listened as the tale grew more incredible than the last time.

  When Turner finished, she laughed and shook her head. “It isn’t true. I was only in need of a room.”

  Her smile dazzled, but she wouldn’t dissuade them. There was too much superstition inherent in the prospector spirit. They would believe she floated on air if Turner told them so, his incredible earnings so far bearing him out. A bluster of voices burst in when Turner finished, each eager to catch Miss DiGratia’s attention.

  She tipped her head playfully. “Surely someone can top Mr. Turner’s tale?”

  Again the voices stampeded, but one rose above them. “Well, there’s the one about Jessie Rae.” It was Daniel Fletcher, looking dapper in a bottle green vest and twill trousers.

  “That’s too sad for a lady,” someone called out, but Quillan couldn’t see who.

  “No, tell me.” Miss DiGratia held up a hand. “I love a sad tale.”

  “Well.” Standing, Fletcher raised his foot to the seat of the chair and rested his arms on his knee. “There was a miner in old Placer, name of Benjamin Huff, and he come up with his wife and daughter, Jessie Rae. Now the rigors of the camp proved too much for Mrs. Huff, and sadly she succumbed within the first months of their coming. They buried her under a tree as there was as yet no proper cemetery.”

  This tale, also, Quillan knew. But Fletcher was a good raconteur, less self-conscious than Tucker. He looked around the circle, then back to Miss DiGratia and continued. “It broke the daughter’s heart to have her mama pass on so, but she knew it was even worse for Benjamin Huff, on account he blamed himself.”

  Nods all around. The men understood the difficulty their life-style placed on the womenfolk they brought
along and the guilt that went hand in hand with it. “She was a perceptive child and knew her daddy might break under the guilt. So she did all she could to keep his spirits up, a-singin’ and a-playin’ for him on a little mandolin she’d brought along.”

  Fletcher paused for effect. “Her voice was so sweet, men would gather at their door just to listen to the angel sing. It put them in mind of all things gentle and good and made them want to do right by one another. There wasn’t a heart untouched by that girl’s magic.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Yesirree, it was a marvelous thing. Then in the summer of ’61, a bad rain came and the tunnel collapsed, taking Anthony Huff and three others. They were buried so deep it was days before the bodies were retrieved. Well, that little Jessie Rae ‘bout broke down right then. But she took her mandolin under her arm and walked off up the mountain. No one could stop her—she just kept walkin’.”

  He hung his head and paused. “Some months later her bones were found in a stony crevice. We buried her under the tree next to her mama and pa. But that night, there was music and singin’ coming from the hills, a voice so sweet it brought men to tears. Folks say whenever the rains come, if you listen well, you can hear it still, and around the tree where those folks are buried, a light shines small and willowy, walkin’ about a-pluckin’ the strings.”

  Quillan watched to see what effect the story had on Miss DiGratia. She sat in the stillness, properly moved. He even imagined the sparkle of a tear in her eye, but then the rich brown orbs in the thick black lashes were always inordinately bright. He tried not to notice the shape of them now, the arch of the brow. Not that anyone would have blamed him. Every man in the room was trapped in her spell, every one of them awaiting her word, her whim.

  Drawing a thin breath, she said, “Now tell me about Wolf.”

  Quillan’s throat cleaved, surprise and anger surging together. Had he heard right? What was she doing? His heart beat his ribs, hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to press through and demand an answer. But his feet were leaden and stayed where they were.

  Several men looked uncomfortable. Joe Turner circled the group with his eyes. “What’s she talking about? Who’s Wolf?” Other voices echoed the same.

  Clive Johnson shook his hoary head, his beard a forkful of frosty straw resting on his chest. “That’s a bad one, miss. A gory tale and not for delicate ears.”

  Miss DiGratia seemed to close in a little at that, and Quillan was glad. He hoped she shuddered and writhed. Surely she’d demur, and no more would be said. But she only spread her hands. “Can it be worse than what happened last night?”

  Quillan felt cold with anger. Yes, it’s worse, Miss DiGratia. But you’ll have it now in every morbid detail.

  “Well, not worse maybe, and maybe there’s some as will find it pertinent in light of Old Griz.” Johnson cleared his throat and searched the group for approval. “It was around ’51 or ’52, if I recall. Again, this was in Placer. Upper Placer, the first camp in this gulch, a wild vagabond sort of place. Not an upstanding city like this here Crystal.” He laughed and the beard jumped on his chest.

  “It was peopled with mountain men like myself and decorated with a few fair faces painted up for color. One such face was named Rose. She’d come up herself, not in the chippy wagon like the others, and we all felt her story must be some tragic. But, mind you, she meant to do her part same as the others, else why would she be there?”

  Quillan’s throat tightened as the old man dropped his face and looked uncomfortable. “She meant to, only the night of her comin’ to town another stranger blew in. This one of even more interest. He said his name was Wolf, and he wore a head of golden hair long down his back, Indian style. He was all dressed up in buckskins and moccasins, too, and he wore strings of claws and teeth around his neck. He carried a knife for skinnin’ that would take the hide from a buffalo were there any roamin’ these parts a’tall. He was what you’d call a handsome man and stern. Oh, Moses, he was a sight.”

  Again the laugh bounced the beard, but it was short and a little forced. “None of us felt too comfortable askin’ him to drink, but he showed no inclination. He walked right through the cabin that was servin’ as saloon, looked over the women, and reached for Rose.”

  Quillan watched Miss DiGratia’s eyes and saw she was hanging on every word. His throat tasted sour.

  “We all thought she’d put up a fight, scream and holler in sheer fear. But she just took the hand and followed like it was her fate or some such. He took her up the mountain where he’d set up a teepee of sorts. There weren’t a one of us goin’ to fetch her back.” He scratched the side of his beard. “No, sir.

  “They lived up there like that while he built a cabin and started a mine. He mined that mountain with a vengeance. We got to thinkin’ he was okay, just a little rough around the edges. It come out he’d spent most all his life with the Sioux. That was bound to make a man queer. But we didn’t know how queer nor … how deadly he’d prove.”

  Johnson leaned forward to the table. “You sure you want me to go on?”

  Quillan’s jaw tightened when Miss DiGratia nodded. He felt his pulse in his left temple.

  “It was some while they lived among us, but not quite part of us. Rose, she hardly ever spoke when she come down from the mountain, which wasn’t often. Wolf would talk, but not about himself except sometimes a comment here and there on how the Sioux did one thing or another. Soon it was evident he’d got Rose with child. Believe it or not, they seemed right pleased.”

  The old man smiled. “Rose took on a sort of glow, walking with her hand resting there on her belly.”

  Quillan pressed his eyes shut. He should leave, walk out before they saw him standing there. But all eyes were on the tale spinner and Miss DiGratia.

  “Well, sure enough, she had the baby and all went well. Until it started in to cry. And then Wolf, see, he started a howlin’, the fiercest, loneliest howlin’ ever heard. Folks in town shuttered up their windows and bolted their doors. But it wasn’t enough.”

  Here the old man’s eyes slowly circled the faces around him, sensing the tension of the moment. “No, it wasn’t enough. A man was found dead in the woods, all torn up, his throat ripped open … by teeth.”

  Quillan saw the shudder pass through her. His eyes burned into her until he was sure she’d look up and see him there. But she didn’t. Her face had paled, but her attention was riveted on Johnson, who leaned forward again. “There were no witnesses, nothing by which we could accuse a man. No witness, no crime. That’s the miner’s law. But no one wanted anything to do with Wolf after that. We’d shy away like girls when he came down the mountain. The room would clear as though a wind rushed in and blew the men out. Not a tornado-type wind, just a steady blow that took one man after another silently out the door.”

  Johnson’s eyes held Miss DiGratia’s. “Rose, she kept to herself with that new baby and did all she could to make him happy. But whenever the baby cried, Wolf went off his head, howlin’ and swearin’ and breakin’ things.”

  He shook his head. “We waited for another body to turn up, but before it happened, Rose gave the baby away to a missionary family. They took him away from the gulch and away from Wolf. We all knew she done it so Wolf wouldn’t kill again, but it seemed the life went right out of her.”

  He cleared his throat. “It shames me to say it, but we were relieved that baby was gone. None of us thought what it would do to the woman.

  But then there was the fire. Wolf had been to town to get supplies. He was most of the way up the mountain when he saw smoke. Some of us from the nearby mines had seen it, too, and were already headin’ that way. By the time he got there to his house, the walls were all aflame.”

  Quillan tried to stop his ears. He’d heard the story too many times not to visualize it in detail.

  Johnson’s voice lowered. “Wolf went inside and we heard him pleadin’, but she wouldn’t come out or couldn’t. We thought he’d drag her or come out
without her. But he didn’t. He just laid down with her and they perished together.”

  Quillan felt the anger inside like a living thing. Who were they to lay out his past like a rag to be trampled? Who was she to ask it? He wrenched himself away, out into the rain that poured over his hat and down the hair hanging at his back. It ran over him, washing off the dust of travel, not making him clean, never making him clean. But he held his face to the rain, eyes closed, and let it run over him.

  Carina sat in stunned silence. It was worse, far worse than she had imagined. “My father was a savage, my mother a harlot.” They weren’t just words. They were true.

  “You don’t want to be out on the mountain after dark. Folks hear him still, howlin’ that lonely song.” Johnson shook his head. “We never knew what made him do it.”

  She drew a shaky breath, forcing her voice to come. “You were right. That was not a story I should hear.” She felt fouled. Why had Mr. Beck insisted? Did he know what she would hear?

  Their apologies washed over her.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Have another root beer.”

  “Here, ma’am. Let me serve you one.”

  She shook her head. “No, grazie.” She was dazed, uncertain now what she was doing. What purpose did it serve to learn the dark secrets of a man’s past? What did it mean for Quillan? Was he like his father, an animal able to tear a man’s throat? Had he killed William Evans?

  She stood up, and all around her the men rose like a flood, clamoring to their feet and whisking the hats again from their heads.

  “Join us anytime, Miss DiGratia.”

  “Anything you need, just let us know.”

  “Sure appreciate your comin’ in like this.”

  She passed through them, scarcely hearing, not seeing more than a flood of faces. As she reached the door, she heard the questions begin and the suppositions. What did this story mean in light of William Evans? Was there a new monster among them? An old monster returned?