“Then he’s gone?”
“Hee-hee. You don’t miss a step.” He waved the finger in her face.
“Please.” Carina was losing her patience. “Has he left town?”
“I don’t know that he’s left. He’s a-haulin’ some ore from the New Boundless. I reckon he’s filled up by now and headin’ down for the smelting works. After that he’s on to Colorado Springs. He’ll be gone a good piece.”
She turned and hurried back toward Central.
“And good day to you!” Cain hollered after her.
Carina made no reply. She hadn’t time for courtesy. She must catch Quillan before he left town, must tell him what she’d found. Tension formed a pain between her eyebrows, but she needn’t have worried. As she reached the street, she saw him standing outside the new livery, which was mostly rebuilt and again housing horses.
He stood with Alan Tavish. His blacks and two new Clydesdales were hitched to the wagon loaded with ore. If he was in such a hurry, why did he delay to chat with an old ostler? Carina shook her head. She should question good fortune?
Raising her skirts, she fought her way across the crowded street. Some things hadn’t changed since the flood. The dust and traffic remained. Disgusted, she stepped around a mound of mule droppings. After one week, the smell, too, was much the same.
Both men stopped talking when she rushed upon them. Alan Tavish smiled his stump-toothed smile. Quillan simply appraised her.
She ignored Mr. Tavish and confronted Quillan Shepard. “I must speak with you.”
“Business or pleasure?” he asked with a half smile and taunting eyes.
“In regard to business we discussed before. Concerning a mutual … friend.” She put a hand to her chest and stilled her breath. She had sounded foolish, but his eyes flashed understanding.
Quillan glanced sidelong across the street to Mr. Beck’s office. “I’m on my way out of town. Why don’t you check on your mule …”
“Dom was lost in the flood.” Though she’d had little enough chance to mourn him.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps Alan would loan you a horse.”
“I don’t want a horse. You wanted to know—”
Alan touched her arm. “Come inside and see what I have.”
Carina stared as Quillan tipped the broad brim of his new hat and started off without hearing what she had to tell him.
“Come on, lass.” Alan Tavish tugged her gently.
Carina followed, frustrated.
As soon as they were inside Mr. Tavish’s demeanor changed. His face grew serious, though still the same kindly features. “Give him a moment to be on his way, then meet him by the creek. Less eyes and ears that way.”
Sciocca. Again she had proved her foolishness, rushing to him as she had in plain view. What if she had blurted what she knew right there across from Mr. Beck’s office? She dropped her forehead to her palm.
Tavish slipped the bridle over the head of a sorrel mare. “This mare’s a soft ride. Why don’t ye take her for a wee trip about the gulch. Up a little, then down.” Tavish saddled her and tightened the girth.
Now Carina understood. Alan Tavish must know what Quillan Shepard suspected. He must be in the man’s confidence. How many others were included in Quillan’s circle of conspirators?
“If you’re ever in trouble, lass, Alan Tavish is here.”
“Thank you.” She took the reins he handed her.
He grinned. “Aye. Daisy’s her name.”
Carina led the horse out and mounted. The mare had a gentle stride indeed after Dom’s leggy plod. Instead of fighting her way up the street, Carina walked the mare around the back of the livery, threading through the tents and shacks. Why didn’t Quillan build himself a house? He could afford it with the prices he charged. Why live like a gypsy when he must be growing rich freighting? Mae had told her the freighters who owned their own outfits amassed as much as the successful miners, if not the millionaires.
She rode along the creek, then turned and started down. She left the town behind without seeing Quillan’s wagon. She kept the road on her left and followed the creek. How far would she have to go?
She rounded the bend where the creek deepened into small falls and rapids and came on the wagon suddenly. It was just off the road so as not to impede traffic. She reined in and looked about for Quillan. He stepped around the huge wagon, looking taller and sterner than before. With no greeting, he reached up and swung her from the saddle. She had only a moment to grasp his shoulders, then she was down.
“Ever heard the word surreptitious?” He led her by the elbow around the side of the wagon.
“Yes.”
“Know what it means?” He was not smiling.
“Yes.”
He backed her to the wagon and planted his palms against the wood on both sides of her, arms straight, but still far too close. “Does everything you feel always show to all the world?”
She couldn’t answer with him so close.
“Or did you intend the show for Mr. Beck?”
“I—”
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “You had something to tell me?”
“If you would move your arms …”
He hesitated a long moment, holding her with his eyes until her breath wouldn’t come. Then he pushed back from the wagon and stood before her, waiting.
“I found things. Under a loose board in the floor. A ledger and deeds. The same deeds as mine, forgeries.” Her hands clenched. “He lied to me. Cheated me. He—”
“What else was in there?”
She frowned, spreading her hands. “I didn’t see it all. There was no time.”
“Do you have the ledger?”
“Do you think me pazza?”
He grinned sideways. “Maybe. A little.”
He was teasing. At such a time. “I must be, to help such as you.” She waved her hand at his face and started to push past.
He swiftly snatched her back, pulling her into his arms, tight to his chest. “Act like you like it,” he hissed in her ear, and she heard the rumble of wagon wheels. His arms were strong and unyielding as trail dust enveloped them, swirling up and around in a cloying cloud. The ore wagon passed so slowly she could count each beat of her heart.
At last the rumble faded, and she staggered back. “You have spoiled my name!”
“Better that than anyone suspect our real purpose. Besides, I hid your face.” There was more than a hint of amusement.
Carina clawed her hair and leaned her head back to the wagon, more shaken than angry. “I should thank you?”
He glanced back along the road. “I need to know what’s in the ledger.”
She shook her head.
“Why do you think he has it hidden?”
“I don’t care why. I’m not going back there.”
“What about your silver?”
She was silent. She hadn’t considered that.
“Carina, you can’t quit now. It would be dangerous.”
“Dangerous? He wants to marry me!” She splayed her fingers at him, palm upraised.
Quillan cocked his head with the start of another grin. “Did he ask you?”
“It was more of a demand,” she scoffed, “though he was on his knee.”
Quillan’s laugh surprised her. It so changed his face when he laughed, lightening and softening it at once. “So you told him about Flavio.”
Blood rushed to her face. “No.” How did he remember even the name? She had said it only once. She turned away, frustrated. “You asked me to tell you what I found. I’ve done so. I can do no more.”
“Then I won’t ask you to.” He took off his hat and shook his hair back, the light catching in it like wild honey. He replaced the hat and smiled. “Take the scenic way home.”
He was satisfied? She felt a slight disappointment. “Are you leaving?”
For answer he waved at his full wagon.
“How long will you be gone? And what am I to do about Mr.
Beck?”
“You’ve done all you can.”
He walked her to the horse and helped her mount. Looking down into his face, she wanted to explain, to make him understand. All that came out was, “Good-bye, Quillan Shepard.”
“Just Quillan.” He stepped back from the horse, touched his hat, and headed for his wagon. He pulled himself into the box and took up the reins, then paused. “If you did change your mind, you could find me through Cain or Alan. Otherwise I won’t bother you again.”
Bene. She should be so lucky. Only … it didn’t feel that way. And as he drove away, she knew her heart had rushed with more than surprise when he pulled her into his arms.
Quillan left the ore at the Malta smelting works and started down the Colorado Springs road over Trout Creek Pass. He was torn now about leaving. The need was still great for supplies, and, though most of what he brought up he donated to those worst off, some was earning him huge profits.
The Denver merchants had jacked their prices when they learned about the flood. That was why he headed now for Colorado Springs. And time away from Crystal would give him time to think about Carina’s information. It both amused and annoyed him that Beck’s hidey-hole was under the floor as his own had been, but then, maybe it wasn’t as original as he’d thought.
Anyway, now that the spot was found, what would he do about it? Seize Beck’s books himself? He’d already ascertained that Beck’s place was watched—or rather, guarded—by one or another of the roughs always lingering near. He frowned. If only he could have convinced Carina …
But maybe she was right. If Beck had declared himself, he wouldn’t take her rejection kindly. He paused for a moment, realizing she hadn’t said she’d refused Beck. She must have, though. She was hotter than a pistol when she came flying across the street. Of course, Beck hadn’t helped his suit by swindling her out of her house, and Quillan grinned at the thought of him on his knee to the furious Italian belle.
He shook his head. The man must truly believe himself invincible. And frankly, with the way he’d handled things since the flood, wiggling onto the board of trustees and now posturing himself for mayor, not to mention the physical control he wielded with the roughs in his pocket …
Quillan slapped his thigh. If he could just get that ledger! Would it show payoffs and bribes? Crooked deals? Would it reveal which of the trustees were in his pocket, the judges, the merchants? Would it name the thugs? He realized he was making the horses tense and forced himself to relax on the reins.
Well, time on the road would help him sort things out and maybe cool the rumors about him, rumors Beck was fanning into flame. Quillan had rarely cared what people thought of him, but he noticed now when conversation ceased and heads turned away. For the first time he imagined how Wolf must have felt. He pushed the thought away.
He wasn’t running. He was doing business as usual. He’d had to replace his tent and furnishings and supplies, much of it on credit, something he’d never done before. But it didn’t matter. He could load up just about anything he wanted in Colorado Springs and find a buyer for it in Crystal. At least some were loyal to him still.
Cain grimaced as the new crutches dug into his armpits. It was easier to fashion them than a new peg, but hopping along on one leg with two ill-fitting poles … Ah, Lord, it’s hard, don’t ya know. But if my right hand offends thee, take it. If my right eye offends thee, gouge it out. If my peg is better off down the way, keep me from a-grumblin’.
He reached Alan Tavish outside the livery and stopped. “Has he gone?”
“Aye.”
“Will he stay gone?”
The old ostler’s features were careworn and tight. “I dinna think so.”
That brought a mixed emotion. Cain valued Quillan’s company, and not just for himself. D.C. fairly fawned on him, admiring the strength and purpose Quillan demonstrated. The boy might love his pappy, but it was Quillan he emulated. But if anyone could make a man of D.C., it was Quillan. And that in spite of his resistance to God. It was only a matter of time before Quillan stopped fighting, and then D.C. would know that a strong man could surrender to God without shame. That religion wasn’t just for old cripples and women.
Alan gave the saddle across his knees another rub. “Do ye remember how we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day?”
“You mean the brawl?”
“The Irish all lined up along the street one side, the Orangemen along t’other.”
Cain grinned. “Craziest thing I ever saw. Fists flyin’, feet kickin’, hair pullin’ until everyone’s so bloody and bruised up you can’t tell who’s who.”
“Ye can tell, man. But what I meant is the linin’ up. Now plain folks are choosin’ camps, linin’ up for or against Quillan.”
It chilled Cain that rumors of Quillan being a monster like his pappy Wolf were taking shape in folks’ imaginations. Once people got it into their heads one way, it was sorely difficult to get it out. Even if there weren’t one piece of truth to it.
“The marshal ain’t made an accusation. Far as I know he ain’t inquired of Quillan at all.”
“Father Charboneau forbade him.”
Cain raised his eyes to Alan. “Forbade?”
Alan nodded. “Donald McCollough may fear Berkley Beck, but he fears God more. Sure he looks aside at Beck’s villainy, but the priest put the fear of hell into him if he so much as questions Quillan on William Evans’ death.”
Cain leaned against the wall. “Father Charboneau. He was with us in Placer, wasn’t he?”
“Aye. Came through in his wanderings.”
“Knew Wolf, as I recall.”
“Well as any.”
Cain cast his memory back to the days of gravel shoveling and sluicing. The priest had come and gone between the mining camps as had others. The Reverend Shepard for one, who’d taken Quillan into his home and raised him. But as far as he knew, Quillan had no dealings with the priest. “Why do you suppose the padre’s protecting him?” He was asking himself as much as Alan.
Alan Tavish turned slowly. Their eyes met, but neither had the answer.
Father Antoine Charboneau stood over the grave. This stone was older, part of the mountain itself, hewed from its bed and crudely carved by his own hand. He bent and touched the names there. More and more, that grave weighed on him.
In the years between, he’d put it from his mind. Best forgotten except in his prayers on the lonely nights when memory returned. But now … why couldn’t the past remain buried? Why had Miss DiGratia asked questions that brought the horror alive once more?
Father God, what am I to do? Must the son pay for the sins of the father? Your own son you didn’t spare. But this one, this one who weighs so heavily on my conscience … surely this time I can save him?
A chill passed through him. What if he were wrong? Antoine dropped to his knees in the clumpy mountain grasses. He clasped his hands at his chest and dropped his chin. Was he wrong about Wolf? Had the tortured spirit of Cries Like a Wolf struck out with cruel and deadly force in some madness Antoine could not comprehend? And had that curse passed to the son?
His hands came up and covered his face. Antoine groaned. What more can I do? God, what more can I do?
TWENTY-FIVE
His name is Fate.
—Rose
CARINA TOSSED IN HER BED, her dreams feverish and confused, feelings of falling, falling through the darkness, then arms catching her. Yet when she tried to see the face of the one who saved her, he was gone and she was falling again, no rock shelf to catch her. She jolted awake in the darkness.
Beside her, Èmie slept, softly solid. How could she sleep after once again fleeing her uncle’s drunken fury? When Carina had returned from meeting with Quillan, she’d slipped quietly into the livery. Neither Alan Tavish nor Cain Bradley asked her what she had told Quillan, but Alan again assured her he was there if she needed him.
It disconcerted her to hear it. Why did he think she was in trouble? And if she were, why had Quillan
left town? Innocente. She was not Quillan’s responsibility. So he had saved her—not once, but three times. From the snake, from the roughs, from the mine shaft. Did that mean she could depend on him? She felt his arms around her. It was a ruse only to keep the freighter who passed from guessing their purpose. Yet …
Èmie sighed in her sleep, and Carina eased herself up on one elbow to see her friend. The evening had scarcely deepened when Èmie had once again sought her. This time her uncle had ordered her out, and Carina had seen the fear, that same fear as the other time.
Carina trembled. Did she still doubt Èmie’s intuition? Was it possible Èmie’s uncle had murdered William Evans? Was the priest’s brother capable of slicing another’s throat? With a sigh, Carina lay back on the pillow and studied the ceiling by the brightness of the full moon. The wood planks were tightly grooved and narrow, a defense against the elements, but what defense was there against evil? “You must be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb.”
Signore, what does it all mean? Why am I here? I thought you had answered my prayers, but it was all a lie. A forged deed, a fraud. Are you a fraud, Signore? Pinching the bridge of her nose, Carina rolled to her side and stood.
She made her way on silent feet to the window. The streets were brightly moonlit, the shadows sharp. As she watched, the shadows moved and formed themselves into the shapes of men, stealthy and full of violence. She must be dreaming. Her head swam and the dizziness came on her, though she stood only one story from the street.
She was on the roof with Divina. “Don’t sway so, Carina …” And this time she heard the fear and concern in the voice, felt the hands reaching to clasp her, to stop her fall. No, it couldn’t be. Divina had wanted her to fall. Then why the grasping arms, the worried plea?
Carina gripped the windowsill. Had she misunderstood? Had her memory played her wrong? They were on the roof, but why? To see the nestlings under the rafter. A vague image of the nest, ragged and cone-shaped, the sharp beaks bobbing up and parting with noisy squawks … Divina’s arms lifting her to see.
The Rose Legacy Page 32