He was not. He looked at her with fierce admiration and hatred, then held out his arm. She refused it, and he gripped hers instead. His fingers were brutal. Down the stairs and out the door and still no one stopped them. He then walked her along Drake to Central in plain view of the few people around.
He brought her into the hotel dining room and seated her himself. Carina hoped Mrs. Barton was away with the rest, but she was disappointed in that. Berkley Beck ordered a bottle of wine and walnut-stuffed pork chops for them both. His charade was ridiculous, but who would know that?
Mrs. Barton’s lips were tight when she brought the wine. If she would only look at her she must see Carina’s distress, but she refused to. She left the wine and stalked away. Mr. Beck opened it himself and poured them two glasses. He raised his. “A toast.”
Carina’s hands stayed in her lap.
“To my able and most beautiful assistant.” He raised the glass, then drank. “And if you’d married me, I would not have abandoned you to save my own neck.” The muscle twitched in his temple. “I would have been man enough for more than one night. You chose poorly, Carina.”
She said nothing, but his words stung. She’d known Mr. Beck would retaliate, but as Quillan said, that was the point of it all. She dampened her lips, but her tongue was like powder. Quillan had left her to this. Signore, why?
Mrs. Barton brought their plates. The pork chops were lightly browned, and the stuffing smelled rich and savory. Fluffy potatoes were slathered with gravy. Carina looked up, daring the woman to see her. Mrs. Barton looked, but her eyes were so full of contempt, she missed Carina’s plea.
Berkley Beck cut into his pork chop, took a bite, and chewed slowly, deliberately. He cut another, held it out for inspection, then masticated it as well. Carina turned away.
“Aren’t you hungry, my dear?”
She didn’t answer.
“The wine is very good.” He nudged her glass closer.
She had a strong urge to throw it at him. But what was the use?
“Do you recall our first meal together?” He smiled boyishly. “You looked so lost and … indignant.” He cocked his head. “A little like now. But then you’d just been wronged by Quillan Shepard. Funny you didn’t learn from it.”
“I had also been wronged by you. You forged my deed. You sold fraudulent property and lied to me. You pretended to help, but you had no intention of doing so.”
He was quiet for a time. “That was perhaps my mistake. I should have given you the house, but then what need would you have had for me?”
Carina dropped her forehead to her fingertips.
“What is it, my dear? Are you not feeling well?”
“You know what I’m feeling,” she hissed.
“Temper, Carina. You’ve always had too much temper.” He laid his fork and knife down. “Perhaps we weren’t suited. As I think of it now, the son of a savage is more your like. And the son of a strumpet.”
“She’s not a strumpet!” Carina gripped the table edge. “And Wolf never killed anyone. It’s all lies. And Quillan deserves better.”
Berkley Beck narrowed his eyes. She saw in them unadulterated hatred. “He’ll get what he deserves.”
Carina was trembling, both with fury and fear. “I’m through with my dinner. I’d like to leave.”
“Of course, my dear.” He dabbed his mouth and folded the napkin neatly beside his plate, then stood.
Carina was too surprised to refuse his help with her chair.
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “If you’re ready …”
She nodded. Would he take her back to Mae’s? Would Mae be there? No one else had come in to dine, and Carina looked at Mrs. Barton in her position by the wall. Did she imagine the look of satisfaction on her face?
“Worried?” D.C. had read his thoughts.
Quillan shrugged. No sense making more of it and having D.C. consider him some prophet of doom. They might return to Crystal and find Beck and the roughs detained and awaiting trial, the streets quiet, and the citizenry safe in their beds. Including Carina. His heart jumped.
“Daddy says, ‘Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?’ ”
Quillan looked back at the gunmetal lake almost lost in the shadows behind them. Early stars shared the sky with mares’ tails clouds, and soon it would be dark. The delay with the Nielsons had hurt.
“It’s freeing to let God handle your business.”
“It’s called shirking.”
D.C. rubbed his face. “Maybe. But if He really is in control …”
“God’s had no part of my business. I take care of it and let Him run the rest of the world.”
“Don’t you ever get tired, Quillan?”
Quillan looked over. The boy’s face was drawn. Quillan suspected he was talking again to try to shake the clouds from his head. He had definitely pushed too hard for his condition. But that wasn’t the kind of tired the boy meant.
“I don’t give myself time.” Quillan was honest. Even at rest, he kept his mind occupied with reading and memorizing what he read. An idle mind left room for thoughts he preferred to ignore. He frowned. “Can you say you’ve heard from the Lord since handing yourself over?”
D.C. was quiet a moment, then slapped his neck where a mosquito bit. “I think maybe so.”
Quillan cocked an eyebrow.
“Not so much a voice in my ears as in my mind, sort of telling me yes and no as I go about my business.”
“Yes and no.”
“I’ll pass the door of a saloon and hear the no, then come on a begging man and hear the yes. I avoid the one and help the other.”
“That’s conscience, D.C. Every man could say as much.”
“But not every man could do it.” D.C. turned earnest eyes his way. “Before, I knew what was wrong, but I did it anyway. Now it’s like a new strength inside. Daddy says the Holy Ghost has got me by the tail. I only know I want to do what’s right, and I can.”
Quillan shook his head. “Anyone can conquer bad habits. I don’t see anything supernatural in that.”
“You weren’t dead.”
Quillan pondered that. Is that what it took? To be rendered completely incapable of helping oneself? A shiver found his spine. He never wanted to be helpless again.
THIRTY-FOUR
I fear for us.
—Rose
CARINA STEPPED OUT with Mr. Beck. Suddenly the night was shattered by shouts and curses and grasping arms. Berkley Beck went down under a dozen fists. He fought and bellowed but was no match for the number that came against him. His face was a mask of rage as ropes were tied around and he was hauled to his feet.
Carina staggered back, then a voice hollered, “Get Beck’s woman!” She recognized the heavy jowls of Bennet Danes and realized he meant her. Arms grappled for her, but she fought free, snatched up her gown and ran.
A faint voice hollered, “Not the lass. Not the lass, men!”
The air was filled with shouts and guttural cries, grunts and screams. Her chest burned as she ran for Mae’s, confused in the torchlight, following instinct alone. She tripped on her skirt in the mud and fell hard, scrambled up, and ran again. She reached the door, but it was locked. Mae, who never locked the door!
She banged with her fist. “Mae!” Then she ran around to the back and tried the kitchen door. Sobbing, she banged this one, too. And it opened. Mae snatched her inside and closed the door behind her, sliding the bolt just as other fists and angry shouts met the wood. They were banging now with more than fists.
“Get your gun!” Mae hollered.
Carina ran up the stairs to the satchel where she had stowed the gun. She tugged it out and checked its load. The four chambers were filled, but her hand shook so badly she doubted she could shoot.
She went back down to Mae, who stood guard at the front door that was also being assailed. Carina
shrank against the wall as she heard the wood split. Surely they weren’t using an ax! But another blow showed her the shiny wedge as the wood splintered and squeaked.
Mae pressed her between the wall and her own bulk, pointing her handgun at the door. Another blow and the door shivered, then burst open. Mae stood firm. “Stop right there.”
But the men surged forward. Mae fired, and return gunfire blasted around them. Carina flung an arm over her face, shrinking behind Mae. Mae jerked, then buckled. She gasped, “Run!” then fell, blocking the entry.
But Carina stood frozen, staring at Mae on the floor. As the men pushed inside, she fired four times into those surging toward her. They would have to leap over Mae to reach her, but Carina had no doubt now that they would. Throwing down the gun, she turned and ran for Mae’s rooms, burst into the kitchen, and felt the night air.
That door, too, was open wide. She spun to flee, but arms grabbed her, and a hand covered her mouth even as the shouts behind her neared. Carina fought, kicking and biting.
“Stop!” Quillan pulled her into the shadow beside the door.
She half screamed with relief, but his hand kept her mute as he searched the darkness outside, each second interminable. Carina’s heart thumped with fear and hope. Quillan had come. He would keep her safe. He would …
The men tumbled through Mae’s parlor. Something smashed. With an arm tight around her, Quillan lunged out into the night. The darkness flickered with torchlight as they ran toward the deeper shadow of the adjacent wall. Carina thought they would keep on, but Quillan wedged them into a gap between the wall and a shabby lean-to.
Pressed against him, Carina clutched Quillan’s shirt and stared wildly behind them. “They’re coming.” She whimpered.
“Keep still.” He jerked her face up and kissed her. With running feet, shouts, and spasmodic torchlight passing, he kissed her. In the darkness that followed, he kissed her. Then he let her go.
She didn’t want him to stop, even if he’d only done it to silence her. She wanted him to hold her until everything was over. “Quillan …”
“Not now.” He glanced quickly out, then pulled her with him. Her skirt snagged and she stumbled. Quillan half lifted, half tugged her to the alley and down to Central. Crouching there, she saw more men dragged along, tied and kicking. She felt Quillan tense as he watched, but he stayed still.
It was terrifying. Ugly. “What’s happening? What are they doing?”
Quillan answered in a low voice, “Ridding Hamelin of the rats.”
Her chest went cold. They were using the ledger, the names in the ledger. She’d provided it … and her name was among them. Quillan yanked her up, and they ran across the street, crouching again at the corner of the Gilded Slipper. They ran and shrank from shadow to shadow, freezing when a torch went by, then moving again in its wake.
He pressed her close to the back wall of the livery. “Stay here.” Then he left her.
Carina’s heart beat her ribs. Beyond the immediate fear for her life was the pain. Mae! Her heart ached with a pain so acute she couldn’t breathe. Mae, crumpled and dying, shot down for her, protecting her. Signore, why? And now she feared for Quillan. Would the madmen take him, too? She pressed her fists to her breast and groaned.
Through the wood slats she heard voices, heated and rough. She heard Quillan, even but firm. She pushed up to her feet and found the door into the tack room. She pried it open and slipped inside, blind in the total darkness, then felt her way to the inner doorway and saw torchlight through the crack.
A man hollered angrily, and Quillan answered low. What was he doing? Did he speak for her, argue for her life? Did he, too, risk himself for her? She would not allow it. If they made one move toward him … She pressed the door open, but it bumped something heavy at the top.
In the torchlight, Carina looked up into the ghastly face of Berkley Beck, hanging by the neck. Sick and stunned, she fell back against a grain sack, then stared out into the room. Rows of men hung like hams from the rafters, their features grotesque and distorted. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting to hold her gorge as her head spun.
Adrenaline pumped in Quillan’s limbs. He and D.C. had returned to a nightmare. The trustees had not collected the accused and detained them for trial. It was a lynching, a vigilante action fueled by fury and outrage. Had Masterson known? Intended it? Is that why he wanted Quillan out?
Quillan shook his head. No, it had spiraled out of Masterson’s control. Something had driven it beyond reason. Quillan had felt it even before they saw the streets thick with torchlight and heard the yells. He’d rushed immediately to Mae’s, seen Mae fall, then run around to find Carina. One minute sooner and he might have gotten them both safe. One minute later … He shook off the thought.
He had to focus. Carina wasn’t safe yet. He’d argued for her, and maybe Masterson could hold them back. But violence was thick as the smoke from the torches. Not even the trustees had control anymore. Tempers ran too high. How had it escalated to this, and why?
Quillan glanced over his shoulder as another bound man was dragged into the livery. Then he darted to the place he’d left Carina. It was empty. His chest lurched as he spun and searched the darkness, his eyes strained. Had they found her? While he was in speaking for her life, had someone caught her? Groping along the back, he found the tack door open. He crept inside and stumbled across the soft heap.
“Carina?” he whispered hoarsely and gathered her up.
She stirred, gasped, and he muffled her moan against his chest as he surveyed the view that had shocked her into a faint. In the torchlight, the corpses were grisly indeed. It was a sight to turn a man’s stomach. How much worse for Carina. “Hush,” he whispered into her hair, turning her face from the light.
Beyond the door, the vigilantes dragged Walter Carruther to the noose, bawling and fighting like a bear. Quillan lifted and carried Carina out. She was shaking and he feared the shock might be too great. But terrible as her need might be, there was another need greater.
He headed toward the creek and found Alan standing with a pair of horses saddled and ready. He wasn’t surprised Alan anticipated him, but he was grateful. Maybe the violence would not engulf Carina, but he couldn’t be sure. He swept her up onto the nearest mount. “Get to the mine.”
She started to protest, but he squeezed her hands around the reins. “Get to the mine, Carina.” With a whack of his palm, he sent the horse off and watched her go. The moon flitted in and out through the breaking clouds. She had only to follow the creek. She would make it.
He stanched Alan’s argument with a look, then hurried back to Mae’s, running openly now. He didn’t care who saw him. There was madness in the air, but he would not be caught in it. He found Mae hunched against the wall, breathing thickly, but breathing. He dropped down beside her.
She gripped his hand. “Carina?”
“I sent her up the gulch.”
“Alone?”
He ignored her. “Where are you hit?”
“My hip and higher up.” She screwed up her face. “Hurts bad.”
Quillan knew he couldn’t move her. She was three hundred pounds dead weight, and he couldn’t risk it anyway. He went into her parlor and fetched a lamp and a blanket. He lit the lamp and set it on the floor beside her. The blood on her skirt was substantial. Sweat beaded her upper lip. He knelt and wrapped her in the blanket.
“I’ll get the doctor.”
“Quillan, Carina needs you.”
His throat was tight and hard. “Right now you need me more.” He went out into the night.
Dr. Felden was at home, his face grim. “I wondered who’d be first. How bad is she?”
“Two shots near the hip. I don’t know where exactly.”
The doctor snorted. “Didn’t examine her, eh? Well, you can put such squeamishness aside. I’ll need you to attend.”
“Where’s Simms?”
“With Èmie Charboneau. Not even the women are safe tonight.”
Quillan knew that better than the doc. Together, they hurried up to Mae’s. She wasn’t conscious, but her labored breath continued. Between them, they got her onto the ruined door panel and carried her to the kitchen table, then scrubbed their arms and hands.
“Get some water boiling.” Dr. Felden took out his shears and cut away her skirt and bloomers to the pale and blood-smeared flesh beneath. He frowned, taking in the angle and placement of the shots. “Her girth may be the saving of her.”
It was blunt, but Quillan was glad to hear it.
Mae grunted and opened her eyes. “Any more compliments, Doc?”
“You’ll be the first to know if there are.” The doctor tipped her head up and gave her morphine for the pain. “Have a nice sleep. We’ll be digging around awhile.”
“Find any gold, let me know.”
Dr. Felden smiled. “You’re pure gold, Mae.”
Her head lolled to the side, and she turned her violet eyes on Quillan. “Go to Carina.”
He didn’t answer, and soon enough she wouldn’t have heard him anyway. He worked with the doctor, fighting his gorge as the bloody probe dug around inside Mae’s flesh until both slugs landed in the pan. Relieved, Quillan expelled his breath. “What do you think?”
Dr. Felden rubbed his brow. “Small caliber. No vitals damaged as the fatty tissue and the hip bone stopped both slugs. If we can avoid infection …” He tossed the sweaty cloth down and reached for the bottle of carbolic acid. “Her chance is as good as another. And better than those having their necks stretched.”
Quillan didn’t need the reminder.
“Hold the wounds open now.”
Quillan pressed the flesh as the doctor applied carbolic acid. Mae made no motion as the burning liquid entered the bullet holes. The doctor packed and bandaged them, and Quillan stared at Mae’s doughy face. He’d never known her to risk herself for anyone. But she’d done it for Carina.
The Rose Legacy Page 44