Flavio felt a flush of shame. His sons had told him? “I lost my temper. The old Chinaman . . .” He spread his hands. His excuse sounded churlish. “I was infuriated by . . . by the things that are torturing me. It had nothing to do with the Chinaman.”
“Nothing to do with him, yet he’s in my treatment room.” Angelo DiGratia indicated the door separating the rooms.
Flavio stared at the closed door. “Is he hurt badly?”
“He is old. His bones are brittle.”
Flavio shuddered. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“The concussion is hard to gauge since I cannot employ him in discussion. I don’t even know if he has family to care for him. He is in and out of consciousness.”
Flavio knew better than to say it was only a Chinaman. And again, he was deeply ashamed of his outburst and violence, the sort of violence that had killed his papa. What must Angelo DiGratia think of him now?
“I’m sorry. What can I do?”
“Do, Flavio? You think you are a doctor now?” Angelo’s expression cut him. “I’m ashamed of you, to injure an old man.”
Inside Flavio quailed. To have earned the doctor’s disdain . . . “I’m ashamed of myself. But I’m so angry, Tio. It—” he spread his hands—“it’s tearing me apart. I thought nothing could be worse than when Carina left. But worse by far is her coming back with this, this—”
“I am taking care of that. I’ve spoken with Father Esser.”
“Father Esser is building a new church. What time does he have—”
“He will consider the validity of Carina’s marriage. He gave me his word to look into it immediately.”
“What if he finds it valid?” Flavio burst out with the words before he could stop them.
Angelo DiGratia looked at him with gentle concern. “We will consider that if we must. But until then I’m trusting the wisdom of the church.”
Flavio could not bring himself to do the same. Ever since he decided the healing Gesù was nothing but a myth, he’d had little concern for the church. Angelo might put his trust in black-robed fathers, but Flavio would see for himself that Carina’s marriage was ended.
He dared not even show a flicker of that thought, which he both hated and clung to. If the doctor’s concern was so deep for a worthless Chinaman, how would he consider the new plans in Flavio’s mind? Flavio trembled. He had felt brash and defiant an hour ago. Now . . .
“Flavio.” Angelo’s voice was soft, gentle. “I know you love my daughter. I watched you grow up together. You are like one of my sons.”
Flavio drank it in.
“But listen to me now.” His thin brows drew together. “You cannot be at the mercy of your temper. Your father . . .”
Flavio tensed. The doctor had never mentioned him.
“Your father was unwise in his moods. I don’t want your death on my hands.”
He didn’t say too. Flavio waited, but he didn’t acknowledge that his father’s death was already on his hands. Could the doctor have saved him? Had he tried? What judge was a frightened six-year-old? Just the same, Flavio imagined he knew the moment when Dottore DiGratia had decided either that he wouldn’t or couldn’t save his papa. He had seen a shadow pass over the man’s face, a shadow of death like a dark wing.
“If you do something rash, you will pay the price.” The doctor turned to the room behind him. “If that old man dies . . .”
“You won’t let him.” Flavio’s voice betrayed his desperation.
Angelo looked back at him. “I’m not God.”
Flavio’s chest tightened. “I thought you were once. When they brought you to the house to save my papa. I thought you had Gesù’s healing hands.”
“Ah, Flavio.” The doctor spread his fingers before him. “My hands are human, but sometimes God heals through them.”
And sometimes He doesn’t. Flavio stared at the delicate fingers outstretched from Dottore DiGratia’s fine hands. Then he looked into the man’s face, saw pain and fear there mingled.
“Flavio, don’t do something you’ll pay for more dearly than you can afford.”
Had he read his thoughts? Flavio spread his hands. “Do what?”
“You and Quillan Shepard both want Carina. Let God decide between you.”
Flavio stared at him. Something opened, some small painful part.
“The God who took my mother? My father, too?”
Angelo’s face turned gray. He leaned slightly against the desk, his hands dropping to his sides. “Don’t lay your father’s death on God.”
Now it would come. Flavio felt his breathing suspend. Now he would know once for all if that early hatred had been deserved.
But the doctor said, “Men killed your father, not God.” His voice shook, and he folded his fingers together at his chest.
“And that makes it all right?”
“No, Flavio. Nothing condones that.”
Flavio felt cheated. Men killed his father? Men including the doctor? Tell me the truth!
And now Angelo’s voice strengthened. “Neither does that condone your own violence.”
Flavio felt the sap leave his limbs, despondence descending like a parasite, sucking him dry. In his hurt, he searched the doctor’s face. “I will do what I must.”
“You do it without my consent.” Angelo’s face was both stern and entreating.
Flavio’s hands clenched at his sides. “Would you take Carina from me?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, “I want what you want. But I will submit to God.”
“Then you don’t want what I want.” Flavio turned.
Angelo caught his arm. “Flavio. Beware your nature.”
Flavio exploded. “My nature! My papa’s nature? Is it so dangerous?
Is that why your hands could not heal? Or was it your will?” He was shocked to have said it aloud.
The doctor looked stunned. Then he drew himself up. “Your father was gravely wounded, battered and crushed and cut. What do you think I could do?”
Flavio stepped up close until his face was just before Angelo’s. He sent his gaze past the blue eyes, probing. “You tell me, Tio. Could you have saved my papa?”
Angelo DiGratia became very still. His eyes blinked slowly once. “I don’t know.”
Flavio swallowed that. How could he not know? If he had done all he could the answer would be simply, No, Flavio, I could not. The tearing inside worsened. Now that he knew, he wished he didn’t. Could he ever look at this man he loved and not know he had let his father die?
Angelo caught his shoulders. “I love you as my own son.”
Flavio’s throat closed too tightly to speak.
Angelo pulled him into a fierce embrace. Flavio wanted his arms to come around the man who had taught him gentleness, concern for others, the value of life. But it was all a lie. His limbs were slogged with mud. He could not lift them, not to hold, to validate this man. He pulled away, refusing to meet the doctor’s eyes. He turned and walked out.
TWENTY-ONE
What hold the flesh upon the soul that yearns for purity, while mind and body clash and strive for human surety.
Ah, my spirit, be assured, your wait is nigh to done; for soon I deem all earthly joy for me there will be none.
—Quillan
THE CRUNCH OF BOOT on stone brought Quillan’s head up from his journal. The last person he expected or wanted to see was Roderick Pierce. Was this a day of trial? He squinted up with little welcome. What on earth was the man doing at Schocken’s quarry?
Pierce ignored his scowl with a grin, though the climb up the hill had taxed him it seemed. “Hello.” He fit the word between breaths.
Quillan nodded once, nothing more than base courtesy.
“Remember me?” Pierce swiped off his hat and dabbed his forehead with his sleeve.
“Like a blood-sucking gnat.”
Pierce laughed heartily. “Charming as ever.” He glanced down. “What’s that there? Writer, are you?”
“Freelance?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look? One writer to another?” Pierce held out his hand.
Quillan’s stare was answer enough.
Pierce pulled a newspaper from inside his fustian coat. “I brought the piece that’s made you famous.”
Famous? Quillan looked at him, mystified. He was past the hope of meaningful human acceptance. On the verge of losing Carina, on guard for his life—and Roderick Pierce spoke of fame? God had a very odd sense of humor. Quillan nodded at the rock pile beside him. “You can leave it there.”
“Actually,” Pierce sat down in the spot Quillan indicated, “I have a proposition to discuss.”
“No.”
“Now I know you’re not quick on the bait, but I think when you’ve heard me out you’ll appreciate my ideas.”
Quillan took his journal and stood. “I need to get back to work.”
“Now that’s just the thing.” Pierce got to his feet, as well. “Why is a man of your financial situation working in a rock quarry?”
Quillan said nothing. What would Pierce know of his financial situation?
“I would think the sale of your mine would have you sitting pretty.”
If Pierce had stripped him of his pants and shirt, Quillan could hardly have felt more naked. “What mine?”
“New Boundless. Wasn’t that the name?”
Quillan turned and started down toward his wagon.
“Now the figures I got weren’t staggering, but certainly substantial.”
Quillan spun. “Figures?” Had Alex Makepeace run off at the mouth?
“From whom?”
“It took some digging, but one thing led to another until whop! I’d landed in Horace Tabor’s lap. Friend of his, are you? He spoke fondly.
Very curious about your wife. I assured him she was as lovely as any woman I’ve seen. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
The tendons in Quillan’s neck pulled tight. Yes, he minded any man noticing and remarking on her beauty. It only made the pain sharper. “I don’t appreciate you digging into my affairs.” He glanced at the newspaper Pierce had snatched up when he stood. “It’s all printed in there?”
“Oh no.” Pierce waved the paper then held it out again. “See for yourself.”
Quillan grabbed it, shoved it inside his shirt. Then he bent and removed the rocks he had placed to block the wagon’s wheels from rolling.
“I only covered the train incident with the small details your wife added.”
Small details like his involvement with Shane Dennison in the bank robbery, no doubt. Quillan pulled himself up to the box.
“Mind if I catch a ride?” Pierce grabbed hold of the edge of the box.
Quillan did mind, but by the time he’d released the brake and taken up the reins, Pierce was aboard.
“Now hear me out, Quillan. I’ve started, and I may as well go the whole hog before you tip me over the side.” He laughed. “The fact is, people were considerably taken with this piece, with you, and it doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to see the opportunity. I’ve sold Harper’s Monthly magazine on a series of biographical sketches featuring the hero of the Union Pacific.”
Quillan kept his eyes straight ahead. “Did they catch Dennison?”
Nonplussed, Pierce regrouped. “Not that I’ve heard. But he hasn’t hit another train along the line since you put him off. Now, as I was saying—”
“Two letters, Pierce: N and O.”
“The world needs heroes, Quillan. People to respect for their fortitude, courage, and old-fashioned gumption.”
Quillan shook his head, amazed by Pierce’s own fortitude. He surmised that nothing short of tipping him over the side of his wagon would suffice. If he were such a hero, why did Carina’s father refuse to acknowledge their marriage? Why did the quarry men shun him? Last night God had shown him that man’s esteem was worthless and at any rate, beyond him. Now here was Roderick Pierce, laying out the kingdoms of the world before him.
Was it the enemy trying to steal the peace he’d found in God alone?
To turn him back to groveling for acceptance among those who would never understand, never accept? Fame. The wagon rocked over a ridge and corresponding dip, but Pierce stayed in the box.
“Well, I know you’re a private man, but in truth, I’ve gathered enough to make a start on the sketches from other sources.”
That irked. “If it’s Hod Tabor, he’s got more gas than evidence. Might as well write a dime store version and be done.”
“That’s why I’m here. Mrs. Shepard charged me on the train to tell it right. She sent me here today.”
Quillan jerked the reins and turned. “You saw Carina?”
“I did.” Pierce sobered.
“How was she?” Quillan could have bitten his tongue, but he had to know.
“Well, now that you ask, she wasn’t good, not good at all. Quite upset. She’d been crying.”
Quillan’s heart tore. By now he had thought her embraced by her family’s love, imagined her wooed and comforted by the same. “Did she say anything?”
“Just that I’d find you here. Trouble, is there?”
Quillan looked into Pierce’s face. An unlikely confessor for sure, but the one person who, however misguided, seemed to care. “Yes, there’s trouble. Carina’s father, the good dottore, wants no part of me as a son-in-law. Her betrothed, from whom she fled to Crystal, wants me dead. And just about every Italian in town bows to one or the other.”
Quillan wasn’t sure what he expected, but Pierce’s measuring gaze surprised him. “I say.”
Quillan quirked his mouth at one corner. “Better look elsewhere for your hero.”
“And have you lost your fortune, then?”
“My fortune?”
“Come, Quillan. I have it from Horace Tabor’s mouth. He did finance the deal, did he not?”
Quillan frowned.
“I see that he did. You’re a wealthy man, unless that, too, has been muddled?”
Quillan glared. “It’s none of your affair.”
“Lost it gambling, did you?”
Quillan moistened his lips, restrained the urge to bodily remove Pierce from the wagon. “I did not lose it. I don’t gamble.”
And now Pierce’s curiosity peaked. “If that’s so, what has the family so all-fired?”
Quillan faced him squarely. “Just . . . me.” He saw Pierce reappraising him, taking in his rough cut, stubbled features, stubborn jaw, gray stormy eyes, unruly hair.
“You do present a formidable front.”
Quillan started the wagon again.
Pierce caught the side. “Pro patria, is it?”
Quillan flinched. Did he present a bristly front like a porcupine ready to protect his vulnerable identity?
“You know, I could help you.”
“No thanks.”
“Tell the real story.” Pierce persisted.
The real story was worse than the front. But there, he was sinking into his former thoughts. Why did Pierce keep chipping away the fragile peace he’d found? Jesus was the vine, God the vine grower, and he . . . he had to cling or be cut away and burned.
“Mr. Pierce—”
“Call me Rod.”
“Mr. Pierce, you’re wasting your time.” Quillan neared the yard where he would unload his haul to be carried by hand wagons to the cutters, then stacked as street cobbles and taken to the depot. Sometimes that fell to him when they had enough rough material blasted from the surface to spare him from the work higher up.
“You know the best attribute of a newsman?”
Quillan didn’t want to hear. He
was weary of the argument.
“The nose.” Pierce tapped his own. “That’s where you know when you have something newsworthy.”
Quillan brought his team to a halt, set the brake, and wound the traces. “Mr. Pierce—Rod—I don’t know what you think you smell, but if you look around, you’ll see keeping company with me isn’t the safest choice right now.”
Pierce looked. The men had stopped their labors and glared as one body. “That is an oddity of Italians, I’ve noticed. Clannish. But I wouldn’t guess they’d take it too far.”
Quillan thought back to Flavio’s appearance earlier, his consultation with one of the workers and the taunting glance that followed. As they came forward sullenly to empty his load, Quillan muttered, “I wouldn’t stake your life on that.”
“Well, I’ve seen you handle a gun.” He looked down at Quillan’s belt. “Have it concealed, have you?”
Quillan shook his head.
“I see.” Pierce rubbed his chin. “So that’s the state of affairs.”
Quillan jumped down from the box and started around to open the back.
Pierce climbed down and met him there. “I’m staying at the Traveler’s Home Hotel. Why don’t you meet me for a drink?”
“I have duties in Schocken’s store after this.”
“Till when? Six, seven?”
Quillan pulled himself onto the wagon bed. “My hours are my own. I’ll work till I turn in.”
Looking up, Pierce squinted into the glare. “Maybe I’ll come around anyway.”
Quillan shrugged and reached for the first rock. As Roderick Pierce strode off for his rented buggy, Quillan tossed the rock to the ground, and the men closed in under Mr. Marconi’s watchful eye. He paused for a moment. Marconi was in an awkward spot between the ire of the Italian workers toward Quillan and the acclaim of Solomon Schocken.
Quillan saw to it he did his work well. He would give Schocken and Marconi no cause for complaint.
After bathing, Carina peeked in at the Chinese man sleeping in the single bed Papa kept for patients too sick to send home. He seemed peaceful now, no longer ranting, though Papa checked his eyes every hour or two. But no one was in the room just now, so she left the old man to his rest.
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Page 30