The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Quillan’s head shifted in her hands. Carina lifted the bottle of chloric ether and looked to her father. “More?”

  He shook his head. “There’s enough in him for us to set the bones.”

  Quillan’s whole body shuddered when Papa and Vittorio reseated the hip joint; he jerked when they aligned the femur of his right leg, broken in two places. Papa worked a long time over the leg, removing shards of bone from the gash and shaking his head. At last he sutured the leg, wrapped, and cast it in plaster. By the time they set and cast the ulna of Quillan’s right arm and his left collarbone, he did not respond. Pain was its own anesthetic. Last of all they swabbed and bandaged the cuts and gashes, suturing the worst of them.

  At last Papa stood back. At no time had Carina suspected he did anything but his best for Quillan. He looked drained as he washed up once again. Carina met his eyes, searching his thoughts. She would know if Papa thought Quillan would die. She always knew. He tried now to shield her, but his face was grave. “I don’t know, daughter.” Then lower, “I’ve done what I can.” And his eyes pierced. “All that I can.”

  She nodded, believing him. But her heart was breaking anyway. What if Papa’s skill was not enough? Was this why God had insisted she surrender Quillan? Did He know so soon He would call him away forever? Let him live, Signore. Please let him live.

  Carefully Papa and Vittorio lifted Quillan to the litter. So much of him was bandaged and cast in plaster, they did not attempt to dress him. They laid him on the single bed near the wall and covered him with fresh sheets and a wool blanket.

  “I’ll sit with him.” Carina pulled a chair to the bedside.

  Papa spooned morphine into the side of Quillan’s mouth. “He must be still. If he shows any agitation, call me immediately.”

  Carina nodded. Papa must know she would watch more closely than even he himself. Did he see her pain? His hand on her shoulder as he left told her that yes, he knew.

  Flavio hunched down against the hollow of the old oak’s trunk, shaking and horrified. What had he done? What would happen to him now? He pressed his face into his hands. He could have left Quillan Shepard trapped beneath the burning wagon to die. Then no one would know his part in it.

  Did anyone suspect, or was Quillan Shepard the only one who could testify against him? Giocco might guess, but he’d been paid too well to tell. And Flavio had never said what he wanted the dynamite for. But those thoughts were simply distracting him from the full horror of what he found inside himself. How could he do such violence?

  He kept hearing the screams, the groans, the agony he had caused another man. It didn’t matter now that it was Quillan Shepard, the one Carina loved. He saw the man’s face contorted with pain, his moan of “Oh, God.” And it was that moan that had spurred Flavio to action.

  He had gripped the wagon, just starting to burn, and with more than human strength lifted it to free the man he wanted to destroy. His malice had failed and mercy interceded. Why? For the same reason he now quaked at his own violence? Dottore DiGratia was right. His temper was dangerous. Now he knew what he could do, but knowing it, he could never do it again. It sickened him.

  “Oh, God.” He repeated Quillan’s words. “Oh, God.” Had God used him to free the man who called on Him in pain? Had God turned Flavio’s own heart to help before it was too late? Was it Quillan’s begging for the helpless animals? Flavio loved animals, their warm breath and simplicity. The distress of the horses had contributed, yes, but there was more.

  Whatever it was, he was fiercely thankful he had acted as he did. As horrified as he felt now, how much worse would it be if he had left the man to burn? But he could still die. Flavio remembered the wagon crashing down on him, the scream of pain, and he had felt the weight of it himself when he tried to raise it up. Quillan Shepard could die, and it would be on Flavio’s soul forever.

  He shuddered. If Gesù was a myth and God a tool for priests to frighten children, why now did he feel such a trembling for his soul? He wouldn’t believe he had a soul if he didn’t feel it crying out against him now. He was like Cain, being cursed by the very ground he walked on. Everyone would know. His own soul convicted him.

  “Oh, God.” The words came without thought. Flavio didn’t pray. He never prayed. “Prayer is for the weak and simple,” another of his papa’s teachings. Flavio had been frightened when his papa said that. Didn’t he know it would offend Gesù? But Papa had laughed at his fears. “Offend a fairy tale? I’ll take my chances.”

  “God.” Flavio dropped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Year after year he had gone through the motions with the very religious Lanzas. But he had never entered in, never counted himself among the weak and simple, never earned his papa’s disdain. Even when he could no longer picture his father’s face, the things Papa had told him stayed with him. But they were wrong.

  God was real, and He had acted when Quillan Shepard called, even turning the hand of his enemy to rescue him, giving him supernatural strength. Flavio moaned. He was wicked and despicable. Yet God had used him when Quillan called.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I thirst,” He cried out from the cross, pained in heart and soul and bone, an aching need, heartbreaking loss, “Father, why am I alone?”

  —Quillan

  AS THE SLANTING RAYS of thin spring sunlight faded to gray, Carina held Quillan’s hand and prayed. “Il Padre Eterno, hear me, please. I beg you for his life. I surrender all claims to his love, to any love. If my wickedness, my selfishness has brought this evil on him, forgive me.” What if she had not asked to go home? Had left her family when she saw their hearts were hard? What if . . . ? Oh, so many what-ifs.

  Mamma brought her minestrone and bread. The steam was pungent with tomato and turnips and cabbage and beans, savory with bacon and onions and basil and thyme, hearty and wholesome. But Carina shook her head. Her body floated in limbo with Quillan’s. How could she eat, how could she sleep when Quillan balanced between life and death, fever rising and consuming him.

  The heat of his hand sent her heart rushing with fear. His eyes were hollowed pits, his flesh bruised and crusted with scabs, incidental injuries that would have mattered except when compared to the snapping of bones and crushing of organs. He was a shadow of his former vitality. Carina had never seen him sick, not even a sniffle. He had never complained of aches nor weariness. To see him reduced to this . . .

  Was it kinder for him to die? If he were lost to her anyway, should she plead so desperately for his life? But that was her own sorrow speaking. Wouldn’t Quillan want to live? Dabbing his lips with a cloth and trickling water onto his furrowed tongue, she felt hollowed by grief until there was nothing left.

  Papa checked him every two hours, even all through the night. He changed the poultice, which was all but steaming on the incision. He gave him more morphine to keep him unconscious while his body became an inferno. He removed the blanket, then the sheet, and bathed Quillan’s flesh with cool cloths. Unlike the followers of Benjamin Rush, Papa did not believe in a fever victim sweating out the toxins. But Quillan’s skin was dry, so no natural perspiration was cooling the heat that built inside. Nor did Papa bleed him as so many would. Besides, Quillan had lost enough blood on his own.

  Carina watched and helped, scarcely taking her eyes from Quillan’s face, listening for each labored breath. In the morning, Mamma came with a small cup of strong espresso and cream. Carina drank it. She refused, however, the warm crusty bread with honey from Giuseppe’s bees.

  “Eat it, Carina. What good is it for you to waste away?”

  “I couldn’t keep it down.” And then when Quillan’s fingers quivered, she returned to her vigil, bread and Mamma forgotten.

  Vittorio and Papa consulted. If the fever raged out of control much longer, they would open him up again and search for infection, cutting, cauterizing, and treating with carbolic acid again. The skin of Quillan’s belly was fiery red, but there was little pus or smell, so Papa was hesitant to inte
rfere.

  “Every surgery has both the possibility for good and great harm, Vittorio. We must balance the hope with the risk.” But he removed the bandage, treated the incision again with carbolic acid, and poulticed it. He did not rebandage it. They kept the sheet folded down from Quillan’s waist to leave the wound open to the air.

  “That’s best for now. Let’s see what his body does today.”

  It did nothing but burn, and though the fever rose no higher, it subsided not at all. Quillan lay as though dead, sapped by fever and lulled by morphine. His breath was shallow now with a slight wheeze. Papa raised Quillan’s head with a second pillow, but feared to move him more than that. He held vigil with Carina, reading from one scientific text or another and continuing his ministrations.

  Carina’s eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. In spite of her fear, she could not hold them open. Her head nodded, then dropped to her breast. Papa’s hand restored consciousness, but he only said, “Go to bed.

  I’ll wait with him.”

  She looked into Papa’s careworn face. Could she trust him? They had been at odds from the day she returned, and Quillan was the center of the conflict. But looking at him now, she had to believe Papa was expending himself to the best of his abilities. She nodded and went upstairs. Sleep engulfed her almost before she had undressed and fallen in a heap to her bed.

  Burn, burn, he was burning. The fire had caught and filled him. His flesh melted from his bones. His tongue cracked. His throat ached. How long could he burn before he was consumed? Eternal flames. He could burn forever. No!

  Quillan heard voices, but there was something wrong with the words. They were different somehow, yet he imagined he knew what they meant. Not all, though. Some were just sounds, interspersed with the others. Fever—bones—dangerous—cool, not cold—keep him tied—might awaken soon—no, no fire—we must keep the air pure.

  Air pure. He was burning, yet he smelled no smoke. Did he imagine meaning in the strange words, and what was it that was wrong with them?

  He swam closer to the surface. Eye motions—not long now—pain—no more morphine. Morphine? That word had sounded right, different from the others. And then he realized the speech was Italian.

  A jolt of panic sent fire through him. He fought to open his eyes. But they were as immobile as the rest of him. He had tried to shift, or thought he had. None of his limbs would move, nor, he was fairly certain, would his head. At least nothing responded to his efforts. Had he really tried, or did he just think he had?

  It was too hard to figure out. He was so tired. There was something else, something demanding to be recognized. Pain. Yes, there was pain.

  Starting down the stairs the next morning, Carina saw Father Esser leaving the treatment room. Panic nearly took her legs from under her.

  Had Papa called him to give last rites? Was Quillan dying? Or dead?

  She flung herself down the stairs as the priest passed through the back door.

  She ran down the hall and crashed into the sickroom gasping, “Quillan!”

  Papa spun, splashing the bowl of water down his front, and stared at her. “Santa Maria!”

  With inexpressible relief, Carina heard Quillan breathing, strained and thick but not rattling and, God forbid, not stopped. And then another terrible thought occurred. She stalked inside. “Why was Father here?”

  “Shh.” Papa frowned, looking behind him. “Do you want to wake him?”

  Carina lowered her voice but not the intensity. “Papa, why was Father here?” Though she was willing to live without Quillan if God wished it, she would not stand for their marriage, their love to be called invalid.

  “He brought me a letter.”

  “What letter?” She would not be put off so easily.

  “From someone you know.” Papa set down the bowl, grabbed a cloth, and wiped his shirt.

  From someone she knew? To Father Esser? “From whom?”

  “Father Charboneau.”

  Carina’s heart jumped. “Father Antoine! What did he say?”

  “Read it for yourself.” Papa motioned to the sheet of stationery lying on his instrument table.

  She snatched it up with greedy fingers, her eyes passing over the greeting to the body of the letter. “In response to your concern, I can only say that I know this marriage to be not only true but blessed of God.”

  Oh, blessed Father Antoine! “Any efforts to sever that which I joined in God’s holy presence would be wrongful and dire. I trust to your holy calling to show wisdom in this matter.”

  She pressed the letter to her breast, closing her eyes on tears of joy.

  God did not want her separated from Quillan! Her marriage was not wrong; it was blessed of God. She turned and met Papa’s eyes. “What do you think now?”

  He sighed, glancing at Quillan’s still form. One eyebrow twitched.

  “I think we must do our best for this man, your husband.”

  Carina rushed to him, caught him in her arms, and buried her face against his chest. Her papa! Her papa understood. At last he understood.

  Papa stroked her hair, then caught her head between his hands.

  “Which doesn’t excuse your marrying without my consent.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa. Truly.” Sorry for hurting him, surely, but not for marrying, not for the marriage God blessed.

  “Yes. Well.” He separated from her and glanced at Quillan.

  She followed his gaze. “How is he?”

  “The same.”

  She dropped to the chair beside the bed and touched Quillan’s chest.

  It was like a hot loaf from the oven. “How long can he bear it?”

  “It could be helping. Not all fever is detrimental. If it goes no higher . . .” Papa spread his hands. “There’s no smell of putrefaction.”

  He refilled the bowl and dropped the cloth in. “Bathe him with this, what parts of him are not covered in bandages and plaster.” There was a note in Papa’s voice, a familiar tone of sympathy she knew so well. He cared about his patient.

  Carina squeezed the water from the cloth. Quillan’s left arm was bound across his chest to keep his collarbone immobile. A band had been stretched across his chest and upper arms, tying him to the bed, she guessed, in case he tried to move before Papa thought him ready. There was also a band across his forehead, probably to protect the collarbone. His ribs were wrapped, his right arm cast and his leg, as well. Yes, there was little of him that had not been hurt in some way. But strangely, looking at him now, she felt hope.

  Flavio could stand it no longer. He had to know. He left his retreat, the small frame building the Lanzas had erected for him to paint and draw in, a place of light and breezes. But today it suffocated him. He had to know if God had charged murder to his soul, and if there would be an earthly punishment as well as eternal flames.

  He went to the stable and called for his stallion, ill-used these last days but hopefully forgiving today. He paced while the servant saddled the horse and brought it to him. Then he swung astride and took off for the DiGratias. He was not certain Quillan would have been taken there. If he had died at the quarry . . . But no, he couldn’t think that way! At any rate, Carina would know where he’d been taken.

  Flavio reined in sharply. Carina. She would also know the truth, that he had done that violence to her husband. How could she not when he had struck her with his own hand? The horse sidestepped, tossing at the rein. Flavio looked over the hills to where the DiGratia land joined the Lanzas’.

  The horse pulled in an impatient circle, bad tempered about being told to run then made to stop. Frowning, Flavio brought the horse back toward the Lanza farm. He couldn’t go, couldn’t look Carina or her father in the eyes and inquire whether he had done enough to kill or only enough to maim and torture. He who despised violence in any form. He, the great pacifist.

  What must they think of him? Carina would hate him. There would not even be pity in her eyes now. And the dottore? Would he regret that he ever took that six-year-
old boy under his wing? Flavio hung his head. “Oh, God.” Those two words had been his steady diet ever since they were uttered by Quillan Shepard in the extremity of his pain.

  Flavio’s chest burned. He should put an end to it. A rope from the studio rafter? He urged the horse forward. Was he such a coward? But the thought of release from this guilt was potent. Like Judas Iscariot? Hadn’t Judas betrayed the one he loved as Flavio betrayed Carina? Oh, God.

  He returned the horse to the stable and secured a length of rope. With its coils on his shoulder, he went back to the studio. It was no longer a haven. No place was. He was like Cain, saying it’s too much to bear. It was himself he couldn’t bear. He had become an animal, the antiphony of all he despised. As wicked and dark as the rioting crowd who had killed his papa. Flavio was one of them. He sat on the stool before his easel and rested the rope across his knees. He felt its strength, its coarse fibers.

  He swallowed, looped one end and began to form a noose. When he had it finished, he looked at it with fascination. How simply the rope slid through the knot, open and closed. The sunbeams crept across the floor, finally lengthening and slanting as he sat hour after hour, looking at the hangman’s knot in his lap.

  “When you find a man’s weakness, use it.” He’d found his own weakness, hadn’t he? His anger had driven him to violence, in spite of his beliefs. It was only time until he did it again, wasn’t it? What if Quillan Shepard didn’t die? What if he recovered and lived happily with Carina? Would Flavio strike again? But somehow the thought didn’t bring rage. Not even choking despair. Why not? The cool gray early evening light replaced the golden shafts.