The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “The young man from Denver. He’s been in nearly daily asking after Mr. Shepard. Sent him up the other day to fetch something from the room. Didn’t you send him?”

  “Do you mean Mr. Pierce?”

  “That’s the name.”

  Carina gripped her hands into fists. “What did he fetch?”

  “It looked like a book. With Mr. Shepard incapacitated, I thought Mr. Pierce was acting as his agent.”

  Carina turned and charged the stairs. Mr. Pierce had gone too far, and more than his shin would bear the brunt. She went into Quillan’s room, and a moment later a youth came in to help her carry everything. As she suspected, Quillan’s journal was neither on the table nor in his pack.

  She fumed, thinking of the personal and beautiful poems he had shared with her. That Roderick Pierce would not only see them but turn Quillan’s words to his own advantage . . . She waited fretfully while the youth loaded Quillan’s things into her buggy, then gave him a coin and accepted his assistance up to the seat. She slapped the reins. Quillan would not be happy.

  Quillan could do nothing but stew. Day after day he pondered the affront. Roderick Pierce had skipped town with his journal and probably felt justified after the scene Carina described of their last encounter. Quillan pictured it easily. As slippery as Pierce was, he had not avoided Carina’s kick, though she wouldn’t tell him what precipitated it. But that didn’t make the theft of his journal anything less than that. The man was a snake.

  Dr. DiGratia broke into Quillan’s thoughts as he came into the room. His visits were less frequent now that they had moved Quillan to a small porch off the east side of the house. He had a fainting couch that enabled him to sit more easily, though it was less comfortable for sleeping, a side table, and a shelf for the books Carina had brought from the hotel and any of those in her father’s collection Quillan might care to read. In his extreme boredom, he did exactly that.

  The doctor carried a small saw. “Are you ready to have that off?” He indicated the cast on Quillan’s right arm. His dry humor did nothing to improve Quillan’s mood.

  Quillan held up the arm, which had been out of the sling for several days. The doctor worked silently, sawing through the plaster, then pulling it off the arm. Quillan eyed the lumpy scar where the bone had pushed through muscle and skin. Then he straightened his elbow and felt the expected weakness. It was worse than the left arm had been, though limited use had begun to restore the first to something better than a noodle. As Dr. DiGratia examined this pale, wasted forearm, Quillan considered what it had been.

  “A straight mend, it appears.” Dr. DiGratia picked up the scraps of cloth and plaster.

  “And my leg? Are you taking that plaster off?”

  The doctor glanced down at the leg lying as it had been week after week, a plaster log from hip to calf. “Not yet, I think.”

  “Why not?”

  The doctor took a breath, then released it. “The femur was broken twice, one section more nearly crushed. It needs time yet.”

  Quillan swallowed. “Time for what?”

  “For what healing there will be.”

  Quillan squelched the panic of those words. He was maimed? Useless? Like Cain? Cain hadn’t been useless, a voice inside argued, but Quillan ignored it. How would he support his wife, children when they came? Would Carina even want a cripple for a husband? Surrender your independence. And what? Depend on her? He opened and closed his right hand, clenching the fist harder and harder.

  Dr. DiGratia paused, the split cast and fragments balanced in his hands. “We will see when the time comes. There’s no use imagining the worst.”

  “I doubt you’ve told me the worst.”

  The doctor’s chin cocked slightly. “The worst is the leg will not bear your weight, and you’ll use a crutch.”

  Again Quillan pictured Cain hobbling over the rough ground. Oh, God! He forced his voice to steady. “When will I know?”

  “Once I determine the bone is fused, we will begin to strengthen the leg.”

  “How can you tell anything through this?” Scowling, Quillan knocked on the plaster near his hip.

  “I can’t. Maybe it’s ready now. But I will err on the side of caution.” He fixed Quillan with his blue stare. “Too soon a try might damage the bone beyond repair.”

  Quillan closed his eyes. He was peevish and unfair in his impatience. Dr. DiGratia had expended much time and effort with his care. “I’m sorry.”

  A faint smile pulled the doctor’s lips. “You must understand my position. One wrong move with you now, and I’ll have Carina’s ire forever.”

  Quillan stared at him. That was the first acknowledgment of permanent status he’d had from the man. Why now, when he could offer so little?

  He’d lost his fortune and even his strength. Now he truly had nothing to offer but himself, and even that was questionable. The tightness in his throat became an ache. Had he misunderstood something somewhere? But though the doctor left him brooding, he could not see it.

  Carina passed her papa coming from Quillan’s room, the saw and cast pieces in his hand. “His arm is healed?”

  “The break is knitted.”

  “But his arm . . . it will . . .”

  Papa paused his stride. “Your husband is strong and determined.”

  Her husband. To hear it again from Papa’s lips assured her of Quillan’s place in her family. No one talked anymore of annulling; no one tried to keep her from the man she loved. If only it had come without Quillan’s pain. But even in that she was sure God had a purpose.

  Vittorio came and took the pieces of the cast from Papa. “Shall I show him how to strengthen the arm?”

  Papa nodded. “Slowly today. Strength only. We will train the reflexes later.”

  Train the reflexes. She thought of Quillan’s speed with a gun when he shot the head from the rattlesnake. Train his reflexes?

  But Carina felt a surge of pride. Quillan could be in no better hands than her papa’s. What if he had landed in the care of a doctor like Miss Preston’s father, who would have determined his care by the bumps on Quillan’s head or by his complexion and assumed temperament?

  Appearances were nothing to Papa, not in his practice of medicine. He knew the body inside and out, which parts knitted to which, which organs performed what duty. Like Leonardo da Vinci he had studied a dead body once, had performed surgery on its parts. Maybe that was disrespectful to the dead. Many people thought so. But to the living it provided invaluable knowledge.

  If anyone could bring Quillan through this, it was Papa. And Vittorio. Carina looked up at her serious-faced brother. Yes, he had been as stubborn as the rest, determined to keep her from the man they all considered a usurper. But he had worked tirelessly beside Papa when Quillan arrived injured. He would be a fine doctor in his own right.

  Vittorio discarded the cast remains and went into Quillan’s room. Carina lingered in the doorway out of Quillan’s line of sight and watched her brother greet him with soft-spoken courtesy. Ah, how things had changed. Vittorio lifted Quillan’s arm, and Carina saw with dismay the shrunk muscle and limp tissue. She could well imagine training the nerves and muscles to respond again.

  Vittorio ran his hand down the arm, nodding. “The bone is sound.

  But the muscle is not, eh?”

  “Not exactly.” Quillan looked uncomfortable, annoyed. Why did he persist in his grudge? Couldn’t he see they were trying to welcome him as best they could?

  “Make a fist.” Vittorio watched the hand come together. “Tighter.”

  Quillan strained.

  “Let it go.” Vittorio held Quillan’s forearm. “Try again. Harder. Try harder.”

  Quillan’s forehead took on a sheen as Vittorio ordered the same motion repeatedly, then switched to the other arm and did the same. If so little cost so much, how would it be to restore strength to the rest of him? She again realized the extent of the trauma to her husband’s body, worse by far than her injuries had been, yet she
had felt weak as a kitten and helpless. How Quillan must fear that weakness.

  She started to pray for strength, then thought of Saint Paul. Maybe it was in Quillan’s weakness that God’s power would be perfected. That thought was so different from her old demands and cajoling that she paused. She must desire God’s will even if it seemed contrary to her own wants and Quillan’s. Padre Eterno, heal my husband as you will. Let this misfortune be turned to good for all and especially the man I love. Grazie, Signore.

  Her heart felt peaceful even as she watched Quillan’s frustration grow. He flung his arm down to his side. “Enough! Can’t you see it’s wasted?”

  Vittorio merely nodded, so like Papa in demeanor she was sure that irked Quillan, as well. “Yes, I see.” This time Vittorio lifted the arm and studied the tendons as he closed the fingers himself. “That’s all for today.” He restored Quillan’s arm to his side and pointed to the left. “That one is better, eh?”

  Quillan shrugged. “I’ve had some use of it.”

  “Its injury was not so severe.” He touched the collarbone, and Quillan scarcely winced. “Good.”

  Quillan might not have winced, but Carina saw him squirm. Was it Vittorio’s touch he disliked? An affront to his privacy? It was as natural to Vittorio as breath. Italian men touched, kissed, danced, and hugged. She tried to picture Quillan thus and failed. Oh, he touched her with fierce connection. But had she ever seen him reach out to anyone else?

  Cain. He had regularly supported, even carried Cain in his infirmity. And Alan; Quillan gave his strength as Alan needed. That was it. He could touch to help others, especially the old ones, but he did not receive such touch himself. Nor, she supposed, would he take easily to affectionate touch from any but her. She bit her lower lip, smiling slightly at the learning he had yet to do.

  Vittorio raised Quillan’s chin. “A shave, I think.”

  “Just bring me a bowl and straight razor.”

  “And watch you slice your throat?” Vittorio took down a shaving bowl and mixed a lather. He dipped a towel into the water held warm on the brazier, then laid it over Quillan’s face.

  Carina leaned on the doorway. She’d never seen her husband get shaved. He had as much beard as any man in her family, and it reached down his neck, as well. Vittorio removed the towel and brushed on the lather, then took up the blade.

  “I’ll do it myself if you’ll fetch me a mirror.”

  Carina stepped into the room. “Behave yourself, Quillan, and let Vittorio shave you. Soon enough you’ll do everything yourself.”

  He turned, gave her a fiery glance, then succumbed to the first scratchy glide of the blade. Carina watched the stripe of bare flesh widen with each stroke of the blade. Quillan’s hands lay at his sides, but she saw them clench slightly. Yes, he suffered the care, no more. Then Vittorio took out a small scissors to trim his mustache.

  Quillan said, “Leave it.”

  “Here, let me.” Carina took the scissors and sat at Quillan’s side. Carefully she clipped the overgrowth of his full, jaunty mustache. What if she took it all the way off? Would his mouth look vulnerable? What if his hair were cut? Would he look gentle and meek? She doubted it.

  With her fingertips, she flicked the sides of his mustache free of loose clippings, then leaned in and kissed his lips. Quillan’s eyes flicked up to Vittorio, who stood grinning. Carina smiled, too, as Vittorio toweled the flecks of lather from Quillan’s throat and jaw.

  “There. You are presentable to kiss my sister.”

  Quillan looked from one to the other, exasperated. Poor man, he didn’t know how to take them.

  “Go away.” Carina shooed her brother with her hand. Then she turned from Vittorio’s departing back to her husband’s expectant face.

  “Do you intend to make a regular spectacle of me?” He raised a hand into her hair.

  She shrugged. “Things are less private here. Our love is part of their lives. My brothers, my parents, cousins, friends—they’re all included.” She spread her hands. “We are family.”

  Quillan frowned. “Feels mighty crowded.”

  She kissed his forehead. “You’ll get used to it.”

  His stormy glance argued back, but both arms came around her in a loose embrace.

  She settled into his chest. “You just have to try a little.”

  “You sound like Vittorio.”

  She laughed. “How hard was it?”

  “Hard.” He raised one shaky arm, then dropped it. “I’m weak as a baby.”

  “But you’ll try again.”

  He met her gaze. “You know I will. The sooner—”

  She kissed his mouth, full and feverishly. She didn’t want to hear what he thought he would do when his strength returned. She was suddenly glad God might keep him weak some while. Maybe in that time he could learn to keep still.

  TWENTY-SIX

  One lesson learned through loss of health is time can be a friend.

  The plague it places on your mind cannot itself contend, with what great strides it grants your flesh while bone and sinew knit But how a friend can wear a welcome thin if overlong does sit.

  —Quillan

  CARINA LEFT HER WEARY HUSBAND and went out to the courtyard. Lingering near the fountain, Divina and Nicolo looked up as she stepped out. Nicolo’s hand was on Divina’s belly, caressing the child—that wasn’t his? Carina stared. Did he treasure that baby because it gave him Divina? Or for its own sake? She looked at her cousin in a new light.

  Unattractive in comparison to her brothers and especially to Flavio, Nicolo had never occupied much of her thoughts. And none of Divina’s, she was sure. Yet standing there together, they seemed content, Nicolo having grown in stature and comeliness by it. She joined them, but Nicolo’s hand remained on the swelling gathers of Divina’s skirt.

  Divina smiled. “Nicolo thinks he can feel a kick.”

  With a pang, Carina remembered her own baby’s soft flutterings. “Can he?”

  “Try it.” Nicolo lifted his hand and motioned hers into its place.

  Carina put her hand on Divina’s belly. “Do you feel it inside?” Carina looked into her sister’s face, trying not to envy her condition.

  “Of course.” Divina waved her hand. “I’ve felt it some while now.”

  A tiny thump touched Carina’s palm, and her eyes widened. “I felt it.”

  “I told you.” Nicolo pulled Divina close to his side again. “He’s a strong one.”

  “He might be a girl.” Divina nudged his ribs. “With a kick like Carina’s.”

  Carina huffed. “She’ll have to work hard to aspire to that.” They laughed, Divina’s barb scarcely bringing a sting to Carina’s old pride. Having so recently kicked Mr. Pierce, she could hardly deny the tendency still existed, but she felt no need to defend herself. Maybe her oversensitivity had made more of Divina’s remarks than there ever was.

  Anyway, it was Ti’Giuseppe she wanted to see, so she left them to each other and headed for his cottage. She tapped the door, then walked in.

  Ti’Giuseppe was not in bed; he sat dozing by his stove, shoulders wrapped in a woolen blanket Flavio’s mother had woven for him. Carina crept close and kissed his cheeks, smiling when his gray filmed eyes opened and his lips parted. She held his face between her hands. “How are you, Tio?”

  “Bene, cara. Dreaming of heaven.”

  Her heart lurched in her chest. “Not yet, Tio. I need you still.”

  He shook his head, smiling. “You have all you need in that young man and the little ones to come. Life is for the young.”

  “And for the old. What would we do without you?” Tears stung her eyes again at the thought of Nonna’s absence. To consider Ti’Giuseppe passing away was too painful. But she knew he was frail, more so, perhaps, than he seemed. If he dreamed of heaven, was God preparing him to go? She caught his hand between hers and kissed his fingers.

  “Life has been good to me, Carina.” His eyes warmed with the glow from his stove. “When it is ti
me to leave this place, I will leave it content.”

  “When the time comes. But not yet.” She squeezed his hand.

  “I think I will see the little one.”

  “Tio?”

  He rested his head against the pressed wooden back of his chair.

  “The baby.”

  Carina glanced back to where she had left Divina. “Nicolo has felt it kick.”

  “Not Divina’s baby.” Ti’Giuseppe tugged one edge of the blanket higher. “Yours.”

  She looked into his face. What was he saying? That he would live to see her children? She could only hope so. But the old man did not know that her injuries might keep her from ever bearing a child. “Of course, Tio. You will bless my children.”

  He closed his eyes. “This one, at least, I will bless.”

  This one. A ripple ran through her. What do you mean? she wanted to ask, but his breathing had deepened, fluttering his lips over his gums. She slipped her hand out of his and stood. He was still dreaming, her dear Giuseppe. She let him sleep.

  Back outside the day’s warmth soothed the ache he had brought to her heart. So much loss. Her baby, Nonna, and now fears for Giuseppe.

  But Quillan grew stronger every day. She must see the good, bask in the blessings.

  She went to the stable and saddled a mare. A ride to town would help, and she had errands there. She mounted side saddle and brought the horse around, then rode at a brisk clip. When she reached the plaza, she stopped first at the post office. In some of her hours attending Quillan, she had written her friends in Crystal. Too much time had passed, but with all the strain of the journey, then the trials of their arrival, she had not corresponded with Mae or Èmie as she had expected to. One feverishly thankful letter she had sent to Father Antoine, but she had not heard back from anyone yet.

  She waited behind Mrs. Gardener, thinking of the line of miners at the post office in Crystal and the kindness she had found in them as they moved her ahead and gave up their places. Mrs. Gardener collected her mail and moved aside. Carina stepped up to the window. Before she could ask, Mr. Halliford handed her a string-wrapped stack of letters, too thick to hold with one hand.