The Rose Legacy (4 page)

He would tell her to go home, that Crystal was no place for her. And he would be right. Oh the shame, to go home to Flavio’s taunting…. Hadn’t he said as much, calling her a foolish girl? He’d been angry, irate that she was leaving. But he was right. What would she do now?

Mr. Beck laid a comforting hand over hers. “Miss DiGratia, I would be happy to engage you as an assistant.”

She started. “An assistant?”

“You no doubt noticed the deplorable condition of my office.”

Now that he mentioned it, she did recall the cluttered desk and the stacks of books and papers along the wall. She had been too stunned by her situation to consider it before, but now … What were her choices?

She looked into the earnest face before her. “Are you doing this out of kindness, Mr. Beck?”

“Yours would be the kindness, Miss DiGratia. I’m a desperate slob.”

That would not be so different from Mr. Garibaldi, whose books she’d kept. “Have you enough business to afford—”

“Heavens, yes! I’m over my head with claim disputes, property settlements …”

“Such as mine?” Carina raised the challenge pointedly. She couldn’t let him forget.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He smoothed back his hair. “Then it will be some time before you settle it?”

Beck sipped his coffee, dabbed his lips with the napkin, then folded and laid it over his plate. “Miss DiGratia, you have my word. I’ll move with all due haste. But …” He straightened. “I won’t mislead you. It will be involved.”

Carina’s heart sank. “Involved means time.”

He nodded regretfully. “My concern is that the transaction you made on the house may be as misleading as this one.” He patted the folded newsprint beneath his palm.

Her anger flared. How had she been so duped? Was she a dunce, an imbecile?
Innocente!
Again she had trusted!

Glancing up, she saw the freighter who had destroyed her wagon. It had to be the same, his brown hair hanging to his shoulders, the mustache jaunty and full. He stood in the doorway looking like a Corsican pirate, even without a gold ring in his ear and a sash at his waist. He’d acted one, too. It was piracy he’d practiced on her, no matter his reasons. Her blood burned at the very sight of him.

He turned when the red-haired woman Mr. Beck had addressed as Mrs. Barton hastened to his side. She looked like a different woman, all sweetness and joy, the craggy sides of her mouth folded back around her smile, revealing long ferretlike teeth. “Quillan Shepard, bless you. You’ve brought my order?”

Quillan Shepard
. A rogue embodied, and this woman transformed from a silent malcontent to a doting aunt. Carina couldn’t help but stare. Bless him? How could anyone bless such a man?

Mrs. Barton took the box from him, no sign of her tight-lipped grimace now. “Have a seat, and I’ll fix you something hot before you take off again.”

He shook his head. “No thanks. No time for it.”

Of course not, Carina thought. He’s much too busy to perform normal human functions. Sustenance and kindness must not interfere with commerce for such a one.

“Well, you can’t take that pass on an empty stomach. If you won’t spare the time, I’ll pack something up.”

“It’s not necessary.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “I insist.”

Quillan Shepard’s sudden smile transformed him, though it was brief and a little indulgent. Carina fumed. She would not be taken in. A mouse who considers the smile of the snake is soon made dinner. She had been naive yesterday, but she was no longer. She turned away and caught Mr. Beck’s gaze. Had she betrayed her contempt?

Carina drained her cup, and Mr. Beck offered her more. She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He replaced the pot and threaded his fingers together. “Now then, if you accept my offer …”

“I accept.”

His face brightened, the brows pulling up abruptly like a marionette’s, the eyes wide and satisfied. “Good. Very good. As for compensation, the best I can do is pay your room and board and perhaps a dollar a week beyond.”

“Mr. Beck, you’re too kind.” Relief washed over her. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He raised her hand and kissed it. “I’m very sorry for your misfortune, Miss DiGratia. Whatever I can do to ease your situation … it’s my pleasure, I assure you.”

Carina felt the warmth of his lips on her fingers. “Thank you.” From the corner of her eye she saw Mrs. Barton tuck a wrapped parcel into Quillan Shepard’s hands.

“Will you come to the office now?” Mr. Beck’s breath lingered on her fingers.

Carina pulled her gaze from the now empty doorway. “I have an errand today.”

“Then have dinner with me.”

She laughed. “Mr. Beck, you are shameless.”

“Guilty where you are concerned, Miss DiGratia.” He stood and pulled out her chair.

Carina preceded him outside. The day had warmed, she saw, as she stepped into the sunlight. It would likely get as hot as yesterday, the heat with the strange sharpness she had not felt before. As Icarus flying too close to the sun, had she, too, melted her wings and was even now was falling to earth?

F
OUR

To rise to higher joy is to risk a deeper sorrow. Do I dare reach for the sun?

—Rose

C
ARINA WENT BACK
to her room and stripped the sheet from her bed. One look at the stains on the mattress made her wish she hadn’t. How Mamma would have scrubbed the ticking to keep it fresh. She balled the sheet under her arm and went downstairs.

“Where you heading with that bed sheet?” Mae called from behind the desk.

“I have some things to collect, but I won’t harm it.” Carina edged toward the door, wondering how it could matter.

“See that you don’t. Things come dear up here.”

If they were dear, why did Mae take such poor care of them? But it wasn’t for her to judge. She would be careful with the sheet, but she could think of no other way to take care of her business. Carina found Dom ready for her as Alan Tavish had promised. “I’ve no place to keep him at present. Will you board him for me?”

“Sure and don’t worry. He makes a fine companion in the wee hours.”

Did the rheumatism keep the old ostler awake? Carina took her eyes from the crab-apple knuckles. “I’ll likely have him all day. Is there a feed bag?”

Tavish shuffled to the wall and unhooked a bag, then filled it with oats. He then filled a water pouch and tucked them in one saddlebag while she shoved the sheet into the other. “There now. That’ll keep ‘im.”

“Thank you.” Leading Dom outside, she nearly collided with Quillan Shepard, coming for his horses, no doubt.

He stepped aside, and, with a snort, she tugged Dom’s rein and passed. Holding the mule steady, she mounted. The sooner she was gone the less likely her tongue—

“Miss DiGratia.”

She reined in and turned back to him. The fact that he remembered her name was more annoying than gratifying.

“If you need things replaced, I’ll pick them up for you.” His hair blew across his shoulders in the breeze.

“I will find whatever I need in the stores, thank you.”

“Not at my price.”

“Oh, I see. You mean to profit from throwing my things over.”

“If you buy directly from the wagon, I’ll charge you my cost only. If you go inside any store here, you’ll pay six times the rate.”

“Do you so gouge the shop owners that they must raise the prices so high?”

“Most of the cost of business up here is what it takes to get the goods from the train to the town. I think you have sense enough to see that.”

“Sense enough?”

“Well, anyone who takes up with Berkley Beck can’t have too much sense. Good day, Miss DiGratia.” He tipped his hat and went into the stable.

Carina kicked Dom harder than she intended, and he leaped forward. He kept the pace only a short while though, then slowed to his usual plod. The noon sun was peaking overhead when Carina approached the steep, narrow strip of trail that had cost her so much. The pitch of the rocky slope dropping away from the trail made her head swim before she even neared the edge.

Keeping her focus on the dusty trail, she made her way to the spot where the wagon had gone over. She dismounted, closed her eyes and gathered her nerve, then looked down the plummeting slope to the destruction below. Fragments of wood and fabric cluttered the rocks and sparse trees.

She was
pazza
to think of going down there. What if she fainted or blacked out? What if her vision blurred and her head spun? What if she, like her wagon, plunged … Carina pressed her hands to her face, then with renewed resolution squinted through her fingers.

Was that … it was! A crate wedged between a spindly tree and the boulder it sprang from. Could it be her books? It looked intact, and that excitement bolstered her. She pulled the sheet from Dom’s saddlebag and braved the edge. If she looked just where her feet were and no farther …

The first step was the worst. It was the only one she had to think about. After that she moved without thinking, sliding, catching herself, and sliding again. She scraped her palm and banged her elbow before grabbing hold of a handful of scrub and stopping her fall. She was only halfway to the ridge, but already she found the remains of the rocker.

It must have flown off before the wagon broke up. She lifted one rung and smoothed the dust off with her fingers. The ache started in her chest. They were only things. She had known when she started out she might lose them one way or another. It was just that she had come so close. And the rocker held such memories of Mamma rocking and crooning in its embrace.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked them away. Quillan Shepard. Could he not have added her things to his load? She had brought so little. Did Mr. Quillan Shepard think there was no room for even her meager lot? Would she have added so much to his horses’ toil?

Carina ran her hands down her blouse and skirt. Small boned.
Delicata
. Even though her angles had filled in as her mother promised they would, she lacked her sister’s soft plumpness. She stood only five foot four inches—hardly substantial. And her trunk, her crates, her few pieces of furniture … could it have been so much?

She sighed. She was tired and hot, bruised and scraped, and not in her right mind. But she was not going to be beaten. She would salvage whatever she could, and what was lost was lost.

Standing, she slid away from the scrub and landed on her backside. She should stay that way, but she couldn’t risk the only skirt she had left. With her hands spread to the sides for balance, she regained her feet and scrabbled down the slope to the ridge where the wagon had struck and gone to pieces.

Beyond that ridge the mountain dropped sheer to the creek bed below. The scene wavered. She felt herself falling and looked quickly away. It was only a trick of her mind. She must not let it confuse her, or she would indeed fall.

A short distance to her left, the lidless trunk lay on its side with a few items of clothing. One was the blue denim skirt she had sewn for the trip. It appeared sound, and she dropped it into the sheet with a camisole and blouse. The lace on the silk blouse was badly torn but maybe not past repair.

She made her way along the precarious ridge to the tree growing from the split boulder. There was indeed a crate of books wedged there, and while the crate was broken open, it hadn’t spilled its contents. Like a greedy child with a candy jar, she dug out every book and piled them into the sheet, then hung it on her shoulder and tugged.

At the weight of it, she nearly lost her footing. Carina dropped the bundle and groaned. She would never make it up the slope with it. That meant more than one trip up and down, again facing the chasm below. But would she rather lose her books? She peered up the steep expanse of rock, scattered pines, and pale golden grasses.

Her chest lurched. A figure appeared at the crest, his long shadow spreading down the slope like molasses. She closed her eyes. What a sight she must present to Mr. Quillan Shepard.

She settled in against the tree as he started down, not sliding in a straight line as she had, but cutting back and forth as he descended, keeping his footing and dislodging as little of the slope as possible. He could not have missed the fresh gash of rockslide and dirt she had left in her wake.

He came to a stop beside her and tipped the broad brim of his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”

“I don’t require your assistance.”

“It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” One corner of his mouth twitched. Was he mocking her with Mr. Beck’s words? What sort of man was he to gloat over her misfortune?

He looked back and forth along the ridge. “You’re scavenging your belongings?”

Narrowing her eyes, Carina raised her chin. “I do not scavenge.”

Frowning, he eyed the sheet tied up around what she had already found. “You can’t mean to haul that entire crate of books.”

“I do.”

He smiled crookedly—not at all the smile he’d given Mrs. Barton. “May I?” He reached for the sheet and, to her dismay, untied the top and reached in.

“If you drop so much as one book over, I’ll …”

“What?” He raised an eyebrow at her.

Carina imagined herself shoving him hard, over the edge and down. She saw the rush of air catch his hat, his hair flying up, and his arms wheeling as he plunged downward … The thought brought on a feeling of vertigo, and she turned away.

He pulled out a leather-bound copy of Dickens and flipped it open. “ ‘It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.’ ”

Carina brushed the loose strand of hair from her face. “That was my papa’s.”

He didn’t comment, only slipped the pack from his back, undid the leather clasp, and pulled it open. Then he moved the books from her sheet into the pack until it was full. Only four remained.

What was he doing? What was this gesture? A guilty conscience? He certainly had cause for one. “How did you know I was here?”

“Saw your mule.” He reached into the branches of the pine and retrieved a petticoat with eyelet trim.

Carina snatched it from him.

He shouldered the pack. “See what else you can get into that sheet. Don’t try to go up without me. From the looks of your trail down, you’re lucky your neck’s not broken already.” He started up, traversing the slope as he had before, as surefooted as a goat.

Leaving the sheet spread open on the ridge, Carina crept back along its edge to a clump of bushes. The small, fuzzy, gray-green leaves on the branches were thick with feathers where her mattress had met its end. The rest of the bedding must have gone over the edge, maybe even been carried away by the creek below. Hooking her arm around a spindly pine trunk beside the bush, she chanced a look down. There at the water’s edge was her iron headboard.

She swayed and regained her balance, then scooped up a shawl and camisole without even checking their condition. Farther along the edge, she found the shattered remains of two lamps, utterly useless, and a battered kettle, salvageable. One iron pot and its lid were caught in a bush, and she dug into the branches to retrieve her hand mirror.

It had been a gift from Papa for her sixteenth birthday. Cradling the smooth, curved frame in her palm, she caught her reflection, repeated in angular fragments by the slivers. The sun, glancing off the shards, pained her eyes, and she set the mirror on the shawl. It was useless, but she wouldn’t leave it there like so much rubbish.

Seeing nothing more, she carried her finds back to the sheet. There she laid the pot and kettle and mirror among the remaining books as Mr. Shepard returned. The camisole and petticoat she tucked under the skirt, blouse, and shawl, unwilling to give him a second glimpse of her lacy whites.

He eyed the large iron pot, then bent and worked it into his pack along with the lid. “There’s a ladle behind you, and I’d wager that box holds silver.”

Carina spun, crouched down beside the bush he indicated, and clapped her hands together, forgetting everything in her excitement. “It is! It’s Nonna’s silver, and …” As she reached, the ladle slid off the edge and sailed down … down …

Her head spun, and she felt the box slipping from her fingers. Something gripped her arms, then her waist.

“Whoa, lady, don’t faint here.”

Coming to her senses, she shook off Quillan Shepard’s arms. “I do not faint. It’s … high places.”

He looked over the edge, and she felt her insides jelly.

“Please.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Don’t lean.”

Again he crooked an eyebrow. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Carina turned away. How Flavio had taunted … until he saw it truly hurt her. She dropped her chin. What should it matter? She could live with it. What business was it of anyone else’s?

Mr. Shepard eyed the slope up. “You must have wanted your things awfully bad.”

She didn’t answer, knowing tears would choke her voice. She stooped down and fingered a broken shard of china. Her blue willow plate. He heaved the pack to his back and climbed again without further comment.

Buono
. She wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth by refusing his help, but she wanted none of his sympathy, if he was even capable of that. She searched the ground on either side, but there was nothing else. Carefully she laid her nonna’s box of silver forks, knives, and spoons on the sheet, then tied it tightly. She hauled it to her shoulder and looked up. With a deep breath, she started to climb.

It was not as easy as Quillan Shepard made it look, but she followed his example, going at an angle and keeping her feet sideways to the slope. At least she did not have to see the drop below. The worst part was turning to cut back the opposite way. Each time, she lost ground and sent the dirt cascading down. Once she caught herself with an outstretched hand to keep from going with it.

“Hold up.” Quillan Shepard left no room for argument.

She stopped climbing and waited for him to meet her. When he reached for the filled sheet, she handed it over but couldn’t resist saying, “I’m not helpless.”

He shouldered the sheet. “Now keep upslope from me, and I’ll break your fall if you come loose.”

Near the top there was no choice but to scrabble with hands and feet. Carina reached up. Suddenly Quillan Shepard thrust her aside with the back of his arm, caught her on his knee, and fired the gun that flashed from his holster.