The Rose Legacy (43 page)

D.C. hung his head. “I know that, but … I just wondered if it was different from, well … you know, the Hall Street gals.”

Quillan swallowed the alum in his throat. “I couldn’t say, as I’ve never been with the Hall Street gals.”

“Never?” D.C. squinted up at him. “Not even in another city?”

Quillan shook his head.

“Why not?”

Quillan stared at the white line of road ahead, tasting the dust from their wheels. The horses’ backs rolled and shifted with the step of each hoof. The leather reins were supple and smooth in his hands. “I guess it’s because of my mother.”

“She told you to stay away from that sort of woman?”

“No.” He met D.C.’s eyes. “She was that sort of woman.” He saw the impact that had on D.C.’s brain.

The boy’s throat worked. “Oh. I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

Quillan’s mouth quirked. “It’s all right. I just couldn’t see my way clear to giving someone else the kind of start I had.”

“Then last night was …”

“D.C.”

“Sorry. It’s just … I wish I’d done it that way. I mean, if I ever do take a wife, I’d like it to be, well, special.”

That sent a pang more painful yet through Quillan. Special. The word recalled all the gentleness, the taking and giving, the touching and learning. The wonder of the woman he’d known last night, the joy she’d awakened … and the terror.

D.C. hung his head. “Now that I’ve come to Jesus, it just seems all the things I’ve done wrong are awful clear to me.”

Quillan tugged D.C.’s hat brim down. “That’ll teach you.”

D.C. laughed. “Maybe. But the funny thing is, even though I’m more clear on what I did wrong, it don’t bother me so much. I mean, I might wish it different, but it don’t weigh on me like it did before.”

Quillan drew a long breath and released it slowly. “Well, that’s good, D.C.”

“Daddy says you won’t come to Jesus cuz you don’t want to give up control of your life.”

So now D.C. was going to rub the raw spot. Quillan should have never let him climb up. “Well, it took too long to get control.” He flicked a grasshopper from his thigh. “I’d like to keep it awhile.”

“I don’t think we ever really have control. I mean all kinds of stuff happens, and we can’t do a thing about it.”

Quillan just digested that.

“Like the flood. It seemed as though that was a terrible thing. And it might have been worse if you hadn’t warned us. Even so, it looked like we lost everything. Then come to find out it opened up the New Boundless. You know what Daddy said?”

“I can imagine.”

“He said God works all things for the good of those who love Him. And that’s just how it was. God took a bad thing and made it good.”

Quillan pictured Carina in the mine shaft, broken and delirious. The feel of her tied up against him, and again in his arms under the moonlight … Was that when it happened? When he’d kept her alive with the heat of his own body? He thought of the meal they’d shared, and her stories, the motion of her hands, her laugh. Inwardly he groaned.

D.C. swatted a fly. “So it seems if you have no control over the big things, why try to control the little ones? Why not just hand it all over?”

Hand it all over. Not a chance. “You ever thought of becoming a preacher?”

D.C. wagged his head. “Haven’t really thought of becoming anything. Got stuck being a miner, and freighting’s worse.”

Quilla hunched over the reins. “Well, you ought to consider it. Your mouth’s the best exercised muscle you have.”

Father Antoine strode purposely in pursuit of his brother. He had held some hope that Henri could not have done to Èmie such a brutal and senseless thing. But when he failed to return all night, whatever doubts Antoine had were squelched.

Now he made his way up the steep slope, his mind filled with other times he’d followed that path, hardly more than a deer track now to the old shack he’d find at the end. Henri had never brought much out of this hole, less even than his current mine in Crystal. But he’d never been one for honest labor.

Antoine looked up. Something told him the old Placerville mine was where he’d find his brother. A surge of passion too dangerous to indulge filled him.
Please God, give me wisdom and compassion
. He wanted to kill.

In his heart he knew the feelings of a murderer. He wanted to beat Henri as the man had beaten Èmie, blow for blow, pain for pain.

Waves of remorse and self-loathing filled him. He had failed to reach Henri, and now his heart was as dark as his brother’s.
Forgive my wickedness. Let me not fail you now. Your will, oh, Lord …
The sharp report of a gun echoed from the mountain above. Antoine staggered, staring up at the shack. It had sounded like a shotgun, but he saw no one afield.

Trembling, he ran the rest of the path and burst through the door. There was a smell of cheap whiskey and a more potent smell of blood. Henri lay there, blood pumping from his side. His hand sprawled, grasping at the air above the shotgun; his mouth worked soundlessly.

Antoine rushed over and dropped to his side. “Henri! Oh, Henri …” Futilely he pressed his hand to the pumping flesh, knowing it wouldn’t be stanched. Henri’s side was a sieve his life was slipping through.

Henri drew a rattling breath. “It was me. I did it. Èmie …” He moaned. “And Evans. And …” Foaming blood covered his lips from shattered lungs. His eyes rolled. “And all those years ago … it wasn’t Wolf.”

Pain seared Antoine’s own chest. He pulled Henri’s head into his lap. He’d known, somewhere deep inside he’d known.

“The first time … an accident. I … lost control. Angry. So angry.” He coughed the blood from his throat. “I’ll burn. Just like Wolf. I’ll burn.”

Antoine recalled himself. “Do you ask God’s pardon of your sins?” He gripped his brother’s face. “Henri?”

Slowly Henri nodded, his eyes blinking closed, then opening again with a thick, dull expression.

“Then know they are forgiven you.” The priest pulled the small vial of blessed water from his coat. Dabbing his thumb, he signed the cross on Henri’s forehead.
“In nomine Patris, et Fili, et Spiritu Sancti.”
But Henri was gone.

Sorrow filled him as Antoine sat stroking his brother’s brow as the blood congealed and the flesh grew cold.

T
HIRTY-ONE

There is a God, and he is merciful. He has looked upon an unworthy soul with pity and filled my heart with joy.

—Rose

C
ARINA CREPT AWAY
from Èmie’s cabin and headed for the creek. Except for visiting Èmie, she meant to avoid any place Mr. Beck’s roughs might look for her. She half expected Berkley Beck himself to spring up without warning as he had the day before. Before she married Quillan.

She jumped at a sound and looked over her shoulder, but it was a crow cracking a beetle on a rock. She stayed to the shadows and edges, but then she supposed those were the more likely places Beck’s men might be lurking. Raising her chin defiantly, she hurried through the last of the buildings and entered the tent city. If Mr. Beck had her followed, she’d stay where the miners could hear her.

Then Carina realized how ludicrous it was to think anyone would hear her over the mining din. Work was not suspended simply because her life was turned upside down. No one cared that Quillan had married, then deserted her, that Berkley Beck would be furious, if for no other reason than that it was Quillan who’d spited him.

She was nothing but a pawn between them, as she’d been from the start. Was there anything left of her pride? First Flavio, now Quillan. Was she not worth loving? She walked along the edge of the creek, alone with only the voice of the running water. The air smelled of goldenrod and pine, a fresh relief from the stench of Crystal, yet it failed to cheer her.

“Praying for deliverance?”
Did Quillan know how those words would hurt? Was he speaking his own wish to be free of her? His regret at taking her for his wife? She pressed her hands to the tight knot in her belly. Had she so disappointed him?

She dropped to her knees on a flat boulder at the water’s edge and thought of Èmie. Even in her pain, Èmie had no condemnation, only forgiveness. She felt compassion for her friend, for her uncle. Carina was sure now it was Henri Charboneau who beat Èmie. Why else had he not shown his face since?

Yet Èmie didn’t condemn him, didn’t want him punished, didn’t long for revenge. Carina dropped her face into her hand. Had she ever loved that way? So selflessly? She let her hand fall, then reached down and felt the chill as the water met and leaped over her fingers. She rubbed the water over her face, cooling the shame in her cheeks. Yes, she was ashamed.

She was a spoiled, headstrong woman, unwilling to forgive the injuries, real and imagined, against her. She closed her eyes. She’d become small and selfish. She’d come to Crystal, not at God’s beckoning, but to satisfy her own spite. Now …

“Justice is more noble than vengeance, and far above both is mercy.”
Father Antoine.
“You must be washed in the blood of the risen Lamb.”
Preacher Paine.
“God doesn’t allow anything that isn’t for my good.”
Èmie. Carina clenched her hands. Had all this heartache been for her good? She looked up to the sky, saw the eagle circling.
God’s signature
.

“He is all and in all.”
In her? In Divina? In Flavio? Were they all bound somehow together? Each person, Quillan and Èmie and Father Antoine? Even Wolf and Rose? Was it a cloth that included them all, that each thread could weaken?

She drew a weary breath. “Signore, show me what to do. Show me how to know you.” Tears stung her eyes.

Forgive
. Again she heard it. The same as in the darkness of the shaft. Could it be so simple? Her heart jerked inside her. Did she want to? Forgive Flavio? And Divina? Divina.

Her heart ached. Divina had been deceived, had given in to Flavio’s desires. She could only hope he would do the right thing for her. Carina closed her eyes and pressed her knotted hands to her breast. “Signore … I surrender. Please forgive the words I said, the anger I harbored for Flavio and my sister. I forgive them.”

She felt the weight leave her heart and breathed freely. The pain that had lodged in her chest was replaced by a peace more sustaining than any she’d known. How could she feel that way with so much trouble yet to face? But there was a presence so near, so empowering, it swept away the fear.

She no longer desired vengeance. Father Charboneau spoke truly. Vengeance was wrong. Justice was right, but more noble was mercy. She could see that now and even want it.
Grazie, Signore
. It was His presence she felt. God was more than she’d thought Him, closer than she’d believed possible.
All, and in all
. If only she would let Him be.

She thought of D.C.’s prayer, his humbling himself and admitting his need. Tears came to her eyes. Still on her knees, she bowed her head. “Signore,
Gesù Cristo
, I’m not worthy.” She thought of Preacher Paine. “Wash me clean in the blood of the Lamb, the blood you shed for my sins. I give you my life.”

She dipped trembling fingers into the water. She had been baptized at birth, and she was thankful for that. She had known God, and in her own way honored Him, each day presenting herself in prayer, even if they were pettish and childish prayers. Now she felt a connection, like family, only deeper, more reverent, to Him, to God.

She drew her fingers out and signed herself with the cross, the cross that Christ had borne for her. With her fingers on her forehead, “
In nomine Patri
.”
In the name of the Father, Almighty God
. And on her heart, “
Et Fili
.”
The Son, the Savior, the Christ
. From shoulder to shoulder. “
Et Spiritu Sancti
.”
The Holy Spirit. The power that restored
.

She felt it now, the restoring power, inside her where the ache had twisted around her heart. She felt the healing presence breaking down the anger, the hurt, the need to hurt back. On her knees beside the creek, she felt the sun’s warmth on her face, though the air beside the water was cool. She heard the
too-whit
of a mountain bird somewhere in the trees, saw the flash of a blue-bodied dragonfly.

All around her was beauty, God’s handiwork. And it was good, so good. She clasped her hands tightly beneath her chin. “Grazie Signore. Grazie.” She got to her feet on the soft pale grasses. The pungent scent of the yellow goldenrod stung her nostrils.

Then she thought again of Quillan. That hurt was fresh and raw. Even now she burned with the humiliation of his words. But something in it made no sense. He couldn’t have been who he was with her last night and also who he seemed to be this morning. It was like their time on the mountain, then their time at dinner. It was the closeness that made him cruel. If only she could understand why.

She looked up the gulch. She couldn’t see it, but it was there, the Rose Legacy. Did she dare venture up alone? What more could she possibly learn from the vacant tunnel, the burnt foundation? How would it help her know Quillan? She sighed. It was as good a place to hide from Berkley Beck as any—if she could get out of Crystal undetected.

Well, Alan Tavish had promised his help. Maybe now she would ask it. She slipped into the back doors of the livery and found him instructing the boy on how to stroke the curry brush. She waited until he caught sight of her. “I’d like to take the mare up the gulch.”

Alan Tavish frowned, not with displeasure but concern. “I dinna think it wise, lass.” He tucked the curry into the boy’s hand and patted his shoulder. “Gently, now.” Then he came out of the stall to meet her. “What is it that takes you away up there?”

His question surprised her. Had Quillan not told him of the mine? “The Rose Legacy.”

He stared at her a long minute, his eyes like soft green stones with a milky edge. “Why, lass? What good can that piece of cursed ground do ye?”

“It isn’t cursed. It’s … I don’t know how to say it. I just need to go.” She pressed a fist to her breastbone.

Tavish shrugged. “As you wish.”

That was the first bridge crossed. Now, “Maybe would you have some trousers I could borrow?”

His old head shot up, his expression exactly what she’d expected.

“No one will notice me if I ride out as a boy.”

Tavish shook his head. “No one could mistake you for a boy, lassie.”

“Maybe not if they looked closely, but who will bother with one more body on horseback plodding through the melee?”

He wanted to argue, but the boy spoke from the stall. “She could take my hat.” He motioned to the flat-brimmed felt hat similar to Quillan’s that hung on the stall post. “Shove her hair all up inside.”

Carina had to smile at a fellow conspirator. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny.”

“Would you lend me your hat, Johnny?”

He nodded. “Sure. Are you hiding from the roughs?”

“Something like that.”

Tavish mumbled something, then hung his head resignedly. “Let’s see what I have.” He tossed things about in his sleeping room, then emerged with a pair of trousers, well worn in the seat, and a bulky shirt. “Change in there, and we’ll see how these work.”

Carina closed the door behind her, stripped down to her lacy whites, and pulled on the men’s clothing. It was not unheard of for a woman to wear pants, especially in the West, but Carina had never donned them before. The trousers were hopelessly large at the waist, though close enough in length.

She searched the room for a length of soft rope and found a piece that wound about her three times. That both held the pants and added bulk where she was lacking. The shirt was oversized enough to hide her curves, old and ugly enough to escape notice. Satisfied, she went out.

Tavish shook his head at once, but when she braided her hair and pulled it up inside the hat, he admitted, “I wouldn’a thought it, but dressed like that your own mother wouldn’t know ye.”

Carina smiled and winked at the boy. “I’ll return your hat here.”

He just nodded and went back to currying the gelding. Alan Tavish had prepared the mare while she changed, and Carina took her now, not out the back as she’d come in, but through the front doors and into the street. The best way to hide was in the open. She felt a surging confidence as she blended into the flow of mule trains, wagons, and men.

Some people glanced, but no one looked twice. The brim of the hat shadowed her face and muted her features. Without her skirts to show her a woman, no one gave her a thought. Carina wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but under the circumstances …

She made it out of Crystal without incident, amazed at the relief she felt. The town had weighted her down more than she’d known. There seemed a brooding, a massing tension, though on the surface all was normal. Maybe it was her imagination.

The little mare carried Carina past the emptiness of Placerville to the slope that led upward, climbing with spry hooves. Now that she was alone, thoughts of Quillan crowded in. She might be right with God, but she was anything but right with her husband.

She passed the Gold Creek Mine and the spring where Quillan had watered the horses. Maybe she should not have pressed him to go farther. Maybe he would not have despised her this morning. But it was on farther, at the Rose Legacy, that he had listened and then kissed her for it.

She shook her head. How could she make sense of his complexity? She bit her lip, trying hard not to feel betrayed. He had wounded her, yes, but why? If she could only understand. She came to the landing of the Rose Legacy, but she wasn’t alone. “Father?”

The priest sat on the stone foundation overlooking the plunging slope. His hands hung empty from arms rested on his knees. He looked up, his face gray and rutted as though he had outlived the vigor he’d once possessed. He showed no surprise at her attire, no interest in her at all.

Carina brought the mare to a halt. What was he doing there, so grim and bleak? She slid from the horse and crossed the distance between them. “What is it, Father? Are you hurt?”

He let his head hang, too heavy for his neck. “Not in body.”

“What’s happened? Did you find Henri?”

He groaned, caught his head between his hands, and nodded.

Carina spun and searched the woods about them. Was Henri Charboneau near? “Where is he?”

“Dead. By his own hand.”

Carina dropped down to the foundation beside the priest, understanding now his condition. “You were too late.”

“To save his life.” He looked up now.

She stared into Father Antoine’s face. “His soul?”

“He made his confession. Threw himself on God’s mercy, God rest him.”

Carina clasped her hands in her lap. Surely that was enough. God’s promise extended to the last breath. Yet the priest’s desolation was complete. Did he mourn him so deeply? Or had that confession, as Èmie feared, destroyed Father Antoine’s peace? Had Henri admitted killing William Evans?

Father Antoine sighed. “I knew. I never had proof, but inside I knew. Yet I let Wolf take the blame, coward that I was. I couldn’t bear to have people know that my own brother …”

Was he wandering? Why did he speak of Wolf?

“And when all the town would have lynched Wolf, I spoke the voice of reason. There was no witness. He couldn’t be convicted. Leave the man in peace.”