The Rose Legacy (45 page)

Carina stood up and stretched. Carrying the book with her, she walked to the entrance of the mine and looked into its darkness. She had no desire to go farther or see the shaft down which she’d fallen. She turned from the hole in the mountain and started back up the slope. Beside the gravestone, she sat down and returned to the journal.

March 15, 1851 What is a lie but a shade of the truth? Yet I am the basest of liars to think I would end my life because of the life inside me. It grows stronger each day, defying the shame with which it was conceived. Because it lives—I live. I am bound to the child inside by a force beyond my control, and it shames me to say I’m glad for it. What monster could kill the child of her womb even if she hates her own self for conceiving it?

Tonight I leave. For I will not bring the shame upon my house, my loving father and mother. It would break their hearts.

Carina thought of her own parents. Mamma and Papa. What would they think of her? What would they say to her marriage? In marrying Quillan, she had gone outside her people, not sought her papa’s permission, Mamma’s blessing. Could they understand? Did she?

March 19, 1851 I am lost and despair of being found. Believing a lie, I severed myself from all that mattered, leaving only the one within me to share my fate. Where will I go? What will I do? Who will take me in, wretched child of sin? I am wholly unclean.

No, Carina thought. You were deceived. You participated in your ruin, but God is bigger than that. Only see the grace He offers. That grace even now brought Carina peace when the fear might overwhelm her. God had extended to her a mercy so deep and encompassing she longed to share it with Rose, to infuse it onto the page and have it change what happened.

March 25, 1851 I am become most despised. Even the result of my forbidden love could not remain within me to be born alive. Had it done so, it would have looked upon its mother’s face in shame.

Carina started. the baby died? Then it wasn’t Quillan at all. She expelled her breath and looked at the gravestone nestled into the grass and tangled vines of the mountain. What are you telling me, Rose?

March 26, 1851 My mind is a blind guide. Why did I follow? I lie awake and wonder why did I listen, why couldn’t I see? Why did I risk everything for a lie? And more than that, why did I give my heart to the child of my folly? I am weary. I fear my feet will never light, for I bear the stigma of my deed. Though my condition will never show now, my own heart convicts me.

“Go home,” Carina whispered to the faded and water-stained page. “They will forgive you. God will forgive you. Live, Rose. I want you to live.” She took up the book and pressed it to her chest. “I want you to live!”

T
HIRTY-TWO

How does one accept a miracle? Humbly.

—Rose

T
HEY’D MADE EXCELLENT TIME
, but D.C. looked fatigued when they reached Fairplay an hour past noon. Quillan guessed the trip had been too much for him so soon after a serious injury. He jumped down from the box and circled around. D.C. didn’t want his help, but he’d be there if the boy lost his balance. He looked pale enough when he lighted.

“You all right?”

D.C. nodded.

Quillan gripped his shoulder. “Get us a room. Tell them it’s Quillan Shepard and they’ll have something.”

“I can help….”

“No sense pushing it. Get the room and lie down.”

“This morning I thought I never wanted to see a bed again.”

Quillan smiled. “Well, one’s calling you now.”

D.C. didn’t argue. He headed off for the Fairplay House, and Quillan got to work. The purpose of this trip might be to remove him from Crystal while Masterson handled Beck, but he’d make it a profitable one anyway. Buying from the merchants at Fairplay left little margin for profit. But if he was shrewd, he’d garner something.

It felt good to occupy himself. He thrived on work, hauling the heavy bags of grain, the barrels of flour and sugar and salt, straining with the box of steels and feeling the muscles in his back and arms and legs. Only when the wagon was fully loaded and the tarp tied down did he relax. And now he was hungry. He’d collect D.C. and get them a decent meal.

D.C. was asleep, but when Quillan touched his shoulder and suggested food, the boy came wide awake. He seemed to have profited greatly from the nap and sat up eagerly. “As Daddy always says, ‘My belly button’s sayin’ howdy to my backbone.’ ”

“Then let’s put some distance between them.”

D.C. did the meal justice. Quillan remembered being that voracious. It hadn’t been that long for him. But as he ate the mediocre fare, he thought of the meal Carina had cooked him. Beyond the delight of her company, the food had made a memorable impression. She had a gift and a heart for it.

He considered for a moment that he could have that sort of meal every night if he chose. She was his wife. All he had to do was pick up the sorts of things he’d gotten for her before and … He stopped the thought and stared at the mealy cornbread and chuck roast before him.

“Aren’t you hungry?” D.C. looked covetous.

Quillan slid him the plate. “Have at it.”

“You sure?”

“No, D.C., I’m going to knock you on the head if you touch it.” As soon as the words were out, he realized how inappropriate they were. He flushed with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He forked the hair back from his face.

“It’s okay.” D.C. slid the plate close and started shoveling. “I guess you’re missing Carina.”

Quillan scowled. He couldn’t exactly argue, because with D.C.’s words he’d felt an acute ache inside. Yes, he missed her. He wished she were there that minute so he could grab her into his arms and show her … show her what? That he hadn’t meant to hurt her? That he loved her. Yes, he loved her. He pushed back from the table, suddenly tight all over.

D.C. waved his fork. “In some ways, you and I are alike.”

Quillan glared. He wasn’t in the mood for D.C. to philosophize.

“I mean I never knew my mother, and you—”

“D.C.”

The boy looked up.

“Shut your mouth and eat your food.”

D.C. grinned. “That’s one of those things Daddy would say. How can you eat if you shut your mouth?”

Quillan gave him a look that said more than words.

“You’re ornerier than I thought. Must be missing her awful bad.”

Quillan was making a fool of himself to a kid too wet behind the ears to … and then he recalled that D.C.’s experience exceeded his own, if you considered his visits to Hall Street. Quillan shuddered inside. It was an ugly thought.

He slid his chair out and stood. “Put the bill on the room.” Then he walked out.

The tension wouldn’t leave him, however. As he stalked through the streets of Fairplay, Quillan felt tighter and tighter. Something wasn’t right. Yes, he was exasperated with D.C. and angry with himself for doing something so utterly stupid in marrying Carina. But it was more. It was as he’d felt the night William Evans was killed. A feeling of impending doom.

It sounded overly dramatic even to himself. What could happen? Masterson would be quietly amassing his men even now. They’d be arming themselves and passing the word to their friends and partners. Crystal had reached the breaking point, and the moment Beck tried anything, there’d be a force arrayed against him he couldn’t imagine.

So why did Quillan chafe? What was he missing? And then it struck him. Berkley Beck was not the kind to take his insult lying down. Yet there’d been no response whatever to the wedding. Was Beck brooding over some particularly nasty revenge?

A chill found him even in the afternoon heat. Quillan stopped walking and stood with dread immobilizing his legs. Would Beck commit one last heinous act before going down in defeat? A surge of fear rushed him. Carina? His throat grew tight, hands clenched at his sides.

He turned on his heel and rushed back to the Fairplay House. D.C. stood outside on the porch surveying the town. Quillan strode up and gripped his shoulder. He turned him and shoved some bills into his hand. “Cancel the room, D.C. We’re not staying the night.”

“We’re not?”

But Quillan was already crossing to the livery. He found the ostler wrangling with a customer and shouldered his way in. “I need to leave my wagon. And I need two horses, your freshest and best.” Because he had a relationship with Ferguson, the man turned from the difficult customer and nodded.

“Park the wagon inside. I’ll have two animals saddled and ready.”

The customer began blustering, but Quillan was half running out the door. He maneuvered the wagon, already full and ready for the drive up, into the back of the livery. But Quillan didn’t care what he lost from it. He paid Ferguson and led the two geldings outside to the street where D.C. waited.

He gave the boy a serious look-over. “Can you make the ride up? Maybe I should have let you keep the room.”

“I can make it. What’s happened?”

“Nothing that I know of. Just a feeling.”

D.C. didn’t laugh. He took the reins of the bay and mounted. “Daddy said to listen when you had a feeling. He said God talks to you.”

Frowning, Quillan mounted. He couldn’t explain the urgency he felt, but he wouldn’t believe it was God. They weren’t on speaking terms.

Cain hobbled into the livery where Alan Tavish stood at the open doors, rubbing his chin with slow strokes.

“Now, what would the lass be about …?”

While Sam circled, then settled at his feet, Cain followed Alan’s gaze up the gulch. He saw no sign of a lass. Did he mean Quillan’s bride? “What are you gawkin’ at?”

Alan sighed and turned. “Sure and it’s nothin’. But Miss DiGratia’s away up the gulch there.”

“Mrs. Quillan Shepard, you mean. Did Quillan give you any indication a’tall he meant to marry her?”

Alan grinned. “None that he intended, mind ye.”

Cain raised his brows.

“Cain, are ye blind, man? He’s smitten sure.”

“No.” Cain slipped the crutches from under his arms and settled onto a barrel. “I’d have seen if he were smitten.”

“Not if ye weren’t lookin’. But then ye’ve had other concerns.”

“True enough. Still, I’m not easy in my mind about this. Seems awful suddenlike.”

“ ’Tis.” Alan nodded. He pulled his pipe from his pocket, tapped it, and lit the tobacco that half filled the bowl.

“It’s a sorry thing when a man, who you consider a son, falls in love right under your nose, and you take no notice a’tall,” Cain stated.

“Aye. But then Quillan’s not like other men. T’wouldn’t surprise me if he’s fightin’ himself over it all.”

Cain considered that. “That would explain his sour face this morning.”

“And the way he barked at me, then apologized as though t’were St. Michael himself he’d offended.” Alan laughed. “The man’s in love, but he’s not sure he wants to be.”

“What about her?” Cain waved toward the woman somewhere up the gulch. “Does she love him?”

“Aye.”

Cain slapped his knee. “You know what I think? I think there’s a heap of romance wanderin’ around in your head that just wants a place to fix.”

Alan drew on his pipe. “ ’Tis possible. But I dinna think so.”

Cain leaned as far out the door as he could. “What else have these old eyes missed? You seen Beck?”

Alan swiveled his head. “Bit queer, that. Saw him last evenin’ with a face like thunder. Sure and t’was for Quillan stealin’ his bride.”

A sight Cain would have relished himself.
Not that I take pleasure in misfortune, but even King David appreciated how the wicked had fallen
.

Alan puffed smoke from the side of his mouth. “I have’na seen him since.”

“Think he cleared out?”

Alan shook his head.

Frowning, Cain said, “Quillan expected he’d respond, don’t ya know.”

“Aye. With the town ready when he did.”

“Well, Beck’s just weasel enough to save his own tail and let the others roast.”

“I dinna think he’s gone. I’d wager he’s away inside there, thinkin’ thoughts as no one wants to know.”

Cain reached for his crutches, and Sam’s head came up. “Let him stay there till they come and haul ‘im off to justice.” He pulled himself up on the crutches, and his dog leaped up, willing and ready. Cain worried Sam’s ears. “Nothing like a dawg for pure devotion.”

Alan smiled. “Sure, the dumb creatures know best.” He tapped his temple. “Dinna think they don’t.”

Cain hobbled outside, squinting in the brightness. God sure knew what he was about when he made dogs. But just now Sam circled him, making every swing of the crutches difficult. “What’re you doin’, you fool dawg? Heel now.”

Sam moved obediently behind but whined about it. Cain grinned. “You’ve gotten spoiled, don’t ya know.” He swung himself out past the livery to the backside of the new smithy. He nodded to the giant Swede inside, arms bare and slick with sweat. Then he passed on. Halfway behind the bootier, his dog began to growl. Cain stopped and half turned when he heard the swish, then the blow tumbled him down.

April 31, 1851 If there is a hell I have found it. Yet here I find a welcome, and the price is no more than I paid to lose everything before. Placerville. I rode up today in a wagon filled with wretched men. My heart quakes at what lies ahead. But I forsook all for my lover’s embrace and his fleeting devotion. I have chosen my part, and now it remains to see how well I can play the fool.

The shadows grew long and Carina knew she should think about returning to town, but she felt so reluctant to leave the site of this lonely marker, this mountain grave. How could she mourn someone she never knew? Yet she did. She had felt the affinity before she loved Quillan, felt it the first time she rode up to the Rose Legacy mine. Did Rose reach out to her from the grave? Was that possible?

She thought of the tale Fisher had told of the child, Jessie Rae, playing her mandolin on dark rainy nights. Did these mountains hold the souls that passed here? Did they roam after dark? Did Rose and Wolf remain in an embrace that forever bound them to this earthly realm?