The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (4 page)

Horace Tabor took up the papers and fitted a pair of pince-nez to his nose.

As he scrutinized the numbers, Quillan pointed to a column beside the first. “This much is my partner’s. I wired him about selling. I haven’t heard back, but I’m guessing he will if I do. He’s in seminary.”

Tabor chuckled. “Plenty of clergy striking it rich all through these mountains. Isn’t there a priest . . . Father Charboneau?”

“Performed my marriage ceremony,” Quillan said. “But as to striking it rich . . .”

Tabor’s smile took a reflective curve. “Well, that was years ago. He’s likely given it all away.”

Quillan’s curiosity was piqued, as Tabor knew it would be. “As far as I know, he travels like an apostle with nothing but cloak and sandals,” Quillan stated.

“As I said, it was years ago. But he yelled eureka with the rest of us. Panned enough to weight his pockets and then some. Went through his fingers like water to anyone in need, though.”

Quillan wondered. Had his parents been among those who received the priest’s gold? Surely Father Charboneau would have helped his niece if he still had a stash. He wouldn’t hoard it while she and her uncle Henri were barely getting by. Of course Èmie was now married to Dr. Simms, and Henri Charboneau . . . Fresh rage seized him.

Henri Charboneau had allowed Wolf to take the blame for a heinous murder, and even Quillan had believed his father, the man they called Wolf, a monster. But Henri was dead by his own hand, and his confession had cleared Wolf. Old legends died hard, though. In the minds of most in Crystal, Wolf still howled in the hills, and many a grizzly retelling of his tale would continue.

“So you’re selling out.” Tabor laid the papers down. “By the looks of it, the mine’s doing well. Why sell?”

“Carina wants to go home.” That was most of it. He’d never wanted the mine, and though it had made him a rich man, he felt no sorrow leaving it, except if he thought of Cain and all the mine had meant to him. But Quillan still smarted with thoughts of his old friend Cain. That loss was fresh and raw even though he no longer blamed himself. God had freed him of that. It was also the part the mine played in Carina’s attack.

Tabor studied him a moment, then turned to his wife. “Augusta, tell him how many times you’ve wanted to go home.”

“I don’t really think that’s the point.”

Quillan folded his napkin and laid it across his plate. The maid took it away, and Quillan threaded his fingers in its place. “Carina has good reason. I’m taking her to her family in California.”

“And then?” Tabor’s question was sincere.

“I don’t know. Learn the lay of the land, I guess. Never been to California. Heard about it some.”

Tabor slapped his thigh. “I tell you, Quillan, you’re more like me all the time.”

“God help Carina.” Augusta’s tone was dry, but there was affection in her eyes, affection borne of her own inner strength and Horace Tabor’s engaging temperament. She loved him, that was clear; it was a comfortable, staid kind of love. Quillan wondered if his fiery relationship with Carina would ever calm to that.

“As for this,” Tabor flicked the papers and included Makepeace in the discussion, “let’s play with some figures.”

The terms were much to Makepeace and Tabor’s favor. Horace Tabor was shrewd and Quillan close to indifferent. He’d never considered the mine his, but he had D.C., Cain’s son, to think of, as well. Whatever fight he put up was more for D.C.’s sake than his own. All his belief that money would make him somebody had been washed away by the flood, and he was almost thankful, now, that it had happened.

Still, Tabor was fair, and Quillan stood to walk away from these dealings a very rich man. He could give Carina most anything—
if
she stopped chucking his gifts off to Èmie Charboneau Simms. He thought of the package nestled away among the other goods he’d purchased in Leadville, then brought his attention back to Tabor’s outstretched hand. He gripped it firmly.

“You know you could get more from the consolidated operators right there in Crystal.” Tabor’s bulging mustache bounced with each word.

“I know.”

“You have personal reasons for doing it this way?”

Quillan glanced at Makepeace, who’d been almost a silent contender through it all. “I have.”

“Well, Quillan, you’re an odd bird, but I like you. I’ve liked you from the start, and it’s a pleasure to do business with you. And Mr. Makepeace.”

“You’ll stay here tonight, won’t you?” Augusta included both of them in her gaze.

Alex Makepeace spoke first. “I’ve already acquired a room, ma’am. But I thank you for your offer.” He stood. “I’ll take leave now, with your permission.”

Quillan stood with Tabor and Augusta. He was not sorry to see Makepeace go, though things had progressed amicably. Once the man had gone, Quillan turned to Augusta. “I’d be pleased to accept your offer.”

“And have a glass of port with me.” Tabor walked to the glass cabinet, which held his decanters.

“Thank you, no.” Quillan smiled. “But I will have coffee if it’s available.”

“Teetotaler, are you?” Tabor paused at the cabinet.

Quillan shrugged. “I have a difficult drive tomorrow.”

“Well, bring him some coffee, Augusta. I’m going to pick his brain while I’ve got him cornered.”

Quillan grinned. He liked Hod Tabor. But then, most people did. The man had a magnetism and generosity and good humor that were hard to resist. But he had another reason for speaking with Tabor alone. “I’d like that letter of introduction we spoke of in Denver.”

“DeMornays?” Tabor had a good memory.

Quillan nodded. “If it’s possible they’re my mother’s people, I’d like to make their acquaintance before I leave the area for good.”

“Understandable.” Tabor held his port a moment, then sipped. “All right, then.” He took a sheet of stationery from the escritoire.

Quillan had turned down the introduction the last time they talked. But things had changed; he’d changed.

Tabor scrawled something, then folded the letter. “Might find him a bit of a stuffed shirt. Railroad baron, you know.”

Quillan quirked a brow.

“Then again, that’s my impression.”

“Well, Hod—”

“Actually, I misspoke.” Tabor handed him the letter. “Make your own judgment.”

Quillan took the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

Tabor nodded. “You have to leave in the morning?”

Quillan smiled. “My wife expects me.”

Carina glared at Dr. Felden. “What do you mean, weeks? The pain is bearable, the bruising inconsequential.”

Dr. Felden leaned forward and spoke with antiseptic breath, his clipped gray mustache like boar bristles across his upper lip. “Not inconsequential inside, where you can’t see it. The kidneys are attached quite tenuously, and you’ve sustained damage. You must remain still and restful for healing to occur.”

“I have been still.”

“Not by Mae’s account. You were in the kitchen instructing Èmie just this morning.”

“Twelve steps from my bed to the stove.” She waved her arm.

“More like twenty, but it’s irrelevant. Any jostling, any jarring, can mean the difference between functioning kidneys and death.”

Carina paused at his blunt words.
Death?
Dio,
was it so serious?
Yes, she felt weak, depleted, sore, and broken, but death? Like her baby?

“Believe me, Mrs. Shepard, you cannot gauge your condition by what you feel. I understand your frustration, but you must accept my restrictions.”

Carina felt like a scolded child, and in truth, she’d acted like one. Èmie could handle the kitchen without her. So what if the tagliatelle wasn’t just like Mamma’s. Quillan had ordered her to stay abed, though perhaps that had contributed to her rebellion. She sagged into the pillows behind her. “Bene. I’ll be still.”

Dr. Felden closed his bag with a snap. “And when is Quillan due back?”

Again Carina swung her arm, this time sulkily. “He comes when he comes.” She looked at the snow through the window. It had been falling since morning, and of course Quillan’s only stipulation for not returning was a blizzard.

“Well, mind my instructions, Mrs. Shepard.”

She sighed as Dr. Felden let himself out into the storm. The wind did not blow in. The snow fell in silent descent, hardly causing a stir, but surely making the roads impassable. And she knew how quickly such a storm could become life threatening.

She had told Quillan to take no chances, but her heart ached. She didn’t want to spend another night alone, crying, fighting the furious, vengeful thoughts toward the men who had killed her unborn child. This new anger was worse than the original shock.
Signore, help me to bear it. And show me why
. She needed to know. How else could she stand the grief that welled up uncontrollably?

Previously her physical pain had overwhelmed the grief and rage. Now thoughts of the baby washed away all else.
My baby!
She reached for Rose’s journal. If anyone could understand, it was Quillan’s mother, whose first baby had died and whose second, Quillan, she had been forced to give away.

Carina shuddered. Would she, too, imagine her child until she no longer knew what was real? She stroked her hand over the red leather book cover. How dear Rose’s words were to her, but she couldn’t face them now. Fear of where the grief could lead made her place the book on her bedside crate. If only . . .

She looked at the darkening window, and tears made warm tracks down her cheeks. Carina wanted to believe Quillan would return, if not today, then as soon as he could manage it. He’d never told her a time before, never even promised to return. Surely—

Motion outside the window startled her. She jerked her face that way with a new but familiar terror. Someone was out there. She stiffened. If she screamed, Mae might hear, but . . . The door flew open, and two snowy forms bustled in and banged the door shut behind them.

“Your husband is mad, Carina. Utterly mad.” Alex brushed the snow from his coat.

Quillan caught her gaze and held it. “I told you I’d be back tonight.”

She looked at him, hair woolly with flakes, whiskers iced and cheeks raw. She swiped at her tears, ashamed she had doubted him.

He stepped forward and handed her a small red-papered box. “For medicinal use.” A glimmer shone in his eye.

She took the box, and before she opened it the aroma told her all. She swept the lid from the box. “Chocolate! Quillan!”

His beard was heavy around his buccaneer smile. He was obviously pleased with himself. “Of course, if you’d prefer Èmie had it . . .”

Carina clutched the box to her breast. “I haven’t tasted chocolate since San Francisco.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be going on to my room. But you should know I feared for our lives more than once on the road home.”

Carina tore her eyes from Quillan’s face and smiled at Alex. “I’m thankful you’re safe. Make Mae give you your table, and if she’s given it away already, have Èmie feed you in the kitchen. It’s Mamma’s
tagliatelle
alle acciughe
, pasta with anchovy sauce.”

Alex beamed. “Carina, I’d have braved any road to hear you say that. May I?” He motioned toward her side door, which would save him going back out into the storm.

“Of course.”

He crossed the room and went out. She turned back to Quillan’s scowl. What now? Would he stalk away to sleep in the livery?

He stood a long moment, then seemed to draw himself in. His eyes softened, and the hard line of his mouth eased. “I hate that.” He tugged his gloves off and stuffed them fiercely into his coat pocket.

“What?” she almost whispered, fearful to know the answer.

Quillan stooped beside the bed and took her hand. “You don’t just cook, Carina. You create, you put yourself into it. I’ve watched you, seen the magic your hands work on ordinary ingredients.” He turned her palm over and ran his finger across it.

A powerful sensation passed through her.

His brows drew together. “I don’t want other men to know you that way.”

She stared into his face. It was the restaurant he hated? That she fed hungry men something special? “But . . . you have Mae and Èmie running it.”

“That’s not what I just saw. If Makepeace wasn’t already in love with you, he is now.”

“He’s not—” But now that it was said, what use was there denying it? She dropped her gaze to her palm lying in Quillan’s. “Èmie cooked it. I only told her how.”

His hand was cold from hours in the elements, but there was nothing cold in his expression. It burned. What were these feelings that cracked Quillan Shepard’s hard veneer?

She didn’t know what else to say. The restaurant was more than an enterprise to win men’s acclaim. It was . . . a mission. She had done so much good with the monies earned through her cooking—which, yes, was more than just making a meal. Why should that offend her husband?

Quillan cupped her hand with his other chilled palm and forced a smile. “Don’t you want to know what I did in Leadville?”

“Of course. You told me nothing.” She tipped her chin toward him. “And if I asked, you would tell me less.”

“I sold the New Boundless.”

Her gaze jumped to his face. “You—”

“Horace Tabor fronted Makepeace a loan.”

“You sold it to Alex?”

He pressed her hand to his throat. “You wanted to go home, didn’t you?”

She felt his rough whiskers against her fingers. “I do. But Dr. Felden—”

“I know you can’t travel yet. But we need to get things in order. I think you should sell your restaurant. Or give it away, turn it over to Èmie or Mae.”

So there it was. Until that moment she hadn’t thought through the details of leaving. She had only longed to see Mamma and Papa and everyone in Sonoma. She had wanted to flee the place where her baby had been beaten from her body. Tears sprang again from her eyes. Was there no end to them?

Quillan brushed them away with his thumb. “I thought it was what you wanted.”

“It is, but how can I leave Mae? And Èmie and . . .”

“Alex?” His tone was caustic.

She glared. She had not intended that. “Alex Makepeace is a friend to me. If you were so concerned—”