Sweet Boundless (22 page)

He turned back to her with the candlelight illuminating his disappointment. “Mrs. Shepard. You won’t be put off by a few bats, will you? They’re harmless. Here, let me free you from that harness.”

Against her better judgment and the racing of her heart, Carina climbed free of the rope. Mr. Makepeace lit the second candle and tucked the metal handle into her hand. The tin cupping around the flame kept it from extinguishing when she swept it from left to right before her, scrutinizing the shadowed depths all about.

Long spikes hung from the ceiling, and matching ones poked up from the floor like the fangs of some earth monster waiting to devour them. Some of the teeth met and formed lumpy pillars that had a sheen in the candlelight. She took a step and found the base of the cave soft and slimy. She looked down.

“Guano, I’m afraid. Bat droppings.” Mr. Makepeace looked as though he knew the reaction that news would receive.

“I’m not enjoying this, Mr. Makepeace.”

Unfortunately that amused him, and he laughed softly. “Bear with me a bit. You might surprise yourself.”

“I have surprised myself. I’m down here, aren’t I? Do you think I do this every day?”

“Hardly.” He started toward the near wall.

Carina followed closer than his shadow. When he raised his candle she saw what appeared to be a waterfall frozen in place.

“Flowstone. A common limestone formation. The water seeping down this wall deposits its minerals and over time they solidify into sheets and falls such as this one.”

“It’s beautiful.” Carina surprised herself with that sentiment.

He turned. “Same with the stalactites and stalagmites and all the speleothem you see. Water seepage and mineral deposits forming the spikes and columns. A natural miracle of nature. God’s creative force continues.”

Carina was reminded of Father Antoine’s views of nature.
God
is all and in all
. She felt a measure of confidence. “Have you seen many caves?”

“My share.” He raised his candle to throw light into the shadows above.

Looking up, Carina was thankful the bats had flown. She would not want them hanging over her head. As it was, the vaulted depths of the cavern were shadowed and mysterious. The moan came again, and she took a step closer to Mr. Makepeace.

“Shall we find that mouth?”

“I don’t think so.” She shuddered, wishing he hadn’t called it a mouth.

“Let’s try this way. The bats would have flown toward an exit.”

“It could be no more than a hole in the roof.”

“And probably is.” He started forward.

Carina held her candle like a sword, warding off the darkness. She had no choice but to follow. As they walked, the cave floor rose, or the ceiling lowered. If the breadth of the cave changed she couldn’t tell because their small flames lit only their immediate passage.

They were definitely climbing. Carina could feel the incline. The moan came louder this time, and the floor dropped sharply into the shape of a basin. The walls came together and enclosed it, narrowing at the top like a teardrop. Carina realized it wasn’t just her candlelight that lit this space, but a dim filtered light from above.

She followed Mr. Makepeace into the center of the basin, their whole attention on the opening that angled up from the ceiling, allowing some small light but offering no view of the outside. Then Carina dropped her gaze and held her candle out toward the walls. Her breath stopped in her chest. The walls were covered with paintings in ochre, brown, reds, and black. She circled slowly and realized Mr. Makepeace had followed her lead.

He let out a slow whistle. “Must be a tribal holy place or something like that.”

But Carina had stopped turning, transfixed by one scene near the entrance to the basin. There was a crude likeness of a Conestoga wagon, figures of people with ochre-painted skin and others with red. She no longer had to wonder from what details Father Antoine had saved her. She saw the fate of the infant daughter, the mother, the father clearly depicted on the wall. Off to the side, and recurring in every scene of the mural, was a pale wolf.

Carina brought a hand to her throat. They’d found Wolf ’s diary.

Carina’s throat felt dry and tight as she studied each scene in sequence. It amazed her, the emotion Wolf had portrayed with the simple figures—scenes of cruelty, some of pastoral peace, but many more of violence. No wonder Father Antoine believed Wolf incapable of violence. Anyone who had seen so much and carried the pain of it inside so as to paint these . . . Her breath came out in a mournful sigh.

Mr. Makepeace was instantly solicitous. “Probably ritual pictures. Symbolic, Mrs. Shepard, not real.”

She shook her head. As quickly as she could, and sparing some details, Carina told Mr. Makepeace about Wolf. She told him how he had come to Placerville the same night as Rose, Quillan’s mother, and how they had made their home beside the mine. How he had tried to want gold, to need it, so he would be like others of his kind.

But she guessed now that this was where Wolf spent many of his hours. Had Rose known? Had she ever seen this place? These scenes of Wolf’s life? Without knowing, Carina knew. No one had seen this but the two of them now, and the one who had mixed the paint and told the story.

She realized Mr. Makepeace had hold of her arm, and that she was shaking as she spoke. “No one must know of this.” She turned beseeching eyes to Mr. Makepeace. “It’s his tomb. His memorial.”

He seemed to understand the gravity. “Of course, Mrs. Shepard. We could seal it off. . . .”

“No. Quillan might . . .” She had been about to say Quillan might want to see it, but would he? “It’s not my decision. But we mustn’t tell anyone this is here.”

“I give you my word.”

Carina looked into Mr. Makepeace’s face and saw there his simple goodness. He was solid and trustworthy. Her heart suddenly ached. What would it be like to love a man such as Alex Makepeace? Already she had spent more time with him, seen more and learned more from him about her own husband’s operation, and now . . .

She looked around the chamber once again. What must he think? Would he think Wolf a savage as Wolf’s own son did? It was pazzo, this twisting of her thoughts. What did it matter what Alex Makepeace thought? “Maybe we should go back now. My candle’s burning low.”

“I have plenty of replacements. But I think you’re right.” He turned for the opening.

That was when Carina heard it. Perhaps it was a trick of the wind through the cave mouth high above, but the sound was like the howl of a wolf on a cold and frosty night, a howl of such longing and loneliness it pierced her heart and brought tears to her eyes. She cried softly as she followed Mr. Makepeace back through the guano-slimed cavern to the ropes.

TWELVE

What I have seen haunts me. My mind dwells on images painted on cavern walls And I wonder, if I painted my life, what would it look like?

—Carina

THE LIGHT SNOW BLOWING in his face did little to improve his mood as Quillan left his team with Alan and started for Carina’s little house, Sam prancing at his ankles. It was obligatory, he told himself for the hundredth time. He couldn’t let her go through the winter without seeing that she had whatever she’d need. One more trip with supplies could hold her until spring. And a winter in Crystal might be enough to convince her to leave once the roads became passable.

He felt amazingly up to anything himself. It was so good to be out of bed without a cough racking his chest. And the fever had done no worse than force him to take a much-needed rest. Still, he’d lain abed for a week and a half, and that was long enough. October was raggedly succumbing to winter as this current flurry proved, and he needed to find a place to spend it.

As Quillan turned the corner at Drake, a surge of panic flooded his system. A crowd stood outside Carina’s house. It took only seconds to realize the crowd was friendly and not some vigilante mob trying to lynch her, but his heart still hammered. He forced a slow white cloud through his lips and looked up at the starlit sky. Why would men be gathered outside her door at this time of the evening?

Then he noticed that her house was connected to Mae’s by a short wall with a door in it. Through this door, four of the men waiting were admitted by Èmie Charboneau. What on earth? He stood puzzling as more foursomes were admitted and others exited.

Tired of wondering, he pushed through just as Alex Makepeace came out the door with Ben Masterson and two of the city trustees, Harold Black and Jerrod Hopkins. Makepeace spotted and hailed him. Quillan stepped aside to make room for them.

“Wonderful place your wife has.” Ben Masterson placed his hat on his head as the others agreed.

Quillan tried not to look as stupid as he felt. “Yes.” He nodded to Makepeace. “I’ll see you in the morning for a report. On the mine.”

Makepeace nodded back. “All right. Plenty of good news.”

Quillan was already puzzling over Carina again and hardly heard him. What was she up to now? When he reached for the door, a couple of the men started to protest. Others hushed them with, “Quiet, you numbskull. That’s her husband.”

Her husband.
Her
, spoken with familiarity and near reverence. Quillan told Sam to stay, then stepped inside to find a hallway open to Mae’s kitchen and long down behind Carina’s cabin. As he stood there, Èmie Charboneau came from the kitchen with plates steaming. The aroma struck him dumb. Had Carina known he was coming? Had she cooked for him, to entice him, to trap him?

But Èmie passed with hardly a nod and started down the long hall. He followed her into a dining room set with six tables and a wonderful crackling fire. The aroma of rich spicy food filled the room, and he noted that every chair was filled with Crystal’s best. Mine owners, store owners, trustees, and lawyers, even Judge Wallace and his wife.

He didn’t see Carina, but she was in all of it, the elegance of the room, the fragrance of the fare, the warm and sophisticated atmosphere. Now he understood. This was what she was doing with the things they’d purchased in Fairplay. She hadn’t cooked for him; she’d cooked for all these others.

It stung him. He’d come to think of her meals as a sort of private ceremony. Since the first one they’d enjoyed together at Mae’s table, he had considered her efforts his to enjoy. He looked into the room, saw her food being devoured with gusto. Frowning, he let himself out the way he came.

As he passed through the crowd, he heard several guffaws. “Guess he didn’t have his name in, boys.” “Must not be on the special reservations, either.” Laughter.

With a curt command to Sam, he stalked to Alan’s livery and found his friend reading beneath the glow of an oil lamp.

Alan looked up. “Back so soon?”

“Since when does my wife operate a public eatery?”

Alan raised his cap and scratched his thinning gray hair. “ ’Twas finished around about the start of October. Been all the talk since.”

“How did she build it?”

“Ah, Quillan, I wouldn’t be knowin’ that. The lass hardly comes by now she’s so busy.”

Quillan nudged Sam out of the way, straddled a stool, and leaned his back against the wall. If Alan saw his scowl, so be it. He hadn’t expected it would be easy to see Carina, but he certainly hadn’t expected this. Should he wait until she was finished serving her crowd? Or could he walk into Mae’s kitchen and find her with a plate ready for him?

After the men’s comments, he wasn’t so sure. What was this about names and special reservations? Was she in such demand? Again he felt the hot twisting inside. He was jealous, jealous for the others to be getting what should be his, what might be his if he’d been there to receive it. Instead she’d turned elsewhere. He forked his fingers into his hair and released a hard breath.

“Did ye see her, then?”

“No. The whole place is swarming.”

“Aye.” Alan tapped a pipe on the edge of his chair, then dug out the old tobacco. “There’s some have a standing place at her tables.”

“Who?”

“The mayor and Joe Turner and your Alex Makepeace.”

Quillan frowned. “He eats there every night?”

“Has a place held for him.”

What did he care? So Carina had done something with her time and abilities. He should laud her. He believed in work and in people making the most of themselves. Better she do that than sit pining.

Alan struck a match, wincing with the motion, then held the fire to the tobacco in his pipe. He puffed unsuccessfully at the stubborn tobacco, then was forced to strike a second match and try again. The reddened crab-apple knuckles were thicker than before, and Quillan watched the pain bloom in Alan’s face as he held the second match steady.

“Have you seen the doctor for pain remedies?”

Alan shrugged. “Laudanum would take the edge and leave me in a stupor.”

“Maybe there’s something—”

“When I get so that I can’t do me job, then I’ll worry about the pain.”

Quillan reached a hand to his shoulder. “I don’t like to see you hurting.”

“Aye.” Alan covered the hand with his own palm. “Ye’ve a soft heart for the old men, Quillan. Ye were a good friend to Cain.”

Quillan shook his head, lowering his chin. “I can’t talk about it, about him.” He eyed Cain’s dog, trying not to picture the old man’s hand in Sam’s fur.
“You gotta get you a dawg.”