Read The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine Online
Authors: Kristen Heitzmann
Tags: #Historical, #Romance, #Inspirational, #Western, #ebook, #book
The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine
T
HE
Tender
V
INE
DIAMOND OF THE ROCKIES
The Rose Legacy
Sweet Boundless
The Tender Vine
Twilight
A Rush of Wings
The Still of Night
Halos
Freefall
The Edge of Recall
Secrets
Unforgotten
Echoes
KRISTEN
HEITZMANN
T
HE
Tender
V
INE
Diamond of the Rockies | book 3
The Tender Vine
Copyright © 2002
Kristen Heitzmann
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC
Scripture quotations identified NASB are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE,
®
Copyright © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Used by permission. (
www.Lockman.org
)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-0-7642-0715-0
The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:
Heitzmann, Kristen.
The tender vine / by Kristen Heitzmann.
p. cm. — (Diamond of the Rockies ; 3)
ISBN 0–7642–2417–4 (pbk.)
1. Triangles (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 2. Italian American families—Fiction.
3. Rocky Mountains—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.E468 T46 2002
813'.54—dc21
2001005675
To Lisa with love
Near indeed is his salvation to those who fear him,
glory dwelling in our land. Kindness and truth shall meet;
justice and peace shall kiss. Truth shall spring out of the earth, and justice
shall look down from heaven.
PSALM 85:10–12
NASB
C
ONTENTS
I look on her whom life has bruised
in heart and mind and soul.
Though other hands have broken her,
now mine must make her whole.
—Quillan
S
OFTLY SCENTED PINE
. The downy embrace of a feather mattress. A slow paling of sleep.
Then the dull throbbing of every bruise drew Carina from her stupor. Someone stoked the fire in her stove. Raising heavy-lashed eyelids, she expected to see Mae’s soft, undulating form, but it was Quillan’s muscular back that bent to the task.
Panic brought her fully awake. Too many times she’d seen Quillan’s back, his stubborn gait carrying him away. His mane of light brown hair hung loosely over his shoulders, and she wanted to sink her fingers in—and grab hold. Oh, she knew his back. It was his face she longed to learn. He must have sensed her watching; he turned.
Would he cut her with cruel words after the closeness they’d shared last night? Not the intimacy of husband and wife; her injuries precluded that. But they had woven their hearts, and she feared now that he would pull away as he had every time he got too close.
She searched his face, hoping the things he’d seen and learned had changed him—Wolf ’s cave, his mother’s diary. Had he made peace with his past, his parentage, as it seemed last night? And was it enough to hold him? The fire gave his gray eyes the luminescence of a storm cloud sunlit from behind. His brow pulled together, but his voice was soft. “What’s the matter? Are you in pain?”
She was stiff and sore from the thugs’ beating, but she shook her head. “No, I . . . I thought for a moment you’d be gone.” Like their unborn child. A stabbing grief found a hollow place inside and lodged there. They’d hardly spoken of the baby last night. No more than to acknowledge the loss. Who would their child have been, had the beating not destroyed the baby inside her? She wanted to lash out, but Quillan’s repentance, his anguish that he hadn’t been there to protect her, was real.
He left the stove and crouched beside the bed, resting his forearm on the coverlet, the roping muscles visible beneath his cotton undershirt. “I told you I’m not leaving.”
He must see her doubt. And why not? In six months of marriage they were still strangers with a powerful bond neither could ignore, but in which she had yet to trust. She was the one pulling away this time. His tenderness left her more vulnerable than his gruffness ever had. He was the most unpredictable, annoyingly irresistible man she’d ever known. And when she considered her papa, her five brothers, and all her male cousins connected by blood, marriage, or otherwise, that was quite a laurel for Quillan.
He spread his pirate’s smile. “You should have chucked me, not the rocker.”
Carina glanced swiftly at the empty corner of the room. So he had noticed. How could he not? Perhaps he had even seen her deliver the rocking chair to Èmie, though he’d said no word about it when he carried her back to bed like an invalid child for all the world to see.
“Oh, Quillan.” She reached for his arm. “I wish I hadn’t.”
“Think of the pleasure the Simms will have of it.”
So he did know. He was baiting her, mocking her rash, vengeful act.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, I deserved it. A more eloquent thrashing I’ve never had.”
“I was angry! And hurt!”
“I know.” He ran his fingers over her sleeve, down her hand, and along each of her fingers.
Her stomach shrank tight, and she reached up to his beard-darkened cheek.
He drew back. “I haven’t shaved yet. Just barely let the dog out and stoked the fire.”
She smiled. “You should grow real whiskers, not this roguish stubble you’re so fond of.” She’d seen him both overly mustached and clean shaven, but mostly as he was now. Just enough whiskers to look dangerous and disreputable.
He rubbed his scratchy jaw. “Roguish.” He looked down at her lips and she felt them warm, anticipating his kiss, but he didn’t come any closer. Nor had he kissed her last night, though he’d held her in his arms. Must she show she was willing? She started to raise her chin, but the whining and scratching at the door took his attention. Quillan stood and admitted Second Samuel, who bounded in, shaking frosty fur powdered by the morning’s snowfall. He crowded in to lick Carina’s hand.
She looked from the dog to the amused face of her husband. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re thinking something.” She waved her hand in small circles. “I see it in your face.”
“What do you see?”
She stroked the velvety softness of Sam’s ear as he continued to lap her arm with his tongue. “I probably don’t want to know.”
He grinned. “But it’ll drive you mad until you do.”
“Oh!” She pushed the dog away and flounced into the pillow.
He laughed. “Go ahead. Finish it.”
“Finish what!”
“
O-maccio
. Isn’t that what you meant?” He moved Sam aside and towered over her. “Omaccio, cad, ill-bred man. It goes with the whiskers.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
He leaned down, one hand gripping the maple headboard. “What did you expect?”
Carina looked from his face to the mottled brown-and-white mug of the dog, still hopeful for attention. She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to expect. How could I know?”
Quillan tucked one arm behind her and raised her gently as he shoved extra pillows behind her back. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll tell you. First, Sam and I are going to see you’re comfortably set. Then I’m going to learn what needs to be done for your restaurant.”
She opened her mouth, but he covered it firmly with his hand. “After that, I’ll meet with Alex Makepeace.”
Did she imagine the flicker in his eyes? Meet with Alex for what? Don’t be silly. It was natural he would meet with his mining engineer. Did he see her discomfort? He must, because he turned away and contained himself. His hand came away from her mouth.
“And what am I to do?” she said.
Quillan stood, crossed the small room to the far wall, selected a book from the shelf, then returned, laying Emily Brontë in her lap. “Maybe Heathcliff will put you in mind there are worse rogues in the world.”
She wasn’t surprised he’d read the story. But as for rogues . . . “Well, I don’t have to live with them.” She waved her hand. “You think you can take over my business? Handle it without me?”
“Not a chance. But Mae and Èmie and all those little girls you’ve taken on . . . I’ll just see they do what needs doing.”
“Un gross’uomo.”
A big man.
Again he laughed. “I’m sure you have a wagonload of things you’d like to call me. You can thrash me with them all the way to Sonoma if you like. But just now you’re following doctor’s orders and staying abed until you’re out of danger.”
“Oofa! If I need a papa, I’ll tell you.”
His lips hardly smiled as he appraised her, but his eyes were filled with wicked mirth. He was enjoying himself. If she had something to throw, she would have thrown it. But she wouldn’t damage
Wuthering
Heights
on his bony skull.
“Now sit up like a good girl, and Mae will bring you some breakfast.”
“Bene!”
She jutted her chin at him. “Have your fun.”
He left the room for Mae’s with a chuckle that made her reconsider whether she could replace
Wuthering Heights
after all.
Quillan strode into Mae’s kitchen feeling jaunty. Mae sat at the table holding a steaming cup of coffee, which was turning her florid cheeks redder than usual. She looked up with a blend of surprise and amusement. “Won the war already?”
“Not completely.” Quillan sprawled onto the bench across from her. “But I will.”
“Famous last words.” Mae’s chest rumbled.
“How long before breakfast?”
She tipped her face down without changing her gaze. “I’m only just opening my eyes.”
Quillan glanced out the window, the sky still dark with winter dawn. It was early yet. He might have stayed abed longer, but having Carina beside him made it impossible. And he was by nature an early riser. Lying inert chafed him unless he was working his mind over a book as diligently as he worked his muscles hauling freight.
