The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (24 page)

“Carina.” Quillan’s voice was tight.

“Three times he saved my life, not counting the risk he took today.”

Mr. Pierce smiled, sizing her up with his eyes. “Well, I wish I had more than a column or two, Mrs. Shepard, to truly do it justice.”

“Just tell the truth, Mr. Pierce. Tales have a way of growing on their own.”

He laughed. “That they have. Thank you for the reminder.”

“You’re welcome.”

The newsman stood, bowed slightly to Carina, then held out a hand to Quillan. “No hard feelings?”

Quillan shook his hand. Carina watched him as Mr. Pierce left. He was no longer coiled like a snake ready to spring, but neither did he seem reposed. He turned to her. “Carina, I don’t need you to defend me. I can speak for myself.”

“Well, you don’t.”

“If I want to crow, I’ll crow. If not, I would appreciate your not doing it in my stead.”

“Why don’t you defend yourself? Tell him you had nothing to do with that bank robbery?”

Quillan winced. Too late she saw Mr. Pierce on his way back through the car. She brought her hand to her lips as he descended once again.

“Mrs. Shepard, you cannot refuse me now. It would be nothing short of cruel, the like of which I might not survive.”

Carina frowned. “You should be ashamed of eavesdropping.”

He flashed a smile. “Ashamed? It’s how I earn my bread. Everywhere there’s a story if you just have ears to catch it. Now tell me about this bank robbery.” He glanced at Quillan, realized that was not his best chance, and turned back to her.

“I’ll tell you nothing except that my husband was in no way responsible. Even the judge pardoned him.”

“Went before the judge, did he?”

“Well, he had to, to get out of jail, didn’t he?”

Again she saw Quillan wince.

“Of course. Was he jailed long?”

“I don’t know. He was fourteen. I only met him last year.”

Mr. Pierce turned to Quillan. “That’s what you meant about Dennison leaving men behind? Let you take the fall, did he?”

Quillan scowled. “It’s not your business.”

“But you’d better give it to me right, or as Mrs. Shepard says, the tale might grow.”

“Is that a threat?” Quillan’s voice stayed flat.

“Mr. Shepard, I’m trying to be fair.”

“You’re trying to get what I don’t want to give.”

Mr. Pierce sat back. “All right, so I am. I’m nothing if not thorough. But given that, I am fair. Tell me your story.”

Quillan shook his head. “I don’t want it in the papers.”

“Dennison bamboozled you, continued a life in crime while you went straight, and here, fifteen years later, you have your reward. Why, there might even
be
a reward if your efforts lead to his capture. He’s been a thorn to the railroad for two years.”

Quillan shook his head. “I didn’t do it for any reward. I didn’t even know it was Shane until I heard and saw him.”

“What went through your head when you knew?”

Carina looked at Quillan. His throat worked, and she thought he would refuse to answer. Then he said, “Disgust that I could ever have looked up to him.”

Mr. Pierce sat quiet a moment. “May I quote you on that?”

Quillan hesitated. “Mr. Pierce, I’d prefer none of it found print, but it seems you’re set on putting it down. Quote me if you like.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been an honor making your acquaintance.” Again he stood.

Quillan cracked a wry smile. “Dare I hope this departure permanent? Or need I muzzle my wife?”

Roderick Pierce laughed heartily. “I could never be the cause of your covering any one of your wife’s features. As I said, I’ve only a column or two. Though I guess there’d be more to print if I looked.”

Quillan didn’t answer. With another laugh, Mr. Pierce took his leave, and Carina met Quillan’s sardonic stare.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell.”

“You never do. But somehow the whole world learns my business anyway.”

He was right. Through her, Crystal had rekindled the story of Wolf and Rose and suspected Quillan of the brutal murder of William Evans by family association alone. Now Mr. Pierce knew one of Quillan’s secrets, which every reader would soon know, too.

“I’m sorry.”

Quillan smiled darkly, his eyes searching over her face.

“What are you doing?”

He cocked his head. “Picturing you with a muzzle.”

“Oh!” She threw up her hands. “I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

“Dare I hope for restraint?”

She frowned. “I’m not secretive by nature.”

“No?” His brows rose, mocking her.

She tossed her lace gloves for want of a better weapon.

He caught the gloves, laughing. “There you go again.”

“And why not, when you provoke me so?”

He folded the gloves together and handed them back.

She snatched them from his hand and turned to the window, sulking. Why did he make such a row about nothing? Nothing? How would she like her misdeeds paraded out for all to read?
Oh, Signore, why must
you always make me see?
She turned back to Quillan and made her face meek. “I was wrong. In my family we talk. We tell stories about each other, even embarrassing stories.”

“You certainly have none of those.”

“Oh, yes. The time I kicked Tony when he beat me in a foot race is a great favorite—Carina’s temper a fine theme.”

“Kicked Tony, eh?”

She rolled her eyes. “I grew out of it.”

“I think I’ll guard my shins, nonetheless.”

She raised her chin. “There have been plenty of times I could have kicked you, wanted badly to. Have I?”

“Not specifically.”

“So there.” She waved a dismissing hand.

“And these stories are told to . . .” He spread his fingers.

“Us. Ourselves. The family.”

“Your parents and brothers and sister.”

She shook her head. “Everyone. Aunts, cousins, godparents. The stories—” she searched for the right description—“they hold us together.”

Quillan seemed to consider that. He grew pensive, and she tried to imagine him with her boisterous brothers telling tales and laughing over misdeeds and mishaps. She felt a deep misgiving. Quillan was not like them. He would be a dove among crows. How strange to think of Quillan as a dove, but the image stuck.

“You’ll see,” she said. But would he? Could he change his very nature? Did she want him to?

F
IFTEEN

Why men seek fame I cannot see; ’tis but a call “Come feed on me.”

—Quillan

F
OR THE REMAINDER OF THE TRIP
, Quillan could not avoid attention. The men wanted to shake his hand. A photographer took his picture. The women found him more fascinating than ever, and he was surprisingly charming. Carina watched with admiration and amusement. Her husband was a hero. And he suffered it well.

Two days later they arrived in San Francisco. Carina’s heart rushed as they detrained near the wharf. The late afternoon was bright and cool with a breeze off the water. But unlike the snow-covered realms of Crystal, the green of spring was starting in the trees. Sonoma would be just awakening. Her heart fluttered.

She stared out past the piers as Quillan oversaw the unloading of his wagon. He tethered the four horses to a rail with the wagon beside them. Joining her, Quillan seemed dazed as he looked out over the water. Hands behind his back, he stared out. “That’s the ocean?”

“The bay.”

“I’ve never seen so much water.” He studied with interest the mighty steam-powered vessels anchored along the piers with some masted ships among them.

Carina half expected his wanderlust to sweep them aboard. And then to Alaska? He hadn’t mentioned it since that once. Maybe he’d teased only. But it wasn’t beyond him.

“Never been on a ship.”

“Well, we’ll be taking a ferry tomorrow. That one there—the
James
M. Donahue
.” She waved a hand. “It has made its final run today, but tomorrow we’ll take it across the bay.”

“How far?”

She shrugged. “Thirty miles, I think.”

“Thirty miles of water.”

“That’s only the bay.” She waved her hand to the west. “Out that way is the Pacific Ocean. It goes forever.” She said it with a jesting smile. “Come on, before the sea lust gets hold of you.”

She led him along the wharf where vendors sold live crabs and lobsters and thick bowls of chowder from stalls steaming with a tangy fish smell. San Francisco wasn’t Sonoma. The briny air clamored with the bustle and purpose of ocean trade. Quillan watched the stevedores along the piers, and she could almost hear him considering the possibilities of such labor. How would he find the rhythmic life of Sonoma, lives so connected to the land the people grew sleepy when the vines were dormant, then came alive with the bloom. Could Quillan ever stay put until harvest?

Not that it meant sitting still. There was much work. Even for Papa, the
dottore
. Though he tended all who sought him, especially his own people, there were too few in Sonoma to support a surgeon of Papa’s caliber. So he spent hours with a microscope, shipped from New York, studying tissues and creatures too small to see. His studies engrossed him, but he could have done that anywhere.

It was for the land that he’d come to Sonoma. Horticulture became a passion. Of course the grapes, but also herbs and plants for food and medicinal use. Papa loved his land and what it could produce. The climate was perfect. Where else was such a perfect climate, except maybe Sardinia? Papa had known that and chosen his land with care.

“What are you thinking about?”

She startled, glanced up at Quillan with the setting sun sending a glow over his shoulder. “My papa.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Oh.” She waved her hand. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to know a little in advance.” Putting a hand to her elbow, Quillan assisted her up onto the timbered walk.

No, it wouldn’t hurt for him to know something of her papa, but she felt reluctant to elaborate. She stopped before a vendor’s stall. With his pipe between his teeth, the gnarled vendor reminded her of Alan Tavish in a crusty seaman sort of way. Did Quillan see it, too, and was he missing Alan? It freshened her own pang for the friends she had left.

She nodded to the old man. “What do you have fresh?”

“Crabs just boiled, ma’am.”

“We’ll take one. A large one.”

From a pile of red- and white-shelled crustaceans, he pulled one monstrous crab complete with legs and eyes, laid it on a square of paper, and handed it over with a small wooden mallet. “Two bits.”

Quillan paid, eyeing the creature askance. “You don’t really intend to eat that?”

Carina smiled. “Haven’t you had crab from the shell?”

“If I ever had, I’d know.”

She walked to a bench and sat, placing the crab on the paper between them. Holding one pincer, she struck the shell with the mallet, then pulled it apart to reveal the meat. “Try it.”

Quillan pulled the white fleshy fish from the claw, held it up a moment, then put it into his mouth. He ate it, then nodded. “It is good. Though you’d never know to look at it.”

“It’s wonderful.
Meraviglioso
.”

“Meraviglioso. How do you say crab?”

“
Granchio
.” She held it up by a claw.

“Meraviglioso granchio.” Quillan hammered the shell and slid a long chunk of crabmeat off the thin, pliant cartilage. “How do you say bay?”

“Baia.”

He looked out over the water. “The closest I’ve gotten to crossing something like that was on a river ferry once. Mostly I just splash through on my wagon.”

“Don’t try it here.” She waved at the bay. “Or you’ll meet these face to face.” She held up the crab.

He laughed, then looked back over the water. “Tomorrow we cross. Then what?”

“Then we drive north.”

“How long?”

She considered. “Four hours, maybe three.” The very thought brought her heart rushing to her throat. She looked out across the water. Just north of San Pablo Bay lay her home. Tomorrow they would go there. She wished they could start now! She fairly throbbed with excitement. “Tomorrow we’ll be home.” She squeezed his arm. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

He studied her face, then smiled. “Yes, I do.”

“I don’t care if the whole world can see. I’m going home to Mamma and Papa. To everyone!
Mia famiglia
.”

He looked down at his hands.

She reached out and grasped them. “And yours.” But the niggling thought returned. What would they think of Quillan? Maybe Father Antoine was right. She should have written. Well, it was too late for that now. And tomorrow . . . tomorrow she’d be home!

The next morning Quillan held the rail of the
James M. Donahue
steamer. He looked out at the huge expanse of blue salty water that held them afloat. At his side, Carina had become a scintillating creature, as though the sea air or the California shore had quickened some magic in her. Or maybe it was that she would soon be home with her family. He felt singularly unsure of his own place in all of it.

Carina was reluctant to discuss the individuals in her family. She spoke of them all as a group, giving him a broad brush of the whole picture but saying little in particular except that he would see for himself soon. Too soon. Yet she wouldn’t be so eager, so animated if she didn’t believe it would all come right. Would she?

There was that part of her that was remarkably credulous, truly astonished by the ugliness of the world. She’d been protected from it so

well. Crystal had come as a shock, and so had he. But that was before he loved her. Now he would do anything to preserve her innocence. He did not want to be a source of disillusionment. He shook his head. Maybe he had it all wrong, but he had reason to be gun-shy.

After they docked, they would take the wagon road to her home. What happened there remained to be seen, but he’d feel a sight more comfortable if her family knew he was coming. The DeMornays had not been inspiring.

Why hadn’t Carina written? Surely a woman as close to her family as she was would want them to know she had married. Yes, she had spent months fraught with uncertainty. But she’d been steadfast in her commitment, never entertaining his offers of divorce. Thank God. Yet her family knew nothing of it. He frowned, felt her nudge on his elbow, and turned.