The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (41 page)

Quillan moaned, and she covered his forehead to ease the lines of pain. “There, caro, not long now. We’re almost there.” She stroked the hair back from his head. It was crusted with blood and twigs and dirt.

Signore, I don’t know what to think. You know everything, see everything.
You know what happened
. But knowing didn’t matter now. Only saving Quillan’s life.

They pulled up to the open gates, and Lorenzo motioned them in. Papa stood with Vittorio by the front doors, which also stood open. He would admit Quillan now—Carina felt a flicker of fury—as he wouldn’t the first time. If only he had accepted him! But that did no good. She must not let bitter thoughts get hold.

Lorenzo brought a litter to the end of the wagon bed. Vittorio climbed into the wagon. Carefully they eased the litter under Quillan’s legs, speaking softly. “This one is bad; careful not to jog it. And the hip.

His arm is broken.”

“His spine seems sound,” Vittorio said. “Lift.” They got Quillan the rest of the way onto the litter, then Lorenzo jumped down.

Carina followed as they carried Quillan inside. The treatment room smelled fresh with herbs from Papa’s physics garden. It had been scrubbed in preparation. They laid Quillan on the high leather table in the center of the room, where Papa did his surgeries. Would Quillan require the full extent of that skill? Again her chest constricted. Would Papa give it?

“His right side.” Vittorio said. “Leg, arm, ribs. The opposite collarbone, and there’s swelling in the left wrist.”

“Yes.” Papa nodded. “And internal damage by the blood from his mouth.”

They spoke in Italian as they examined him. Carina watched with fear growing. Why didn’t Quillan respond? He was less responsive than he’d been only minutes ago.

“Scissors.”

At Papa’s soft command, Vittorio brought them.

“That’s all, Lorenzo. Take Tony and go. The fewer in here now, the better.” He began to cut the pant leg, then glanced at Carina. “You ought to go, too.”

Did he think she could leave Quillan even for a minute? “He’s my husband, Papa. What do you think I haven’t seen?”

Her papa and brother shared a glance. Vittorio unbuttoned Quillan’s shirt and gently slid it from his arms. Together they stripped Quillan, and the sheet covering the table absorbed his blood. Carina went and stood at his head, covering his forehead with her palm. He made no response. He didn’t know she was there.

She reached for his mother’s locket lying in the hollow of his throat. The case was crushed and caked with dirt. She opened the clasp and took the chain from his neck, cupping it all into her palm. Maybe she could clean it. Maybe it could be repaired. It meant so much to him. A sob caught in her throat as she dropped it into her pocket.

Vittorio brought a pail of warm soapy water and washed the dirt and splinters from the wounds and all Quillan’s skin, searching, she knew, for damage beneath. There was a gash on the side of Quillan’s head that clotted his hair with blood and dirt. Vittorio held the scissors uncertainly.

Carina shook her head. “Don’t cut it.”

Vittorio dipped the cloth and soaked the wound. “He must have struck a sharp edge in falling, but it’s not deep.”

“Suture?” Papa asked without stopping his own examination.

“A bandage will do, I think.”

“Then leave it.” Papa swabbed the blood from Quillan’s chin, then opened his mouth and washed inside. When his head was laid to the side, a trickle of fresh blood seeped out again. Papa frowned, probing Quillan’s abdomen.

“What is it?” Carina asked.

“Heat. Swelling. Something damaged. It will need surgery.” Papa met her eyes, knowing the terror those words would give.

Carina swallowed the terrible tightness in her throat. “Papa.” She held him with her eyes. “Don’t think it would be better if he died.” She saw him flinch at her words, but she had to say it. “Save him, Papa, and I will let him go.”

“That’s not our concern now.” He moved swiftly, scrubbing his hands while Vittorio prepared his instruments.

“It’s my concern, Papa.” Her throat burned with tears wanting release. Her voice shook. “I want him to live. I need him to live.”

Her papa stopped scrubbing. “He will live if God is willing.” The stern intensity of his face warned her.

She glanced at Vittorio, knowing as she did that he had not been told about Flavio’s father. He wouldn’t guess Papa could choose to let Quillan die. But would he notice if Papa did? She would be there for that. She looked back at her papa, the doctor. There was sadness in his eyes. Sadness that she doubted him? How could she not?

He said, “I will do all I can. Now prepare or leave us.” Papa finished his scrubbing and dosed Quillan with chloric ether. The smell wafted up from the cloth to Carina, standing at his head. She held her breath to avoid the fumes as she turned and washed her hands thoroughly in case Papa would call on her. Then she pulled a full apron over her dress and resumed her post at Quillan’s head.

Papa swabbed Quillan’s belly with carbolic acid, feeling with his fingers for the worst of the swelling. She had witnessed surgeries before, but when Papa cut Quillan she felt it as her own flesh. Tears forced their way through her closed eyelids.
Signore Dio. Caro Signore
.

Before the disinfectant qualities of carbolic acid, Quillan would surely have died from such a cut alone. She lost track of time, focused only on keeping Quillan’s head between her hands, repeating a dose of anesthetic when Papa indicated the need. He worked silently, cutting, suturing, and disinfecting, draining the blood and toxic fluids. Part of the intestine had been crushed, and Papa had to cut away the damaged part before sewing it back together. Then he closed up the incision, poulticed and bandaged it.

Quillan’s head shifted in her hands. Carina lifted the bottle of chloric ether and looked to her father. “More?”

He shook his head. “There’s enough in him for us to set the bones.”

Quillan’s whole body shuddered when Papa and Vittorio reseated the hip joint; he jerked when they aligned the femur of his right leg, broken in two places. Papa worked a long time over the leg, removing shards of bone from the gash and shaking his head. At last he sutured the leg, wrapped, and cast it in plaster. By the time they set and cast the ulna of Quillan’s right arm and his left collarbone, he did not respond. Pain was its own anesthetic. Last of all they swabbed and bandaged the cuts and gashes, suturing the worst of them.

At last Papa stood back. At no time had Carina suspected he did anything but his best for Quillan. He looked drained as he washed up once again. Carina met his eyes, searching his thoughts. She would know if Papa thought Quillan would die. She always knew. He tried now to shield her, but his face was grave. “I don’t know, daughter.” Then lower, “I’ve done what I can.” And his eyes pierced. “
All
that I can.”

She nodded, believing him. But her heart was breaking anyway. What if Papa’s skill was not enough? Was this why God had insisted she surrender Quillan? Did He know so soon He would call him away forever?
Let him live, Signore. Please let him live
.

Carefully Papa and Vittorio lifted Quillan to the litter. So much of him was bandaged and cast in plaster, they did not attempt to dress him. They laid him on the single bed near the wall and covered him with fresh sheets and a wool blanket.

“I’ll sit with him.” Carina pulled a chair to the bedside.

Papa spooned morphine into the side of Quillan’s mouth. “He must be still. If he shows any agitation, call me immediately.”

Carina nodded. Papa must know she would watch more closely than even he himself. Did he see her pain? His hand on her shoulder as he left told her that yes, he knew.

Flavio hunched down against the hollow of the old oak’s trunk, shaking and horrified. What had he done? What would happen to him now? He pressed his face into his hands. He could have left Quillan Shepard trapped beneath the burning wagon to die. Then no one would know his part in it.

Did anyone suspect, or was Quillan Shepard the only one who could testify against him? Giocco might guess, but he’d been paid too well to tell. And Flavio had never said what he wanted the dynamite for. But those thoughts were simply distracting him from the full horror of what he found inside himself. How could he do such violence?

He kept hearing the screams, the groans, the agony he had caused another man. It didn’t matter now that it was Quillan Shepard, the one Carina loved. He saw the man’s face contorted with pain, his moan of “Oh, God.” And it was that moan that had spurred Flavio to action.

He had gripped the wagon, just starting to burn, and with more than human strength lifted it to free the man he wanted to destroy. His malice had failed and mercy interceded. Why? For the same reason he now quaked at his own violence? Dottore DiGratia was right. His temper was dangerous. Now he knew what he could do, but knowing it, he could never do it again. It sickened him.

“Oh, God.” He repeated Quillan’s words. “Oh, God.” Had God used him to free the man who called on Him in pain? Had God turned Flavio’s own heart to help before it was too late? Was it Quillan’s begging for the helpless animals? Flavio loved animals, their warm breath and simplicity. The distress of the horses had contributed, yes, but there was more.

Whatever it was, he was fiercely thankful he had acted as he did. As horrified as he felt now, how much worse would it be if he had left the man to burn? But he could still die. Flavio remembered the wagon crashing down on him, the scream of pain, and he had felt the weight of it himself when he tried to raise it up. Quillan Shepard could die, and it would be on Flavio’s soul forever.

He shuddered. If Gesù was a myth and God a tool for priests to frighten children, why now did he feel such a trembling for his soul? He wouldn’t believe he had a soul if he didn’t feel it crying out against him now. He was like Cain, being cursed by the very ground he walked on. Everyone would know. His own soul convicted him.

“Oh, God.” The words came without thought. Flavio didn’t pray. He never prayed.
“Prayer is for the weak and simple,”
another of his papa’s teachings. Flavio had been frightened when his papa said that. Didn’t he know it would offend Gesù? But Papa had laughed at his fears.
“Offend
a fairy tale? I’ll take my chances.”

“God.” Flavio dropped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Year after year he had gone through the motions with the very religious Lanzas. But he had never entered in, never counted himself among the weak and simple, never earned his papa’s disdain. Even when he could no longer picture his father’s face, the things Papa had told him stayed with him. But they were wrong.

God was real, and He had acted when Quillan Shepard called, even turning the hand of his enemy to rescue him, giving him supernatural strength. Flavio moaned. He was wicked and despicable. Yet God had used him when Quillan called.

T
WENTY-THREE

“I thirst,” He cried out from the cross, pained in heart and soul and bone, an aching need, heartbreaking loss, “Father, why am I alone?”

—Quillan

A
S THE SLANTING RAYS
of thin spring sunlight faded to gray, Carina held Quillan’s hand and prayed. “Il Padre Eterno, hear me, please. I beg you for his life. I surrender all claims to his love, to any love. If my wickedness, my selfishness has brought this evil on him, forgive me.” What if she had not asked to go home? Had left her family when she saw their hearts were hard? What if . . . ? Oh, so many what-ifs.

Mamma brought her minestrone and bread. The steam was pungent with tomato and turnips and cabbage and beans, savory with bacon and onions and basil and thyme, hearty and wholesome. But Carina shook her head. Her body floated in limbo with Quillan’s. How could she eat, how could she sleep when Quillan balanced between life and death, fever rising and consuming him.

The heat of his hand sent her heart rushing with fear. His eyes were hollowed pits, his flesh bruised and crusted with scabs, incidental injuries that would have mattered except when compared to the snapping of bones and crushing of organs. He was a shadow of his former vitality. Carina had never seen him sick, not even a sniffle. He had never complained of aches nor weariness. To see him reduced to this . . .

Was it kinder for him to die? If he were lost to her anyway, should she plead so desperately for his life? But that was her own sorrow speaking. Wouldn’t Quillan want to live? Dabbing his lips with a cloth and trickling water onto his furrowed tongue, she felt hollowed by grief until there was nothing left.

Papa checked him every two hours, even all through the night. He changed the poultice, which was all but steaming on the incision. He gave him more morphine to keep him unconscious while his body became an inferno. He removed the blanket, then the sheet, and bathed Quillan’s flesh with cool cloths. Unlike the followers of Benjamin Rush, Papa did not believe in a fever victim sweating out the toxins. But Quillan’s skin was dry, so no natural perspiration was cooling the heat that built inside. Nor did Papa bleed him as so many would. Besides, Quillan had lost enough blood on his own.

Carina watched and helped, scarcely taking her eyes from Quillan’s face, listening for each labored breath. In the morning, Mamma came with a small cup of strong espresso and cream. Carina drank it. She refused, however, the warm crusty bread with honey from Giuseppe’s bees.

“Eat it, Carina. What good is it for you to waste away?”

“I couldn’t keep it down.” And then when Quillan’s fingers quivered, she returned to her vigil, bread and Mamma forgotten.

Vittorio and Papa consulted. If the fever raged out of control much longer, they would open him up again and search for infection, cutting, cauterizing, and treating with carbolic acid again. The skin of Quillan’s belly was fiery red, but there was little pus or smell, so Papa was hesitant to interfere.

“Every surgery has both the possibility for good and great harm, Vittorio. We must balance the hope with the risk.” But he removed the bandage, treated the incision again with carbolic acid, and poulticed it. He did not rebandage it. They kept the sheet folded down from Quillan’s waist to leave the wound open to the air.