The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (46 page)

“Atrophy. The muscle will come back with time.”

Time. Had it ever hung so heavily and passed so slowly? Quillan no longer had the benefit of invalid exhaustion to sleep away these helpless days. Even the pain had diminished, and nothing was offered to lull him. He chafed as he had never chafed before. His own body held him trapped. Sometimes the terror was inexpressible, but during the day he did his best to hide it.

The doctor left, and Carina came in smelling flowery and fresh as the breeze the dottore had let in the window once the morning mists evaporated. “Come stai?” She kissed his lips.

How was he? He caught her neck with his freed hand and kissed her back.
“Sto bene—no, benissimo!”
He kissed her again.

She laughed, catching his hand between hers. “You have your arm free?”

“And good as a wet noodle.”

She kissed his fingers. “It will strengthen. How are your ribs?”

“Fit as a fiddle—as long as I don’t move or breathe.”

“Still sore, eh?” She cupped his face in her palm.

“Not so bad.” Even the abdominal surgery seemed to be healing well. He was able to raise himself with help. His hip no longer pained him, but it was the leg no one mentioned. It throbbed in the night, and Quillan noted the sickly yellow toes. If holding his arm inert these weeks could render it limp, what would the leg be like when they took the plaster off? “You don’t suppose you could spring me loose, do you?”

“Why would you want to be?” She kissed his forehead, but this time he didn’t hold her there.

That was the crux of it. Carina was perfectly content now that her flock had swooped him into their midst. She didn’t understand that he belonged there no more than he had at the start. And he had no remaining inclination to belong. He learned the language because it was easy and Carina enjoyed speaking it with him, but not because he wanted to be one of them. Jesus was the vine, Quillan the branch—and Carina, too, God help him. But the rest of them could be pruned away, and good riddance. No matter what she said about independence and surrender.

“You’re anxious.”

“Yes, I am.”

She threaded his hair with her fingers. “Healing takes time.”

“Well, I don’t have time. I need to work, now that . . .”

“That what?” She tipped his chin up with a look of pure indulgence.

He felt a spiteful surge. “Now that everything I have is destroyed.”

“A wagon, Quillan. It was only a wagon.”

He shook his head. “No, Carina. Everything I had was in that wagon. Every dollar I’d earned except those washed away by the flood. It was all burned to ashes, every cent.”

She stared at him. “You kept your money in your wagon?”

“I had a special box built into the frame just above the axle.”

“You didn’t have it in a bank?”

He dropped his eyes, then shot them up defiantly. “Carina, I was there when Shane Dennison cleaned out that bank.”

“He didn’t get away with it.”

“He has since.”

She shook her head uncomprehending. “So the money from the mine . . .”

“And everything else I earned freighting.” Quillan spread his fingers.

“Up in smoke.”

She sat down on the edge of the bed. “How much was it? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”

“Fifty-four thousand dollars.”

She dropped her face into her hands and started to shake. He thought she was weeping until he realized with annoyance it was laughter he heard. She could laugh—now that everything they had, that would have bought them land and a living was gone?

She looked up, still mirthful. “Oh, Quillan, God is merciful.”

He shook his head, dumbfounded.

“I know you. I see the wheels turning in your mind. As soon as you are well it would have been off to Alaska or someplace to make your own way and the devil take the world. Now? Now maybe you will see that there are those willing and able to help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see.” She started to stand.

He caught her wrist. “See what, Carina?”

She tugged gently until she freed herself. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

He swallowed his frustration. “Yes. The things from my room at the Union Hotel. My journal and Cain’s Bible and the books. Bring it all. There’s no sense keeping the room when I can’t pay for it.” He scowled.

She smiled serenely. “I’ll be glad to.” And she left as though he had just told her the finest news imaginable. Never, as long as he lived, would he understand the mind of his wife.

Carina’s heart sang. Before, she could not imagine how she was going to get Quillan to accept Papa’s gift, but now? He had little choice now! Ti’Giuseppe hitched the small buggy, and she rode into the plaza and pulled up at the hotel where Quillan had been staying. She marched in to the counter. “Good day, Mr. Renault. I need to collect my husband’s things.”

Mr. Renault tucked his watch back into his vest pocket. “Is he finished with the room then? He hadn’t given word so I’ve been compelled to charge it each night to his account.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“I’ll tally the bill.” He penciled the figures and handed her the slip.

“I will bring you payment.” She tucked the paper into her wrist purse and held out her hand for the key.

“I’ll send a man up to carry it all down.”

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat. “How is he, if I may ask? Rumor is rampant.”

She smiled. “He is improving, thank you.”

“I’ll tell your friend.”

She turned. “My friend?”

“The young man from Denver. He’s been in nearly daily asking after Mr. Shepard. Sent him up the other day to fetch something from the room. Didn’t you send him?”

“Do you mean Mr. Pierce?”

“That’s the name.”

Carina gripped her hands into fists. “What did he fetch?”

“It looked like a book. With Mr. Shepard incapacitated, I thought Mr. Pierce was acting as his agent.”

Carina turned and charged the stairs. Mr. Pierce had gone too far, and more than his shin would bear the brunt. She went into Quillan’s room, and a moment later a youth came in to help her carry everything. As she suspected, Quillan’s journal was neither on the table nor in his pack.

She fumed, thinking of the personal and beautiful poems he had shared with her. That Roderick Pierce would not only see them but turn Quillan’s words to his own advantage . . . She waited fretfully while the youth loaded Quillan’s things into her buggy, then gave him a coin and accepted his assistance up to the seat. She slapped the reins. Quillan would not be happy.

Quillan could do nothing but stew. Day after day he pondered the affront. Roderick Pierce had skipped town with his journal and probably felt justified after the scene Carina described of their last encounter. Quillan pictured it easily. As slippery as Pierce was, he had not avoided Carina’s kick, though she wouldn’t tell him what precipitated it. But that didn’t make the theft of his journal anything less than that. The man was a snake.

Dr. DiGratia broke into Quillan’s thoughts as he came into the room. His visits were less frequent now that they had moved Quillan to a small porch off the east side of the house. He had a fainting couch that enabled him to sit more easily, though it was less comfortable for sleeping, a side table, and a shelf for the books Carina had brought from the hotel and any of those in her father’s collection Quillan might care to read. In his extreme boredom, he did exactly that.

The doctor carried a small saw. “Are you ready to have that off?” He indicated the cast on Quillan’s right arm. His dry humor did nothing to improve Quillan’s mood.

Quillan held up the arm, which had been out of the sling for several days. The doctor worked silently, sawing through the plaster, then pulling it off the arm. Quillan eyed the lumpy scar where the bone had pushed through muscle and skin. Then he straightened his elbow and felt the expected weakness. It was worse than the left arm had been, though limited use had begun to restore the first to something better than a noodle. As Dr. DiGratia examined this pale, wasted forearm, Quillan considered what it had been.

“A straight mend, it appears.” Dr. DiGratia picked up the scraps of cloth and plaster.

“And my leg? Are you taking that plaster off?”

The doctor glanced down at the leg lying as it had been week after week, a plaster log from hip to calf. “Not yet, I think.”

“Why not?”

The doctor took a breath, then released it. “The femur was broken twice, one section more nearly crushed. It needs time yet.”

Quillan swallowed. “Time for what?”

“For what healing there will be.”

Quillan squelched the panic of those words. He was maimed? Useless? Like Cain? Cain hadn’t been useless, a voice inside argued, but Quillan ignored it. How would he support his wife, children when they came? Would Carina even want a cripple for a husband?
Surrender your
independence
. And what? Depend on her? He opened and closed his right hand, clenching the fist harder and harder.

Dr. DiGratia paused, the split cast and fragments balanced in his hands. “We will see when the time comes. There’s no use imagining the worst.”

“I doubt you’ve told me the worst.”

The doctor’s chin cocked slightly. “The worst is the leg will not bear your weight, and you’ll use a crutch.”

Again Quillan pictured Cain hobbling over the rough ground.
Oh,
God!
He forced his voice to steady. “When will I know?”

“Once I determine the bone is fused, we will begin to strengthen the leg.”

“How can you tell anything through this?” Scowling, Quillan knocked on the plaster near his hip.

“I can’t. Maybe it’s ready now. But I will err on the side of caution.” He fixed Quillan with his blue stare. “Too soon a try might damage the bone beyond repair.”

Quillan closed his eyes. He was peevish and unfair in his impatience. Dr. DiGratia had expended much time and effort with his care. “I’m sorry.”

A faint smile pulled the doctor’s lips. “You must understand my position. One wrong move with you now, and I’ll have Carina’s ire forever.”

Quillan stared at him. That was the first acknowledgment of permanent status he’d had from the man. Why now, when he could offer so little?

He’d lost his fortune and even his strength. Now he truly had nothing to offer but himself, and even that was questionable. The tightness in his throat became an ache. Had he misunderstood something somewhere? But though the doctor left him brooding, he could not see it.

Carina passed her papa coming from Quillan’s room, the saw and cast pieces in his hand. “His arm is healed?”

“The break is knitted.”

“But his arm . . . it will . . .”

Papa paused his stride. “Your husband is strong and determined.”

Her husband. To hear it again from Papa’s lips assured her of Quillan’s place in her family. No one talked anymore of annulling; no one tried to keep her from the man she loved. If only it had come without Quillan’s pain. But even in that she was sure God had a purpose.

Vittorio came and took the pieces of the cast from Papa. “Shall I show him how to strengthen the arm?”

Papa nodded. “Slowly today. Strength only. We will train the reflexes later.”

Train the reflexes
. She thought of Quillan’s speed with a gun when he shot the head from the rattlesnake. Train his reflexes?

But Carina felt a surge of pride. Quillan could be in no better hands than her papa’s. What if he had landed in the care of a doctor like Miss Preston’s father, who would have determined his care by the bumps on Quillan’s head or by his complexion and assumed temperament?

Appearances were nothing to Papa, not in his practice of medicine. He knew the body inside and out, which parts knitted to which, which organs performed what duty. Like Leonardo da Vinci he had studied a dead body once, had performed surgery on its parts. Maybe that was disrespectful to the dead. Many people thought so. But to the living it provided invaluable knowledge.

If anyone could bring Quillan through this, it was Papa. And Vittorio. Carina looked up at her serious-faced brother. Yes, he had been as stubborn as the rest, determined to keep her from the man they all considered a usurper. But he had worked tirelessly beside Papa when Quillan arrived injured. He would be a fine doctor in his own right.

Vittorio discarded the cast remains and went into Quillan’s room. Carina lingered in the doorway out of Quillan’s line of sight and watched her brother greet him with soft-spoken courtesy. Ah, how things had changed. Vittorio lifted Quillan’s arm, and Carina saw with dismay the shrunk muscle and limp tissue. She could well imagine training the nerves and muscles to respond again.

Vittorio ran his hand down the arm, nodding. “The bone is sound.

But the muscle is not, eh?”

“Not exactly.” Quillan looked uncomfortable, annoyed. Why did he persist in his grudge? Couldn’t he see they were trying to welcome him as best they could?

“Make a fist.” Vittorio watched the hand come together. “Tighter.”

Quillan strained.

“Let it go.” Vittorio held Quillan’s forearm. “Try again. Harder. Try harder.”

Quillan’s forehead took on a sheen as Vittorio ordered the same motion repeatedly, then switched to the other arm and did the same. If so little cost so much, how would it be to restore strength to the rest of him? She again realized the extent of the trauma to her husband’s body, worse by far than her injuries had been, yet she had felt weak as a kitten and helpless. How Quillan must fear that weakness.

She started to pray for strength, then thought of Saint Paul. Maybe it was in Quillan’s weakness that God’s power would be perfected. That thought was so different from her old demands and cajoling that she paused. She must desire God’s will even if it seemed contrary to her own wants and Quillan’s.
Padre Eterno, heal my husband as you will. Let this
misfortune be turned to good for all and especially the man I love. Grazie,
Signore
.

Her heart felt peaceful even as she watched Quillan’s frustration grow. He flung his arm down to his side. “Enough! Can’t you see it’s wasted?”