The Rose Legacy (12 page)

The worst part of having only half a leg was not being able to kneel. Cain slumped on the bunk and rubbed the stub.
I suppose you understand, Lord, seeing as you saw fit to remove it
. He bowed his head and folded his hands. He’d join with other believers later into the morning, but just now he had the Lord to himself, and that’s the way he liked it best.

In a pitiful voice that couldn’t hold a tune, he sang a hymn from his childhood and felt his spirit rise. How close the Lord was every time he thought to look. How near and how faithful. No shadow of death, no veil of tears could keep him from God’s love. Cain knew it as surely as the sun would shine, and it pained and confused him that others found it so hard to believe.

Cain could hardly think of a time he hadn’t known the comfort of God’s presence. There’d been times of loss, hard times, sad times. But those times had brought him close to the Lord and swelled his faith, not weakened it. It just didn’t make sense any other way. Who could ever face life alone? Cain wasn’t strong enough for that.

That’s all I ask, Lord. That whatever comes my way, you don’t leave me alone to tackle it, don’t ya know
. He opened the black leather Bible and slid the ribbon to the center of the spine, then ran his finger to the section of the page that held the Twenty-third Psalm.

The words were imprinted on his mind as indelibly as on the page, but he liked seeing them when he read, knowing that some inspired saint, some lover of the Lord, and maybe David himself had written those words in a moment of ecstasy, knowing God’s intimate love. Cain’s cup overflowed.

The priest didn’t show his age. If it was true he’d been ministering to the mountain towns since the days of Placerville, he had to be nearing fifty. But he was a robust, dark-haired man with little thickening in his trunk and strong, muscular arms, a boxer’s arms roped with muscle.

Carina saw them holding the chalice high, the wide sleeves of his vestments slipping back as he intoned the Rite of the Eucharist. She closed her eyes. Did she dare take part in the sacrament? It had been so long, but until she would forgive … She felt the anger coil around her heart, serpentine in strength. Though it hurt, something inside welcomed it, embracing her wound and nurturing it. She would rather hurt than forgive when Divina had laughed.

Èmie stood beside her, rapt and angelic, hardly recognizable as the same woman from the caves. Her skin was pale, her hair lifeless, her face plain and narrow, yet there was a peace about her, a simple joy. Carina swallowed the ache. Where had her own joy gone?

She glanced about. They were pressed close in the crowd of mostly Irish and Italian men, along with a handful of wives. She could see the women’s resentment in their eyes when the men pressed forward, introducing themselves to a fellow countrywoman, “I am Umberto Mancini, Lorenzo Belli, Mario Lasala …” She knew what the wives thought of a young woman here alone, a lure for their husbands and sons.

I don’t want them. You can have them. They are
contadini,
peasants
. Where did these thoughts come from? Had she not followed Papa’s example of good deeds to the poor, felt compassion for those less endowed by the Creator and downtrodden by life? Had she not done small works of kindness from her earliest days for just such as these? Why now did she disdain them so?

Èmie went forward to kneel before the priest, who seemed to grow in size and stature, holding out the Eucharist to Èmie’s tongue. Carina’s heart pounded in her chest. Her own tongue could not receive the Christ. Her soul wrenched inside her at the thought, but she was not worthy.

It surprised her how it hurt, though it was her own doing. No. It was Divina’s sin! Her chest constricted. She glanced up furtively as others filed forward, then pressed her eyes shut again and stood still on the pressed dirt floor of the cabin. She knew what was required.

She drew a long, slow breath. She could not forgive. Even if the pain lasted for years, she would not forgive Divina. She kept her head bowed as the priest spoke the benediction, then signed herself with the cross. She would slip away quietly. She had done her duty.

Èmie caught her arm as they filed outside. “Come and meet our priest.”

Carina’s throat cleaved. She did not want to meet him. He would know, would see the unforgiveness in her.

“Father Charboneau, may I present Carina DiGratia.”

“Welcome, Carina DiGratia.”

His handgrip was as powerful as she expected. His eyelids crinkled with the smile into pointed arches over blue gems, glittering warmth and genuine pleasure. In the sunlight she noted flecks of silver in the dark waves of his hair. “Thank you.”

He expanded his chest with a deep breath. “It’s a glorious day, isn’t it? Like all the days in heaven. One golden moment after another.”

Carina nodded dumbly.

Èmie seemed to have come to life, an awkward butterfly tasting the sun after too long in the cocoon. “Won’t you join us for breakfast, Father?” She spoke to the priest but tightened her hold on Carina’s arm, leaving no doubt as to her own invitation.

“I will. And have a word with your uncle Henri.”

Carina tried to escape Èmie’s hold, but it was firm. What choice had she but to surrender?

“Have you been here long, Miss DiGratia?” Father Charboneau strolled beside her.

So it began. He would question and probe, creeping closer and closer to the truth until he surprised it from her.
I hate my sister, Father. I wished for her to die
. “Only a week.”

“Then I doubt you’ve seen much by way of the sights.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers and proceeded at an easy amble, so relaxed.

“The sights?”

“Wasson Lake, Beaufort Falls …” He spread his hands. “You are touring?”

What could she say? This was no pleasure excursion. What was it? A misguided, ill-fated flight from humiliation to … to what? Better he believe her here to enjoy the sights. “I did tour Placerville.”

“Ah. Old Placer.”

Now she would turn it on him, draw him out, away from her business. She stepped over a rut. “Èmie said you were there? Did you have a church?”

“No. I said Mass in Mater’s Saloon.”

“And you prospected for gold?”

He smiled with a quick glance to Èmie. “I did some prospecting, but the best gold I found was in the people. Amazing the nuggets lying beneath the silt of life’s burdens.”

She thought of her findings from yesterday. “Did you know a man named Wolf?”

It was faint, but she caught the unease behind his look of surprise. “I did.”

“And Rose?”

His face softened, the flesh growing slack, brows leaning together, suddenly tired. “I buried them together.”

So Quillan had been orphaned. Did that explain his borrowed name? Èmie tugged her arm. “Carina, what are you talking about?”

Father Charboneau patted Èmie’s shoulder. “A sad story, not unlike many others, though perhaps more vicious than some. A tale, however, that time has put behind those who carried on.”

His meaning was clear, and his blue eyes pierced. He did not want her to ask more. Sensing that, Carina took it to heart. But she had accomplished her purpose. He wouldn’t pry if she did not.

He started on with a vigorous stride. “I feel that frying pan calling me, Èmie. What I wouldn’t give for a half-dozen eggs and the butter to fry them in.”

“The best I can do is flapjacks.” But she beamed as though even that was an honor to provide the priest.

Carina struggled to keep up. She was no competition for Èmie’s long legs and Father Charboneau’s powerful steps. By the time they climbed up to Èmie’s cabin, she was hot and winded. She worked the pump, splashed the icy water over her face, then smoothed back her hair.

She considered slipping away, but that would be cowardly and a poor trick to play on a woman who had seemingly befriended her. In a place like Crystal, she needed all the friends she could find. Still, it was with some reluctance she went into the small two-room cabin behind the others.

The back door was open to the mountain, and Father Charboneau shot a look at Èmie. “It appears your uncle got wind of our coming.”

“The smell of breakfast will bring him back.”

“But not with his tail between his legs.”

Èmie shook her head and turned to Carina. “Uncle Henri and Father Antoine have a long-standing dispute.”

“Feud. Tempest. War.” Father Charboneau rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Carina noted the familiar name Èmie gave the priest. They must be long-standing friends. Bacon sizzled in the iron skillet as Èmie skewered the thick, ruffled slices and flipped them over. With that aroma filling the room and the coffee steaming on the stove, it was no surprise when a large, dour man appeared at the back door.

He growled when he entered and took his seat at the table. Even with his French saturnine scowl, Carina recognized a resemblance between him and the priest. Both broad shouldered, a little barrel-chested, blue eyed, and sharp featured. She glanced at Èmie, who nodded slightly.

“You look old, Henri.” Father Charboneau pulled a stool to the table and hurdled it to land squarely atop.

“I work for a living.”

“Ah. But I work for the dying, and that, without exception, is all of us.”

“Save your preaching for fools like Èmie. Food, girl.”

Èmie laid his plate before him and another for Father Charboneau. She motioned for Carina to follow her outside with theirs.

As Èmie sat down on the stoop, Carina dropped beside her and balanced the plate on her knees. “They’re brothers? The priest is your uncle?”

Èmie nodded. “Father Antoine is Uncle Henri’s youngest brother.”

“Why do they fight?”

“Uncle Henri can’t forgive Antoine’s taking the cloth.”

Not forgive a man for choosing the church? Was it not an honor any family craved, to have a son become a priest? “Why not?”

Èmie leaned close. “Because before he did, they were outlaws.”

“What do you mean, outlaws?”

“Horse thieves.”

Carina stared.

“It was before I was born. But as long as I can remember, I’ve heard Father Antoine going after Uncle Henri to repent and make restitution.”

Carina shook her head. Horse thief turned priest. His own story was as black as anything she or Quillan Shepard had to hide. But she was hardly surprised. What else in a place like Crystal? “Why did the priest stop thieving?”

“They got caught. The ranchers strung them up from the only tree for miles around.”

Carina stopped her bite of flapjack halfway to her mouth. “To lynch them?”

Èmie nodded.

“What happened?”

“Father Antoine says God. A storm came with lightning and thunder. The ranchers thought that would spook the horses as well as a bullet, and their hands would be clean of it, so they left them there on horseback, hands tied and nooses on their throats.” Èmie circled her neck with her long, solid hands. “Can you imagine sitting there waiting for the horse to spook and …” She tightened her hands and sucked in her breath.

Caught up in the tale Carina pictured the scene. “They didn’t spook?”

“They spooked. The lightning hit the very tree my uncles were hanging from.”

“Then how—”

“It sheared the branch clean from the trunk. Father Antoine said it was a sign from God. Uncle Henri called it good luck. But Antoine wouldn’t steal with him again. He knew he was called, just like St. Paul being struck off his horse.”

“So he became a priest.”

Èmie nodded. “He went to France to study with the Jesuits. They made him a missionary and sent him back to America. Now he travels, looking for the worst, down-trodden, hopeless souls he can find. But he can’t sway Uncle Henri.”

Carina chewed the bacon slowly. So there was more to Father Charboneau than one might think. Horse thief, prospector, priest. What next?

After cleaning up with Èmie, Carina took her leave. She wanted nothing more than a lazy day with her head in a book. She had finished Cervantes for the third time. She pondered her choices as she wandered slowly down the hill to Mae’s and found her out back in dishwater up to her elbows. The giant wooden tubs she used outside to wash and rinse the dishes in the daylight were almost as large as the pool in which Carina had soaked.

“Went to Mass, did you?” Mae sloshed a plate from the washtub to the rinse water.

“Yes.”

Mae’s hands were raw, but she didn’t seem to notice as she scrubbed away. “I’m not denying Father Charboneau says a right nice funeral, but if it’s preaching you want, bring yourself to Preacher Paine’s tent revival.”

Carina took up a towel and braved the scalding water for a plate to wipe. “Preacher Pain? And people come?”

“That’s Paine with an
E
. And yes they come, and come back. He puts the fire in the brimstone, if you know what I mean.”

Carina didn’t. Neither did she care. She had done her duty, no more.

“Preacher Paine comes up every summer. There’s a picnic first to sort of fatten the calf, then the tent meeting come evening. Most folks can’t sleep after, unless they went forward and unburdened themselves.”