The Rose Legacy (46 page)

Carina shook her head. She had read nothing yet of Wolf and how they came to be together. She should go, but the thought of riding down to

Crystal and facing the ugliness, the fear, even the noise … She could stay a while yet. There was so much still to know. She read on.

May 1, 1851 What strange quirk of fate, to be saved from disgrace by a savage. Yet is he more a savage than those who would have bought me? Who is this man? A stranger, yet when he found me with his eyes, I knew him. His name is Fate. He knew me by my pain, and I him, by his. We are bound together, he and I.

As i am bound to your son. Whether he wants me or not.

June 1, 1851 To find beauty is to know mercy. Wolf is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, his hair next to honey, his skin bronzed by the sun, but his eyes the color of a stormy sky. What miracle joins one heart to another? Standing under the night stars, Wolf wrapped a blanket around us both, the Indian way of choosing me for his wife. Then we spoke our vows with only God and the mountain to hear. Would anyone recognize what we have done? Or would they say our pact is false and consider me still what I was? It matters less than it did. Cruelty sustained loses its barb.

Carina smiled. How true. The human capacity for suffering was like that for joy. It could only have the greatest impact in small doses. After that, mind and body could no longer take it in. Hadn’t Papa told her that?

June 13, 1851 Wolf is solicitous in every way. I’ve told him more than I ever thought to share. When I spoke of losing the baby, he grew quiet. Maybe he, too, has lost a child. He tells me little about himself but speaks readily about the things he knows. He is wonderfully versed in nature and all her aspects. In every way we live at one with the mountain and forest, every way but one. He mines the ground from dawn till dusk, delving deeper and deeper with a ferocity and energy both wondrous and frightening. He will not relent. He tells me he must. I think he fights to find his identity.

Carina thought of Quillan, always moving, always working, tirelessly seeking something. His identity? Perhaps there was more of Wolf in him than their storm-colored eyes.

June 15, 1851 Is hope a dream? I’ve named the baby Angel. Wolf says his spirit must have a name to find its way to heaven. Imagining him there with God eases my pain. Yet I long still for the life that was lost, though I despised it, wishing even to do it harm. How perverse is the human spirit. I would give my life to have it back again.

July 1, 1851 There is a God, and He is merciful. He has looked upon an unworthy soul with pity and filled my heart with joy. I have yet to tell Wolf, but I entrust my secret to this page. I am once again with child.

Quillan. Carina knew it without reading on. He was the fruit of Rose and Wolf’s union, not that of her unconscionable beau. Would he be as glad to know that as Carina was?

I cannot find it in me to regret. Is there a marriage on earth more blessed by God than the joining of two hearts in simple fidelity? Yet when Father Charboneau came to us a fortnight ago, Wolf insisted our marriage be sanctified by the Christian rite. For my part I accepted his wisdom, and this child is proof of God’s blessing.

Father Charboneau. He had married Wolf and Rose? Then Quillan’s wasn’t an illegitimate birth as he thought. Carina turned the page and read on. Rose’s writings at this point were devoted to many things. She began detailing the flora she found in her walks on the mountain. Did she only now begin to see what was around her? Did the life inside awaken her to the beauty?

Carina imagined it so. With Quillan growing inside her, Rose seemed to have recaptured the joy she had lost. She described the falls and the sunrise over the peaks. The pages were filled with prose and attempts at verse. There were even some drawings of wild flowers. These were labeled with names Carina guessed to be Sioux.

Did Rose bring them home for wolf to name when he came out of the mine? Rose wrote of her concern for him. What did it matter to her if he found gold? They had everything she could want already.

I told Wolf that, but he only looked at me with his stormy eyes. He needs something he thinks he can find only by bringing gold from the ground.

September 12, 1852 I know why Wolf plumbs the earth. He is searching for his soul. The Sioux never accepted him. Though others were adopted into the people and became Sioux, Wolf was always separate. He is caught between two worlds, not Sioux, not white. It is the needing of gold he seeks. If he needs it as they do, he will be one of them. For my part, I would as soon he were not.

The sun continued its westering. Still carina read. She read Rose’s account of the aspens turning golden, the leaves falling. Snows came, one perilously close to burying them alive in their cabin. Father charboneau spent christmas eve with them. Rose cooked rabbit.

January 8, 1852 How does one accept a miracle? Humbly. The child grows large within me. I no longer fear his fate will be that of my Angel’s. This one is strong and eager for the world. He will make his own name.

Carina touched the page with quivering fingers. Quillan. Strong and eager for the world. She felt a measure of Rose’s pride. That child was her husband. She closed the journal and breathed deeply, thankful Father Antoine had given it to her. Had he known she would love Quillan better for reading it?

She knew him now, understood the force of his personality. Even in the womb he’d made his presence known. She closed her eyes and pictured him.
Oh, Signore, how I love him
. She recalled Rose’s words.
Is there a marriage on earth more blessed by God than the joining of two hearts in simple fidelity?

If only she could have the chance. She drew the mountain air into her lungs and longed for his return. Surely he would love her. Once he knew her heart.

Quillan rode beside D.C., careful not to push the horses harder than they could stand, but the need to push was inside him. He shouldn’t have gone. The premonition of something bad gripped him. For once D.C. was quiet, and Quillan wondered if he felt it, too. He didn’t ask, though.

He noticed the horses’ strain and expelled his breath in frustration. “We’ve got to let them blow.” The way was steep and the air thin. Pushed too hard, a horse would get spraddle-legged with ribs heaving and the breath rattling in its throat. It would be dead by nightfall. They dismounted and lightly watered the geldings, then simply let them rest.

Quillan paced. D.C. stretched out alongside the road and watched him. Then he closed his eyes, and Quillan saw the fatigue and maybe pain as well. He should have left him in Fairplay. Were all his decisions going to be wrong? He kicked a stone and changed direction.

At last he rallied D.C. and they started up again. The horses were strong. Ferguson had given him the best he had, not the crow bait the other fellow would end up with. But still Quillan chafed the time. They were ten minutes shy of another blow for the horses when D.C. lurched up in his saddle.

“Look there, Quillan!”

“I see it.” Quillan veered the horse to the right and looked over the edge. A canvas-covered wagon lay on its side some twenty yards down. A woman struggled out the end with a child in her arms. It appeared the man was thrown, and he lay a short distance on the far side.

“We can’t just leave them there.” D.C. leaned forward over the saddle horn for a better look. “They might be hurt.”

Quillan’s jaw tensed. “I know that.” He dismounted, left the gelding on the road, and made his way down to the family.

“Oh, thank the Lord. I thought no one would see us. What a terrible thing. First the one horse collapsed, then …” The woman fluttered her hands as she spoke. She was dough-faced and ordinary in features, with a voice particularly high and breathy.

Quillan ignored her and stooped down beside her husband. The man was stunned but came to when Quillan rolled him. His face was pockmarked, and that, with his receding hairline, made him look older than he probably was. He hissed his breath in and grabbed hold of his arm.

“Anything broken besides your arm?”

The man put a hand to his head. “I don’t think so. Madeline?”

“Your wife and child are fine, which is more than I can say for your horse.” Quillan looked at the battered carcass. “Did it ever occur to you that one animal couldn’t haul this load on a grade at this elevation?”

The man tugged his mouth down sideways. “The other one gave out. Just up and collapsed.”

“Where are you from, Mr….”

“Nielson.” He started to reach, but his introduction hand was connected to the broken arm. “We’re from Wichita. Kansas.”

Quillan had expected as much. “Mr. Nielson, I’ll get you and your family up to the road. You can flag someone else from there.”

“What about the wagon?”

“You’ll have to work that out with them.” He helped the man to his feet. “It’ll be nightfall soon enough. Take the first opportunity you get.”

Nielson frowned. Quillan ignored it. He went and looked inside the wagon. It seemed sound, considering its rough descent. The animal must have failed the grade and slipped back, sending the wagon backward over the side and dragging the poor beast behind. They were lucky the slope was more gradual at this point.

“D.C.” Quillan nodded the boy over from where he stood listening to Mrs. Nielson carry on. “Fetch one of the horses.” Together, with D.C. directing the horse and Quillan’s back to it, they heaved the wagon upright. It would serve the Nielsons if they ended up staying the night, though he expected there’d be traffic as long as the light held.

“We’ll get you up to the road now, ma’am.” Quillan reached for the child and swung him up. The little boy hooked his arms around Quillan’s neck but looked back at his mother the whole way.

“Come on, Mrs. Nielson.” D.C. gave her an arm to hold.

Quillan climbed with resolute strides. There’d been no help for it. They couldn’t leave the family unattended. They were fortunate to have so few injuries, though he’d gotten a look at Nielson’s arm and the bone was protruding. He set the boy down on the opposite side of the road.

“How can we thank you?” Mrs. Nielson’s face was earnest.

Quillan was glad D.C. stepped in to handle the gratitude. He went down to help Mr. Nielson up the last bit of slope. “Use the wagon for shelter if it comes to it. But I think you’ll have some wagons pass through still.”

Nielson was clearly in pain.

“Let me see the arm.” Quillan had been right. Though the bone didn’t break through the flesh, he could see the lump of it where it didn’t belong. “You want me to tug it back in?”

Nielson looked sick. “I guess you’d better. But don’t let Maddie see. She’s none too keen on all this.” Nielson ought to have done some clearer thinking beforehand. But Quillan figured he was doing it now.

“Resist me.” Quillan pressed his palm to Nielson’s upper arm and pulled through Nielson’s hollering until he felt the bone slide back. His wife didn’t need to see; she’d heard plenty. Quillan released him. He was not a doctor and couldn’t tell how well he’d lined it up. But it no longer threatened to break through the skin.

He wasn’t sure whether husband or wife was the paler, but when Quillan let go of Mr. Nielson, Mrs. Nielson looked at him with wary eyes. Quillan half smiled at the irony. Even here on the road with complete strangers, he was watched askance. He dug into his pocket, brought out a nickel, and handed it to the little boy connected to his mother’s skirts. The child snatched it with a grin. His mother’s face eased immediately, but before she could begin thanking again, Quillan touched his hat and started for the horse.

Riding beside D.C., Quillan observed, “Some folks should not leave Kansas.”

D.C. grinned. “Mrs. Nielson didn’t know what to make of you. She asked if you were always so surly.”

Quillan glanced sidelong. “What did you tell her?”

“That you were pressed to get back to your bride.”

Quillan flinched.

“She offered her congratulations.”

T
HIRTY-THREE

If I die this minute I will not have lived in vain.

—Rose

T
HE CLOUDS OVERHEAD
blushed, then flamed, but Carina knew she would not leave until she’d read every word of Rose’s diary. She was compelled. She couldn’t put it down, couldn’t walk away without knowing it all.

April 4, 1852 If I die this minute I will not have lived in vain. For I have seen the face of my child, and his name is joy. He is perfect in every feature, fearfully and beautifully made. Wolf said we will call him Quillan. He has a lusty cry.

Carina’s breath stilled. A lusty cry.
“And then that baby started in to cry and Wolf, see, he started a-howlin’, the fiercest, loneliest howlin’ ever heard.”
The memory of the old miner’s words chilled her, and Carina dreaded what would come. Was the story as she’d heard it? Could she bear to know?

April 5, 1852 I am sick with concern. What has come over Wolf? When first he took his son into his hands, he rejoiced, his face alight with joy. But when the baby cried, a terrible change came over him. The sound of Quillan’s cries has drawn from Wolf a wailing I hope never to hear again. Even now the memory of it chills me, and I fear for us.

Carina’s throat tightened painfully. She didn’t want to read it in Rose’s own words. Yet neither could she leave rose to suffer it alone. She would not abandon her. She had to continue.

April 8, 1852 I don’t know the truth of it. Only that on the night of my baby’s birth, a man was killed. Wolf is blamed, and I cannot say it’s not so, for he spent that night away out on the mountain. I can only hear in my mind his howling … and wonder. Doubt erodes my soul. How can I hold in my heart one who might have done what they say? Did I ever know him?

Yet who am I to judge? Has he ever once looked at me as the “good” woman does, pulling her skirts aside lest they touch me and contaminate her? Has he withheld his love from me, who came to him so tarnished I would have sold myself for food? The truth of it is, even if he has done this vile deed, we are joined, heart and spirit. We are one.

Carina shuddered. Would Rose take on Wolf’s guilt? Could she love him so much to share even the lowest part of him? Or would she believe his innocence, proven now, twenty-eight years later, with Henri’s confession?

April 24, 1852 Whatever happens to Wolf and to me, Quillan is innocent of it. I have given him life, and I must safeguard it. I fear for him. I see the hatred in the faces of the miners. They would do violence to us if they could.

April 25, 1852 Does Wolf know what they say, hear the things I’ve heard? Does he know how they fear him? And when my baby cries and Wolf goes out on the mountain, I fear, too. My heart is weak within me. I begged him to take us away, but he won’t leave the mine. He works like one possessed.

April 26, 1852 I know what I must do. Yet my heart aches. How can I live without my child?

Carina pictured Rose with the infant quillan clutched to her breast, agonizing over her choice. The sorrow she must have felt!

April 27, 1852 I tried to give my baby to the priest. He alone has shown us unflagging kindness. But he won’t take my son. I am in anguish, for the one he names is not one I would choose. What choice have I? I am unable to quell Quillan’s helpless wailings, for what baby was ever born who didn’t make his needs known? Wolf cannot bear his cries, though I will carry them forever in my heart.

A slow tear started down Carina’s cheek. Her chest ached to think of Rose’s courage and desperation. To sever ties with her own child after losing the first … Where did she get the strength?

April 28, 1852 Quillan is lost to me. I must have nothing to do with him, make no effort to see him or watch him grow. I must not taint him in any way with my presence. Those were her words. Only in this way might she deliver him from his sinful start. My arms nearly snatched him back, but I watched her take him into their home and close the door between us.

I must think of him no more or I will surely go mad. Wolf wept when I told him what I’d done, but he did not set out to recapture his son. He knows the truth of it. I can’t find it in me to hate him, though my soul wants so badly to blame someone, something. There is only myself.

No. You did what you had to. Rose’s love, like Èmie’s, was selfless and deep. But like Èmie, would she find joy in that? Carina turned the page. The next entry was nearly a month later, and she could only suppose Rose’s grief during that time was too deep to record.

May 24, 1852 I dreamed last night that I held Angel. I put him to my breast and suckled him as I had suckled Quillan. I long for him as I cannot allow myself to long for Quillan. When I heard of the deaths of the Shepards’ children, I was petrified that I had killed my own son. But he lived! God is merciful! He spared my child, though they have taken him away; I don’t know where. Is it wicked once again to want to die?

June 22, 1852 Angel came to me again. Is it a dream? He is so warm and milk-scented. I stroke his head and feel its downy softness. He is older now and cutting teeth. But he never cries. He never cries.

Carina stared at the words. Had Rose’s mind lost its hold of reality? Did she imagine the perfect child, one even Wolf could have borne?
He never cries
. The lump in Carina’s throat ached.

October 7, 1852 Sometimes I see them playing on the floor, Quillan and Angel together. How beautiful they are. But they don’t stay. I feel so cold. I feel cold all the time. The sun can’t penetrate the chill. It comes from inside me.

October 8, 1852 My body is unfailing in cruelty. It is strong, stronger than my mind. Wolf holds me, but I don’t feel him there. I’m so weary of it all.

Carina’s hand trembled as she turned the leaf and saw there the last entry.

October 9, 1852 I’m taking this book to Father Charboneau. Perhaps one day he will give it to my son. I can only hope that Quillan will have compassion on the one who bore him. For there is another inside me whom I cannot bear to see. God have mercy on my soul.

Carina drew a raspy breath and closed the book, then gave way to the tears. Such despair. How could Quillan hate the woman who had suffered so much to give him life and keep him safe? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know the truth and not cherish her.

Had she taken her own life? Or had the fire simply provided the opportunity she longed for? Did it matter? Perhaps it should. But Carina couldn’t find it in her to judge. God knew. God alone could judge Rose’s soul. And Wolf had loved her too much to let her die alone.

Regretfully, Carina stood. She sniffed away her tears, reluctant even now to go down. Here, in Rose’s place, she could forget for a time the ugliness of Crystal and her own woes. But not forever. She must face it.

Daisy was fresh and well grazed and carried her with ease. She reached Crystal just as the last evening color faded to gray. Dressed as she was, Carina had little concern she would be noticed returning the mare, so she went directly to the livery. Alan Tavish wasn’t in, so she saw to the horse herself. Something seemed odd, and then she realized what it was.

Quiet. No tinny pianos, no raucous voices. The street wasn’t deserted, but mostly so. She checked the back room for the old ostler. Maybe he could tell her what was happening. But the room was empty, and she looked out the back doors to the tent city and beyond. There was a gathering at the creek side. Experience brought a chill to her breast.

As she stood, more and more people gathered. What was it? What drew them? She had to know as well. It could be nothing more than … than … But thoughts of the crowd around William Evans’ body would not allow her to even imagine an alternative. Her heart pumped. She reached the crowd breathless and shaking.

A blond giant turned to those nearest. “Ya, I heard the dog yelp. But that was some hours ago.”

Was it only a dog? She strained to see through all those in front of her.

“Joseph, Mary, and all the saints!” It was Alan Tavish. “Why? In heaven’s name, why?”

Carina’s chest suspended. Alan’s agony was real. She insinuated herself between the gawkers, pushing toward the front. This was some devilry, she was sure, and the knot in her stomach tightened.
Dio, not Èmie
. No, it couldn’t be Èmie. Dr. Simms would keep her safe. Who, then?

“Musta lost his balance and fallen.”

A man
.

“Head’s got quite a bash.”

He was attacked
.

“How could he get that from a fall facedown?”

“Water must have rolled him.”

“Poor old Cain. Bad way to go.”

Carina froze.
Cain?
She must have spoken it, because the men in front of her turned, and she saw Cain lying in the gravel beside the creek, his mottled dog whining softly beside him.

“I say he was murdered.” It was Bennet Danes, owner of the Boise Billiard Hall. Their eyes met, and he recognized her in spite of her garb. His expression was ugly.

Carina felt sick inside, sick in a way that wouldn’t heal. Why would someone murder a defenseless, crippled old man? And then she guessed. Berkley Beck. This was his retaliation, his revenge on Quillan. And it would be bitter indeed. She’d seen the love Quillan had for Cain, the gentleness and the respect he bore him.

She must have swayed, for hands caught her arms and turned her away. She let them carry her through the crowd, then shook them off and walked alone. Her legs moved of their own volition. Her mind was too stunned to direct her path. She staggered, caught herself, and kept on. A shadow moved to her right. She spun, but her arm was gripped before she could run.

“My dear. I must say marriage doesn’t suit you.” Mr. Beck’s eyes were wide and unusually bright. His shirt was wrinkled as though he’d slept in it, and there was dust on one sleeve. “Has Quillan made you a freighter?”

“He’s made me nothing but his wife.”

Beck slapped her. Carina gasped and held her cheek. He would strike her? Bestia! She swallowed her cry, though she couldn’t keep her eyes from tearing.

“Where is the ledger, Carina?”

Her throat constricted with fear, but she raised her chin defiantly. “I gave it to Quillan. You have no more secrets, Mr. Beck.”

He pulled her very close to his chest. “Berkley.”

A drop of spittle hit her lip. She was repulsed, but she refused to struggle.

He smiled broadly, then laughed. “In that case, the most I can hope is to take you with me.” He set her back without releasing his grip. “Will you dine with me, Miss DiGratia?”

Was he pazzo? “I will not.”

“You’ll have to change clothes. I can’t abide a woman in pants.”

“Let go of my arm, and you won’t have to.”

He yanked the hat from her head, and her hair tumbled loose. “That’s better. A woman’s hair is her crown.”

He’d lost his mind. She was in the clutch of a madman.

“Now, then.” He walked her forcibly toward Mae’s. “I think the lovely green gown you wore last night.”

Carina trembled. Had he seen her with Quillan? Had he lurked somewhere out of sight, yet watched her? They reached Mae’s, and she prayed there would be people there. There were always people there. But the house was quiet. Cain’s murder must have drawn them away. He half dragged her up the stairs, then kicked her door open with a strength she wouldn’t have credited him.

“I’ll wait in the hall.”

She went inside and started to close the door behind her.

“I wouldn’t try the window. If the fall didn’t kill you, my man would.”

Carina slammed the damaged door and rushed to the window. Walter Carruther paced below. She looked at the carpetbag lying where she’d thrown it. One consolation was the dreadful condition the dress must be in.

She pulled it from the bag. It was wrinkled, but not so much as she had hoped. Closing her eyes, she pressed her face to the silk. Had Quillan thought her beautiful? As he eyed her in the dress, had he thought of her at all? Could he have left her if he had?

A wave of self-pity washed over her as she shook the dress and laid it across the bed. Why was this happening? Hadn’t she surrendered her life to God’s care? Had she mistaken His presence, His promise, His peace? How could this possibly be for her good? She pulled off Mr. Tavish’s clothes and put on the gown, painfully aware of the way it enhanced her.

She fastened the buttons with clumsy fingers and smoothed the skirts, but refused to check herself in the mirror. It would show only her face anyway, and she did not want to see what emotions her eyes must hold. She opened the door, futilely hoping Mr. Beck would be gone.

He was not. He looked at her with fierce admiration and hatred, then held out his arm. She refused it, and he gripped hers instead. His fingers were brutal. Down the stairs and out the door and still no one stopped them. He then walked her along Drake to Central in plain view of the few people around.