Sweet Boundless (37 page)

He had no delusions that anything would be done, but his very actions had branded him. He was no longer a company man. Though his loyalties lay with the owners, engineers, and managers of the mines, he’d acted against them. And he’d be blackballed for it—deservedly so. He’d stirred the can of worms Carina had opened. But after finding her, holding her . . .

He clenched and unclenched his hands. He had taken her into his arms and held her as he’d ached to for so long. She was injured and unconscious, but he’d held her, heart hammering with rage at the attackers and equally with joy at the warmth of her in his arms. God have mercy on him. He’d kept away ever since.

Mae had apprised him of Carina’s condition the next morning when he’d asked. But he didn’t dare see her himself. He’d all but slept in the mine since then, spending all his energy and effort in work. Anything to keep his thoughts and emotions from such dangerous territory.

Carina was another man’s wife. And though he’d not seen him for himself, Joe Turner had told him Quillan Shepard was back. Turner had thought it prudent he know. Alex slammed his fist on the table of charts.

Quillan gathered his things from Alan’s small room. Though Carina would likely scratch and spit, it was time he took up residence with her. He would not have her turning to Joe Turner or Alex Makepeace every time she needed aid. And Dr. Felden had scared him with his reaction this morning. If her health were that precarious, Quillan would see that nothing thwarted the healing. Not even Carina herself.

Alan was haggling with a customer when Quillan carried his things past, but the old man didn’t miss the import of his load. Quillan nodded, and Alan sent a wink after him. In Alan’s mind all Quillan needed to do was take Carina to bed and all would be well in the Shepard house.

Quillan knew better. It would be the floor for him. Not only because Dr. Felden had warned him against practicing his rights too soon, but because he would not so much as kiss his wife until he knew she wanted it. And if the fate of his rocker were any indication, she would not want it soon. Presents were obviously not the way into Carina’s good graces.

What, then? He glanced heavenward. If he had gone to her meek and trembling, would she have forgiven him? If he’d let her pile his head with coals, would she now welcome him with open arms? He doubted it. Then how?

Love her
. The thought was clear and direct. But what did it mean? He didn’t know how to order his life now. He’d hardly had any days in which he hadn’t known exactly what he needed to do and done it. He could be on his wagon, even on these winter roads, hauling, driving his team and himself. He could be buying, selling, and bartering. And then he thought of Carina’s words.

Would he run her restaurant? Somehow he suspected that was the last thing she’d want, but hadn’t he brought a wagonload of supplies from Fairplay? He knew her doors hadn’t opened since her injury. Two young girls had come daily to ask whether they were needed. He didn’t know who they were, but he’d recalled seeing them working. The other one, too, the one Èmie called Lucia, who didn’t speak good English. They all wanted to know what would happen now.

Quillan looked at the building as he approached. Carina had made something of herself, something of the shabby house she’d fought for and won. Maybe he could preserve what she had until she was on her feet again. He let himself into Carina’s house, laid his bundle on the floor, and looked at her lying in the bed.

She slept soundly, no doubt worn out from overexerting herself earlier. Her eyes were damp, and he felt a guilty pang. He rubbed his face. How easy it would be to convince himself she was better off without him. But he knew now the covenant they’d made before God was forever.

Just as the Reverend Shepard’s was with his wife. For better or worse, sickness or health, until death. Quillan leaned close to Carina, wanting to stroke her hair, to kiss the tears from her cheek. But he straightened and went out the side door, down the hall to Mae’s. She was upstairs changing a bed and looked up, surprised, when he crowded into the room.

“Mae, tell me what I need to know about Carina’s restaurant.”

“What do you mean?” She folded the edge of the sheet and tucked it under the lumpy mattress.

“Can it run without her? Does anyone else know what to do?”

Mae plunked a fist onto her hip. “What are you thinking, Quillan?”

He slacked his hip and leaned into the doorjamb. “I’m worried, Mae.”

The other hand joined her opposite hip. “Well, it’s about time.”

He dropped his chin, accepting her rebuke. “I don’t want her thinking she has to get up and work before she can. But I brought a wagonload of the things she likes to use. Ingredients and such.”

“You’re going to make the ravioli?”

He looked up to see the teasing smirk on her face. “I wasn’t thinking that. But if any of the rest of you know how . . .”

Mae swished past him, grabbed up the blanket, and spread it over the bed. “Èmie’s learned quite a bit. Lucia’s handy with the simpler dishes. The twins mostly clear and wash. If we took on another to wait the tables . . . yes, it could be done. But does Carina want it?”

Quillan tucked the near corner of the blanket. “I don’t know.”

Mae grunted as she tucked her edge of the blanket under the foot of the mattress. “I’ll gather the girls and see what can be done. I suppose Carina could direct things from bed.”

“I don’t want her to.”

“Then you don’t know Carina.”

Quillan considered that. He knew her better than Mae suspected. And, yes, it would be a battle to keep Carina still. But what could she do from bed? He released his breath. He couldn’t figure it all out at once. “Do what you can, Mae. Let me know what you need.”

Mae laughed. “My guess is you’re a little stir-crazy yourself.”

“I’m used to keeping busy.”

“Get unused to it.” Mae fixed him with a frank stare. “If you’re expecting Carina to sit still, you might learn to do the same.”

It was such an obvious thought, it caught him short. And he didn’t like it. Yes, he’d decided to stay in Crystal, but he hadn’t thought to be sitting on his hands. Walking over, he’d thought he could take charge of Carina’s operation while still attending to his own affairs. There was plenty of work for a freighter in town, ore to the smelters, hauling irons and powder and other supplies to the mines. Work, he knew. Work, he needed—not for the money as much as . . . as what?

“Think about it.” Mae swished past and started down the stairs.

The day seemed to stretch already. Could he make himself be idle? He’d sat with Mrs. Shepard, hadn’t he? That was idle enough. Except when she had her fits and required a strong arm to contain and soothe her. Or when she needed to be fed or washed or helped onto the chamber pot. No, it had been work, not idleness.
Idleness is
the devil’s tool
. Or was it?

He headed down the stairs in a daze. What if he sat with Carina, just sat? She’d think he’d lost his mind. He would lose his mind. Or would he? He took the hall back to her room, stood over the bed, and watched her sleeping. At least she could sleep. He walked over and unrolled his bedding. Then he untied his pack and took out the three books and meager foodstuffs it held. Lastly he took out his mother’s diary.

He held it a moment, his eyes stroking the nameplate.
Rose Annelise
DeMornay
. One piece had been put into place. But what about Wolf? Why did he think of that now? Because in Crystal, Wolf was never far from his thoughts?

He laid the diary beside Carina’s journal on the crate by her bed. It was more hers than his. Without Carina he wouldn’t know his mother’s devotion. Nor would he know his father’s innocence of the crime ascribed to him for too many years. Without her prying, none of that may have come to light. But there was still so much he didn’t understand.

Quillan perused the single room of Carina’s house. The stove was stoked warmly enough. Everything was neat and in its place. That wasn’t hard since there was very little to keep tidy. Quillan felt an ache begin. He could have done so much more. He knew, or at least he guessed, the fine living Carina had known before coming to Crystal. Hadn’t she told him in no uncertain terms the power and prestige her papa wielded?

Now look at her. The only thing of value was the bed, and he had begrudged her that because she’d paid too much. He hadn’t known, hadn’t been able to open his heart and see her need. Now he wished it hadn’t been opened for him. It hurt to care so much, to want so much.

God
. Again the presence was with him. He’d felt nothing since the night he returned. He knew better than to expect feelings of God’s presence. But it was there with him now. He looked at Carina, wishing he could wipe out everything that had happened and start fresh.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the
heaven. A time to be born and a time to die; to plant, to pluck, to kill, to
heal; a time to break down and a time to build up. A time to weep and
a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance
.

Maybe it had all needed to happen as it did. Could he have loved her and hated his mother and Leona Shepard at once? Would it not have been a war inside him? Hadn’t it been already, every time he got close to Carina?
A time to break down and a time to build up
. He had needed to be broken down. Now he wondered what could build them up.

Quillan sat down in one of the chairs at the small table against the wall. He would have sat in the rocker if it had been there still. He certainly hoped Èmie Charboneau Simms was enjoying it. With his elbow on the table, Quillan rested his forehead on his fingertips. He raised his eyes just enough to see Carina’s face, flushed in sleep.

There is a garden in her face
. Looking at her now, the whole poem ran through his mind, its truth sinking deeply. No matter how much he wanted her, until her lips called cherry ripe, he was outside the garden looking in. And the wall was high and thick.

Carina woke. The lamp beside her bed was lit, and she saw beneath it, glowing warmly, the red leather of Rose’s diary. Lifting herself slowly, stiffly, she reached her fingers to stroke it. How . . . ?

And then she saw him through the side of her eye. In the golden lamplight, Quillan’s hair was more honey-toned than brown. His face looked weary, and his eyes, fixed on her, vulnerable. There was no look of the pirate tonight. Her heart stirred, but she knew better than to give in to it.

She reached for the diary and brought it to her breast, then sank back into the pillows piled high behind her. Where Mae had gathered such a supply, she didn’t know. But she was grateful. Carina raised her eyes to Quillan, saw his gaze drop to the diary. She clutched it protectively. “You read it?”

“ ‘It is a fact that the human heart differs from all other species. While its function to the body is the same as that of all animals, its participation with the human soul is both rhapsodic and fatal.’ ”

Hearing Rose’s words from Quillan’s mouth gave Carina a pang she couldn’t hide. And he spoke it from memory. He had committed his mother’s words to memory. Again her heart stirred. “Then you know she’s not what you thought her.”

He nodded slowly.

“And Wolf?”

The crease in his brow deepened. “I don’t know.”

Carina expelled her breath and looked out to the night where Quillan had parted the curtain. If there were stars she couldn’t tell with the lamp glow so close to her face. She replaced the diary on the crate. She had given him Rose. Did she dare give him Wolf as well?

A nasty voice inside said he didn’t deserve it. Why should she give him anything? But unlike earlier, the quickened anger ebbed. Maybe she was too weak to sustain it. Maybe the look in his eyes had dissolved it.

“You know the shaft where you found me? Where I’d fallen?”

He frowned. “In the Rose Legacy?”

She nodded. “Under the shaft, there’s a cave. A large limestone cave. But beyond that there’s a chamber. If you want to know Wolf, he’s there.”

Quillan’s expression was inscrutable. After a long moment, he said, “How do you know?”

“I found it with Alex Makepeace.”

Quillan visibly stiffened. She waited for him to strike out, to accuse her of some new violation of his privacy. Perhaps even infidelity. She saw his throat work and the tension in his jaw. All the softness in his eyes was gone. He was Wolf, warding off all comers with the power of his presence alone.

Then he closed his eyes and dropped his chin. “He can take me there?”

“Ask him.” She turned to her side, already regretting what she’d done. What would Quillan see? That his papa truly was the savage he thought him? That he was the pale wolf always off to the side, alone? That he was more like Quillan than he wanted to believe? She sensed motion and looked up over her shoulder.

Beside the bed, Quillan extinguished the light. For a moment he rested his hand on her head. “Sleep now.” Then he left.

Quillan stepped out into the night. He walked the short way to Mae’s and asked for Alex Makepeace.

“He’s not here, Quillan.” Mae looked up from the ledger she was balancing. “Try the mine.”