The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine (25 page)

“How can you look so dour with the sun gleaming on the water and the shore drawing nigh? Why are you frowning?”

“Carina . . .” But then the whistle shrilled three times, drowning out his question.

“Look! There’s Sonoma landing.” Carina gripped his arm. “Oh, Quillan, soon!”

He sighed. Why spoil her excitement? Maybe it would be all right. Maybe it was his own experience that made him doubt where nothing warranted doubt. After all, she knew her family.

The steamer chugged up to the wharf. One of the huge paddle wheels reversed and brought the boat alongside. Men rushed to toss ropes as the steamer eased to a stop and the boilers were shut down. The black smoke stopped belching from the stacks.

Quillan watched as the gangplank was stretched across the gap of water, then turned to Carina. “Go on ashore while I oversee the wagon and team.”

She nodded, half oblivious to him already. He had loaded all their gear into the wagon before it was loaded onto the steamer, so she carried nothing but her lace parasol and a small valise. She had exchanged her brown woolen coat for a violet duster she purchased in San Francisco with money from her own pouch. How much had she actually made running that restaurant of hers?

Carina looked elegant and fresh, with such color to her cheeks he wanted to kiss them. But he refrained. As he watched her cross the gangplank and go ashore, he felt a fierce pride. He went down and helped the sweating black man take his balking horses ashore, pulling the wagon behind. On the wharf, he inspected the wagon and found everything in order.

He lifted Carina to the spring seat. It seemed a waste now that they hadn’t ridden all the way from Crystal. But he was glad for the springs once they started along the road. The deep mud ruts had hardened, and the wheels jolted unmercifully. Carina would not have stood it long, though to look at her you’d never know she had recently been battered.

She breathed deeply, hands clasped at her breast, and murmured, “Come bella.”

It was a lovely scene: gently swelling hills just starting to green with patches of bare oaks. Here and there a stand of redwoods, and along the creeks grew rust-colored willows and bushes that he guessed would berry. At rare distances, they passed farmhouses. All about, cattle grazed—white, black, brown, and marbled. There were flocks of sheep and geese and goats. A pastoral landscape. If ever a land was of milk and honey, this was it.

Quillan felt something stir inside. This was a place to settle, to put down roots. Hadn’t Cain said every man needed roots? Was it possible? An ache started in his throat. Did he dare hope to find a home, to make a home? He could live here with Carina. He felt it.

Though the air on the bay had been chilled with wind, it now waxed warm with a balmy scent. As they rode farther from the shore and deeper into the hills, the sun warmed the land, and him with it. Farming. He had never considered it. He’d been fleet of foot and restless, never trusting one place to stand him for long. Now . . .

Lord, is this it? What you planned for me? A home, land, a family?

Carina pointed out properties and landmarks, saying many of the words in Italian. Did she realize . . . ? But he committed them to memory as she talked. Some of the land was quilted with what looked like dark gnarled stalks tied to wooden crosses with arms reaching out, between them a froth of bright yellow.

Carina caught his gaze. “Those are the grapes. They’ve had winter pruning but no buds yet. The fava beans are in bloom.”

“Beans between the grapes?” Then the tough dark stumps must be the grapevines. They looked dead compared to the bright yellow of the bean plants.

She nodded. “Fava, orchard grass, clover—to hold the soil against the winter rains.”

Fog clung in the low areas over the creeks, though the hills were bright with sunshine and breeze-tossed grasses. Quillan realized how little he knew about such a life. Was he dreaming? Could he settle down and learn?

“And there.” Carina pointed. “You can just see Sonoma.”

Ahead, a cluster of buildings stood closer together than the farms, but still orderly. The road went straight into what seemed a large central square. Quillan eyed it with curiosity. They were coming in at mid-afternoon, but the town seemed sleepy even so.

“That’s the plaza. General Vallejo laid it out and plotted the streets around it. Cattle used to graze there along a white picket fence. Now with the train through, it’s not pretty anymore.”

Quillan eyed the dirt square, gauging it some six square acres or more. The tracks ran along one side, lined by stores and businesses and ending in a turntable at one corner of the plaza. He said, “Who’s General Vallejo?”

“Mariano Vallejo. He was sent here by the Mexican president. A great man for the community and a friend of Papa’s. He gave us our fountain.”

“Fountain?”

“In the courtyard. You’ll see it. A lovely white swan.”

Quillan’s belly tightened. A fountained courtyard. High connections. What did he know about any of that?

Carina motioned. “Turn here.”

They had not entered the plaza, were still some blocks from it as he brought the wagon onto a smaller road that started off east.

“Over that way is Lachryma Montis, General Vallejo’s home. He has a spring-fed reservoir that provides water for his gardens. He sells some to the town.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “Papa’s land is ahead about a mile and a half.”

With every sentence Quillan felt less sure of his chances. Had that quickening inside at the sight and scent of the land, at the thought of settling down, been God’s urging or his own desires? He’d know soon enough. He snapped the lines, and the horses picked up their pace.

Carina’s heart swelled at the sight of Papa’s white palatial home surrounded by vine-covered hills and rows upon rows of shapely apple and orange trees. After Crystal it seemed everything fine and marvelous. The walls of the courtyard welcomed her with the wrought iron gates standing open. Voices and laughter came from inside. Male voices. Her brothers were playing bocce along the west wall where a strip of sand had been laid out for the game. As the wagon entered the yard, hooves
clop-clopping
on the cobbles, the rumble of the huge wheels echoing on the stucco walls, her brothers stopped and turned.

“Carina Maria!” Vittorio’s call sent her heart leaping. How long had it been since she’d heard and seen them? Too long!

“Hello, hello, I’m home.” She held out her arms as Angelo reached up for her waist.

He swung her down. “Where have you been? Why no word for so long? You nearly put Mamma in her grave.” His tone was not what she had hoped for. Weren’t they happy to see her?

“It’s Papa who’s been a dead man.” Joseph snatched her satchel from behind the seat as soon as the wheels ground to a halt. “Do you have more? Anything in the back?” He eyed the tarp-covered load.

“Yes . . .”

“Do you owe the driver money?” Vittorio hollered up to Quillan, “What does she owe you?”

“I don’t—” But every time she turned to answer, Angelo pushed her farther from the wagon, and Lorenzo and Tony had placed themselves between her and Quillan. She was too small to resist, and they were too many; all her brothers, her twin cousins Matteo and Benny, and— Then she saw Flavio, his white shirt sleeves rolled above the wrist, his vest open over loose-fitting pants. He stood with another cousin, Nicolo, one hand on his hip. His mouth was firm, accusing, but his eyes darkly melting. Her heart jumped, but she wasn’t sure with what. She had known she would see him; how could she not? But she hadn’t expected it so soon.

“Look who’s home!” Catching her arm, Tony tugged her toward Flavio, but Angelo stopped them.

“No, she’s going inside.”

“But Flavio—”

“Flavio can wait.”

It wasn’t Flavio she was concerned with. She tugged against them both as they steered her toward the house. “Wait.” If they would just let her talk!

“We’ll take care of things out here.” Lorenzo swung open the large wooden door.

“You don’t un—”

Angelo pushed her through. Carina stomped and pushed back, but they fenced her in with their arms, doing their duty, protecting the hapless woman from a strange man—who happened to be her husband! “Stop it, Angelo. Tony, let me go!” She thrashed her way back out the door and slapped at Lorenzo. “Stop it now and listen.”

Lorenzo caught both her arms and pinned them to her sides, speaking in Italian. “What were you thinking riding in like that without a chaperone? Have you no decency?”

She struggled. “If you would let me talk for one minute—”

“Talk inside.” He lifted her off her feet.

She kicked his shin hard. “Stop it!” Now Flavio was grinning, and that sent a rush of fury through her. She kicked Lorenzo again. “Stop treating me like a child!”

He dropped her to grip his shin. “You are acting like one!”

She straightened her skirts with a huff and found Quillan with her eyes. He had dismounted the wagon and come around to the near side. His hair was loose, his face shaven, the mustache full across his upper lip and down to his jaw. His face showed her nothing, but there was an animal wariness in his stance. No wonder, with her brothers behaving like madmen.

She pushed past Lorenzo, but Flavio blocked her way, both hands on his hips. He looked her up and down with a smug smile. “So you’ve come to your senses.”

She raised her chin. “I never left them.”

He switched to Italian. “I knew you’d come back.”

He was so self-satisfied, she wished she hadn’t. She switched to Italian to answer. “Gross’uomo. You think you know everything. You’re so smart, so macho. Get out of my way.”

“Your brothers can get your things. You come with me.” He reached for her arm.

She shook him off. “My husband might have something to say about that.”

The courtyard fell silent. To a man, they turned to look at Quillan. He strode over and held out his hand. She reached for it and pressed in to his side.

“This is my husband, Quillan Shepard. Quillan, my brothers: Angelo, Vittorio, Lorenzo, Joseph, and Tony. These are my cousins Matt, Benny, Nicolo, and Flavio.” She had actually struck them dumb. No one spoke; no one moved. Then they all started hollering at once.

“What is all this commotion?” Mamma came through the door. “Carina!”

Carina ran to her, threw her arms around her neck, and kissed her cheeks again and again. “Oh, Mamma, Mamma.”

“Carina, my angel. God has brought you back from the grave.”

She shook her head. “Not from the grave, Mamma. Oh, Mamma.” Carina squeezed her again. Then she looked up and saw Papa.

He spread his arms, and she went to him, kissing him and pressing her face into his chest. “Papa.”

They swayed back and forth in their embrace. “Carina, Carina. You’re home.” Then he saw Quillan and paused his rocking. “Who is this?”

Carina felt a quaking inside. Now it came to it. She turned. “Papa, this is my husband, Quillan Shepard.”

He stood very still as his face darkened; his blue eyes hardened to rocks. “What do you mean?” His voice was flat and still.

She swallowed her fear. “We were married in Crystal, Papa.”

“Impossible. Married without courting? Who chaperoned? Who gave his blessing in place of your papa?”

Mamma wrung her hands. “What have you done, Carina?” She gripped her cheeks. “Oh, I knew you should never have gone. You were only a baby. How could I have let you go?”

“I was not a baby. And I’m not now. I’m a grown woman, and this man is my husband.” Carina saw Quillan’s jaw tighten, as though someone took a winch and drew the tendons taut. She stomped her foot. “Where is your hospitality?”

It was a valid reprimand, but Papa wasn’t swayed. “I’ll give no hospitality to a thief.” He looked directly at Quillan, drew himself up to a height with him, arms stiffening. “Who do you think you are, to marry my daughter without my permission?”

Before Quillan could answer, Carina blurted, “It was my choice, Papa.”

“Your choice? Who are you to choose?” He threw up his hands. “Bene. You have no need of a papa.” He turned for the house.

“Stop it, Papa. You dishonor me.”

He stopped and stiffened. “I . . . dishonor you? You have taken away my right, my privilege. You married without my blessing.”

“What of Flavio?” Mamma started to cry. “You were promised to him. A good match. A fine match. You love him.”

Carina quailed. This was not the time for that, not in front of Quillan and Flavio both. Not with the way Flavio had shamed her, hurt her. How could it hurt still? But it did. She looked up defiantly. “I don’t want to talk about that now.”

“You don’t want.” Papa shook his head.

Carina’s heart ached. She had disappointed him, wounded him. If he would just hear her! “Listen, Papa. I bring you a son, and you act as though someone has died.” She waved her arm to include them all. “I bring you a brother.”

“Were you married by a priest?” Mamma gripped her shawl beneath her throat.

“Yes.” What did Mamma think? But at the time Carina had been so dazed it could have been a judge or anyone else.

Mamma was mumbling. “Then it’s done.” She pressed her hands to her face.

Carina caught Flavio’s fiery gaze. What right had he to be angry? “Where is Divina?”

Mamma wrapped herself in her arms. “Married. Four months now. And expecting.”

“Married?” Then what was the fuss?

Nicolo stood straighter. “To me.”

Carina’s mouth fell open. Nicolo had married Divina? She had never shown the least interest in Nicolo. And what about Flavio? Carina pictured them together as she’d seen them in the barn. Flavio had not married Divina? Her breath suspended as things came clear. Divina married to Nicolo and expecting . . . She looked again at Flavio, his face insolent and furious. She knew that mood. She knew all his moods.

Heart pounding, she walked to Quillan’s side. “We’ve come a long way. Do you have room for us or not?”

Mamma bit her knuckles, crying.

Papa straightened slowly. “There is room.” But his tone was far from warm.

“Come in, come in.” Mamma waved them through the door. “You can unpack later. Come in.”