The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(101)

Quillan wasn’t sure what he expected, but Pierce’s measuring gaze surprised him. “I say.”

Quillan quirked his mouth at one corner. “Better look elsewhere for your hero.”

“And have you lost your fortune, then?”

“My fortune?”

“Come, Quillan. I have it from Horace Tabor’s mouth. He did finance the deal, did he not?”

Quillan frowned.

“I see that he did. You’re a wealthy man, unless that, too, has been muddled?”

Quillan glared. “It’s none of your affair.”

“Lost it gambling, did you?”

Quillan moistened his lips, restrained the urge to bodily remove Pierce from the wagon. “I did not lose it. I don’t gamble.”

And now Pierce’s curiosity peaked. “If that’s so, what has the family so all-fired?”

Quillan faced him squarely. “Just . . . me.” He saw Pierce reappraising him, taking in his rough cut, stubbled features, stubborn jaw, gray stormy eyes, unruly hair.

“You do present a formidable front.”

Quillan started the wagon again.

Pierce caught the side. “Pro patria, is it?”

Quillan flinched. Did he present a bristly front like a porcupine ready to protect his vulnerable identity?

“You know, I could help you.”

“No thanks.”

“Tell the real story.” Pierce persisted.

The real story was worse than the front. But there, he was sinking into his former thoughts. Why did Pierce keep chipping away the fragile peace he’d found? Jesus was the vine, God the vine grower, and he . . . he had to cling or be cut away and burned.

“Mr. Pierce—”

“Call me Rod.”

“Mr. Pierce, you’re wasting your time.” Quillan neared the yard where he would unload his haul to be carried by hand wagons to the cutters, then stacked as street cobbles and taken to the depot. Sometimes that fell to him when they had enough rough material blasted from the surface to spare him from the work higher up.

“You know the best attribute of a newsman?”

Quillan didn’t want to hear. He was weary of the argument.

“The nose.” Pierce tapped his own. “That’s where you know when you have something newsworthy.”

Quillan brought his team to a halt, set the brake, and wound the traces. “Mr. Pierce—Rod—I don’t know what you think you smell, but if you look around, you’ll see keeping company with me isn’t the safest choice right now.”

Pierce looked. The men had stopped their labors and glared as one body. “That is an oddity of Italians, I’ve noticed. Clannish. But I wouldn’t guess they’d take it too far.”

Quillan thought back to Flavio’s appearance earlier, his consultation with one of the workers and the taunting glance that followed. As they came forward sullenly to empty his load, Quillan muttered, “I wouldn’t stake your life on that.”

“Well, I’ve seen you handle a gun.” He looked down at Quillan’s belt. “Have it concealed, have you?”

Quillan shook his head.

“I see.” Pierce rubbed his chin. “So that’s the state of affairs.”

Quillan jumped down from the box and started around to open the back.

Pierce climbed down and met him there. “I’m staying at the Traveler’s Home Hotel. Why don’t you meet me for a drink?”

“I have duties in Schocken’s store after this.”

“Till when? Six, seven?”

Quillan pulled himself onto the wagon bed. “My hours are my own. I’ll work till I turn in.”

Looking up, Pierce squinted into the glare. “Maybe I’ll come around anyway.”

Quillan shrugged and reached for the first rock. As Roderick Pierce strode off for his rented buggy, Quillan tossed the rock to the ground, and the men closed in under Mr. Marconi’s watchful eye. He paused for a moment. Marconi was in an awkward spot between the ire of the Italian workers toward Quillan and the acclaim of Solomon Schocken.

Quillan saw to it he did his work well. He would give Schocken and Marconi no cause for complaint.





After bathing, Carina peeked in at the Chinese man sleeping in the single bed Papa kept for patients too sick to send home. He seemed peaceful now, no longer ranting, though Papa checked his eyes every hour or two. But no one was in the room just now, so she left the old man to his rest.

She went up to her room and sat listlessly on the bed. She could hear the women gathering. From the bathhouse, she had seen Divina crossing the fields from her villa to Mamma’s kitchen. She would not go down to suffer Divina’s cutting tongue. And the others . . . their murmuring and nodding made her squirm. What did they know? They had wormed into the vacancy she left and did not want to leave it now. And Mamma, Mamma was the worst. Now that she no longer wept it was certainly worse. Was she so confident the marriage would be annulled?

Why weep when you’ve gotten what you want?

Carina glanced at the newspaper lying where she had dropped it. What had Mr. Pierce written about her husband? Would it hurt too much to read? Could it hurt more than she already did?

She took up the paper and unfolded the pages. There was the headline. A Hero for Today? She wanted to cry all over again. Signore, why won’t they see? She gathered herself and read Mr. Pierce’s account of their adventure aboard the Union Pacific. He had highlighted Quillan’s role, and he did capture the essence of her husband, his straightforward, dauntless courage, his ability to lead by example.