The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(109)

He kept hearing the screams, the groans, the agony he had caused another man. It didn’t matter now that it was Quillan Shepard, the one Carina loved. He saw the man’s face contorted with pain, his moan of “Oh, God.” And it was that moan that had spurred Flavio to action.

He had gripped the wagon, just starting to burn, and with more than human strength lifted it to free the man he wanted to destroy. His malice had failed and mercy interceded. Why? For the same reason he now quaked at his own violence? Dottore DiGratia was right. His temper was dangerous. Now he knew what he could do, but knowing it, he could never do it again. It sickened him.

“Oh, God.” He repeated Quillan’s words. “Oh, God.” Had God used him to free the man who called on Him in pain? Had God turned Flavio’s own heart to help before it was too late? Was it Quillan’s begging for the helpless animals? Flavio loved animals, their warm breath and simplicity. The distress of the horses had contributed, yes, but there was more.

Whatever it was, he was fiercely thankful he had acted as he did. As horrified as he felt now, how much worse would it be if he had left the man to burn? But he could still die. Flavio remembered the wagon crashing down on him, the scream of pain, and he had felt the weight of it himself when he tried to raise it up. Quillan Shepard could die, and it would be on Flavio’s soul forever.

He shuddered. If Gesù was a myth and God a tool for priests to frighten children, why now did he feel such a trembling for his soul? He wouldn’t believe he had a soul if he didn’t feel it crying out against him now. He was like Cain, being cursed by the very ground he walked on. Everyone would know. His own soul convicted him.

“Oh, God.” The words came without thought. Flavio didn’t pray. He never prayed. “Prayer is for the weak and simple,” another of his papa’s teachings. Flavio had been frightened when his papa said that. Didn’t he know it would offend Gesù? But Papa had laughed at his fears. “Offend a fairy tale? I’ll take my chances.”

“God.” Flavio dropped his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. Year after year he had gone through the motions with the very religious Lanzas. But he had never entered in, never counted himself among the weak and simple, never earned his papa’s disdain. Even when he could no longer picture his father’s face, the things Papa had told him stayed with him. But they were wrong.

God was real, and He had acted when Quillan Shepard called, even turning the hand of his enemy to rescue him, giving him supernatural strength. Flavio moaned. He was wicked and despicable. Yet God had used him when Quillan called.





TWENTY-THREE

“I thirst,” He cried out from the cross, pained in heart and soul and bone, an aching need, heartbreaking loss, “Father, why am I alone?”

—Quillan

AS THE SLANTING RAYS of thin spring sunlight faded to gray, Carina held Quillan’s hand and prayed. “Il Padre Eterno, hear me, please. I beg you for his life. I surrender all claims to his love, to any love. If my wickedness, my selfishness has brought this evil on him, forgive me.” What if she had not asked to go home? Had left her family when she saw their hearts were hard? What if . . . ? Oh, so many what-ifs.

Mamma brought her minestrone and bread. The steam was pungent with tomato and turnips and cabbage and beans, savory with bacon and onions and basil and thyme, hearty and wholesome. But Carina shook her head. Her body floated in limbo with Quillan’s. How could she eat, how could she sleep when Quillan balanced between life and death, fever rising and consuming him.

The heat of his hand sent her heart rushing with fear. His eyes were hollowed pits, his flesh bruised and crusted with scabs, incidental injuries that would have mattered except when compared to the snapping of bones and crushing of organs. He was a shadow of his former vitality. Carina had never seen him sick, not even a sniffle. He had never complained of aches nor weariness. To see him reduced to this . . .

Was it kinder for him to die? If he were lost to her anyway, should she plead so desperately for his life? But that was her own sorrow speaking. Wouldn’t Quillan want to live? Dabbing his lips with a cloth and trickling water onto his furrowed tongue, she felt hollowed by grief until there was nothing left.

Papa checked him every two hours, even all through the night. He changed the poultice, which was all but steaming on the incision. He gave him more morphine to keep him unconscious while his body became an inferno. He removed the blanket, then the sheet, and bathed Quillan’s flesh with cool cloths. Unlike the followers of Benjamin Rush, Papa did not believe in a fever victim sweating out the toxins. But Quillan’s skin was dry, so no natural perspiration was cooling the heat that built inside. Nor did Papa bleed him as so many would. Besides, Quillan had lost enough blood on his own.

Carina watched and helped, scarcely taking her eyes from Quillan’s face, listening for each labored breath. In the morning, Mamma came with a small cup of strong espresso and cream. Carina drank it. She refused, however, the warm crusty bread with honey from Giuseppe’s bees.

“Eat it, Carina. What good is it for you to waste away?”

“I couldn’t keep it down.” And then when Quillan’s fingers quivered, she returned to her vigil, bread and Mamma forgotten.

Vittorio and Papa consulted. If the fever raged out of control much longer, they would open him up again and search for infection, cutting, cauterizing, and treating with carbolic acid again. The skin of Quillan’s belly was fiery red, but there was little pus or smell, so Papa was hesitant to interfere.