The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(110)

“Every surgery has both the possibility for good and great harm, Vittorio. We must balance the hope with the risk.” But he removed the bandage, treated the incision again with carbolic acid, and poulticed it. He did not rebandage it. They kept the sheet folded down from Quillan’s waist to leave the wound open to the air.

“That’s best for now. Let’s see what his body does today.”

It did nothing but burn, and though the fever rose no higher, it subsided not at all. Quillan lay as though dead, sapped by fever and lulled by morphine. His breath was shallow now with a slight wheeze. Papa raised Quillan’s head with a second pillow, but feared to move him more than that. He held vigil with Carina, reading from one scientific text or another and continuing his ministrations.

Carina’s eyes grew heavy with exhaustion. In spite of her fear, she could not hold them open. Her head nodded, then dropped to her breast. Papa’s hand restored consciousness, but he only said, “Go to bed.

I’ll wait with him.”

She looked into Papa’s careworn face. Could she trust him? They had been at odds from the day she returned, and Quillan was the center of the conflict. But looking at him now, she had to believe Papa was expending himself to the best of his abilities. She nodded and went upstairs. Sleep engulfed her almost before she had undressed and fallen in a heap to her bed.





Burn, burn, he was burning. The fire had caught and filled him. His flesh melted from his bones. His tongue cracked. His throat ached. How long could he burn before he was consumed? Eternal flames. He could burn forever. No!

Quillan heard voices, but there was something wrong with the words. They were different somehow, yet he imagined he knew what they meant. Not all, though. Some were just sounds, interspersed with the others. Fever—bones—dangerous—cool, not cold—keep him tied—might awaken soon—no, no fire—we must keep the air pure.

Air pure. He was burning, yet he smelled no smoke. Did he imagine meaning in the strange words, and what was it that was wrong with them?

He swam closer to the surface. Eye motions—not long now—pain—no more morphine. Morphine? That word had sounded right, different from the others. And then he realized the speech was Italian.

A jolt of panic sent fire through him. He fought to open his eyes. But they were as immobile as the rest of him. He had tried to shift, or thought he had. None of his limbs would move, nor, he was fairly certain, would his head. At least nothing responded to his efforts. Had he really tried, or did he just think he had?

It was too hard to figure out. He was so tired. There was something else, something demanding to be recognized. Pain. Yes, there was pain.





Starting down the stairs the next morning, Carina saw Father Esser leaving the treatment room. Panic nearly took her legs from under her.

Had Papa called him to give last rites? Was Quillan dying? Or dead?

She flung herself down the stairs as the priest passed through the back door.

She ran down the hall and crashed into the sickroom gasping, “Quillan!”

Papa spun, splashing the bowl of water down his front, and stared at her. “Santa Maria!”

With inexpressible relief, Carina heard Quillan breathing, strained and thick but not rattling and, God forbid, not stopped. And then another terrible thought occurred. She stalked inside. “Why was Father here?”

“Shh.” Papa frowned, looking behind him. “Do you want to wake him?”

Carina lowered her voice but not the intensity. “Papa, why was Father here?” Though she was willing to live without Quillan if God wished it, she would not stand for their marriage, their love to be called invalid.

“He brought me a letter.”

“What letter?” She would not be put off so easily.

“From someone you know.” Papa set down the bowl, grabbed a cloth, and wiped his shirt.

From someone she knew? To Father Esser? “From whom?”

“Father Charboneau.”

Carina’s heart jumped. “Father Antoine! What did he say?”

“Read it for yourself.” Papa motioned to the sheet of stationery lying on his instrument table.

She snatched it up with greedy fingers, her eyes passing over the greeting to the body of the letter. “In response to your concern, I can only say that I know this marriage to be not only true but blessed of God.”

Oh, blessed Father Antoine! “Any efforts to sever that which I joined in God’s holy presence would be wrongful and dire. I trust to your holy calling to show wisdom in this matter.”

She pressed the letter to her breast, closing her eyes on tears of joy.

God did not want her separated from Quillan! Her marriage was not wrong; it was blessed of God. She turned and met Papa’s eyes. “What do you think now?”

He sighed, glancing at Quillan’s still form. One eyebrow twitched.

“I think we must do our best for this man, your husband.”

Carina rushed to him, caught him in her arms, and buried her face against his chest. Her papa! Her papa understood. At last he understood.

Papa stroked her hair, then caught her head between his hands.

“Which doesn’t excuse your marrying without my consent.”

“I’m sorry, Papa. Truly.” Sorry for hurting him, surely, but not for marrying, not for the marriage God blessed.