The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(111)

“Yes. Well.” He separated from her and glanced at Quillan.

She followed his gaze. “How is he?”

“The same.”

She dropped to the chair beside the bed and touched Quillan’s chest.

It was like a hot loaf from the oven. “How long can he bear it?”

“It could be helping. Not all fever is detrimental. If it goes no higher . . .” Papa spread his hands. “There’s no smell of putrefaction.”

He refilled the bowl and dropped the cloth in. “Bathe him with this, what parts of him are not covered in bandages and plaster.” There was a note in Papa’s voice, a familiar tone of sympathy she knew so well. He cared about his patient.

Carina squeezed the water from the cloth. Quillan’s left arm was bound across his chest to keep his collarbone immobile. A band had been stretched across his chest and upper arms, tying him to the bed, she guessed, in case he tried to move before Papa thought him ready. There was also a band across his forehead, probably to protect the collarbone. His ribs were wrapped, his right arm cast and his leg, as well. Yes, there was little of him that had not been hurt in some way. But strangely, looking at him now, she felt hope.





Flavio could stand it no longer. He had to know. He left his retreat, the small frame building the Lanzas had erected for him to paint and draw in, a place of light and breezes. But today it suffocated him. He had to know if God had charged murder to his soul, and if there would be an earthly punishment as well as eternal flames.

He went to the stable and called for his stallion, ill-used these last days but hopefully forgiving today. He paced while the servant saddled the horse and brought it to him. Then he swung astride and took off for the DiGratias. He was not certain Quillan would have been taken there. If he had died at the quarry . . . But no, he couldn’t think that way! At any rate, Carina would know where he’d been taken.

Flavio reined in sharply. Carina. She would also know the truth, that he had done that violence to her husband. How could she not when he had struck her with his own hand? The horse sidestepped, tossing at the rein. Flavio looked over the hills to where the DiGratia land joined the Lanzas’.

The horse pulled in an impatient circle, bad tempered about being told to run then made to stop. Frowning, Flavio brought the horse back toward the Lanza farm. He couldn’t go, couldn’t look Carina or her father in the eyes and inquire whether he had done enough to kill or only enough to maim and torture. He who despised violence in any form. He, the great pacifist.

What must they think of him? Carina would hate him. There would not even be pity in her eyes now. And the dottore? Would he regret that he ever took that six-year-old boy under his wing? Flavio hung his head. “Oh, God.” Those two words had been his steady diet ever since they were uttered by Quillan Shepard in the extremity of his pain.

Flavio’s chest burned. He should put an end to it. A rope from the studio rafter? He urged the horse forward. Was he such a coward? But the thought of release from this guilt was potent. Like Judas Iscariot? Hadn’t Judas betrayed the one he loved as Flavio betrayed Carina? Oh, God.

He returned the horse to the stable and secured a length of rope. With its coils on his shoulder, he went back to the studio. It was no longer a haven. No place was. He was like Cain, saying it’s too much to bear. It was himself he couldn’t bear. He had become an animal, the antiphony of all he despised. As wicked and dark as the rioting crowd who had killed his papa. Flavio was one of them. He sat on the stool before his easel and rested the rope across his knees. He felt its strength, its coarse fibers.

He swallowed, looped one end and began to form a noose. When he had it finished, he looked at it with fascination. How simply the rope slid through the knot, open and closed. The sunbeams crept across the floor, finally lengthening and slanting as he sat hour after hour, looking at the hangman’s knot in his lap.

“When you find a man’s weakness, use it.” He’d found his own weakness, hadn’t he? His anger had driven him to violence, in spite of his beliefs. It was only time until he did it again, wasn’t it? What if Quillan Shepard didn’t die? What if he recovered and lived happily with Carina? Would Flavio strike again? But somehow the thought didn’t bring rage. Not even choking despair. Why not? The cool gray early evening light replaced the golden shafts.

“Flavio!” It was Mamma Lanza. “Pranzo—dinner, come and eat.”

He blinked as though coming out of sleep. How had the hours passed without his carrying out his intention? He looked at the rope in his hands, raised it, and studied the knot. Then he coiled it and laid it against the wall. When the despair came, as he knew it would, then . . .





At last the awful stillness eased. Like shackles from his mind, Quillan felt the heaviness depart, and he swam up and up into . . . pain. Oh, God, was there any part that didn’t hurt? He blinked, taking in a soft gray light, broken by a dim golden glow somewhere to one side. He tried to turn to see, but his head would not obey.

“Wait a moment.” A male voice, not unfamiliar, yet he couldn’t place it. Someone fumbled with something near his head. “I have permission to unbind your head as long as you understand that any sharp motion will put torsion on the collarbone.”

Quillan couldn’t see who was speaking. The voice seemed to come from behind him.

“There.” A figure stood and pulled a cloth band from his forehead. Quillan looked up with his eyes only.