The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(114)

“And my arms?”

“Your right is broken, but Papa set and cast it. Your left is whole, though the collarbone—”

“Yes, I feel it. And my ribs?”

“Three are broken on your right side.”

He nodded slowly. “Where the wagon fell.”

She caught his hand between hers as it lay just beneath his chin. “What happened, Quillan?”

His throat worked against her fingers, and his eyes slipped away from hers. “Nitro is chancy stuff.”

“What?” She fought sudden tears. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Did he lie? She sensed it, saw it. “Tell me the truth, Quillan.”

He looked at her now. “It’s unstable, even when neutralized somewhat by the sawdust in dynamite. It’s the risk you take.” He had made his eyes like plates, shutting her out. Why?

“You did this to yourself?”

He didn’t answer. “Do you know where my horses are? Are they all right?”

“In our stable.” Why was he evading her? To protect Flavio? She laid her palm against his cheek. “Did Flavio do this?”

He closed his eyes. “Carina . . . I’m tired.” He was. Overwhelmingly so.

She reached up and stroked his face. “Sleep, then. Every time you wake you’ll be stronger than the last.”

He caught her hand, opening his eyes once more. “Will you be here?

Will they keep you away?”

“I’ll be here. If I leave for a moment I’ll be back. Don’t worry. Just rest. Get strong.”

He closed his eyes.

Signore, he is so weak. He can’t be expected to remember. Maybe he doesn’t know, didn’t see what happened. Maybe it was only an accident. She was the one jumping to conclusions. What proof had she that Flavio caused it? She touched her cheek and remembered his face with his soul torn asunder. She closed her eyes. That was why she suspected him.

Quillan slept through the day, obviously worn out from such small exertion that morning. Papa came in at regular intervals to check his pulse, his incision, his temperature. “Did he speak with you?” he asked Carina softly during one examination.

She nodded. “He asked what was wrong with him.”

Papa felt the glands beneath Quillan’s jawline. “Some swelling,” he said as much to himself as her. “The glands would be enlarged by so much injury.”

“Will he be all right, Papa? Will he heal?”

Her papa cocked his head. “Healing is mending, Carina. Is the mended cloth what it was before?”

She felt a sinking in her heart. “Then he won’t . . .” She couldn’t voice her disappointment.

“Will bones that knit be as bones never broken? I don’t know. Will a body cut open have the integrity of one never exposed?” He spread his hands. “I don’t know.” He looked up, and his sudden keen stare took her by surprise. “Did he say what happened?”

She looked into her papa’s face. Did he also suspect? “He said nitro is unstable.”

Papa stood and washed his hands at the basin, shook the water from them, then reached for the towel. “That was all?”

She dropped her eyes to Quillan’s sleeping face. Should she tell Papa what she suspected? What if she were wrong? Anyway, it was Quillan’s choice. “He was very tired. He couldn’t speak long.”

Papa turned slightly, and she felt his doubt. As Quillan said, the whole world knew what she felt and thought. Did she have any right to blame Flavio without proof? How could she know? Quillan would not or could not say. But Flavio could.

The thought sent fire through her veins. Go to Flavio? Confront him? That would mean leaving Quillan’s side. Papa would watch him, though Quillan seemed not too happy about that. Still, the question harried her, now that worrying whether Quillan would live no longer consumed all her thoughts.

“You are wan, Carina.” Papa hung the towel and straightened his vest. “Take some air.”

She looked up. Had he guessed even these last thoughts? Did he suggest she should go? Impossible. But nonetheless, he had given her the opportunity. She stood. “Yes, Papa. Do you need anything?”

He shook his head and went to his bookshelf. While he searched the spines, she went out the door. She could take a horse, but it wasn’t so far. It was two miles and more through the vineyard and the Lanzas’ pasture to their house, a little shorter to Flavio’s studio. That’s where she would find him, painting or brooding.

She took the path from the house to the near vineyard. The vines had been gathered into heaps, ready for burning. The ground looked pocked and lanced. Her heart broke. Ah, the weeping vines. She passed between the rows, cursing the ground that harbored the parasite, which destroyed the roots like sin the soul.

Hill after decimated hill she passed. Her brothers and their workers had been busy while Papa tended Quillan, busy ripping out the grapes and tossing them to be burned. Such desolation, such waste.

Then she came to a field of vines and stopped short at the wonder. A green mist softened the black gnarly branches. She stared all along the rows of grapes. How had they been spared? Rapt, she passed among them. Had this field been overlooked? Was this a weak attempt that would be ignored when the workers came to yank them out?

Deeper into the vineyard she went. She could sense its vitality. These vines were alive, thriving even. Papa had found a viable rootstock. They were small, yes, in their first year of planting, but they were strong. Oh, Signore! She felt such hope. She crossed through the pastures of the Lanzas’ cattle and saw the small wooden house that was Flavio’s retreat.