The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(115)

She stopped walking, wondering for a moment what she was doing.

Did she want to know? Could she bear to know? If Flavio had injured Quillan so brutally . . . But knowing could be no worse than wondering. She moved forward to the door between two flowering quince. Flavio loved them because they bore vibrant, orange-red blooms.

His stallion, Juno, grazed nearby. Carina passed between the plants and stopped at the door. She knocked, then opened the door herself and walked in.

Flavio sat on a tall stool before an easel with a brush in his hand. But the brush was dry. It had not been dipped in paint. He turned slowly and looked at her, his face showing too much. He lowered his eyes. “He told you, then?”

Carina stood silent, not wanting to understand what he said, but God help her, she did. Her suspicions were right, what she had known in her heart, in spite of Quillan’s evasion. How could she ever look at Flavio again with anything but hatred? She shook with it. “He told me the nitro was unstable. That it was a risk he took.”

Flavio looked up, searched her face. “He said that? That was all?”

“Perhaps his memory is not as keen as yours, since even now he fights for his life.” Her voice broke.

Flavio dropped the brush, caught his face in his hands, and groaned. “He will live, though?”

“You want to know so you can finish the job?”

He slid his fingers into his hair, pressing his palms to his eyes. “I know you despise me. But it’s nothing to what I feel for myself. Look there.” He pulled one hand free and pointed to the corner of the floor where a rope lay.

She looked closely, saw the hangman’s noose atop the coils.

“I don’t even have the courage to use it.”

She stared at him. “Why would you use it, Flavio?”

His hands dropped to his lap. “Because of what I am.”

Yes, she thought. He deserved to die, to hang from a rope by his own hand. His cruelty, infidelity, violence . . . Her throat tightened painfully. She took a step toward him. She could help, kick the stool out if he hadn’t the courage to jump. The thought horrified her. She recalled Quillan’s terse answers, telling her nothing, protecting this . . . this man she had once loved.

Yes, she could hurt him. But instead, she put a hand to his shoulder. From somewhere deep inside her came the words, “If Quillan doesn’t condemn you, who will?”

Flavio started to weep. “My own soul.”

“Your soul has been forfeit from birth. What difference is there now?”

“Oh, God . . .” It was more a moan than words.

She didn’t want to say it, to offer him the peace she knew he could have. She wanted to walk away, to run, to leave him to his rope. Why should she stop his suffering when Quillan’s was so much worse, when Quillan might never be the same? None of them would be the same!

Again she spoke resolutely. “God will forgive you if you let him. We have all gone astray, but He draws us to himself just as you gather the cows before a storm, Flavio. Surrender to Him. Know His peace.”

“How can God forgive when you hate me so deeply?”

Yes, he had seen it in her face; how could he not? She showed it to the world. She wanted him to see, to know, to suffer in that knowledge. Her hands tightened at her sides. “What I feel is at war with what I know. God will forgive you, and so will I.” She would have to, or this new bitterness would destroy all she had won.

Flavio shook with sobs. “I got him out, Carina. I freed him or he would have burned.”

Dio! Was it true? She shuddered, pictured Quillan charred black like his wagon. Had Flavio prevented that?

“He asked only to let his horses free, but I lifted it, his wagon, with more strength than my own. I lifted it and got him out. Then I ran.”

She suddenly clutched his head, overcome with gratitude that he had not let Quillan die. “Grazie, Flavio.”

He wrenched his head up. “Grazie? After what I did?”

“He would not be alive.”

Flavio shook his head. “God help me, Carina, I wish I had died in his place.”

She let him go. “You don’t have to.” But she could go no further. It was up to Flavio now to accept the grace and forgiveness God offered.

“I have to go back. Quillan will want me there when he wakes.”

Flavio looked into her face, searching for some redeeming thread. She closed her eyes, breathing painfully. “If Quillan won’t speak against you, neither will I.” She opened her eyes and faced him. “If there are none to condemn you, what right have you to condemn yourself? Ask God’s forgiveness.”

He swallowed, then followed bleakly with his eyes as she turned away. She stopped at the door, reversed herself to cross the room. Without looking at Flavio, she lifted the rope and carried it out with her.

As she walked home, her heart swelled with love for Quillan. However misplaced his silence was, he kept it honorably. What a different man she joined in one flesh than she might have. God had removed her from a love that was corrupt to a redeeming love, for both herself and Quillan. Maybe even her angry flight had been God’s urging. How else could He unite her with the man He had chosen? Oh, Signore. Your ways are bigger than mine. Grazie, Dio. Grazie.





Carina came in like a breeze, her cheeks no longer wan but touched with color. Her hair tumbled loose and her limbs moved with grace and ease. Quillan watched silently as she brought a small bowl to the bedside and pulled a stool close. He could turn his head, but it hurt the collarbone, so he followed her with his eyes.