The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(123)

Appearances were nothing to Papa, not in his practice of medicine. He knew the body inside and out, which parts knitted to which, which organs performed what duty. Like Leonardo da Vinci he had studied a dead body once, had performed surgery on its parts. Maybe that was disrespectful to the dead. Many people thought so. But to the living it provided invaluable knowledge.

If anyone could bring Quillan through this, it was Papa. And Vittorio. Carina looked up at her serious-faced brother. Yes, he had been as stubborn as the rest, determined to keep her from the man they all considered a usurper. But he had worked tirelessly beside Papa when Quillan arrived injured. He would be a fine doctor in his own right.

Vittorio discarded the cast remains and went into Quillan’s room. Carina lingered in the doorway out of Quillan’s line of sight and watched her brother greet him with soft-spoken courtesy. Ah, how things had changed. Vittorio lifted Quillan’s arm, and Carina saw with dismay the shrunk muscle and limp tissue. She could well imagine training the nerves and muscles to respond again.

Vittorio ran his hand down the arm, nodding. “The bone is sound.

But the muscle is not, eh?”

“Not exactly.” Quillan looked uncomfortable, annoyed. Why did he persist in his grudge? Couldn’t he see they were trying to welcome him as best they could?

“Make a fist.” Vittorio watched the hand come together. “Tighter.”

Quillan strained.

“Let it go.” Vittorio held Quillan’s forearm. “Try again. Harder. Try harder.”

Quillan’s forehead took on a sheen as Vittorio ordered the same motion repeatedly, then switched to the other arm and did the same. If so little cost so much, how would it be to restore strength to the rest of him? She again realized the extent of the trauma to her husband’s body, worse by far than her injuries had been, yet she had felt weak as a kitten and helpless. How Quillan must fear that weakness.

She started to pray for strength, then thought of Saint Paul. Maybe it was in Quillan’s weakness that God’s power would be perfected. That thought was so different from her old demands and cajoling that she paused. She must desire God’s will even if it seemed contrary to her own wants and Quillan’s. Padre Eterno, heal my husband as you will. Let this misfortune be turned to good for all and especially the man I love. Grazie, Signore.

Her heart felt peaceful even as she watched Quillan’s frustration grow. He flung his arm down to his side. “Enough! Can’t you see it’s wasted?”

Vittorio merely nodded, so like Papa in demeanor she was sure that irked Quillan, as well. “Yes, I see.” This time Vittorio lifted the arm and studied the tendons as he closed the fingers himself. “That’s all for today.” He restored Quillan’s arm to his side and pointed to the left. “That one is better, eh?”

Quillan shrugged. “I’ve had some use of it.”

“Its injury was not so severe.” He touched the collarbone, and Quillan scarcely winced. “Good.”

Quillan might not have winced, but Carina saw him squirm. Was it Vittorio’s touch he disliked? An affront to his privacy? It was as natural to Vittorio as breath. Italian men touched, kissed, danced, and hugged. She tried to picture Quillan thus and failed. Oh, he touched her with fierce connection. But had she ever seen him reach out to anyone else?

Cain. He had regularly supported, even carried Cain in his infirmity. And Alan; Quillan gave his strength as Alan needed. That was it. He could touch to help others, especially the old ones, but he did not receive such touch himself. Nor, she supposed, would he take easily to affectionate touch from any but her. She bit her lower lip, smiling slightly at the learning he had yet to do.

Vittorio raised Quillan’s chin. “A shave, I think.”

“Just bring me a bowl and straight razor.”

“And watch you slice your throat?” Vittorio took down a shaving bowl and mixed a lather. He dipped a towel into the water held warm on the brazier, then laid it over Quillan’s face.

Carina leaned on the doorway. She’d never seen her husband get shaved. He had as much beard as any man in her family, and it reached down his neck, as well. Vittorio removed the towel and brushed on the lather, then took up the blade.

“I’ll do it myself if you’ll fetch me a mirror.”

Carina stepped into the room. “Behave yourself, Quillan, and let Vittorio shave you. Soon enough you’ll do everything yourself.”

He turned, gave her a fiery glance, then succumbed to the first scratchy glide of the blade. Carina watched the stripe of bare flesh widen with each stroke of the blade. Quillan’s hands lay at his sides, but she saw them clench slightly. Yes, he suffered the care, no more. Then Vittorio took out a small scissors to trim his mustache.

Quillan said, “Leave it.”

“Here, let me.” Carina took the scissors and sat at Quillan’s side. Carefully she clipped the overgrowth of his full, jaunty mustache. What if she took it all the way off? Would his mouth look vulnerable? What if his hair were cut? Would he look gentle and meek? She doubted it.

With her fingertips, she flicked the sides of his mustache free of loose clippings, then leaned in and kissed his lips. Quillan’s eyes flicked up to Vittorio, who stood grinning. Carina smiled, too, as Vittorio toweled the flecks of lather from Quillan’s throat and jaw.

“There. You are presentable to kiss my sister.”