The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(125)

He closed his eyes. “This one, at least, I will bless.”

This one. A ripple ran through her. What do you mean? she wanted to ask, but his breathing had deepened, fluttering his lips over his gums. She slipped her hand out of his and stood. He was still dreaming, her dear Giuseppe. She let him sleep.

Back outside the day’s warmth soothed the ache he had brought to her heart. So much loss. Her baby, Nonna, and now fears for Giuseppe.

But Quillan grew stronger every day. She must see the good, bask in the blessings.

She went to the stable and saddled a mare. A ride to town would help, and she had errands there. She mounted side saddle and brought the horse around, then rode at a brisk clip. When she reached the plaza, she stopped first at the post office. In some of her hours attending Quillan, she had written her friends in Crystal. Too much time had passed, but with all the strain of the journey, then the trials of their arrival, she had not corresponded with Mae or èmie as she had expected to. One feverishly thankful letter she had sent to Father Antoine, but she had not heard back from anyone yet.

She waited behind Mrs. Gardener, thinking of the line of miners at the post office in Crystal and the kindness she had found in them as they moved her ahead and gave up their places. Mrs. Gardener collected her mail and moved aside. Carina stepped up to the window. Before she could ask, Mr. Halliford handed her a string-wrapped stack of letters, too thick to hold with one hand.

Her heart jumped as she read the top name. Joe Turner! She clasped the packet to her breast, not looking at the other ones. She would let them surprise her. Letters from people she hadn’t even written. Had Mae shared her letter with Joe? Had others heard and sent their regards . . . at three cents an ounce? She laughed. What was three cents to Joe Turner?

It was she and Quillan who were penniless. She laughed again and went outside.

What fun she would have reading each letter to Quillan. Would he pretend he didn’t care? Or would he listen with his pirate’s smile and tease? That depended on his mood these days, which reminded her of her other errand. She tucked the letters into her saddle pouch and led her horse across the plaza, past the train turntable to the goldsmith and jeweler’s. She tethered the horse, then went inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Grady. How is the locket coming?”

“Not finished yet, I’m afraid. Soon.”

“But you can repair it?”

The goldsmith looked up with deep-set triangular eyes. “Not as it was. I’ve had to replace the front. I’m tooling it now.”

“But the photograph?”

He smiled and nodded. “Some things are more valuable than gold, aren’t they?”

She agreed fervently. “Thank you for your work. Please let me know when you have it finished.”

Back out on the street, she prepared to mount when someone called her name—a voice she did not relish hearing. All her good humor vanished, and she stopped with one foot in the stirrup, indignation rising like a tide. He would show his face again? She turned, biting words on her tongue, but he was not daunted at all. What was he made of, this Mr. Pierce?





At the knock on his door, Quillan woke, a warm lethargy permeating his system. But Carina came in looking like thunder.

He jolted up, wincing. “What’s the matter?”

She put one hand on her hip. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Who?”

She motioned as though that someone might slither through the door, when in fact he came in behind her looking dapper as ever in a black Prince Albert coat and gaiters. The man had gall, Quillan gave him that.

“Quillan.” He came forward, hand extended. “Good to see you looking so hale.”

Quillan didn’t take the extended hand, even though he could finally have done so if he wished. He sent a chilling glare instead.

Pierce waved a hand. “Now I know . . . theft and all that. But see?” He held up the journal. “Once again, no intention to retain said stolen property.”

“You have a warped sense of ethics.”

Pierce grinned. “Wonder what else I’ve brought, do you?”

“No.”

Pierce laughed. “Well, I know you do, though you’d suck lemons before you’d admit it. I have a contract for a poetry anthology based on the excerpts from the biographical sketches in Harper’s Monthly.”

Quillan tensed. “Excerpts of what?”

“Your poems, of course.”

Quillan opened and closed his mouth. He had specifically and repeatedly refused Pierce’s requests. The poems in his journal were the words of his heart, not intended for public scrutiny.

“We had a handshake agreement. I had to give them something, and you were . . . unavailable.” Pierce spread his hands reasonably, as though Quillan should understand his necessary infamy. “The folks at Harper and Brothers are agog. They’re naming you with Emerson and Holmes. They’re crazy for American poets to compete with the Brits.”

Baffled by the man’s obtuseness, Quillan shook his head. What did he care about competing with the British or anyone else? Those poems were his inner turmoil, his . . . He looked at Carina, saw her own indignation. The corner of his mouth flickered. With very little provocation, she would kick Pierce again. He noticed Mr. Pierce stayed out of range.

Quillan fixed Pierce in his stare. “Mr. Pierce . . .”