The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(127)

He forced his voice to obey his will. “Ask.”

She started to straighten.

“Not”—he pulled her close again—“just now.” He sank his fingers into her hair. It was a little thing to have his hands back, but it felt immense.





Past the amazed stares of Tony, Joseph, and Mamma, Carina led Flavio through the house to the shuttered porch where Quillan waited. She was uncertain even now what her husband intended, though Flavio had asked at once, “Does he mean to accuse me?”

And she had met his gaze. “What if he does?”

Flavio had fought an inner battle that flashed across his face, but he had come. He asked no more questions as they rode together to Papa’s house, though his expression had darkened and ebbed by turns as he no doubt pondered the outcome of it all. Now he looked both desperate and resentful. But his inner fiber, the worthy core Carina hoped was still part of him, had brought him to face the man he had wronged.

She pushed open the door. “Quillan, Flavio is here.”

Quillan looked up from the couch. He set down Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body. She could tell by the sweat on his brow he had not been reading, but rather using it to strengthen his arms; Papa would be irked. Quillan nodded. “Let him in.”

She motioned Flavio into the room, then positioned herself beside the bookshelf. The moment Flavio entered she could feel their tension. Flavio might be ashamed of his deed, but he was still Flavio, mercurial and proud. They squared off, both defensive. Though Quillan had asked and Flavio come, had either anticipated the difficulty of coming face to face after such an act?

“I’m sorry I don’t have a chair.” Quillan indicated the sparse appointments.

Flavio said nothing, but he glanced at Quillan’s leg in the cast and lost some of his defiance. “What do you want?”

Quillan seemed to be fighting for his next words. Carina wanted to rush in to his defense, to make Flavio see what he had done, the suffering he had caused. She wanted him to know her husband, who had once been so strong, but now strained to lift a book, to make a fist, to sit up by himself.

Quillan’s gaze was steady. “I want to thank you for getting me out.”

Carina’s whole attention went to Quillan. What had she expected?

Accusation, threats, demands. But gratitude?

Flavio glared. “What do you mean?”

Quillan dampened his lips. The tendon in his cheek pulled taut beneath the skin. Could Flavio see the effort Quillan made? He said, “My parents burned to death. It’s been my terror all my life.”

Carina stared at her husband as though she had never seen him. In truth she had never seen him so real. She knew the truth, his inner anguish, his parents’ suffering and the fear it had caused Quillan. But to admit such a thing to Flavio? Who tried to kill him? Who might have succeeded.

“I . . .” Flavio turned away.

“I don’t know how you got that wagon up. But I’m grateful.”

The wagon that had burned up all their wealth, all Quillan’s work, that had burned because of Flavio. Yes, she had been thankful for the loss, if it kept Quillan from wandering, but Flavio’s hatred and jealousy had almost cost her husband his life. She fought to restrain her anger in the face of Quillan’s resolve. Whatever he was doing, she must not interfere.

Flavio’s hands tightened into fists, the veins rising blue, knuckles white. Carina held her breath. How would he respond? He could not have guessed this was what Quillan brought him here to say. Did he realize what it cost Quillan to reveal a weakness, a fear? To admit his helplessness to the man who had caused it?

She saw Flavio’s confusion. Quillan’s word could bring an end to his world. It would not hang him, but he would surely go to jail, and for a man of Flavio’s temperament, that was worse than a rope. Yet here was Quillan, expressing gratitude. What could Flavio say? “Prego, my friend—I’m glad I could help”?

Quillan didn’t give him a chance. His face hardened, not angry or fierce, but so compelling she felt the force. He held Flavio’s eyes just as he so frequently held hers, unable to retreat. His voice stayed low, but still commanded. “I want this over now. I have no grudge with you.” They were words of peace, yet they offered no compromise.

Flavio looked at Carina with eyes she had known as long as she could remember. She saw hurt and confusion, but also, faintly, relief. She longed for him to let his anger go, to be done with hating. And then it seemed he was. There was a freshness to his face, the softened lines of hope. Her own anger evaporated as he turned back to Quillan, nodding. “It’s over.”

It was as though a barrier broke inside Flavio, and Carina imagined peace pouring in. Her heart jumped with gratitude for Quillan’s integrity and courage. Quillan held up his hand, shaking slightly with the weakness in the muscle. Slowly, Flavio grasped it, hand to wrist like a brother. One moment they clung, then he left without another look.

Flavio left the house confused, yet less confused than he’d been since Carina’s return to Sonoma. Riding over, his stomach had knotted, not just in pondering Quillan Shepard’s motives, but in seeing him at all after the last broken and bloody sight. Damage there was, but also strength of a sort Flavio did not understand.

The grip of his hand, shaking as it was, had transmitted a terrible peace, and Flavio imagined it as Moses’ hand or some other chosen tool of Il Padre Eterno. Or Cristo himself. “I have no grudge with you.” How could he say that after what he’d suffered? To call him there and thank him . . .