The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(131)

Again he thought of Cain, saw the useless stump of a leg. “Sometimes in the night when the ghost pains come, I wish it had blown the rest of me up, too. Never thought I’d clobber about on a wood peg. But God knows best.” Quillan had doubted it then, and for all his efforts at faith, he doubted it now.

The doctor said, “I think we should work the muscles first.”

Quillan’s tension eased. Any reprieve was welcome, even though he knew the muscle would be sore and weak. The doctor reached for the pail and set it on the floor beside Quillan’s foot. Quillan stared at the rocks inside the galvanized pail while the doctor wrapped the handle with a cloth.

Vittorio let go of Quillan’s left arm, probably confused by the abrupt change of plans. He hadn’t sensed what Carina’s father had sensed, the fear and resistance. The doctor had not missed it, though, and responded as a . . . a father might, with compassion and understanding. Quillan looked down at the graying head of the man lifting the handle of the pail over the foot and ankle of his right leg.

But Dr. DiGratia did not look up. “Try to lift,” he said.

Quillan hesitated. Would the bone snap with the effort? Jaw tight, he focused on his leg and tried to lift the pail. It came briefly off the floor, then clamored back down. The doctor removed several stones. “Again.”

Quillan tensed the thigh and raised the pail a short distance, then dropped it noisily to the floor. Dr. DiGratia reached up and felt the bone above the knee. Quillan’s muscle shook under the doctor’s fingers. “Again.”

The fingers bore deeply into the thigh as Quillan raised the pail, sweat beading on his forehead at such a small effort. “Leave us, Vittorio.”

Quillan’s breath seized as he dropped the pail. Why did he send his son out? To tell Quillan he was a cripple? The doctor eased Quillan’s foot out of the handle and set it on the floor. He looked up into Quillan’s face. “Your fear will hold you back.”

Quillan swallowed. “I don’t want to be less than whole.”

“I believe,” the doctor said, “the bone has knit well. Shall we try again, we two?”

Something in the way he said the word two, linking them together, made Quillan want to try. He sensed the doctor’s vested concern. It was important to him. He had worked hard for this moment. Quillan gathered the ragged edges of his will and nodded.

The doctor stood slowly, taking Quillan’s arm over his shoulders. Quillan forced his muscles to respond and came up standing, though most of his weight was on the doctor.

“Shift to your right.”

Carefully, gingerly, Quillan allowed his right leg to take some of the burden. Pain, but not unbearable. Little strength, but no snapping or splintering of bone. The thigh looked slightly crooked as Quillan looked at it. But that could be the wasted muscle and the scar.

The doctor eased out from under his arm, keeping hold of the small of Quillan’s back. “It bears your weight.”

Quillan nodded, though the leg had started to shake uncontrollably.

“Sit now.” Dr. DiGratia eased him down.

Quillan was amazed by the gentleness of his aid. What brought it now, after their constant brusque sparring? Again the doctor’s fingers were on his thigh probing deeply to the bone. Quillan grimaced.

The doctor flicked him a glance. “Painful?”

Quillan glared. What did the man think?

Angelo DiGratia laughed softly. “You and I do not have an easy time between us, eh?”

“It might be easier without the poking and prying.”

“Ah.” The doctor smiled, deep lines forming between the sides of his nose and his chin. Quillan couldn’t recall seeing the man’s smile before.

“Then I would not do my duty.”

His duty. Was that it? Had he imagined the unity of purpose, of concern? Quillan looked away.

“To my son.”

The words jolted through him like lightning. Had he heard right? He looked back at Carina’s father, found a look of begrudged affection.

“I don’t excuse what you did. But—” he stood—“maybe . . .” He spread his hands like Carina. “Because I have worked so hard to mend you, it makes a bond . . . like family.”

Quillan’s chest tightened painfully. Had he misunderstood, used God’s words to support his own resistance? Was it harder to bear their acceptance than their rejection? “Dr. DiGratia—”

“I think . . . it must be Papa DiGratia.”

Papa. Quillan gripped the edge of the couch. Lord? Was it allowed him? If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you. Ask now, and it would be done. Which did he want? His fierce independence or that sweetness of which the author Mazzini spoke?

The doctor held out his hand. “We will make our peace as you did with Flavio?”

Throat taut, Quillan took his hand.

The doctor, his . . . papa . . . leaned down and kissed both his cheeks. The oddness of it was washed away by the sheer wonder. “You said to judge you by yourself.”

Quillan remembered. It had been brash and defiant of him.

Papa DiGratia gripped his forearms. “I have done so.”

Their eyes met in mutual esteem. For the first time since Carina, Quillan felt that someone had seen him as he was—not perfect, but neither more nor less flawed than the next man—and accepted him as such. “Thank you.”