The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(17)

Quillan nodded. “With Carina’s blessing, if you can believe it.”

Alan grinned. “I believe it, boyo.”

“Then believe this: I can’t court her anymore.”

Alan’s grin crumbled. “Are ye daft?”

“I can’t court her because I already told her everything, made a soppy fool of myself all over her.”

Alan slapped the lines against his thigh and laughed. “That’s it, now! I dinna ken ye’d be so simple!” He shook his head, befuddled. “The courtin’ never stops, Quillan. No matter how much ye love her.”

Quillan stared. “What am I missing?”

Alan shook his head. “Love is sunshine to the rose. It can’t stop shinin’ just because the bud begins to bloom.”

Quillan reached a hand to Alan’s shoulder. “Thank you, Alan.”

Alan patted his chest. “Follow your heart, Quillan. It understands more than your mind.”

Quillan pulled himself into the box of his wagon as he had so many times over the past two years. His mind was no slackard. He used it prodigiously while he drove the long hours alone. But Alan was right. Intellect could only take him so far. What he needed now were things of the heart: trust, faith, love.





The waiting was easier when èmie or Mae or Joe Turner stopped in to chat. Even Lucia had been loquacious, and Carina wondered if it was a conspiracy among her friends to cheer her in Quillan’s absence. She mused how each one had come into her life. èmie she’d met at the baths, a stiff, ghostly woman drained of joy. Berkley Beck had introduced her to Mae and vouchsafed a room in the boardinghouse Carina’s first night in town. Had he intended even then to control and possess her? But Mae was a treasure for all her rough ways, and Carina had seen her soften like wax held between the palms.

Then Joe—sweet, funny Joe—who believed she’d made his fortune by stealing his room. He’d made her a legend: Lady Luck. Lucia, they’d found in desperate circumstances and hired into the restaurant. She was dogged in devotion to both Carina and èmie. As were Celia and Elizabeth, twins brought to her attention by Alex. Their father was a rocked-up miner, no longer able to work. And then, of course, there was Alex.

Only there wasn’t. Whatever he’d been doing at her door the morning Quillan left, he hadn’t returned. How could he? Even that didn’t matter as it had. Though day passed into day, she felt almost cheerful. She certainly felt stronger, her natural vigor returning. She could feel it. Or was it Quillan’s love that healed and sustained her, the words he’d spoken at last?

She refused to dwell on his absence and focused instead on his confession. Yes, he loved her. And that thought kept her heart singing. That and the efforts of her dear friends. This afternoon her room had been invaded by one party after another. By the time Dr. Felden assessed her progress, she was almost punchy. She wasn’t surprised when he ordered quiet for the rest of the evening.

And that was all right, too. She’d found a new and deeper solace in her time alone. Before it had chafed and frightened her to do nothing. Her forced quiescence had changed that, especially the day Quillan had spent silently with her. That had been special, though she hadn’t seen it at the time. How many things she missed until after, when she could look back on them.

It had snowed two days after Quillan left, and she guessed he wouldn’t be back soon. The road would be impassable with fresh powdered snow. It was one thing to come from Leadville over snowpack, another altogether to take Mosquito Pass after a storm. She prayed he wouldn’t be impetuous enough to try. No, he knew that road too well and wouldn’t risk his team.

She looked at the table where he’d sat only days ago engrossed in Cain’s Bible and writing in his journal. She wished he’d left it. With his words, she would have felt him close. But she almost felt him anyway. Though they couldn’t speak or see each other, she knew he was thinking of her as she thought of him almost incessantly. His shadowed face when they’d first met on the road. His mocking smile. His earnest smile. His eyes, gray orbs with charcoal rims. His hair worn long like his father’s had been, though Quillan had never known his father.

The mystery of Wolf and Rose had drawn her, compelled her. In spite of Quillan’s fury, she’d delved into their story and learned oh so much more than she’d expected. Though she’d never laid eyes on Quillan’s parents, she loved them. And loved him better for it. Ah, Signore.

A knock came at the door between her room and the hall to Mae’s kitchen.

“Come in.” Carina smoothed the blankets over her knees. She had dressed that morning in a soft flannel dress of èmie’s that did nothing for her figure but did not require a corset. She was just too glad to be out of her nightgown and sat atop the covers.

èmie peeked around the door, her long, plain face breaking into a smile. “Good, you’re awake still. I’ve brought someone.” She pushed the door wide.

Carina cried, “Father Antoine!” Another friend whom she’d wondered if she would see again. The priest followed èmie into the room, smiling. He seemed to have found a peace Carina had not seen him possess since his brother Henri’s death.

“Where have you been? I’ve asked and asked. èmie didn’t know or wasn’t saying, and I was ready to give up and believe you had abandoned us.”