The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(36)

Her breath came in one exultant puff. Grazie, Dio! Her muscles shook from strain and relief, but she didn’t hurt more than she might have pulling that stunt at any time. She figured she was healed. And she was out! Then she noticed she had no boots. She called down the chimney, “Send up my boots, if you don’t mind.”

Their cheers sounded below. After a moment, the rope wobbled and she pulled. It was heavier than she expected, and she saw that the bundle of blankets, as well as her boots, had been attached. Well, why waste effort? She pulled the rope until the bundle came free, then unfastened it and her boots and sent the rope back down.

She shook her boots free of snow and debris and pulled them on, lacing them tightly. Her hands burned across her palms from the rope. She pulled her gloves from the pockets of her coat, the soft kidskin gloves Quillan had bought her, and put them on.

“Take her up again, Carina,” Quillan called.

She reached for the rope. This time it was his pack she brought up. Once again she untied it and tossed the rope back down the chimney. She looked out at the periwinkle sky, the sun~shine brilliant on the snow. Upward to her right would be the entrance to Wolf ’s mine, but it was nothing but a white wave now, the entire mountainside changed.

She rubbed her arms against the cold, then heard a grunt as Father Antoine pushed up through the opening, his shoulders curved and angled to fit out. She moved aside to give him room. “God’s handiwork looks fine today.” She waved her arm over the vista.

He laughed, pulled himself the rest of the way free, and sank down beside her. “Indeed it does.” He drew in a deep, satisfied breath.

In a short time Quillan came through the hole in the mountainside, an even tighter fit for his muscled shoulders, but thankfully it was just wide enough. He pulled himself up and stood. With hardly a glance about him, he rocked his neck and rubbed it with one hand. Then he stooped, lifted the poles, and untied the rope around them. He stood them upright in the snow and reached for the tarp bundle.

Carina raised her brows. “Can’t you stop for one minute? Look around you. See what you’ve been given.” She couldn’t get enough of the scene—white-flocked trees and jagged granite faces as far as she could see. To the west a mackerel sky . . . It was mostly the sky she reveled in. Spacious, bright, colorful. Everything she’d been deprived of in the dark cavernous hollow. Her soul sang.

He worked the bundle free and shook the tarp out. “We have a long walk home.”

And then she remembered . . . the horses. Of course he was upset. She got to her feet as Quillan reattached the tarp to the poles. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just kept wrapping and tying. He was making the litter again? Didn’t he see she was healed? And what good would it do without Jack and Jock? Oh no. She brought her hands to her hips. “What do you think you’re doing with that?”

“Father and I can—”

“Oh no, you can’t. I’ll not be carried about like an Egyptian princess. I can walk.”

Again he ignored her. She turned to the priest. “Father, talk sense to him. Didn’t I climb through a shaft just now? Didn’t I balance like an acrobat? Does he think me an invalid still?”

Father Antoine raised his hands. “I make it a point never to interfere between husband and wife.”

With smaller twine, Quillan was now attaching the woolly mat. Carina fumed. Hadn’t she just proved her strength? Were they all pazzo—the doctor, the priest, and her stubborn husband? He thought she would lie there and let Father Antoine and him carry her down the mountain?

Quillan shrugged into his pack. Father Antoine scooped up the blankets. Carina’s hands fisted at her sides. Quillan motioned with one hand toward the litter lying between them. She shook her head. His jaw tightened.

“Carina, I have enough on my mind already. Lie down and stop being foolish.”

Hah! Foolish? That was what she would look on the litter.

“I am perfectly capable of walking.”

“And one slip could set you back.”

She crossed her arms at her chest. “You didn’t worry about that when I stood on your shoulders.”

“I knew I could hold you. You’re nowhere near Father Antoine’s weight.”

“That’s not the point.”

With an exasperated sigh, Quillan bent and scooped her into his arms. Blood rushed to her face and words to her mouth. “Omaccio! Put me down!”

And he did. On the litter. With a pirate face he told her, “I have more rope.”

Oh! He would tie her down? She squirmed, but he caught her wrists and stared so intently, she knew he would stop at nothing. He was a tyrant, her husband, when he felt strongly about something. She felt the strength of his feelings now. He would not let her walk. She slumped down with a huff. Bene. If they wanted to carry her, let them. She had put on enough of a show for Father Antoine.

Quillan nodded to the priest and they lifted her. “Stay to the edge here.” He started down. “Avalanche only came this far. We should have tried this exit yesterday.”

“We didn’t think of it yesterday.” The obviousness of her statement made no difference to him. He kept on like a man possessed.

Since Quillan went down first, Father Antoine carried the end of the litter near her head. That gave her a view of Quillan’s back, and she watched his head turning side to side. What did he search for? The horses? She hoped they would not find the corpses. She’d seen enough during the flood. But Quillan searched the slope all the way. The new piled snow must be twenty feet deep, and much of it was chunks and slabs. Were his blacks under there somewhere?