The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(37)

Then she heard it. A snort. A terrified snort and whinny. She froze, but Quillan lowered the poles to the ground and bolted through the frozen terrain toward the black head just showing above the surface. He fell, floundered up, and thrashed through to the horse. Carina couldn’t tell if it was Jack or Jock. Whichever one, it was alive.

She stood up from the tilted litter, and Father Antoine dropped his end and went to help. With his arms, Quillan flung the snow away from the beast, freeing its neck by the time Father Antoine reached him. In her skirts, Carina didn’t cross the snow. She would only get in their way. She folded her arms and waited. Oh, Signore, let it be all right. If the horse were injured, if a leg were broken . . . It would kill Quillan to have to shoot it after finding it like that.

She sat down on Quillan’s pack and waited. The men worked methodically now, careful to free the horse in a way that would not allow it to panic and injure itself further. They had to be careful not to sink in over their own heads. At one point they lay prone to work the snow away from the beast. It must be powder underneath.

The horse heaved and lunged. Quillan caught its head. Part of the bridle and reins remained, and he gripped them and subdued the animal. Then carefully, rising now to his knees in the snow, Quillan backed and pulled the horse forward. It lunged. Quillan fell back, and Carina shot to her feet. Would he be trampled in his effort?

But Father Antoine caught the horse around the neck and held it back while Quillan recovered his position. Together they worked the horse—she thought it was Jock—over the broken surface. Slowly they plowed through in leaping lunges, cleared a path, then another lunge and another.

Jock didn’t seem to be injured. Certainly its legs worked. Carina clasped her hands when they plowed the last distance through waist-high drifts. Jock looked fine, if a little frightened. Grazie, Signore! What an unlooked-for boon.

She turned to Quillan. “Should we look for Jack?”

Quillan’s expression changed. “I already found him.”

She searched his face. “Found him? Where?”

“Under Jock. His warmth must have kept Jock from freezing.”

Carina stood a moment, absorbing that. So they’d fallen together, but one, though trapped, wasn’t buried alive. The other was not so lucky. Had Jock known Jack was dying beneath him? Did animals think that way? She reached out to pat the horse. He shied.

Quillan stroked Jock’s shoulder. “There, Jock. There now.” He soothed the horse with his hands.

Her stomach growled, and she realized that with all the excitement of trying to escape the cave, they had eaten nothing. Surely they could rest and let the horse calm down. She reached for Quillan’s pack and tugged it open. The remainder of the lunch was on top as well as the canteen. She took both out and Quillan nodded.

“Good idea, Carina.” He gave her a softened look. Repentant? He should be. Tie her down, indeed.

Jock stood quivering as they ate the crumbling bread and beef. Quillan palmed the dried plums and apples and held them out to the horse, who lipped them noisily out of his hand. Carina could almost feel the love pass between them, and a surge of her own love for Quillan washed over her. That, and the food soothing the lion in her belly, made her almost cheerful until Quillan stood, brushed the crumbs from his thighs, and eyed the litter.

“I’m not riding it again, Quillan. It’s mostly level here, and only a gentle slope into town. I can walk.”

He tugged a rope from his pack. “You’ll be tired.”

She shrugged. “Then let me ride Jock.”

“Doctor—”

“Felden would never have allowed me to perform acrobatics and climb that chimney. But I did it.” She untied the woolly mat from the litter, threw it over Jock’s back, and turned to Quillan. “Your hand, please.”

Quillan looked from her to the horse, then to the priest. Father Charboneau’s expression was carefully neutral. Quillan turned back to her. “Not so fast.” He wound the rope around the front and back of the mat to hold it in place and gave it a tug to be sure. Then he took out his knife and cut the remainder of the rope. The rest, he tied to the broken but usable bridle.

Carina’s heart swelled when he turned, caught her at the waist, and swung her into a sidesaddle position on Jock. Quillan eyed her. “Satisfied?”

She smiled. “Grazie.”

His mouth quirked up, almost roguish. “What’s the response?”

“Prego.”

“Prego, Carina.” He cupped her knee, then turned, untied the tarp, and left the poles lying in the snow. He rolled the tarp tightly and stuffed it into his pack, then took hold of Jock and started on. Father Antoine gathered the blankets, sent Carina a quick grin, and came up beside her. Carina felt strong and capable, no longer prisoner to her injuries or anyone else’s opinion. Now surely they could go home.





TEN

As a dove from a cage spreads its wings to the draft, so my hands on the reins in the freighter man’s craft.

As the dove winging higher up into the sky, so the plodding of hooves, crack of whip say good-bye.

—Quillan

QUILLAN WAITED WHILE CARINA made yet another tearful farewell. She had an amazing reservoir of both tears and words. As for him, the sooner they were on the road, the better. Well, he’d had one difficult parting. Alan Tavish. Which was why he’d picked up the team and wagon without Carina, had those few moments alone with a friend he would likely never see again. And that was why he had given Sam to Alan, so the old man would not be alone.