The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(40)

She pulled her gaze away, stung. From her first day in Crystal she had judged by appearances. Hadn’t she thought Mr. Beck kind and upright? And Quillan a rogue pirate? Well, he was a little that. But she was gullible. Even before she fled Sonoma, she’d seen only the surface. Flavio’s charm and bello volto, handsome face, and eleganza.

She moistened her lips with her tongue. How would she see him now? Would she see past all that to the unfaithful heart? And what would Flavio see? Not the trusting woman she’d been. And what did it matter? She had a husband. Flavio would think nothing of her at all. Buono!

But what about Quillan? What would her family think about him? She glanced over. He’d shaved before they left Crystal, all but his mustache, which rivaled the late General Custer’s. Now he was on his second day of beard, and his hair hung loose in soft shaggy layers. Her heart jumped. She loved the sight of him. But what would Papa think?

She sent her gaze ahead to the stone building Quillan angled toward. It lacked the color and glow of the bordello, but seemed a solid, comfortable place. Quillan eased the wagon off the road and into the drive. He pulled on the reins and called, “Whoa,” then set the brake and jumped down.

She felt stiff behind the knees and sore everywhere else as he swung her to the ground. A doorman opened the door for them, and she glimpsed a tasteful elegance surrounding the long mahogany desk to which Quillan led her.

The clerk had an elongated neck with a pointed larynx that bobbed above his stiff collar and satin vest. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shepard,” he said in a low, respectful voice. She hadn’t expected him to address Quillan by name. Her husband was known in a city this size?

She looked around the lobby with its brass chandeliers and cut-glass globes. The portieres hanging inside the doorways were olive-toned green, tied with gold tassels, the carpet red and gold. The clerk smiled graciously. She suddenly remembered Mr. Barton looking through his fish spectacles, thinking her wanton. But then she’d been with Berkley Beck, and all Crystal knew before she did what kind of man he was.

Quillan signed the ledger, then handed another man a coin. “Would you show my wife to the room while I take our wagon to the livery?”

“Certainly, sir.” The man took their key from the clerk. “This way, madam.”

She followed the man up the stairs to the second floor landing, then down the long hall to the room with a brass number twenty-five nailed to the door. He unlocked the door and handed her the key. “The dining room is open, madam, if you and your husband desire a late luncheon. Bath and water closet are at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.” She went inside. The walls were gentian blue, the fireplace painted white, very like the room in which they’d spent their wedding night. Her heart quickened. She crossed the room to the window. It looked directly on the brick wall of the building next door. No stubbled ground and mountain creek. No view of slopes climbing majestic peaks. No valley beckoning her to come, to seek the secrets of a mine returned to the mountain or a spring gushing forth over frigid tiers of ice, or a cavern painted with a man’s life.

And now she was missing it all again. Dio, what is wrong with me? Will I never be satisfied?

But maybe it was natural to miss it all, even though she was going home. In a large way Crystal had formed her. It would always be there in her heart. But home beckoned more strongly. She dabbed a renegade tear, then turned back and took in the room. Comfortable indeed.

Quillan must have done well to stay there often enough to be known by name. But one had only to consider the prices he charged for his goods. How strange that he’d lived in a tent in Crystal. He was certainly a man of contradictions. She fingered the amethyst pin. He didn’t look like a wealthy man, didn’t act like one. But was he? Funny not to know.

If he were a man of substance, if he had wealth . . . She stopped that thought. She had fallen in love with the rogue freighter. That was enough for her. But would it be for Papa?

She took off her coat and hung it on the brass tree. Then she went down the hall and used the water closet. It was luxury after Crystal, even if it was shared by every room on the floor. She washed her hands and face, then went back to the room.

She had just opened the door when Quillan climbed the stairs, followed by the same man with their bags. She turned and smiled. Four weeks ago, in pain and grief, she had despaired of hope. Now Quillan looked at her with such love it stopped her breath. Dio, you are good. She stepped aside as the porter deposited their bags, received another coin from Quillan, then left.

Quillan motioned her in and closed the door behind them. “Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely.”

He slipped out of his coat. “Not as elegant as your first choice.”

“I’m certain they wouldn’t know you there.”

He opened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves. “Are you?”

“Yes.” She remembered too well the disdain he’d shown for his mother, Rose, until he had read her diary. He would never cross the door of a bordello, but he no longer hated the unfortunate women inside.

He hung the coat, then crossed to the fireplace and rested his hand on the high-back chair angled there. After a moment he said, “This is where I read my mother’s diary.”

“In this room?” She crossed to him.

“In this chair.” He turned and took her in his arms. “Thank you, Carina.” He bent, and it was a long while before she was free to answer. When he released her, she stroked her fingers over his scratchy jaw.