The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(41)

“Sorry.” He scraped his palm over it. “Guess I’ll shave before dining.”

She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “You prefer that look.”

He touched the skin beside her mouth. “I don’t want to chafe you.”

“At luncheon?” She raised her brows.

“After.”

One word could set her heart pounding? She would not let on so easily. “Should we see the DeMornays after?” That was their purpose, after all. And she could hardly wait to meet Rose’s family, Quillan’s family.

He hung his thumbs in his pants waist. “I don’t know.” He walked to the fireplace, poured coal into the brazier. Then he added kindling and flicked a match. Warmth and light kindled, and he held a palm to it. Firelight played over his features as he squatted there.

She sensed his hesitance, but didn’t understand it. “You haven’t changed your mind?”

He glanced up. “Not altogether.” He stood and dusted off his hands.

She touched his arm. “Quillan, what is it?”

“I’m not sure what good it will do.”

“Good?” She turned him toward her. “To know they have a grandson, to learn what became of their daughter!”

He winced.

“Knowing is better than wondering. And you! You’ll see your family, know here”—she pressed her hand to her heart—“from whom you came. You have to go, Quillan.”

“They have their lives, Carina.”

“And you’re part of them. They just don’t know it yet.” She caught his hands between hers. “Family, Quillan, is the most important thing.”

He expelled a slow breath. “Guess I’ll clean up, then.”

Carina smiled. He would take it head on. “We should send a runner, requesting a visit. Do you have Mr. Tabor’s introduction?”

He took it from his vest.

“Good. We’ll send that, too.”

His mouth quirked up.

She put her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Good thing I have you to soften the blow.”

She slipped her arms around his waist. How natural it seemed to touch him. Was it only weeks ago she thought she didn’t know him? He hooked his hands behind her neck, resting his arms on her shoulders. They were hard and heavy, working arms, lean and strong. “Keep the mustachio. It’s perfect.”

He rubbed it across her forehead, kissed her there, then let go.

Two hours later they rode a hired rig to the DeMornays’ home in an elite neighborhood. Though not among the original founders, they had an enviable niche in Denver society, and their location demonstrated that. Carina looked up at the trim red-brick house as Quillan lifted her from the carriage. She felt daunted but hid it for his sake.

In his wedding suit, hair tied back, Quillan looked fine and jaunty, his mustache bold, his eyes subdued. Surely they would welcome him. He hadn’t explained their visit, only requested it on grounds of mutual importance. He’d stared a long time at the reply, William DeMornay’s card and a brief inscription: On Mr. Tabor’s recommendation, I can spare a moment at four o’clock today.

Not exactly warm, but then, Mr. DeMornay had no idea it was his grandson he was corresponding with. A maid answered their knock and led them to a parlor. “Wait here, please.”

Carina felt Quillan’s unease. He stood very still—to a casual eye, contained. But to her . . . So much rested on this, so much of who he was. Signore, give him courage.

He held a packet in one hand. Carina knew its contents. Rose’s diary and a deed to the Rose Legacy mine. He had made his claim official before leaving Crystal, and the land agent had issued him a fresh deed based on the claim. It included only the information Rose and Wolf had given the first time. No surnames.

The door opened, and the DeMornays came in together. Carina was glad for that. They had requested an audience with both, but William had worded his reply in the singular, and she didn’t know whether that would include Quillan’s grandmother, as well.

“Good afternoon.” Mrs. DeMornay motioned them toward a pair of blue leaf-patterned chairs. “Please sit.”

Carina and Quillan took their places. Mrs. DeMornay sat across from them on an amber tufted-velvet chair. William DeMornay remained standing. He said, “I know Horace Tabor more by reputation than acquaintance.”

Quillan nodded. “He said as much.” Then he stood and extended his hand. “I’m Quillan Shepard. My wife, Carina.”

William’s handshake was dry and peremptory. “How do you do.” He turned back to Quillan. “You have a matter of importance to discuss?”

Quillan reluctantly regained his chair. Carina guessed he didn’t relish being put on a lower plane by this coldly indifferent man. He said, “Mr. DeMornay, it might be good if you sat.”

Carina glanced at Mrs. DeMornay. She was a feathery woman with very narrow teeth that protruded in a slight overbite that, surprisingly, did not diminish her beauty. Even at her age she had a graceful bearing, and her silvery hair, swept upward from her face, was full and lustrous.

William DeMornay sat down in a green leather chair, eschewing the matching footstool. He folded his leathery fingers across one knee. “Now then?”

Carina had no idea how Quillan would handle this. But it was his to handle. She silently started to pray.