The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(60)

“Don’t you. Well. You seem to have mingled with Shane Dennison. You knew him, and from what I surmise, he knew you, too. Seemed surprised you’d stand against him.” This time he glanced at the agent.

“He was surprised I was there at all. It’s been so many years.”

The detective turned. “That’s right. Fifteen years, yet you knew Dennison by his eyes alone.”

Quillan didn’t repeat the other details that had clued him in. He looked at a short stack of books atop the oak file cabinet. “Will you hand me a book?”

Again raising his brows, which gave his wide forehead a singularly unpleasant appearance, Bittering reached for the top book and handed it over. It was a survey written longhand by a man named Eustace Washington. Quillan opened randomly and silently read the first two paragraphs of the page. He turned the book around and held it out to Bittering. Pierce leaned closer, pencil poised. Quillan recited word for word what he had just read.

Bittering followed the page, then looked up.

Quillan met his eyes. “I recall things well.”

Bittering stood a long moment. He’d felt certain he had it all figured out. Now Quillan saw disappointment take shape and soften the hard line of his mouth, the wide gaze of his eyes. Quillan stood up. “I’m not your man. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Mr. Shepard!” Pierce fairly leaped from his corner. “May we try another example, for the sake of authentication?”

Quillan looked at him. “Authentication?”

Pierce whisked a paper from the desk. It held a diagram of the spurs and lines running to and around Ogden, the next major hub. Quillan studied the diagram. “So what?”

Pierce tore a paper from his pad. “Can you reproduce it?” He held out the pencil.

Quillan stared from it to him, then took the pencil and scribbled what he recalled from the diagram. Pierce laid the two papers on the desk. Except for slight differences in length and direction, his drawing was very near the other. The other men stepped close to see.

Bittering said, “Will you give us a description of your . . . of Dennison?”

“Don’t you have him on a poster? His career has spanned fifteen years.” Quillan met Bittering’s eyes. Let him realize the nature of that first relationship. Quillan no longer cared.

“He’s never been pictured without the mask.”

Quillan hesitated, then took the pencil again from Pierce. He was not an artist. Recalling words or a diagram was one thing. He thought of Wolf ’s cave. Unlike his father, he’d never spent much energy on pictures. But he stared at the paper and recalled Shane Dennison’s face. It wasn’t artistic ability that mattered, but attention to detail, the shape and placement of the mouth, the roman nose, the way the chin caved in toward the neck. He turned over the page and drew Shane Dennison as he remembered him. “He’s no doubt filled out some. Has a mole here at the edge of his lip.” Quillan swallowed, pushed the paper across to Detective Bittering. “I hope you find him.”

Bittering held out his hand, but Quillan turned and left the room. Once again, every man had assumed the worst of him. Even the agent whose life he’d saved.





Carina watched them carry Miss Preston from the train on a litter not unlike the one Quillan had made for her ride up the mountain. Priscilla Preston would be kept in town to heal from her injuries. The doctor strode purposefully beside his patient. He must be staying, too, as the town could hardly support a physician of its own. Miss Preston’s aunt walked alongside the litter like a lost soul, but Carina was not sorry to see them go. Shaking her head, she recalled the younger woman’s foolishness. If the bullet had been six inches lower, she would never have opened her eyes again.

She looked again down the hall toward the room where Quillan was being questioned. How long could it take to get his statement? Then she saw him coming toward her, his stride long and forced. Angry? No, it wasn’t anger so much as defiance. Why was he defiant, defensive, on guard? He took her arm without a word and led her back aboard their coach and to their seats.

She turned. “Are you finished? They took your statement?”

With a half laugh, he smirked. “Sure.”

She caught his hand. “What is it, Quillan? What happened?”

“They made assumptions. I proved them wrong.”

She pressed his hand to her cheek. “What assumptions? Tell me!”

He turned and jerked the curtains closed around them. She was not surprised to then be jerked tightly to his chest. His mouth on hers told her he’d been hurt and was seeking solace, as always, in her physical love. She kissed him deeply. “Don’t let it bother you, caro mio.” She stroked his face. “What do they know?”

“Am I so wretched, Carina? Do I . . . do I look evil?”

“No, my darling.”

His fingers dug into her back. “I must.”

“No. Not evil, just different. People distrust what they can’t understand.” He grabbed her arms and held her out. “Do you trust me?”

The violence of his question frightened her. “Yes. Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

He dropped his forehead to the crown of her head. “How can you?”

“I just do.” She smoothed his thick, wonderful hair and felt the violence leave him. “Don’t let them hurt you.”