The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(76)

Sitting up he dug into his pack for Cain’s Bible, his Bible now. He’d committed large portions of the first three gospels to memory. The Shepards had forced him to learn verses as a child; now he devoured the text by his own desire. He opened to the fourth gospel, Saint John’s, chapter fifteen. I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman.

Quillan pictured the fields he and Carina had passed through, lined with root-shaped trunks cloaking the hills between squares of wheat and oats. Pale green, gold, and vibrant yellow amid the stark brown vines that looked more dead than alive. Those were the vineyards, those rows of gnarled blackish stumps. He looked back at the text, sensing a message he was meant to grasp, but not understanding.

Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away: and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. Quillan looked up at the ceiling. Did he bear fruit? He was trying to. So that put him in the next category. He certainly felt that some of his old behaviors had been purged. “All right, Lord. You’ve been working on me. Now what?”

Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.

Those were Jesus’ words, but what was He saying to the people who had gathered? What was He saying to Quillan now? Abide in Him, though everything else be stripped away? That only through the Lord’s help would he keep the covenant he had made? Be~come what he was expected to become?

I am the vine, ye are the branches. He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing.

Quillan felt the truth of it. For all the years he’d fought God, there was little to show. A moderate fortune made by the sweat of his labor and blind luck. A few friends, but also enemies. And Carina. Carina had seen his flaws, suffered the worst he had to give, but loved him still. That was a wonder he could scarcely comprehend. But it sustained him as he committed the first ten verses of the fifteenth chapter to memory, then closed the book and went to sleep.

The next morning he went out. The first order of business was employment. The hotel clerk had suggested the imposing store on the northeast corner of the plaza, so he headed that way, assessing the building he approached. It had an attractive Victorian front complete with cupola and porch and looked nothing like the adobe barracks the man assured him it had been.

His view was blocked abruptly by Flavio and Nicolo, emerging from a narrow gap between two buildings. At the sight of him, they stopped talking and moving. Pausing his stride, Quillan stepped to his right. They stepped the same way, confused or contrary he couldn’t tell. Quillan moved to his left as a third man came up a little behind them. Three to one. Not good odds if they meant to get ugly.

Quillan hesitated then stepped off the sidewalk and went around, not as much of an issue as it would have been in Crystal with the streets clogged with people and either rushing mud or choking dust. Quillan returned to the walkway near enough to hear the smug guffaws. If that was the worst Flavio could do, Quillan had dealt with it every day in primary school. He found a man unlocking the doors of the store.

“Good morning.” The man spoke pleasantly enough.

“Good morning. My name’s Quillan. I’m looking for employment.”

The man turned the knob and pocketed his keys. “Solomon Schocken. What are you looking to do?”

“Well, if you’re Mr. Schocken, the clerk at the Union Hotel said you had several interests I might consider. I have a freight wagon and team of four.”

Schocken opened the door and admitted him. “This is my store.”

Quillan looked about, noting the orderly, well-stocked shelves and tables. “Successful enterprise by the looks of it.”

That obviously pleased him, but Schocken wasn’t puffed up. “I have several such.”

Quillan cocked his head. “I’m versatile.”

Schocken appraised him, seemingly undaunted by whatever the DiGratias had found offensive. But Quillan had fit easily with working men, businessmen, even those like Horace Tabor who had come into better times. It was only personal acceptance he seemed to fend off without trying.

Schocken said, “I could take you on in the store. I’ve been looking to save myself some hours. But that seems a waste of your wagon and team. I’ve not much need for that sort of hauling here, with the railroad passing directly before as it does. Of course there’d be occasional transportation of furniture and such. But I’ve another enterprise you might consider.”

Quillan waited while Schocken removed his coat and tied on an apron. “A basalt quarry. You might have seen it on your way in. We supply cobbles for San Francisco, Petaluma, San Jose. Quite an operation. I need wagons to haul the stones down Schocken Hill to the depot here at the plaza.”

Quillan pictured it. Not so different from hauling ore, though he’d eschewed that out of preference. “What do you blast with?”

“What blasting we do is with nitro sticks. Dynamite. Safer than powder and far more stable.”

“Until it freezes.” At Schocken’s surprise, Quillan added, “I’ve had some experience there. Hauled for the Leadville mines. Those white crystals of frozen nitro are no picnic.”

Schocken reassessed him. “True. But we’re not contending with mountain climes. Still, your experience would be helpful. What do you say?”