The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(85)

“Don’t cry.” His hands tightened.

“What are we going to do?” She clung to him.

He brought her gently into his arms. “I don’t know.”

Her hair fell over his hands, and she held onto his waist as though to a buoy at sea. She remembered the time in his tent when he had impulsively held her just so, trying to calm her hysterics. He’d been so solid, so convincing. She wanted nothing more than to hold him, to feel him warm and breathing and strong. “Don’t make me go back.”

“You have to.”

“Not now.” She clung tighter.

He rested his face in her hair, his breath warming her scalp. “No, not now.” And he kissed her.





Quillan lay beside his wife, too agitated to sleep. Her breath was a warm mist on his arm, and he studied the fall of her eyelashes on her cheek, the curve of her lips. They were slack and slightly parted, just showing the edge of her white teeth. He would have to send her back. There would be no end to strife if he kept her at the hotel. And only from within the bosom of her family could she resolve her need.

He would not let her choose him out of desperation. But as he looked out at the heavy mist of the gray, dawning day, he felt desperate himself. Was he wrong? He forked his fingers into his hair. Carina stirred. Her eyes opened drowsily. She smiled.

He touched her smile, giving her one of his own. Dear God, I love her. He shifted his position to face her. Maybe he shouldn’t have kept her last night. People would see her going out; the clerk would know when she came. But maybe it was time people knew. He was not going to skulk behind some cactus wall even if that was good enough for Flavio. Carina deserved better.

She raised up onto her elbow. “What are you thinking?”

“That I’m the luckiest man alive.”

She shook her head. “You have every hand raised against you, and you’re the luckiest man?”

“First, it’s not every hand. There are more than Italians in Sonoma. Solomon Schocken said last night that he’s very pleased with my work. Mr. Marconi, as well. And he’s one of yours.”

Carina gave him a sad smile.

“And secondly, I wasn’t referring to anyone but you. If I had nothing but you, I’d still be luckiest.”

She cupped his shoulder. “Then let’s leave. This morning.”

He looked down at her velvety skin. “All right. Never mind your mother’s broken heart, the sorrow you’ll give your father. They had their chance. And as for your brothers, they’re hardly sentient beings; no reasoning with them. Ti’Giuseppe . . . now it would have been nice to say good-bye, don’t you think?” He looked back into her stricken face. He’d known what expression he’d find, but it cut him anyway. They were all still her most important thing.

He cradled her face in his palm. “No, Carina. We can’t leave. We have to see it through.”

She didn’t argue. She knew she had shown him her feelings. “I’ve prayed and prayed for the Lord to make my family see. But they’re blind and deaf to me. Is God, too?”

“I’m not the one to ask.” He shook his head. “I keep trying to understand, to find His purpose.” He smoothed his fingers over her hair. “I’m too green to have any answers.”

Carina fingered the locket that hung at his neck against his bare skin and sighed. “So what do we do?”

He hated to say it, but knew he must. “You go home. I go to work.”

“Quillan, why do you have to work so hard? Didn’t you get money from the mine? Couldn’t you buy . . . something?”

He looked down at the sheet. How could he explain that he didn’t deem that money his, and even if it were, that he hesitated to use it. Mrs. Shepard had accused him and Wolf of greed so many times, he was afraid to consider himself a wealthy man. He said simply, “I have money.”

She waited for more, and he shook his head. “It’s not about money, Carina. It’s about respect.”

“You think my papa’s not respected? Does he work himself to the bone?”

“I have to show that I’ve earned it.”

“Why?” She sat up abruptly.

How could she possibly understand, aristocrat that she was? He didn’t even understand except—except maybe he’d believed more of Leona Shepard’s words than he should. “You’re greedy and lazy and worthless. You’ll never amount to anything. Idleness is the devil’s tool, and you’re the devil’s spawn.” He knew better in his head, but in his soul?

“I just do, Carina.”

She sighed. “So that’s it? I go home, and you go back to work. Then what? Wait until Flavio makes good his threat?”

“Ah, yes, Flavio’s threat.”

She pushed his chest. “Don’t scoff.”

“I’m not.” He stood up, walked to the washbasin, and poured water into the bowl. He tossed it onto his face and rubbed the back of his neck and his chest, then toweled dry and turned. “I’m not defenseless, Carina. I can protect myself.” She should know that already.

She nodded. “But . . .”

“I need to know what he is to you.”

She stared at him uncomprehending. “To me?”

Quillan grabbed his shirt and threw it on. He took her hands and stood her up from the bed. “What if self-defense becomes deadly force?”