The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(88)

He rubbed his back. So Carina was right. Flavio held sway with the men at the quarry. Or the community at large accommodated her father in refusing to acknowledge him. A depressing thought. Again rejection was becoming a goad.

Another carriage pulled up in front of the hotel. With a flourish, Flavio emerged, followed by a shorter man—Nicolo, wasn’t it? They’d been together in the courtyard when Quillan first brought Carina home. Yes, because Nicolo now helped Carina’s sister from the conveyance. Would Carina be next?

A rush of fire inside warned him he was at a dangerous point. But Carina did not get out of that carriage, and it was led away. The next held an older couple, very elegant in bearing, he in a black Prince Albert coat and walking stick, and she bearing so much fabric it was amazing her back didn’t snap.

The next carriage to arrive came from First Street East. It was open to the air, and as it approached, he saw clearly Dr. DiGratia’s head and shoulders. His wife was beside him, and Carina must have been facing backward, hidden by the driver and team.

What would they say if he walked up to greet them, took Carina on his arm, and went into the hotel? He wore the getup he’d assembled for his about-town times, beige ankle-length pantaloons, white shirt, green quilted vest and cravat, with a brown broadcloth coat over all. He looked passing fine, if he did say so. He’d tied his hair back, which in his opinion, looked as pirate as leaving it loose, but drew less attention. And though his mustache was as brazen as ever, he’d removed the beard that had accumulated over the last four days.

He stood up as the carriage halted before the doors of the imposing front of the Garibaldi House with its red, white, and green flag and the motto Italia Unita proudly across the front. United Italy. Yes, indeed, they knew how to unite. His throat tightened painfully as Mr. DiGratia handed Carina down. She looked like an angel in white lace.

As she lighted, she looked about . . . for him? He stepped out from the pavilion, and for a moment their eyes met. Then her father put his hand to her elbow, and they went inside the doors beneath the ornate balcony upon which several young men stood with mandolins and guitars, serenading the partygoers’ entrance.

Stiffly Quillan sat back down. What had he expected? That she would run to him and desert all else—the trappings, the patriotic music that carried across the plaza and promised dancing within. His gut wrenched. What was God doing?

I am the vine, ye are the branches. He scowled, wishing he’d never committed that verse to memory. “Fine, Lord. You’re the vine. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit. How much more purging could he take? He’d been cut to the quick; if he lost Carina he’d be severed altogether. He stood up again, feeling more alone than ever. Before Carina, he’d been alone by choice. He didn’t expect to be accepted, so he didn’t try. He had learned that early.

“Keep him away from the others, or he’ll be the apple that rots the barrel.” And Mrs. Shepard was so convincing the headmaster had looked down his long chin and ostracized Quillan. With no chance for friendship, he’d built a wall, guarded himself, and learned to live that way.

I am the vine . . . Quillan slammed his fist into his palm, and two Chinese crossing the plaza jumped and grabbed each other instinctively. Their eyes searched him, and with a rush of sardonic amusement, he realized he had at last encountered a people as reviled as himself. Just like him, they anticipated the kick, the thrown rocks, the insults.

He spread his palms to show he meant them no harm. They spouted gibberish, bobbing like ducks, then hurried away. Quillan pressed his palm to his forehead, squinched his eyes shut, then tightened his jaw and looked once more at the Garibaldi House.

Somewhere in there his wife danced and mingled and drove men mad. And he was outside again, to avoid rotting the barrel. He stalked to his room in the Union Hotel, jerked the suitcase from under the bed, and threw in the clothes from the bureau drawers. He pulled out the heavy metal box that he had stowed under the seat of his wagon for long trips, and piled in his books until only his journal and Cain’s Bible remained.

He raised the Bible, picturing it in Cain’s veined and withered hands, resting on his stump of leg. “What tickles me is how the Lord chooses his instruments. Not the high and mighty who think they deserve it, but the lowly, the motley, the old cripples like me.” Quillan swallowed. How God chooses his instruments. The lowly, the motley—that one had resonated.

Had God chosen this for him? Was this God’s purpose, that he be separated from the one person who loved him, whose love he turned to in despair, whose love healed him? I am the vine. Quillan frowned. What, Lord? But God’s voice was drowned by another.

You’ll never amount to anything. You’re the devil’s spawn.

Something tore inside. No more! He belonged to Jesus Christ. He’d given himself over in the cave where his father had offered him to his best understanding of God, the eagle in the picture. He was no bastard son. Those were lies. But what was the truth? What did it mean that Jesus was the vine? Why did those words haunt him, provoke him?

Quillan dropped to his knees, dropped his face to his hands, and dropped his guard, letting tears wash the bitterness from inside him. God, I only wanted a family. Only wanted love. He had yearned for it from the Shepards, looked for it again from the DeMornays. His last hope had been the DiGratias.