The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(99)

“If you do something rash, you will pay the price.” The doctor turned to the room behind him. “If that old man dies . . .”

“You won’t let him.” Flavio’s voice betrayed his desperation.

Angelo looked back at him. “I’m not God.”

Flavio’s chest tightened. “I thought you were once. When they brought you to the house to save my papa. I thought you had Gesù’s healing hands.”

“Ah, Flavio.” The doctor spread his fingers before him. “My hands are human, but sometimes God heals through them.”

And sometimes He doesn’t. Flavio stared at the delicate fingers outstretched from Dottore DiGratia’s fine hands. Then he looked into the man’s face, saw pain and fear there mingled.

“Flavio, don’t do something you’ll pay for more dearly than you can afford.”

Had he read his thoughts? Flavio spread his hands. “Do what?”

“You and Quillan Shepard both want Carina. Let God decide between you.”

Flavio stared at him. Something opened, some small painful part.

“The God who took my mother? My father, too?”

Angelo’s face turned gray. He leaned slightly against the desk, his hands dropping to his sides. “Don’t lay your father’s death on God.”

Now it would come. Flavio felt his breathing suspend. Now he would know once for all if that early hatred had been deserved.

But the doctor said, “Men killed your father, not God.” His voice shook, and he folded his fingers together at his chest.

“And that makes it all right?”

“No, Flavio. Nothing condones that.”

Flavio felt cheated. Men killed his father? Men including the doctor? Tell me the truth!

And now Angelo’s voice strengthened. “Neither does that condone your own violence.”

Flavio felt the sap leave his limbs, despondence descending like a parasite, sucking him dry. In his hurt, he searched the doctor’s face. “I will do what I must.”

“You do it without my consent.” Angelo’s face was both stern and entreating.

Flavio’s hands clenched at his sides. “Would you take Carina from me?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, “I want what you want. But I will submit to God.”

“Then you don’t want what I want.” Flavio turned.

Angelo caught his arm. “Flavio. Beware your nature.”

Flavio exploded. “My nature! My papa’s nature? Is it so dangerous?

Is that why your hands could not heal? Or was it your will?” He was shocked to have said it aloud.

The doctor looked stunned. Then he drew himself up. “Your father was gravely wounded, battered and crushed and cut. What do you think I could do?”

Flavio stepped up close until his face was just before Angelo’s. He sent his gaze past the blue eyes, probing. “You tell me, Tio. Could you have saved my papa?”

Angelo DiGratia became very still. His eyes blinked slowly once. “I don’t know.”

Flavio swallowed that. How could he not know? If he had done all he could the answer would be simply, No, Flavio, I could not. The tearing inside worsened. Now that he knew, he wished he didn’t. Could he ever look at this man he loved and not know he had let his father die?

Angelo caught his shoulders. “I love you as my own son.”

Flavio’s throat closed too tightly to speak.

Angelo pulled him into a fierce embrace. Flavio wanted his arms to come around the man who had taught him gentleness, concern for others, the value of life. But it was all a lie. His limbs were slogged with mud. He could not lift them, not to hold, to validate this man. He pulled away, refusing to meet the doctor’s eyes. He turned and walked out.





TWENTY-ONE

What hold the flesh upon the soul that yearns for purity, while mind and body clash and strive for human surety.

Ah, my spirit, be assured, your wait is nigh to done; for soon I deem all earthly joy for me there will be none.

—Quillan

THE CRUNCH OF BOOT on stone brought Quillan’s head up from his journal. The last person he expected or wanted to see was Roderick Pierce. Was this a day of trial? He squinted up with little welcome. What on earth was the man doing at Schocken’s quarry?

Pierce ignored his scowl with a grin, though the climb up the hill had taxed him it seemed. “Hello.” He fit the word between breaths.

Quillan nodded once, nothing more than base courtesy.

“Remember me?” Pierce swiped off his hat and dabbed his forehead with his sleeve.

“Like a blood-sucking gnat.”

Pierce laughed heartily. “Charming as ever.” He glanced down. “What’s that there? Writer, are you?”

Quillan closed his journal. Dust still hung in the air from the charges he had set to break up the new surface, and he had loaded his wagon already with the rough stone. He would carry the stone down to the yard below to be shaped into cobbles by the Italian stone cutters. He was only giving the horses a chance to graze before he headed down.

“Freelance?”

“No.”

“Mind if I have a look? One writer to another?” Pierce held out his hand.

Quillan’s stare was answer enough.

Pierce pulled a newspaper from inside his fustian coat. “I brought the piece that’s made you famous.”