“No.”
“But you should?” Her eyes were obsidian pools.
“No. I can stay as long as you need me to.” And hang the New Boundless, Alex Makepeace, and all the consolidated miners who would love to add his property to theirs.
She sighed, pressing her fingers to her eyes and dropping her head deeper into the pillows. He stood over her, hating himself for wounding her yet again. Her hands dropped to her breast and folded there, but she didn’t open her eyes or speak. He went and sat at the table.
He was a third of the way through St. Mark when she spoke. “In the morning, you can go.”
He turned. Once again their eyes met, though this time the storm kept them apart. Quillan was fairly certain he would never undo the damage he’d done her, and even though she seemed to have spent her tears, she was far from pleased. Still, if she were willing . . .
God, what do I do? A peaceful assurance filled him. The Lord would look after Carina just as Alan had said. He nodded without answering, and when her eyes closed again and she fell asleep, he returned to Mark’s gospel, devouring it before he went to Mae’s for lunch.
He spent the afternoon committing portions of Luke’s gospel to memory while Carina alternately rested and read. It seemed strange to be with her inside the same four walls, each holding his own silence. Part of him appreciated the chance to be quiet together. Mostly he worried that he was doing something wrong. Maybe he should talk to her, but what was there to say?
Several times èmie came to consult about the menu for the restaurant that evening, but Carina seemed listless and disheartened. Perhaps she was reluctant to show her enthusiasm when he was there. If it weren’t for Mae’s and Alan’s instructions to sit still, bide, and pray, he’d . . . what? He was hard pressed to think of something better he could do.
Mae brought dinner on a tray for Carina and served Quillan’s on the small table where he studied. With a look half amused, half approving, she sashayed from the room, her swinging girth somehow accentuating both messages. Quillan noticed Carina cross herself and fold her hands over her food. He offered a silent grace of his own. He’d been tempted for a moment to speak a blessing as Reverend Shepard had when Quillan was a boy, but he was afraid to break the silence between them.
Though Carina had given permission for him to go, she was not peaceful with it. And he was afraid one word from him would set her off again, her Italian blood something to contend with. The food was flavorful and hearty, Carina’s recipe for certain. But it lacked . . . what? The touch of her hands preparing it? The graceful communication of her hopes into the dough she pressed and twisted?
He felt an unholy pleasure that the food was not the same without Carina. Not one man in Crystal would experience her cooking again if he could help it. Just the thought of those dirty miners, and even men like Alex Makepeace and the mayor himself—
For out of the heart proceed evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false witness, blasphemies: These are the things which defile a man: but to eat with unwashen hands defileth not a man. The Scripture sprang to his mind from days of memorizing his wickedness at the instigation of his stepmother, who saw nothing good in him. But the words kindled inside his mind as though burned there by a divine finger. Bitter, unkind thoughts would do him more harm than good.
Quillan looked down at his plate, certain the food would now taste like sawdust, just recompense for his thoughts. But it didn’t. It still tasted good if not remarkable. He wondered what Carina was thinking, but glancing up, found her nibbling at her portion with little interest. “You need to eat, Carina.”
She shrugged. “You sound like Mae.”
“Mae’s a wise woman.”
Carina sighed, pushed the tray away. “I’m not hungry.”
He knew better than to force it. He stood and took the tray from the bed and set it on the table. Maybe in a while she would want it. But when he’d finished his and looked up again, she was asleep. It seemed she was getting an inordinate amount of sleep, but then, her body had a lot of healing to do. Gently he removed the extra pillows from behind her head until she was lying down. He pulled the covers over her shoulders, then extinguished the light and got into bed, careful not to jostle or touch her.
He’d spent the day in prayer, hoping the Lord would make things clear. He’d asked to know God, to understand His purpose. And he did seem to grasp something more. The words of the gospels were planted deeply in his mind, held there by the special gift of memory he’d possessed from his youth. He settled into sleep, trusting the rest would come with time.
FIVE
Duty is a cowardice by which a man eludes, the deeper call of heart and soul a woman’s love exudes.
From her deep unfathomed well, he marches straight and tall.
Certain in resolve and zeal, “darling, I must” the clarion call.
—Quillan
WAKING AT THE SOUND of the door opening, Carina watched Quillan go out with Cain’s dog—now Quillan’s—to prepare for his trip. In her silent thoughts, she had begged God to side with her, to force Quillan to stay, but all God had said was, I am sufficient. Bene. Once again she was alone. She sulked. “Is this all I will have, Signore? Am I to be alone? Will you never be finished punishing me? Oh, why did I ever leave Sonoma?” A pang so sharp it vied with her physical injuries stabbed her heart. “I want to go home, Signore.”
But wasn’t that what Quillan was trying to accomplish? Why did she take his efforts as a personal affront? Because she didn’t trust him. How could she? He had deserted her, left her alone to face—She recalled the attack, which had damaged equally her heart and spirit. And her baby.
She clutched her belly. How could she ache so for a child she’d never seen? A child conceived in error, spite, and anger. How could she long for its tiny flutters inside her? How could she not? Even so early, she had treasured the presence inside her. She covered her face and wept.
If God was sufficient, why did she hurt so? She thought of Quillan lying beside her in the bed last night, his back against her like a wall. He had not reached for her, not held her. He felt guilty perhaps, sorry to repentance, but he didn’t love her. How could he love her and not sense her need?
Carina cried harder. “Now I understand, Signore, how sins, even though forgiven, carry a price. How much better it would have been had I never left home, never tried to punish Flavio’s infidelity, never sought my own way.”
Oofa!
Only once or twice had Carina experienced God’s direct chastisement, and the word in her mind sobered her now.
Daughter, I am sufficient. I Am.