Quillan signed the ledger, then handed another man a coin. “Would you show my wife to the room while I take our wagon to the livery?”
“Certainly, sir.” The man took their key from the clerk. “This way, madam.”
She followed the man up the stairs to the second floor landing, then down the long hall to the room with a brass number twenty-five nailed to the door. He unlocked the door and handed her the key. “The dining room is open, madam, if you and your husband desire a late luncheon. Bath and water closet are at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you.” She went inside. The walls were gentian blue, the fireplace painted white, very like the room in which they’d spent their wedding night. Her heart quickened. She crossed the room to the window. It looked directly on the brick wall of the building next door. No stubbled ground and mountain creek. No view of slopes climbing majestic peaks. No valley beckoning her to come, to seek the secrets of a mine returned to the mountain or a spring gushing forth over frigid tiers of ice, or a cavern painted with a man’s life.
And now she was missing it all again. Dio, what is wrong with me? Will I never be satisfied?
But maybe it was natural to miss it all, even though she was going home. In a large way Crystal had formed her. It would always be there in her heart. But home beckoned more strongly. She dabbed a renegade tear, then turned back and took in the room. Comfortable indeed.
Quillan must have done well to stay there often enough to be known by name. But one had only to consider the prices he charged for his goods. How strange that he’d lived in a tent in Crystal. He was certainly a man of contradictions. She fingered the amethyst pin. He didn’t look like a wealthy man, didn’t act like one. But was he? Funny not to know.
If he were a man of substance, if he had wealth . . . She stopped that thought. She had fallen in love with the rogue freighter. That was enough for her. But would it be for Papa?
She took off her coat and hung it on the brass tree. Then she went down the hall and used the water closet. It was luxury after Crystal, even if it was shared by every room on the floor. She washed her hands and face, then went back to the room.
She had just opened the door when Quillan climbed the stairs, followed by the same man with their bags. She turned and smiled. Four weeks ago, in pain and grief, she had despaired of hope. Now Quillan looked at her with such love it stopped her breath. Dio, you are good. She stepped aside as the porter deposited their bags, received another coin from Quillan, then left.
Quillan motioned her in and closed the door behind them. “Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely.”
He slipped out of his coat. “Not as elegant as your first choice.”
“I’m certain they wouldn’t know you there.”
He opened his cuffs and rolled his sleeves. “Are you?”
“Yes.” She remembered too well the disdain he’d shown for his mother, Rose, until he had read her diary. He would never cross the door of a bordello, but he no longer hated the unfortunate women inside.
He hung the coat, then crossed to the fireplace and rested his hand on the high-back chair angled there. After a moment he said, “This is where I read my mother’s diary.”
“In this room?” She crossed to him.
“In this chair.” He turned and took her in his arms. “Thank you, Carina.” He bent, and it was a long while before she was free to answer. When he released her, she stroked her fingers over his scratchy jaw.
“Sorry.” He scraped his palm over it. “Guess I’ll shave before dining.”
She smiled, cocking her head to the side. “You prefer that look.”
He touched the skin beside her mouth. “I don’t want to chafe you.”
“At luncheon?” She raised her brows.
“After.”
One word could set her heart pounding? She would not let on so easily. “Should we see the DeMornays after?” That was their purpose, after all. And she could hardly wait to meet Rose’s family, Quillan’s family.
He hung his thumbs in his pants waist. “I don’t know.” He walked to the fireplace, poured coal into the brazier. Then he added kindling and flicked a match. Warmth and light kindled, and he held a palm to it. Firelight played over his features as he squatted there.
She sensed his hesitance, but didn’t understand it. “You haven’t changed your mind?”
He glanced up. “Not altogether.” He stood and dusted off his hands.
She touched his arm. “Quillan, what is it?”
“I’m not sure what good it will do.”
“Good?” She turned him toward her. “To know they have a grandson, to learn what became of their daughter!”
He winced.
“Knowing is better than wondering. And you! You’ll see your family, know here”—she pressed her hand to her heart—“from whom you came. You have to go, Quillan.”
“They have their lives, Carina.”
“And you’re part of them. They just don’t know it yet.” She caught his hands between hers. “Family, Quillan, is the most important thing.”
He expelled a slow breath. “Guess I’ll clean up, then.”
Carina smiled. He would take it head on. “We should send a runner, requesting a visit. Do you have Mr. Tabor’s introduction?”
He took it from his vest.
“Good. We’ll send that, too.”
His mouth quirked up.
She put her hands on her hips. “What?”
“Good thing I have you to soften the blow.”
She slipped her arms around his waist. How natural it seemed to touch him. Was it only weeks ago she thought she didn’t know him? He hooked his hands behind her neck, resting his arms on her shoulders. They were hard and heavy, working arms, lean and strong. “Keep the mustachio. It’s perfect.”
He rubbed it across her forehead, kissed her there, then let go.
Two hours later they rode a hired rig to the DeMornays’ home in an elite neighborhood. Though not among the original founders, they had an enviable niche in Denver society, and their location demonstrated that. Carina looked up at the trim red-brick house as Quillan lifted her from the carriage. She felt daunted but hid it for his sake.
In his wedding suit, hair tied back, Quillan looked fine and jaunty, his mustache bold, his eyes subdued. Surely they would welcome him. He hadn’t explained their visit, only requested it on grounds of mutual importance. He’d stared a long time at the reply, William DeMornay’s card and a brief inscription: On Mr. Tabor’s recommendation, I can spare a moment at four o’clock today.
Not exactly warm, but then, Mr. DeMornay had no idea it was his grandson he was corresponding with. A maid answered their knock and led them to a parlor. “Wait here, please.”
Carina felt Quillan’s unease. He stood very still—to a casual eye, contained. But to her . . . So much rested on this, so much of who he was. Signore, give him courage.