What stench is in a tainted soul that righteous men recoil, some fetid, darksome malady which makes their blood to boil.
Why not instead a cleansing balm to wash away the stain, and let men see as God has seen the weariness and pain.
—Quillan
WITH QUILLAN GONE TO get the wagon, Carina took one last look around the lobby. They were leaving Denver after just one night, and she wasn’t sure how to feel. If things had gone well yesterday, they might have stayed awhile and gotten acquainted with the DeMornays—Rose’s parents. Carina felt a keen disappointment. And though Quillan wouldn’t show it, she knew he stung still.
But now they would go to Sonoma. Oh, how she longed to see her home, her own mamma, her dear papa. Everyone, even Divina. She could almost feel their arms around her. Of course they would love Quillan. Why did she doubt it? They were not DeMornays; they were DiGratias!
She turned, and there was Mrs. DeMornay coming through the door with a quick darting step, glancing back once at the door, then proceeding to the counter. She stopped short when she saw Carina. “Oh. Oh, you’re here.”
Carina drew herself up almost to a height with the older woman.
Before she could speak, however, Mrs. DeMornay caught her hand and drew her into the alcove by the front window. “I’ve been forbidden to speak further with your husband, in case he tried to pursue things again. But nothing was said about you.”
Carina was startled. This seemed so out of character from the woman who had sat so prim and stately, offering no word yesterday when Quillan said his piece.
“Please, I have only a moment.”
Carina caught the woman’s hands. “Tell me.”
“Mr. DeMornay needs to believe . . . I’m certain he does believe . . .”
“That Rose lies in that grave?”
Mrs. DeMornay shuddered. “You can’t know how it was. We did what we had to, at first to protect Rose, then all of us. Judge me kindly.”
As they had judged Rose? And Quillan? Carina stayed silent.
Mrs. DeMornay’s liquid eyes were nearly aqua, perhaps paled a little with years, but Carina wondered if Rose’s eyes had been the same. Wolf had painted dark hair on the cave wall. Rose would have been a beauty indeed. The older woman dampened her gathered lips. “The diary . . .”
“It is Rose’s diary.” Carina stooped and drew it from her satchel. She had kept it close this morning, unable to pack it dispassionately into the trunk for the wagon. She pressed it to her heart. “My husband’s mother’s words.”
Mrs. DeMornay nodded slowly. “It was my gift to her on her nineteenth birthday.” Tears wet her eyes. “Your husband . . . was he, is he the product of a certain liaison? One which she fled . . .”
Surprised, Carina shook her head. Mrs. DeMornay knew of Rose’s seduction? “That child miscarried.” The word brought a pang to her heart, recalling Rose’s anguish. “Quillan is Rose’s son by Wolf, her husband.”
“Wolf.” Mrs. DeMornay shook her head. “Wolf?”
“The Sioux named him Cries Like a Wolf.” Carina thought the woman would faint she turned so pale and trembling.
“He was a savage?”
“He was a white captive who left the tribe and made his way to Placerville. A brave and wonderful man. Mrs. DeMornay, Wolf loved your daughter fiercely.” Loved her unto death. Slowly Carina drew the diary from her breast. She held it out. “It’s all in here.”
“No, I can’t.” Mrs. DeMornay shunned it with her hands. “If William saw . . . But here.” She reached into her purse, drew out a locket on a chain. “This is mine, so I can give it.”
It was large and gold, valuable in that alone. But Carina sensed more. Mrs. DeMornay opened it. Carina drew her breath in sharply. A photograph of a girl with dark curls and pale eyes.
Mrs. DeMornay pressed it into her hands. “I want your husband to have this.”
Carina covered it with her palm. “He will treasure it.”
Mrs. DeMornay’s lips trembled. “My daughter is . . . truly dead?”
Slowly Carina nodded. “Quillan was raised by another couple.” She sensed the woman would not bear more of the truth than that. “He only wanted to meet Rose’s people.”
Mrs. DeMornay dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I have to go.” The woman’s eyes flicked to the doorway. “I was going to leave the locket at the desk. I can’t defy William. If I were to see your husband . . .”
“Go then. He’s fetching the wagon.”
But she hesitated. “He has her mouth. Wide and generous. Too generous. Rose . . . No, I won’t say it.”
“She loved deeply.”
Tears filled Rose’s mother’s eyes. “Yes . . . impetuously.” She pressed Carina’s hands. “As you do, I surmise.”
Did she guess that from their short encounter? Did she wear her love for Quillan so blatantly?
“Don’t sacrifice that.” Mrs. DeMornay released her.
Carina shook her head. “I won’t.”
“Give Quillan the locket and . . . my love.” Mrs. DeMornay’s voice shook.
Carina nodded, a lump stopping her speech. She looked down at the photograph in the locket as Mrs. DeMornay passed out the door. Quillan did have his mother’s mouth. She closed the locket and folded it into her handkerchief, then put it in her satchel. Straightening her skirts, she went to wait at the door.
When Quillan pulled up in the wagon, she went out. He lifted her up and tucked the satchel behind the seat, exactly as he had the first time they’d met. His expression, too, was reminiscently grim. He had slept poorly, even groaning softly in his sleep. The DeMornays had opened old wounds. She considered the locket tucked secretly in the satchel. Should she give it to him now?
But Mrs. DeMornay’s concern had been palpable. And in his current mood Quillan was too unpredictable. He might confront Mr. DeMornay, and where would that leave his grandmother? So Carina said nothing.
Quillan climbed in beside her. “I’m putting you on the train, Carina.”
He would start that again? They had argued it last night, but she had not changed her mind. “I want to travel with you.”
“The train makes more sense.”
And she would arrive home without him. “Then sell your wagon and come with me.”
He shook his head. “I need it.”
She tossed her hands. “Then drive.”
He took up the lines. “At least let me inquire.”
“What’s to inquire? We can take the train or we can drive. I am not doing either without you.”
He stayed silent until they reached the station. Bene. If he would be stubborn, she would, too. She refused to leave the wagon seat when he dismounted and walked to the ticket counter. He would have to bodily remove her.
But when he came back, he eyed her squarely. “How about a compromise?”
She clutched the seat in case it were a ruse. “What compromise?”
“Train’s got a car for hauling carriages and such. They’ll take the wagon and horses while we ride in the passenger car—together.”
Suddenly exuberant, she clasped her hands at her throat. “Then yes! Of course yes!”