Pierce tore a paper from his pad. “Can you reproduce it?” He held out the pencil.
Quillan stared from it to him, then took the pencil and scribbled what he recalled from the diagram. Pierce laid the two papers on the desk. Except for slight differences in length and direction, his drawing was very near the other. The other men stepped close to see.
Bittering said, “Will you give us a description of your . . . of Dennison?”
“Don’t you have him on a poster? His career has spanned fifteen years.” Quillan met Bittering’s eyes. Let him realize the nature of that first relationship. Quillan no longer cared.
“He’s never been pictured without the mask.”
Quillan hesitated, then took the pencil again from Pierce. He was not an artist. Recalling words or a diagram was one thing. He thought of Wolf ’s cave. Unlike his father, he’d never spent much energy on pictures. But he stared at the paper and recalled Shane Dennison’s face. It wasn’t artistic ability that mattered, but attention to detail, the shape and placement of the mouth, the roman nose, the way the chin caved in toward the neck. He turned over the page and drew Shane Dennison as he remembered him. “He’s no doubt filled out some. Has a mole here at the edge of his lip.” Quillan swallowed, pushed the paper across to Detective Bittering. “I hope you find him.”
Bittering held out his hand, but Quillan turned and left the room. Once again, every man had assumed the worst of him. Even the agent whose life he’d saved.
Carina watched them carry Miss Preston from the train on a litter not unlike the one Quillan had made for her ride up the mountain. Priscilla Preston would be kept in town to heal from her injuries. The doctor strode purposefully beside his patient. He must be staying, too, as the town could hardly support a physician of its own. Miss Preston’s aunt walked alongside the litter like a lost soul, but Carina was not sorry to see them go. Shaking her head, she recalled the younger woman’s foolishness. If the bullet had been six inches lower, she would never have opened her eyes again.
She looked again down the hall toward the room where Quillan was being questioned. How long could it take to get his statement? Then she saw him coming toward her, his stride long and forced. Angry? No, it wasn’t anger so much as defiance. Why was he defiant, defensive, on guard? He took her arm without a word and led her back aboard their coach and to their seats.
She turned. “Are you finished? They took your statement?”
With a half laugh, he smirked. “Sure.”
She caught his hand. “What is it, Quillan? What happened?”
“They made assumptions. I proved them wrong.”
She pressed his hand to her cheek. “What assumptions? Tell me!”
He turned and jerked the curtains closed around them. She was not surprised to then be jerked tightly to his chest. His mouth on hers told her he’d been hurt and was seeking solace, as always, in her physical love. She kissed him deeply. “Don’t let it bother you, caro mio.” She stroked his face. “What do they know?”
“Am I so wretched, Carina? Do I . . . do I look evil?”
“No, my darling.”
His fingers dug into her back. “I must.”
“No. Not evil, just different. People distrust what they can’t understand.” He grabbed her arms and held her out. “Do you trust me?”
The violence of his question frightened her. “Yes. Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
He dropped his forehead to the crown of her head. “How can you?”
“I just do.” She smoothed his thick, wonderful hair and felt the violence leave him. “Don’t let them hurt you.”
“I don’t know what God’s doing. Cain said He had plans for me, but I don’t see it. I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try to. Just wait.”
He sagged. “For what?”
“God will show you. Gesù Cristo. He will.”
Quillan’s breath came easily now as he enveloped her gently into his arms. “Don’t ever leave me, Carina.”
“No. I promise.”
He sighed. “They thought I was one of the gang.”
“What? How could they? You stopped the outlaws—you didn’t help them!”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. She heard the sandpaper scrape of his whiskers. He did look rather wild.
She touched his face with her fingertips. “You could shave.”
“I don’t want people to judge me by how I look.”
She sighed. “But they do.”
His jaw grew tight. “Then let them. I am what I am.”
She smiled. “Oh, Quillan.”
He tipped her chin up and stared into her eyes. “You don’t want a pirate husband?”
“I want you any way at all.” She heard other passengers coming aboard. The whistle blew, and more voices sounded outside their curtain.
He looked at the flimsy barrier and whispered, “You know what I wish? That you and I could have this train all to ourselves, with no one else.”
She pressed her hands to his chest. “Others would love and trust you if you gave them the chance.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t seem to know how.”
She stepped back from him as the train made a small lurch forward. “You’ll learn.”
“You’re supremely confident of that.”
She nodded, drawing the curtain back behind their seats to reveal the rest of the car. Then they sat down across from each other, eyes held unswerving. His mouth pulled slightly up at one edge. “God’s got his work, taming me.”
Something smoldered inside her. Did she want him tame? Or was it his difference that made him so irresistible?
They were scarcely on their way when one group after another came to shake Quillan’s hand, to comment on his courage. Mr. Pierce appeared, pad and pencil in hand. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Shepard, I’d like to follow up on that demonstration. It’ll make a great angle for the story.”
“What demonstration?” Carina looked from one to the other.
Mr. Pierce described Quillan’s reproduction of text and diagram. She looked at her husband. How had he felt, forced to perform such things to prove his innocence? But then she knew how he’d felt. “Mr. Pierce, my husband—”
“It’s all right, Carina.” Quillan motioned the newsman to sit beside her. “What would you like to know?”
For the next half hour Mr. Pierce questioned and Quillan demonstrated his mental capacities, reciting portions of books he’d committed to memory, explaining that it had been an ability he’d discovered early on, and how he even had infant memories of his mother’s face and hair. Carina was amazed he would share something so intimate. Was he trying to trust? To be trusted?
“It’s amazing, Mr. Shepard.”
“Quillan.”
Pierce nodded. “Quillan, you realize this is a remarkable gift. To what do you attribute it?”
“To God.”
Pierce raised his brows.
“That surprises you?” Quillan half smiled.
“You don’t look the God-fearing sort.” Pierce shifted uneasily. “And the agent said Dennison called you the ‘reverend’s personal demon.’ ”