And she was far from certain that she could sneak away every evening using Ti’Giuseppe as a decoy. It wouldn’t work for long. But maybe in a few days it wouldn’t matter. Her brothers would relax. Papa would forgive. She quickened her stride. God would make a way. Per favore, Signore.
She started back through the fields along the road leading to Papa’s farm. Dusk was deepening when she heard a horse trotting and looked up, startled. Flavio reined in as he caught sight of her. The fiery stallion tossed its head, back-stepping a pace. Flavio swung down with the fluid grace she knew so well, then led the horse off the road toward her. She stopped walking.
He came and stood over her, not so tall as Quillan, but the force of his nature had always made her feel small. She raised her chin defiantly. “What do you want?”
“I came to find you.”
She started to walk. “So you found me.”
He fell in step beside her. “It’s getting dark for a walk.”
“I don’t care.”
“Let me give you a ride, tesora mia.” His voice turned to velvet.
She stopped, fists at her sides. “I’m not your darling.”
He reached into her hair. “You will always be, your sham husband notwithstanding.”
She jerked away. “He’s not a sham.”
“He left you.”
Her fury ignited. “Because of you! And Papa! And my imbecile brothers.” She stalked forward, but he caught her arm, pulled her around.
“Tia Franchesca says the marriage is invalid.”
“Mamma knows nothing.” But Carina started to shake. Mamma had told Flavio that? After seeing her weep, hearing her plea? Would they try to cause an annulment in spite of her? Could they?
Flavio caught her other arm. “I love you, Carina Maria.” He spoke it with fervor.
Could he mean it, after everything he’d done? She remembered the first time he had said that, when she was only fourteen years old. How thrilled she’d been. Even now it was intoxicating that he wanted her still. But that was dangerous and terrible. “I am already married.”
His fingers tightened. His lips formed a tight line. “Get on the horse.” He spoke softly, but as always his tone compelled. Like Papa, Flavio did not holler, did not need to. Was she a little girl again to be controlled by his strings?
“Grazie, no.” She tried to pull away.
He nudged her toward the animal. It shied, but Flavio tugged the reins. “Get on, tesora.” An edge now in his voice.
She could hardly outrun him. It would be humiliating to try. Seething, she took hold of the animal’s back and swung up onto the saddle, which was hardly more than a shaped and padded blanket. Flavio had always preferred bareback riding. Her skirts caught up around her knees, but she had worn her high leather boots to walk to town. What did she care if it looked less than ladylike? Did she care to impress Flavio? Beh!
He removed her foot from the stirrup and replaced it with his own. Carina quaked at the thought of him behind her. She recalled Quillan’s chest against her back after he had saved her from the mine shaft, his arm holding her steady.
Flavio put his weight into the stirrup. At the same moment, Carina kicked the stallion in the soft area between its flank and belly. The animal reared, and Flavio fell. Then she was flying across the field upon an enraged beast. But she knew as she flew that the stallion’s fury was nothing to what Flavio’s would be.
With effort, she gained control of the animal and steered it toward the road. It had been a long time since she’d ridden astride, and the jarring chattered her teeth, especially with one foot out of the stirrup. Her back ached. She yanked on the reins and at last brought the horse to a walk. Flavio was out of sight.
Arriving home, she tethered the horse in Papa’s courtyard and started toward the house. She had half a mind to pack her trunk and go. But now her fighting spirit was kindled. She would not run, and they would not win. If Quillan was willing to earn their approval, she would give him the chance.
Tony suddenly blocked her way. “That’s Flavio’s horse.”
“He lent it to me.”
“Where is he?” Tony looked out through the gate.
She shrugged.
“Carina.” He caught her arm. Of them all, Tony was closest in age and spirit. “Be careful.”
She looked into her brother’s face. “I shouldn’t have to be.” She walked by and went inside.
Strained with fury and frustration, she slept poorly and awoke in a temper. The mission bells were ringing at five o’clock Sunday morning, and she rose automatically and dressed. Without breaking their fast, the family filled two large carriages. Since Lorenzo still lived at home with Sophie, he drove one carriage with Ti’Giuseppe and Tia Marta, and Divina and Nicolo, who had walked over from their villa on Papa’s land, which Nicolo earned by working the fields.
Vittorio drove the second with the rest of them, and a third carryall rattled behind with the servants, driven by Jerome. It was almost a parade, Carina thought, who had never considered it before. Here we come, the DiGratias. She disembarked sullenly and approached the large wooden doors of the adobe Mission Chapel of St. Francis de Solano.
Its red-tiled roof was lined with pigeons that the huge bell, suspended out front from a massive timber arch, had failed to dislodge. She smelled the sweet scent of the prickly pear whose gnarled woody roots and flat thorny leaves stood as tall as she, copious with cone-shaped fruits from which the Indians made many dishes. Then there was the more pungent scent of the blue flowering rosemary—low, dusty green bushes planted the length of the front porch. And then the mellow, mysterious scent of the incense as she entered the chapel.
With her head veiled in black lace, Carina dipped her fingers into the black metal font on the back wall, genuflected, then started down the narrow aisle between the benches. The lower portion of the white plastered walls were striped in ochre, maroon, and turquoise, ornamented with simple geometric and plant designs. The altar rail and five-stepped pulpit were painted a variant green.
They were among the first to arrive, and the silence welcomed her. She closed her eyes for a moment and let its peace enter her. She opened her eyes to gaze at a Spanish painting of Gesù being stripped and mocked. A painting on the opposite wall showed men nailing him to the cross. As she sat between the scenes, Carina’s heart quailed.
She had seen these pictures day after day as she’d attended Mass with her family. But they had never touched her so deeply. Christ’s pain and humiliation. Was there any hardship she could complain of that He had not borne? So she was scorned by her family, in disgrace. Had Gesù not been taunted and spat upon? So her heart longed to be united with Quillan. Had Gesù not wept for Jerusalem to be united with God?