“Teetotaler, are you?” Tabor paused at the cabinet.
Quillan shrugged. “I have a difficult drive tomorrow.”
“Well, bring him some coffee, Augusta. I’m going to pick his brain while I’ve got him cornered.”
Quillan grinned. He liked Hod Tabor. But then, most people did. The man had a magnetism and generosity and good humor that were hard to resist. But he had another reason for speaking with Tabor alone. “I’d like that letter of introduction we spoke of in Denver.”
“DeMornays?” Tabor had a good memory.
Quillan nodded. “If it’s possible they’re my mother’s people, I’d like to make their acquaintance before I leave the area for good.”
“Understandable.” Tabor held his port a moment, then sipped. “All right, then.” He took a sheet of stationery from the escritoire.
Quillan had turned down the introduction the last time they talked. But things had changed; he’d changed.
Tabor scrawled something, then folded the letter. “Might find him a bit of a stuffed shirt. Railroad baron, you know.”
Quillan quirked a brow.
“Then again, that’s my impression.”
“Well, Hod—”
“Actually, I misspoke.” Tabor handed him the letter. “Make your own judgment.”
Quillan took the letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Thanks.”
Tabor nodded. “You have to leave in the morning?”
Quillan smiled. “My wife expects me.”
Carina glared at Dr. Felden. “What do you mean, weeks? The pain is bearable, the bruising inconsequential.”
Dr. Felden leaned forward and spoke with antiseptic breath, his clipped gray mustache like boar bristles across his upper lip. “Not inconsequential inside, where you can’t see it. The kidneys are attached quite tenuously, and you’ve sustained damage. You must remain still and restful for healing to occur.”
“I have been still.”
“Not by Mae’s account. You were in the kitchen instructing èmie just this morning.”
“Twelve steps from my bed to the stove.” She waved her arm.
“More like twenty, but it’s irrelevant. Any jostling, any jarring, can mean the difference between functioning kidneys and death.”
Carina paused at his blunt words. Death? Dio, was it so serious? Yes, she felt weak, depleted, sore, and broken, but death? Like her baby?
“Believe me, Mrs. Shepard, you cannot gauge your condition by what you feel. I understand your frustration, but you must accept my restrictions.”
Carina felt like a scolded child, and in truth, she’d acted like one. èmie could handle the kitchen without her. So what if the tagliatelle wasn’t just like Mamma’s. Quillan had ordered her to stay abed, though perhaps that had contributed to her rebellion. She sagged into the pillows behind her. “Bene. I’ll be still.”
Dr. Felden closed his bag with a snap. “And when is Quillan due back?”
Again Carina swung her arm, this time sulkily. “He comes when he comes.” She looked at the snow through the window. It had been falling since morning, and of course Quillan’s only stipulation for not returning was a blizzard.
“Well, mind my instructions, Mrs. Shepard.”
She sighed as Dr. Felden let himself out into the storm. The wind did not blow in. The snow fell in silent descent, hardly causing a stir, but surely making the roads impassable. And she knew how quickly such a storm could become life threatening.
She had told Quillan to take no chances, but her heart ached. She didn’t want to spend another night alone, crying, fighting the furious, vengeful thoughts toward the men who had killed her unborn child. This new anger was worse than the original shock. Signore, help me to bear it. And show me why. She needed to know. How else could she stand the grief that welled up uncontrollably?
Previously her physical pain had overwhelmed the grief and rage. Now thoughts of the baby washed away all else. My baby! She reached for Rose’s journal. If anyone could understand, it was Quillan’s mother, whose first baby had died and whose second, Quillan, she had been forced to give away.
Carina shuddered. Would she, too, imagine her child until she no longer knew what was real? She stroked her hand over the red leather book cover. How dear Rose’s words were to her, but she couldn’t face them now. Fear of where the grief could lead made her place the book on her bedside crate. If only . . .
She looked at the darkening window, and tears made warm tracks down her cheeks. Carina wanted to believe Quillan would return, if not today, then as soon as he could manage it. He’d never told her a time before, never even promised to return. Surely—
Motion outside the window startled her. She jerked her face that way with a new but familiar terror. Someone was out there. She stiffened. If she screamed, Mae might hear, but . . . The door flew open, and two snowy forms bustled in and banged the door shut behind them.
“Your husband is mad, Carina. Utterly mad.” Alex brushed the snow from his coat.
Quillan caught her gaze and held it. “I told you I’d be back tonight.”
She looked at him, hair woolly with flakes, whiskers iced and cheeks raw. She swiped at her tears, ashamed she had doubted him.
He stepped forward and handed her a small red-papered box. “For medicinal use.” A glimmer shone in his eye.
She took the box, and before she opened it the aroma told her all. She swept the lid from the box. “Chocolate! Quillan!”
His beard was heavy around his buccaneer smile. He was obviously pleased with himself. “Of course, if you’d prefer èmie had it . . .”
Carina clutched the box to her breast. “I haven’t tasted chocolate since San Francisco.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be going on to my room. But you should know I feared for our lives more than once on the road home.”
Carina tore her eyes from Quillan’s face and smiled at Alex. “I’m thankful you’re safe. Make Mae give you your table, and if she’s given it away already, have èmie feed you in the kitchen. It’s Mamma’s tagliatelle alle acciughe, pasta with anchovy sauce.”
Alex beamed. “Carina, I’d have braved any road to hear you say that. May I?” He motioned toward her side door, which would save him going back out into the storm.
“Of course.”
He crossed the room and went out. She turned back to Quillan’s scowl. What now? Would he stalk away to sleep in the livery?
He stood a long moment, then seemed to draw himself in. His eyes softened, and the hard line of his mouth eased. “I hate that.” He tugged his gloves off and stuffed them fiercely into his coat pocket.
“What?” she almost whispered, fearful to know the answer.
Quillan stooped beside the bed and took her hand. “You don’t just cook, Carina. You create, you put yourself into it. I’ve watched you, seen the magic your hands work on ordinary ingredients.” He turned her palm over and ran his finger across it.
A powerful sensation passed through her.
His brows drew together. “I don’t want other men to know you that way.”