Angelo’s face turned gray. He leaned slightly against the desk, his hands dropping to his sides. “Don’t lay your father’s death on God.”
Now it would come. Flavio felt his breathing suspend. Now he would know once for all if that early hatred had been deserved.
But the doctor said, “Men killed your father, not God.” His voice shook, and he folded his fingers together at his chest.
“And that makes it all right?”
“No, Flavio. Nothing condones that.”
Flavio felt cheated. Men killed his father? Men including the doctor? Tell me the truth!
And now Angelo’s voice strengthened. “Neither does that condone your own violence.”
Flavio felt the sap leave his limbs, despondence descending like a parasite, sucking him dry. In his hurt, he searched the doctor’s face. “I will do what I must.”
“You do it without my consent.” Angelo’s face was both stern and entreating.
Flavio’s hands clenched at his sides. “Would you take Carina from me?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, “I want what you want. But I will submit to God.”
“Then you don’t want what I want.” Flavio turned.
Angelo caught his arm. “Flavio. Beware your nature.”
Flavio exploded. “My nature! My papa’s nature? Is it so dangerous?
Is that why your hands could not heal? Or was it your will?” He was shocked to have said it aloud.
The doctor looked stunned. Then he drew himself up. “Your father was gravely wounded, battered and crushed and cut. What do you think I could do?”
Flavio stepped up close until his face was just before Angelo’s. He sent his gaze past the blue eyes, probing. “You tell me, Tio. Could you have saved my papa?”
Angelo DiGratia became very still. His eyes blinked slowly once. “I don’t know.”
Flavio swallowed that. How could he not know? If he had done all he could the answer would be simply, No, Flavio, I could not. The tearing inside worsened. Now that he knew, he wished he didn’t. Could he ever look at this man he loved and not know he had let his father die?
Angelo caught his shoulders. “I love you as my own son.”
Flavio’s throat closed too tightly to speak.
Angelo pulled him into a fierce embrace. Flavio wanted his arms to come around the man who had taught him gentleness, concern for others, the value of life. But it was all a lie. His limbs were slogged with mud. He could not lift them, not to hold, to validate this man. He pulled away, refusing to meet the doctor’s eyes. He turned and walked out.
TWENTY-ONE
What hold the flesh upon the soul that yearns for purity, while mind and body clash and strive for human surety.
Ah, my spirit, be assured, your wait is nigh to done; for soon I deem all earthly joy for me there will be none.
—Quillan
THE CRUNCH OF BOOT on stone brought Quillan’s head up from his journal. The last person he expected or wanted to see was Roderick Pierce. Was this a day of trial? He squinted up with little welcome. What on earth was the man doing at Schocken’s quarry?
Pierce ignored his scowl with a grin, though the climb up the hill had taxed him it seemed. “Hello.” He fit the word between breaths.
Quillan nodded once, nothing more than base courtesy.
“Remember me?” Pierce swiped off his hat and dabbed his forehead with his sleeve.
“Like a blood-sucking gnat.”
Pierce laughed heartily. “Charming as ever.” He glanced down. “What’s that there? Writer, are you?”
Quillan closed his journal. Dust still hung in the air from the charges he had set to break up the new surface, and he had loaded his wagon already with the rough stone. He would carry the stone down to the yard below to be shaped into cobbles by the Italian stone cutters. He was only giving the horses a chance to graze before he headed down.
“Freelance?”
“No.”
“Mind if I have a look? One writer to another?” Pierce held out his hand.
Quillan’s stare was answer enough.
Pierce pulled a newspaper from inside his fustian coat. “I brought the piece that’s made you famous.”
Famous? Quillan looked at him, mystified. He was past the hope of meaningful human acceptance. On the verge of losing Carina, on guard for his life—and Roderick Pierce spoke of fame? God had a very odd sense of humor. Quillan nodded at the rock pile beside him. “You can leave it there.”
“Actually,” Pierce sat down in the spot Quillan indicated, “I have a proposition to discuss.”
“No.”
“Now I know you’re not quick on the bait, but I think when you’ve heard me out you’ll appreciate my ideas.”
Quillan took his journal and stood. “I need to get back to work.”
“Now that’s just the thing.” Pierce got to his feet, as well. “Why is a man of your financial situation working in a rock quarry?”
Quillan said nothing. What would Pierce know of his financial situation?
“I would think the sale of your mine would have you sitting pretty.”
If Pierce had stripped him of his pants and shirt, Quillan could hardly have felt more naked. “What mine?”
“New Boundless. Wasn’t that the name?”
Quillan turned and started down toward his wagon.
“Now the figures I got weren’t staggering, but certainly substantial.”
Quillan spun. “Figures?” Had Alex Makepeace run off at the mouth?
“From whom?”
“It took some digging, but one thing led to another until whop! I’d landed in Horace Tabor’s lap. Friend of his, are you? He spoke fondly.
Very curious about your wife. I assured him she was as lovely as any woman I’ve seen. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
The tendons in Quillan’s neck pulled tight. Yes, he minded any man noticing and remarking on her beauty. It only made the pain sharper. “I don’t appreciate you digging into my affairs.” He glanced at the newspaper Pierce had snatched up when he stood. “It’s all printed in there?”
“Oh no.” Pierce waved the paper then held it out again. “See for yourself.”
Quillan grabbed it, shoved it inside his shirt. Then he bent and removed the rocks he had placed to block the wagon’s wheels from rolling.
“I only covered the train incident with the small details your wife added.”
Small details like his involvement with Shane Dennison in the bank robbery, no doubt. Quillan pulled himself up to the box.
“Mind if I catch a ride?” Pierce grabbed hold of the edge of the box.
Quillan did mind, but by the time he’d released the brake and taken up the reins, Pierce was aboard.
“Now hear me out, Quillan. I’ve started, and I may as well go the whole hog before you tip me over the side.” He laughed. “The fact is, people were considerably taken with this piece, with you, and it doesn’t take a Philadelphia lawyer to see the opportunity. I’ve sold Harper’s Monthly magazine on a series of biographical sketches featuring the hero of the Union Pacific.”
Quillan kept his eyes straight ahead. “Did they catch Dennison?”
Nonplussed, Pierce regrouped. “Not that I’ve heard. But he hasn’t hit another train along the line since you put him off. Now, as I was saying—”
“Two letters, Pierce: N and O.”