She stared into his face. It was the restaurant he hated? That she fed hungry men something special? “But . . . you have Mae and èmie running it.”
“That’s not what I just saw. If Makepeace wasn’t already in love with you, he is now.”
“He’s not—” But now that it was said, what use was there denying it? She dropped her gaze to her palm lying in Quillan’s. “èmie cooked it. I only told her how.”
His hand was cold from hours in the elements, but there was nothing cold in his expression. It burned. What were these feelings that cracked Quillan Shepard’s hard veneer?
She didn’t know what else to say. The restaurant was more than an enterprise to win men’s acclaim. It was . . . a mission. She had done so much good with the monies earned through her cooking—which, yes, was more than just making a meal. Why should that offend her husband?
Quillan cupped her hand with his other chilled palm and forced a smile. “Don’t you want to know what I did in Leadville?”
“Of course. You told me nothing.” She tipped her chin toward him. “And if I asked, you would tell me less.”
“I sold the New Boundless.”
Her gaze jumped to his face. “You—”
“Horace Tabor fronted Makepeace a loan.”
“You sold it to Alex?”
He pressed her hand to his throat. “You wanted to go home, didn’t you?”
She felt his rough whiskers against her fingers. “I do. But Dr. Felden—”
“I know you can’t travel yet. But we need to get things in order. I think you should sell your restaurant. Or give it away, turn it over to èmie or Mae.”
So there it was. Until that moment she hadn’t thought through the details of leaving. She had only longed to see Mamma and Papa and everyone in Sonoma. She had wanted to flee the place where her baby had been beaten from her body. Tears sprang again from her eyes. Was there no end to them?
Quillan brushed them away with his thumb. “I thought it was what you wanted.”
“It is, but how can I leave Mae? And èmie and . . .”
“Alex?” His tone was caustic.
She glared. She had not intended that. “Alex Makepeace is a friend to me. If you were so concerned—”
“Don’t you think I know that?” He dropped her hand, stood, and paced to the wall. “But it’s like a sword inside me every time he looks at you. Knowing he sent your attackers running—”
“You should be thankful.”
His fists clenched at his sides. “I am. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
Carina tossed her head back and flung her palm upward. “First you don’t want me—”
“That’s not true!”
“You told me every time you came, ‘Go away, end this marriage.’ ”
Quillan pressed his fingers to the sides of his head. “Not because I didn’t want you.”
“No?”
“No.” His voice was firm, insistent.
She sighed, letting her hand fall. “I don’t know where to start.”
He came and dropped to one knee beside the bed. Carefully he unfolded the paper from one of the chocolates in the box. He held it up and met her eyes. “Start here.” He brought the candy to her lips, and she bit the edge, tasting the rich, velvety confection.
It melted away in her mouth, and she licked her lower lip. “Start with chocolate?”
His mouth quirked. “Why not?”
A pang of fear and loss seized her; fear that Quillan’s cold, hurtful side would return. And loss—well, all the loss. Why couldn’t it have been this way from the start? Why, Signore? Quillan slid the rest of the chocolate piece into her mouth. Receiving it from his fingers was so intimate, so tender, her heart quaked.
He cupped her cheek with his palm. “I want to show you I care. To court you as I should have.”
She searched his face. What was he saying? He was her husband, the man she loved.
“I read something last night.” He closed his eyes, then looked again. “ ‘Now I rejoice, not that ye were made sorry, but that ye sorrowed to repentance.’ ” His throat worked. “I’m sorry to repentance, Carina. You said you forgive me, and God also, but I want to make it right.”
She felt the intensity of that desire. She knew it herself, that driving need to right a wrong. She said, “You have. You’re here.”
He gripped her hand almost painfully. “Don’t make it so easy.”
“It’s all I want.”
“You deserve more.”
Was he saying he loved her? He’d never said the words. He’d spoken poetry, and twice they’d come together, once shyly, deeply, on their wedding night, the other time in anger. But never had he said he loved her. Dio, he must. He couldn’t look at her that way unless he did.
She dropped her gaze to his lips and willed him to say it. Her pulse raced, waiting. Surely he would kiss her. She looked up as his face drew close, drawn there, she knew, by her own desire.
Then he brought her fingers up between them, pressed them to his lips. His breath was hot. “I married you to prove that I could best Berkley Beck.”
“I put you in that position.”
“You came to me for help.”
“You helped.” But after their wedding, she had faced his desertion, the vigilante hangings, her danger and rescue, then Quillan’s repeated offers of divorce.
He pressed her fingers to his lips again. “You’ve been under my skin from the start.”
Under his skin? Was that the same as love?
He opened her hand and kissed her palm. “From the day I saw you on the slope scavenging the bits and pieces left from your wagon.”
“Thanks to you,” she scoffed.
“If I’d known I’d be paying for that the rest of my life, I’d have dismantled your wagon and killed my team hauling every ounce of it.”
Carina stared at his intensity.
His voice thickened. “All I want is the chance to make it right.” He laid her hand down and drew back.
She sensed the moment lost. He would not kiss her, not say he loved her. She sank into the pillows. What did he want from her? Would she ever understand this son of Wolf and Rose? Signore, would you be so kind as to give me a clue? She could almost hear God laughing. She failed to see the humor.
FOUR
If travail has a purpose, let me find it now.
If honor needs a taker, O Lord, me endow.
If wisdom is a garment, let me wear it well.
If goodness needs a champion, help me dark dispel.
—Quillan
QUILLAN ROSE EARLY. The need to make things right gave him little rest. It drove his desire to conclude the sale of the mine and make preparation for departure. As Quillan crossed Central at Pine under the clear morning sky, he was hailed by Ben Masterson. Quillan turned and extended his hand with a smile. “Mr. Mayor.”
Masterson clasped his hand. “I hear you’re selling out.”
“From whom?”
“Round about.”
Quillan shrugged, trying to look noncommittal. He’d told no one but Carina, though Makepeace might have talked. “I was hoping to keep it tight until I heard back from Daniel Cain.”
“Selling out both your interests?”
“I don’t know yet. D.C. hasn’t answered.”