She pushed through and saw Quillan, still and bloody, curled on the cart. “Quillan!” Her shriek startled the men, and they looked more confused than ever. She gripped his wrist, found a pulse, then searched one face and another. “Who did this? How did it happen?”
They shook their heads. “He must have set a charge wrong.”
“There was an explosion.” They waved their arms up the hill.
It broke her heart to see the charred remains of his wagon. She knew what it meant to him. Was it an accident? Or had Flavio done this? Could he?
They shook their heads. “We don’t know what happened.”
It didn’t matter. Quillan needed help. Crumpled and bleeding and unconscious, blood trickling from his mouth . . . Dear God, what if his injuries were too great? “Take him to Dottore DiGratia. Quickly!”
She didn’t know if he should be moved, but if he had survived the ride down the hill . . .
Someone ran for a team and wagon that stood in readiness but had not been loaded yet with stone. Four men lifted Quillan from the cart to the wagon. A cry wrenched from his throat, straight to her heart, but he didn’t open his eyes. Her whole body shook. “Send someone ahead to get Papa ready. Tell him what happened.” Carina climbed in and cradled Quillan’s head in her lap. “Go! Go!” she called to the driver.
The wagon lurched and bumped, and Quillan’s face flinched. Once, he groaned, but he still didn’t open his eyes. Carina’s heart trembled. Quillan, so strong and able. Did he know she was there? She held his face sideways on her lap so he wouldn’t choke on the blood. There must be internal damage. What had happened? An explosion they said, like the men in the mine? Every one of them had died.
No, no, no! Don’t even think it! Papa would know what to do. Papa would—Her spine suddenly went cold. Would Papa do what was needed to save him? Or would Quillan’s death be more expedient, as Flavio’s father’s had been? Signore, the thought is too terrible. Please, you promised to work good for those who love you. You know I love you. Only save his life, and I’ll let him go.
Isn’t that what everyone wanted? Papa and Mamma and . . . Flavio. Was he capable of this cruelty?
Or was it Quillan’s own carelessness? She had seen him challenge death on the train and in Crystal, flying in the face of danger as though he could not be touched. Had he taken one chance too many? The men at the quarry thought it an accident. But she could not forget the rage in Flavio’s eyes. Had she driven him to this?
Quillan moaned, and she covered his forehead to ease the lines of pain. “There, caro, not long now. We’re almost there.” She stroked the hair back from his head. It was crusted with blood and twigs and dirt.
Signore, I don’t know what to think. You know everything, see everything. You know what happened. But knowing didn’t matter now. Only saving Quillan’s life.
They pulled up to the open gates, and Lorenzo motioned them in. Papa stood with Vittorio by the front doors, which also stood open. He would admit Quillan now—Carina felt a flicker of fury—as he wouldn’t the first time. If only he had accepted him! But that did no good. She must not let bitter thoughts get hold.
Lorenzo brought a litter to the end of the wagon bed. Vittorio climbed into the wagon. Carefully they eased the litter under Quillan’s legs, speaking softly. “This one is bad; careful not to jog it. And the hip.
His arm is broken.”
“His spine seems sound,” Vittorio said. “Lift.” They got Quillan the rest of the way onto the litter, then Lorenzo jumped down.
Carina followed as they carried Quillan inside. The treatment room smelled fresh with herbs from Papa’s physics garden. It had been scrubbed in preparation. They laid Quillan on the high leather table in the center of the room, where Papa did his surgeries. Would Quillan require the full extent of that skill? Again her chest constricted. Would Papa give it?
“His right side.” Vittorio said. “Leg, arm, ribs. The opposite collarbone, and there’s swelling in the left wrist.”
“Yes.” Papa nodded. “And internal damage by the blood from his mouth.”
They spoke in Italian as they examined him. Carina watched with fear growing. Why didn’t Quillan respond? He was less responsive than he’d been only minutes ago.
“Scissors.”
At Papa’s soft command, Vittorio brought them.
“That’s all, Lorenzo. Take Tony and go. The fewer in here now, the better.” He began to cut the pant leg, then glanced at Carina. “You ought to go, too.”
Did he think she could leave Quillan even for a minute? “He’s my husband, Papa. What do you think I haven’t seen?”
Her papa and brother shared a glance. Vittorio unbuttoned Quillan’s shirt and gently slid it from his arms. Together they stripped Quillan, and the sheet covering the table absorbed his blood. Carina went and stood at his head, covering his forehead with her palm. He made no response. He didn’t know she was there.
She reached for his mother’s locket lying in the hollow of his throat. The case was crushed and caked with dirt. She opened the clasp and took the chain from his neck, cupping it all into her palm. Maybe she could clean it. Maybe it could be repaired. It meant so much to him. A sob caught in her throat as she dropped it into her pocket.
Vittorio brought a pail of warm soapy water and washed the dirt and splinters from the wounds and all Quillan’s skin, searching, she knew, for damage beneath. There was a gash on the side of Quillan’s head that clotted his hair with blood and dirt. Vittorio held the scissors uncertainly.
Carina shook her head. “Don’t cut it.”
Vittorio dipped the cloth and soaked the wound. “He must have struck a sharp edge in falling, but it’s not deep.”
“Suture?” Papa asked without stopping his own examination.
“A bandage will do, I think.”
“Then leave it.” Papa swabbed the blood from Quillan’s chin, then opened his mouth and washed inside. When his head was laid to the side, a trickle of fresh blood seeped out again. Papa frowned, probing Quillan’s abdomen.
“What is it?” Carina asked.
“Heat. Swelling. Something damaged. It will need surgery.” Papa met her eyes, knowing the terror those words would give.
Carina swallowed the terrible tightness in her throat. “Papa.” She held him with her eyes. “Don’t think it would be better if he died.” She saw him flinch at her words, but she had to say it. “Save him, Papa, and I will let him go.”
“That’s not our concern now.” He moved swiftly, scrubbing his hands while Vittorio prepared his instruments.
“It’s my concern, Papa.” Her throat burned with tears wanting release. Her voice shook. “I want him to live. I need him to live.”
Her papa stopped scrubbing. “He will live if God is willing.” The stern intensity of his face warned her.