Carina turned in surprise.
“I am so glad to find you.” Mr. Pierce hurried over from the gates outside the courtyard. “I’ve come every day, but your brothers turned me away. I can only hope it isn’t at your bequest?”
She was too surprised to be anything but truthful. “I didn’t know you had come. What is it you want?” She only hoped her tears didn’t show again.
He looked exasperated. “I heard about the accident, but no one seems to know what happened. The men at the quarry shake their heads and mumble with side glances at each other; but get a straight answer?
I’d have to be Socrates.”
“Mr. Pierce—”
“Now don’t put me off, Mrs. Shepard. Quillan and I have a deal, and I find it my duty—”
“A deal?” She dropped her hands to her sides. “What deal?”
“His story, of course. I told you I had an opportunity.”
“Yes, but—” She spread her hands wide. “Quillan agreed?”
“Of course.”
She looked at him probingly. How much of this was bluster? “My husband was badly injured.”
“How badly?”
She shook her head. “The wagon fell on top of him.”
“How? How did it fall?”
“An explosion.”
He pulled the ever-present pad from his pocket. “What caused the explosion?”
She looked into Mr. Pierce’s face. Was it any of his business? Did he have a right to their misery? “You’ll have to ask Quillan.”
He nodded sharply. “That’s all I want. To speak to him.”
Unsnagging the hem of her skirt from a honeysuckle bush, she looked back toward the house. “I don’t know. Papa will have to decide.”
“Mrs. Shepard . . .”
She recognized the cajoling tone and turned back, annoyed. “Mr.
Pierce, my husband was nearly killed. My papa is the finest surgeon around. Maybe no one else could have brought him through. I will let him decide.”
Mr. Pierce backed up one step, with his palms raised. “All right, all right. But ask, will you? Ask Quillan when we can meet.”
She stared at him. How did one become so insensitive and bullheaded? He removed his hat and fanned his face. “One more thing. Was it your lover who injured him?”
Her breath came out in a rush of indignation. “My lover?”
“I asked around. Flavio Caldrone . . .”
“Flavio—was not—my lover.” She punctuated each phrase with a step in his direction.
“You were betrothed.”
He was not as tall as Quillan, but she was aware of her diminutive size in comparison, mainly because she considered slapping him. Instead, she eyed him as she might a particularly odious reptile. “Mr. Pierce, you overstep yourself.”
“It must be painful to be the cause of your husband’s tragedy.”
The breath left her lungs in a huff. “Painful? This is painful!” She kicked his shin with everything in her.
Hopping backward, he gripped his leg and howled, even dropping his pad into the dirt.
She snatched it up. “Now get off my land.” With a flourish of skirts, she stalked toward the tiny cottage beside the barn.
“Mrs. Shepard.” He gasped, limping behind. “I meant no disrespect.”
No disrespect? Seething, she gained Ti’Giuseppe’s door, yanked it open, and turned. “Go away, or I’ll have my uncle blow your head off.”
Mr. Pierce stopped. “Well, all right, then. Tell Quillan I want to see him.” He straightened his pants leg, gathering what dignity he could.
She went in and closed the door in his face. Ti’Giuseppe sat by the fire with a smile as wide as his ears, bare gums and all. She took the stool at his side. “I kicked him, Tio.”
“Good, good. Nosy one, that.”
“Did he talk to you?”
Giuseppe nodded. “Wandered this way when Tony wouldn’t let him in the gate.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Eh?”
“I said, what did you tell him?”
“Eh?” Giuseppe burst into a wicked laugh.
Carina’s mouth dropped open, and she laughed full chested as she hadn’t in a long time. “Oh, Tio.” She flung her arms around him and squeezed.
“How is he, your man?”
Carina sighed. “Better, but frustrated he can’t do everything for himself. He doesn’t like to be helped.”
Again Giuseppe laughed. “Then he’ll learn more than he might have.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Life stripped of any consequence, brings one to aching cognizance.
Strength once commanding reality; Keen, now, the mind knows futility.
—Quillan
QUILLAN WINCED ONLY SLIGHTLY when Dr. DiGratia unbound his arm and probed the collarbone. He imagined the doctor’s fingers like insect antennae sending information to the brain as his mouth puckered slightly in concentration, and the tendons in his gray-haired forearms rippled with each movement of the fingers.
“Better, eh?” the doctor said.
“Yes,” Quillan grudgingly admitted.
Dr. DiGratia pointed to the other arm still in the cast. “That one was a compound fracture. The bone broke through the flesh. It will take longer. But at least you will have one arm now to use.”
“Thank you.” These last weeks had reduced him to gratitude for the smallest things. Being allowed to fumble about left-handed would be significant. He moved his arm, dismayed by its weakness.
“Atrophy. The muscle will come back with time.”
Time. Had it ever hung so heavily and passed so slowly? Quillan no longer had the benefit of invalid exhaustion to sleep away these helpless days. Even the pain had diminished, and nothing was offered to lull him. He chafed as he had never chafed before. His own body held him trapped. Sometimes the terror was inexpressible, but during the day he did his best to hide it.
The doctor left, and Carina came in smelling flowery and fresh as the breeze the dottore had let in the window once the morning mists evaporated. “Come stai?” She kissed his lips.
How was he? He caught her neck with his freed hand and kissed her back. “Sto bene—no, benissimo!” He kissed her again.
She laughed, catching his hand between hers. “You have your arm free?”
“And good as a wet noodle.”
She kissed his fingers. “It will strengthen. How are your ribs?”
“Fit as a fiddle—as long as I don’t move or breathe.”
“Still sore, eh?” She cupped his face in her palm.
“Not so bad.” Even the abdominal surgery seemed to be healing well. He was able to raise himself with help. His hip no longer pained him, but it was the leg no one mentioned. It throbbed in the night, and Quillan noted the sickly yellow toes. If holding his arm inert these weeks could render it limp, what would the leg be like when they took the plaster off? “You don’t suppose you could spring me loose, do you?”