“Why would you want to be?” She kissed his forehead, but this time he didn’t hold her there.
That was the crux of it. Carina was perfectly content now that her flock had swooped him into their midst. She didn’t understand that he belonged there no more than he had at the start. And he had no remaining inclination to belong. He learned the language because it was easy and Carina enjoyed speaking it with him, but not because he wanted to be one of them. Jesus was the vine, Quillan the branch—and Carina, too, God help him. But the rest of them could be pruned away, and good riddance. No matter what she said about independence and surrender.
“You’re anxious.”
“Yes, I am.”
She threaded his hair with her fingers. “Healing takes time.”
“Well, I don’t have time. I need to work, now that . . .”
“That what?” She tipped his chin up with a look of pure indulgence.
He felt a spiteful surge. “Now that everything I have is destroyed.”
“A wagon, Quillan. It was only a wagon.”
He shook his head. “No, Carina. Everything I had was in that wagon. Every dollar I’d earned except those washed away by the flood. It was all burned to ashes, every cent.”
She stared at him. “You kept your money in your wagon?”
“I had a special box built into the frame just above the axle.”
“You didn’t have it in a bank?”
He dropped his eyes, then shot them up defiantly. “Carina, I was there when Shane Dennison cleaned out that bank.”
“He didn’t get away with it.”
“He has since.”
She shook her head uncomprehending. “So the money from the mine . . .”
“And everything else I earned freighting.” Quillan spread his fingers.
“Up in smoke.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed. “How much was it? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to know.”
“Fifty-four thousand dollars.”
She dropped her face into her hands and started to shake. He thought she was weeping until he realized with annoyance it was laughter he heard. She could laugh—now that everything they had, that would have bought them land and a living was gone?
She looked up, still mirthful. “Oh, Quillan, God is merciful.”
He shook his head, dumbfounded.
“I know you. I see the wheels turning in your mind. As soon as you are well it would have been off to Alaska or someplace to make your own way and the devil take the world. Now? Now maybe you will see that there are those willing and able to help.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.” She started to stand.
He caught her wrist. “See what, Carina?”
She tugged gently until she freed herself. “Is there anything I can bring you?”
He swallowed his frustration. “Yes. The things from my room at the Union Hotel. My journal and Cain’s Bible and the books. Bring it all. There’s no sense keeping the room when I can’t pay for it.” He scowled.
She smiled serenely. “I’ll be glad to.” And she left as though he had just told her the finest news imaginable. Never, as long as he lived, would he understand the mind of his wife.
Carina’s heart sang. Before, she could not imagine how she was going to get Quillan to accept Papa’s gift, but now? He had little choice now! Ti’Giuseppe hitched the small buggy, and she rode into the plaza and pulled up at the hotel where Quillan had been staying. She marched in to the counter. “Good day, Mr. Renault. I need to collect my husband’s things.”
Mr. Renault tucked his watch back into his vest pocket. “Is he finished with the room then? He hadn’t given word so I’ve been compelled to charge it each night to his account.”
“How much does he owe you?”
“I’ll tally the bill.” He penciled the figures and handed her the slip.
“I will bring you payment.” She tucked the paper into her wrist purse and held out her hand for the key.
“I’ll send a man up to carry it all down.”
“Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “How is he, if I may ask? Rumor is rampant.”
She smiled. “He is improving, thank you.”
“I’ll tell your friend.”
She turned. “My friend?”
“The young man from Denver. He’s been in nearly daily asking after Mr. Shepard. Sent him up the other day to fetch something from the room. Didn’t you send him?”
“Do you mean Mr. Pierce?”
“That’s the name.”
Carina gripped her hands into fists. “What did he fetch?”
“It looked like a book. With Mr. Shepard incapacitated, I thought Mr. Pierce was acting as his agent.”
Carina turned and charged the stairs. Mr. Pierce had gone too far, and more than his shin would bear the brunt. She went into Quillan’s room, and a moment later a youth came in to help her carry everything. As she suspected, Quillan’s journal was neither on the table nor in his pack.
She fumed, thinking of the personal and beautiful poems he had shared with her. That Roderick Pierce would not only see them but turn Quillan’s words to his own advantage . . . She waited fretfully while the youth loaded Quillan’s things into her buggy, then gave him a coin and accepted his assistance up to the seat. She slapped the reins. Quillan would not be happy.
Quillan could do nothing but stew. Day after day he pondered the affront. Roderick Pierce had skipped town with his journal and probably felt justified after the scene Carina described of their last encounter. Quillan pictured it easily. As slippery as Pierce was, he had not avoided Carina’s kick, though she wouldn’t tell him what precipitated it. But that didn’t make the theft of his journal anything less than that. The man was a snake.
Dr. DiGratia broke into Quillan’s thoughts as he came into the room. His visits were less frequent now that they had moved Quillan to a small porch off the east side of the house. He had a fainting couch that enabled him to sit more easily, though it was less comfortable for sleeping, a side table, and a shelf for the books Carina had brought from the hotel and any of those in her father’s collection Quillan might care to read. In his extreme boredom, he did exactly that.
The doctor carried a small saw. “Are you ready to have that off?” He indicated the cast on Quillan’s right arm. His dry humor did nothing to improve Quillan’s mood.
Quillan held up the arm, which had been out of the sling for several days. The doctor worked silently, sawing through the plaster, then pulling it off the arm. Quillan eyed the lumpy scar where the bone had pushed through muscle and skin. Then he straightened his elbow and felt the expected weakness. It was worse than the left arm had been, though limited use had begun to restore the first to something better than a noodle. As Dr. DiGratia examined this pale, wasted forearm, Quillan considered what it had been.
“A straight mend, it appears.” Dr. DiGratia picked up the scraps of cloth and plaster.
“And my leg? Are you taking that plaster off?”
The doctor glanced down at the leg lying as it had been week after week, a plaster log from hip to calf. “Not yet, I think.”
“Why not?”
The doctor took a breath, then released it. “The femur was broken twice, one section more nearly crushed. It needs time yet.”