But Quillan grew stronger every day. She must see the good, bask in the blessings.
She went to the stable and saddled a mare. A ride to town would help, and she had errands there. She mounted side saddle and brought the horse around, then rode at a brisk clip. When she reached the plaza, she stopped first at the post office. In some of her hours attending Quillan, she had written her friends in Crystal. Too much time had passed, but with all the strain of the journey, then the trials of their arrival, she had not corresponded with Mae or èmie as she had expected to. One feverishly thankful letter she had sent to Father Antoine, but she had not heard back from anyone yet.
She waited behind Mrs. Gardener, thinking of the line of miners at the post office in Crystal and the kindness she had found in them as they moved her ahead and gave up their places. Mrs. Gardener collected her mail and moved aside. Carina stepped up to the window. Before she could ask, Mr. Halliford handed her a string-wrapped stack of letters, too thick to hold with one hand.
Her heart jumped as she read the top name. Joe Turner! She clasped the packet to her breast, not looking at the other ones. She would let them surprise her. Letters from people she hadn’t even written. Had Mae shared her letter with Joe? Had others heard and sent their regards . . . at three cents an ounce? She laughed. What was three cents to Joe Turner?
It was she and Quillan who were penniless. She laughed again and went outside.
What fun she would have reading each letter to Quillan. Would he pretend he didn’t care? Or would he listen with his pirate’s smile and tease? That depended on his mood these days, which reminded her of her other errand. She tucked the letters into her saddle pouch and led her horse across the plaza, past the train turntable to the goldsmith and jeweler’s. She tethered the horse, then went inside. “Good afternoon, Mr. Grady. How is the locket coming?”
“Not finished yet, I’m afraid. Soon.”
“But you can repair it?”
The goldsmith looked up with deep-set triangular eyes. “Not as it was. I’ve had to replace the front. I’m tooling it now.”
“But the photograph?”
He smiled and nodded. “Some things are more valuable than gold, aren’t they?”
She agreed fervently. “Thank you for your work. Please let me know when you have it finished.”
Back out on the street, she prepared to mount when someone called her name—a voice she did not relish hearing. All her good humor vanished, and she stopped with one foot in the stirrup, indignation rising like a tide. He would show his face again? She turned, biting words on her tongue, but he was not daunted at all. What was he made of, this Mr. Pierce?
At the knock on his door, Quillan woke, a warm lethargy permeating his system. But Carina came in looking like thunder.
He jolted up, wincing. “What’s the matter?”
She put one hand on her hip. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“Who?”
She motioned as though that someone might slither through the door, when in fact he came in behind her looking dapper as ever in a black Prince Albert coat and gaiters. The man had gall, Quillan gave him that.
“Quillan.” He came forward, hand extended. “Good to see you looking so hale.”
Quillan didn’t take the extended hand, even though he could finally have done so if he wished. He sent a chilling glare instead.
Pierce waved a hand. “Now I know . . . theft and all that. But see?” He held up the journal. “Once again, no intention to retain said stolen property.”
“You have a warped sense of ethics.”
Pierce grinned. “Wonder what else I’ve brought, do you?”
“No.”
Pierce laughed. “Well, I know you do, though you’d suck lemons before you’d admit it. I have a contract for a poetry anthology based on the excerpts from the biographical sketches in Harper’s Monthly.”
Quillan tensed. “Excerpts of what?”
“Your poems, of course.”
Quillan opened and closed his mouth. He had specifically and repeatedly refused Pierce’s requests. The poems in his journal were the words of his heart, not intended for public scrutiny.
“We had a handshake agreement. I had to give them something, and you were . . . unavailable.” Pierce spread his hands reasonably, as though Quillan should understand his necessary infamy. “The folks at Harper and Brothers are agog. They’re naming you with Emerson and Holmes. They’re crazy for American poets to compete with the Brits.”
Baffled by the man’s obtuseness, Quillan shook his head. What did he care about competing with the British or anyone else? Those poems were his inner turmoil, his . . . He looked at Carina, saw her own indignation. The corner of his mouth flickered. With very little provocation, she would kick Pierce again. He noticed Mr. Pierce stayed out of range.
Quillan fixed Pierce in his stare. “Mr. Pierce . . .”
“Rod.”
“I specifically told you those poems were not for publication. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Maybe this will.” Pierce held out a bank draft. “In advance of your submission. Royalties, of course, would follow.”
Quillan neither took nor looked at the check. “What’s in it for you?”
“A small percentage from future projects.” At least Pierce didn’t hedge. “And of course the acknowledgment that I discovered you. That goes a long way in my field.”
Quillan laughed. Pierce’s audacity was no small thing. Nor what he offered. Another man might have jumped at the chance for fame and recognition. Quillan just wanted to be able to walk again with two sound legs and Carina at his side. His laugh died.
He sank back and crossed his arms, a motion he hadn’t managed in weeks. He hoped their paltry condition was not evident. At any rate Pierce didn’t look at him like an invalid. Quillan swallowed. “My poetry’s not for sale.”
Pierce gave a dramatic sigh. “Quillan, what can I say to convince you? America needs a voice that so poignantly describes her soul.”
Did he mean that? Did he really think the words that came to him in turmoil, grief, and joy described America’s soul?
Mr. Pierce set the check on the bed stand. “I’ll leave this. Discuss it with your wife. If she’s forgiven my boorish behavior . . .” He glanced at Carina hopefully. “Maybe she can get through to you.”
Not likely, Quillan thought, by the expression on her face.
“Mrs. Shepard, I do apologize. I had scanty information and jumped to a conclusion I should never have drawn. I was desperate and thought to provoke you to reveal something—anything—I could use.”
Quillan wasn’t sure what conclusion Pierce had drawn, but he had certainly provoked Carina, though she had yet to tell him what specifically precipitated her kick. It was obviously scurrilous. Carina crossed her arms, jaw tight and eyes like molten jet.
“Well, then.” Pierce turned back to Quillan. “I’ll leave you to decide.” He started for the door.
“Pierce.” Quillan’s tone was sharp.
Mr. Pierce turned.