But he had already seen the address, and his name was not on it.
“ ‘Dear Carina,’ ” she faltered, then went on. “ ‘The cave we found has proved a great venture. Many people come long ways to tour the limestone cavern. I have attached torch holders to the walls in some places to enable the tours better safety and allow its grandeur to be seen. The stalactites and stalagmites are magnificent in the light. The flowstone on the walls glimmers with greens and browns and streaks of white. I have identified all the minerals, but people don’t seem interested in all that. They do listen to how the cave was formed and seem inclined to remember that much at least. Not many aspire to geological greatness, I fear.’ ”
Carina smiled. “Poor Alex. He was always more interested in the makeup of the cave than I.” She glanced up, and Quillan forced an even countenance.
She read on, “ ‘I do include some of the side tunnels in the tours and take people into the crystal chamber. Do you remember you thought it was like the center of a geode?’ ” Carina paused, no doubt recalling her time with Alex in some fairyland cavern.
Quillan caught his hostile thoughts and forced them to submit. Had he learned nothing? Where was the benevolence he had shown to Flavio, the peace it had brought his own heart?
“ ‘Tell your husband the painted chamber is sealed off and safe from discovery. It was hard going, but we made it look like a natural slide, and no one so far has suspected. Probably because they do not know enough about the formation of caves to detect the anomaly of weathered outside rock in a limestone cavern.’ ” There Carina smiled.
Quillan relaxed. Alex had kept his word, and he had to appreciate that much. But he tensed again when she read the next part.
“ èmie’s cooking is reminiscent of your own, and I dine thankfully every night, though things are not the same without you. Give your husband my regards. I am indebted to him for my continued position and partial possession of a very successful mine. My regards to you, as well, Carina. Sincerely, Alex Makepeace.’ ”
Quillan smiled grimly at the irony. Alex Makepeace was growing rich on the mine Quillan had provided him, while he sat disabled and penniless. But when he looked into Carina’s face, he knew which of them had come out the richer. “What are you going to answer back?”
She waved the pages. “I’ll send my condolences that no one appreciates the mineral content of the flowstone.”
Quillan reached for her hand and held it a long moment. “Thank him for sealing off Wolf ’s chamber.”
“I will.” She kissed his fingers and stood. “Shall I say anything else?”
He fought a quick battle and won. “Whatever you want, Carina.”
Still, he felt stark when she left. He looked down at the casted leg. Would the cast ever come off? And what would remain when it did? He had expected some acknowledgment of improvement. But Dr. DiGratia remained grave and resisted questioning. The leg must be as bad as he imagined.
Quillan picked up Cain’s Bible and considered the verse he had made his own, the verse that assured him of God’s provision if he remained in him. But how could he remain in God alone when he was so helpless he had to depend on others, as well? He laid aside the Bible and shifted his position on the couch. His backside had never complained so much on the hard box of his wagon as it did now on this couch.
He swung his left leg over the side, easing the casted mate to the edge. Should he try to stand? Even his good leg would atrophy if it sat there much longer. He put his weight on it and raised himself slightly. It suddenly felt like he’d stepped on an anthill. He jerked it up and waited while the blood infused his left foot, but his arms lacked the strength yet to get him up with one leg totally useless and the other half asleep.
He settled back onto the couch. God, what do you want from me? He had gone over the words of that verse so many times. He had felt so sure that God wanted him to relinquish every desire for human acceptance, to find his worth in Jesus alone. And he had done so, even if it meant he would lose Carina, as well. On his knees he had surrendered all hope of human attachment. Then God—reversing Himself?—had rendered him completely dependent.
“Maybe you must surrender your independence.” Carina’s words nagged him as badly as the Lord’s had. He would have died without Dr. DiGratia’s skills, without the constant care of Carina and her brother, even the broth prepared by her mother. What could Quillan have done for himself? For a time he couldn’t even raise a spoon to his mouth, couldn’t wash himself.
Now he had use of his arms. He could raise himself, albeit painfully; he could stamp the blood back into his left foot, but he couldn’t stand. Not without help. And he couldn’t work. His independence was lost. Quillan squirmed. Anything but that, Lord! It was asking too much. God’s knife had slipped, cut away too much. This branch was too tender to bear it.
Quillan looked at Cain’s Bible, as much at odds with it as he’d sometimes been with Cain himself. The words were fixed in his memory, but he didn’t understand. Why would God make him surrender his hope of family and acceptance, then make him helpless? The frustration grew until he scowled.
He shook his head, unwilling to think anymore. He needed a distraction, something to chase Carina’s words and God’s from his mind. In times like this he rued the gift of memory. He picked up the treatise Carina had brought him to practice his Italian. Giuseppe Mazzini’s The Duties of Man.
Just the thing. He would understand more of that than God’s word. Quillan reached for the book and flipped it open to the place he’d marked earlier with a slip of paper. He stared at the foreign words, ciphering them piece by piece and trying to fit them back into a form he recognized.
La famiglia è un paese d’il cuore. The family is a country?—of . . .
something. Quillan frowned. His mind was obviously not operating at its best.
Dr. DiGratia came into the room with his usual flicking glance before he used his hands. Had he ever been touched so much in his life?
Quillan suffered the back of the man’s hand briefly against his forehead, his fingers probing the soft tissue beneath his jaw, the quick grip of that jaw as his face was raised and the sharp momentary scrutiny of his eyes.
As usual, Dr. DiGratia said nothing about what he looked for or saw, but Quillan had learned to read his expression. He wasn’t dying today, he assumed.
“Open your shirt.”
Quillan tucked the paper slip into the page, set the book beside him, and unbuttoned his shirt.
Dr. DiGratia probed his abdomen, which hurt most when encouraged by the doctor’s fingers. Then he worked the same magic on Quillan’s ribs. Though he winced, Quillan could tell they were healing.
“Very good.” A surprising accolade. “Vittorio.”
His son came in carrying a pail of river rocks. He set it by the wall and joined his father at the couch.