The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(2)

Carina looked from his face to the mottled brown-and-white mug of the dog, still hopeful for attention. She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to expect. How could I know?”

Quillan tucked one arm behind her and raised her gently as he shoved extra pillows behind her back. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ll tell you. First, Sam and I are going to see you’re comfortably set. Then I’m going to learn what needs to be done for your restaurant.”

She opened her mouth, but he covered it firmly with his hand. “After that, I’ll meet with Alex Makepeace.”

Did she imagine the flicker in his eyes? Meet with Alex for what? Don’t be silly. It was natural he would meet with his mining engineer. Did he see her discomfort? He must, because he turned away and contained himself. His hand came away from her mouth.

“And what am I to do?” she said.

Quillan stood, crossed the small room to the far wall, selected a book from the shelf, then returned, laying Emily Bront? in her lap. “Maybe Heathcliff will put you in mind there are worse rogues in the world.”

She wasn’t surprised he’d read the story. But as for rogues . . . “Well, I don’t have to live with them.” She waved her hand. “You think you can take over my business? Handle it without me?”

“Not a chance. But Mae and èmie and all those little girls you’ve taken on . . . I’ll just see they do what needs doing.”

“Un gross’uomo.” A big man.

Again he laughed. “I’m sure you have a wagonload of things you’d like to call me. You can thrash me with them all the way to Sonoma if you like. But just now you’re following doctor’s orders and staying abed until you’re out of danger.”

“Oofa! If I need a papa, I’ll tell you.”

His lips hardly smiled as he appraised her, but his eyes were filled with wicked mirth. He was enjoying himself. If she had something to throw, she would have thrown it. But she wouldn’t damage Wuthering Heights on his bony skull.

“Now sit up like a good girl, and Mae will bring you some breakfast.”

“Bene!” She jutted her chin at him. “Have your fun.”

He left the room for Mae’s with a chuckle that made her reconsider whether she could replace Wuthering Heights after all.





Quillan strode into Mae’s kitchen feeling jaunty. Mae sat at the table holding a steaming cup of coffee, which was turning her florid cheeks redder than usual. She looked up with a blend of surprise and amusement. “Won the war already?”

“Not completely.” Quillan sprawled onto the bench across from her. “But I will.”

“Famous last words.” Mae’s chest rumbled.

“How long before breakfast?”

She tipped her face down without changing her gaze. “I’m only just opening my eyes.”

Quillan glanced out the window, the sky still dark with winter dawn. It was early yet. He might have stayed abed longer, but having Carina beside him made it impossible. And he was by nature an early riser. Lying inert chafed him unless he was working his mind over a book as diligently as he worked his muscles hauling freight.

He considered his selection for Carina. Heathcliff was one of the better rogues he’d encountered. Quite similar in many ways to himself: socially unfit, disgraced, yet determined to win the woman he loved— Alexander Makepeace notwithstanding.

A potent surge of jealousy struck Quillan, a feeling unknown to him before. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“I’ll fetch you some more wood.” He stood, hoping to prod Mae into action, but she watched his exit with vague interest. Her woodbox beside the stove was full, and there was a stack of split wood along the back wall outside. But thoughts of Alex Makepeace had put Quillan in the mood to do violence, and he did it on a half dozen thick logs that awaited splitting.

He’d seen Carina’s discomfort when he mentioned Alex Makepeace. Quillan brought the ax down with splintering force and cleaved the log deeply. She had feelings for the man, but he’d be switched if he’d share Carina with Alex Makepeace or anyone else short of God. He lifted the ax with the log still clinging and slammed it onto the chopping stump. The halves flew as the edge of the blade bit the stump with a thud.

Carina had said nothing, but he wasn’t blind. And it was Alex’s name she had murmured that night in the delirium of pain and laudanum. Quillan figured it was just as well Carina wanted to go home, to leave Crystal. A clean break was what they needed. And as soon as he could wrap up their business, they’d go.

Quillan retrieved one of the split halves and balanced it on the stump. He raised the ax and sundered it with one stroke. Twenty-eight years of imprisoned emotions rendered him helpless against these new feelings. No, not helpless. He would govern it. He just needed to reduce every one of the logs to kindling.

Be careful, something inside him murmured. Maybe his conscience, maybe something more. Careful of what? Chopping wood? But the thought was gone, leaving only a nagging echo. Quillan brought the ax down again and again. Exhausted at last, he finished stacking the wood and carried an armload back into the kitchen. He dumped the wood into the overflowing box and turned.

Still seated at the table, Mae fixed him with a knowing stare. “Sit down, and I’ll rustle you up some smoked venison and hotcakes.”