The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)(8)

Horace Tabor took up the papers and fitted a pair of pince-nez to his nose.

As he scrutinized the numbers, Quillan pointed to a column beside the first. “This much is my partner’s. I wired him about selling. I haven’t heard back, but I’m guessing he will if I do. He’s in seminary.”

Tabor chuckled. “Plenty of clergy striking it rich all through these mountains. Isn’t there a priest . . . Father Charboneau?”

“Performed my marriage ceremony,” Quillan said. “But as to striking it rich . . .”

Tabor’s smile took a reflective curve. “Well, that was years ago. He’s likely given it all away.”

Quillan’s curiosity was piqued, as Tabor knew it would be. “As far as I know, he travels like an apostle with nothing but cloak and sandals,” Quillan stated.

“As I said, it was years ago. But he yelled eureka with the rest of us. Panned enough to weight his pockets and then some. Went through his fingers like water to anyone in need, though.”

Quillan wondered. Had his parents been among those who received the priest’s gold? Surely Father Charboneau would have helped his niece if he still had a stash. He wouldn’t hoard it while she and her uncle Henri were barely getting by. Of course èmie was now married to Dr. Simms, and Henri Charboneau . . . Fresh rage seized him.

Henri Charboneau had allowed Wolf to take the blame for a heinous murder, and even Quillan had believed his father, the man they called Wolf, a monster. But Henri was dead by his own hand, and his confession had cleared Wolf. Old legends died hard, though. In the minds of most in Crystal, Wolf still howled in the hills, and many a grizzly retelling of his tale would continue.

“So you’re selling out.” Tabor laid the papers down. “By the looks of it, the mine’s doing well. Why sell?”

“Carina wants to go home.” That was most of it. He’d never wanted the mine, and though it had made him a rich man, he felt no sorrow leaving it, except if he thought of Cain and all the mine had meant to him. But Quillan still smarted with thoughts of his old friend Cain. That loss was fresh and raw even though he no longer blamed himself. God had freed him of that. It was also the part the mine played in Carina’s attack.

Tabor studied him a moment, then turned to his wife. “Augusta, tell him how many times you’ve wanted to go home.”

“I don’t really think that’s the point.”

Quillan folded his napkin and laid it across his plate. The maid took it away, and Quillan threaded his fingers in its place. “Carina has good reason. I’m taking her to her family in California.”

“And then?” Tabor’s question was sincere.

“I don’t know. Learn the lay of the land, I guess. Never been to California. Heard about it some.”

Tabor slapped his thigh. “I tell you, Quillan, you’re more like me all the time.”

“God help Carina.” Augusta’s tone was dry, but there was affection in her eyes, affection borne of her own inner strength and Horace Tabor’s engaging temperament. She loved him, that was clear; it was a comfortable, staid kind of love. Quillan wondered if his fiery relationship with Carina would ever calm to that.

“As for this,” Tabor flicked the papers and included Makepeace in the discussion, “let’s play with some figures.”

The terms were much to Makepeace and Tabor’s favor. Horace Tabor was shrewd and Quillan close to indifferent. He’d never considered the mine his, but he had D.C., Cain’s son, to think of, as well. Whatever fight he put up was more for D.C.’s sake than his own. All his belief that money would make him somebody had been washed away by the flood, and he was almost thankful, now, that it had happened.

Still, Tabor was fair, and Quillan stood to walk away from these dealings a very rich man. He could give Carina most anything—if she stopped chucking his gifts off to èmie Charboneau Simms. He thought of the package nestled away among the other goods he’d purchased in Leadville, then brought his attention back to Tabor’s outstretched hand. He gripped it firmly.

“You know you could get more from the consolidated operators right there in Crystal.” Tabor’s bulging mustache bounced with each word.

“I know.”

“You have personal reasons for doing it this way?”

Quillan glanced at Makepeace, who’d been almost a silent contender through it all. “I have.”

“Well, Quillan, you’re an odd bird, but I like you. I’ve liked you from the start, and it’s a pleasure to do business with you. And Mr. Makepeace.”

“You’ll stay here tonight, won’t you?” Augusta included both of them in her gaze.

Alex Makepeace spoke first. “I’ve already acquired a room, ma’am. But I thank you for your offer.” He stood. “I’ll take leave now, with your permission.”

Quillan stood with Tabor and Augusta. He was not sorry to see Makepeace go, though things had progressed amicably. Once the man had gone, Quillan turned to Augusta. “I’d be pleased to accept your offer.”

“And have a glass of port with me.” Tabor walked to the glass cabinet, which held his decanters.

“Thank you, no.” Quillan smiled. “But I will have coffee if it’s available.”

“Teetotaler, are you?” Tabor paused at the cabinet.