Free The Diamond of the Rockies [03] The Tender Vine by Kristen Heitzmann

answer? Was he upset Quillan would even consider selling? Couldn’t he understand the position they were in? He went back to the hotel to secure Carina’s gift in his pack with the others. The parasol, of course, stood in the corner.
    Quillan walked over, picked it up, and opened it. He looked up through the ecru lace and imagined Carina standing beneath it. He closed it abruptly, before the longing for her became painful. He tore a sheet of paper from his journal and found his fountain pen, which he’d filled with ink from an eyedropper the night before. With it, he now wrote a letter to his foster father. Reverend Shepard would be ecstatic to know he was at last seeking the Lord’s wisdom.
    Quillan also inquired after his wife, Leona. He pictured her curled in her bed like a skeletal infant, bawling and picking at the covers. The image evoked a wrenching sympathy. Was she still alive? Frequently insanity left its victims physically tenacious, though she’d seemed so frail.
    He would likely not receive a reply before he left the area with Carina. He wrote as much to the reverend. Then he thanked him for the years of care he’d been given in their home. He might never see the man again, and he wanted his foster father to know his gratitude, though those years had been the most painful of his life.
    Setting the letter aside, Quillan took out his journal. He’d filled three pages with Scripture verses that had spoken to him in his reading, his own ramblings that had followed, and some poems he’d written to share with Carina. His most recent he read now.
    Without you time escapes its rule and lingers overlong,
    Yet were I there with you, my love, t’would skip and bound and leap.
    The distance stills the hands of time, the days the hours prolong,
    As one by one the minutes put the sun and moon to sleep.
    But time, it cannot halt for long without the Lord take heed,
    And God will spin it soon, my love, and set the earth aright,
    Then to your waiting arms I’ll run with haste and all due speed,
    To set the stars adance again to brighten up your night.
    Time had once had no hold on him. But now it seemed a force he battled daily. It’s only that I miss her, Lord .
    It is good for the heart to hunger . This time Quillan didn’t wonder at the words. He’d grown accustomed to the answers coming to his mind. And he knew they were the Lord, especially when they weren’t what he wanted to hear.
    But he governed himself, using the time to write in his journal, long stretches of still time he’d never allowed himself before. Mae was right; it was something he should learn, though patience and peace were slow in coming.
    It seemed a blessing straight from heaven when on the eighth day, the telegraph clerk reached into a cubby behind him and held out D.C.’s reply. Quillan paid the man and hurried out to the street. He unfolded the paper and found the text.
    Sorry delay. On retreat. Sell mine. Treasure in heaven. D.C .
    Quillan clutched the paper to his chest, picturing Cain’s scapegrace son. From the sound of it, he’d matured, and his faith still upheld him. He’d make a fine preacher. Quillan wished he could tell him he’d found his own faith. Wished he could have found it before old Cain was killed. But he supposed Cain knew somehow. Maybe there was some portal through which Cain watched them both, knew that even if hard times were not behind them, at least they were on the right path.
    He folded the telegram. Now he would take Carina home. He closed his eyes in silent gratitude, his sense of purpose keen. He went to the Italian market and purchased items they could stock in the wagon for their trip: jars of olives, dried spicy sausage called pepperoni and another named Genoa salami. Both beat jerky by a long shot. He bought her semolina flour and olive oil, a string of garlic, and pickled anchovies.
    He carried the crate to the wagon, then loaded the other gifts he’d amassed for her. He gave his horses one last