The Rose Legacy by Kristen Heitzmann Read Free Book Online Page B

scrabbled down the slope to the ridge where the wagon had struck and gone to pieces.
    Beyond that ridge the mountain dropped sheer to the creek bed below. The scene wavered. She felt herself falling and looked quickly away. It was only a trick of her mind. She must not let it confuse her, or she would indeed fall.
    A short distance to her left, the lidless trunk lay on its side with a few items of clothing. One was the blue denim skirt she had sewn for the trip. It appeared sound, and she dropped it into the sheet with a camisole and blouse. The lace on the silk blouse was badly torn but maybe not past repair.
    She made her way along the precarious ridge to the tree growing from the split boulder. There was indeed a crate of books wedged there, and while the crate was broken open, it hadn’t spilled its contents. Like a greedy child with a candy jar, she dug out every book and piled them into the sheet, then hung it on her shoulder and tugged.
    At the weight of it, she nearly lost her footing. Carina dropped the bundle and groaned. She would never make it up the slope with it. That meant more than one trip up and down, again facing the chasm below. But would she rather lose her books? She peered up the steep expanse of rock, scattered pines, and pale golden grasses.
    Her chest lurched. A figure appeared at the crest, his long shadow spreading down the slope like molasses. She closed her eyes. What a sight she must present to Mr. Quillan Shepard.
    She settled in against the tree as he started down, not sliding in a straight line as she had, but cutting back and forth as he descended, keeping his footing and dislodging as little of the slope as possible. He could not have missed the fresh gash of rockslide and dirt she had left in her wake.
    He came to a stop beside her and tipped the broad brim of his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”
    “I don’t require your assistance.”
    “It’s my pleasure, I assure you.” One corner of his mouth twitched. Was he mocking her with Mr. Beck’s words? What sort of man was he to gloat over her misfortune?
    He looked back and forth along the ridge. “You’re scavenging your belongings?”
    Narrowing her eyes, Carina raised her chin. “I do not scavenge.”
    Frowning, he eyed the sheet tied up around what she had already found. “You can’t mean to haul that entire crate of books.”
    “I do.”
    He smiled crookedly—not at all the smile he’d given Mrs. Barton. “May I?” He reached for the sheet and, to her dismay, untied the top and reached in.
    “If you drop so much as one book over, I’ll …”
    “What?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
    Carina imagined herself shoving him hard, over the edge and down. She saw the rush of air catch his hat, his hair flying up, and his arms wheeling as he plunged downward … The thought brought on a feeling of vertigo, and she turned away.
    He pulled out a leather-bound copy of Dickens and flipped it open. “ ‘It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.’ ”
    Carina brushed the loose strand of hair from her face. “That was my papa’s.”
    He didn’t comment, only slipped the pack from his back, undid the leather clasp, and pulled it open. Then he moved the books from her sheet into the pack until it was full. Only four remained.
    What was he doing? What was this gesture? A guilty conscience? He certainly had cause for one. “How did you know I was here?”
    “Saw your mule.” He reached into the branches of the pine and retrieved a petticoat with eyelet trim.
    Carina snatched it from him.
    He shouldered the pack. “See what else you can get into that sheet. Don’t try to go up without me. From the looks of your trail down, you’re lucky your neck’s not broken already.” He started up, traversing the slope as he had before, as surefooted as a goat.
    Leaving the sheet spread open on the ridge, Carina crept back along its edge to a clump of bushes. The small, fuzzy, gray-green leaves on the branches were thick with