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then plunked it into her mouth.
    He swallowed his own bite. “I don’t recall that working out so well.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I ended up in the hole.”
    She waved a hand, dismissing his point. “You don’t know how it’s done.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “How what’s done?”
    “How to buy from an Italian.”
    He set down his fork and leaned back from the table. “Is that so?”
    “Sì. You never pay what he asks.”
    Quillan took the napkin beside his plate and wiped the side of his mouth where he could feel it slick with oil. He haggled every day in his line of work—on the buying end, not the selling. In Crystal he could ask whatever he wanted and folks would pay.
    But it was true that on the occasion she described, he hadn’t haggled. It was all so foreign, the things on her list, the man with his broken English. Quillan had taken whatever the man said Carina would want and paid his price. Now he felt like a fool.
    “How do you know he didn’t ask more than I paid?”
    She laughed. “Not even a truffatore would ask more than you paid.”
    “What’s a truffatore?”
    “A swindler.”
    Quillan placed a whole ravioli into his mouth. It would save him from responding to that one. He savored the flavor. What would it hurt to keep her supplied? If he had to make a show of this marriage, he might at least eat well. He washed down the bite with a swig of coffee.
    “You think you could do better?”
    She smiled a perfect smile, soft lips, white teeth. “What do you think?”
    He thought the old truffatore would melt into the floor. Quillan crowded his plate and folded his hands on the table. “How would you like to buy for yourself?”
    Her breath caught. “Do you mean it?”
    Quillan’s throat tightened at her earnest expression. He hadn’t expected quite such excitement. “If you think you can take the ride.”
    “Didn’t I take it all the way from Denver? Of course I can take the ride. When do we go?”
    He retreated to his bench, angry with himself for suggesting it. If she got tired they’d have to spend the night in Fairplay. But he doubted she’d admit getting tired. “I guess tomorrow.”
    “Oh, thank you.” She grasped his hand a moment, then let it fall and withdrew hers swiftly to her sides.
    It was too late, though. She’d touched him, and his heart hammered his chest. He pushed away from the table.
    She followed with her eyes, two dark pools wreathed with even darker lashes. “Aren’t you going to finish?”
    “I have things to do.” He stood, leaving the food that had so beguiled him, and walked out Mae’s back door. He kicked himself for being vulnerable, for once again letting her lure him with food, and even more than the food, the companionship. For the second time that day, he made for the graveyard.
    He hardly noticed the dog following until it lay down beside the mound, as though seeking its old master’s comfort as well. Cain’s stone still looked new. But then, it took more than two months to weather a stone, even at this altitude. He slumped down beside the grave, feeling the pain of loss as fresh as ever. He looked at the stone.
    CAIN JEREMIAH BRADLEY. 1810–1880. He thought of Cain’s favorite saying. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”
    Did they? Did they, Cain? Can you still believe it wherever you are? He shook his head. No, God didn’t do good to those who loved Him. He sacrificed them, the same as He had His own Son. Quillan sat by the grave until the stars shone in the clear black canopy, then reluctantly stood. He’d have to go home sooner or later.

    Carina had changed into her gown and brushed her hair a hundred strokes as she always did. She’d scoured her teeth diligently, considering each one a small battlefield. She was determined to take each tooth to the grave without surrendering even one to a dentist. She had a candle lit on a crate beside the