The Rose Legacy by Kristen Heitzmann

feathers where her mattress had met its end. The rest of the bedding must have gone over the edge, maybe even been carried away by the creek below. Hooking her arm around a spindly pine trunk beside the bush, she chanced a look down. There at the water’s edge was her iron headboard.
    She swayed and regained her balance, then scooped up a shawl and camisole without even checking their condition. Farther along the edge, she found the shattered remains of two lamps, utterly useless, and a battered kettle, salvageable. One iron pot and its lid were caught in a bush, and she dug into the branches to retrieve her hand mirror.
    It had been a gift from Papa for her sixteenth birthday. Cradling the smooth, curved frame in her palm, she caught her reflection, repeated in angular fragments by the slivers. The sun, glancing off the shards, pained her eyes, and she set the mirror on the shawl. It was useless, but she wouldn’t leave it there like so much rubbish.
    Seeing nothing more, she carried her finds back to the sheet. There she laid the pot and kettle and mirror among the remaining books as Mr. Shepard returned. The camisole and petticoat she tucked under the skirt, blouse, and shawl, unwilling to give him a second glimpse of her lacy whites.
    He eyed the large iron pot, then bent and worked it into his pack along with the lid. “There’s a ladle behind you, and I’d wager that box holds silver.”
    Carina spun, crouched down beside the bush he indicated, and clapped her hands together, forgetting everything in her excitement. “It is! It’s Nonna’s silver, and …” As she reached, the ladle slid off the edge and sailed down … down …
    Her head spun, and she felt the box slipping from her fingers. Something gripped her arms, then her waist.
    “Whoa, lady, don’t faint here.”
    Coming to her senses, she shook off Quillan Shepard’s arms. “I do not faint. It’s … high places.”
    He looked over the edge, and she felt her insides jelly.
    “Please.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Don’t lean.”
    Again he crooked an eyebrow. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
    Carina turned away. How Flavio had taunted … until he saw it truly hurt her. She dropped her chin. What should it matter? She could live with it. What business was it of anyone else’s?
    Mr. Shepard eyed the slope up. “You must have wanted your things awfully bad.”
    She didn’t answer, knowing tears would choke her voice. She stooped down and fingered a broken shard of china. Her blue willow plate. He heaved the pack to his back and climbed again without further comment.
    Buono . She wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth by refusing his help, but she wanted none of his sympathy, if he was even capable of that. She searched the ground on either side, but there was nothing else. Carefully she laid her nonna’s box of silver forks, knives, and spoons on the sheet, then tied it tightly. She hauled it to her shoulder and looked up. With a deep breath, she started to climb.
    It was not as easy as Quillan Shepard made it look, but she followed his example, going at an angle and keeping her feet sideways to the slope. At least she did not have to see the drop below. The worst part was turning to cut back the opposite way. Each time, she lost ground and sent the dirt cascading down. Once she caught herself with an outstretched hand to keep from going with it.
    “Hold up.” Quillan Shepard left no room for argument.
    She stopped climbing and waited for him to meet her. When he reached for the filled sheet, she handed it over but couldn’t resist saying, “I’m not helpless.”
    He shouldered the sheet. “Now keep upslope from me, and I’ll break your fall if you come loose.”
    Near the top there was no choice but to scrabble with hands and feet. Carina reached up. Suddenly Quillan Shepard thrust her aside with the back of his arm, caught her on his knee, and fired the gun that flashed from his holster.
    Carina cried out with the