“Maybe,” she said. She left a light hand on his shoulder and they crossed the street, Nic right behind them. At the store, he stayed outside, keeping watch while they did their shopping. She was about to go out and ask Nic for the coins she needed, when he arrived, added a couple apples, a loaf of bread, and a wedge of cheese to the pile on the counter. Supper. It’d save them some money. He paid and escorted them out.
“Straight to the hotel,” he said in a low voice.
She glanced around his shoulder but saw nothing. Still, she moved as he directed. In a few minutes, they arrived at the St. Elmo Hotel and checked in, opting for a room for Everett and Nic, and a second for her.
The woman at the desk looked over her spectacles and down her nose when Nic requested the rooms be side by side. “Mr. St. Clair, we are a reputable hotel.” She glanced at Everett, and over Sabine, and her scowl grew. “A block down, you’ll find the Brass Horseshoe. They’ll gladly—”
“It is for Mrs. LaCrosse’s safety that I must be next door,” Nic said tightly. He tapped on her log book. “Nothing untoward will be transpiring upstairs. Please, we’d like our two keys as soon as possible. We are all in need of a rest.”
The woman looked all three of them over again and then reluctantly dipped her pen in the inkwell and wrote in their names. Then she turned to pull two keys off a board filled with hooks and turned back to hand them over. “Room 208 and 209.”
“Thank you,” he said, his tone clipped. Sabine imagined him as he once was, the son of an Eastern publisher, dressed in fine clothing. Educated. Refined. She wished she could have seen him there as he once was, know that part of him. Because try as she might, she couldn’t picture him anywhere but here. In her part of the country. With her. He paused at the staircase and gestured for her to go before him, clearly a gentleman. Few had ever treated her that way. They’d been polite, especially as a schoolteacher to their children, but it was the barest of civilities.
She walked up the stairs, turned, and found their first room. Nic bent, slid the key into the lock, and opened it, remaining in the hall. It was a decent room, with fresh wallpaper, a dresser with a pitcher and washbasin, and a bed, neatly made. The window was open, relieving some of the afternoon heat, but Sabine could see the dust from the street below flowing inward. She dropped her makeshift satchel on the bed and turned to Nic and Everett in the hallway. “I think I’ll rest for a bit.” She shook her finger at Everett. “Now you get some reading done, young man. Don’t be just staring out the window, watching the town.”
“I will,” he promised solemnly.
Nic gave her a tender smile and then leaned forward a bit. “Lock it behind us, all right?”
She nodded and went to close the door.
Still he hovered. “You’ll be all right? You haven’t been alone since … well, since the fire.”
It was her turn to smile at him. “I’ll be all right, Nic. Send Ev with some of the food later on.”
“I will.” He paused, began to say something, then closed his mouth. Then he gave her a little wave and turned to follow Everett to the room next door.
Sabine shut her door, turned the key in the lock, and then pocketed it. She moved over to the wall that separated them and, feeling a little foolish, laid her cheek against the rippled paper and listened to the muffled voices. She closed her eyes, imagining Everett bouncing onto one bed, then gazing out the window, and Nic lying down on his bed. To be so close to them, and yet parted, felt odd. But then she felt ashamed, even thinking it. They were not a family. Nic had not yet even professed love for her.
But he loved her. She could see it in his eyes. She heard it in his words. He hated being separated from her, as clearly as she hated it herself.
Could she—was it possible?—that she was in love with Dominic St. Clair?
She moved from the wall to the bed and lay down upon it, suddenly weary. But not tired enough to sleep. Only enough to doze off for a bit …
o
It’d been four days since the ranch hand Donald had decided she was Moira Colorado, in spite of her denial. How long until word reached the newspapers?
Moira stood at her window and twisted a handkerchief. She needed to go. The train would arrive in the Westcliffe station in but two hours. She wanted to be there in time, but not too early. She slipped a watch from her dress pocket and checked the hour, then took a deep breath. It was time to face her sister.
As quietly as she could, she swept down the stairs and set her two valises at the bottom, then moved into the kitchen den, where she knew Odessa was reading during Samuel’s nap.
Her sister looked up, lowering her book. “My, don’t you look lovely. Where are you off to?”
Moira swallowed and moved over to the settee, sitting down beside her. She reached over and took Odessa’s hand. Odessa’s eyes narrowed.
“Dess,” she began, “I’m going to be gone for a while.”
“What?”
“I’m going to New York for a visit.”
“New York!”
“Yes, I received a letter from Gavin Knapp’s mother a while ago, and—”
“Gavin Knapp? Your child’s grandmother?” Odessa blinked in confusion.
“She invited me to come. So that I might know her, and her me, and maybe someday, that the Knapps might know their grandchild.”
Odessa shook her head as if trying to catch up with her thoughts. “When? When are you going? You are returning?”
“I am leaving today. Right now, actually. I didn’t—”
“Right now?” Her volume went up and Moira shushed her.
“I didn’t want this to create upheaval. I knew you wouldn’t be fond of the idea.”
“Fond?” she sputtered, clearly upset, as well as fearful.
Moira rose. She knew this could be an endless argument and there was no point to it. She’d made up her mind. The sound of a wagon pulling into place outside filtered through the curtains. She glanced over her shoulder, as if she could see it, then back to Odessa.
Odessa rose, her face ashen. “You are running, Moira.”
“Running?” Moira scoffed. “No. I’ve come to realize I’ve been hiding. That is what I aim to remedy. My injuries are what they are. What I make of my life ahead is up to me. I cannot wait on a man to define it for me.”
Odessa looked to the window and back to her. “What of God? What about His desire for your future? The baby’s?”
Moira paused for half a breath. What of God? Who was she to say this wasn’t what He wanted for her? Yet doubt remained. She let out her breath, dismissing her own niggling concerns. “Does God not go anywhere we go? Is there any place that He is not?”
“God is with us, wherever we go,” Odessa quickly replied, “but there are certainly places we go that He’d rather we not.”
Moira glanced at her. “I am not heading to the saloons, Dess. I’m coming back. This is not a repeat of past journeys.” She stepped across to her sister and took her hands, begging with her eyes for understanding. “I have some money, the gold. The thought of New York fills me with hope. A little distraction never harmed anyone.” Her eyes widened. “Why don’t you come with me?” she cried, feeling like a giddy girl again. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to run our hands over fine fabrics and order a few dresses? Perhaps call on some of our old acquaintances? Oh, I want a proper dinner at a restaurant that serves courses, with silver cutlery and china and crystal goblets. Don’t you?” She let go of Odessa’s hands and splayed her own outward. “Just a bit of our old life. The fine things. A taste of it. A glimpse. Please, Dess. You and little Samuel can come with me.”
“I can’t do that,” Odessa replied in a whisper. “I have responsibilities here, and you know how the air in the East affects me.” She looked slowly up at Moira, her eyes so like her younger sister’s. “And Moira, this, what I have here with Bryce, Samuel—they’ve become the fine things in life for me. I thought … I thought you had come to that too.”
Moira sta
red back into her eyes. “I did …” She let her lips close. She wasn’t ready to share details about Daniel’s rejection. Not yet.
A knock sounded at the door. “Cassie,” Moira called. “Can you tell him that I will be out in a bit?”
“Yes, ma’am, Miss St. Claire,” the girl called.
“What about your baby?” Odessa asked in a hush.
“What about it?”
“Is it wise, to be traveling? For the baby, and for you? People know of the gold, Moira. They know of your connection to us. It could make you … vulnerable.”
“I’ll hire a guard,” she said, meaning it. “Please don’t fret over me, Dess. I’ll be sure to not take foolish chances.” There was no use, telling her about Francine’s mention of returning to her career. If news got out about Moira Colorado, there in New York—
Odessa shook her head, her eyes clouding.
“Please, Dess. Don’t be sad. I’m not leaving forever.”
“No?”
“No!”
“How long will you be away?”
Moira shrugged. She truly had no idea when she would come back. What if she decided to stay, so that her baby might know his grandparents? Become heir to their fortune? What if … there was some opportunity for her to still sing? “I don’t know. A month, maybe through the winter. I think New York would offer far more distractions than this valley, come snow.”
“Through the winter? I had thought … I dreamed of you having the baby, right here at home. Sharing in that joy with you.”
Moira sighed and lifted a hand to her head. “I don’t know, Dess. I’ll know, in time. I will stay in touch. I promise.”
“What of Daniel?” Odessa said quietly.
“What of him?” Moira said, turning away.
“What if he returns for you—only to discover that you are not here?”
Her eyes moved to the window. Daniel. The thought of leaving him behind tore at her. But she steeled herself against it. He had left her. He had made her no promises. Even if he came back to her today, she would still struggle over his decision to be sheriff. He could get shot. Die.
No, she’d had enough of death, from her brothers to her parents to Gavin. She wanted life. Dreams that she could capture, even if she couldn’t capture the man that she loved. Now that she’d decided to go, her heart pumped with excitement, the thrill of rediscovered freedom and choice. She would go to New York and find out about the Knapps, the family Gavin refused to introduce her to, and see where that led her. For her baby. For herself.
She could always return. Always.
“Daniel made his choice,” she finally said, turning to her sister. “I’m making mine now.” She gave her sister an awkward hug before sweeping out of the room, lest Odessa come up with the ten arguments that, had Moira given her time, might’ve dissuaded her from going at all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Nic barely slept. He spent most of the night prowling around the hotel room, watching the empty street below, listening for any sounds of alarm from Sabine next door. He didn’t know how long he sat in a corner chair, staring at their shared wall, thinking about her slumbering on just the other side. When the sun rose, they would travel back up the Gulch, let the surveyors do their work, and hopefully receive an offer. Would she decide to move on without him? Or Everett? I don’t want to be without her, Lord. I don’t ever want to be without her.
He glanced over at the boy, who was snoring lightly. The tears had abated in his dreams. Was it possible that he, Dominic St. Clair, might be a halfway decent stand-in father? He’d never be Peter, for sure, but could he do right by Everett? Do what he could to lead him into adulthood?
Nic laughed at himself, softly. I’m just now coming to some semblance of peace with myself as an adult. Now I want to be a father and a husband? He’d never considered himself suitable husband material, let alone a father. On and on his mind went, racing ahead, arguing for one road, and then another, thinking of one problem and then several solutions—churning over those difficulties he could not solve. He was just beginning to doze as the town came awake, a heralding rooster a block away, a rumbling wagon full of lumber, another with metal milk cans rattling together.
Everett stirred, then stretched and rose to a sitting position on his bed. Nic peeked at him and then closed his eyes again, wishing for a few hours of slumber at least. He took a deep breath, held it, then released it. He supposed it was impossible now. The day was beginning, whether he was ready for it or not.
“Nic?”
“Hmm?”
“If we sell the mine today, what will happen to me?”
Nic opened his eyes. He slowly sat up, facing the boy. The child’s legs dangled from the bed. “I’ve been thinking about that, Ev. If we sell your dad’s place, we’ll put a good chunk of money into savings for you, for when you’re grown up. And I can help you find a good family to live with. Or, I’ve been thinking … if you’re willing …” He paused, looking for the right words. “What I mean to say is, there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind having you stay with me. If you don’t mind.”
Everett’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “You mean, you’d keep me?”
Nic smiled back. “I guess we’d keep each other.”
“And Sabine? Sabine too?”
Nic’s smile faded. “I don’t know about Sabine, Ev. She and I have to figure things out. But you and me—if you don’t mind living with me, I kind of like having you around. You’re a good kid.”
Everett pushed off the bed and stepped over to him, throwing his arms around Nic. Slowly, Nic wrapped his arms around the child’s thin body, hugging him back.
“Does this mean you’d like to stay with me?” Nic asked, his voice muffled a bit against Everett’s shoulder.
The boy let him go, backed up a step, and gave him a solemn nod.
“Well, then,” Nic said, offering Everett his hand. “I guess we’re partners.”
“Will we mine some more?”
“Hmm, I think I’d rather get out of the mining business. Would you mind staying aboveground with me? I’ve always been pretty good with a hammer and saw.”
“I like building. My dad and me … we built the cabin.”
Nic nodded. “You did a fine job on that. I didn’t make it through college, but I took a few classes in architecture that I liked. It was the only thing I did like about college,” he said conspiratorially. “Maybe I can find work, building houses.”
“Or maybe even hotels and banks!”
“That would be fine. Fine indeed.” He considered the child in front of him. “Will you mind it much? Leaving this place? You’ve been here since you were little.”
“It’ll be all right. As long as I’m with you and Sa … with you,” he quickly amended.
Nic smiled. It was clear the child was envisioning them as a new family, with all three of them. His father had always said that a three-legged stool was strong.…
A gentle knock sounded on their joint wall. Nic stood and leaned close, imagining Sabine on the other side. “We’ll be over in a few minutes,” he said loudly. There was a muffled response of assent. “Come on, kid,” he said to Everett. “We need to get dressed and head on down to breakfast.”
Everett hopped off his bed and scrambled over to his small bundle of clothing, shaking out his rolled trousers and a shirt. Nic did the same, dressing beside him, and then pulling on his boots. They moved over to the basin, which Nic filled with water from the pitcher, and each of them washed their faces and patted down their hair.
Taking care of the boy was surprisingly easy, comfortable in fact. Even … satisfying? He shook his head in wonder. What had happened to him?
o
Daniel was watching a stable boy brush down his horse outside the sheriff’s office in Westcliffe, when a hired carriage came rumbling down the street. With distinctive markings, the cab was often parked outside the rail station.
The boy turned and watched as the carriage came to a stop. Th
e coachman climbed down and opened the small door, and a man in a top hat—a top hat; how long had it been since Daniel had seen someone in one of those?—emerged. He glanced over at them and sniffed, covering his nose and mouth with a white handkerchief. “I am Bradley Grubaugh, from the Rocky Mountain News. I assume you are the sheriff.”
“I am.”
He glanced down at Daniel’s plain shirt with some disdain. “May we speak inside?”
Daniel shifted his weight to his other leg. “Probably have more privacy out here, if that’s what you’re after, Mr. Grubaugh.” Behind him was the office and inside, the lone jail cell that held his prisoner from Conquistador, who had stubbornly refused to say much at all.
“Fine. Thank you,” the journalist said. He turned and handed the coachman a coin before the carriage rumbled off. He followed Daniel to the corner of the building, out of the flow of pedestrian traffic.
“How can I assist you, Mr. Grubaugh?”
“I’ve just been out to the Circle M.”
Daniel waited. What business had he out there? Still trying to figure out another angle to the conquistador gold story? Or perhaps a piece on the fledgling town?
“I was informed that a Miss Moira St. Clair lives there.”
Daniel did not blink. “And?”
“And my informant presumes she is actually the songstress Moira Colorado who was believed dead in a fire, up in Leadville. Are you familiar with the story?”
“I am,” he said, struggling to focus on the journalist, rather than get lost in past images of flames, searing heat that had left blisters on his hands, the billowing, black smoke … Moira inside …
Mr. Grubaugh sniffed and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “The people out at the ranch weren’t very helpful. They said they have only known the woman who has been living with them as Moira St. Clair, Mrs. McAllan’s sister. They said she has a beautiful voice, but they have never seen her onstage.”
Daniel struggled to stifle his smile. It was the truth.
“I once saw Moira St. Clair at the Opera Comiqué in France,” the man went on. “She was magnificent. I never saw this ‘Miss Colorado’ in our own mining camps of Colorado, but it’s hard for me to believe she might’ve fallen to such base a task as to sing in those establishments.”
Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy) Page 17
