HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Never once did he glance Nic’s way. Nic’s desire to talk with him, to try and convince him to change his mind, remained strong, but as each day passed, Nic accepted this might be a way to reach his own desired next step. It didn’t make it right, only somewhat acceptable. He had gone through the monies he had inherited from his father and the sale of his publishing house, the last remnants now behind him in Rio. But even with all he had seen and experienced, his heart still hungered for more, for something else, something ahead of him.

  So the captain could keep to himself. It mattered not to Nic. Let him think it was his choice. His choice can become mine.

  London

  “Havender declined our offer,” Jesse said bleakly, as he paid Moira’s bill at the teahouse and escorted her out. “He was our last hope.”

  Moira lifted her eyes to meet his in surprise. Impossible. Not after all their discussions, the excitement, the hope. He had said it was as good as done!

  “I do not have sufficient funds to remain here in London,” he went on. “It is as I suspected. This region is tapped out, hungering for new, unknown talent. You know the Brits—always desiring the next thing. You and I … well, we’ve been here before. We’re known talent.”

  “Is not experience worth something?”

  He tugged her forward, so they could walk, arm in arm, down the street. “Sometimes. But apparently not now.”

  Moira paused to fish a coin from her bag for a beggar on the street and dropped it in the blind man’s tin cup. Jesse hurried her along and pulled her close to his side. “Leave such fellows to the soup kitchens—you’ll be needing to hold on to what you have to get you situated.”

  “There’s always enough,” she sniffed, “to help someone a bit worse off than oneself.” Her mother had always said that, always stopped to help those in need.

  “Tell me that again when your last franc is gone.”

  They continued their walk in silence. Moira was too weary to argue with him and couldn’t help but think of Antoine, how sad he and his daughter looked the day she told them that their employment had ended. She sent them off with the finest of recommendations, but she doubted Antoine would ever work again. No one else would hire such an old man, but something about him had pulled at her heart, ever since he first arrived at her door, hat in hand, asking for work. Would Antoinette see to the old man’s needs? Moira knew they had no family but each other.

  “So we find ourselves in similar financial predicaments. I must return to Paris to secure a role, even without your aid. Perhaps you should return to the States, Moira. Your reputation will secure you a role anywhere you wish—from New York to San Francisco. You can simply pick where you wish to live and settle in.”

  They walked for some time in silence, Moira pondering her options. It seemed she had little choice. She needed to return to America. The idea of America, home, so appealed, that her hand went to her heart. It surprised her, how she longed for it. Even though she had no desire to return to Philadelphia, there was something about America that was home, something that called to her.

  “Moira?” Jesse bent to look her in the eye, concern on his face.

  “No. I’m all right,” she assured him. “I shall book passage to New York.”

  “And once there?”

  “Once there, I had better land work immediately, or I shall be on the streets.”

  “It’s a gamble, Moira.” His handsome brow furrowed in concern. “Why not go to your sister?”

  She giggled, a giggle that grew into a laugh so deep and hysterical that she drew disapproving glances from passersby. But she didn’t care. The idea that she could go to Odessa, live on a ranch! She had to stop and lean a little forward, so hard did she laugh.

  “Moira, really.” Glancing about, Jesse urged her to stop. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Quite,” she returned, straightening and hiding her wide smile behind a gloved hand. “It’s only the idea of me … Jesse, truly. You think I would fit in on a ranch at this point in my life?”

  He smiled back at her. “Better a ranch than the streets.” He reached out a sudden, tender hand, barely touching her jawbone with soft fingers. “I fear for you, Moira. I’m sorry I can’t see you to safety.”

  “You’ve helped me to take a step forward, Jesse, as you did in Colorado. I only regret that we won’t get the opportunity to sing together again.”

  He gave her a sad smile and stood there for several seconds in silent regard. There was much that drew her to him, and obviously, him to her. And yet the timing seemed off, impossible. The barrier insurmountable. “The hotel proprietor plays the piano,” he said. “Let us sing a song or two together this night, before we part.”

  “That would be well with me,” she returned, taking his arm. “But let’s stop at the rail station to find out about tomorrow’s outgoing trains to Dover and what ships are sailing for America, shall we?”

  “Indeed.” He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, patting her fingers. “Moira St. Clair, you are possibly the bravest woman I have ever run across. I am only sorry we do not have more time together.”

  She smiled back at him but wondered at the darts of fear that entered her heart. Jesse McCourt believed her brave. Inside she was little more than a coward. But she knew her role here, the lines to say, the actions to take. And she would proceed to the next step and the next, pretending all the while if necessary, until somehow, some way, she regained her status, and her wealth.

  27 March 1887

  Spring is suddenly upon us, the sun warm enough on our skin that we shed our coats and sweaters after morning’s chill gives up her task. The snow is rapidly melting, and yesterday, some of our men made it across the field—and returned with twenty-three horses who gladly accepted copious amounts of hay. The other missing mares and one stallion are gone, either still beneath the snows, or among the forests of the mountains upon escaping through a downed fence. We hope, but not too much. I think we fear further loss; it is almost preferable to believe them dead and move on.

  “Odessa? Odessa!” Bryce called from downstairs.

  She looked up from her paper, frowned, and hurriedly set aside her pen. She didn’t like the note of alarm in her husband’s voice. Odessa rushed to the stairs, pausing when she saw Bryce close the door. Ralph and Tabito were in the front entry area, an unconscious man between them. “Who is this?”

  “I don’t know,” Bryce said grimly. “He came in, driving twenty starved horses, barely keeping his seat in the saddle. Must’ve been caught in the storm.”

  “Please, take him to the den. I’ll be right there with blankets.” Odessa hurried back upstairs and grabbed two thick woolen blankets, then back to the men, who stood in her kitchen with the stranger between them. “Here, lay him atop this until we get him cleaned up,” Odessa said, laying a blanket down, in front of the stove. She wrinkled her nose. The man wreaked of sour clothes. He was so filthy, she could barely see the true shade of his skin.

  Bryce knelt down on his other side. Tabito reached out to touch his forehead and pulled his hand away quickly. “He burns.”

  Odessa met her husband’s fearful glance and then rose to put some water on the stove. “I’ll need you men to clean him up. Bryce, can you fetch a fresh shirt and pair of pants?”

  The baby must have sensed the commotion downstairs, because he awakened early from his nap, quickly moving from disgruntled cries to a full-blown wail. “I’ll get him,” Bryce called from upstairs.

  Odessa pumped water into a bucket and then poured it into a massive iron cauldron on the stove. Already hot from its constant perch atop the wood-burning oven, the first of the water sizzled and steamed until she poured the rest in. She took a rag and opened the oven to peer at the fire, and decided to add another log. It was already good and hot; it would only take about half an hour to heat the water all the way through.

  Tabito, the ranch foreman, came through the back kitchen door, the washtub on his back. Bryce must’ve ask
ed him to fetch it. He placed it in the corner and stretched out a privacy screen. “The man might not survive a bath,” he grunted.

  “He might not survive unless we clean him up,” she retorted. She made Bryce force all the ranch hands to bathe at least once a week, preferably twice—they had their own tub down in the bunkhouse—and threatened to not feed them unless they adhered to the rules. “Here,” she said, handing Tabito a pitcher and a small cup. “Try and get a little water down his throat, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, walking away.

  She could hear someone running through the slush outside, the splashes beneath their boots, and then there was a quick rapping at her door. Odessa moved to answer it, but Dietrich was already opening it, his face awash with concern.

  “Dietrich, I—”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Don’t mean to go bursting in on ya, but I need to see Bryce or Tabito, right away.”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Come in.” She followed the man, choosing not to say anything about the muddy prints he left on her floor. Tabito and Bryce looked up at him.

  “Boss, we’ve got troubles, down at the stables.” He rotated his hat between nervous hands, in a circle.

  Bryce rose slowly. “What is it?”

  “Doc thinks it’s the strangles. One of the yearlings that came in with this herd is down. You can see two others are sick. Doc thinks all three will die.”

  Bryce handed Samuel to Odessa and edged past him. “They’re still in the separate corral, right? Away from our horses?” He hurried down the back porch steps, two at a time. Dietrich reluctantly followed behind. Odessa stood in the doorway, bouncing Samuel. Her heart pounded. Bryce’s tone told her something was bad, really bad.

  Bryce whirled in the snow. “Dietrich, tell me they’re in a separate corral.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “They were so hungry, they’ve reached through the fence and eaten out of our horses’ troughs, drunk some of their water.”

  “And our horses?”

  Dietrich was quiet, standing there at the back door as if leaving meant punishment.

  “Dietrich?”

  “I’m afraid they’ve shared those troughs, Boss. A few of them anyway,” he said in defeat.

  Bryce bared his teeth, groaning as if shoving down an oath. “Come on!” he said, breaking into a run. “We need to get those horses away from the others!”

  Odessa turned to Tabito, who placed his wide-brimmed hat atop his head. “Been some time since this ranch has seen a case of strangles.”

  “What does it mean? What will they do?” Odessa said.

  “Shoot the ill, separate the exposed.”

  Odessa’s eyes widened, understanding now. “How contagious is it?”

  “Very.” With that, he exited and gently shut the door behind him. Odessa stood there for a minute, thinking of what to do. She wanted to go to the stables, make sure Bryce did not do anything rash, but there was a man in her front parlor who needed tending. The water was boiling atop the stove, but now there were no men left to bathe the stranger.

  “We’ll do what we can for him,” she whispered to Samuel. She started to carry him into the front parlor and then paused in the doorway, thinking of the horses and the contagion they carried. What if this man had a fever that Samuel could catch? She returned to the small sitting room beside the kitchen, spread out a blanket and handed the child his favorite tin cup. Then she hurried back to gather rags and water and lye soap to clean the stranger who had brought a plague upon her home.

  Apparently the old man wanted to tell his tale to more than Reid, making Reid doubt the authenticity of it. But the monotony of life in prison made him lean a little closer to hear as the man shared the story with anyone in reach of his stage whisper. Reid glanced down the hall between their cells and made eye contact with the guard. The young man looked away, probably as bored as they were, eager to hear any tale anyone wished to tell, even if it was against the rules at this hour.

  “My granddaddy, he was runnin’ for his life, the Ute tracking him all the way.”

  “I’d heard tell it was the Apache and Cheyenne a man had to look out for in those days,” protested a man in the cell beside him. “Not the Ute. They were peaceful folk.”

  “They were, unless a man refused to take a chief’s daughter as his bride, like my granddaddy did.”

  The men let out a collective laugh and roar of approval and then settled, waiting for the rest of the man’s story.

  “Fortunately for my granddaddy, he knew his way about the Sangres and beyond. He moved high and fast, even through the night. He was stumbling forward, aware that a few strong braves still trailed him, but it was the third day, late, you see. And he was plumb wore out. He tripped, and fell down a ravine, rolling and rolling until he came to rest inside the mouth of a cave.”

  “Did they find ’im then? In that cave?” asked a man.

  “No, he holed up in that cave, his gun across his arms, waitin’ on the braves to arrive. But after three days, he knew they’d lost his trail, and thirst drove him out.” He looked around, as if to see if he still had their attention. “He stood up to go, wobbling on his feet. And that was when he saw it.”

  “Saw what?” asked a young man, biting at the bait.

  “A genu-wine conquistador breastplate. Like what they wore for armor and such? Almost missed it, it was so covered by three hundred years of dust. He blew it off—” the old man pretended to pick up an object and slowly blew on it, and Reid sighed wearily—“and a great cloud of dust set him to coughing. He collapsed and thought he’d take his death right then and there, but in time, he regained himself.”

  “And?” said yet another man.

  “When he stood again, he saw something he hadn’t noticed before. Peeking out, behind a pile of rocks, was a stack of gold bars.”

  The men erupted into a mixed cacophony of disbelief and wonder. Roused, the deputy at the end of the hall came toward them, striking the end of his gun on each bar. Every prisoner scuttled back to his cot, unwilling to pay the price of a lost meal for the story. But when the deputy reached the old man’s cell, he paused. “Did he haul the gold out?” he whispered. “Your granddaddy? Did he become rich?”

  “Nah,” said the old man, leaning back on one arm. “He lost it. Buried them bars again behind the rocks, thought he had the cave marked, and came back months later with men and burros to help get it out—gold bars weigh a bloomin’ ton—but he could never find the right canyon again, let alone the right cave.”

  The men all groaned and turned on their cots, disappointed by the sorry end to the old man’s story.

  But it took everything in Reid not to sit up straight.

  Could it be? Could it be that the treasure old Sam O’Toole had found—and left for the McAllans—was not a fantastic hidden silver mine, but rather an ancient Spanish treasure of gold? One bar, one bar, would’ve been enough to make the man rich. And if this man’s story were true, there had been a stack of them.

  The McAllans hadn’t found them yet. Had they done so, they would not have kept it a secret. It would’ve made international headlines. So it was still there. If it was there, Reid reminded himself sternly.

  And possibly, just possibly, he could beat the McAllans to it.

  Chapter 5

  Bryce forced himself not to wince every time the men shouldered a gun and put down another of the stranger’s horses. He looked over the quarantined Circle M horses in the corral anxiously, studying the tilt of their ears, the way they breathed, any oddities along their mandibles. He entered the corral three times a day to lift their lips, peer into their nostrils, run his hands down the long bones of their jaws, searching for the telltale nodules that swelled with disease, fat bumps that indicated impending doom.

  Despondent, he turned and walked out of the series of corrals and up the hill, away from the stables and the house. He could not face Odessa this way. The horses showed no signs o
f the strangles—yet. But he knew how contagious the dreaded disease was. It would be a miracle if any of them were spared. And he sensed no miracle on the wind. Bryce trudged through mud that coated his boots, ignoring the cold as it seeped in toward his toes. He kept moving until he reached the fence that bordered the first fields, the field where so many had died during that hateful storm.

  Bryce grabbed hold of the post and sliced his hand on a hidden nail. He groaned and sucked on the blood that soon dripped down into his palm, but then he took hold of the post again and rocked it back and forth in fury, as if he intended to rip it from the ground.

  “The horses do enough of that without you helping them,” said a voice behind him.

  Bryce groaned and shook his head, not turning. “Go away, Tabito,” he said. “I need to be alone.”

  “You will be alone for a long time to come. Have you told the missus yet? What you are considering?”

  “Not yet.”

  “It isn’t wise, keeping secrets from your wife.”

  “She won’t understand,” Bryce said, looking up the slope of the field, then higher up, into the mountains that bordered the ranch.

  “No, she won’t,” Tabito said quietly, moving to stand beside Bryce. “Send some of your men instead, to Spain. You should not go, Bryce. You should not risk it.”

  “It is I who should go,” Bryce gritted out. “I’ve made some foolish decisions, Tabito. I didn’t build the snowbreaks. I put too much money into getting us more water. Now … we’re cash strapped. Banks won’t be lending, not after all that everyone has lost through this storm. They’ll be skittish, and it won’t change before fall’s harvest.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know. If I don’t have more horses, I can’t make my payments to the bank. If I can’t make my payments, they’ll come collecting parcels of land. I can’t let that happen, Tabito.”