HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  She rose and went toward the kitchen. “I’m weary, Robert. I think I’ll turn in.”

  “I’ve upset you.”

  She turned to look at him. He remained seated in the chair in the corner. “No, not upset. Unsettled.” She lifted a weary hand to her head. “I just need a night’s sleep. It’s been a long day.” She could see from the expression he wore that her words were not enough, that he wouldn’t allow her to depart with this between them. “I asked you a direct question, Robert. You gave me a direct answer. All right?”

  “All right. Good night, Odessa.” So he had noticed how his use of her nickname unsettled her.

  “Good night, Robert.” Quickly, she made her escape, not breathing easy until she was up the stairs, Samuel in his crib, and her back against her closed bedroom door. She looked to the moon, streaming a pale, early light across her desk and floor.

  She unbuttoned her gown, then turned and stared at her bedroom door. She frowned at the thought, but then moved and slowly slid the bolt across it. She never locked her door when Bryce was home. She did not fear Robert.

  Or did she? Not in the way that Reid Bannock induced a wave of terror. But in a scalp tingling, shiver-down-her-back way. She shrugged off the thought as she pulled off her dress and pulled on a night shift, and then crawled beneath the cool sheets, waiting for her body to create a cocoon of warmth.

  She’d have to rise and unbolt the door when she heard her husband come in downstairs. But for now, she only wanted to feel … warm.

  Today was the day. Moira St. Clair, now called Moira Colorado, was arriving in his new town. Reid leaned against the front wall of his store, one foot propped against it, and took a long pull from his cigar. Pretty Miss Gorder and her mother walked by, and Reid lifted his hat and nodded at them with a smile, but there was another woman on his mind. He watched the road for a while, then lifted his pocket watch out. Stage was still fifteen minutes or more out. Half the time, coaches were delayed by mud or broken wheels, what the locals claimed was a springtime malady that summer would soon cure.

  Dennis arrived and stood beside him, perusing the street. “I have good news.”

  “What is that?” Reid asked, still staring down the street.

  “The McAllans appear to be searching for treasure.”

  Reid eyed him. “Are you certain?”

  “Certain as can be. Read it for yourself.”

  Reid took the telegram from his hand, sent from the Circle M man he was paying handsomely to betray his employers. Weather better here—STOP—sun shining all day today—STOP—No rain yet. It was unsigned. But Reid lifted his chin and grinned. “Telegraph operator was probably looking at our man cross-eyed for sending such an odd note.” Sun shining all day meant the McAllans were on the move, searching for old Sam’s treasure again. No rain yet meant they hadn’t yet found anything, at least as far as his man could tell.

  Reid looked back down the road, wondering when the stage would arrive. All was coming together beautifully. Simply beautifully. He glanced at Dennis. “You’ll need to take care of Bryce’s detective immediately. Let him send one more telegram tonight, to buy us the most time.” He turned toward the man and stared at him intently. “But he must not recognize our visiting songstress as a St. Clair before he does so.”

  “How would he, given her new name?”

  “Chances are, he wouldn’t put two and two together, but I’m not taking any chances here. You understand?”

  “I understand, Boss.” Dennis departed then to see to Reid’s errands.

  Portly Henry Colvard, the opera house owner, came down the boardwalk, rubbing his hands. “You as excited as I to meet this Moira Colorado, Bannock?”

  “More so, I’d wager,” Reid allowed. “But I’ll wait to see her sing to introduce myself.”

  The stage turned the corner then, for once right on time. And as Colvard scurried across the street, Reid moved into the store, content to watch from the hidden shadows of his window as she emerged from the stagecoach. He feared for a moment that she would know he was here, be forewarned, but then realized that as far as she knew, he was still in prison. Surely, if she was communicating often with her sister, she would have been warned not to come to Leadville. Her very presence meant she was ignorant of that fact.

  He smiled and could see his thin-lipped reflection in the window. But then there she was, as stunning as he remembered, if not more so, her features now slightly more rounded, mature. His eyes narrowed as a thin man dressed as finely as a banker offered her his arm and paused before Colvard to introduce him to Moira. Who was her escort? A beau? Husband? Or merely a manager?

  It mattered not. Soon she would be his.

  Or she would die.

  After agreeing to meet Mr. Colvard for supper, Moira climbed the stairs beside Gavin. “Do you think we’ll come across Daniel Adams here? This is his employer’s hotel.”

  Gavin appraised her. “Perhaps,” he said, offering nothing more. He had been acting increasingly cold to her, saying little to her other than curt responses to her questions. Was it all due to Andrew Wiman’s flirtations? He had clearly been jealous and protective, but as they moved out on the morning train from Andrew’s town, something had also clearly slipped between them. In fact, there had not been one easy conversation or loving word between them for days.

  He opened the door for her and then turned to make sure a hotel servant was bringing in their six trunks from the coach. Moira glanced around, patting her hair, when her eyes rested upon the man behind the bar.

  He smiled at her, gently, the sadness in his eyes lifting for a moment.

  “Daniel,” she said, trying not to rush across the saloon floor. Only a few patrons were at tables, the afternoon not yet done.

  “Moira St. Clair,” he said, coming around the bar to greet her. He took her hands in both of his, which felt oddly warm and encompassing, and smiled down at her. “When I heard you and Gavin were coming, I could hardly believe it,” he said. “It seems a year ago that we were passengers aboard that ship.”

  “It’s not been even two months,” Gavin said from over her shoulder. He reached forward and Daniel shook his hand too.

  “And yet you’ve managed to launch Moira’s new career,” Daniel said in gentle admiration. “Have to hand it to you, Gavin, you must have the touch. Men have been talking about Moira’s arrival for weeks now.”

  “He is marvelous at this,” Moira enthused, anxious to seize any opportunity to bridge the gap between her and Gavin. She took his arm and smiled up at Gavin. “I’d be lost without him.”

  “I see you got the bar installed,” Gavin said, pulling away from her and going to the counter. Was it her imagination or was he eager to be away from her? He ran his hands down the smooth, highly varnished surface of the mahogany, shaking his head in admiration as he studied the back wall that was covered by the largest beveled-glass mirror Moira had ever seen outside a major city and flanked by massive, intricately carved columns. “It’s as beautiful as you claimed.”

  Moira smiled at Daniel and then realized he was staring at her hand, at her ring finger with the yellow diamond, not listening to Gavin. He started, suddenly recognizing both she and Gavin were looking to him, waiting for him to respond. He gestured toward the staircase, to a matronly woman awaiting them there. “Mrs. Duven will be happy to escort you to your room,” he said. “I’m certain you are weary after such a long coach ride.”

  Moira paused. He’d said, “room.” Did Daniel already think them married? Did he know of their falsehood? That they were sharing one room? Or did he think it was truly what it seemed? She hid her ring with her other hand, shoved down the agitating thoughts, turning toward him and forced a bright smile. “We will see you again, Daniel?”

  “I’m hard to miss, ’round here,” he said, giving her his own sad-eyed smile. What were his big brown eyes saying to her? Did she mistake the welcoming pull of them as a beseeching, encompassing note?

  Gavin squeezed her elbow then
, and Moira turned, to follow him upstairs.

  Halfway up, she looked back, and found Daniel staring after her. What was it about him that made her feel known, cared for, protected?

  Daniel was the first to break their reverie. “Good night, Moira. Welcome to Leadville.” His smile was thin. His eyes said more.

  “Good night, Daniel. Fancy this, meeting you a couple thousand miles from where we first met.”

  “Fancy that,” he said drily, his eyes not leaving hers.

  “The show is tomorrow at eight?” Moira said, peeling off her light jacket.

  “Eight sharp,” he said, turning over in their shared bed. Not even a kiss good night.

  Moira turned her back to him too, minutes later, and shivered under the thin hotel blanket. Gavin afforded her little warmth, making no move to touch her since they left Telluride. She stared out into the dark night, watching as the moon slipped behind swiftly moving clouds and then out again. Gavin was snoring softly behind her. How had he fallen asleep so quickly? She shivered again.

  She was losing him. Her plans to draw him closer had backfired. His mind was occupied with other things, his head constantly in the ledger that contained his other business, not her. How to bring him back? Close again? He was dear to her, his mind as engaging as his other delightful attentions. But he seemed to regard Andrew’s favor and her brief flirtations—even her friendly, chaste reunion with Daniel—as an egregious affront. Not that she could’ve done much to dissuade Andrew. He was, after all, the owner of the opera house. Had she offended him, he might have sent them on their way and not allowed her to perform at all! And had it not been Gavin who chose her gowns as “innocently seductive”? He traded on her flirtation! No, there was something more, something deeper shifting here …

  Moira looked over her shoulder at his sleeping form. Perhaps she had erred, opting to become entwined as his mistress. Perhaps she should have kept him at arm’s length, hooked on her pinky, as she had all the other men in her life. But there was something heroic about Gavin to her, beyond her ken, knowledgeable, enticing on a deeper level. She cradled her hands beneath her head and stared out at the moon again and again, watching as it crested and sank in the Western sky, then at the empty chair beside her. She wished her mother or sister were here, someone she could talk to. No, not Odessa. She’d lecture Moira. At least she could talk to her mother.

  Mama, I’ve made a mess of things.

  There’s always a way to clean up a mess. She could hear her mother’s voice, as clear as the day she left them.

  Not this one. I love him, Mama. Love! I never thought it’d happen to me.

  She imagined her mother looking over at him and then to the window, disappointment edging her lips a bit downward. This isn’t how I raised you, Moira. You’ve gone far astray. You’re off the path. It’s time. Come back to what you know is right and true.

  It’s not your path. I know that. But can’t my path be my own? Things change between generations, values—

  Values never change.

  My life is so different from yours. My world is—

  You live in the same world I lived in. God’s own. You are God’s own.

  God. I never had the faith you possessed. It was an heirloom, a tradition. No, I need to make my own way.

  Make your own way, dear daughter. But you’ll find it is much more painful and difficult if you ignore the God who walks the path with you.

  Moira closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she could not summon the voice of her mother again. She rolled onto her back and pushed her knuckles against her eyes, trying to ease the ache behind them. It was just as well. Mama will not tell me anything I wish to hear.

  Mama and Odessa had oft seen things the same way. There was much in her older sister that reminded Moira of her mother. Odessa adopted her parents’ faith. Moira increasingly thought it antiquated, a means to keep people in line, organized, accountable. Such things did not apply easily to the arts. The arts demanded freedom and flow, not formality and function. She turned again, and a moment later, again.

  “Are you ever going to go to sleep?” Gavin asked in a mumble, shortly before dawn.

  “I cannot.”

  He sighed. “You need your rest, Moira. It will affect your performance. And my head is throbbing.”

  A rush of anger washed through her. She sat up and leaned against the headboard, staring at him. “I can’t sleep because I am thinking of you.”

  He leaned a little her way and put a hand to his head. “Whatever you think of me, can we speak of it come morning?”

  “No, Gavin. I don’t believe we can. Something is wrong between us. Dreadfully wrong. What’s happened? A month ago, we were in love, the world before us!”

  He looked over at her and then sat up, leaning against the headboard too. He took her hand, and by the way he did it, Moira was cast between hope and horror. Slowly, he looked from her hand to her face again. “Moira, I’ve been infatuated with you since the day we met. But I have never professed love.”

  She pulled her hand away and folded her arms before her. “No, it has not been spoken between us. But what do you call this?” She lifted a hand to their shared hotel room.

  “Convenience. A logical next step. We are adults, living in an age of propriety. If we wanted ultimate access to one another, we had to pretend we were man and wife.”

  “Or we could become man and wife.”

  He scoffed and moved to face her. “Is that what this is about, Moira? You want to be married?”

  “Not to you,” she bit out, rising from the bed and pulling on a robe. She strode over to the window and stared outward. No, she would have to be honest, if this conversation were to get her anywhere. She took a breath. “I confess … I’ve imagined …” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Are we not quite well suited?”

  He stared at her, and his eyes softened as they used to when she first thought it love. He rose and came to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and kissing her head, softly, slowly. Her heart lifted, thinking he would recant his hurtful words, confess how he had erred. But then he said, “Moira, we are well suited. But I cannot marry a woman of the stage. Especially the common stage. My friends, my family—well, it would not be accepted.”

  Bewildered, Moira turned. “You … your family?” She frowned and whirled, sputtering in fury. “You have made me into … this. You made me Moira Colorado. You launched this career.”

  “And it is delightful. But this is what I do. Launch a business or career and then move on. I’m a builder, not a maintenance man. And you are well on your way, Moira.” He reached out as if to cradle her cheek, but she moved away.

  She could barely breathe. He was leaving her. She knew it now, rather than merely suspecting it. He was biding his time, searching for his opening to go. And now she had given it to him. She was merely a maintenance project to him.

  “Come now, deep down, didn’t you figure our alliance was temporary? A delightful sojourn shared. You must admit, it has been mutually profitable. You found a new chapter of your career, and I—”

  “Gained a mistress. A woman to put food on your table as well as warm your bed.”

  “And I learned much,” he corrected her gently, “about an area of commerce I knew little about, and about a woman I care for deeply.”

  “But do not love,” she said steadily.

  “No, Moira. I do not love you. I have yet to find out what that means.”

  She stepped forward and took his hand, lifting it to the center of her chest, covering it with her own. “But I do. This cannot be a mistake, Gavin. It cannot. I have felt the sparks of love before, but nothing like the sparking flames I’ve known when it comes to you. Perhaps it will only take a bit more time for you to understand what I already know. That we are meant to be together.”

  His face grew more troubled. “I see now that I have let this go on too long. Forgive me, dearest. For a time you saw it as I did. I’m certain of it. When we first shar
ed a bed, we were quite clear on things. Remember? You wanted to answer to no man. When did that change?”

  She paused. He was right. She had insisted on that. Why did it feel like such a long time ago that she dictated thusly? “Slowly,” she said carefully. “Over time. Day after day, the more we were together, the more I came to respect you, love you. We’ve been working together, dreaming together, building together.”

  “We’re building a business together,” he said ruefully. “The business being ‘Moira Colorado.’ Our intimate associations are simply a side benefit of that enterprise.”

  “A side benefit,” she whispered.

  He stared at her for a long moment. “I guess it is true. That all women eventually equate the body with the heart.”

  She released his hand, the shadow of devastation closing in. “No. I equate sharing a life with love, whether as a friend or a lover.”

  “Then I beg you to consider me friend, as well as lover.”

  She turned away, rubbing her temples with her left hand. “That is how my mother once described my father in her journals. Friend. Lover. Spouse. That is where I have erred. You have never been my friend. And never truly intended to be my spouse.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “I will pack my things and be off in the morning. I can hire a man to be your bodyguard.”

  “That is what you want, isn’t it, Gavin? To be able to say I sent you off? So you can shrug off any guilt?”

  “I assume no guilt, Moira,” he said, straightening his shoulders.

  “No, of course you don’t.”

  He moved across the room and opened a trunk.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice rose several notches.

  “Packing. I’ll catch the first train out of here so my presence does not torment you any longer. I’ll depart, and you can take the day to collect yourself before your performance.”

  Her performance? Walking onto the stage was the last thing she could think of. “I will send word that I am ill and incapable of singing tonight.”