HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  The men did so, and Dominic did not resist. There would be some relief in the pain, the punishment. He thought about Manuel’s words, about the anger within him that had driven so many away … How many had he failed? How many promises had he broken? He’d told his own mother countless times he would never fight again. His sisters. He had promised his father to look after his sisters, and he no longer even knew where they were, what they were doing, if they were alive.

  The first whip strike made him feel as if he had been punched in the gut. He fought for breath, his mind trying to absorb the pain, make sense of it. The crew around him was silent. Only Alejandro laughed as he cast the whip toward Nic again. Nic gasped for breath at last, ashamed at the sudden tears in his eyes. But he could not help it—a third tendril sliced his back. He imagined he could hear the skin splitting, felt the warm rush of blood down his back. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming and clung to the mast as if it were a lifeline, digging his fingernails in with each strike, concentrating on the feel of the damp, pulpy wood. He pushed his forehead against the mast, not wanting to give Alejandro the satisfaction of seeing him pull his head back in agony.

  At last Alejandro finished his ten lashes. There was a brief pause as the whip changed hands. Nic felt distant, knowing he was losing consciousness. The next lashes came quickly, one after another, as if whoever struck him now only wished it quickly over. Probably the first mate. He lost count, wondering if this torture would ever end. And with the next strike, a wall of black rose up and claimed him.

  He came to and screamed when two of the crew dumped a bucket of salt water over him. The other sailors dispersed, but Alejandro stood to one side, arms crossed, smiling as Nic focused on him. He tried to clamp his lips shut, cease his humiliating show of weakness, but his jaw seemed locked open—the stinging, raw pain in his back was simply too intense to do anything else.

  Alejandro stepped forward. “Next time you will remember to fight me face-to-face as a man,” he whispered. “And if you are as smart as the captain says, on shore.”

  “Get away from him, go,” Manuel said.

  Nic closed his eyes and leaned his forehead back against the mast, trying to rise above the pain enough to think.

  “The salt water is harsh,” Manuel said sorrowfully. “But it will help your wounds to heal and not get infected. Here, I have some water for you.” Nic turned miserably toward the coal boss and accepted the drink from the tin cup. Never had he felt so weak, so helpless.

  “I will be back to tend to you.”

  “Don’t bother,” Nic rasped. He only wanted to be alone.

  “It is no bother.”

  Manuel returned around midnight, as a sliver moon climbed higher in the sky off the starboard edge, and off to port, the brightest stars battled for their share of the light. In spite of himself, Nic was glad for his return because he was desperate for a drink. All the other sailors, by captain’s orders, stayed away from him. But Manuel apparently had permission.

  Nic noisily gulped the water down, and Manuel went to fetch more. After Nic finished the second cup, Manuel held up a pail of what looked like thick grease—sailor’s balm. “I’ll put it on your cuts. It will heal faster.”

  “Leave me be.”

  “I must. Captain’s orders,” Manuel said with a shrug. He disappeared around Nic’s back. Nic shifted his weight to his left foot—or what he thought was his left foot, since his feet had fallen asleep an hour or so ago—and braced for Manuel’s touch. He thought it would be almost as painful as the lashes, but it was surprisingly painless. In a minute or so, Manuel had covered half his back.

  “The Christ suffered wounds such as this,” he said.

  “I do not wish to hear it,” Nic said tiredly.

  “He bore this, and worse, for you. So that you might be free.”

  “Manuel—”

  “Our God understands our pain, reaches out to us through it. Whether it be a whipping or a loss—”

  “Enough!”

  “Yes,” Manuel said, finishing covering the wounds on his shoulder and purposefully twisting his words. “It was enough. Enough for all. Enough for any. Buenas noches, hermano.”

  Good night, brother. Why call him brother? He was no kin to him. Why wouldn’t the man just leave him alone?

  Chapter 25

  Odessa had just settled Samuel into his crib for his afternoon nap, when Cassie—a neighbor girl who walked over on occasion to help—came running upstairs.

  “Miz M, sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there’s somethin’ goin’ on with the boys. You better’d come quick.”

  Odessa peeked over her shoulder at the baby, who was turning over and whimpering in his sleep as she closed the door behind her. With luck, he’d go back to sleep, even if he cried for a few minutes. “Keep an ear out for him, will you, Cassie?”

  “Sure ’nough, ma’am.”

  Odessa hurried down the stairs and out onto the porch. She looked to the stables, where it appeared all the men were gathering, facing Bryce. She muttered a brief prayer for protection and then groaned within. They’d just gotten Robert off and returned home. Couldn’t they have a time of peace? Was there something wrong with the horses he’d brought in? Heavens, she hoped not.

  She gathered her skirts and went down the stairs, then over the trail that led to the stables. She slowed her pace as she neared, not wanting to appear as if she intended to interfere, only support. She couldn’t see Bryce anymore, just the circled heads of the men, all in varying heights. When a couple of men noticed she was coming, they turned back to the circle and whispered, and all of them turned to watch her approach. She paused, seeing for the first time the horror and sorrow on their faces. Slowly, she made her way inside their group, watching as Bryce rose, grim-faced.

  On the ground were the broken bodies of Leander and Owen, two men who had been with the Circle M for more than two years. She gasped and brought a hand to her mouth. “Wh-what happened?” she cried, rushing to the men, kneeling beside them. Both were clearly beyond help, hours dead. She fought the urge to touch them, make sure there wasn’t some horrible mistake—

  “Looks like they encountered an accident in the Little Horn Valley,” Bryce said, laying a comforting hand on her shoulders. “We think they got too close to the edge of the trail and some rocks gave way. They were found at the bottom of that bluff.”

  “That’s a two-hundred-foot drop,” Odessa whispered. She touched one man’s shoulder and then the other, tears dripping down her face. They’d sat at her table, laughing and eating, just yesterday! Set out yesterday afternoon. “Why would they both fall?” she said.

  “Maybe a cougar spooked the horses,” Doc said.

  Bryce pushed back his hair in agitation and placed his hat atop his head again. “Never seen a horse scared enough to do that. Cougar or not.”

  Bryce looked down at the men. “Whatever happened, we’ll never know. Please,” he said, gesturing to four men on the end. “Take them into the stables. To the far end, where it’s empty, so the stench won’t upset the horses. You, Dietrich, head to town and fetch the undertaker. He’ll see to the rest. We’ll bury them on the hill.”

  Some of the men turned with Odessa to glance at Cemetery Hill, the spot Bryce referred to, a half mile away. There, perhaps twenty men and women and children had been buried over the years, victims of illness or accident or age. That was where Leander and Owen would be laid to rest. Forever.

  Odessa moved away, crying now in earnest. Bryce fell into step beside her, again lacing his arm around her shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Dess. Accidents happen. On a ranch this size—”

  “Wh-what happened to the horses?”

  “The men left them at the bottom of that valley. They’re too heavy to move. We’ll leave them to let nature take its course.”

  She nodded her agreement, then glanced back toward the bodies. “Family. We need to inform their families. I know Leander had a sister in Santa Fe. Did Owen have anyone?”

&
nbsp; “Parents,” Bryce said, his tone grim. “In Denver. I have information on all of them, in the study. I’ve always made a point of keeping a record on employees’ next of kin, in case the time came …”

  “In case they died,” she whispered. She sniffled and wiped her eyes. “In four years, we’ve never lost a man, Bryce. Never. Not since Nels.”

  He paused and looked her in the eye. “Have we heard from the detective lately, up in Leadville?”

  She knew what he was thinking. In losing Leander and Owen, and after sending the three others to Spain, they were five men down. She shook her head to stave off a shiver of fear. “Neighbors dropped off a telegram this morning. Reid is apparently the model citizen up in Leadville.”

  Bryce shook his head, as if he, too, were shaking off the eerie thoughts that Reid was behind this latest heartache, and they continued their walk to the house. “It’s just a tragic accident, I guess.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “We’ve been fortunate, this spate of years, not to lose a man. Other operations this size … Well, I’d say we’ve been blessed, in comparison.”

  “Up until now,” she said.

  “Up until now,” he repeated. “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes.”

  “But that’s hard, when He takes,” she said, crying again. “There’s been a whole lot of taking going on. The horses. And now these men. Bryce.” She shook her head. “These were good men, fine men. I’m going to miss them.”

  He gathered her into his arms and kissed her hair tenderly. “Me, too. Me, too, Dess.”

  Reid and Moira rode into a small camp, where six men sat around a campfire. As one, the group rose, hands on the guns at their hips, but relaxed when they saw Reid. They greeted him and Dennis and Smythe behind Moira.

  “Who’s that?” one called, nodding at Moira.

  “Don’t recognize her?” Reid asked, going to her and pulling her down off the saddle. She sagged against him, fighting the desire to fall into unconsciousness and escape, at least in some fashion, this nightmare as her body screamed in agony. “Why, this is Moira Colorado.”

  “Moira Colorado?” said the closest one incredulously. “You’re joking. I’ve seen her poster. Moira Colorado is beautiful.” He stepped closer and peered at her. “Looks like the Indians tried to scalp her and failed.”

  The others laughed and Moira could hear Reid try to cover his own chortle. “Now, now. Give her a moment and a bit to eat and maybe she’ll give us a song. That’ll show you.”

  She slowly raised her eyes to meet him. “I’ll never sing for you.”

  His own gaze hardened. “Don’t be so sure about that.” He took her arm and led her to a log by the fire and sat her down roughly. “Give her some food.”

  As he strode away, Moira was careful not to meet the eyes of any of the other men. In a camp of eight men riding with Reid, her burns were the least of her problems. She could feel the heat of their gazes, enticed somehow, intrigued, regardless of how she appeared.

  A man handed her a tin plate, filled with beans and a biscuit. She took a bite of the hardened bread, conscious she needed it to give her some strength to fight, but her stomach whirled. Reid sat across from her, eating and listening to the men tell him of their progress. They were a day’s ride from the Circle M, and all was in place, they said. Three men had left with Bryce’s brother on an eastbound train and hadn’t returned. They’d killed two others and assumed those at the Circle M considered it an accident. So the ranch was down to seven ranch hands and Bryce.

  “Good, it’ll be an even fight, with a slight edge in our favor,” Reid said. “We’ll take out the lawmen as planned and there will be no one to ride to the McAllans’ rescue.”

  Moira turned and vomited on the other side of the log.

  “Hey, Moira Colorado,” called a man, laughing. “You hate Jed’s food or are you expectin’?”

  The others joined him in his laughter. But as Moira dared to meet Reid’s gaze, she saw that he had not. Fury washed over him and he rose, slowly, hands clenching and unclenching. He strode over to her, grabbed her arm and yanked her upward. She shuddered at the pain that shot through her tender skin, nearly causing her to pass out. He hauled her forward, and she could barely keep her feet. They rushed through the woods and in a moment were beside a small creek. He pushed her to the ground.

  In agonizing pain, Moira turned to look at him and she screamed. He was coming at her with a knife. She tried to crawl away, but he was on her in a second, winding what was left of her hair around his hand and pulling her up short. She was crying and gradually knew he wasn’t bent on slitting her throat, but instead on cutting her remaining hair away. “You had to go and do it, didn’t you, Moira?” he seethed. He sawed at her hair. “You had to go and be that girl on the stage, instead of my girl. How much might’ve been different, had you only agreed to be mine in the first place? We might still be back in the Springs, married and raising a family. But instead, we’re here.” He finished cutting the hair and threw it to the ground before her, long, thick waves of blonde, no longer hers. She reached out trembling fingers to touch a few strands.

  “Were you really married to Knapp? Are you his widow, saddled with child, or simply his whore?”

  Moira was weeping so hard she couldn’t respond. What was the truth? Had Gavin used her like a common harlot? Had she really allowed that? Mama … God … help me …

  But then he was at her skirts. “You wanted to be a showgirl, you will be a showgirl. No more high falutin’ Moira Colorado. You’re going to be Moira St. Clair and get all the accolades you deserve for who you really are.” He cut away her burned skirts, bringing it to a high V at the knee. She gasped in pain as he brushed past the burn on her leg, but he ignored her. He rose and pulled a kerchief from around his neck and then bent to the creek to wet it.

  Then he took her chin and washed her face, gentling a bit. “Quit your crying, Moira,” he said. “You don’t look so bad. Just a bit like springtime sheep, shorn of their thick coats.” He turned her face and rubbed some more, then looked down her neck. “Those burns will heal in time. You’ll be scarred, which might hurt your business.”

  “Bu-business?” she said.

  “When you go to the cathouse,” he said, staring her in the eye. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty enough to draw them in, despite your scars. Once your hair grows back, of course, and you’re not fat with child.” He gave her a false smile. “You didn’t think that you’d resume your previous life, did you? Take a real stage? No decent man will have you now. You’re used goods.”

  He’s right, she thought desolately. No stage. No man. No future. Even Daniel, the last good and decent man she had met, her protector, was dead and gone. Because of her. She was alone.

  Reid hauled her back to her feet. “Now you’ll go back and give those men as many songs as I tell you to sing,” he said lowly in her ear. “Or I’ll give you a foretaste of your nights to come.”

  Chapter 26

  Reid hauled her back to camp and set her before the bonfire. The men laughed and taunted her, but she couldn’t hear them clearly. It was as if they were a half mile distant, rather than several feet away.

  Moira contemplated throwing herself into the fire, to finish what had begun four nights ago. To end this horror, to prevent Reid from using her to get to Odessa and Bryce …

  “Give us a song,” Reid demanded from the other side.

  Moira stared at the flames. Mama, I want to be with you.

  Call on God, child. Only God can save you now.

  God doesn’t want me. I am nothing. No longer His. So far away from His …

  He is the Redeemer. He is grace.

  I AM grace.

  Moira sucked in her breath, hearing the deep, warm voice in her head, clearly no longer her mother’s. More elegant than Jesse’s. Deeper and lower than any bass. Song, personified.

  I AM grace, He said again. You are covered by Grace.

  Not I, Lord. You don’t know how
far I’ve gone, what I’ve done … You can’t cover me.

  I know all. I have already covered you, through and through. I redeem all to those who call on My name. You are not alone. Call on Me.

  Not alone. Just as Daniel had said …

  “Savior,” she whispered. No man but He could rescue her now. “Jesus,” she said.

  Reid laughed. But he rose and there was no laughter in his eyes. “Shut up, Moira. This is not a church. Sing us a song.”

  Sing them My song.

  His song? Moira’s mind cascaded through time, through years of practice beside pianos across the world. Through bar songs, operas, and musicals, and back, back to the songs of her youth, to the songs that brought her first accolades, songs that made her father smile. Church songs. Hymns.

  Redeemer. Redeemer of murderers, slavers, thieves. Grace. He is grace. Amazing grace …

  “… how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” Her voice, just gaining strength, cracked, and she paused.

  Reid was moving around the fire, advancing on her. Lost, so lost. Just like she was. Blinded. For how long? Longer than she had been lost—

  A man rose, as if to stop him, but Reid barreled past him, knocking him to the side. He reached out and grabbed her throat, but it was as if she wasn’t really here. As if she were receding, melding into the wind that was kicking up, disappearing among the trees … as if she could see herself but no longer feel any of her pain, any of her sorrow, only her joy, her glory, her peace.

  It will be all right, Moira. Sing them My song.

  “A song, Moira. The first you were to sing in Leadville. The song you began—”

  My song.

  “I once was lost, but now am found—”

  He struck her fast and she whirled, down to the ground, suddenly feeling every bit of her pain again. “Was blind, but now I see,” she whispered and then, blessedly, gave in to oblivion.