Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  "Need something, miss?"

  Odessa gasped and whirled, then saw the night nurse looking in on her from the doorway. "No, no, Nurse. I just have a bit of indigestion."

  "Let me go and fetch some Manitou mineral water. It will settle your stomach quickly."

  "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

  The nurse scurried out and Odessa sat there, brushing her feet over the rough edge of the floor where two planks joined. Her eyes shifted from the dark hallway to her pillow. She considered how long it would take for the woman to return with her mineral water and, deciding to risk it, slowly eased the paper from beneath her pillow.

  "Why me?" she had asked Bryce earlier, before they left the porch. "Why leave this to me?" He had shrugged. "As I said, Sam kept his own counsel." He shifted and Odessa saw that he colored a bit at the neck. "Probably his own crazy kind of matchmaking-give me the land, and you the rationale to find your way there."

  Odessas eyes ran over the now-familiar words.

  Hearing the nurse on the stair, she hurriedly folded and stashed the sheet of paper beneath her pillow again.

  "Thank you, Nurse," she said, accepting the glass of bubbling water. She swallowed the first gulp and tried to hide her distaste. It smelled and tasted of sulphur, or rotten eggs. For heaven's sake, if the eggs of her supper hadn't managed to make her purge, this was bound to. Still, she gulped the rest down and sat there, staring at her glass.

  "There now, did it help?"

  Odessa considered it, then burped from the bubbles. The two women laughed together. "Oh, now I feel better! Thank you," Odessa said in dismissal. "Surely I can sleep now."

  "Very good," said the nurse, and with that, she disappeared down the hall.

  It was troubling, this. Sam had been doing better. Had he somehow known he was dying, seen what others could not? Had he summoned the strength to have an attorney call upon him, draw up a will? It would've had to have been the day after they'd met! Why her? Was it because he merely wished to give her something, something to think about beyond this place, this time of healing? She had to admit that having something to occupy her mind during the long, languid hours at the sanatorium was a gift. Or had he intended to give her impetus to regain her health and make the journey south to the beautiful Sangre de Cristos? Or was it indeed some sort of mischievous matchmaking? She sighed and settled back under the covers.

  But sleep felt far from her reach indeed. Because all she could think of was the night that Sam O'Toole had died. Over and over, she searched her blurry memory, trying to re-create the sounds that had drawn her forward in fear. She could've been wrong. She might've misinterpreted what she heard.

  But if she hadn't, were she and Bryce in grave danger?

  Chapter

  At a table of sixteen in the massive dining hall of Glen Eyrie, all eyes hovered on Moira St. Clair. She held them with the ease of a vivacious teacher surrounded by devoted students, dragging her long lashes upward to meet the gaze of fascinated gentlemen, deferring repeatedly to Queen, her hostess, until the woman was as smitten as the men, and complimenting the others, easing them into conversation until each of them felt she was somehow more than just by being in Moiras presence.

  How simple this is, Moira thought, well practiced in the ways of social etiquette and niceties, knowing how to make friends of both men and women. It was a dangerous walk, using coquettish ways with the men that made them puff their chests out like strutting animals, while befriending the women so they did not assume defensive positions against her. But by the time dinner was finished, Moira felt in command of her new little world, small that it might be. She knew that numerous invitations would follow to dine with the others, if not to return to Glen Eyrie. In Philadelphia, she had been the debutante to watch. If her future was to unfold as she wished, she would have to make sure all eyes continued to do so.

  She laughed, listening intently to the older woman across the table. But she could feel the heat of a man's gaze upon her, and slowly, methodically moved her eyes across the silk-fringed tapestry tablecloth, past empty silver platters being lifted by uniformed butlers, to his chest, to his shoulders, and finally, his eyes. She let them rest there a moment, fully taking in for the first time another newcomer to the Springs, Jesse McCourt. An actor, of all things, en route to Denver, merely stopping for a night to visit a relative among them. Deliciously talking to the general about bringing his troupe here for the opening of the opera house.

  He was lovely, a man who would fill several slots on her dance card at home, sporting a strong cleft chin and warm eyes that covered her with a searching gaze. His chin reminded her of Reid, and just in time, she looked up and to her left to catch the sheriff laugh at the end of Queen's story and then smile down on Moira.

  It was then that she felt Reid's big hand move under the table and brush against her thigh. He was looking away from her now, but his hand pressed, skirted, and then clamped down around her leg. She froze, aghast at his forward move, and flitted her eyes about the table, feeling a sudden blush rise from her neck and begin a steady ascent up her face.

  Jesse continued to study her. "General," he said, placing a napkin on the table as his host had done before him. "It is true you have in your possession the finest of Cuba's cigars, or is that mere rumor?"

  General Palmer laughed and sat back against his massive, handcarved chair, a diminutive king wielding his power. "As ever, Mr. McCourt, your timing is perfect. Come," he said, lifting a hand in the air in invitation, "let us retire to gentlemen's quarters and leave the women to their idle pleasantries."

  Reid's hand abruptly left Moira's thigh and she rose in turn, wondering if his hot fingers had left wrinkles in her teal silk. He rose to follow his host, General Palmer. She eyed Jesse across the table and gave him the tiniest of nods before the men all headed off as a group. Moira turned to join Queen, taking her hostess's offered arm as she led the way to the blue room, the women's group following the men.

  "Are you all right, my dear?" Queen asked.

  "Of course. Why do you ask?"

  "You appear a bit flushed."

  Moira smiled over at her hostess, a small woman. "It must be all that fine food and drink. It really was amazingly delicious. I don't know how you can manage to bring all the comforts of the East way out here in the West. I feel as if I'm in a dream."

  Queen smiled. "A princess in her castle? I confess I feel the same. I thought it a bit much but the general insisted."

  "A castle fit for a queen," Moira deferred with a grin and a nod. "Your king must be sad indeed when you all depart." She thought of the three small children in stiffly ironed dresses and perfectly curled hair, paraded through the dining hall by a nursemaid. Later, they had peeked out from a loft, watching the adults at dinner as if observing a grand banquet play. They had been led off, all three faces glum, when their nurse discovered them again and pulled them into the shadows. It reminded Moira of her and Odessa when they were small, always wishing, wishing to be big.

  "It is not as either of us had envisioned. But the doctors tell me my heart cannot endure this altitude, and my husband's heart has belonged to this city since the first day he laid out the streets with the surveyors."

  "I am deeply sorry."

  Queen eyed her with one eyebrow lifted and gave her a small smile. "We make do. the general will sojourn east to visit us. I fear I shall not return again."

  "I hope that does not prove true."

  Obviously growing weary of the subject, Queen said, "It is our understanding that the heirs of St. Clair Press wish to establish a bookshop here in the Springs."

  "Indeed. My father wishes to expand his enterprise, not only publishing, but selling his wares. Since my sister was to come here for treatment of consumption, he thought it might occupy my brother while she convalesced."

  "And it sounds as if your brother is in need of ... occupation."

  Moira paused, careful to choose her words wisely. "It is always best for Dominic to be engage
d, using his hands as well as his mind. Give him a hammer, nails, and some wood and he'd have our father's first bookshop built in a few weeks."

  "He sounds like a true pioneer. But why begin from scratch if there is already something in place to be utilized? The general will enjoy having a fine bookshop in town," Queen said. "Come. You must meet Amy Brennan. Her husband owns three square blocks of land downtown and will aid you."

  Moira smiled and squeezed her hostess's arm. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Palmer." She put a hand on her heart. "That would be an answer to our prayers."

  They swept down the massive hall, then down the wide, cascading stairs edged with stone banisters, turning, then turning again until they were again in the grand reception hall. One corner of the wide entry led to the stairs, another to a small front parlor, another to the blue room, and still another to a welcome expanse of solarium glass and a warm, wood-paneled den with a massive fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth already.

  The men moved off with a wave and a nod to the women, while the women turned into a north-facing room lit with a hundred candles. As Queen entered, a woman at the grand piano began playing. Moira felt quick, hot tears lace her lashes. It was as though she were truly entering a grand home in Philadelphia-it made her miss all that she'd left behind. Perhaps she had been wrong about this rough, unsettled country. Perhaps there really was a place for her here.

  "Here, Miss St. Clair, please sit with me and Amy," Queen directed, depositing her upon a small divan with the plain-looking woman she had met earlier.

  "Mrs. Brennan," Moira said, giving her a warm smile. "I'm afraid we were seated at opposite ends of the table. Please, tell me all about yourself How did you come to be one of Colorado's first residents?"

  "I've always been a Colorado resident, Miss St. Clair," she said, eyeing her with the look of a woman on guard. Clearly, she was well used to the long nose and narrowed eyes of those from the East, scrutinizing pioneers as some odd specimens.

  "You have?" Moira gushed, barely letting a breath escape. "You can teach me so much! I am desperate to learn about this new land. It is frightfully beautiful, but a bit overwhelming. Do you ever get used to it?"

  "In time," Mrs. Brennan said drily, thawing just a little bit in spite of herself.

  Moira kept up her efforts. "Please, grant me a bit of wisdom. What is the most important thing I must remember?"

  "Keep the edges of your skirts out of the mud," Mrs. Brennan said.

  Moira laughed as if they were sharing a private jest, choosing to ignore the patronizing snippet, and Mrs. Brennan relented a bit. "Mrs. Palmer said that you might be of assistance to me and my brother."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes," Queen said, rejoining them on the settee after seeing to the other women. "Miss St. Clair's brother is seeking retail space downtown for a bookshop. I think a bookshop would be just the kind of establishment that the general would like to see, don't you agree?"

  "Indeed," Mrs. Brennan said with a nod, eyebrows raised. Moira could see she felt caught, like a fly in a spider's web.

  "Mr. Brennan has that quaint little shop on Tejon almost complete, does he not?'

  "I believe he does."

  "Wouldn't that be a good location for a bookshop?"

  "I believe it has a tenant already, Queen," Mrs. Brennan said, shifting now with discomfort.

  "Oh," Queen said with a slight pout. "A pity, that. To whom?"

  "A merchant of dry goods."

  "Hmm. Another merchant of dry goods." She let the comment sit for several moments.

  "Of course, I could speak to Mr. Brennan about returning the merchant's funds and selling him another plot."

  Queen brightened and reached across to place a hand on Mrs. Brennan's arm. Moira noted the large ruby and emeralds that she wore across her short, stubby fingers, felt the visceral pull and might of the woman, and knew she was watching the skilled efforts of a mentor. "That is a fine idea, Amy! A fine idea. I always say you are one of the most clever of my friends here in Colorado. The general will be most pleased."

  "You saw him hand off two envelopes to Bryce McAllan?" the man asked.

  A shorter man nodded. "Day of the funeral. At the grave site."

  "You think it's related to O'Toole calling him in?"

  "Hard to consider many other options."

  The first man paced, chin in hand. "You certain it's worth pursuit?"

  The second man shrugged. "All I know is that O'Toole brought in the highest-grade ore the county assessor had ever seen."

  The taller man nodded. "We have O'Toole's signature. We can get to the mine. It'll be ours before months end."

  "Unless he willed the mine to McAllan."

  "Has McAllan laid claim to it?"

  "Not yet. But he's not exactly in miner condition."

  "No matter. While he's laid up, we'll just see if it's as good as the rumors say it might be."

  "Only one problem."

  "What's that?"

  "O'Toole apparently hid the entrance."

  "That's impossible."

  "Maybe, maybe not. He didn't mine much of the ore. Consumption made him too poorly. And that creek runs the full length of his property. All five miles of it."

  "Five miles!"

  "Five miles, winding tighter than a rattler under a rock."

  The taller man began pacing again. "Head down now. See if you can find the entrance. Maybe it's not as difficult as they say."

  "And if it is?"

  "Maybe McAllan holds the keys." The two shared a meaningful look, and the taller man moved to the door. He was stopped by the other. "And when he returns, see if you can persuade the honorable esquire to tell you what those envelopes contained." He slid open a drawer, withdrew a pouch of coins, and tossed them to the other. "There. That ought to prove persuasive enough."

  "You sing?" Queen Palmer asked, moving her head closer to speak in a tone barely discernible above Amy Brennan's soprano.

  "Me? A bit," Moira deferred. "Forgive me. I was humming, wasn't I?"

  Queen nodded, her brown eyes searching Moiras.

  "It is a favorite of mine, this song. I could not help myself."

  "Then you shall sing the next." Queen patted her arm.

  "Oh, I cannot. I did not bring any music with me."

  "Pay it no heed. My pianist knows all the best. Opera, hymns, folk tunes," she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Moiras heart beat a bit faster. Opera? Hymns? Folk tunes? She studied the woman at the piano with renewed interest and tried not to cringe when Amy sang a flat when a sharp should have been met.

  Reid had told her that Queen once sang opera, but had been forbidden to take on any duty remotely strenuous following the frightening episode with her heart.

  The ladies applauded as Amy completed her song. Moira could hear the gentlemen down the hall laughing uproariously, their laughter fading like fog under sun.

  Queen rose. "Thank you so very much, Amy. Would anyone else favor us with a song? Or a bit of drama?" She looked about, but no one rose to her invitation. "No? Then I must invite our newest companion, Moira St. Clair, to come and share her music with us."

  Moira paused, deferential, poised, waiting for just the right second to rise and join her hostess. Her mind cascaded through the potential songs she might sing, dismissing one as too ostentatious, another as too vain. Amy had just sung opera, and it would be dangerous to set up a comparison, so she would select something less vaunted. She needed these people, every one of them, as her friends. It was then that it came to her.

  Moira turned to the pianist. "Do you know `Funiculi Finicula ?" she asked in a whisper.

  The young woman smiled and gave her a quick nod.

  She paused. "I shall sing the English version, I believe."

  "Understood."

  "In honor of a new freedom I feel in this country," Moira said, "please permit me to share with you a favorite folk tune of mine."

  She began to sing, noting the three Palmer girls in s
tarched white nightshirts, now with hair pinned in curls to their head, peering in the doorway again, obviously delighted by the happy tempo. Moira smiled at them, again remembering happier days with Odessa, dancing together to the happy tune of "Funiculi Finicula" in the center of the parlor floor, their mother at the piano, singing. She remembered her parents as young and hale and hearty, the boys constantly at play all about them, the future spreading before them like some glorious, undiscovered road. Had her mother known any heartbeat's pause, or had she always been of the ever-forward mind-set?

  Moira remembered her mother, her distant father, remembered what it felt like to wrap her arms around each of them at once, nestled between them. She knew it forced an extra edge of desperate joy, a defiant choice to her tone, which added a jaunty attraction to it. She imagined her family again in that parlor, all together, all well. Before death. Before so much death ...

  The song now complete, she let her arm drop to her side. There was a breath in the room, then two. Then grins and applause erupted in the grand hall of Glen Eyrie's castle, the men drawn out of their den-the children shooed up the stairs-the women rising to their feet.

  And Moira St. Clair knew she had arrived.

  Dominic stared at the newspaper on the cell floor, watching the shadows dance from its curling far edge. The only light was from the lantern on the deputy's desk. The man now snored softly in his chair, his head leaning against the wall behind him, his knees sprawled. The sound grated at Dominic's ears. He forced himself to stay still, to not get up and resume his pacing, worrying about Odessa and Moira.... He lay on his side on the cot, one arm tucked beneath his head. He looked about the wooden walls, devoid of any artwork, and thought of his home in Philadelphia, with its fine papered parlor and vast dining room that had harbored many an author or publishing associate. But those were memories ofyears past. More and more, the nation's publishing empires had moved north to New York, and the flow of visiting businessmen and authors slowed to a trickle. But still, his father remained as stubbornly attached to Philadelphia and St. Clair Press as he had been to Dominic's mother.