Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  Friends had encouraged him to join them in New York, but still he stayed. The country was young, he said, too young to become so centralized in any industry. He turned a blind eye to the purchasing might that the combined conglomerate wielded, stuck, as if his feet had been planted beside his wife's grave.

  And he not only expected Dominic to open a bookshop here in Colorado-Dominic sighed. There was so much Father wanted him to do. On his shoulders rested the hopes of five dead children. Of a dead wife. Of two daughters, now Dominic's primary concern.

  But he was in a jail cell in his new hometown.

  He stared at the newspaper, shadows dancing, laughing at him.

  He closed his eyes, willing strength into his movements, and then he rose, bending over to reach for the paper that Sheriff Bannock had thrown in. Where was the good sheriff now? Looking in on Moira, as promised? Where? How?

  He gripped the rough-ground paper, symptomatic of the West's paper poverty, and pulled it closer, eyes not yet focusing on the words.

  Father, you knew I wasn't up to the task....

  "Newcomer Dominic St. Clair, heir apparent to the St. Clair Press enterprise of Philadelphia and hopeful book merchant in Colorado Springs, was placed under arrest today...."

  I am a man. But a man who wants to make his own way ...

  "St. Clair was arrested for disorderly conduct on Colorado Springs' Wahsatch Avenue, for brawling with three miners visiting our fair city from ..."

  I cannot bear the entire burden of the St. Clair clan. I cannot be the one hope ... I've already failed you.

  Chapter

  8

  "You are curiously silent," Moira said to Reid. The lanterns, strung out on arcing metal bands before the horses, barely illuminated ten feet in front of them. The miles between Glen Eyrie and the city seemed to crawl by, but Moira was comforted by a carriage both before and behind them, other guests of the Palmers who had declined their kind invitation to stay the night in the castle. The weather was unseasonably warm, the mud puddles no longer frosting over, even in the cool of night.

  He smiled over at her. "Forgive me. Concentrating on the road. If we suffer an accident, my lone prisoner might throttle me."

  Moira smiled, covering a pang of pain at his reference to Dominic. What were they to do if Reid refused to honor his promise the next day? They were on their own here in the West, something neither of them were fully prepared for. Moira constantly caught herself looking over her shoulder, looking for her father, who had always been there.

  "I had no idea, Moira."

  Moira focused on his words again, embarrassed to note he had been speaking and she had been too lost in thought to hear him. "No idea?"

  "No idea you were such an accomplished singer. When you sang that song ..."

  Moira studied him in the yellow, pale light. He appeared visibly moved. But this was the man who had made inappropriate advances beneath the Palmers' table. Dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous person she had ever met, capable of wielding power over her and hers that she did not care to fully acknowledge.

  He coughed, clearing his throat, and glanced down at her again. "It was perhaps the most delightful thing I've ever witnessed."

  She stared into his eyes, melting in admiration and pleasure, but knew that behind them was a steely strength that was a threat. She had to tread carefully here, like a mule on a high, narrow mountain path, a precipice on either side.

  "You honor me with your favor, Sheriff," she said quietly, not too warm, leaning slightly away.

  "The favor is unavoidable. You are as talented as you are beautiful, Moira St. Clair. There has never been a woman who has caught my eye as completely and suddenly as you."

  Moira smiled. "Sheriff, I know many a woman would be so honored by your words. But I am ... conflicted. Like a bird caught in a cage. Just as my brother is now in your cage." She stared at him until he again glanced her way.

  He caught her eye and held it a moment, then looked back to the horses. "I'll go and release him tonight," he said, voice raw, naked, hopeful.

  "No," she returned softly. "Tomorrow morning, as you promised. Then, with my brother's blessing, we shall see where this leads. He is the man my father entrusted with my guardianship. Would it be befitting to proceed without him?"

  Reid glowered over his reins, not answering. He knew she had him. He had made gains this day, but in holding her brother, the brother she wished him to befriend, he had lost. How to free a prisoner and gain his permission to court his sister at once?

  She could see him churning the idea over in his mind. But he was not like the boys at home who had lined up to court her, young men of means seeking a potential bride. He was a man. Life-hardened. Moira felt his experience, his age like an iron rod within him and knew she must proceed carefully.

  Soon, the dim oil lamps of the Springs' downtown came into view as they turned around a curve in the road. In minutes, they had crossed the rough, narrow bridge and emerged on Cascade and soon reached the Antlers Hotel. Reid pulled his horse to a stop, and the mare stood there, breath crystallizing in the night air.

  "I'll wait here and take you over to the sanatorium when you're ready."

  "No need. My sister is surely long asleep by now. I'll attend her in the morning."

  "Are you certain?" He seemed to be reluctant to let the evening come to an end.

  "Entirely," she said.

  Reid set the brake and came around the carriage. He lifted her slowly down. Moira pushed away, but he held her waist in his broad hands, staring down intently on her.

  "I have serious intentions when it comes to you, Moira," he said.

  She glanced up at him, playing up the flirtation to cover her unease. "One never knows where these things shall lead. Speak to my brother, Reid, and let time take its due course."

  He bent his head as if to kiss her, but she tore away.

  "I'm a patient man, Moira St. Clair," he called.

  She moved up the hotel steps and then glanced over her shoulder. "We shall see how patient you are. Thank you for a delightful evening."

  She moved into the hotel, his gentle laughter echoing after her, muted only by the closing glass door.

  Dominic dozed on the cot but was instantly awake when the door opened.

  It was the sheriff. He shook the deputy's shoulder, chiding him for sleeping while on duty, but immediately moved over to Dominic's cell.

  Dominic swung his feet over the side and rubbed his head. He knew better than to stand.

  "Probably wondering why I'm here so late," the sheriff said.

  "Partly."

  "I looked in on your sister. Did you one better, actually," he said, playing with the iron ring of keys in his hands, "and took her to General Palmer's for the evening."

  Nic raised an eyebrow and nodded, not looking him in the eye. If he did, he knew the sheriff would see his fury. He had overstepped his bounds. Moira was young, so easily taken advantage of, regardless of her ability to manipulate people. There was much for her to learn.

  "You didn't tell me she was a songbird."

  "You didn't ask."

  "She's as talented as she is beautiful."

  "That she is."

  "I came here to offer you a deal."

  Nic paused. "I'm listening."

  "Allow me to court her, and I let you out tonight, right now."

  Nic let out a scoffing laugh. "Or else what? You'll keep me here forever? No judge will tolerate that." He looked up at the sheriff then, unable to keep the challenge from his voice.

  "No," the sheriff said, still playing with the keys, rolling them around and around the ring. "But the judge agrees with me and General Palmer. We abide no drinking nor brawling. We don't keep brawlers in jail, but we have on occasion escorted them to the edge of town and persuaded them never to return."

  Nic rose, unable to stop himself.

  "You and I got off on the wrong foot, brother," the sheriff went on. "I'm hoping we can get past that. Frankly, I'm loo
king to settle down, have a family." He inserted the key in the lock and turned it, intently watching Dominic between the bars. "I'd like to see if Moira and I get on."

  "My sister is not thinking of settling down yet. Our father does not wish her to take a serious suitor. Her mind flits from one fanciful thing to the next-and that includes men." He shook his head. "No, if it's a wife you're seeking, I'd look elsewhere."

  The sheriff grinned and stood beside the open door. "Even wild horses can be tamed, in time."

  "Moira is not a brute animal, a filly to be broken."

  Reid cocked his head. "No. She's definitely more than that. But she needs a strong man's hand to guide her."

  "Yes, her brother's."

  "With some shaping, she shall be magnificent."

  "Indeed she will," Dominic said. He bit into his tongue until he tasted blood and rather than challenge the sheriff further, looked away. Use your brain as well as brawn, Nic. Brain as well as brawn.

  "So as I see it," the sheriff said, looking in at him, "you're at a crossroads, Mr. St. Clair. Stay here, make a life, build the bookshop, take part in the wealth that is to be Colorado Springs. All I ask is that you grant me permission to call upon your sister. I'll write to your father, ask his permission to formally court if we get on."

  All at once, Nic could see the way out. He could grant Reid Bannock to call on his sister. But there was no agreement for anything more. Moira or Father can refuse him.... She had certainly toyed with many other powerful young men as a favor to their father-and he always managed to extricate her from the courtship before it went too far. Could they not do that once more now? Here?

  His breathing came more steadily now and a tiny smile edged at his lips. He reached out a hand and Reid shook it, each man staring the other in the eye.

  As Dominic walked past the deputy and exited the building, he gave way to a full grin. Sheriff Reid Bannock had permission to call upon his sister. How would he like it when he discovered that only chaperoned visits and excursions were sanctioned by the St. Clairs?

  Chapter

  9

  The next morning dawned cold and bright. As was the routine, every able patient assembled in the main parlor downstairs, watching as stable hands saddled horses. Ten or more patients rode in the morning, into the hills and canyons that lined the city's edge; the other half went in the afternoon, returning just before dinner. Every other day, a larger group-but not all-rode out for the entire day, often not returning until after nightfall, but usually bringing back a string of fish or a freshly killed deer to be gutted, skinned, and carved into fat venison roasts.

  It was part of the therapy at the sanatorium. Long draughts of fresh, mountain air, air so dry that it made their noses bleed. But it was plentiful and clean. Exercise, as much as they could tolerate, building muscles long dormant as they battled to breathe. Given the countless canyons and old Indian trails at their disposal to explore, it was easy to keep the patients' attention on the path and off of their own breathing. Then hale amounts of food, vast portions of red meat, large trout, frothy fresh milk, eggs-fried, scrambled, or hard-boiled.

  Once in a while, an attendant would return, bringing a patient who was coughing up blood or was too weak with fever and chills to continue. But by and large, Odessa had to admit, the patients did seem to thrive in the natural air, coming back with ruddy cheeks and bright pink noses and eyes alight with stories to tell.

  They all began on the porch, taking in the air there, or if suffering a relapse as Bryce had done, returning there. Next they were ensconced beside Monument Creek, or even in a boat laden with blankets, fishing for hours on end. The sanatorium had dug out a large pool beside a massive cottonwood, and the waterway flowed gently into the chasm, creating a slow eddy. When Odessa sat upon the boat in its center, she gradually spun around. It was lazy and invigorating at the same time. It felt good to be doing something useful when she brought in her first fish a week after she had arrived in Colorado.

  "Do they have fish in Philadelphia?" Bryce asked, recovering from a coughing fit after his walk down the hillside to the creek. He had his easel and paint bag over his shoulder, which he slowly set before him.

  She smiled at him from the boat. "One or two." Gently, she pulled the hook from the brown trout's jaw and set the fish, wriggling still, in the bottom of the boat. "My grandfather used to take me and my brother out fishing on occasion. He favored a narrow, deep river with a slow eddy, like this one here. He was always trying to snag a massive, old bass that continually eluded him. Hooked him a few times but never managed to bring him in."

  Bryce laughed as he got the easel legs in place. "Always one in every river, stream, pond, or lake."

  Odessa decided she liked the sound of his laughter, deep and warm. It was the kind of laugh that would make any house a home. Her grandfather used to laugh like that. But she couldn't remember her father ever laughing in the same manner. Was that because he never did, or because he had lost the ability to laugh as each of their family members died? Did she simply not remember? She searched her mind, wishing, hoping for the memory. Gentle, sad smiles she remembered. But no laughter.

  "I've said something that has upset you," Bryce said, settling the canvas atop the easel and then leaning back upon his stool, gathering his strength. He had ridden out with the others on the previous day's trail ride and it had clearly taxed him.

  "No." She sighed. She glanced over at him. "Your laughter simply made me remember my grandfather. I miss him. And his laugh." She cast out her line again, watching as the hook floated for a moment on the moving surface and then suddenly dropped.

  "I had a grandfather with a good laugh too," he said.

  "Where did he live? If I may presume to ask such intimacies."

  "It's not presumptuous at all," he returned, as he uncovered his palette and dabbed a deep blue pigment onto the wood. "Both my mother's and my father's people hailed from Maine for several generations. But an uncle came west, here to Colorado. We've always imported and bred horses, and we needed more land."

  "There's a lot of that here."

  "Yes, indeed."

  "Are your parents still with you?"

  "No," he said, resettling his blankets around his shoulders. "They passed on."

  "I'm sorry. And your uncle, he is at the ranch?"

  "No, he died too, this past year. He was building a house, hoping to marry his love from Maine and bring her west, when he died."

  "I'm so sorry. That is tragic."

  "It's all right. He died doing what he loved to do-running horses. Just hit a squirrel hole, fell and broke his neck. It was over fast ..." He glanced up at her, as if embarrassed that he had shared more than he meant to.

  "So it's just you? Running the ranch?" she said.

  "Me and my foreman. It's a lot, running the ranch alone. We have quite a few ranch hands to help, but it's really Tabito who bears the brunt of it. And every time I head east or beyond to see to the business, I seem to come back sicker than when I left."

  "You can't do this sort of thing-convalesce, recover-while on your own ranch? Seems to me all they do here is feed us and send us out to take in some fresh air."

  He gave her a small smile. "I have a hard time not overextending myself when I'm home. They send us out on horses to ride a trail, sure. But at home, I'm out from dawn to dusk, working, not merely riding."

  She nodded. "It would be difficult. To see the work and simply turn away. I suppose there isn't much time for painting there."

  "No, there's not."

  "Are you about done with your painting of the Peak?"

  "Peak?"

  "Pikes Peak," she said, waving over her shoulder. "Is that not what you are painting?"

  He smiled and then shook his head. But he did not choose to elaborate on what he was painting. Curiosity burned so intensely in Odessa that she almost pulled herself to shore to see if she could steal a look at the canvas herself. She ventured a peek at Bryce, but he only looked to the sky be
fore dipping his brush in the vivid blue and placing it upon the canvas. She sighed in frustration.

  A servant who frequently was stationed by the pond to look after the patients tossed in his own fishing line. He immediately got a bite and expertly landed a beautiful fish, grinning with delight.

  "I think I'll take it in, along with yours, Miss St. Clair, if you two will be all right for a moment," the man said.

  "We'll be fine," Bryce said, smiling over at her. "If Miss St. Clair tips over her boat, I'll jump in to pull her out."

  "I think I can manage to stay put for a few minutes and avoid that," she returned. "I'd love to have Cook fry my fish up for lunch."

  The servant smiled and pulled on the rope that kept her boat firmly attached to the tree. He reached for her catch, took hold of it with a finger under its gills, and set off up the hill to present their bounty to Cook. Odessa remained in the boat, even pulled up onshore, comfortable in her layers of blankets and cozy seat. The eddy gently rocked her, like a baby in a cradle.

  "Wake up, jailbird," Moira said, tossing one glove on Dominic's chest. She threw the second at his face. "It is almost noon."

  "I might be a jailbird," he said, squinting one eye open to take in his sister, already dressed and with hat perched on her head, "but you had to be a songbird? You couldn't wait to show off your singing?" He tossed her glove back at her.

  Her lips clamped shut for a moment, caught. "The sheriff told you, then?"

  Dominic sighed and then sat up, letting his legs swing off the edge of the bed. He rubbed his head and looked up at her. "He's got his eye on you. Knowing you sing like an angel just made it worse. You know that, right?"

  Moira walked to the window and stared outward. "He hasn't been exactly secretive about his intentions."