Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  "Doing all right?" Bryce asked, from behind her.

  "I am," she said, unable to keep some of her own surprise from her voice. Being outside, moving, seeing new things occupied her mind. For the first time in a long time, she realized she had not thought about breathing since mounting the horse. Her breath came now, high and wheezy, but she was getting enough air. The bit of exercise was simply pushing her to her normal limits.

  "We'll rest down there, beneath the rocks," Bryce said. "You're doing great, Odessa."

  And for the first time in a long time, Odessa believed she was. She shielded her eyes and looked up to watch a large gray bird circle high above them. So free, so easy were his movements, movements Odessa longed to echo. Thank You, Father, she prayed silently. Thank You for this, a glimpse of health, not in a story, not in my mind, but in my real life.

  Moira and Nic sent off their telegraph and then walked the remaining blocks to their new storefront. Entering, they marveled at the tall, bright windows and relished the scent of freshly hewn planks. Clear pine made up the twelve-foot-high walls and covered the ceiling, too. Upstairs was a bedroom and sitting room. A washroom and small kitchen were included in the back, beside the storage. "It will be perfect until we find a good cottage to rent," Nic said.

  "Or house," Moira said, arching a brow in his direction. "It is difficult to entertain guests of a certain stature in a small and cramped parlor."

  "Careful, Sissy. There's already one Queen in this town," he said, grinning over at her.

  "But she's soon leaving again for the East." Moira smiled. From the basket on her arm she pulled a pen, paper, and bottle of ink. She set them out atop the counter, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and let it hover over a page. "All right. Let us begin our list of supplies. The sooner we can get this store in order, the sooner we can accept the shipment of books and open for business. Papa will be so pleased."

  "Yes," Nic said with a sigh. "So pleased." He wandered to the front windows, wishing for the thousandth time that he was excited about the store. But to him, it was merely a project. Glumly, he saw himself, tying on an apron day after day, seeing to customers. How much better would it be to be one of the farmers outside, heading to land they had tilled, thinking of spring planting, or the workmen across the street, measuring and sawing lumber for the next building? He'd always been good with a hammer and nails.

  "Nic! Where are you?"

  "Oh. Sorry. We need shelving, lots of shelving, from floor to ceiling. I can take care of that myself, as well as a glass display case for more expensive items. Two rolling ladders to reach the higher shelves. Signage to designate the various categories of books."

  School. Other than building the shelves, it sounded as dull as school.

  "Paper. We'll be selling low-grade paper to most folks and highquality stationery to your new friends," he said, pacing now, eager to be done with it. He wished Odessa were here. She would love this, this dreaming of the store, imagining it filled, thinking through all they needed.

  "Papa is sending the cash register and a safe, along with the books," Moira said.

  "Yes. We'll also sell ink of various colors, and pens. And maps. Everyone will be looking for the latest maps."

  "We should sell chalkboards and chalk for the schoolchildren."

  "Good idea."

  "And primers."

  "Perhaps you will sell a primer on courting the prettiest girl in town," said the sheriff from the doorway. He had entered unnoticed and stood there with his hat in hand. "Fine new shop you have here," he said, stepping forward. "I'll be eager to see it filled with your wares."

  He spoke of books but his eyes were on Moira.

  Dominic took in a breath and held it a moment, then slowly released it. "Sheriff," he allowed.

  "Dominic," the sheriff returned. "Miss St. Clair," he said with a nod in her direction. "I came to see if I might call on you tomorrow afternoon. Take some tea with you and your brother, if you can spare a moment away from your work."

  "I'd love to, Sheriff, but I'm afraid we haven't yet had time to buy as much as a teakettle since we arrived."

  "I thought of that," Reid said, turning back toward the door.

  Dominic watched his sister carefully, aware that she kept the counter between her and their visitor. She was afraid of him. He didn't think he'd ever observed Moira St. Clair afraid of a soul. His eyes returned to the sheriff, coming back in, arms around a midsized crate. He set it on the counter before her.

  "Sheriff, what have you done?" she asked, pretending to be coy. She truly was a talented actress. She pulled the lid off the wooden crate and moved aside some packing straw. Out came a box that, when she opened it, held four china cups. Then another box, with a sturdy iron kettle. And a third, containing a matching china teapot. Moira studied them, set on the counter all together. "Oh, Sheriff-"

  "Reid, I've asked you to call me Reid."

  "Reid, this is much too generous. I cannot accept."

  "Of course you can," he said with a grin toward her and her brother. "If I'm to come and call on you, I'll want a spot of tea. The general has me hooked on it. And I can't come and ask for tea if you have no means to get it for me." He winked at her and leaned over the counter, placing his hat back on his head. "It's the first of many presents for you, Moira. You deserve the best, of everything. So, until tomorrow?"

  "Until tomorrow."

  With that, he pushed off and left the building, pausing on the porch to straighten his jacket like a cock fluffing his feathers.

  Dominic picked up a teacup, taking aim at the glass window and the sheriff.

  But Moira was there, one hand on his arm, the other lifting the fragile cup. "There will be other days, other ways, Brother," she whispered. "Remember, we're buying time to get established before we dare to taunt the sheriff with a dismissal. Leave him to me."

  Nic wrenched his arm away from her, still staring at the sheriff as he walked down their stairs. He turned toward her. "In all my days, I've never seen you fear a man, Moira."

  She glanced down and to the left, verifying his assumption. When she did that, it signaled uneasiness, fear....

  "What'd he do? What'd he do that night alone with you?"

  She turned her beautiful eyes on him and stared up at him resolutely. "You leave him to me, Dominic. Do you understand? You make a move and you'll either cost us this shop or land in a jail cell again." She reached up and straightened his narrow tie. "Men I understand. Reid Bannock is dangerous, yes. Formidable. But underneath, he's still only a man."

  They had taken their rest among red stones warmed by the spring sun, eating freshly baked hot cross buns and drinking strong coffee.

  "Tell me of your horse ranch, Bryce," Odessa invited, leaning her head back to face the sun. It felt too good to worry about getting too much sun, like a farm girl. And the warmth of the spring sun felt wonderful after a long, dark winter of illness.

  "It's the prettiest country you've ever seen," he said, leaning his head back against his own rock. "You can make your way up a canyon along the Arkansas River, then head south, toward Westcliffe. Small hills covered in pinon pine gradually give way to a long, wide valley, with those towering Sangre de Cristo Mountains on your right and the smaller Wet Mountains to your left."

  "Is your ranch big?"

  "We get by," he hedged.

  "How many head of horses do you run?"

  "Three hundred."

  "Three hundred! You must have many acres."

  "We get by," he said again with a grin. "But then we also have access to the mountains. Come summer, we drive the horses up into the high hills, where the grass is plentiful."

  "Sounds idyllic," she said. She ran his words over in her mind, then raised her head again abruptly, catching him staring at her. He looked away, embarrassed, but she ignored it. "What did you say those mountain ranges are called?"

  "The Sangres on her western flank. The Wet on her eastern."

  Old Sam's odd poem rang through her mind
. She sat forward. Damp to the East ... easily translated as the Wet Mountains. "Bryce, what does Sangre de Cristos mean?"

  He picked up a rock in his hand and rolled it between his fingers. "It's an old Spanish name. In certain light they appear red, and there is a peak with a cross that appears. You can see it mostly in the winter, because-"

  "So the translation is ...?" she interrupted.

  He looked her in the eye, obviously confused by her intense tone. "Blood of Christ," he said. "Why?"

  "Damp to her East, Wounds to her West,' one of Sam's lines in the poem."

  But why the mystery? If she could unravel it, so could others. To say nothing of the fact that Sam's name-or his mother's-was on the deed.

  "Bryce, you've been to Sam's place, I take it."

  "Almost every month for the last few years. He's only a few hours' ride from our ranch."

  "Is it hard to find?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Merely curious," she said idly. "What about his mother's property? Is it nearby?"

  He shook his head. "His mother's property? Sam never spoke of that."

  "Someday soon, I'd like to see if we could unravel the mystery."

  "Make it through today, Odessa," he said with a grin, "and you're one day closer."

  Chapter

  77

  The trail nurse gave them the signal to return to their horses and Odessa rose quickly, too quickly, and instantly collapsed, her lungs short of oxygen, her head spinning.

  Luckily, Bryce was there to catch her.

  "Glad you're nothing but a consumptive sack of skin and bones," he teased as she came out of her faint. "Or you might have crushed me."

  She tried to push away, but he held her tight as the trail nurse timed her pulse and observed her breathing.

  "I just tried to get up too fast. I'm fine."

  "I'll be the judge of that," the nurse said. "She's all right," she said to Bryce a minute later. "But we ought to get her back to the sanatorium. She needs to spend some more time out of doors, beside the creek, before we bring her on the trail again."

  "I'll have you address me of my own health, Nurse," Odessa said crossly, succeeding now in pushing away from Bryce. "It is improper to address anyone but me." Again, the sudden movement made her woozy, but she attempted to cover it. Could they see the sweat beading on her upper lip? She refused to wipe it away.

  "Pardon me, Miss St. Clair," the nurse responded icily. "I wrongly assumed that you weren't yet in your right thinking. Please, rise and mount up immediately." She stood and lifted her chin, knowing she was asking Odessa to do something downright impossible.

  "Here, take my arm," Bryce said, offering her his hand.

  She grabbed it like a lifeline, now too tired to feign independence any longer.

  "Slowly, slowly," he said, as if whispering to a wild colt. "Take it from me. You'll be flat on your back again if you move too fast. Cracked my head open once on a rock."

  "No one there to catch you?" Odessa asked.

  "No, ma am," he said, smiling his encouragement. "Now let's get you to that horse. I'm telling you, when you get back to your bed today, you'll sleep the whole afternoon away."

  Odessa suddenly could not wait to return to her room, her white sheets and woolen blankets. For the peaceful spin into sleep. She barely could tolerate the time it took for Bryce to help her mount up and a servant to cover her with the blanket and tuck the edges around her legs.

  She watched as Bryce moved toward his own horse and mounted as effortlessly as a noble equestrian, no longer a consumption patient. But once in the saddle, once they resumed their horse train back toward the city, he turned his face to her and she recognized the utter weariness of their shared ailment.

  Consumption. Consuming. Consumed. Eaten alive.

  Bryce's eyes, his manner, seduced her toward trust. Their shared struggle already bonded them all as if they were siblings, but this man looked upon her with eyes that bespoke more. Could they both beat this monster back, into submission, maybe even entirely out of their lives?

  Her heart skipped a beat at the mad dream of it, the wild hope within her. What if she bested this disease at last? For good? What if her life did not end at a young age, as she had supposed it would? What if she could live to be ... old?

  "Just go," Moira said, reading a book in the corner of the hotel room. "Your pacing the floor for an hour is about to drive me mad."

  He looked over at her, obviously torn. "But you-"

  "I'll be fine. I'll be a princess up in her tower, refusing to come to the door if anyone comes to the drawbridge. Just go and walk. Walk for miles. It will do you good."

  "You promise? You'll stay here?"

  Moira set her book on the small table beside the lamp. "If you will promise me that you will walk, not brawl. You know what it means to us, Nic. The threat of it. You must not fight."

  Right. He understood the import of her words, knew the dire consequences as spelled out by Sheriff Reid Bannock. But it was that same man who worked him into a frenzy now. The thought of him making Moira so uncomfortable she actually feared the man ... that he had bartered off his freedom from jail in exchange for the privilege of coming to call on her ... Dominic longed to punch him, pummel him until he bled. Who was he to dare so mightily?

  "Nic, go," Moira said. "I'll turn in early. But you remember your promise."

  He barely acknowledged her, his need so urgent now. He paused outside her hotel door until he heard her turn the key in the lock, then practically ran down the stairs. Once outside, he looked left, then right, thinking.

  This town was small, and it was Reid Bannock's town. A dry town.

  What Dominic St. Clair needed was a drink.

  He hailed a carriage outside the hotel and climbed in. "Colorado City," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "Take me to your favorite saloon."

  "Right away, sir."

  They drove out of town and across the creek and into the next, arriving in minutes. It was a farce, really, this separation of dry town from a town full of saloons and whorehouses. But what General Palmer wanted, apparently, General Palmer got.

  Dominic shoved down his feelings of guilt for being present here, shoved away the thought of how Father or Odessa, or even Moira would react. She had sent him out, after all. She saw in him his need for escape, release, freedom.

  He entered the saloon, and several men at the bar and some at a couple of tables turned to look his way. But as he moved toward the barkeep, most turned back to their private conversations, private card games, private drinking.

  "Whiskey?" the barkeep asked.

  "Double," Dominic returned. While the barkeeper poured, Nic surveyed the saloon. Fine wooden paneling, now a bit beat up, testified to a wealthier age when Colorado City and the mines to her west were first discovered. Now she was the poorer neighbor, the forgotten relative, of a new, shinier prince of a town to her east. Well Dominic knew what it was to be less-than. Less-than-hoped-for. Less-than-imagined. The only living St. Clair son. Heir to a successful publishing company. An inheritance he did not want. "Live long, Father," he toasted in a whisper.

  "Again," he said to the barkeep, patting the smooth bar with an open hand, and silently, the man poured another.

  "Slow down there, neighbor, or you'll end up on the floor," said a man on the next stool.

  Dominic, in defiance, tossed the second double back, studying the man with closed lips as the hot, burning liquid flowed down his throat. Slowly, he moved his eyes away from his neighbor in silent dismissal. "Another," he demanded. "This time, the good bottle." In tandem with his request, he placed a silver coin on the bar, the silent word of every saloon in the country.

  The proprietor studied him for a half second and then reached behind him for a bottle of fine scotch.

  This glass Dominic savored, letting the previous two glasses do their work within him. He felt the muscles in his neck and back relax, the familiar tension in his cheeks and forehead ease away. He let the sco
tch sit in his mouth and then slide down his throat, as he detected the undertones of smoke and licorice.

  "New to the city?" asked another man, taking the stool on Dominic's other side. He lifted a finger, silently ordering a glass of the finer scotch Dominic was now drinking.

  "Colorado Springs," he allowed.

  "Interested in a game of cards, friend?"

  "No. I have interest in the more physical games."

  His new companion laughed. "Whores or the ring?"

  "The ring," Dominic said. "Is there one in this town?"

  "Always one in every town," the man said.

  Dominic studied him, taking in the new suit, the groomed fingernails. Card shark. Traveling gambler. Nic knew the type, just as he had been clearly made as well.

  "You're kind of small to be a fighter," said the man, a tone of jest in his voice that kept away the broad, sweeping hand of offense.

  "That's what they say," Dominic allowed, taking another sip.

  "Hmm. An underdog. I like to play against the odds. Shall I lead the way?"

  "Please." Dominic drank the last of his scotch.

  "The brother has left her, Sheriff. Took off for Colorado City, for the saloons."

  Ah, yes, Reid thought, unsurprised. The young Mr. St. Clair had been clearly itching for another fight. If he wasn't careful, he'd get himself killed. The thought made Reid consider for a moment. Dominic wouldn't be the first man to find himself surrounded and sustain a beating that would eventually take his life. Especially in a place as rough-and-tumble as Colorado City. Yes, he thought, picking the dirt out from under his fingernails, if the man continued to be reluctant to accept his calls upon his sister, he might simply find an end to his miserable, frustrated life. It might be a relief of sorts to him, a blessing in disguise. Like a wounded racehorse that had to be put down.