Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  "Just a little longer, Moira," Nic begged, coming over to her. "With all the invitations you receive, we're meeting the finest people in town. We can even call a few of them friends. We need to know we can call more of them friends before you break that man's heart and he comes to collect. Just a little longer," he said again, lifting her hand. "We'll find a reasonable excuse yet."

  "Young love," said Mr. Smith as he passed them by.

  With that, he left. And Dominic and Moira burst out laughing. John DeChant sat on the old wooden chair, hands tied behind his back. "I'm doing what you wanted."

  "No," said the man above him, slapping him across the face. Blood began to stream from the corner of his lip. "You've found one measly vein of silver, barely enough to keep your crazy wife in the sanatorium."

  "You better pick up the pace, DeChant," said another man near him, gripping his face. "Or they'll throw her in the streets. How long do you think a pretty little woman like that would survive on her own, mad as a hatter?"

  John wrenched his face out of the man's grip. "You promised me you wouldn't touch her!" He shook his head. "You want me to mine my claim, but you also want me to search Sam's property. I can't be two places at once."

  "No," said the first man. "That's why we're taking over."

  "Taking over?"

  "There's two of us, one of you. We can be two places at once."

  "And what am I to do?"

  The second man lifted him from his chair and pushed him out the cabin door. "You, my friend, have a day to find the O'Toole mine entrance or you will die."

  "No." John knelt down in the mud before his house. "Please. Amille. She can't take it. It will be the end of her."

  The first man lifted him up gruffly and dragged him toward the path. "So be it. It'd make it far easier to purchase the property. But we're fair men, DeChant. Do as you promised, find the entrance, and we'll merely buy you out for market value and ship you and the missus off to a sanatorium in France."

  John turned and stared at him. "No. No, I will not do any more. Any man who would take a child's life would not hesitate to take another man's. Kill me now, but I will not help you anymore."

  The man laughed and looked at his friend, then laughed harder, shaking his head. "DeChant, I keep tellin' you that was an accident. She slipped and fell-"

  "Running away from you," John spat out.

  The man's face lost any hint of mirth. "You're forgetting Amille. You will help us, and help us now. Or we'll take your wife and make her last hours the most miserable she's ever experienced."

  Dominic took Odessa to see Helen Anderson two weeks after they had first met. Nic seemed glum, burdened by the work of the store, not at all glad to see it do a brisk business from the first day it opened. Only the reprieve from Sheriff Bannock's constant calls seemed to buoy his mood. Whenever Odessa was with him, she watched as he paced and wrung his hands, lost in his own world of thought. Was it the sheriffs unwanted pursuit of their sister, or something else?

  The bruises on his face, his grimace when he helped her down from his new carriage, as if in pain, were not lost on her. He was fighting again. How? Where? And the question the whole family had asked for years ... why?

  They waited on Helen's porch, shielded from the sun. She answered the door herself and greeted Odessa like a long-lost friend-"My, haven't you made some gains these last weeks!"-and then shaking her brother's hand. "A bookseller by day, a fine trade, young man. But aren't you also a fighter by night? Shorty St. Clair?"

  Dominic's eyes shifted away from her in embarrassed surprise and he shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Just a bookseller. Though my sister would tell you I've scuffled with one or two men in my life." He flashed them both grins, trying to charm them. "I wouldn't mind staying," he said, "but I must fetch the latest shipment for the shop down at the depot. Joe's expecting me. May I return for my sister in an hour's time?"

  "Make it two hours," Helen said decisively. "We have some work to do and it can never be cut short."

  Dominic was off then, moving as if he could not escape fast enough, and Helen stared at Odessa. "Keeps his own counsel, does he?"

  "All his life," she returned.

  "Come," Helen said. "Sit on the settee and I'll pour you some Earl Grey. The biscuits are from the bakery down the street, lemon! They're divine. Try one."

  Odessa accepted a lemon biscuit and relished the tangy sweetness of the treat. "Mrs. Anderson, you said you came to Colorado Springs to chase the cure too."

  "Call me Helen, please. And yes, more than fifteen years ago now." She reached down and showed off her bulbous waist. "Obviously, the wasting disease is long gone. And those biscuits are of no assistance. Ever since I was young, people told me to eat, that I was nothing but skin and bones. Now women actually ask me if I should eat at all!"

  Odessa covered her mouth and laughed along with her hostess. It had been a long time since she had met a woman as free and vivacious as Helen. "What do you believe it is? What is it about this place that heals?" Odessa asked as she settled in her seat.

  "It's all they tout. The clean, dry air. Maybe it's wandering land sacred to the Ute Indians. Or the mountain's shadow. Maybe it's the bracing exercise and good food that is part of the sanatorium's regimen, although there was no sanatorium when I arrived. I'd nearly died three times by the time I dragged myself here at a friend's invitation."

  "You never left?"

  "Too afraid to leave again."

  Odessa thought of Bryce, getting sick every time he went East, of her own longing to return home.

  "But Colorado is big territory to feel confined in," Helen said with a grunt. "Come, finish your tea and tell me about yourself and your family. You're obviously a reader, if you know my books."

  Odessa studied her new friend, weighing what to tell her. "I am. And I ... I have ideas for a book of my own."

  "Oh?" Helen asked, lifting her eyebrows in pleasure as she bit into another biscuit. "How lovely! What is it about?"

  "It's a story, a story of a woman in a strange, new place, trying to find her sense of home again." Odessa hesitated, suddenly shy. "I'm only beginning. I have all these things in my mind, but I can't seem to get past page one. I write it over and over again."

  "Force yourself to page two, then page three. When you complete the chapter, then allow yourself to reread and edit. But only once. Then force yourself to the next chapter."

  "But what if the first is not right? If it doesn't meet my expectations?"

  Helen sat back. "One can always go back and rewrite it yet again. But, Odessa, if you never have something ready for editing, something of substance, then you'll never get anywhere. You won't see your story as a whole, only a partial work. And partial works can never ever be done, correct?"

  Odessa sat across from her hostess, absorbing her words. "Correct."

  "It's a bit like the farmers used to say back East. `Too much rain, bad crop. No rain at all, no crop.' You need a crop. Worry about the rain later." She sat forward. "What are you afraid of, Odessa?"

  Odessa pictured Papa in his office, tossing a manuscript to the burn pile. "Worthless," he declared, over and over. Was that what held her back? Fear that her father would declare her work worthless? She glanced at Helen. "I don't know," she said.

  "A bit to think about, eh? Well come, then. Let us be off to the darkroom where we will see your photograph."

  She rose and moved off. Odessa followed her, lost in thought. The woman could cover as much territory in conversation as she could with her camera. Did she have Helen's courage, somewhere deep within her? Or did she really fear her father's disapproval so much that it kept her from moving forward? Might she find a way to write for her enjoyment alone, as God had created her to do, whatever the outcome?

  The clean scent of the chemicals, liquid in vast trays, assailed her nostrils when they entered the room, lit only by a ruby lantern. "There, you see? Light enough for us to move in and do our work, but dark enough to not harm the photogr
aphs." Helen moved forward and removed the holders from the edge of the glass plate. "This was the last photograph I took from the trail."

  She placed it film side up in the first tray of water, making sure it was well covered. Helen pulled several bottles from her shelves and mixed a concoction of water, potash, bromide of potassium, and a few drops of oxalic acid. She removed the plate from the tray and washed it with the solution she had just mixed. In seconds, traces of an image began to appear. "See the air bubbles?" she said. "You have to remove them or they'll distort your image." Then she moved it into a second tray of water, using a pair of metal tongs to hold it. After several more minutes, a picture of a beautiful waterfall emerged from a fog of milky white into a clear image. "That's just up from where I discovered you," she said, looking at Odessa. "Been there yet?"

  "Not yet. It's wonderful."

  "Best about this time of year. Encourage the trail nurse to go a bit farther next time. But it'll be spoiled for you, now that you've seen it in my fine photograph," she said with a grin. "Now, on to your first photograph." She moved back to the stack and tore the holders off the next plate. "Go on, hold it by the edges and ease it into that first tray."

  Odessa did as she was told, then flowed the developing liquid over her plate, watching the image emerge. Was that a boulder? A man's shoulder? Impossible to tell yet. "Helen, why did you call my brother Shorty St. Clair?"

  "That's his fighting name."

  "What fighting name?"

  Helen met her gaze steadily. "Take the tongs. Move it into the next tray."

  Odessa did as she was told, but still waited for her friend to answer her question.

  After a moment, Helen sighed. "Your brother fights for money over in Colorado City. He's quite good, actually. One of the best I've seen."

  Aghast, Odessa glanced at the older woman again. "You? You attend ... fights?"

  "Indeed I do. It's thrilling." She shrugged. "I'm not particularly proud of my fascination. But there is something primal about two men in a ring. Something I'm trying to capture in my writing." She moved past Odessa and peered into the tray. "Thought you wanted to take a picture of the whole group."

  "I did!" Odessa cried. "Did I make a mistake?"

  "You tell me." Helen gripped the corner of the plate and lifted it, dripping, into the air.

  It was a photograph of Bryce. Alone among the rocks. Casual. Thinner-he'd gained more weight since then. But with those smiling eyes ...

  "I can't take that back with me. They're all waiting for me to return with the photograph of the entire group."

  Helen unsuccessfully tried to hide her laugh, giggling, a deep, rumbling sound within her barrel chest. "Who's the man?" she said.

  "Bryce. A ... a friend."

  "Handsome friend. Must've happened when I told you to center your field of vision and then focus in."

  "I,Iuh..."

  "Odessa, a photographer follows her eye, to that element or nuance or pose that truly draws her, much like a writer is drawn to certain words, something that becomes the epitome of what she envisions. You did that here. There's nothing here of which you should be ashamed."

  "But I took a photograph of a man. There is something oddly ... intimate in it."

  "Isn't there?" She lifted her eyebrows in shameless delight. "We'll let that cure and dry here on the line. You may return tomorrow to fetch it."

  "I can't take that back with me," Odessa repeated. Her chest was constricting. She could hear the familiar, high whine ...

  Helen closed a heavy black drape between them and the room bathed in red light, then opened the door back into the parlor. "Easy, Odessa," she said, leading her back to the settee. "Just breathe. Breathe." She stood back, hands on her hips, staring down at her. "You St. Clairs have quite the secrets, don't you? I can't wait to make Moira's acquaintance."

  Chapter

  14

  Dr. Morton appeared beside Odessa one afternoon, where she practiced her archery with Bryce and Charlotte and five others, shooting targets painted onto a hay bale. "Miss St. Clair," he said, pausing, as if unsure of what to say. "Most unfortunate news has reached us," he continued. "Amille's husband has passed away."

  Bryce lowered his bow and frowned. "John? What happened?"

  Oh no, was all Odessa could think. While Amille's health improved under the doctor's care, her mind remained fragile. And something happening to John DeChant ... she shared a quick glance with Bryce.

  "Cave-in at his mine. The sheriff down there found him. Said he went to check on him after he didn't show up at church."

  Bryce lifted fingers to his brow and rubbed, as if he might scrub the frown from his forehead. "John was a regular. Never missed."

  "I was hoping you might come with me to tell Mrs. DeChant, Miss St. Clair. She's obviously taken a liking to you. Perhaps your presence will lend some comfort during this terrible time."

  Odessa set down her bow and nodded, following behind the small man as they entered the sanatorium and climbed the sweeping stairs to the private rooms. She glanced over her shoulder. Bryce was right behind her.

  They rounded the corner and on leaden feet, moved past Odessas room and on to Amille's. The woman was dozing in a chair by the window, sunlight streaming over her shoulder. The doctor moved forward, but Odessa said, "Please. Dr. Morton. Perhaps-perhaps it will be better coming from me."

  Doctor Morton considered her over the rims of his glasses and then stepped aside, gesturing toward the woman.

  Odessa covered the remaining steps and knelt at Amille's feet. She was so fine boned, so fragile yet. And Odessa knew she missed John, missed her husband. Saying a brief prayer for courage and comfort, Odessa reached out a hand and took Amille's.

  The woman stirred and then opened her eyes, looking into Odessas. She immediately seemed to sense that something was desperately wrong. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no," she said in anguish. How did she know? Did Odessas face hold some of the sorrow that John's had when he had to tell his wife that he had found their little girl, that there was no longer any hope that she was merely lost or wandering?

  "No, no, no, no," she said, tears already streaming down her face.

  "Amille," Odessa said, nearly choking on her name, tears now running down her own face. "I'm so sorry, my friend. But John has died. He is gone."

  Odessa remained with Amille through an hour of screaming, then another hour as the doctor's sedation moved through her body and coaxed her into a fitful sleep. Bryce hovered at the door, alternately pacing and sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He left for a time and returned with a sketch pad and pencil. Odessa watched him, so intent upon his work. She wondered what he sketched now. He was obviously reluctant to show her, once outright refusing her when she asked. It had hurt, that refusal, but she supposed it was a bit like her own writing. She was not yet ready for anyone to read the words she'd managed to pen here, for it felt like an intimacy, allowing them near what was in her heart, her mind.

  She dozed off and awakened only when Bryce shook her shoulder gently. "Odessa, I'll keep an eye on her. I'll send another woman in to sit with her. But you have to get ready, right?"

  Odessa shook her head, as if to dispel it of the fog that had invaded, and then remembered. General Palmer's spring ball. The first real social event since she had begun to make her recovery. "Perhaps," she said, hesitating. "Perhaps you ought to come with us, Bryce. To keep Dominic company," she rushed on, realizing her suggestion was entirely improper.

  "No," he said with a gentle smile in his blue eyes. "I'll stay here." He nodded at Amille. "If I'm here then you'll be more likely to relax, to enjoy your time at Glen Eyrie, right?"

  "I suppose that is true." She rose but he did not move away. "Thank you," she said, looking up at him.

  "You're welcome." He reached out as if to touch her cheek, seemed to remember himself, then turned aside to let her pass. She moved into her room and shut the door, curiously aware of Bryce's presence next door. She dressed and did
her hair, then pulled on a fine gown that still hung loosely on her gaunt frame but looked lovely on her. Odessa moved out of the room and down the stairs, hoping Bryce would see her, then angry at herself for such hope. Just what did she think was transpiring between them? They had become companions, spending much of every day together, at least in a group if not alone, and it tore at her heart to think of leaving not only Amille, but Bryce behind this night. But what foolishness! There was nothing spoken between them, nothing declared.

  "Odessa," he said, stepping out of the shadows near the front door.

  Her hand went to her breast as her heart beat double-time. "Bryce! You frightened me."

  "Forgive me." He took a step closer, then stopped, curiously distant, as if holding himself aback. "You are like something out of a picture. You are like ..."

  She met his gaze, expectant, wondering.

  "Like someone from a far-off country." He stepped away then, turned to go.

  "Only Philadelphia," she quipped, hoping to see him smile.

  He had paused, listened, but said nothing more. "Your brother and sister are here," he said, gesturing with his head out the front door. Then he simply walked away. It was difficult to explain how Odessa felt in that moment, but the only adjective she could think of was broken, the only verb, tearing, the only noun, separation.

  Odessa accepted Nic's hand up and into the carriage that night, glad to be escaping the dark pall that covered the sanatorium. Was it fear that something sinister had happened to Sam and now John? Or fear for what was happening to her heart?

  "Are you all right?" he asked, noting her drawn expression.

  "Fine. It's been a rather difficult day, though. Word reached us that a friend's husband died."

  "Oh, how terrible," Moira said, as Nic settled into the driver's seat and flicked the reins. "Was it the consumption?"

  "No," Odessa said, looking over the edge of the carriage. "A mining accident. Cave-in."