Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (11 page)

Reid glanced down at her, curiosity rife on his face. "You like
opera?"

"I do. I adore singing and always dreamed I'd be a part of the
theater."

The sheriff nodded, a measure of concern lifting a brow. "After
dinner, General Palmer and the men will retire for cigars in his den.
But Queen, Mrs. Palmer, she always likes to take the ladies and share
some music. I think you will enjoy it."

"Oh, I will!" Moira said, almost clapping, she was so happy. It
had been weeks and weeks since she had enjoyed a nice evening of
music, since the Frasier dinner party in Philadelphia, and before that,
the Donnavon Ball, held at their estate just outside of the city. Just
thinking about those two wondrous nights made her sick with longing. Despite the progress Colorado Springs was making, she could
not imagine this town ever rivaling the fine society of Philadelphia.
But if Mrs. Palmer cared to try, Moira was more than happy to support the effort.

They drove on a narrow dirt road, crossing Monument Creek,
then joining a larger dirt road that paralleled the mountains, what
the sheriff called the stage road. Soon, they passed amazing red rocks
bursting from the earth. Above and beyond them was the blue,
snow-covered Pikes Peak.

"Like it?" Reid asked, slyly glancing over at her. "That there is
the Garden of the Gods. Used to be sacred land to the Utes."

"I can see why. They are captivating! Like a bunch of hands all
thrusting their way toward heaven!"

Once they passed the Garden, the little black mare climbed a
hill and then Reid directed her left, into a canyon. "General calls
this `Queen's Canyon.' This whole parcel of land belongs to the
Palmers."

More red rocks jutted upward about them, like forgotten neighbors cast out of the Garden. Steep cliffs climbed on either side. To their left, in the dusk of evening, stood a ram, looking back toward
the city as if he were a sentinel for others. To their right, a bald
eagle landed on a ledge, atop a monstrous nest of sticks. Beyond the
natural walls was the glen, made up of lovely meadows and twisting
pinon pines. "The Utes, they liked to winter down in here," Reid
said. "Natural protection, water source ... some of the prettiest land
in all of the Springs."

"How long ago were the Indians sent away?"

"Back in sixty-eight," he said. "Most went with them to the reservation. Some stayed and learned the white man's ways."

"You mean I might see one? A real Ute?"

"Most likely," he said, mirth knitting his brows together.

"Are they dangerous?"

"Nah. Most are harmless. But there are beggar Indians, and I've
had to jail quite a few for stealing. Had to string one up once for
murder."

"Oh! How awful." She sighed dreamily. "I've always wanted to
see a real live Indian."

"Should've been here a couple of decades ago, then. You would've
seen more than your share."

The castle came into view then, as they crossed another small
stone bridge that led them over the creek. The home was a magnificent structure, made of coarsely cut rectangular bricks of limestone.
Beyond it, a red canyon fairly glowed, reflecting the last vestiges
of sunset on her walls. Here and there, a dusting of spring snow
clung to the shadowy crevices. But Moira's eyes were quickly drawn
back to the castle, with leaded glass windows and turrets climbing
upward and a massive courtyard facing the wondrous glen. They went around the structure, then pulled to a stop in front. A man
impeccably dressed in servant's attire appeared to help her down.
Another servant came out and greeted them both by name, then
led them up the walk to the entrance, while another took the buggy
away, presumably to the carriage house they had passed. The horse
would be brushed and watered and rested, so that when they were
ready to return, she would be fresh for the ride.

Moira paused, imagining how angry Dominic would be if he
knew she was here, intending to return home in the dark, alone with
a man.

But Nic wasn't here. And he wasn't her parent, but a mere temporary guardian. And her mother wasn't here. Nor was her father.
Besides, this was for Nic's benefit as much as for her own.

"Miss St. Clair?" Reid asked, turning back to study her in the
entrance.

She shook her head. "Lead on, Sheriff. I am most eager to greet
our hosts."

Odessa awakened at midnight, feeling a little sick to her stomach.
She was certain it was the result of the two glasses of milk, three
eggs, and large piece of meat the nurse's assistant had watched her
consume for dinner. She didn't think she would ever eat again. But
that was part of the regimen here at the sanatorium. According to
Nurse Packard, it was what had made them famous. The massive
amounts of food gave patients extra strength to battle the ailments
of their lungs. Within a couple of weeks, they would expect her to
double what she had consumed this night.

She sat up and let her feet fall to the floor. It was after nine
o'clock, when Moira had said she would come. Where was she? Was
she not coming? Was something wrong?

"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?

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.