Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (14 page)

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 looking 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?

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 before 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.