Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (16 page)

"No, I don't think I will," she said, shoving away the irritation
she felt at her sister's constant fascination with appearances.

"You look so much better, Dess," Nic said, edging near, holding
his hat in his hands and fiddling with the brim. "I mean, in general."

"I feel much better, but not as well as they seem to think I am,"
she said, aiming her words at the maid.

"What does that mean?" Nic asked.

"They intend for me to ride out with the others this afternoon,"
she said, leaning back again in her chair. "But I confess to thinking a
nap sounds much better than a ride at this moment."

"Then you shall take to your bed," Dominic said.

"No. We agreed to submit to the doctor's care," she said. "I can't
deny that I see improvements in almost all of the patients I see here.
Day by day, this regimen seems to work. It's just that ... toil and
strain are a bit much for a consumptive who would rather be at her
writing desk, if not in her bed."

People were moving down the hallway, assembling for the ride.

"Well then, you had better get through it. Perhaps it gets easier
with each day that passes. Just think, Dess. The better you feel, the
more you can write. The stories must be spinning in your mind,
now that you're feeling better again, here in this new place. Maybe
you can take your rides in the morning and write in the afternoon,
emerge from this place with not only your health but finally a book
we can publish at St. Clair Press."

"I've been too ill to even think of writing. It is enough to consider filling a page, let alone an entire book."

"You only seek to avoid sending it to publishers. I keep telling
you, your stories are good. Brush one of them off and turn it into a
full-blown novel."

Odessa let out an exasperated breath. "Of course, Nic. I'll see to
it straight away. Right after I recall how to endure a horseback ride
without expiring."

He stared at her, growing exasperated as they went through a wellrehearsed conversation. "It's Father, isn't it? You don't want to write so
you don't have to face him and find out if he likes it or not." He lifted
a shoulder. "So, don't send it to Father. Send it to another publisher."

"Nic, this truly is idle conversation."

"No, Odessa. It isn't. Here you will reclaim your life. And isn't
part of your life doing something with the gifts God has given you?
Doing something with your writing?"

Odessa considered him for a long moment. "And what if they
despise it? The publisher."

"One man's poison is another's elixir."

Odessa sighed. "Enough. We shall discuss it another time. I am
growing weary and must preserve my strength."

"What will you write?" Nic persisted.

"Maybe I'll write of a young man newly arrived from Philadelphia,
taking on three men in the street and being jailed for it."

Dominic colored and frowned. "Cease. I've heard enough from
Moira."

Odessa rose wearily and tapped him on the chest. "Then you
stay clear of trouble. Show Papa that you have what it takes to be a responsible man in this family." She leaned close and kissed his
cheek. "Show him what I already can see in you."

"We have a storefront," he said. He pulled away and stared at her
perspiring face.

"Wonderful," she said, ignoring his worried look. "Papa thought
it might take a good month. How have you done it in half?"

"Moira," he said, nodding toward their little sister. "She's already
made friends in the highest corners of this city. She found us something already built. All we need are some shelves, a counter, and we
can bring the inventory in."

Odessa smiled and shook her head. "Honestly, Moira, I've never
known anyone who could move as quickly as you."

"I try," she said, leaning in to kiss Odessa's cheek. "When might
we come and call upon you tomorrow? Given this new regimen?"

Odessa paused at the door. "I'm on the shorter afternoon ride
until I'm able to handle the longer excursions. I expect I'll return to
rest and then rise by midafternoon."

"Tomorrow, then," Dominic said. "We'll come by later. Be well,
Sister."

"Take care," she warned both of them.

They watched her move down the hill toward the stables and
disappear inside. Moira turned and looped her arm through Nic's.
"Odessa has Mother's eyes," she said.

"I thought we all did."

"Not the color. The look about them. As if she can see everything
we're thinking."

Dominic let out a humorless laugh as they turned in the opposite
direction to depart from a side entrance. "She can see into people,
understand motivation, passion. She's empathetic. It's what makes
her a good writer."

"I wish she'd tell Papa of her desire to write."

"Maybe she fears the disapproval she's seen in him over my
actions-or the way he consistently squelches your dreams. Ever
since Mother ... maybe it's better to hide dreams in our family."

"It's never best to hide," Moira said. "It's not right that we feel we
have to." Their words were well rehearsed, but they never found an
answer. All he wanted for his daughters was marriage, grandchildren.
A good reputation and success for his son. Anything else was deemed
unsuitable.

"We must send Father a telegraph on our way to the land purveyor's office," Nic said. "He'll want to know that Odessa is doing
well enough to ride a horse today."

"Who would have believed it?" Moira said, taking his arm.
"Perhaps this place really does hold the keys to the cure."

With several taking their first ride or recently recovering from a
setback, it was announced that they would only travel a long loop
around the Garden of the Gods.

Odessa sighed in relief and glanced at Bryce, mounted on the
horse beside her. "Perhaps they don't intend to kill me after all."

He grinned. "Trust me, it does us all good."

"What if I cannot keep my seat and slide off the horse? Will that
do me any good?"

"If you're feeling weak, hunch over like this," he said, miming
the position. "It takes less strength and as long as your feet remain
in the stirrups and your hands on the horn, you should be all right."

"You are not instilling a lot of confidence, Bryce."

"No? Well, you should be encouraged. I raise horses, after all.
My mother used to say I was born on horseback."

Odessa smiled and he smiled with her.

"I suppose it was a stretch in the storytelling. But I was told she
went into labor while straddling a horse. Most likely, she made it to
ground before I came into the world."

Odessa looked away, hiding an embarrassed smile. Polite society
did not discuss things such as childbirth. But she was intrigued. She
wished she could stand unseen and listen to him talk.

"I like stories," he said as they got their horses in line and headed
out. "I'd like to read your stories someday."

Odessa frowned. "My father's stories? You mean the books he
publishes?"

"No, I'm assuming you write. A woman does not get that much
ink on her fingers writing letters. Unless there's a beau back in
Philadelphia."

"No," she said. "There is no beau."

"Then you are writing ..." he asked, barely pausing for a beat, "a
book of your own?"

"I like to spin an idle tale now and again. For my own enjoyment. Short stories, mostly. Nothing as audacious as a novel."

"Knowing you the little I do, Odessa St. Clair, I doubt they are
idle stories. That brain of yours is always churning away, like a waterwheel in a constant, spring-fed creek. I can see it in your eyes."

She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You are entirely too forward, Bryce."

"Perhaps. Forgive me, Odessa."

Odessa clamped her lips shut and concentrated on the slow,
rocking motion of her docile mare. She had to admit, it did feel
grand to sit astride her horse-Dr. Morton would hear nothing of a
sidesaddle; it was too dangerous, given their weakened state-and
a nurse brought a specially made blanket that covered her exposed
calves and ankles and added more warmth for her. Spring sun heated
the back of her head even as snow-laden, awe-inspiring mountains
rose ahead of them. In half an hour they had skirted the edge of
Colorado City, a wild town where drinking was allowed, unlike her
dry new neighbor, and reached the crest of a bluff, overlooking the
Garden of the Gods again. Odessa knew from Moiras description
that Glen Eyrie was just to their north now.

"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?"