Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (17 page)

"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."

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?