Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (20 page)

In ten minutes they had reached the trail nurse, who dutifully
then took up her position at the rear, and in another ten minutes they
reached the small falls, a minor snowmelt-fed cascade of perhaps five
feet in total. But it had a delightful sound and they all sat about and
stared at it, panting as if they had just hiked for ten uphill miles, not
twenty minutes.

They were preparing to go when a woman appeared on a trail
above the falls and then made her way down beside it, a massive camera and tripod over her shoulder. "Ahh, my fellow consumptives," the big woman bellowed. "Keep it up. I know it's hard. But
these mountains will heal you as they did me. I came here barely able
to rise from my bed, thirty pounds lighter. Now look at me!" she
cried proudly, patting her ample chest. "Your day will come too. Just
keep putting one foot in front of the other."

She moved past the group and a man said to Odessa over his
shoulder, "That's Helen Anderson."

"Helen Anderson, the author?" Odessa asked.

"One and the same."

Helen Anderson! The woman had eight books to her name. She'd
made Colorado famous in her book A Thousand Miles from Home.
Odessa had loved every word on every page.

"Mrs. Anderson!" she called impulsively. Bryce and Charlotte
looked up in surprise and back to the woman who was quickly disappearing down the trail.

At the sound of her name, she turned and climbed back toward
them. Bryce, Charlotte, and the trail nurse moved past Odessa to
give them room to speak.

"Forgive me for interrupting your hike. I'm Odessa St. Clair. I
had to tell you-I love your work. I've read all your books, your
stories! Everything you've ever written."

"Well, not everything I've ever written. There is much that is not
suitable for publication."

"I doubt that very much." She paused, feeling an urge to keep
the famous author nearby for a moment longer. Just being near her
made Odessa remember the feel of home, of St. Clair Press and Papa.
"Is that your camera? Your very own?"

"My very own."

"Could I-if it's not too much trouble, might I gaze through
it?"

"Of course," said Helen, with barely a pause. She reached forward, intuitively knowing Odessa could use a helping hand as she
rose, waited a minute, watching as she caught her breath, then led
her over to the camera. "Where are you from?"

"Philadelphia."

"Philly, eh? You're not of the St. Clair Press clan, are you?"

"Indeed I am," Odessa said, flushing with pride that the woman
knew of it. "It is my father's company."

"He does fine work. I've admired what he publishes for many
years."

"I'm certain he'd love to add you to his roster of authors." She
bent down to peer through the camera lens.

"Would you like to take a photograph?"

"Take a photograph? Me?"

Helen laughed lightly. "What good is to look through a camera
lens if you don't fasten in film what you have in memory? This is a
momentous occasion, is it not? You, a consumptive most probably
written off as good as dead, now hiking in the wilds of Colorado."
She winked at that last phrase, fully knowing they were but an eighth
of a mile from the stage road.

Odessa smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."

"Then what would you like on film?"

Odessa turned and looked at the group by the falls, perched
like pale, sweaty boulders all about it. "I'd like to take a picture of
them."

"Excellent choice." Helen set up the tripod and unfolded the
black cloth. "Put your head back under there, tuck it around your
neck, and frame your view. Move the entire camera until you get the
right framing, then remove the back of the camera, here," she said,
guiding Odessas hand, "to expose the plate. Got it?"

"Yes, I believe I do." Odessa grinned as she saw her trail comrades straightening clothing and running their fingers through their
hair, preening for the camera. Only Bryce sat still, as at ease in these
hills as he was anyplace, willing to be captured as she found him. She
admired his long nose and strong chin, the wide brows that arched
over his eyes with a twinge of sorrow in them.

"See anything?" Helen asked her.

"No ... wait. I think I see a man's image. It's rather fuzzy."

"It's inverted. You get used to seeing it in time. Now we'll just
cap the lens and you're done!" She folded up the cloth and secured
it again, then pulled together the sturdy wooden legs of the tripod,
setting the entire contraption back over her shoulder. "Come and
call upon me when you're up to it, Odessa St. Clair. I live on Nevada
Avenue. And I shall show you how to develop your photograph."

They pulled up outside the sanatorium as the horse train arrived with
the afternoon crew. Dominic slid down off the carriage and eased
into the shadows beneath the porch, watching from a slight distance,
while Moira tensely waited for her sister to appear. There she was at
last, nearly at the back of the line. She appeared as she had yesterday,
peaked and sweaty, liable to fall off her horse at any moment, but she
had a wide grin on her face, which Moira returned.

"Where were you off to today?" Moira asked, looking back and
forth for a servant to help her sister down.

"Oh, just a short jaunt to a small waterfall, along a most treacherous path," Odessa returned.

"That sounds frightful!"

"It wasn't really, not once you saw it beyond a consumptive's
view. And it was worth it. Moira, I met-" Odessas eyes fell upon
Reid, standing beside the new carriage. "Moira, where's Nic?"

The sheriff stepped forward. "I'm Sheriff Reid Bannock, Miss
St. Clair. A friend of your sister's and brother's. May I assist you
down off that horse?"

"I've got her," interrupted a thin but handsome, weather-roughened
man. "Odessa?"

She reached out grateful hands to him and he lifted her down,
holding on to her until she was steady on her feet.

Introductions were made all around. It did not take Moiras
practiced eye to see that this Bryce McAllan had certain hopes about
her sister. Nor did she doubt that Odessa made similar observations
about Reid and herself.

"I beg your pardon, but the ride taxed me severely," Odessa said.
"I must retire to my room. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sheriff.
Moira, will you attend me?"

Moira turned and flashed a smile at Reid. "Thank you for the
ride."

"It was my pleasure, Moira. May I come to call on you tomorrow?"

"Indeed."

The sheriff tipped his hat at each of the St. Clair women and
turned away, striding as though he owned this town.

"So now the sheriff is coming to call upon you?" Odessa whispered, walking with one hand looped through Bryce's arm, one
through Moira's.

"Trust me," Moira said in an undertone, "it was not my intention. There is much to tell you, Sissy. Not all of it good." She glanced
to the porch, where Dominic was settling into an Adirondack chair,
still unseen by their sister.

"Your man is setting up an easel," Moira said. She stood beside
Odessa's window, looking down below.

"He is not my man." Odessa leaned back into the pillows, closing
her eyes in pleasure. How did Bryce find the strength to go outside and
paint? Perhaps that was the difference ofseveral weeks in the sanatorium's
care. Perhaps in a few more weeks, she, too, could look at an afternoon's
activity with pleasure rather than wishing for nothing but a good sleep.
Maybe even manage to write more than a few paltry sentences.

"He is a painter?" Moira asked, still staring outside.

"Apparently."

"You haven't seen what he paints?"

"He hasn't offered." Odessa knew her tone was becoming short,
but she was so desperately weary! Couldn't her sister see it?

"You haven't asked?"

"I'd be prying. I assume it's the Peak he paints."

"He's facing the wrong direction."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Then I don't know. What do you need,
Moira? You are here because you need to talk. Out with it, so I can
rest."

Moira gazed at her with a hurt expression, and a surge of guilt
and sorrow waved through Odessa. She closed her eyes and tried to
summon up the strength she needed to apologize, but it was no use.
She was too weary to care. She opened her eyes to ask Moira to return
the next day, to allow her to sleep and find the composure she needed
to be a decent, caring sister, to bring Nic with her when she came ...
but Moira had slipped away.

Odessa sighed. It was so like Moira to act like a petulant child.
No matter. She'd make it up to her soon. What she needed most,
what they all needed most, was for Odessa to simply feel better. In
feeling better, she'd have the strength to act better. Her eyes shifted
to the window, a brilliant blue sky filling the white frame. She knew
that below Bryce was again at work on his painting.

And if it wasn't the famous Peak that filled his canvas, what
was it?

Over the next couple of weeks, it became easier to endure the rides and
Odessa began to see how the regimen worked. Doctor Morton forced
them out as soon as possible. The excursions left patients tired, but
hungry. They returned to eat the huge suppers provided and sleep for
hours, providing sustenance and rest for their weary bodies. It was the
same in many sanatoriums. Odessa had even heard of ranchers taking
in consumptives, knowing that for some decent meals and a bed, they
could get free work out of them. How many were trapped in small
cabins or remote ranchlands, unable to escape? She was thankful for
the sanatorium here in the Springs. Although Papa had neglected
to give her all the facts-that she was going to Colorado likely never to
return-it had been a good choice, a wise choice to send her here. Papa
had sent them a letter at last, assuring them he was well, busy as ever at
work, but eager to come and see his children in their new home.

April had dawned with a thin heat that blew upon the late, meager March snow, quickly melting it away, and with it went some of
Odessas fears for what had happened to Sam O'Toole that terrible
night. Gradually, she had come to believe it was all a figment of her
imagination, a consumptive's groggy mind. Amille, Sam's neighbor,
had settled into life alongside the rest of the patients, and today
was on a horse for the first time. Something calming came over the
woman as she slid a boot into a stirrup and sat back into the saddle.

There was a new peacefulness about her features, as if being astride a
horse comforted her.

"You've done that before," Odessa said approvingly.

Bryce moved up beside her and smiled at Amille too.

"It feels right," Amille said, speaking more coherently, calmly,
than Odessa had ever heard her.

"Good, good," she responded. She moved her horse along the
path, right beside Amille, and they walked down the sanatorium
road and out onto the broader avenue.

"We used to ride. In the evenings," Amille said.