Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (23 page)

Odessa remained with Amille through an hour of screaming, then
another hour as the doctor's sedation moved through her body and
coaxed her into a fitful sleep. Bryce hovered at the door, alternately
pacing and sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. He left for a time and returned with a sketch pad and pencil. Odessa watched
him, so intent upon his work. She wondered what he sketched now.
He was obviously reluctant to show her, once outright refusing her
when she asked. It had hurt, that refusal, but she supposed it was a
bit like her own writing. She was not yet ready for anyone to read the
words she'd managed to pen here, for it felt like an intimacy, allowing
them near what was in her heart, her mind.

She dozed off and awakened only when Bryce shook her shoulder gently. "Odessa, I'll keep an eye on her. I'll send another woman
in to sit with her. But you have to get ready, right?"

Odessa shook her head, as if to dispel it of the fog that had
invaded, and then remembered. General Palmer's spring ball. The
first real social event since she had begun to make her recovery.
"Perhaps," she said, hesitating. "Perhaps you ought to come with
us, Bryce. To keep Dominic company," she rushed on, realizing her
suggestion was entirely improper.

"No," he said with a gentle smile in his blue eyes. "I'll stay here."
He nodded at Amille. "If I'm here then you'll be more likely to relax,
to enjoy your time at Glen Eyrie, right?"

"I suppose that is true." She rose but he did not move away.
"Thank you," she said, looking up at him.

"You're welcome." He reached out as if to touch her cheek,
seemed to remember himself, then turned aside to let her pass. She
moved into her room and shut the door, curiously aware of Bryce's
presence next door. She dressed and did her hair, then pulled on
a fine gown that still hung loosely on her gaunt frame but looked
lovely on her. Odessa moved out of the room and down the stairs,
hoping Bryce would see her, then angry at herself for such hope. Just what did she think was transpiring between them? They had
become companions, spending much of every day together, at least
in a group if not alone, and it tore at her heart to think of leaving
not only Amille, but Bryce behind this night. But what foolishness!
There was nothing spoken between them, nothing declared.

"Odessa," he said, stepping out of the shadows near the front
door.

Her hand went to her breast as her heart beat double-time.
"Bryce! You frightened me."

"Forgive me." He took a step closer, then stopped, curiously
distant, as if holding himself aback. "You are like something out of a
picture. You are like ..."

She met his gaze, expectant, wondering.

"Like someone from a far-off country." He stepped away then,
turned to go.

"Only Philadelphia," she quipped, hoping to see him smile.

He had paused, listened, but said nothing more. "Your brother
and sister are here," he said, gesturing with his head out the front
door. Then he simply walked away. It was difficult to explain how
Odessa felt in that moment, but the only adjective she could think of
was broken, the only verb, tearing, the only noun, separation.

Odessa accepted Nic's hand up and into the carriage that night, glad
to be escaping the dark pall that covered the sanatorium. Was it fear
that something sinister had happened to Sam and now John? Or fear
for what was happening to her heart?

"Are you all right?" he asked, noting her drawn expression.

"Fine. It's been a rather difficult day, though. Word reached us
that a friend's husband died."

"Oh, how terrible," Moira said, as Nic settled into the driver's
seat and flicked the reins. "Was it the consumption?"

"No," Odessa said, looking over the edge of the carriage. "A mining accident. Cave-in."

"Terrible, just terrible for her," Moira said.

"It is. And she's not of the most sound mind. I fear for her
future."

"We must pray for her," Moira said.

"Yes, we must," Odessa agreed, surprised at Moiras suggestion.
Moira had always been content to attend church to see and be seen.
Was she discovering something deeper, something more about her
God as Odessa was, here in the West? She considered her sister. "Say,
where is the sheriff this night?"

"We told him we'd meet him at the Glen," Moira said lightly.

"Insolent man thinks he needs to be with Moira every day,"
Dominic groused.

"Now, Nic, don't start," Moira said.

"Yes, you know how it goes for you when you enter a room
angry about something," Odessa said. "Someone always gets hit. You
can't do that at the Palmers'."

Dominic shook his head and swallowed a retort.

"Just say what you need to say, Brother," Odessa said, meeting
his gaze. "And cease looking at me as if I was made of glass, about to
shatter at any moment."

"Speaking of glass," Moira interrupted, "wait until you see the
plate glass windows in the Palmers' house. And their crystal! Truly, you have not seen anything so fine since we left Philadelphia."
Dominic's demeanor softened as the sisters idly chatted, Moira
speaking of every person bound to be in attendance. It was a spring
ball, heralding the arrival of greenery on the trees and the waning
snows of winter. Moira sounded more free, more herself, than she
had in weeks. Yet Reid was like a shadow, drowning out her light,
using it for his own glory. Odessa could see it.

The St. Clair sisters made the same stir they had made every time
they entered a hall together in Philadelphia, although it had been
some time for Odessa. More than two years, Dominic thought. Two
years since she had grown too ill to even consider going to a ball,
even to observe. Moira immediately took the spotlight, but Dominic
could not miss how many of the men watched Odessa instead. She
was classically beautiful, with her pretty face-still bearing faint pink
lines from the cuts she'd suffered-dark hair, and wide blue-green
eyes. She had chosen a lavender dress that gave her more color than
he had seen on her for months, even beyond the ruddy cheeks. Her
illness had left her with a haunting countenance that made others
look at her twice, trying to decipher just what it was about her that
gave her beauty depth. And even though Odessa was gaining weight,
filling the curves of the gown a bit as a woman should, Nic thought
she might never lose that memorable quality. He had known men,
fighters, who had stared death in the eye but still remained among
the living. Odessa had that same look.

Except without the broken nose, he joked to himself. He was proud
of her, proud of Moira, too. Proud of himself.

If only Father could see his children now, making their way here
in their new city. Part of her finest citizens. He took a crystal champagne flute from a passing servant and continued to watch over his
sisters. Reid emerged from the crowd at Moira's side, and she managed to smile and take his arm. He offered the other to Odessa, and
after a half-second hesitation, she took it. He paraded them around
proudly, introducing Odessa about the room. Dominic knew his sister's dance card would soon be filled, since her illness would keep her
from accepting no more than three or four turns about the floor.

Odessa moved with the social graces her mother had taught
them, sharing small niceties with one and then another. Gently
complimenting their host on the fine delicacies served and the wellappointed, perfectly decorated room. But as the meal was completed
and the dishes swept away, as the music began and she accepted an
offer to dance from her second dance partner, all Odessa wanted was
to return to the sanatorium.

To what? She thought with surprise. Every evening was the same.
A large, crackling fire in the hearth. People sitting about, hacking,
hacking, hacking as they coughed, trying to get a decent breath,
others who were better, talking, laughing. Playing games. Reading
books. It was a warm place. A welcoming place. She thought about
each of the faces there, but in particular, dear little Charlotte. Halfmad Amille. Bryce.

The memory of him when he'd come across her in the hall as
she left made heat climb her neck. What was it about that moment?
Seeing her dressed in finery? The intense draw to each other, then the sense of separation. Like someone from afar-off country, he'd said.
Had she become different to him? She was still Odessa St. Clair, the
same Odessa he had fished beside, walked beside, eaten beside. Was
it this? That she danced about the room in another's arms, and then
another's?

Did he not know that she did it all the while wondering what it
would be like to dance with him?

Reid led her to the edge of the room and then quickly around a
corner.

"My sweet, I ask that you not sing tonight."

"What?" Moira asked, confused. It had become a tradition of
sorts, her singing at Glen Eyrie. Every time, in the ten visits they had
made, she had sung.

"There are too many people here tonight. It is too ... public.
We've been apart too much. I don't wish to share you. Let's depart
early, steal some time alone."

"The general has already asked me to sing after the dancing is
done. I agreed."

He glowered at her. "I care not. Plead a weak voice. Make an
excuse. But do not sing tonight."

She stared up at him. He had seemed agitated all evening, moving to block one man's stare and then another's. It was as if she were a
sheep and he felt surrounded by wolves. Was that it? Was he jealous?
"You seemed happy enough, proud even, when I've sung before."

"There weren't this many in attendance. It isn't ... seemly."

This from a man content to steal kisses-three to date-a man with devilish thoughts on his mind as he touched her, never thinking to ask her how she felt, what she wanted, if she desired him in
kind. He simply assumed. "We shall see how it turns out," she said,
moving past him.

He grabbed her arm, squeezing it painfully. "I told you how it
will turn out," he ground out. "You shall not sing."

"You are hurting me," she said between her teeth, frowning in
surprise. He loosened his grip and she wrenched her arm away. "I am
not your wife, Sheriff."