Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (24 page)

"You will be someday."

She scoffed at him. "That is not decided. You have no claim on
me."

"You are my girl. That is claim enough."

Moira placed her hands on her hips. "No, Reid. I am your
woman. But you are not my man."

He paused, confusion gathering in his face. Her heart caught a
moment, then pounded so hard she fought the urge to reach out to
the wall and steady herself. What had she just done?

"Sissy?" Odessa called down the hall. "Sissy? Ah, there you are."
She came around the corner, Dominic right behind her. "They're
calling for you. The general wants you to sing now," she said, her
wide eyes going from Moira to Reid. "Ready?"

"Ready," said Moira.

"What is it?" Reid asked the man in the hallway after the St. Clairs
had departed. Reid ran his hand through his hair, wondering about
Moira's words, as the shorter man moved out from the shadows and to his side. Had she meant it? Or was it merely her female ways,
toying with him? He watched Odessa turn the corner with one final,
worried look in his direction, wondering if he should have chosen
her instead. A weaker woman, a consumptive even, would have been
easier to mold into a proper wife.

But he didn't want a consumptive as his wife. Who knew if she
could even bear him children? He needed a strong, hearty wife, a
woman to meet his needs.

"She's the one," the man said. "Odessa St. Clair. She was the one
in the room beside O'Toole the night he ... gave into the consumption. I saw her."

Reid stared at the empty hallway, hearing the musicians begin
the first chords for Moiras song, a song he had just asked her not to
sing.

"She was bad off that night, as I understand it. You think she
heard anything? Did she see you?" Reid asked.

"She got up, fell. That's how her face got cut up. Why else do you
think she rose, as poorly as she was?"

Reid considered his words, remembering the faint pink lines on
Odessas perfectly sculpted face. "If my future sister-in-law knows
something of O'Toole, I'll know it soon enough. In the meantime,
we go in different directions."

"As you wish, Sheriff."

As you wish. How he longed to hear Moira say those words. He
would hear Moira say those words to him. Over and over again. One
way or another.

May

Over the weeks, Moira made an excuse to walk past the opera house
almost every day, watching with delight as the last of the brickwork
was installed and posters were placed outside, announcing the call
for vocal talent. Again and again she wondered if she could find
her way onto the stage, find the way to rehearse if she even got the
part with the traveling troupe. She vacillated over whether or not
she should confide in Odessa or Nic, but elected to hold her own
confidences. Papa had sent her west to keep her out of the theater.
Surely her siblings would feel bound by honor to tell him. No, she
couldn't risk it.

"Miss St. Clair! Miss St. Clair!" called a boy. She turned and
waited on him, then saw the general across the street, in front of the
opera house. He tipped his hat toward her.

"Miss St. Clair," said the boy, breathless by the time he reached
her side. "The general ... he asks if you won't come and greet him."

Moira straightened her skirt and followed after the boy, waiting
for a heavy wagon drawn by four horses to pass. At last she was
with the general, who stood beside a man she hadn't seen in some
time Jesse McCourt. The actor who had saved her from Reid's
manhandling at the Glen!

"Miss St. Clair," the general said in tender greeting. "I believe
you remember my friend Mr. McCourt."

"I do." She smiled up at the handsome man, so dapper in his fine
suit. He smiled back at her.

"Mr. McCourt has just accepted our offer to his troupe to play in
our opera house as it opens, but we are still seeking a female lead. It
occurred to me how your lovely voice seems to captivate all who hear
it. Tell me, my dear, would you consider an audition?"

Moiras heart beat triple-time. "How I would love it!" Her mind
briefly paused over the image of her father, his firm disapproval over
the theater, then on to Reid. He wanted to stifle her, control her, own
her. Yet neither man was here.

She lifted her face and smiled sweetly. "When would you like
me to come?"

Odessas father had been right.

They had chased down the cure and made it their own.

"I want you to take me with you tonight," she said to Helen as
they worked side by side. Helen was teaching her how to use her
camera and rode with their small group a couple of times a week.
"Take me to watch my brother fight."

Helen let out a long, low whistle. "Sure that's a good idea, friend?
It's one thing to watch a stranger get pummeled. Another when it's
your kin."

"You said he's good."

"He is. But there's a reason he shows up with a split lip or a
bruised-blue eye."

"I've seen him fight before," she said, sounding more brave than
she felt.

"Street scuffles, I'd wager. It's a different thing in the ring. I'll ask
it of you again-are you certain you're ready to watch?"

Odessa stared back at her friend. "It's part of who Dominic is. I
don't want to. But I need to. Does that make sense?"

"Perfectly. But you bring your man-friend along."

"Who? Bryce?"

"Yes. A fighting ring is no place for a lady. You'll need him with
you."

"But you go."

Helen laughed. "Honey, I haven't been a lady in a very long time."

She found him on the porch in the corner, again at his easel. He
glanced up at her when she arrived and gave her a gentle smile.

She paused directly in front of him. "May I see it?"

"What?"

"Your painting. Come, Bryce. I've been asking for weeks now.
Just a peek?"

He studied her for a moment, his blue eyes searching hers, as
if he wondered if he might trust her with this work. Did he want
empty flattery? Honest review? She thought about what it felt like to
hand another her words on paper.

"Why do you want to see my painting?" He dipped his brush
into the paint on the palette, twirling it slowly.

"If you do not paint to show others your view of the world, why
paint at all?" she returned.

"I allow others to see my paintings when they are complete." He
set the brush to canvas, cocked his head, added another stroke, and
then looked again to her.

"Well ... I would hope so." Odessa sank into a chaise lounge in
front of the window, suddenly weary and weak in the knees. How
had she managed to dance just two weeks ago? She hated this disease,
how one day she could be feeling better, and the next have to take
to her bed again. She turned to her side, and after a moment to the
other, facing him again.

Bryce set his brush down on the easel's ledge and leaned down
to rest his forearms on his knees, hands casually clasped together.
He looked relaxed, strong, and Odessa suddenly could see him with
another twenty pounds of flesh, astride a horse on his ranch. "What
is bothering you, Odessa? You're as skittish as a half-drowned cat. Is
it Amille? John's death?"

Odessa eyed the empty doorway and then whispered, "Does it
not bother you, Sam, Amille's claim about her girl, and now John?"

He paused, measuring his words. "I am troubled. I need to get
down there, talk to the sheriff, see if I can find out-"

"Leave! You can't leave!" She felt swift heat upon her neck as the
words left her mouth. "I mean, you are not yet well enough. And if
there is a danger ..."

"If there is a danger, I'd rather find out down there, far from
here." But he said the word here as if he was saying you. He was worried, concerned enough to want to try and keep her safe. Go out and
face the enemy before he got too close. "But there is something else
on your mind, Odessa. What is troubling you?"

"No, I ... I am merely feeling confined. Trapped. As if I should go for another ride today, and yet I'm desperately weary. That's it!"
she said suddenly. "You are painting your horses."

"You are changing the subject." He watched her shift in her seat
again. "Tell me."

"You want me to trust you with my intimacies," she said in irritation. You who would consider leaving me behind. "On what basis?"

He hesitated. "Friendship."

Friendship. So that was all she was to him? She sighed heavily.
"Trains, you are painting trains."

He sat there, simply staring, waiting her out. If she didn't start
talking soon, she was liable to begin speaking and never stop. She
might tell him that she thought of him as more than a friend, as a
beau, blurt out that when he was absent, she felt lost, incomplete ...
that she hated this new, curious distance between them, as if he had
stepped away.

"My brother," she hedged. "I'm worried sick over him."

"Dominic?" Bryce asked doubtfully. "He seems like a man who
can take care of himself."

"Sometimes too well. He is fighting, apparently for money now.
As a boy in Philadelphia, it always began as something else-a score
to settle, an injustice to be righted. But here in Colorado, he goes
about as book merchant by day, and ring fighter by night."

Bryce sat back, clearly aware that she was giving him just a part of
what was on her heart. "If the man wants to fight, why not let him?
He's been thrust into the role of book merchant by your father, yes?"

Yes.

"But had his future been his own, what do you think he would
be doing?"

Odessa raised her eyebrows and thought about that. She had
never considered it. All their lives, it had been understood that the
girls would become wives and mothers and the boys would enter their
father's business. With but one remaining male heir to the St. Clair
Press fortune, there was never a question as to what Dominic would
do when he came of age. Was this from where his anger stemmed?
Rage that was the kindling to the constant, flickering coals within?