Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (25 page)

"I know something of a father's goals for his son. Come, look
upon my painting."

Odessa stared at him, suddenly fearful of moving. What if ...
what if she despised what she saw? What would she say?

"Come," he said, gesturing toward the canvas and moving his
stool to the side.

She rose on unsteady legs and slowly walked around to stand
beside him. Her hand went to her mouth. It was unlike anything she
had expected.

There on the canvas were three ships, racing upon a windcapped sea. The colors, various shades of sea and sky and shadow,
were vibrant. "Oh, Bryce."

"Speak. You must say more than that."

"It's magnificent." Her eyes shifted back and forth as if she could
drink in the salt air, feel the seas mist upon her face. "I am suddenly
no longer in Colorado but upon the Atlantic." She waved to the sails.
"How you capture the curve of the canvas on the wind-I can almost
hear them billowing full and then snapping taut." She glanced down
at him in wonder. "How ... what ...?"

"Twelve crossings to Spain," he said. "My father knew early
on that I had a talent with the horses. Yet horses don't favor long stretches of ocean and nothing but a ship's planks to walk. I've stood
alongside Spanish stallions and broodmares for weeks, with nothing
to do but soothe them and study the ways of a ship. I fell in love with
the sea, but my father, and this cursed illness, forced me in a different
direction. Painting is as close to the sea as I'll ever be."

Odessa felt short of breath, so heavy was the sorrow, the loss
within his tone.

"Please sit down. You look faint." He placed his head in one
hand and rubbed his temples. "I know there are no answers. I've had
this conversation with myself a thousand times." She sat down again
upon the chaise and gazed in his direction. He gave her a half smile.
"I love the sea. But I also do truly love horses. And the land they need
is ever farther from the ocean's edge."

"My father has always said that life is a series of difficult
choices."

"He is a wise man."

"A wise man who cannot see his son before him ... only his own
dreams living on within him. Much like what your father has done
to you." She rose and paced. "Bryce, I need you to do something for
me."

"What is that?"

"I need you to take me to see him fight."

He was already shaking his head, firm decision in his eyes. "It is
no place for a woman, Odessa. Those rings-invariably, they are on
the wrong side of town and attended by people that are not of polite
society."

"You think I am so naive? I am well aware it will be
shocking-

He was shaking his head again.

"Please. I need to know what drives my brother. I need to know
Dominic, see him, in ways ... my family has never taken the time
to do that with him. The hopes of four dead brothers rest on his
shoulders. Perhaps that is what drives him to fight. I think if I could
see him there-"

"Odessa, no. It would be ungentlemanly of me to escort you to
such a place."

"Helen Anderson has gone. She will take me if you will not."

He scoffed and shook his head, rising in agitation. "You must
not." His eyes held fear now, concern for her. "Women do not belong
there. You should not go there unescorted. If Mrs. Anderson wishes
to risk that, so be it. But you, Odessa ..." He reached out and took
her hands.

The feel of his strong fingers around hers made her heart pound.
They felt sure, right. Slowly, slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his.

"Please, Bryce. Take me to see him. Just once."

He winced as if she had cut him, then stared at her again. "You'll
see I'm right, Odessa. I've seen men in the fighting ring before.
They're there because something else has driven them to it. Power
or anger, usually. It's not what God wants of us. You'll feel that. It's
evil, attempting to pummel another until he's almost dead. This will
not be two boys playing, wrestling. This will be two men intent on
killing each other. You and I ... we've talked about knowing death,
sensing it when it edges near. Are you really ready to walk into death's
parlor again? Invite it close?"

Odessa put her fingers over her mouth, listening. "Nic wouldn't
kill a man."

"He wouldn't intend to. But every time he steps into that ring,
he flirts with it."

"That's why ... this is why I need to go. I need to see it for
myself. Understand it." She looked up at Bryce with pleading eyes.
"He's my brother."

"I've warned you," he said, sorrow invading every syllable. "You
can't say I didn't."

"How many times must I warn you?" said the man. "Don't come
here unless you have good news for me. Again and again you appear,
telling me you're no closer to the silver than you were before!"

"The sheriff from Westcliffe is about often. It's as if he's on to us."

The first man scoffed at that. "Sheriff Olsbo? He has no idea
what's happening in his backyard."

"He's suspicious enough that we need to keep a scout out while
we try to excavate the miserable DeChant mine in secret. It slows our
progress. We need outright access. I thought you were going to deal
with the DeChant woman so we could buy the property outright."

"She'll let the disease take her in time. It won't be long. With
McAllan there, we have to tread carefully. He knows too much about
his neighbors. It'll be beneficial when he sees Amille failing, and then
possibly die, under no suspicious circumstances." He paused to narrow his eyes at the smaller man, remembering his sloppy work with
O'Toole. "It'll ease any concerns that Odessa might have planted
with her visions of that night. We need him to engage back into his life
at the ranch, accept our man's offer for O'Toole's land, and quietly go
our own ways. But if he's suspicious, that's not going to happen."

"Can't the consumption get him, too?"

"Too obvious. Besides, he's regaining his health. Soon he'll be on
his way, heading back to the ranch. It'll be best if all goes as planned.
Otherwise, we'll just have to find a way to kill him, far away from the
mines, so there is no association. Then we pick up the land when it
comes up for auction. But that's liable to be far more expensive."

"It'll be worthless unless we can find the entrance."

The taller man considered Odessa St. Clair again. "Maybe
O'Toole left Miss St. Clair something about how to find the mine.
Any luck in talking to the attorney?"

"He said the envelope was sealed before O'Toole gave it to him.
He never knew what was inside."

"So she might hold the key to our lock."

"And she's not faring so well that a relapse would be suspect."

"No." He grinned at his companion. "As long as we move in the
next few weeks, she could be just another of the sanatorium's rare
losses. But first," he said, waving a finger at the man, "we resolve the
DeChant issue."

They borrowed a carriage that evening and went to pick up Helen,
who kept the conversation lively all the way into Colorado City.
Posters were everywhere, touting the night's fight pitting Shorty
St. Clair against Mustang Mex. "It's good we're here early," Helen
said. "Might not be able to see had we come a bit later."

They entered a saloon, an establishment Odessa had never been
before. "Stay right behind me," Bryce said, taking her hand. "I mean
it. Right behind me."

Odessa nodded in agreement. She liked the way his hand, dry
and warm, covered her own. Hers felt cold and clammy as she looked
about, two men at the bar nearly falling off their stools they were
so drunk. Prostitutes, sitting on men's laps. Men with guns at their
hips, ready to draw and fire. Men, staring after her in naked curiosity.
This, this was Dominic's world?

He didn't know they were coming, and in fact, he and his sisters
had never openly discussed how he afforded fine new suits, trading in
their carriage for a newer model, buying furniture for their cottage.
Father had provided for them, and the bookshop was faring all right,
but his extravagance was beyond that.

Odessa realized that her silence had been a form of tacit approval,
that she hadn't felt strong enough to wrangle with Dominic and keep
an upper hand on her consumption. She wished now she had pressed
Nic about it. Asked him how dangerous it was. Asked if there wasn't
another way to prove himself or accomplish whatever he was after.

Helen stopped at a back door and handed a burly man some
cash. He waved them in. Odessa struggled to see in the dark, and
nearly choked on the heavy smoke that filled the room like a storm
cloud. In the center was a platform, surrounded by a rope strung
between four posts. They got to about halfway back, men shoving on
either side of them, pushing them like a wave upon the sea, lifted,
moved, set down again.

Helen turned to her, shouting to be heard as the crowd neared
capacity and a drum sounded. "Remember, you can't let him see
you," she cried. "Trust me, it will distract him, and that will be dangerous. Tell him tomorrow, if you must, that you were here. But not
tonight."

Odessa nodded, her heart pounding. She tried to take a lungful
of air and coughed against the smoke. Doctor Morton would throttle
her and Bryce for subjecting their fragile lungs to such abuse, but the
decision had been made. She was here and would see it through. It was
so crowded, Odessa could not leave now unless all the men passed her
over their heads and from the room. She took some comfort in the fact
that Helen had come here before and lived to breathe another day.

A low rumble, a cheer, emanated from the far corner, gathering
in intensity. Everyone shouted as the fighters took the stage, the ring,
each dressed in shirts rolled up at the sleeve and light pants. Dominic
was barefoot.

Odessa gasped, sizing up his opponent, Mustang Mex, even as
her brother did the same. He was much larger than Dominic, lithe
and rippling with strength. She knew her brother preferred the big,
lumbering men, men who could not move as quickly as he. That
was who he always took on in his brawling in Philadelphia, and it
matched the description of the three he had fought on the streets of
Colorado Springs.

But it was Dominic that caught her attention. Never had she
seen him appear so intense, so focused. And yet his eyes were light,
free, taking in his opponent from head to toe, watching him move,
almost smiling in invitation.

Odessa felt sick inside. Nic was more alive than she'd ever seen
him, but he was undeniably flirting with death. This was what Bryce
had warned her of. This feeling, all around them. These men intended
to pummel each other until one fell to the floor and did not get up.
And looking at them both now, Odessa feared that would be her
brother.

"Your brother's gone," Reid said outside Moira's new cottage door
on Boulder Avenue. "I saw him ride out. Come outside and talk to
me."

She said nothing, her back to the door. He pounded it again,
nearly knocking her forward with the force of his blows. "Moira?
Moira! Please, Moira. Things ... things haven't been right between
us since that night at the Glen. I just want you back. You've made me
sorry over it. Now open this door."