Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (3 page)

She was on a covered porch, all painted in white, upon one of ten
beds-only two others occupied-and covered in ivory sheets and
blankets. A porch, a blessed porch, and off that cursed train! She saw
that two windows on either side of the long porch were open, letting
a cool draft wander past. But she was laden with heavy woolen blankets that were tucked neatly on either side of her, cocooned against
the cold. And she was propped up against several pillows.

Outside, towering pines gave way to the majestic mountains,
purple in the light of morning's glow. One far outweighed all the others
in girth and height; it had to be the famous Pikes Peak, the mountain
that guided the way for the wagon trains heading west from as far
away as Kansas.

They had made it. The St. Clairs had made it to Colorado.

She had survived, lived to awaken in the sanatorium where she
might find the cure.

"Awake at last," said a voice from down the porch.

Odessa turned her head, suddenly aware that she must look
frightful. She tried to give an older man, also cocooned from the
chest down in his own bed, a small smile. It was an odd situation,
this. Being on a porch alone with two men, even at a distance of
twenty feet.

"You've been here three days. Doubt you remember most of
that."

Odessa nodded and gave him a quick glance, not yet trusting her
voice, uncertain of how to behave in such a foreign social situation. He was a small man, with a wild, wiry gray beard and eyebrows that
appeared to be taking over his forehead. His eyes, sunken and darkrimmed from the consumption, were still alert, a spark of humor
within.

He nodded at her, encouraging her to stay engaged. He seemed
clearly bored with his hours of lying about. "Name's Sam O'Toole,"
he said. "I, too, came from Philly, but it's been ..." He paused to
cough, a long, hacking process that Odessa tried not to listen to. It
made her want to join him. And although she couldn't take a long,
deep breath, it was better than coughing and not stopping. She closed
her eyes, tried to concentrate on the fact that she was alive, she hadn't
died on the train; she was in Colorado Springs....

"It's been twenty years," Sam continued at last. "I imagine it's
quite different now." There was a note of sorrow, separation in his
tone. He was quiet for a moment and then seemed to remember
himself. "Our companion here is my neighbor from down south,
Bryce McAllan."

The other man, his cot set at an angle, was partially hidden by a
canvas and easel.

Brown wavy hair. Kind eyes. He gave her a gentle smile and
nod in greeting. He dabbed a brush in the paint somewhere that
Odessa couldn't see, laid his head back as if summoning the strength
to move, and then lifted an arm to place the color upon the canvas.
But then he looked her way again.

Where was the nurse? Her doctor? Her siblings?

"You need not respond to Sam's idle chatter," Bryce said. "We
know your struggle well." His smile faded and he returned his attention to the canvas. He dabbed his brush on the unseen palette, settled back among the pillows, took a few breaths, and then lifted his arm
again toward the painting.

"We've met your brother and sister," Sam said, then paused to
cough again. He leaned his head back, exhausted from the effort, but
couldn't seem to stop himself from speaking. He pulled an age-spotcovered hand from beneath the covers and wiped his upper lip with a
handkerchief. So he struggled with the fever, too. "Fine people. And I
know your name is Odessa. I assume you know you arrived in Colorado
Springs in the nick of time. They'll be very glad to see you awake."

Odessa moved a little and smelled the herbal poultice still
upon her chest. Peppermint and sage and a deep, mossy scent that
reminded her of the shady forest just after snowmelt. "My brother?"

"They'll return soon, I'm certain. They've hardly left your side.
Your sister appeared faint herself, so he left to take her back to the
hotel. She's been through an ordeal, between the journey west and
their bedside vigil. Quite the beauty she is ... almost as pretty as
you, miss. If I was a few years younger-" He paused to cough and
Odessa dared to glance his way, and further, to Bryce.

She fought the urge to squirm, touch her hair. She knew that
he, too, was comparing her to Moira. She concentrated on the view
outside instead. No wonder he painted it. Cloaked in springtime
snow, the mountains were magnificent.

Bryce cleared his throat. His lungs sounded good, the way hers
sounded on her best days. But she had seen the sheen of sweat upon
his brow, how he leaned back among the pillows from the mere exertion of painting. She wondered so many things, how long he had
been here, how many other patients there were ...

Old Sam kept coughing, sitting up now to try to get on top of it.

As if reading her agitation, Bryce set down his brush and settled
long, strong fingers around a glass bell. It looked desperately dainty
and a bit silly in his big hand. She met his eyes, wide and blue, and
then noticed his hair was streaked, his face weathered, as if he had
spent many summers in the sun. He smiled, and his eyes crinkled
again at the corners appealingly.

He was handsome. Terribly thin, but handsome. And only a few
years older than she.

Blessedly, the nurse arrived then. "Oh!" she cried in delight.
"Miss St. Clair, you're awake! The doctor will be so pleased. Let me
go and fetch you some water-no doubt you are parched-oh, and
Sam, you too ..." She turned back to Odessa. "I'll make the doctor
aware of your condition."

"Thank you," Odessa croaked.

"Not at all," said the nurse with a bob of her head, and with that
she hurried out as quickly as she had arrived.

"Nurse Packard," Sam managed, still coughing as he grinned
Odessas way. "A saint in white."

"Everything is white around here," Bryce muttered.

A few minutes later, the nurse arrived with a pewter pitcher that
was sweating from the blessedly cool contents within, and a tin mug.
She poured a cup and set it against Odessas lips. "There now, just a
few sips. All right, one more. I know you must be terribly thirsty. But
we must take it easy. We don't want it coming right back up now,
do we?"

Odessa closed her eyes and pushed back a frown at the woman's
words. She concentrated on the cold liquid she could feel slide all the
way down her throat, easing, soothing, calming.

Nurse Packard set the mug on the table beside her, and Odessa
noticed that she, too, had a bell beside her bed. "I'll return with the
doctor," she said, and with another bob of her head, was gone.

"They'll bring food at some point," said Bryce. "More food than
you've ever seen in your life. I've gained ten pounds in my two weeks
here."

Odessa said nothing, thinking only of how perilously thin he
must have been if he was already ten pounds heavier.

"Are you from the East as well, Mr. McAllan?" she said at last.

"Betrayed by the accent, eh? Bangor. But I've been in Colorado
for five years running our horse ranch near Sam's land," he said easily.
"It's in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristos. Have you heard of the
Sangres?"

She shook her head.

"The way they rise off the valley floor, it makes these mountains
appear as princes to their kings."

"They are taller than Pikes Peak?"

"Ten that rival her. Another couple of dozen not far short of
reaching her height. But it's more that there is one after another,
marching together as if in some grand parade."

"It sounds magnificent," Odessa said.

"This is a communal porch shared by all our patients." A short,
broad-shouldered man in awhite coat entered with Nurse Packard, no
doubt the physician, but his words were directed to Bryce McAllan.
"But I'll thank you to pretend that Miss St. Clair is not even in the
room, Mr. McAllan. This is a medical facility, not a club in which
to fraternize. Perhaps you'll be well enough to ride with the others
tomorrow?"

Odessa heard no response from Bryce. She imagined he was
irritated with the doctor's patronizing manner. But she understood
his motivation. If they were to be ensconced in beds, all together as
men and women ... it was highly unorthodox.

"Is there not a separate porch for women?" she asked gently.

The doctor shook his head with a small smile and reached out
a hand for hers. "I am Doctor Morton, Miss St. Clair. Forgive our
arrangements, but we have twenty-two patients and only five of
them are women. We are nearly at capacity. There is little choice but
to intermingle our patients."

"Only five women? How is that possible?"

He gave her another small smile and a shrug of his narrow shoulders as Nurse Packard brought him a chair on which to sit. "You're in
the West now. We have a preponderance of men, all intent on seeking
their fortunes. And here, mining, ranching, farming, all subject them
to uncommon levels of dust, weakening their lungs. They are primed
for consumption. And others arrive from the East-those from coal
mines or printer's shops. Still more that have lived in the shadows of
factory smokestacks. We receive them all."

He took some papers from the nurse and gazed down at them.
"I've seen to your welfare since you arrived on the train. We were
expecting you, of course, but had hoped you would not arrive in
such dire straits." He looked her in the eye. "It is fortunate you
arrived when you did, Miss St. Clair."

"I am aware of that. Do you ... do you believe you can help me?
Heal me?"

Doctor Morton smiled more broadly and patted her hand. "We
have brought you this far, haven't we? Back from death's door? I see no reason why you won't enjoy a complete recovery and live a long
life. But it will probably have to be here, near the sanatorium, in case
you experience any setbacks."

Odessa stared at him for a long moment. "I can-I can never go
back? To Philadelphia?"

Doctor Morton's face sobered. "I would advise against it. I tell all
my patients to settle here, make this your home." His eyes slid over to
the men at the end of the porch and back again. He was quiet for a
moment, carefully choosing his next words. "Your father did not tell
you? I was quite clear about it."

Odessa barely shook her head, aghast when her eyes began to
fill with tears. Papa had sent her off, sent her off knowing he might
never see her again, that she might never return to him. How could
he? How could he?

Over and over, long after Dr. Morton had left the porch, Odessa
worked the question and possible answers.

Her father had never said anything because he knew she might
never have boarded that train if she had known the truth. If he had
told her, she could not have borne the sorrow, the idea that she was
abandoning her father, taking away his only remaining children,
leaving him alone-possibly forever. His business kept him in
Philadelphia. His desire to see his children prosper compelled him
to send them West.

Tears ran down her cheeks and she began to wheeze.

"Say now," said Sam with a gentle warning in his voice, "don't do
that, Miss St. Clair. I know how tears can lead to something worse."

She didn't look at him, but could see Bryce's movement in her
peripheral vision. His brush hovered midair as he watched her too.

Embarrassed, Odessa turned her head away and felt the tears
slide into her ear.

"Maybe you ought to tell Miss St. Clair about all that Colorado
has to offer, Sam," Bryce said. "What she can look forward to."

They were trying to calm her, trying to ease her away from the
precipice that all consumptive patients battled back from far too
often. And they were right, of course, about the tears, the danger of
giving in to them. But just once, this once, couldn't she purge herself of the tears and sorrow within her soul? She longed to cry until every
tear was spent.

No. She could not. I am here to get better. To live. That is the best
gift I can give my father. Breathe in ... breathe out, she told herself,
forcing away the niggling urge to cough.

After a few minutes, as her tears dried, she became aware of
Bryce's mumbling words. She turned her head and found him on his
knees, praying.

She quickly looked back to the windows in front of her. Never
had she seen a man praying like that. Certainly not outside of church.
It was oddly intimate. Like the time she'd walked into the parlor
and discovered her father on his knees before her mother, his cheek
against her taut, round belly, full of the baby girl that would soon
die. They had been so happy at that moment, so full of hope.

Odessa swallowed hard. She had to think of other things, things
that occupied her mind but not her heart. She'd find a way, some
way, to draw her father west.

Bryce moved with some effort, like that of a man twenty years
older, to his feet and practically fell into bed. "Bit too cold in here to
be on your knees for long." His blue eyes sparkled, indicating that he
knew she had seen him. He grinned. "I take it you're a Presbyterian,
Miss St. Clair."