Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (30 page)

She moved around the corner of the desk and her skirts caught
and pulled off a pile of papers. The resulting sound wasn't as loud
as a book might've been, but the cascading sheets sounded like a
thundering waterfall. She paused, motionless, listening for the guard
outside, waiting for him to rise, realize his keys were gone, and rush
toward the locked offices. Her eyes scanned the room as precious
seconds ticked by. There in the corner was a safe. What was inside?

Still no one seemed to awaken in the building. After two interminable minutes, Odessa dared to move, finally reaching the book.
She scanned it by date, seeing her name periodically. But it was nothing but reports on the patients' health, dictation from the doctor to
be transferred into individual patient files. Odessa tapped her lips
and then looked about again, her eyes landing on the pile of crates
in the corner, beside a filing cabinet. She assumed the cabinet was
full, and a quick perusal proved her guess correct. So the most recent
paperwork would be in these crates.

She edged the lamp closer and moved through them. Amille's was
close to the front. She pulled it out and set it on the desk, then returned
to the rest. The next crate held Sam O'Toole's. Out of curiosity, she pulled her own as well. With the three files in her arms, she was tempted
to make her escape and read them thoroughly in her own room. But to
do so meant she would have to return them. With one more glance in
the direction of the door, she took a seat and began to scan each, beginning with Sam's.

On the left side was standard patient information: health history,
health upon arrival, health progress. But on the right was additional
information, including financial basis, means for care, arrangements if
death occurred. Odessa lifted page after page. Toward the back, under
assets, Sam had listed: wagon, two horses, two-bedroom wood-frame
house, iron stove, acreage in Custer County. There was no mention of
the mine or the claim.

She moved on to her file, saw her father's handwriting, granting
permission for her care, accepting all expenses to be billed to him
directly. Nothing out of the ordinary. Hurriedly, she placed both her
file and Sam's back in the second crate. Now for Amille's. If anyone
came, she could slide it back into the top crate in seconds.

She opened Amille's file and moved directly to the assets section.
There. A claim to a mine her husband had named the Silver Bucket.
Signed over to the sanatorium in the event of death and the absence of cash
payment. Then a death certificate and note from the administrator:

Patient deceased 12 June 1883.

Amount on account due: $238.00.

Amount in bank account at time: $110.00

Shortfall of $128.00.

By previous agreement, the Silver Bucket mine is now
owned by Colorado Springs Sanatorium.

The note was signed by the sheriff, doctor, administrator, and
a county clerk. Odessa sat back. Was this normal business practice?
Could the sanatorium claim the mine based on a $128 shortfall?
How rich was the mine? Was someone working it even now, tearing from the earth riches that rightfully belonged to Amille and
John or their remaining family?

She was about to shut the file when an extra sheet of paper
caught her eye. There beneath Amille's death certificate was John's.
Odessa scanned the words, then let the file fall from her hands as
if she could no longer hold it.

John DeChant had been found beneath the rubble of a mine
cave-in. But he also had a gunshot wound.

She turned to the next page and scanned Sheriff Olsbo's report.
Cave-in at the Silver Bucket reported on 28 May 1883. Short excavation into shaft reveals victim's body, identified as john DeChant ...
Decomposition of body makes it difficult to determine whether wound
was likely accidental or evidence of a crime ...

Odessa tried to swallow, but again found her mouth dry.
She had to get water. Her throat was suddenly ticklish, terribly
scratchy. She closed her eyes, willing herself to calm. She was
panicking, but her eyes kept returning to two words gunshot
wound.

Go. Run, Odessa. Hurriedly, she rose and returned Amille's file
to the crate, looked about to make sure everything was in placeget out of here-and turned down the lamp's flame until it was extinguished. She paused for a breath or two, heard nothing, and
then quietly turned the knob and peered outward.

Her breath caught.

The attendant was gone.

Dominic swirled the tawny-colored whiskey in his glass. He watched
it move like a whirlpool, slow, then still, thinking about how his
father never imbibed, how his mother would have hated that he was
drinking. But it was his choice; he was a man. And as a man, he'd
been given few others. This was his. He lifted the glass to his lips
again and took another drink, holding it in his mouth for a moment,
feeling the vapors drift to his nasal passages, then let it slide down his
throat, warming every inch.

He shifted in his seat. He'd arrived early so he could watch the
fight from here. His eyes roamed every inch of the rope that surrounded the ring, the worn floorboards inside, rubbed raw from
shifting feet. There were stains on those boards-blood and sweat
that no amount of cleaning could wipe clear. His own blood was
intermingled there with how many others?

It mattered not. All he wanted right now was to enter the ring
again, to have a chance. The last was a fluke, a cheat. No man could've
stood after Mustang Mex's punches, steel rod in hand. No man. He
needed to enter the ring again, prove it to himself that he was right,
that he was still good at it, still could see his opponent's plan a split
second before it was in play. But his sisters had agonized over his
injuries, fretted over him as he and Moira had over Odessa when she
was so bad off. Could he risk putting them through that again?

The crowd gathered. The fighters emerged, climbing onto the
shallow stage. Nic's blood pulsed faster as he studied the men from
head to toe. He could take either of them. Either of them, right now.

His eyes searched the crowd. No one he knew. The Mexicans
were long gone, probably having moved on to another city, another
state by now. But who had hired them? Who wanted him beaten, or
turned away from the ring, and why?

There were those who bet against him. Maybe he had cost someone too much. But the gamblers learned quickly who to bet upon;
they would've put their money behind him soon enough.

His focus shifted from the fighters to the crowd, a mass of miners
and farmers and merchants and a few dandies-those who had made
a mint off the blood of those in the ring. He knew few of them.

Nic's mind went back to those who'd want him out of the ring
or even out of the way forever ... Sheriff Reid Bannock. The sheriff
wouldn't want him fighting. It was unseemly, undesirable, uncivilized. Especially as the brother of his intended. Hadn't he made that
clear enough in his distaste of Moiras interest in the theater, in jailing
Nic for brawling? How much worse was boxing in the City of Sin
next door to the pristine and holy Colorado Springs?

But Nic had enough of people running his life, pushing him,
pulling him. He should be able to fight if he so chose. To drink if he
so chose. And Moira, she should be able to sing if she wished. Sing
anywhere she wished. Odessa, growing healthier by the day, should
be able to chase her own dreams. To write, explore, whatever. The
St. Clairs were not here to be governed. They were here to chase the
cure-to live their lives.

And soon, very soon, Nic would find the way to do that.

Odessa could hear them upstairs, the nurse and attendant conferring,
even as she locked the office door. She moved across to the guard's
desk, knelt and set the keys on the floor beneath, as if they had merely
fallen. They were coming out of the nurse's office. Odessa tiptoed
across the floor and leaned against the wall, out of sight.

"You probably just dropped them," the nurse said.

"I'm telling you, they're not there."

"Go look again, you fool. You sleep so soundly, I wouldn't be
surprised if you found them in the front door lock. Probably were
sleepwalking."

"They're not there," the man said, his voice rising in agitation
now. "Somebody took them."

They were moving down the stairs. Odessa tiptoed down the
hallway and hid in an alcove around the corner. The nurse and attendant moved past. "Go check the patients," groused the man.

"I won't go disturbing the patients if I don't have to. Do you realize
this is the first quiet night we've had in ten? Ah, you see? I told you."

Clearly, he'd discovered the keys. "I'm telling you, they weren't
there."

"You probably just missed them. They were down there, in
shadow, where you couldn't see them."

"How could they fall down there without me hearing it?"

"You tell me. You're the night attendant."

The man muttered to himself.

Odessa paused, wondering if now was the right time, then decided
there would be none better. If the man decided to walk the floors now, or the nurse decided to check in on the patients after all, they would
discover her, which would make them more suspicious. And what had
she to fear? All was in place in the office. She had taken nothing. The
door was locked; she could hear the attendant checking it now.

She tiptoed down the hall and began walking toward them,
praying for God to give her confidence, to veil her fear. She could
feel sweat dripping down her face. But that could be attributed to
the illness.... She emerged into the foyer and gave the surprised twosome a small smile.

"Miss St. Clair! What are you doing awake?" asked the nurse.

Odessa kept walking. "Can't sleep. Fever must be up. I'm walking the halls like the ghost of Christmas past."

The man's eyes narrowed. "How long have you been up?"

"Hours," she said, rolling her eyes, surprised at how guileless
she sounded. It was the truth, which aided her. "Sleeping too much
during the day, I suppose." She kept walking past them, as if intent
on completing another lap down the next hall.

"Seen anybody else up this night, miss?" he pressed.

"Not a soul," Odessa said with a woeful smile. "It appears everyone is asleep but me this night." She turned away and kept walking,
heading down the next hall, but not before she spied them share a
glance. Her die was cast. She moved down the hall on trembling
legs, intent on the water pitcher and tin mugs at the end of the hall.
Once she reached it, she poured a mug from the sweating pitcher
and raised it to her lips, frustrated by her trembling. She would need
to return to the front foyer and climb the stairs, still pretending all
was well. The nurse and attendant might have further questions. But
at all costs, she had to continue her charade. She could not faint.

She returned to the front foyer, where the twosome continued
to confer. They grew silent when she appeared again, and the nurse
played with the hem of her apron while the attendant studied her.
Again, Odessa tried to give him a smile. "I think I've walked every
inch of this place," she said. "The doctor should hire me as night staff
to join you."

The man gave her a half smile in return, a smile that did not
reach his eyes. "You're off to bed then again, miss?"

"And hopefully to sleep," she said amiably, climbing the stairs.
"There aren't many hours left before daybreak."

"No, there's not. Best to get back to your room and stay there,
miss."

"I agree," she said lightly, ignoring his stiff tone. She was almost
to the top. Her vision was tilting, her heart pounding so hard. She
hovered on the stair, waiting for her vision to steady.

"Miss St. Clair?" the nurse asked.

"I'm all right. G'night," she said, pressing forward. Once out
of their line of vision, she paused and leaned against a wall, trying
to calm her breathing and heartbeat, waiting for her equilibrium to
return. Gradually it did, and she moved down the hallway.