Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (42 page)

His nickname irritated her, but she shoved it aside. It was common enough. She nodded. "Very. I'm so glad you are here, James."

"As am I. Tell me, what was so important today that you could
not remain with me at Dannigan's?"

"I've been meaning to tell you, James."

"Oh? What is it?" He pulled her to a stop, a block shy of the
restaurant.

She paused, considering her choice of words. "I ... you have
complimented my singing, in the past."

"Indeed," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. He looked
lively, boyish. A young man in love. His mossy brown eyes sparkled.

"James, I have a little adventure, here in the Springs. A place I've
found to sprout my wings. I do so hope you'll approve."

"Anything, pet. Ask me anything, it's yours."

"I'm to sing, James. At the opera house. As the lead, opening
night."

He frowned, hesitated, and Moira rushed on. "It's something I've
always longed to do. To sing in front of a crowd. To ... entertain."

As his frown deepened, she knew that last word had been
wrongly placed. "It is a fine opera, and deeply meaningful to me and
my family, because it centers on something that brought us here, in
the beginning."

"What is that?" he asked distractedly.

"Consumption. The heroine has consumption."

"Does she die?"

"What?"

"Does she perish?"

"Well, yes."

"No," he said, shaking his head, and breaking away to pace back
and forth. "No, Moira. You are ill-cast. Imagine, beautiful you, dying,
in front of all those people. It is oddly ... intimate. Unseemly."

"Well, yes, James. That is the point of all good theater. To let the
audience in. Close. But it is all illusion. Make-believe."

"Not to me." He took her hands in his. "I cannot bear it, even
watching your death in a false world. Please, do not do it."

Moira pulled her hands from his. "James, please do not ask that
of me."

"Did your father approve of this?"

Moira shifted and then met his eyes. "My father did not know
of my plans."

His mouth settled into a grim line. "It is settled, Moira." He
laughed, a hollow sound. "Listen, I beg for your forgiveness over this
disappointment. But we are courting; you are my intended. Your
father is gone, unable to guide you. We will find other means for you
to share your gifts."

She turned slightly away. "And how shall we do that?"

He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. "Come,
let us eat. We'll both feel better after a good meal. We'll discuss it
later."

But Moira knew their conversation was over. In James' mind,
Moira was set to tell the director the very next day she could not take
the part, and she would never set foot on the stage again.

She would just need to convince him otherwise. James Clarion
was a good man, a man of the world, educated, a patron of the arts.
Not anything like Reid Bannock. Surely, in time, he'd see things her
way.

"I'm selling it. All of it."

"All of it? You mean the house-"

"I mean all of it," Nic said, looking from one sister to the next.
"Wellington Press has put in a good bid for St. Clair Press-"

"Papa never wanted to sell to them," Odessa said, shaking her
head. "He didn't care for how they did business." Bryce took a seat
beside her. James stood behind Moira, leaning against a wall, listening, chin in hand.

"Francis Bonner thinks it's a decent bid, a fair bid, but we're
waiting for another. I expect to receive a telegram today on it."

"What about what we want? Why did you not consult us?"
Odessa asked.

"Come," Nic said dismissively. "You are to be wed tomorrow
and Moira has never been as drawn to books as you and father were.
Right?"

Moira nodded, reluctantly.

"If anyone was to take over St. Clair Press, Odessa, it would
be you. But women are not publishers and-" He held up a hand
when she began to interrupt him. "And as I've already said, you are
marrying a Colorado rancher tomorrow. Right? And you can't return
East even if you wished to do so. Right?"

Odessa rose and paced. "But, Nic, shouldn't you have discussed
it with us first? It might be the right decision, but didn't you consider
that Moira and I would want to be a part of it?"

"It wasn't yours to make. It was mine. Father left it to me."

"The decision," Bryce said.

"No. He left the entire estate to me. It's all in my name."

"He left no provision for the girls?" James asked.

"Bonner says he simply never got to it. The will is old, dated
soon after I was born." He held up his hands when they all began
to speak at once. "Look, we all know Father's intentions would have
been to divide the estate between us, at least to some extent. So while
the decision remains mine to make, I've asked Bonner to divide it in
thirds."

"So that is it? It's done? There is no discussion?" Odessa asked.
"Wellington will run St. Clair Press into the ground. I don't-"

"No. There is no discussion," Nic said. "It is done, Odessa. It is
for the best."

"How much?" Moira asked. "How much money will we each
receive?"

"Enough to buy you a nice home and keep you in fine dresses
and food for decades to come. Father worked hard-"

"Worked so hard that in an instant, at the first opportunity, his
son could simply sell it," Odessa said.

"What would you have me do, Odessa?" He rose to glare back at
her across the table. "I don't want it! I never wanted it! I don't wish to
be a bookseller or a publisher. I want to do something else. And now
I have the opportunity." His face softened. "I know it disappoints
you, Dess. The press was dear to your heart in so many ways. I'm
sorry. I wish there was an alternative. But don't you see? This is my
chance. Your chance. Moiras chance. To make Father's dream each of
our own. It's a gift, really, unique for each of us."

"He's right, Odessa," Bryce said. She sank into the seat beside
him and he covered her hands with his.

"And it would be nearly impossible to run it from afar,"
James said. "Even with a good manager in place, a business can be
destroyed in months without solid oversight. I've seen it happenmismanagement of talent, siphoning of funds. It's wise to let it go if
there is no one capable or interested enough to remain."

"Wise, but sad. Just another ending for us," Odessa said, grief
evident in every syllable she uttered.

"But endings leave room for new beginnings, right?" Bryce
asked her. "You finish the last page of a book, aren't there then ten
new tales to choose from? That's what Nic wants. A new opportunity.
The chance to choose his own book. Write his own script. Surely you
understand that."

Odessa glanced from him to her brother. After a moment, she
nodded. "I do." She reached out to Nic and Moira and they came
around the table to take her hands. She looked up at each of them.
"Just remember that this money is Papa's final gift to each of us.
Don't waste it," she pleaded. "Make it count."

"I will," Moira said.

"As will I," Nic said.

They were married on a bright and sunny July morning at the First
Presbyterian Church, one of only three churches in town, and
refused any party afterward. Under the shadow of her father's death,
the sale of St. Clair Press, and mindful of the still unnamed thugs
who had nearly cost her her husband, Odessa had not wanted a lot
of fuss and bother; she didn't want to dance and drink champagne;
she only wanted to be with Bryce, wanted to absorb what it meant to finally be his wife. Desperation to escape the threatening cloud
that covered the Springs propelled her forward. And the idea that
Bryce could both oversee his ranch again and introduce it to her on
their honeymoon had been hers. Their plan was to travel to some dry
clime on belated holiday come winter.

So she had donned a simple, but elegant, ivory silk gown,
gathered a small, elegant bouquet from the sanatorium gardens,
and walked the aisle on her brother's arm, but with none other than
Moira and James, Helen, Doctor and Mrs. Ramsey, Doctor and Mrs.
Morton, Nurse Packard, and General Palmer in attendance.

But it felt right to Odessa, to stand before this small, select
group. She keenly felt the absence of her father as Nic stepped back,
but then was warmed by the arrival of her groom. Bryce smiled down
at her, delightfully handsome in a new black suit and crisp white
shirt, his sparkling eyes-both now blessedly clear-captivating her
as they always had.

"Ready?" Bryce whispered, and Odessa barely choked back a
laugh. What was she to do if she wasn't? Run away? But she didn't
want to run away. No, this was exactly where she wanted to be. The
vows were spoken, the rings exchanged. And never, ever, had Odessa
seen such love and joy in her beloved's eyes. It made her take a breath,
as if gasping. But it was more a desire to inhale, to hold it within her
for as long as possible, imprinting this precious day on her heart as if
it were one of Helen's photographs, deep within.

Outside, under joyful, clanging bells, as she bade farewell to
everyone she had loved longest, and new friends who had made this
place home, a sudden sorrow echoed through like the last peal of a
bell hanging in the air. But it was a short-lived pain that soon faded upon the euphoria she felt at officially being Mrs. Bryce McAllan.
And the two of them were escaping, running away to his beautiful
ranch to explore the land, and each other.

A distant train whistle blew. "We don't have much time," Bryce
said lowly.

"Here," Helen said, handing her a camera and then setting a
picnic basket beside it. "I'll expect to see some fine photographs from
your new abode."

"Helen, I can't -"

"You can. There are supplies in the trunk. Happy marriage,
friend." She pulled her close. "I've been married twice now, happily.
Treat your spouse as your best friend. Remember that."

"I will. Do come and see us soon."

Odessa turned to Moira. "Stay out of trouble, Sissy."

Moira laughed. "James will see to that."

"I'll be back in a month or two to check on you."

"Yes, yes. You concentrate on being Mrs. McAllan."

"Mrs. McAllan," Odessa said, cocking her head to one side.
"That'll take some getting used to."

"Take care of my sister," Dominic was warning Bryce with a
solemn expression.

"With my life," he returned immediately.

The two shook hands and then Nic turned to kiss her on both
cheeks. "Take close care, Dess."

"You take care too, dear brother. Stay off the roads at night."

"Upon my honor," he pledged.

A train whistle blew again, just as a beautiful white carriage,
pulled by a team of black horses, drew up in front of the church. Mud coated the side, but it mattered little to Odessa-only the
thoughtfulness of her husband filled her mind. He grinned and gestured grandly in the direction of the carriage and she moved toward
it, pleased to see her trunks already packed beside Bryce's in back.
Those attending the wedding added their gifts to the back and stood
around shaking hands with Odessa from across the carriage door.

And then they were off. She huddled close to her husband, leaning her cheek on his shoulder. "The last time I was on a train, I
almost died. It was that dire, my consumption."

"I remember." There was a shiver in his voice. "And now you
board a train, a woman with a new name, new identity."

"But I am still Odessa."

"Oh yes, always, gloriously Odessa. My Odessa." And with that,
he leaned down and stole his second kiss as her husband.

"Should we stop somewhere, Bryce? I need to change. I don't
want my gown to be ruined, sitting on a dusty train for hours."

"No need," he said mysteriously. They reached the train station,
Bryce turned to direct the men on the platform with their baggage,
flipping them each coins, and hurried to board the last car, an elegantly painted and appointed car with the words "General William
Jackson Palmer" on the side. He lifted his hand to her as her mouth
fell open. "The Palmers' wedding gift to us. We might be spending
our wedding day on a train, but it's in a borrowed, private car like
no other."