Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (43 page)

Odessa squealed and took his hand. They climbed in and
Odessas eyes opened wide in wonder. Rich mahogany covered the
walls. Black lacquered cabinets with hand-carved ivory handles were
on one end. Soft ruby velvet covered overstuffed chairs and benches along the side. Tables with carved acanthus leaves and the heads of
nymphs were on either side.

Bryce was grinning, opening cabinet after cabinet. "We have our
choice of what to dine upon. There are crackers, canned sardines and
oysters, even caviar. Oranges, fresh oranges. And the general's cook
and Helen both packed us picnic baskets."

"We won't starve," Odessa said.

"But that's not the best part," he said. He took her hand and led
her to the back of the car, then opened two pocket doors. To one side
was a bed fit for a queen.

She glanced up at him. "We couldn't possibly," she said, hand on
her heart. "Look at the windows! I don't care to have ranchers and
whatnot gazing in upon us."

"We'll be moving just fast enough for privacy," he said moving
behind her and bending to kiss her ever so softly on the neck. "And
there are drapes anyway. Lots and lots of drapes."

"Drapes might work," she allowed, closing her eyes as he continued his trail of kisses to her ear. She felt weak, light-headed.

The train conductor called out, "Final call! All aboard!" and a
servant ducked into their car. "Sure you don't want a servant aboard
your car, Mr. McAllan?" The man averted his eyes from their intimate kiss, and Odessa turned away, her face aflame.

"No, thank you," Bryce said, a laugh under his tone. "We will be
just fine on our own."

"You surely will," said the man with a grin, and then he was
out and closing the door up tight. She shared a smile with her
husband and, feeling self-conscious, turned to pass the bed and
go out to the small rail and deck that protruded from the back of the train. She looked across Colorado Springs, what she had called
home these last months, and recognized that she wasn't yet home,
that it was ahead.

Bryce joined her at the rail as the train blew its whistle and
lurched forward, then slowly began to gain speed. He handed her
a glass of champagne, bubbly and light and sweet upon her tongue,
and toasted her. "To Mrs. McAllan and our new life together."

"And to my husband, Mr. McAllan."

They stood there, trying to drink their champagne, but the ride
was already bumpy, jostling them about. "Want to go in?" Bryce
asked, meaning deep in his eyes.

He moved toward her and kissed her, his lips becoming more
and more searching, his questions and sentences broken up by kisses
he couldn't stop himself from making, nor could she refuse. "Do
you mind, Odessa? Very much, I mean? That it's here. Now. On a
train?"

"What does it matter?" she asked. "Whether it be in a hotel ...
or a train ... or a tiny cabin ... right?"

"Right," he agreed, moving behind her, unbuttoning a gown her
sister had buttoned up only hours before.

Sheriff Reid Bannock dolefully watched as Bryce McAllan whisked
his bride away. It chafed, seeing a St. Clair girl in white, when he
had thought it was going to be him as groom, Moira as bride. But
instead she was there, accepting James Clarion's arm, looking up at
the dandy in adoration.

The map was not in the cottage, nor on her brother-in-law's person. Was it with Moira? His eyes returned to the train, small now,
in the distance. Or Odessa? Or had it been lost when those fools
chased her and Helen Anderson into the water? And if that was the
case, did she remember pertinent details? Was it all in that pretty
head of hers? What delicious torture might it take to extract it?

Another rider came up, joining him in the shadows cast by the
swiftly climbing sun. Reid's grim smile faded. "All is in order?"

He nodded swiftly toward the train in the distance. "The men
aboard will watch the McAllans day and night to see if they find their
way to O'Toole's mine. Once we have the location, we uh, clear the
way to purchase the property."

"McAllan will be more cautious than ever, given that beating he
took."

"I've thought of that myself. We'll have to lie low. Give them
the impression they have been forgotten, that they're safe on that big
ranch. When McAllan relaxes, we'll move."

"Good. Long-term goals demand long-term plans. We can wait
a few more weeks." He looked back to the wedding crowd still lingering. "What of Clarion? He's met all the appropriate people?"

"He has. And there's something else. Telegraph operator let me
know that the St. Clairs received a message late last night. They sold
the press. Word on the street is that Dominic plans to close down the
bookshop and move on. They're cashing in."

Reid lifted his head in surprise and then dismissed the man.

So the St. Clair heirs had sold their inheritance while their father's
body was still cooling. The girls would not have had the stomach for
such a move. It had to have been Dominic. On second thought,
Moira might have encouraged him. The selfish wench had big ideas in her head, plans. Would she now toss Clarion aside? He both hoped
for it as much as he dreaded it. For if she severed her courtship with
Clarion she was bound to move on, leaving Reid behind as well.
There would be no opportunity for reconciliation ... or retribution.

His eyes shifted to the horizon. It was time to face facts. Moira
would never have him. She had never had serious intentions about
him. And for that, she and her family would pay dearly. The McAllans
would soon die and the O'Toole fortune would be partially his. With
such funds in his bank, he would retire as sheriff and track Moira
down. She was still young, foolish, bound to make poor choices with
liquid assets at her fingertips. He'd find a way to exploit her, leaving
her vulnerable, just as she had done to him. Then, in her most dire
hour, she would fall to her knees, begging him to take her back, to
rescue her.

He grinned, the thrill of promise, hope, surging through his
limbs. Would he take her back then? Make her his bride or merely
his mistress?

There would be plenty of time to consider both options. But at
that point, it would be his decision, not hers. Moira St. Clair would
be entirely at his mercy. He laughed under his breath. Yes, long-term
goals demanded long-term plans.

"So I'll see you both this evening," said James Clarion, standing
beside a fine gray horse and preparing to ride away for yet another
meeting.

"Tonight, at six," Moira agreed, from beside her brother. She
flashed a smile toward him, and for the first time, Nic wondered if
she truly felt something for the man. Moira and Nic climbed the
shop steps while James rode east, out of town. Dominic wished he
could switch places with James, have business that carried him in
one direction and then the other, varied, wide, ever expanding. Or
even with Bryce, to a ranch that presented new challenges each day.
He couldn't wait to be divested of the bookshop, which, to him, felt
like two wagon wheel ruts through a vast, endless prairie. He could
barely stand this process of closing it down. He wished he could hop
the first train through town and see where it took him.

A sudden thought came to him. A deep amber shot of whiskey.
Then another. His mouth watered at the thought of it. In the whiskey, he could find the patience he needed to see the sale of the shop's
contents through. Perhaps he would reward himself this night....

"Nic, I have to head over to the opera house soon for rehearsal,"
Moira said.

He frowned. "I thought you were going to help me here. There
is so much to be done, Moira."

"I needed James to believe that. But I thought you knew I had
daily rehearsals from now until opening night."

He shook his head. "You should shoot straight with James. Tell
him now you're doing the opera. He's not the sort who will favor a
surprise."

"I know it," she said ruefully. "But I cannot find the right words
to convince him. If we can just get to opening night, if he could see
me onstage, how much I love it, what it's like-"

Nic shook his head again. "I'm telling you now, Sissy. You should
tell him the truth before opening night."

"He'll be frightfully angry," she said. "He might be so angry that
he leaves town, pulls out of the business deals he's been working on.
And that will infuriate the general."

"And so you're concerned that if the general is infuriated, he'll
replace you in the opera? Are you more concerned about losing the
role or the man?"

"Both. What if James walks away from me?" She ran her fingers
over the countertop, thinking about it. "I think it would be dreadfully upsetting."

Nic shrugged his shoulders. "He's a good man, a nice match
for you. And he certainly has access to enviable bank accounts. But
you're a woman with your own means now, Moira. Your future is
what you choose to make of it." He reached out to pinch her chin.
"You are beholden to no man. Except me," he teased. "Until you've
helped me see this shop emptied of its contents, that is. Then? You
want to go and chase the stage? I say do it. You certainly have the
beauty and talent it would take."

"You think so? Really?"

"Really."

"But if I could get both ... launch my career and win the man,
wouldn't that be the best?"

"The best, yes, but I think it's impossible. You must convince
James to let you sing. Don't surprise him. That will not go over
well."

Moira stared at him. "I'll consider it. I will. But now I really
must be off. You can manage without me?"

Nic clamped his lips shut for a moment. "I'll manage. But you
owe me, Sissy." He waved his finger in front of her face. "I expect
you to rise early and come to help, first thing in the morning."

"First thing," she agreed, and kissed him on the cheek as she
turned to rush out the door.

Moira walked out onto the stage, still mulling over her brother's
words. The modest opera house was not anything like the glorious
theaters of the East, but it was still something. It had two tiers of
seats, spread in gentle arcs like the bottom of a seashell and offering
prime acoustic advantage. The stage was wide and nicely lit, with the
aid of candles and lanterns placed in just the right locations. And
when they were all alight! Oh, it was magical. She couldn't wait for
her costumes to be complete, for the glory of opening night.

In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a good chance
that it might be her only night. After her final bows, a last curtain
call-please, Lord, let there be a curtain calla James would undoubtedly storm in. Perhaps he'd convince the general to toss her out to the
sidewalk. Or maybe, just maybe, James would see in her that this is what she longed to do; he would be proud of her performance; she
would win his approval as well as his love. Wouldn't it be grand? They
could travel the world together, he seeing to business while she filled
various roles on the stage.