Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (47 page)

Odessa took to riding out with Bryce and the men in the mornings,
eager to learn how the ranch was run and loving the opportunity to
sit back and watch her husband work. He was gentle and easygoing
with the men for the most part, and then strong when he needed to
be. But by and large, the men clearly respected Bryce and Tabito and
deferred to them. It was clear that most had worked with them for
years, since much of their work was completed without comment.
There were more than three hundred head of horses on the Circle M, half of them bound for export come fall. Every year, Bryce shipped
more than fifty head to his father in New York, fifty to a trader in
Chicago, and fifty to Denver. All clamored for more, so he had plans
to expand the herd, but carefully. Having enough grazing land was
a perpetual issue.

In the last few years, more than a hundred mares birthed live
foals; some even bore two. Of those foals this past spring, a hundred and ten had survived to romp together in the fields, becoming
more and more independent from their mothers. Half were males,
and Bryce had little need for more than ten of the finest as studs.
He would sell the others for a fine profit as studs for other herds,
and a few as racehorses. Those brought the largest profit of all.

"I'll have to teach you how to ride fast," he said.

Odessa watched him in bemusement. "Why is that?"

"It's how we know if a horse is of true value. The best racehorses
want to do nothing but run. If you run past them, they'll join in for
the sheer pleasure of it. You can see a lot in their form, the length of
their legs, the strength of their muscles, but until you see them run
... you just don't know."

"What makes you think I cannot ride fast?"

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Can you?"

"Fast enough. Once we choose my new mare, I'll show you.,,

He grinned. "Getting any closer?"

"It's between the black and brown ones over there."

"Two of the best," he said. "Either would be good. Let's release
the rest tonight and spend some time in the corral with just the two
of them. I bet you'll soon see which is your horse."

"I'd love that, Bryce."

"But for now, if you're really going to be a ranch woman, you
need to know another vital skill."

"And what is that?"

"Mending fences."

She laughed. A few days on the ranch had clearly shown her
that the bulk of the men's time seemed to be occupied with this task,
mending fences. On a ranch this size, she supposed it made sense.
Much of it was not fenced, but a good portion was. And horses who
liked to rub against fencing, scratching their flanks, were hard on it,
to say nothing of the elements that beat it to withered, rotting bits.
The colts even gnawed upon the wood, cutting teeth. "Doesn't the
fact that I'm cooking supper for ten men each night relieve me of
fence duty?"

"Your biscuits aren't good enough yet."

She laughed again. "Watch it, or your cook will throw in the
towel. Baking over a fire takes some time to learn."

"Apparently."

Odessa swatted him. "I bet it took you some time. You couldn't
have been any better than I!"

He grabbed her hands easily and took her into his arms. "You
can take all the time you want, Mrs. McAllan."

Moira bit into a light, flaky biscuit and closed her eyes in pleasure.
James had even brought along a jar of honey on their surprise picnic
on a cliff above Garden of the Gods, and she didn't hesitate to add a
thick layer to her next bite.

"Will you not eat any of the chicken?" he asked, lounging beside their picnic basket. "Or are you intent on making a meal of my
biscuits?"

"You have to admit that Miss Marla makes the best biscuits
you've ever eaten."

"It's true," James admitted. "They'd almost be enough to keep
me here in the Springs and eating at her restaurant every day." He
looked her over with an appreciative eye. But then he suddenly
righted himself and looped an arm around one knee. "Moira, I must
tell you something."

"Oh? What is that?" She tried to ignore the sudden triple-time
beat of her heart.

"With your father gone, I'd like to speak to your brother. It is
my hope we might come to an ... agreement. You and I practically
courted in Philadelphia. We've known each other for years. Being
here, with you," he said, reaching out to touch her face, "has only
served to convince me. My instincts were right, Moira St. Clair. I
think you're the woman for me."

The biscuit was becoming a wad of dough in her mouth. She
kept chewing, hoping to be able to swallow, but failing repeatedly.
Agreement? She swallowed at last. "James, you see our union as some
sort of contract? Why not simply call it a business merger?" She
wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood. "Honestly, that is the
single most unromantic thing a man has ever said to me."

James frowned and rose, then reached for her hand, but she
pulled it away. He looked upset, devastated really. "I ... I thought
you would be pleased, pet."

"Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that."

Now he looked extremely confused. "I thought you liked that."

"No, I do not," she said, turning around to stare at the Garden,
and above it, Pikes Peak.

He was silent behind her for several long seconds.

"Am I to understand," he said lowly, "that you are not interested
in any long-term arrangement between us?"

She half-turned back toward him. "Oh, James. Cease your fretting. Did our courtship not resume but a month ago? I am still very
intrigued with you, brutish as you might be when it comes to affairs
of the heart. But I am young," she said with a laugh, reaching out
to lightly touch his chest. "As are you. There is no need to rush this,
right?"

James looked down. "I was brutish, p-my love. Forgive me."
He reached over and succeeded in taking her hands in his. "And yes,
yes, we can take all the time we need. I had only thought ... only
wanted to ... it matters not. I will simply see to my business at home
for a time and then return to you."

He leaned down, passion thick in his eyes, as if to kiss her on the
lips, but she presented her cheek instead.

James pulled back, hurt apparent in his eyes. But she ignored it.
She had a bigger dream for her life than even James Clarion, a dream
he threatened. She cared for him, could well imagine herself as the
future Mrs. Clarion, but not if he couldn't love her and support her
as she planned to love and support him.

No, men might take a fancy to Moira as their potential bride.
But Moira intended to choose her groom. It would take a special
man to be her husband. And she was not at all convinced that James
Clarion was the right one.

Opening night would be telling for more reasons than one.

Odessa chose the black mare as her own, naming her Ebony. She
needed a big name, an elegant name to fit her. Astride her perfectly
formed back for the first time, Odessa immediately felt regal, absorbing
the young mare's strength. Every movement was rife with power, and
she knew that Ebony would run as fast as she would allow. Odessa
wondered about the animal's ancestors, undoubtedly the steeds of
Spanish emperors or conquistadors, reigning conquerors. She was
a fine horse, a beautiful horse, and as Bryce gazed upon them both,
riding about the corral, she felt more a part of his world than ever.

"Bryce, please open the gate. I want to do more with her than
ride in a circle."

He hesitated, studying her and then the mare. "She's pretty
green, Odessa. Barely accepting a rider. She might break and run."

"I can handle her if she does," Odessa said, reaching down to run
her fingers through Ebony's glossy, obsidian mane, then pat her neck.
"I already know her, Bryce. I can't explain it better than that."

"I understand," he said. "But be ready. Hold on to those reins or
you might not stop until you get to Westcliffe."

"That's a longer ride than I was-"

Bryce had barely opened the gate two feet when Ebony lurched
into a gallop, nearly throwing Odessa. She felt the tension in the
horse's flanks, the slight drop backward, but didn't react in time to be prepared. Ebony was up the hill and tearing across the cabin clearing
in moments. They moved so fast that Odessa couldn't even look back
or shout a response to Bryce. She had lost one of the reins, exactly
what Bryce had warned her about. And without the reins, would the
young mare really run as far as Westcliffe? There was only one way
to find out.

Odessa settled into the cadence of the horse's gallop, thankful she
had donned an old pair of pants from Bryce before beginning the evening ride. Her legs felt strong, as if they could cling to Ebony's flanks
for hours, the gift of hours of sanatorium-sanctioned hiking and riding
all spring long. And she felt the horse's power become her own again,
the thrill of it elongating each muscle as she bent and gathered a fistful
of mane in each hand. Her grandfather had taught her to ride bareback
as a child. Granted, it had been an old, swaybacked nag, but there was
still something familiar, comfortable in the action.

All of the St. Clairs had been taught to ride properly as children.
The boys had received more lessons than the girls, and the girls had
spent most of their time sidesaddle, but Odessa knew horses, loved
horses. And so although she feared the speed at which the ranch
road disappeared beneath her mare's hooves, she loved the freedom
of it, the breath-stealing glory of it. She concentrated on matching
Ebony's movements with her own, leaning down as the wind passed
woman and horse like a sheet over one body, not two.

This occupied her mind for many minutes, but as she saw the
ranch's front posts come into view and then slide behind them, she
felt a more serious strain of fear. And yet there was no stopping this
horse until she was ready to stop or Bryce caught up with them. She
dared to glance under one arm and thought she saw him, far behind. But she couldn't get a good look. She nervously watched the path
before them. If the horse stepped into a ground squirrel's hole, or one
of the many rain ravines in the road, she might twist her ankle and
both of them would be down, possibly forever. Odessa could urge
her a little one way or the other by pulling at her mane, but their fate
was largely up to Ebony's choices.

Odessa could hear the heavy churn of the mare's breath. What
were her lungs like? How big were they? They must be perfection,
clean and free to power her long, churning, endless strides.

Odessa leaned a little closer to the mare's neck. "That's enough,
Ebony. That's enough," she murmured, hoping to move into the
horse's realm of conscious hearing, understanding that Odessa was
mistress and she, servant. But that might take a little more time-

The horse hit a hole and stumbled, slowing her gait a little, and
almost tore Odessas fingers from her mane, but then she was back
into the same rhythm and speed as before. They passed the stage
road that led from the train platform to Westcliffe and kept moving,
eventually veering southwest. Odessa dared to glance again under
her armpit. Bryce was gaining on them, and two ranch hands were
right behind him.

But Ebony was fast, a possible breeder to future racehorse stallions. They passed a homestead and a woman hanging out clothes
over a line. She gazed up in surprise as they tore by. Then they passed
a herd of sheep with a small boy tending them, and a burned-out
rancher's cabin. They crossed mile after mile, and still Ebony did not
slow, seemingly energized by her success, her speed, her freedom. You
can claim me, name me, she seemed to be saying to Odessa, but I am
still my own glorious creation.

Before them the Sangre de Cristos stretched out in a straight
line, intent on running south until they met the untamed lands of
Mexico. To her left, the Wet Mountains began as sunbaked pinon
and scrub-oak-covered hills, but Odessa could see the taller peaks
in the distance, peaks that as the minutes passed were getting larger
and larger.