Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (49 page)

She brushed his hand away. "It is theater, James. Opera. Everyone
wears the makeup. It is entertainment. Diversion for the masses. A
delight. And not merely idle delight-"

A man rapped at the door. "Five minutes, Moira."

She turned back to James. "Not merely an idle delight, but an
opportunity to experience something different through another's
eyes, to understand. It is story, onstage. And we learn, are improved, are challenged by them, James. If we are not strong enough for such
challenge, we are weak indeed."

Moira bent down, peered into the mirror, and fixed the makeup
he had damaged, then straightened and faced him again. "I know
this is not what you wanted. And I am sorry for going against your
wishes. But we are not married, James. Not even engaged. And I
am my own woman. I would be my own woman even if we were
married."

"So what are you saying? That you might not be the woman for
me?"

"I did not say that," she said softly. "You did." She raised her eyes
slowly, knowing she was using them to the most captivating effect.
"James, please. I beg you." She moved over to him, took his hands in
hers and raised them to her chest, never letting go of his gaze. "Please
don't let this be the end. Give me a chance. This one chance."

But his eyes were steely. Resolute. "No. Then you would ask for
another night, and still another. If you refuse to accept my proposal
tonight-"

"What proposal?" she asked in bewilderment.

"If you get on that stage and sing, it will be the beginning of a
long slide for you, Moira." He pulled her closer. Moira's heart skipped
a beat. "You are young, impetuous. This is why your father did not
want you to yet court"

"James, you are but two years older than I," she scoffed.

"In the absence of your father," he went on earnestly as if he
hadn't heard her, "you've made a poor decision. One that will affect
the rest of your life. You don't know this world you're stepping into.
There are many who will lie in wait, ready to take advantage of you. You are barely of age, and now with some means at your disposal.
The wolves will come at you in packs, Moira."

She let out a humorless laugh. "So that is it? Threats of potential
dangers? A half proposal from you to marry? And I'm supposed to
walk away from the biggest opportunity in my life-"

"I'm the biggest opportunity for you, Moira! How can you not-"

"You expect me to settle into singing in drawing room parlors
for the rest of my life? Find satisfaction in being the pretty bauble on
your arm? Mindless? Sightless? Without any true voice at all?" She
pulled her hands from his and stepped away. "Wouldn't that be like
any other woman you've ever courted, James? Isn't my independence
what drew you to me?"

A knock sounded at her door again. "It's time, Moira. Everyone
onstage."

James seemed to recognize that she was stepping away from him.
He gazed at her in wide-eyed surprise. "Yes, it is part of what drew
me to you. But everyone knows that a woman gives up her life in
service to her man. It is what makes you all the more a prize, Moira.
You are so ... much. So vibrant. So alive. Grant me your life and I
shall shelter you, protect you, lead you."

She laughed, no humor in her voice. "You don't understand.
That isn't what I seek."

"Miss St. Clair!" shouted the director from down the hall.

She leaned closer to James. "I want love. Admiration. Support.
Passion."

`Miss St. Clair!"

James shook his head in wonder. "How ... how could I have
been so wrong?"

"I don't know, James. Go. Go and do what you must. And I will
do the same."

The carpenters had finished their bedroom, kitchen, and dining
room, so Odessa had elected to move in even as they continued
working. It was much easier cooking in her big, new kitchen for the
men than in the cabin, and truth be told, she couldn't stand to wait
any longer. She loved the smell of fresh-hewn pine, the clean walls,
the empty space waiting to be made a home. It called to her to sit
down and write, even as men sang and hammered and sawed a room
or two away.

This morning, they had run out of lumber that passed
Bryce's muster-he wanted clear pine, with no knots-and left
for Westcliffe for more. Bryce had promised to stop at the land
office and see if there were any properties listed under a female
O'Toole. And with most of the hands driving the horses into the
high country over the next few days, her cooking duties were at a
sudden minimum. She could give herself to writing, dipping pen
in inkwell and watching the words form upon the page and begin
to build upon the beginning of her story, her first story as Odessa
McAllan. She would see it through, see if anyone considered her
words worthy of mass production. The idea that her father would
not be able to review it made her want to both hyperventilate and
breathe freely at the same time.

She looked through her bright kitchen window to the mountains, where an afternoon thunderstorm was blowing in. Many of
their men were up there with the herd, seeking the high meadow grasses. Peter and Nels, the men who had remained behind, were
somewhere about-probably the stables.

Utter silence surrounded her. She wondered how long it had
been since she had been so alone. The words in her mind swirled
until she could barely wait to get to her desk, dip her pen, and begin
chapter four.

She picked up the heavy rifle Bryce had left for her, then set it
back down on the kitchen counter. The doors were locked. She'd
sit at her desk by the window and would clearly see if anyone came
down the road, long before they arrived. No, her mind was on her
story; the rifle only yanked her back to present potential realities. It
could remain where it was.

It had been glorious, perfect. People swarmed Moira after the show,
complimenting her on her fine performance. The director was
ecstatic, the opera house manager claiming they had sold all the
remaining tickets-for every performance-before the theater was
empty.

Box office success was all that mattered. She knew enough about
theater to know that. James would go home, lick his wounds, and
find a new bauble to adorn his arm. Or he'd regret leaving her, recognize his mistake, and return for her.

She was pulling on her gloves and coat to go, every nerve still
singing with the glory of the evening, when a knock at her small
dressing room door drew her attention. Smiling, assuming it was one
last admirer, she opened it. Her smile faded as she studied first the
director's sober expression, and then General Palmer's. "Might we
have a word, Moira?" the general asked.

"Certainly," she said, gesturing inward. She didn't know how she
might fit two men inside her tiny dressing room, but she was anxious
to put some wood between them and the curious glances of the rest
of the cast outside in the hall.

"Moira-" the general began.

"General, how I wish Queen might've been here tonight! She
would have delighted in it, wouldn't she?"

"Moira, stop. You and I both know that you've played a dangerous game here."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean. You came to me and asked
for my blessing upon James Clarion's courtship. I gave it, risking a
friendship with Reid, to support you both."

"Come now, General. We both know it was a benefit to you
as well. James will bring commerce to your city, undoubtedly to
you ...

He took a step to the side and leaned against her dressing table.
"Ah, and therein lies the rub. James Clarion, and his father, are enormously important to me, now more than ever. There are deals in the
works that are ..." He paused to shake his head, then stared at her.
"Young Clarion has not taken your spurning well."

"I did not spurn him, General. I merely refused to do anything
but sing. I had to sing ... you've seen how people respond to me, and
I to them." She rose and paced a step. "I couldn't do anything else,
regardless of what James wanted me to do. I thought, I thought that
if he loved me, he'd support me in this. Encourage me. Dare I say
applaud me along with the rest?"

"Yes, well, be that as it may, it's clear that you and Clarion will
not continue your courtship."

"No, I would assume not. But you needn't fret over me, General.
I will be all right." She waved about the room. "It's not much, but I
find it glorious. There's no place I'd rather be."

The general and the director were silent.

Moiras heart skipped a beat. Dread made her scalp tingle.

"I must see these deals with Clarion through to completion. As much as I enjoy your presence on my new stage, those contracts
mean more to me and this town."

Her hand moved to the base of her neck. "What does that
mean?"

The director cleared his throat, began to speak, paused, and then
started again. "Moira, you are dismissed from the opera. I will send
you off with references. I'm certain you have a bright future ahead
of you-it simply cannot be here." He uttered every word in misery,
obviously compelled by the general to do this.

"I ... see." She found that her mouth was hanging open, and
she resolutely clamped her lips shut and tossed her chin. She had to
handle this as a gracious woman, not the silly twit everyone assumed
she was. "I understand. Please accept my heartfelt thanks and my
apologies for forcing you into this position. You two have given me
the confidence I needed to pursue my dreams. Despite the fact that it
is ending now, far earlier than we expected, I'll always appreciate it."

The general's eyes gentled. "Moira, with your father gone and
Odessa down south, and Dominic poised to move away, perhaps you
ought to wait a bit, consider all your options. You could journey east
and be a companion to Queen, a governess for my girls for a season,
a year even."

"Oh, thank you, General," she managed to say. "You are most
kind. But I feel the time, my time, has arrived. Be it here or elsewhere, I shall find my way."

Having completed chapter four of her novel by early evening, Odessa
was elated. She glanced out the window, noted the angle of the sun through heavy clouds, and thought she had better get a start on
supper-even with just three men to cook for, she was tardy and
would have to rush. She moved into the kitchen and opened the back
door, and then went down into the cellar, just outside. The rows of
supplies that Bryce had brought home with him from Westcliffe and
placed on the shelves only an hour prior gave her a satisfied feeling of
preparedness. News that he had discovered a small parcel under the
name of Louise O'Toole-directly above Sam's property-made her
all the more happy. Now if she could simply pry her husband away
from the ranch for another day ...

She grabbed a sack of flour and sugar and climbed the steps to
the porch of her new house, setting down the heavy bundles on the
counter for a moment to check her breath. She inhaled and exhaled
several times, hand over her thumping heart. She smiled. Nothing
more than a little exertion. No wheezing. No faintness.