Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (5 page)

Back on the ward, among eleven other men, half of them coughing
in their sleep, the other half snoring, Bryce laced his fingers together
behind his head and stared up at the planks of the ceiling. A lamp
burned low in the corner, courtesy of the night nurse.

A knot in one plank reminded him of Odessas eye, wide and the
most curious shade of blue-green, like the island seas; the swirls of
the wood grain reminded him of her dark hair, waving about her face
like the ocean at night. She was pale and thin and terribly ill, but he'd
never seen such haunting beauty in all of his years.

And she had gumption. Talking to Sam, even him a littlestrangers-the way she had. She was cultured, pure, but she had the
heart of a pioneer. He could see it in her.

But what was the sorrow lurking within? It was beyond homesickness. He knew what that felt like, the deep, lurking pull of it,
the ache below. There was a grief inside the girl, dark and menacing, threatening to suck her under. It was enough to battle the disease
that threatened them all at the sanatorium; what else threatened
Odessa St. Clair?

He sighed. How long until he saw her again? Her tears pulled at
him, tying him to her. Had she lost someone dear to her in chasing
the cure? Or would it cost her some dream to remain in Colorado?

Did she share his pain?

He closed his eyes in prayer for her again, praying with everything in him that Odessa would be safe. That she would find healing.
And rediscover joy.

The men down the porch were obviously trying to give the St. Clairs
a measure of privacy, but Odessa was well aware they could hear
every word. Yet she was in no condition to move.

"Oh, Dess, you look so much better," Moira said, taking a chair
beside her sister and lifting her hand. "Doesn't she, Nic?"

"Pretty as a princess," he said, grinning at her shyly. "I told you
you'd make it to Colorado."

"Always have to be right, don't you, big brother?" Odessa said.

"Don't have to be. Just am."

She smiled back at him. "Glad you were right about this. Now
let's hope they can see me all the way to health."

"They will," Moira said, squeezing her hand. "I have such a good
feeling about this place, Odessa. It's going to be good for all three of
us, I know it."

Odessa studied her younger sister, the sparkle in her eye. Only two
things delighted the young woman so: singing or a new suitor. Their
father had sent her here to avoid both. "Moira, you haven't-"

"No, no," Moira said, looking away. "Stop it, Sissy. I'm merely
happy to be someplace new. It's all so fresh here. So ... raw. It's rather
like a blank canvas, isn't it, Mr. McAllan?"

"I beg your pardon," Bryce said, looking their way. Odessa's eyes
slid from him to her pretty younger sister and back again.

"The Springs. It's so new, so untouched, isn't it rather like a blank
canvas?"

Bryce thought on that for a moment and then gave her a small
smile. "I can see why you would say that, Miss St. Clair. But no, I
don't agree. I believe this country has already been painted by the
hand of God. We can cover it over with our own creations, but it will
merely mar what is already perfect."

Moira's mouth dropped a bit and then she abruptly shut it.
Odessa bit her lip. It wasn't often that a man didn't fall all over himself to please Moira. And she liked what Bryce had said.

"You young people need to hire some horses and take a ride," Sam
O'Toole said. "See some of this country as Bryce here describes it. Where
we hail from ..." He shook his head. "The farther from any city you get,
the more you'll see what he's talking about. You turn some corners, crest
some hills, and the majesty of it is enough to make a grown man cry."

"Sam's right," Bryce said. "Before you get your bookshop going,
spend some time riding about. Consider what it means to be on land
that nothing but antelope or mountain lion or Indian have ever been
on. Stare upon mountains that men have yet to climb. That's when
you'll get a sense of Colorado."

He coughed hard then, and they all waited for him to stop. He
leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes for a moment, and
Odessa wondered if he was done talking. She hoped not. She liked
the low, soothing timbre of his voice. The confidence, the authority
of his words, that belied his ill state.

Odessa looked to Dominic, who had been listening as intently
as she. Moiras attention seemed to be fading. She glanced about as if
looking for an excuse to leave.

"You don't want to see this city built?" Nic asked.

"City's already well on its way," Bryce said. "No stopping that,
and that's not a bad thing. But I'm just saying that we who hail from
the East have a propensity to want to re-create what we knew before,
rather than letting the new place become our home."

"We crave the familiar," Odessa said.

"That's right," Bryce said, his eyes meeting hers. "And sometimes,
God asks us to wrestle with the unfamiliar until it becomes our new
familiar. Until we can ..." He stopped, clearly trying to keep from
coughing, and reached for a glass of water.

"Until we can breathe freely in that new place," Odessa said.

Bryce's smile grew. Odessa felt a slow blush at her neck and she
looked away.

Sam laughed softly, as if he'd just been let in on an inside joke.
Odessa ignored him.

"Let's do as they suggested, " Dominic said as they left the sanatorium. "Let's go to the stables right now and hire some horses and see
some of this country."

"Nic, it's freezing. We'll catch our death."

"Ahh, the snow's nearly melted away. We'll stop at the hotel and
bundle up. Our appointment with the building manager isn't for
hours. Please, Moira. We've been here for three days and all we've
done is visit Odessa and look for space for the shop. Let's explore a
little."

Moira considered him and then glanced right, to the wooded
hills that flanked the young city. "I don't know, Nic. Is it safe?"

"That's the point," he said, taking her arm in his and steering her
down and around the corner, heading to the stables. "As McAllan
says, it's unknown. Unfamiliar. And the only way to make it familiar,
Moira, is to venture forth."

Sam O'Toole chuckled and then leaned to his right, looking down
the porch at Odessa. "You'll get your opportunity soon enough to lay
your own eyes on this land. They'll take you out and set you upon
a horse and when you're not so sick that you think you're about to
fall off, you'll catch a glimpse of what we're talking about.... Such
pretty places for you to see, such grand experiences ahead, miss ..."
He leaned back and looked over at Bryce, then back to Odessa. "You
two. There's something special brewing here, yes indeed."

"Sam ..." Bryce warned.

"Bah," said Sam, flicking out his fingers in dismissal. "If an old
man stuck in a sanatorium cannot meddle in the affairs of others,
what else will occupy his mind? It's plain that you and the young
miss-"

"Here," Bryce said loudly, cutting him off. He tossed a Bible
onto his cot. "Occupy your mind with that."

Sam laughed again. "All right, all right," he said, leaning back
and opening the worn leather cover. "Now where is the Song of
Solomon?"

"Sam ..."

But Sam just laughed. Odessa turned and feigned sleep, but
continued to listen to their banter. Sam relented from his teasing
as Nurse Packard came in to check on all three of them, refill water glasses, and pull covers up higher against winter's leftover chill. The
men lapsed into musings about their beloved valley, wondering
how much snow they'd gotten in this last storm, how Bryce's men
and horses fared, how the neighbors were weathering a snow-laden
spring.

Their easy camaraderie comforted Odessa, and she settled back,
eyes closed, to listen. It reminded her of Papa discussing a favorite
new novel with a colleague.

Bryce lowered his voice and Odessa turned slightly in order to
capture his next words. "Sam, is there something else? You look like
a stallion who has just discovered his own private meadow of sweet
grass."

"I do? Nah. It's nothing."

"What, specifically, is nothing?"

"Nah, boy," he said with another laugh. "All is in order."

"In order for what?"

"In order for ... anything."

In her own room, Odessa awakened in the deep hours of morning,
long before daybreak. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes
shut, half of her longing to recede back into the comforting eddies
of sleep, half of her trying to make out the sounds she heard coming
from the next room. With a start, she sat up straight in her bed.

Too fast. She coughed, which began one of her fits. It was always
this way; once she gave in to the urge to clear her lungs, a terrible
cycle ensued. Sometimes she was successful in clearing her throat and
not fainting. Sometimes not.

Minutes later, when she finally regained control, she sat on the
edge of the bed and reached a trembling hand to the nightstand.
A nurse had left the lantern burning low. She turned it up, taking
comfort in the warm glow that filled the room.

She listened hard for what she had heard earlier, but could only
make out the dull pounding of her heart in her ears and the high
whistle from her lungs.

But she had heard it, next door. The sounds of a man's muffled
cry, rustling, as if in struggle. No one was coming down the hall to
help; had no one else heard? She heard the squeak of a floorboard
and the soft footsteps of someone hurrying away. Tried to hold her
breath and hear. Failed. Coughed.

She knew Sam O'Toole was next door. Was he hurt? In trouble?

Odessa stared at the bell, thinking of the night nurse-what was
her name? Not nearly as kind as Nurse Packard, but efficient. She
reached for the bell but resisted ringing it. What exactly would she
say to Nurse Carlson? What if she had dreamed the whole thing? It
wouldn't be the first time her imagination had taken over, playing
out so vividly she was sure it was true. That was part of why she
had taken to writing ... to make use of the stories that continued to
spool across her mind. But what if it wasn't merely a figment of her
imagination?