Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (8 page)

Doctor Morton consented to let Bryce leave the next day and take
part in Sam O'Toole's funeral. Bryce couldn't imagine his friend
being lowered in a casket, with no one to pay their respects but
people he'd met just a few weeks prior. Bryce wasn't family, but he
was the nearest Sam had had. Riding in the wagon several miles out
of town to Evergreen Cemetery taxed every ounce of his strength.
He mused to himself that once they got Sam's body out of the
wagon he'd have to get in it, flat on his back for the ride home.
Sam would've laughed at that. The memory of his easy smile, his
laughter, poked at Bryce and made him melancholy.

"Why's the cemetery so far out of town?" he asked the wagon
driver beside him, a servant at the sanatorium.

"Hard for a city promoting herself as a `haven of health' if the
dead outnumber the living," he said.

Bryce smiled. Sam would've gotten a big laugh out of that, too.
Finally, they arrived, and Doctor Morton, Nurse Packard, and several
other patients from the sanatorium all unloaded from other wagons
and carriages. A large man that Bryce deduced was the sheriff rode
up and joined the small gathering that stood before the chaplain.

Chairs emerged for the ill and weakened patients and Nurse
Packard, but the others stood through the ceremony. Out of respect
for Sam, Bryce stood as well, but kept a hand on the back of his chair in case his head started spinning with the fever. The chaplain
did a decent job of it, considering he'd never known Sam. But Sam
had been a believer, had understood something far grander was
ahead of him, and hadn't dictated anything fancy for his funeral
service.

"When I'm done here, I'm done," he'd said to Bryce once, when
it looked liked the consumption was going to take him. "No tears for
me, boy. I'll be free. Free."

He'd always been looking ahead, that Sam. Bryce smiled as the
chaplain uttered his last amen and picked up a handful of dirt, sending it in a dusty drizzle down to the pine coffin below. They buried
a box, a body. But the man-his friend, his brother-was ahead, on
to the next adventure.

The group dispersed, heading back to their wagons and carriages,
the service now over. Bryce remained, staring at that perfect pine box
marred with dirt, imagining it covered, grass soon growing atop the
mound. He looked out to the mountains, then back to the coffin. "Rest
in peace, old friend," he whispered. "You shall be sorely missed."

"Pardon me," said a man from behind him.

Bryce turned, wondering if he was in the way. The man bore an
extra thirty pounds and wore a fine suit that marked him as wealthy,
but Bryce did not know him.

"Are you Bryce McAllan?"

"I am," he said, wrapping his arms around himself. He suddenly
felt the bitter chill of the March wind.

"Then this is for you," said the man, handing him an envelope.
"I am Mr. O'Toole's attorney. He specifically asked that I deliver it
to you."

Bryce took the envelope and stared at the writing he knew to be
Sam's.

"Is Miss St. Clair present?"

Bryce looked up at the man. "Pardon me?"

"A Miss Odessa St. Clair," the attorney clarified, looking back to
a second envelope. "Is she present?"

"No. Miss St. Clair is in no condition to be out in this wind. She
is back at the sanatorium."

"Ah, I see. It's a bit unorthodox, but listen-would you mind
delivering this to her? I have pressing business and must be off on
this afternoon's train."

Bryce reached out and took the second envelope. Again, Sam's
handwriting. Odessa St. Clair's name on the front. "I will see to it."

"Good," the man said, clearly relieved to have seen his duty through.
"I bid you good day, Mr. McAllan. And my condolences on your loss."

"Thank you," Bryce murmured. He stared at the envelopes and
then up the hillside.

Only Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard stared back, waiting
on him, clearly wondering what was holding him. They were cold,
eager to get the others back to warmth, the safety of the sanatorium. He moved up the hill as fast as he dared, suddenly well aware
of his weakness. He just might opt for the wagon bed, with a few of
the woolen blankets to cover him. Yes, Sam would've laughed, said
something like, "I just get out and you're trying to take my place."
He glanced down at the envelopes and then back to the wagon.
He'd open his later. And get Odessas to her as soon as he could.

The sheriff refused to release Dominic, no matter how much Moira
begged. Only one thing had convinced him to consider releasing Nic
the following day-she agreed to accompany him to dinner.

Moira paced in her hotel room. Papa would yell and stand before
the door, refusing to allow her out with a man they had just met,
sheriff or not. Dominic, if he knew, would throttle them both.

But neither man was here. She was on her own.

She stopped and glanced in the long, oval mirror hanging in her
hotel room. She was dressed in a fine teal gown, low at the neck, tight
in the bodice, which showed off her narrow waist and the pleasing
curve of her breasts. She had summoned a maid to assist her into the
corset, and then into the gown. Then with shaking hands she had
seen to her hair, pinning it to the top of her head, and applied light
Parisian makeup. She ran her hands over the raw silk of her bodice.
Nic wanted her to behave as a woman grown? Well, this was it. She
could act the part.

Act the part. Was it within her, this role? Never had she been with
a man who had not been approved by her father. But this was the
West. And Papa was far away. And the sheriff had threatened to keep
Dominic in jail for a week. Only her reluctant agreement to dinner
had swayed him. One dinner. One dinner and Nic would be out in
the morning, back in the adjoining hotel room tomorrow. And they
could get back to the business of finding a proper space for the shop
before Papa even got wind of what had happened.

Her heart fluttered as she thought of Nic on the ground and
bleeding. She'd seen the repercussions of what their mother had
termed "scuffles" before, bruises and scratches and cuts the day after,
but never had she seen men exchange blows. It was ... unseemly. And oddly fascinating. She was drawn to the foreign force of it all,
the scent of primal manhood.

She lifted her chin. There was nothing for it. It was time she
acted the part of a grown woman, not that of the baby of the family. Even when her little brothers had been born, Moira had always
taken a special place in the family as youngest daughter. And it was
thrilling, freeing really, being here in the West and on her own, with
neither Dess nor Nic to stand in her way. This sense of independence
was what she had craved in Philadelphia, what had frightened Papa
when he recognized it. "You are far too fickle, Moira. A creature of
passions, drawn to dangerous men and dangerous pursuits."

"Dangerous men?" she had sputtered. "You mean James
Clarion? I would think you would be happy to have a Clarion-of
all people-court me. And dangerous pursuits? I've always loved to
sing, Papa. To say nothing of acting ... it can be a lovely thing. If you
would only consider allowing me but a year in New York-send me
there instead of to Colorado. Please, Papa. I beg it of you. Just a year.
Only a year!"

He had stood there, face stricken. For a man of words, a publisher of books, he consistently ran short of them when in heated
discussion with his daughter. "Moira, what makes your passions,
your pursuits dangerous is that you do not yet know yourself. And
the theater is full of passionate people liable to lead you astray." He
sighed. "Without your mother to guide you ... No. It is decided.
You need to go West with your siblings. There you will have enough
distance from all of this to become who you are meant to be."

She smoothed down her bodice again, although it was perfectly
in place, and studied her image in the mirror. She scoffed at the memory of his words. Papa wanted her to become the person she was
"meant to be," but he'd cut her off from the one avenue that would
lead her to who she believed she was, deep within-an entertainer,
an actress. She was nineteen years old, of age to marry, have children
of her own. But Papa believed she did not yet know herself. She
leaned toward the glass and stared into her own eyes. "Have some
gumption, Moira St. Clair," she said. "Show your father just who you
are." She leaned even closer. "Show yourself."

Despite the stern words she gave herself, a knock at the door
made her jump.

"Yes?"

"Miss St. Clair, the sheriff is downstairs waiting on you."

"Thank you. Please tell him I'll be down shortly."

"As you wish, miss."

Moira went to the foot of her bed, wrapped the shawl around
her shoulders, and gathered up her evening bag. And then she sat
down on the edge to count to a hundred. It'll never do to have a man
think you re eager to see him, her mother had said once.

Moira agreed. Particularly this man. This man was dangerous.
Powerful. She pulled on her lace gloves slowly, watching as each
finger slid into its pocket. Yes, she would need every weapon in
her feminine arsenal if she were to keep Sheriff Bannock in line.
Fortunately, her arsenal was well supplied.

Reaching a hundred, she rose and after one last glance in the
mirror, slipped out of the hotel room and turned her key in the lock.
It was good to be out of the room, really. It would be hard enough
to sleep in there all alone, to say nothing of doing so after an evening
of pacing within. And if she had to spend another moment at the sanatorium, it would make her scream. It was wise for her to get out,
clever of her. She could ply the sheriff with compliments and free her
brother as she helped Nic find the best retail space in the city. Who
would know the city better than the sheriff?

She moved down the stairs, bending her legs to give herself the
appearance of floating. As anticipated, the sheriff rose, a look of awe
upon his face.

He pulled his hat from his head and held it to his chest. "You do
me an honor, accompanying me tonight, Miss St. Clair."

He smiled and Moira had to admit he was handsome. His teeth
were good and she liked the look of his carefully combed, full mustache that partially hid them. His nose was a bit big, but not too
much so, and his brown eyes were lined with dark lashes, much like
her own. He was a powerfully built man, obviously able to look after
himself. This evening wouldn't cost her as much as she had thought.

Her mother's voice came ringing through her mind again as she
accepted the sheriffs arm and he placed his hat back atop his head.
Never underestimate a man who has an eye on something he wants.

Never underestimate a girl who has an eye on something she wants.
Then she was immediately contrite with remorse for talking back to
her dead mother. I don't want him, Mother. But I need him. I need to
set things back to rights, for Odessa, for Nic.

No answering comment echoed through her mind, and for a
moment, sorrow cascaded through Moira as freshly as when they had
just lost their mother, nearly a year ago.

"Miss St. Clair?" the sheriff asked, looking back in her
direction.

Moira started and shook her head a little, realizing she had paused, thrown back in time to a place, a day she could talk to her
mother, reach out and touch her. She covered her embarrassment
with a quick smile and then ducked her head. "Forgive me, Sheriff. I
was lost in my own thoughts."

He led her forward, down the boardwalk to the restaurant
where they would dine. "Those must have been entrancing thoughts
indeed."

She said nothing. Most considered Moira beautiful but simple,
pliable, malleable. But few knew how much she understood about
others, thought about them, intuited how to guide their reactions
to her. The sheriff was the sort of man who liked a challenge and
enjoyed some secrets of his own. The way to wrap this man around
her little finger was to make him think she was full of secrets. Which
she was, in a way.

"How long have you lived in this town, Sheriff?"

"Almost three years. General Palmer and I go back. My father
served under him in the last year of the war. They became good
friends, and I served in the army as soon as I was able, due to his
influence. I hailed from General Palmer's hometown, and he took a
special interest in me. Twelve years later I was a sheriff in Minnesota,
and General Palmer came through on the train. He asked me to
come with him. Said he had the best job in the prettiest city in the
state, and it was mine to make it what I would."

"So you left? Just like that? For Colorado."

He gave her a half shrug. "Three years ago. Said my good-byes,
gave my notice. Did right by the town. But no, I didn't let any grass
grow beneath my feet. Deputy took over for me and I joined General
Palmer on the train the next morning."

"And did you find Colorado Springs to be all that General
Palmer promised?"