HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (15 page)

The future seemed daunting. Perhaps a few days of rest would do her good, help her see her way clear. “All right, Gavin. I will stay.” But as she placed her hand in his, instead of the comfort she longed for, she felt a small tearing inside.

“You all right, darling?” he asked, giving her a quizzical look.

She turned away from him, facing the harbor, watching the people below. She would be. Somehow. Some way. She had to be.

“I’m fine, Gavin.” She glanced back up at him, over her shoulder, and smiled as he nuzzled her ear. “I’m fine.”

But as he continued to kiss her, growing more forward, Moira couldn’t keep her eyes from the tall, broad, dark haired man who shouldered a trunk and moved through the crowd, without ever looking back.

Daniel. Would she ever see him again?

Moira awakened in the middle of a massive, sumptuous bed and shivered as she realized how cold her nose was. She opened her eyes and gazed about the room. Gavin had hired a carriage to take them from port, up through Wall Street, which was silent on a Sunday, past St. Paul’s with its historic old bell, paused at a favorite restaurant to treat her to lunch, then up through the lovely lanes of Central Park, where he had opened a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass, and then another. The trees were budding, some already in full spring flower. “Just awakening to the edge of possibility, as you are, darling,” Gavin had said.

He’d dropped her off here, before nightfall, the perfect gentleman, along with a wedge of cheese, a vine full of grapes, and a long loaf of bread, purchased from the baker on the corner of the Italian district. He’d seen her in, helping her stow her things and then pausing in the doorway to kiss her softly on the lips.

“I feel terrible,” she said, as he slowly leaned away, “edging you out of your own apartment.”

“I have another,” he said.

“Who has a spare apartment in the city?” she asked.

“Anyone wealthy enough to wish it,” he said. Then with another kiss, he left her.

She had eaten and then fallen into his big bed covered in smooth russet silks. It was bound by four massive posts, hand-carved by some East Indian laborer, undoubtedly. Above, flowing, shimmering golden fabric undulated over cross bars and down the end, giving her the fanciful idea of sleeping beneath a mosquito net. It had been deliciously enticing last night as she slipped beneath the covers, but now, in the brisk chill of morning, she felt alone. For years she had had a servant to light a morning fire, fetch her tea and a robe. Even aboard ship, where there were no personal servants, the cook still lit fires and heated water for coffee and tea.

Oh well, she decided. If she was to be an independent woman she would have to do some things for herself. She cast aside the covers and scurried to her trunk, hurriedly donning a dress and her mink wrap, then slipping her feet into a delicate pair of slippers. While the shoes didn’t warm her feet, at least they kept them off the cold marble floors. She moved around the room, looking more carefully at the books and pictures on the wall, each testifying to Gavin’s mysterious past and experience, making Moira long to know more of him.

There were woodcut prints and metallic etchings from far-off countries, mostly of women. She studied their gowns, tucking details into her memory to pass along to costumers in future operas. She had made her way into the hall, still studying each item as she moved, when a swift rap at the door, followed by a key in the lock made her gasp. She took a step back and then sighed in relief as Gavin came through.

He was impeccably dressed, from head to toe the dapper gentleman. But his eyes were on her, slowly moving from her feet to her hair. He shook his head slowly and gently set down his cane. “Never, Moira, never,” he said lowly, moving toward her, then wrapping a wide hand around her lower back and easing her toward him, “even that night aboard ship when you were a soaked siren,” he whispered, studying her face, then lifting another hand to finger a coil of her hair, “never … have you looked more enticing.”

She laughed at him and tried to step away, reaching up as if to try to straighten her morning-mussed hair. “Really, I must look a sight.”

“A most delicious sight,” he said. “Tell me, darling …” he pushed her gently backward, step by step, until her back hit the wall. He ignored the way his pictures moved, precariously pushed off-center by her hair, for his eyes were only on her. “Tell me, did you just rise? Out of my bed?”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly dry. All she could do was give him a quick nod, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl in the arms of her first lover. She shook her head, ashamed at her stupidity. How many times had she played a lover on stage? She knew the signs, had played the part of seductress. But this, in real life, had crept up on her. She had not recognized it, had not wanted to recognize the signs that she was being seduced.

“Ah yes, you have realized it. The lamb in the wolf’s lair,” he said, easing back a bit. He gestured toward the front door and then straightened. “You are free to leave, Moira, at any time. I will not chain you here. I am not your keeper. Only your admirer. Only a man who would like to open your eyes to things you seem to have missed.”

She paused, confused. She sensed the truth of it—he’d let her walk away. How long had she kept men away, because they wanted her, wanted to control her, wanted to own her? But this man offered her nothing but opportunity, adventure, kindness. Wasn’t that what she wanted, really? Care without commitment? Companionship? And this spark between them, this pull … she edged across the hall toward him and lifted her chin. “I am not going anywhere yet. I promised you two more days.”

“Three,” he whispered, leaning down to barely edge her lips with his own. “Yesterday did not count.”

And in that moment, as he kissed her neck, slowly, softly moving downward, Moira St. Clair knew she’d promise him anything.

Odessa carried a tray down to the bunkhouse and strode to the end, where Harold was sitting up, reading. “You’re looking like you have more color,” she said, handing him the tray, full with a hearty breakfast. “Soon you’ll be on your way, back to your family.”

“Thanks to you, ma’am.”

She could feel his heavy gaze upon her but ignored it. She paused at the end of the bed, turning back to force a smile. “Can I fetch you anything else?”

He smiled shyly and then glanced at an old, worn copy of Longfellow’s poems beside him. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for another book? Perhaps some more poetry?”

She looked down at her boots and smiled a little in return. “I imagine I have another volume or two. I’ll bring you one from the house.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Odessa turned to go, but he stopped her with a tentative “Ma’am?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I know I brought you an extra share of heartache, with the strangles and all. I’m right sorry about that. Had I known—”

“I know,” she said quickly. “You were sick, Harold. Nothing you could’ve done differently. Our call is to deal with what is, rather than what might have been, right?”

He gave her a sad smile. “I’ll do my best to make it right, ma’am. Once I’m home. Once I get some money, I intend to send some to you and Mr. McAllan.”

She nodded slowly. When would that be? Two, three years down the road? What would become of them in the meantime? She forced a smile. “I’m glad to be of help to you. Please, give it no more thought.”

But as she turned and walked down the center of the bunkhouse, her boot heels clicking on the wood, she could think of nothing else. Bryce was clearly worried. What
would
become of them? The ranch?

“Why are you doing this?” Moira asked, as he tucked her hand around the crook of his arm.

“Doing what?”

“Taking me about. Introducing me. Showing me this … underworld?”

“Underworld?” Gavin laughed, laughed so hard he had to stop midstride and bend partially over.

Moira was not amused. She folded her arms across her chest and looked from under heavy-lidded brows in one direction and then another. He was drawing the eye of every passerby.

He finally got a hold of himself, straightened, and then covered his smile with a gloved hand. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. If he wasn’t so devilishly handsome and intriguing, Moira would’ve turned and walked away from him right then. “Forgive me, darling. That struck me as …” He gave in to another laugh but quickly regained his composure. He waved in one direction and then another. “Look about you, Moira,” he said softly. “Tell me what you see.”

“A street filled with the poor. Factory workers. Women hanging laundry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Far fewer street cleaners than this number of horses warrant.”

Gavin smiled benevolently, but shook his head. “Have you not listened to anything I’ve taught you?” He moved behind her and placed relaxed fingers on either of her shoulders. “Look, darling. Look again. How many people are on this street versus those that you would typically frequent?”

“Many more,” she said.

“Exactly,” he whispered in her ear, his breath sending a delicious shiver down her neck. “And what is that called, when there are more people in one place than another?”

“Potential revenue,” she said.

“Yes!” he said, smiling and taking her hand and tucking it back around his arm as they resumed their walk. “Think of it, Moira. More than a quarter of these people will stop by at their corner tavern to knock back a pint. And the wise saloonkeeper will bring in entertainment to make sure he gets more of the what?”

“A bigger piece of that market,” she answered.

“Perfect,” he said, patting her hand. “You are as smart as you are beautiful, Moira St. Clair.”

“And you really and truly believe,” she said, pausing to make her way around a pile of garbage, “that I belong here, rather than—”

“Where? Where, Moira? Considering your current place of employ, it seems that market is saturated. There aren’t enough high-brow consumers to sustain so many performers. In order for one to succeed there, they must essentially drive out the competition. But here … look again at this street.” He waved down the avenue and then came behind her to stare out with her—at the masses of people, many in drab, poor clothes, but all hurrying onward. “All these people desire is a little diversion,” Gavin said in her ear, “a little beauty. They’re hungry for it. And no, they don’t have as much to put down for a seat in a theater. But look, Moira. Look how many there are!”

She brought a hand to her throat. The throngs parted and moved about them like a river around a rock.