HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (17 page)

Her eyes widened in surprise. After she nodded, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her to the corner of the piano. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “I give you … Moira St. Clair!”

The crowd erupted in applause and Moira immediately warmed to them. She leaned down and whispered the name of a tune to the pianist. The pianist frowned in confusion. Moira looked to Gavin, and he smiled and shook his head, and then leaned toward the pianist and whispered as well. Then, as the man ran his fingers along the keys, Gavin moved toward Moira, took hold of her heavy skirts, and slowly tucked the excess material up beneath her knees, revealing the tops of her boots—and even a bit of her calves.

She gasped and reached out to stop him. But he looked at her and mouthed the words, “Trust me.”

Moira looked about the room, noticed that every man and woman had their eyes on her, and slowly she let go of Gavin’s hands. The worldly song’s introduction filled her head, called to her with its easy, enticing notes. She slowly looked around the room and felt an impish smile pull at her lips. Could this crowd truly be her new audience? The pianist paused when she failed to sing, and then did his introduction again. Moira sang, sang as if she was meant to be in this saloon, on top of this piano, with her body exposed to the world as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she belonged.

As if she couldn’t hear her mama whispering to her.
Moira, Moira, what are you doing?
She shoved the voice away, finding glory in the wondering glances of those far and near in the room, warming her. Was it her slim skirts drawing the admiring gaze of every man in the room, or her voice?

Gavin moved in closer, turning toward the room with arms crossed, as if he were her personal bodyguard. But as Moira sang, all she could think of was the feel of his hands upon her body, so steady, so calm, so sure. And later, it was all she wanted to experience again.

Because never had a man made her feel both mastered and masterful at the same time.

This was what Moira remembered the next morning, as she awakened in his arms, slightly groggy, slightly aghast, slightly elated. Her virginity was gone. She was a woman, in every sense of the word.

But then, why didn’t she feel … satisfied?

Odessa checked and rechecked her hair, properly wound and tucked, in the mirror. She could hear the men downstairs speaking to one another in deep, masculine tones, muted through the floorboards. What would Robert McAllan think of her, his brother’s wife? Would he deem her worthy? Or would he question Bryce’s choice?

She shook her head and stared at her image in the mirror. “You have traveled across America to chase the cure, Odessa McAllan. You have found health. You have birthed a baby, the first in the McAllans’ next generation, despite a doctor’s firm warning against it. You are a child of God. If Robert doesn’t care for you, then … well, let him not care!”

She lifted her chin and allowed a small smile, then she turned and lifted Samuel from his bed, moving without hesitation down the stairs to her husband, who was calling to her.

Robert McAllan, easily recognizable as Bryce’s brother—but slightly shorter and more solidly built—turned toward her as did Bryce. He had blue eyes like his younger brother, but his were a darker hue. They twinkled in a familiar way, as they moved between her and the baby. “Odessa,” he said, moving toward her. “At last, I meet my new sister. If only Mother could be with me.” He offered her a warm hand and a slight bow with a smile, and then looked at his nephew. “May I?” There was a tender, tentative plea in his voice.

“Certainly,” she said, immediately placing Samuel in his arms. The child squirmed and then studiously stared at his uncle for a long moment. Robert laughed, a deep laugh from his belly, and Odessa was moved to see a tear run down his cheek. He looked from the baby to Odessa, then over to Bryce. “Your wife’s more beautiful than even you could boast,” he said, raising a brow.

Bryce smiled and moved a step toward his wife. “Only God could orchestrate such a feat,” he said. He wrapped an arm around Odessa and an arm around his brother, and looked from one to the other. “Do you know how many times I dreamed of this day?”

She looked up at Bryce in curiosity. He had seemingly set aside all his fears and concerns for the moment in the midst of the joy of reunion with his brother.

“Do you know how many times I dreamed of you marrying a good woman, carrying on the family name, taking the pressure off of me?” Robert returned. Odessa smiled and pulled away to take Samuel from Robert when the child began to fuss. Robert moved off with Bryce, the two in immediate, animated conversation.

Odessa sat down on the settee to watch her husband of four years, reunited with part of his family. The men laughed and teased and laughed again, boisterous, alive, connected immediately. She was fascinated. He was clearly happy to be near his brother again, but there was an edge to his voice, an undertone of fear that she hoped his brother wouldn’t notice. They talked about family members and friends, catching up on years’ worth of news not worthy of a telegram or letter, but both carefully steered clear of mentioning what had transpired of late on the ranch.

Odessa decided that Robert was nothing like she imagined, an overbearing older brother, belittling her husband, ignoring her. He included her, filling her in on the background of one person and then another, so she could be a part of their talk of Maine and beyond. He told her of their mother, Mary, and how she longed to hold her grandson, but poor health kept her from traveling. “The ague, you know,” Robert said, the only grim note in his entire evening of conversation. “Maybe someday you could come East to us.” Robert produced a fine bottle of scotch. From then on the conversation only grew more animated and easy.

She wondered at this sense of family, something she had not known—although the ranch hands had become a sort of family to her—since her brother and sister had left and she’d married Bryce. Odessa wondered where they were, what they were doing now. If they were safe. Well. If they would ever be together again, having the kind of conversation that was unfolding before her now.

Because there was something about being with people who had known you your entire life. Seen you in your unbecoming moments and in your glory. Walked beside you through dire times. Shared in the victories. Loved you through it all. Knew you through it all.

Odessa moved Samuel to her shoulder, finding comfort in his small, warm body, the smell of him as she patted his back. She moved her nose across his cheek and ear, felt his smooth skin, and eyed her husband. Bryce and Samuel were her family now. And Robert … was her brother.

Chapter 10

Nic awakened when the waves again surrounded him. He coughed and sputtered and then forced himself to his knees, and then to his feet, reaching forward as he stumbled out of the surf. He had not far to go to gain the beach. He was on a tiny island of sand and rock, still a good swim yet from the coastal beach. To his left was William, passed out in a nook of the rock, his left leg hanging at a grotesque angle. To his right was another mate, still on his belly in the surf. The waves washed up to his waist. Dead? Perhaps.

But what dumbfounded Nic was the view beyond their tiny island, a vast, empty beach, sweeping up to a high, barren, tan mountain, some ancient volcano that even the trees had not bothered to conquer in its dormancy. Brown and more brown, as far as the eye could see.

He looked left and right. To the right, perhaps a mile or two distant, he thought he saw several figures. But they were tiny and possibly moving away from him. Other members of the crew? After a moment, he could no longer make them out and wondered if he had seen the heat waves emanating off the sand as human forms. He spun around and shaded his eyes again. There. The remnant of the
Mirabella
, only a fragment of the prow and half a water wheel visible over the green waves. Slowly, his eyes scanned the water, looking for more bodies. Had the sea sucked most of them down? Battered them upon the rocks? Were he and William the sole survivors? Where was the captain? The first mate?

Nic moved to the right, wanting to know if the one man was alive before he checked on William. The thought of losing William … He tried to swallow, but all he felt was his swollen tongue and the dry, sandy taste in his mouth. It had been late afternoon when they wrecked in the storm. Had they been washed ashore a day ago? Longer? Nic knew that a man could last days without food; fresh water was another matter.

Slowly, he knelt and reached a shaking hand to press into the cold, waterlogged man’s flesh at the neck. He leaned a little farther over. Jerry Kester, of Livermore. Father of two. By his own account, husband to a shrew who drove him to sea, but a man who was expected to come home. Provide.

He was dead.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes across the rocks and up to where William had dragged himself. If Jerry was dead, there was little chance that William now lived. Not with that injury to his leg.

Briefly he considered leaving this small isle, swimming for the beach a hundred yards distant, without knowing if William lived or was dead. If he lived, how would he get him across to the mainland? But as he took a step away, he knew it was impossible. He could not leave his friend behind. On leaden legs, he moved toward William. He imagined his friend dragging himself to safety in the dark hours, to the rocks that would certainly make it through high tide. He might’ve seen Nic, wished he could help him, and then gave in. That giving in to unconsciousness brought Nic a brief reprieve from the guilt. He reached the man’s side and quickly, before his hand could shake, felt for a pulse. Grimly, he glanced from William’s pale face to his leg, where red seeped into the sand in a frightfully broad arc. The man was cold.

But then William said, without opening his eyes, “I’m not dead yet.”

Nic jerked his hand away, frightened for a moment, half to death. “William! William! Where are we? Do you know where we are?” He sank to his knees, so thankful to hear the man’s voice again, as scratchy and faint as it might be.

“Atacama … Coast,” the man said, taking a breath between each word. He peered at him through a narrow slit in his heavy lids. “Chile. Head south. I’d wager you’ll hit Antofagasta. Port … town.”

William passed out then and Nic whipped away from him, hands on head. He let out a long and harrowing scream of frustration. A dead man to one side of him, a dying friend on the other. On a tiny outcropping of land that was a swim away from a beach that would lead … possibly, to a dimly remembered port town. William had only passed this coast once? Twice? Nic struggled to remember his stories, where he had sailed, what he had spoken of seeing. How reliable was a man who had lost most of his blood, a man who should not be alive?

Nic let out another cry of frustration and fear and bowed his head. If he hadn’t been so dehydrated, he guessed he would be crying now, but no moisture leaked from his eyes. He knelt down to the sand and his stomach clenched, but then he stopped, panting as he stared at the sea’s foam, edging in curving waves toward him in gentle washings.

Then he looked up at the sky, such a high, light blue this day. Where was that sun the day before? Where had the wind gone? “Is this all You have?” he cried upward, to the God of his father, his grandfather. He laughed without humor. “Is this all You have? Is this Your worst?” He rose to his feet. “Do You not have anything more? You think this can best me? Do You? Do You?”

He turned then, with his thoughts crystallized in his mind. He moved to William, ripped a strip off the bottom of his shirt and tied it as tight as he could at the man’s thigh. The man was as good as dead, but he wasn’t dead yet. Nic would see him to safety or hold him when he died, but he would not leave him here alone. He would not.