HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (23 page)

“Me neither. I heard you go out and when I didn’t hear you return right away, I thought I’d check on you.”

She stilled and stared at him from across the horse’s back. “Bryce thought looking for Reid was the wise thing to do. But I … ” She glanced away, embarrassed by her fear and the tears that were immediately rising in her eyes again.

“You’re afraid,” he said simply. “You think he should be back by now?”

She nodded. “I’m caught between fear and fury. Bryce promised …” She paused, wondering if she should really share all. “Bryce once left me at the sanatorium to return to the ranch. He said he always regretted it. Then when Reid came here …” She shook her head. She’d said enough. Her words were best left for her husband, not his brother.

“He went for you and Samuel. To protect you. To make certain Bannock wasn’t coming.”

“I know it,” she said, but her voice cracked. She turned away.

He opened the stable door when tears began to slide down her face. “Odessa—”

“No, don’t,” she said, holding up her hand. If he came any closer, aiming to comfort her, she was liable to start weeping in earnest.

“Odessa,” he said, taking another step. “Please, come here.”

Odessa moved around her horse, closer to him. He opened his arms to her and she tentatively stepped forward. He gave her a long, brotherly hug, and she cried harder. How long had it been since she had been held by a man other than her husband? It made her hungry to see Dominic, made her long for her father, now passed on. Robert was sturdy and strong like Nic.

“I’m sorry this pains you,” Robert said, taking her shoulders in his hands and lifting her away after another minute. “I should’ve gone instead.”

She smiled through her tears. “Bryce knows this territory and Reid better than you do. It’s only right that he went.”

“But you shouldn’t have to suffer so.” He reached out and gently pushed some hair off her face.

Robert stared at her for a long moment, his familiar eyes taking her in as if she were a wondrous creature. For the first time, Odessa realized what a sight she must be. She’d let down her hair when she went to her room and hadn’t put a brush to it in hours. She moved a hand to it, as if to wind it upward, but Robert grabbed her hand gently. “No, don’t. You’re beautiful.”

His hand remained on hers, warm.

“I better get back,” she said, turning to the gate. She moved out of Ebony’s stable, not waiting for Robert to follow or offer to walk her back. It was best they separate now, discern what was flowing between them. And then figure out how to set it back on course.

Ralph glanced at her as she hurried out of the stables, then followed behind her in silence.

It was Gavin who decided on her costumes, changing his mind about the two they had purchased before. Three dressmakers arrived and draped them over Moira as she stood on the ridiculously tiny stage. Gavin deemed one after another too risqué, too common, too uppity. He told them to set aside anything with too high a neck, and then to set aside anything that was too low. “Moira Colorado,” he said, “is not a showgirl, but any showgirl would want to be like her. She is an opera star who has descended from the heavens to bring light and beauty to a world in need of it.”

The dressmakers both blinked at him in confusion but continued to try to please. Finally, they agreed on two gowns—a deep russet dress that dipped daringly in back and just enough in front, and a teal dress that clung tantalizingly at the very ends of her shoulders. Both had full skirts that dragged a bit when she walked, something Gavin said appealed to men. It drew the eye upward as she walked away, to the gentle curve of her hips and her small waist, then up to her neck and head. “They’ll be praying you turn back around, look upon them once more. Because they’ll want to see your face again—it’s a face they’ll never forget,” he said, tenderly rubbing his hand beneath her jaw.

“Wear the red gown tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll find a black lace fan, and a comb for your hair. We’ll draw thick kohl lines about your eyes. You’ll remind them of the little they know of Spain, of passion, the exotic, but your blonde curls and green eyes will remind them of home. Make certain the pianist has the music for your Spanish aria today—you’ll bring the house down. This town won’t be able to talk about anything but you.”

“Nothing but me?” she said, arching a brow.

He smiled in her direction. “It’s already happening.” He nodded to the saloon-keeper who was wiping down the bar.

The fat man smiled but managed to hold on to his cigar. “Hiring six other men today. From the talk around town, I’d expect we’ll draw twice as many as anything we’ve seen before. After the first night, I’ll charge to reserve a table.”

“And we’ll get a cut of that,” Gavin said.

The man nodded once. “Fifty-fifty, as agreed.”

“Good,” Gavin said, turning back to her. “So tomorrow is the night we lay the bait. The next we begin to reel in the fish. And the third night, we sink the boat with the bounty. Then we move on.”

“If it will be that good of a run, why leave?”

“Because you always want them hungering for more, Moira. Trust me. I’ve seen this process unfold before. I’d wager we’ll have some who will follow you for miles just to see you again.” He rubbed his temples, obviously suffering from one of his headaches. Moira frowned. He never had a headache on their crossing. Was this too much? Too trying?

“That’s the kind of excitement we need,” he went on finally. “The kind of word that will spread like wildfire, so that in the next town, we’ll be reeling in the fish from the first night on. Once we’ve been to two or three towns, I’ll hire some men to go ahead of us, secure the right spot for the show, place the posters.”

“It is an ambitious plan,” Moira said.

“It is a profitable plan,” he said with a wink as he pulled her to his side. “You, my darling, are about to be the belle of every county we enter.”

Moira watched from behind the curtain as the saloon filled with men, and some women. They flooded in, filling every corner of the floor, and cheered the three girls that Gavin had hired to sing a few songs to warm up the crowd. They were a sassy trio, with heavy makeup, and when they danced, they lifted their skirts as high as their knees. Sometimes higher, bringing hoots and hollers from the male onlookers and shrieks of laughter from the women. It was the epitome of the type of performance Gavin did not want her to give, and she was thankful for that.

But they did serve to loosen up the onlookers, and the contrast between what they presented on stage and what Moira Colorado presented was bridged, but clearly separate. They were showgirls; Moira remained a lady. They were crass; Moira was class. As they departed the stage, they reached out to touch the hands of those in the front and kiss a few men of the audience, blowing out every other lamp as they moved toward the curtain.

When Moira entered, carrying a lone candle that cast a warm glow on her face and singing a low and lonely tune about a girl longing for the husband who had left her for the mines, the audience hushed into a reverent silence, practically holding their breath as they waited for her to sing the next lyric, to tell the story. The song ended with the girl giving up, giving in to death, and as she sang the last note, she allowed a tear to fall down her cheek. When it dropped, she looked down with heavy lids, sighed, and then blew out her candle.

The saloon was eerily silent for several seconds before one man—Gavin—stood and began applauding. A few seconds later, every man and woman was on their feet, cheering her as well. Then she smiled and the girls emerged to light more of the candles in the lanterns, as the pianist turned to a more buoyant tune, telling the story of happier times, of the ways of a maid with a man. The music lifted into an arc and sashayed down, lifted again and hovered, showing off her broad range, trained by years of opera. But the song was written for the common man, and the common men, judging from their faces, loved it.

So did Moira. In the opera houses, people remained somewhat distant, reserved. To be certain, they rose to their feet in a standing ovation at the end of her task, but here, now, these faces showed every emotion—sorrow over her brokenhearted portrayal, delight in the flirtations between a man and woman, hope. If she moved a step, every head followed her. If she lifted her arm, they looked to where she pointed. They were raw, untried, and extremely malleable, all of which Moira decided made them thoroughly delightful to entertain.

She finished with the Spanish aria that pushed her to the very limits of her range. It emerged from an opera about a wealthy lord who enslaved the poor people of his land, forcing them to work in his fields and orchards for very little money. Moira sang the part of a young woman who was in love with a young man of her village, but an evil man came and squired her away. The majority of it was a pining, aching song, but at the end, the evil lord died, and the lovers were reunited, allowing her to relax and spin and smile, which in turn, allowed her listeners to relax too.

All of it was in Spanish, of course. There might’ve been one or two present who spoke the language, but the rest were no doubt following her visual cues and the story told by the musical notes themselves. The showgirls had offered to act out the brief scenes behind her as she sang, but Gavin immediately said no—there would be nothing resembling pantomime behind Moira Colorado. So they elected to risk it, gamble on the fact that most men preferred to be seen as educated, and that opera was at its core entertainment.

She never expected them to be transformed. But they were. By the time she whipped her black lace fan into its lovely arch and peered out at her audience over it, they were again on their feet, clapping and whooping and hollering for more.

But with a brief, dignified curtsey, Moira Colorado left the stage, more confident than ever that her people only wanted more of her.

Gavin entered their room that night and found her standing by the window, watching the flood of people disperse from the saloon below. He was smoking a cigar and grinning widely. He cast out his hands, “Did I tell you or did I tell you?”

“You told me,” she said, moving toward him and kissing him deeply.

“Moira, Moira,” he said, cradling her face, “you were perfect. You played it perfectly! I couldn’t be more proud of you.” He kissed her again, pulling her close, seductively. But then he abruptly broke away and playfully sat her down on the edge of the bed. He reached inside his jacket pocket and puffed on his cigar, grinning again as smoke emerged from his nostrils in twin streams.

He tossed a wad of bills on her lap and Moira stared down at them in wonder. “Our bonus for the night. Saloonkeeper figures he tripled his earnings with us here.” He knelt on the bed and kissed her ear and then her neck as she counted the money. Hundreds, hundreds of dollars! She hadn’t seen this much money since Paris! She laughed then, and accepted him pushing her flat atop the bed, kissing her ear, sending shivers of delight down her spine. Briefly, she thought of the woman she had seen downstairs, the one who reminded her of her mother, but then cast the memory out of her mind.