HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (28 page)

She turned to look at him. He remained seated in the chair in the corner. “No, not upset. Unsettled.” She lifted a weary hand to her head. “I just need a night’s sleep. It’s been a long day.” She could see from the expression he wore that her words were not enough, that he wouldn’t allow her to depart with this between them. “I asked you a direct question, Robert. You gave me a direct answer. All right?”

“All right. Good night,
Odessa
.” So he had noticed how his use of her nickname unsettled her.

“Good night, Robert.” Quickly, she made her escape, not breathing easy until she was up the stairs, Samuel in his crib, and her back against her closed bedroom door. She looked to the moon, streaming a pale, early light across her desk and floor.

She unbuttoned her gown, then turned and stared at her bedroom door. She frowned at the thought, but then moved and slowly slid the bolt across it. She never locked her door when Bryce was home. She did not fear Robert.

Or did she? Not in the way that Reid Bannock induced a wave of terror. But in a scalp tingling, shiver-down-her-back way. She shrugged off the thought as she pulled off her dress and pulled on a night shift, and then crawled beneath the cool sheets, waiting for her body to create a cocoon of warmth.

She’d have to rise and unbolt the door when she heard her husband come in downstairs. But for now, she only wanted to feel … warm.

Today was the day. Moira St. Clair, now called Moira Colorado, was arriving in his new town. Reid leaned against the front wall of his store, one foot propped against it, and took a long pull from his cigar. Pretty Miss Gorder and her mother walked by, and Reid lifted his hat and nodded at them with a smile, but there was another woman on his mind. He watched the road for a while, then lifted his pocket watch out. Stage was still fifteen minutes or more out. Half the time, coaches were delayed by mud or broken wheels, what the locals claimed was a springtime malady that summer would soon cure.

Dennis arrived and stood beside him, perusing the street. “I have good news.”

“What is that?” Reid asked, still staring down the street.

“The McAllans appear to be searching for treasure.”

Reid eyed him. “Are you certain?”

“Certain as can be. Read it for yourself.”

Reid took the telegram from his hand, sent from the Circle M man he was paying handsomely to betray his employers.
Weather better here—STOP—sun shining all day today—STOP—No rain yet.
It was unsigned. But Reid lifted his chin and grinned. “Telegraph operator was probably looking at our man cross-eyed for sending such an odd note.”
Sun shining all day
meant the McAllans were on the move, searching for old Sam’s treasure again.
No rain yet
meant they hadn’t yet found anything, at least as far as his man could tell.

Reid looked back down the road, wondering when the stage would arrive. All was coming together beautifully. Simply beautifully. He glanced at Dennis. “You’ll need to take care of Bryce’s detective immediately. Let him send one more telegram tonight, to buy us the most time.” He turned toward the man and stared at him intently. “But he must not recognize our visiting songstress as a St. Clair before he does so.”

“How would he, given her new name?”

“Chances are, he wouldn’t put two and two together, but I’m not taking any chances here. You understand?”

“I understand, Boss.” Dennis departed then to see to Reid’s errands.

Portly Henry Colvard, the opera house owner, came down the boardwalk, rubbing his hands. “You as excited as I to meet this Moira Colorado, Bannock?”

“More so, I’d wager,” Reid allowed. “But I’ll wait to see her sing to introduce myself.”

The stage turned the corner then, for once right on time. And as Colvard scurried across the street, Reid moved into the store, content to watch from the hidden shadows of his window as she emerged from the stagecoach. He feared for a moment that she would know he was here, be forewarned, but then realized that as far as she knew, he was still in prison. Surely, if she was communicating often with her sister, she would have been warned not to come to Leadville. Her very presence meant she was ignorant of that fact.

He smiled and could see his thin-lipped reflection in the window. But then there she was, as stunning as he remembered, if not more so, her features now slightly more rounded, mature. His eyes narrowed as a thin man dressed as finely as a banker offered her his arm and paused before Colvard to introduce him to Moira. Who was her escort? A beau? Husband? Or merely a manager?

It mattered not. Soon she would be his.

Or she would die.

After agreeing to meet Mr. Colvard for supper, Moira climbed the stairs beside Gavin. “Do you think we’ll come across Daniel Adams here? This is his employer’s hotel.”

Gavin appraised her. “Perhaps,” he said, offering nothing more. He had been acting increasingly cold to her, saying little to her other than curt responses to her questions. Was it all due to Andrew Wiman’s flirtations? He had clearly been jealous and protective, but as they moved out on the morning train from Andrew’s town, something had also clearly slipped between them. In fact, there had not been one easy conversation or loving word between them for days.

He opened the door for her and then turned to make sure a hotel servant was bringing in their six trunks from the coach. Moira glanced around, patting her hair, when her eyes rested upon the man behind the bar.

He smiled at her, gently, the sadness in his eyes lifting for a moment.

“Daniel,” she said, trying not to rush across the saloon floor. Only a few patrons were at tables, the afternoon not yet done.

“Moira St. Clair,” he said, coming around the bar to greet her. He took her hands in both of his, which felt oddly warm and encompassing, and smiled down at her. “When I heard you and Gavin were coming, I could hardly believe it,” he said. “It seems a year ago that we were passengers aboard that ship.”

“It’s not been even two months,” Gavin said from over her shoulder. He reached forward and Daniel shook his hand too.

“And yet you’ve managed to launch Moira’s new career,” Daniel said in gentle admiration. “Have to hand it to you, Gavin, you must have the touch. Men have been talking about Moira’s arrival for weeks now.”

“He is marvelous at this,” Moira enthused, anxious to seize any opportunity to bridge the gap between her and Gavin. She took his arm and smiled up at Gavin. “I’d be lost without him.”

“I see you got the bar installed,” Gavin said, pulling away from her and going to the counter. Was it her imagination or was he eager to be away from her? He ran his hands down the smooth, highly varnished surface of the mahogany, shaking his head in admiration as he studied the back wall that was covered by the largest beveled-glass mirror Moira had ever seen outside a major city and flanked by massive, intricately carved columns. “It’s as beautiful as you claimed.”

Moira smiled at Daniel and then realized he was staring at her hand, at her ring finger with the yellow diamond, not listening to Gavin. He started, suddenly recognizing both she and Gavin were looking to him, waiting for him to respond. He gestured toward the staircase, to a matronly woman awaiting them there. “Mrs. Duven will be happy to escort you to your room,” he said. “I’m certain you are weary after such a long coach ride.”

Moira paused. He’d said, “room.” Did Daniel already think them married? Did he know of their falsehood? That they were sharing one room? Or did he think it was truly what it seemed? She hid her ring with her other hand, shoved down the agitating thoughts, turning toward him and forced a bright smile. “We will see you again, Daniel?”

“I’m hard to miss, ’round here,” he said, giving her his own sad-eyed smile. What were his big brown eyes saying to her? Did she mistake the welcoming pull of them as a beseeching, encompassing note?

Gavin squeezed her elbow then, and Moira turned, to follow him upstairs.

Halfway up, she looked back, and found Daniel staring after her. What was it about him that made her feel known, cared for, protected?

Daniel was the first to break their reverie. “Good night, Moira. Welcome to Leadville.” His smile was thin. His eyes said more.

“Good night, Daniel. Fancy this, meeting you a couple thousand miles from where we first met.”

“Fancy that,” he said drily, his eyes not leaving hers.

“The show is tomorrow at eight?” Moira said, peeling off her light jacket.

“Eight sharp,” he said, turning over in their shared bed. Not even a kiss good night.

Moira turned her back to him too, minutes later, and shivered under the thin hotel blanket. Gavin afforded her little warmth, making no move to touch her since they left Telluride. She stared out into the dark night, watching as the moon slipped behind swiftly moving clouds and then out again. Gavin was snoring softly behind her. How had he fallen asleep so quickly? She shivered again.

She was losing him. Her plans to draw him closer had backfired. His mind was occupied with other things, his head constantly in the ledger that contained his other business, not her. How to bring him back? Close again? He was dear to her, his mind as engaging as his other delightful attentions. But he seemed to regard Andrew’s favor and her brief flirtations—even her friendly, chaste reunion with Daniel—as an egregious affront. Not that she could’ve done much to dissuade Andrew. He was, after all, the owner of the opera house. Had she offended him, he might have sent them on their way and not allowed her to perform at all! And had it not been Gavin who chose her gowns as “innocently seductive”? He traded on her flirtation! No, there was something more, something deeper shifting here …

Moira looked over her shoulder at his sleeping form. Perhaps she had erred, opting to become entwined as his mistress. Perhaps she should have kept him at arm’s length, hooked on her pinky, as she had all the other men in her life. But there was something heroic about Gavin to her, beyond her ken, knowledgeable, enticing on a deeper level. She cradled her hands beneath her head and stared out at the moon again and again, watching as it crested and sank in the Western sky, then at the empty chair beside her. She wished her mother or sister were here, someone she could talk to. No, not Odessa. She’d lecture Moira. At least she could talk to her mother.

Mama, I’ve made a mess of things.

There’s always a way to clean up a mess.
She could hear her mother’s voice, as clear as the day she left them.