HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (37 page)

“Your leg’s pretty bad,” he said evenly. “I’ve seen a man die of burns like that, and they weren’t much worse. Infection sets in. Your neck, face and scalp—” He shook his head. “I’d say your showgirl days are over, Moira.”

She sat up, unable to say anything before she vomited her tea on the blanket. She lay back, her stomach relieved, but her heart and mind in upheaval. She could not stop the tears, but as they flowed down her cheeks, she winced. The salt cut through whatever balm he had put on her face and irritated the burns, which only made her cry harder.

Grimly, Reid gathered the blanket together and took it outside. Where were they? Where had he taken her? He returned after a moment.

“Daniel, he—”

“He’s dead. Left him behind in the opera house, and I doubt there’s much left of him but cinders now.”

Moira moaned, feeling so ill she wished she could vomit again.
Daniel
. She remembered now. “Why, Reid? Why are you here? And why have you taken me?”

He smiled. “You are the key in the lock of my treasure chest.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, wiping away her tears.

He sat back down beside her and picked up her hand. On it was the wedding ring that Gavin had slipped on her finger. “Here’s the deal. Your husband is dead. And now your guardian is dead. I’m your only hope at survival, Moira. And I’m taking you home to Odessa, to the Circle M,” he said, as proudly as if he were escorting her to a county picnic.

She shook her head. “There is no mine, Reid. Old Sam … it was all a ruse. They haven’t found anything.”

“You’ve been gone a while, right, Moira?” Reid leaned closer to her. “So I’d wager I have newer information than you. I’m not after the mine, anyway. There’s something more, I think. Having you with me will force them to hand over what they’ve discovered.” He rose and placed a hand on either side of her and looked her over. She couldn’t bear to watch him. Did he intend to rape her now too? “Moira Colorado.” He shook his head. “You had to go and chase that dream of the stage, didn’t you? Where has it gotten you? Burned and scarred for life.” He rose and walked away, as if disgusted.

Scarred. Again, she reached up and dabbed at her face and up into her scalp. Then down to her neck and shoulder. Was she burned everywhere? Or just one side? The only good thing about it was that it might keep Reid at bay. She glanced his way.

He regarded her coolly from across the room, reading her thoughts. “It’s mostly your neck. Hair must’ve caught fire. Someone must’ve gotten that put out backstage before I found you.”

She looked up to the ceiling, thinking. “Yes. Matthew, a stagehand. He got it out, but then a curtain was on fire, and then my hair and my dress …” She reached up and felt for her hair. Her eyes widened in alarm.

“Half of it’s gone,” he said calmly, as if describing a storm already passed. “If we tend to the burns on your scalp, there’s a chance it’ll come back.” He glanced over at her again. “Quit your weeping, Moira. It’ll sting the burns on your face.”

Daniel awakened again in Dr. Beason’s office. He blinked hard against the bright light of eight lanterns surrounding him. Then screamed out in pain, all of a sudden remembering what had brought him here in the first place.

“Hold him still,” the young doctor said firmly. Several people took better hold of him as the physician dug into his flesh, making Daniel scream again. “There, we have it,” said Dr. Beason, holding up a bullet to the light and dropping it into a pan with a clank.

Daniel panted hard, trying to focus, remember what had happened.

“You were lucky,” the doctor said, moving into his line of vision. “All that soot on you, it took us a while to figure out someone had shot you too.”

Moira. Bannock.
Daniel’s vision cleared and he sat up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dr. Beason cried. His assistants rushed back toward their patient.

Daniel brought his legs around.

A new man entered the room—Sheriff Chambers. “You in a hurry to go somewhere, Daniel?”

“I have business to attend to,” Daniel said, reaching for his shirt, which was covered in soot and blood.

The sheriff gave him a rueful smile. “Think you’ll want a clean one. You’re lucky to be alive, Daniel. Who shot you and left you for dead?”

The doctor and his assistants forced Daniel to stay still as they began to bandage up his shoulder.

“It was the same man who took Moira Colorado,” Daniel said, wincing as they wound the bandage around him. “Reid Bannock.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Bannock? And Moira Colorado is alive?”

“Yes, and somehow she knew Bannock. She was afraid of him, looks like for good reason.”

The sheriff thought over his words. “You’re not the only one who got shot. There was a man in town—a detective—who was shot and left for dead in an abandoned mine. We just retrieved his body.”

“Think Bannock shot him, too?”

“Could be,” he said, tucking his chin down. “The question is, why?”

Daniel stepped off the table and winced, blinking rapidly, hoping to keep from blacking out. “I need to help you find them. Moira’s in danger. And I was charged with her care.”

“You just leave Miss Moira to me,” said the sheriff. “We’ll find ’em.”

“Did anyone see which direction they were heading?” He reached out and steadied himself against the wall, then, after a moment, grabbed his jacket. It was burned full of holes.

“I’m afraid not.”

Another man peeked in the doorway and caught the sheriff’s attention. “Excuse me,” the sheriff said, moving into the hallway to speak with the man. Daniel wished he could get past the doctor and nurse and follow him out. Had they learned something more about Moira?

“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said Dr. Beason sternly. “You’re liable to pass out. You need to give that shoulder a few hours before you even think of moving.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Daniel said, pulling on his soot-soaked shirt. “I have to be on my way.” He ignored Beason’s angry retort and left. Fortunately for him, the doctor had many other patients awaiting him; people lined the hallway and waiting room. He threw up his hands at Daniel’s stupidity and moved on to the next one.

Daniel walked directly over to the sheriff and deputy. “Listen, Sheriff, I have to help you find her. It’s my duty.”

Sheriff Chambers regarded him and then reached for the paper in the deputy’s hand. “Looks like Reid Bannock has been a bit of a nuisance down near Westcliffe.” Daniel’s eyes scanned the wanted poster, detailing Bannock’s history as a freed prisoner who had violated his parole.

“How could this have happened?” Daniel asked. “How was it that he had enough money to come here, buy the merc and the house?”

“I intend to find out,” the sheriff responded. “There’s more. The telegraph operator identified the detective who was shot as one who had been sending a telegram every other day to a couple near Westcliffe.”

“Westcliffe?” Daniel repeated. Bannock had been wanted down there. “I think Moira said something about having a sister thereabouts. On a big spread not far from Westcliffe.” He remembered her going on and on about it aboard ship one day, how her sister had become a rancher’s wife while she felt more at home in a city. She had a brother, too, somewhere.

“You said Moira appeared to have known this Bannock?”

“Yes.”

“It all has to be tied together somehow.”

“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “It does. Bannock is after something, and he’s using Moira to get it. Those people at the ranch, they clearly feared he was coming back and wanted to make sure he stayed put. We have to warn them.”

Chapter 23

Nic liked the sultry, slow-paced rhythm of Central American ports as the ship made her way northward. He even settled into the cadence of being aboard ship again, appreciating things he hadn’t before—the rations of fresh water, two meals a day, tasks to complete, and then falling into his hammock for a night’s rest. Slowly, he gained a few of the pounds he had lost, but never had he felt stronger, physically. He could endure a six-hour shift of hauling up and belaying sails or six hours before the yawning mouth of a coal-burning stove, fueling the fires that emitted the steam that helped him inch his way back to America. The combination of both steam and sail made the ship one of the fastest he’d ever sailed on.

He did not know what he would do once he reached her shores, but he knew he wanted to get back to the United States. He day-dreamed of sourdough bread and pot roast, of pie and ice cream, straight off the paddle. He thought of Moira and Odessa, hungry for word of their well-being. His father’s voice echoed through his dreams at night, urging him to see to his sisters’ welfare, make certain they—

Nic fell from his hammock, groaning on the floor. He looked up and saw that he was surrounded by shipmates, and they were laughing. It was Alejandro who had his hand on Nic’s hammock—he had dumped him. He gestured toward Nic and said something foul in Spanish. The man had been taunting him from the day he first crawled aboard, starving to death. Up to now Nic had ignored him, but this, this was too much.

Nic jumped to his feet and edged toward the man, ignoring the alarmed delight of the other men. “Stay away from me,” he warned Alejandro in his own tongue. “Trust me,” he said, switching to English, “I could pound you to a pulp.”

The man sneered at him and spit in his face. Nic waited no longer. He pulled back his fist, looking forward to seeing Alejandro spin away from him once the punch landed, when a strong arm held him back. He whirled, ready to hit the man who held him.

Manuel, the coal boss. Nic lowered his fist.

“You wish to make it to California?” Manuel asked.

“I do,” he ground out.

“Then, no fighting. The capitan, I’ve seen him toss brawlers overboard for the sharks.” He tapped Nic on the chest. “Make certain you’re not the next.”

“Manuel, you can’t expect me to ignore them?” Nic said, gesturing in exasperation toward the retreating backs of Alejandro and his companions.

“I expect you to think only of California and how you get there. Right now, this ship is your fastest way there, no?”

Nic didn’t answer. He clenched his hands and slowly flexed them.

“California,” Manuel said again, one eyebrow arched meaningfully. “Say it.”

“California,” Nic whispered.

Nic knew it would take another twelve days to reach California’s border, another two to reach Los Angeles. Fourteen days. Could he make it fourteen days without fighting?
California,
he repeated silently. Just the name of it stirred him, buoyed him to belief that there he could make a new start, make a name for himself as … what? He did not know how he would make his way back to Colorado, to Odessa, only that California was the bridge that would get him there. And once there … perhaps Odessa could help him figure out what to do next.

If he couldn’t even reach the States—if he was thrown overboard for fighting—he might not see his sisters ever again.

Alejandro, the leader among six men who seemed to delight the most in his slow torture, edged past him as he emerged on deck, hitting his shoulder so hard that Nic spun halfway around. Nic paused for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling the shiver run up his neck and over his scalp, back down his shoulders and to his fingertips, now wrapped in a clench. Alejandro moved on, tossing his hand in the air and laughing, calling Nic several foul names, recognizable in any language. He took several deep breaths, repeating, “California.”

His captain whistled and lifted his chin in Nic’s direction when he opened his eyes. He gestured down, toward the steam room, and Nic turned immediately to obey. It would be a relief to be down there for a while, to shovel the heavy coal, to sweat until he felt weak, then eat, drink, and fall into his hammock. It would be another day down, another day closer to home. He rushed down the ladder. Manuel, already at his post, watched him with wary eyes as he entered, and before he could say a word, Nic picked up the shovel and began shoveling the irregularly shaped, dusty bits into the wide mouth of the stove, already making his face burn with heat.

He liked the crunch of the coal, the grinding slide of the shovel, the cadence of
dig, lift, toss
. He worked furiously for a while—at double the pace of the two men who stood on either side of him—fueled by thoughts of the sneer on Alejandro’s face, how it would feel to slap him with the flat of this broad shovel or cut into his nose bridge with the edge.