HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (41 page)

“Up until now,” she said.

“Up until now,” he repeated. “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes.”

“But that’s hard, when He takes,” she said, crying again. “There’s been a whole lot of taking going on. The horses. And now these men. Bryce.” She shook her head. “These were good men, fine men. I’m going to miss them.”

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her hair tenderly. “Me, too. Me, too, Dess.”

Reid and Moira rode into a small camp, where six men sat around a campfire. As one, the group rose, hands on the guns at their hips, but relaxed when they saw Reid. They greeted him and Dennis and Smythe behind Moira.

“Who’s that?” one called, nodding at Moira.

“Don’t recognize her?” Reid asked, going to her and pulling her down off the saddle. She sagged against him, fighting the desire to fall into unconsciousness and escape, at least in some fashion, this nightmare as her body screamed in agony. “Why, this is Moira Colorado.”

“Moira Colorado?” said the closest one incredulously. “You’re joking. I’ve seen her poster. Moira Colorado is beautiful.” He stepped closer and peered at her. “Looks like the Indians tried to scalp her and failed.”

The others laughed and Moira could hear Reid try to cover his own chortle. “Now, now. Give her a moment and a bit to eat and maybe she’ll give us a song. That’ll show you.”

She slowly raised her eyes to meet him. “I’ll never sing for you.”

His own gaze hardened. “Don’t be so sure about that.” He took her arm and led her to a log by the fire and sat her down roughly. “Give her some food.”

As he strode away, Moira was careful not to meet the eyes of any of the other men. In a camp of eight men riding with Reid, her burns were the least of her problems. She could feel the heat of their gazes, enticed somehow, intrigued, regardless of how she appeared.

A man handed her a tin plate, filled with beans and a biscuit. She took a bite of the hardened bread, conscious she needed it to give her some strength to fight, but her stomach whirled. Reid sat across from her, eating and listening to the men tell him of their progress. They were a day’s ride from the Circle M, and all was in place, they said. Three men had left with Bryce’s brother on an eastbound train and hadn’t returned. They’d killed two others and assumed those at the Circle M considered it an accident. So the ranch was down to seven ranch hands and Bryce.

“Good, it’ll be an even fight, with a slight edge in our favor,” Reid said. “We’ll take out the lawmen as planned and there will be no one to ride to the McAllans’ rescue.”

Moira turned and vomited on the other side of the log.

“Hey, Moira Colorado,” called a man, laughing. “You hate Jed’s food or are you expectin’?”

The others joined him in his laughter. But as Moira dared to meet Reid’s gaze, she saw that he had not. Fury washed over him and he rose, slowly, hands clenching and unclenching. He strode over to her, grabbed her arm and yanked her upward. She shuddered at the pain that shot through her tender skin, nearly causing her to pass out. He hauled her forward, and she could barely keep her feet. They rushed through the woods and in a moment were beside a small creek. He pushed her to the ground.

In agonizing pain, Moira turned to look at him and she screamed. He was coming at her with a knife. She tried to crawl away, but he was on her in a second, winding what was left of her hair around his hand and pulling her up short. She was crying and gradually knew he wasn’t bent on slitting her throat, but instead on cutting her remaining hair away. “You had to go and do it, didn’t you, Moira?” he seethed. He sawed at her hair. “You had to go and be that girl on the stage, instead of my girl. How much might’ve been different, had you only agreed to be mine in the first place? We might still be back in the Springs, married and raising a family. But instead, we’re
here
.” He finished cutting the hair and threw it to the ground before her, long, thick waves of blonde, no longer hers. She reached out trembling fingers to touch a few strands.

“Were you really married to Knapp? Are you his widow, saddled with child, or simply his whore?”

Moira was weeping so hard she couldn’t respond. What was the truth? Had Gavin used her like a common harlot? Had she really allowed that?
Mama … God … help me …

But then he was at her skirts. “You wanted to be a showgirl, you will be a showgirl. No more high falutin’ Moira Colorado. You’re going to be Moira St. Clair and get all the accolades you deserve for who you really are.” He cut away her burned skirts, bringing it to a high V at the knee. She gasped in pain as he brushed past the burn on her leg, but he ignored her. He rose and pulled a kerchief from around his neck and then bent to the creek to wet it.

Then he took her chin and washed her face, gentling a bit. “Quit your crying, Moira,” he said. “You don’t look so bad. Just a bit like springtime sheep, shorn of their thick coats.” He turned her face and rubbed some more, then looked down her neck. “Those burns will heal in time. You’ll be scarred, which might hurt your business.”

“Bu-business?” she said.

“When you go to the cathouse,” he said, staring her in the eye. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be pretty enough to draw them in, despite your scars. Once your hair grows back, of course, and you’re not fat with child.” He gave her a false smile. “You didn’t think that you’d resume your previous life, did you? Take a real stage? No decent man will have you now. You’re used goods.”

He’s right,
she thought desolately. No stage. No man. No future. Even Daniel, the last good and decent man she had met, her protector, was dead and gone. Because of her. She was alone.

Reid hauled her back to her feet. “Now you’ll go back and give those men as many songs as I tell you to sing,” he said lowly in her ear. “Or I’ll give you a foretaste of your nights to come.”

Chapter 26

Reid hauled her back to camp and set her before the bonfire. The men laughed and taunted her, but she couldn’t hear them clearly. It was as if they were a half mile distant, rather than several feet away.

Moira contemplated throwing herself into the fire, to finish what had begun four nights ago. To end this horror, to prevent Reid from using her to get to Odessa and Bryce …

“Give us a song,” Reid demanded from the other side.

Moira stared at the flames.
Mama, I want to be with you.

Call on God, child. Only God can save you now.

God doesn’t want me. I am nothing. No longer His. So far away from His …

He is the Redeemer. He is grace.

I AM grace.

Moira sucked in her breath, hearing the deep, warm voice in her head, clearly no longer her mother’s. More elegant than Jesse’s. Deeper and lower than any bass.
Song
, personified.

I AM grace,
He said again.
You are covered by Grace.

Not I, Lord. You don’t know how far I’ve gone, what I’ve done … You can’t cover me.

I know all. I have already covered you, through and through. I redeem all to those who call on My name. You are not alone. Call on Me.

Not alone. Just as Daniel had said …

“Savior,” she whispered. No man but He could rescue her now. “Jesus,” she said.

Reid laughed. But he rose and there was no laughter in his eyes. “Shut up, Moira. This is not a church. Sing us a song.”

Sing them My song.

His song? Moira’s mind cascaded through time, through years of practice beside pianos across the world. Through bar songs, operas, and musicals, and back, back to the songs of her youth, to the songs that brought her first accolades, songs that made her father smile. Church songs. Hymns.

Redeemer. Redeemer of murderers, slavers, thieves. Grace. He is grace. Amazing grace …

“… how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” Her voice, just gaining strength, cracked, and she paused.

Reid was moving around the fire, advancing on her. Lost, so lost. Just like she was. Blinded. For how long? Longer than she had been lost—

A man rose, as if to stop him, but Reid barreled past him, knocking him to the side. He reached out and grabbed her throat, but it was as if she wasn’t really here. As if she were receding, melding into the wind that was kicking up, disappearing among the trees … as if she could see herself but no longer feel any of her pain, any of her sorrow, only her joy, her glory, her peace.

It will be all right, Moira. Sing them My song.

“A song, Moira. The first you were to sing in Leadville. The song you began—”

My song.

“I once was lost, but now am found—”

He struck her fast and she whirled, down to the ground, suddenly feeling every bit of her pain again. “Was blind, but now I see,” she whispered and then, blessedly, gave in to oblivion.

All was in place for Reid Bannock’s gang.

He hauled Moira, tied and gagged, to a narrow crevice that allowed her a view of the whole canyon. “Watch and see a master at work. I’m about to show a man that no one keeps me from what I want.”

She’d heard another say they were about five miles west of Westcliffe. What man was Reid talking about? For a moment, she feared that he spoke of Bryce, but then she saw a stagecoach rumble around the corner. “First Colorado Bank” was painted on the side, and there were two armed guards atop it, rifles at the ready. Now the bits of conversation she’d heard over the last couple of days made sense. It was a trap; they were laying a trap.

“Not yet,” Reid muttered, holding up a hand, eyes on the stage below them. Moira looked down the rim of the canyon and saw the two men lying down, keeping the stagecoach in their gun sights. Two others emerged on horseback from the woods below, shooting and hollering. A guard sitting beside the driver fired back at them, but they pushed on, riding low in their saddles. “Wait,” Reid whispered.

Moira could almost feel the two riflemen’s frustration. One glanced Reid’s way, wondering if he had missed his boss’s signal.

“Not yet …”

“There,” he breathed through a smile as Sheriff Olsbo and his two deputies closed in, riding hard to catch the men who were attacking the stage. “Perfect. Wait … stick to the plan.”

The plan. Moira knew this part. Wait until the lawmen were right before them, then kill them all.

Two more of Reid’s men emerged from the forest, now sandwiching the lawmen between them. The first two turned from the stage and fired at the sheriff and his men.

Reid brought his hand down and his riflemen each squeezed off a shot. Moira gasped. Both guards atop the stagecoach fell, one to the ground, the other against the driver, knocking him to one side.

The men took aim again.

No, no, no,
Moira moaned inwardly.

“Now they’ll take out the sheriff and the deputies,” Reid said in her ear. He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice. But she couldn’t tear her eyes from the awful scene playing out below.

Both men fired again. Again, two men fell below.

The second deputy, surrounded, put up a hand in surrender and pulled to a stop.

Another Bannock man, one gifted with horses, closed in fast on his own mount, shot the driver, then climbed atop the nearest of the bank team and gradually brought them to a halt—even before they reached the end of the canyon.