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Title Copyright Dedication Chapter 1 March 1883 Odessa tried to shove back the wave of fear as the slow suffocation began. It was too much, this long ride west. Three days they had been on cursed trains chugging across endless tracks—three days! Hours of dust and dark, choking smoke from the train, the sweet-sour body odor from fellow passengers. She could even smell herself, and the combined force seemed to pour sand in through her nose and down into her lungs, filling them, filling them like two sacks of concrete. Her father had meant for her to chase the cure; instead, she was merely hastening her own demise. “Odessa? Dess!” Dominic said, leaning forward in his seat. “Moira, quick. Dampen this handkerchief.” Odessa closed her eyes and concentrated on each breath, her brother’s voice, her sister’s movement. She willed herself not to panic, not to give in to the black demon that loomed over her. This was worse than before. The creature had moved in and around her, tormenting her as he sat upon her chest. “Dess, here. You must take your laudanum. Just this once. You’ve made it this far; we’ll be there within hours.” Odessa could feel the cold stares of the people in the seats next to them as she sipped from the blue bottle. She knew she was not the only consumptive patient on this train, but the healthy passengers seemed to consider all of the consumptives a nuisance. She had not the strength to care at this point. She had to keep herself from coughing. To begin coughing was to never stop. But her throat, the mucous, the tickle, the terrible desire to try and take a deep breath, to give it just one attempt, one huge cough to clear the way, to free her from the storm cloud that covered her now, roiling like a summer thunderhead. Oh God, she cried silently. I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe! Don’t let me die! Visions of her little brothers filled her mind. Gasping piteously. Blue lips, blue fingernails, eyes rolling back in their heads. Michael, thirteen; Clifford, eleven; Earl, eight; tiny Fred, only three … “Dess,” Dominic said urgently. “Dess!” She could feel herself sliding sideways, her head spinning. She knew it improper, such public loss of control, but she was helpless, giving in to the dark demon that was casting her about, twirling her about like a chicken on a spit. Dominic picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the floor between the seats. From far away, she could tell he was placing his coat beneath her head. She could feel the rough woolen fibers at her neck. But how was that possible? Spinning at this rate— “Stay with us, Odessa St. Clair,” he called to her firmly. “We are almost there! Fight it! Fight back! Stay with us!” It was as if he called to her from the mouth of a long, dark cave. Could he not see the monster? The demon cloud that was spiriting her away? How was she to fight such a thing? Why did they call it the White Death when it was dark, so dark? The laudanum, the blessed drug, moved through her and began its soothing work. She did not wish to be the latest St. Clair invalid, wasting away of consumption, wasting away the family money, the family’s time, the family’s attentions. If she was not strong enough to chase the cure, she didn’t deserve it at all. She had to find it within her, the hope, the desire, hovering somewhere deep within. Was it even there any longer? Moira returned to her side and placed a delicate white handkerchief over her nose and mouth, cool and light and smelling faintly of soap—clean, clear soap. It reminded Odessa of her mother, of years ago when she would come to Odessa’s sickroom to care for her, to nurse her back to health. She wanted to thank her sister, knowing this collapse was embarrassing her, embarrassing them all, but she could not find the breath to utter one word. “Nic!” Moira said in alarm. Was she outside, floating away from Odessa? Or was Odessa floating away from them? Out of this train, out of her cave, breaking free? “Is there a doctor on the train?” Dominic yelled. “Is there a doctor? Can anyone assist us?” “You listen to me,” Dominic said lowly and fiercely in her ear, suddenly right beside her. “You are not going to die on this train. You are going to reach the sanatorium and regain your health. You have a life ahead of you, Odessa St. Clair. A life. Not as an invalid. But as a vital, healthy woman. You will know freedom. You will beat this curse on our family. We will be friends into our old age. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Odessa?” Chapter 2 Over and over, long after Dr. Morton had left the porch, Odessa worked the question and possible answers. Her father had never said anything because he knew she might never have boarded that train if she had known the truth. If he had told her, she could not have borne the sorrow, the idea that she was abandoning her father, taking away his only remaining children, leaving him alone—possibly forever. His business kept him in Philadelphia. His desire to see his children prosper compelled him to send them West. Tears ran down her cheeks and she began to wheeze. “Say now,” said Sam with a gentle warning in his voice, “don’t do that, Miss St. Clair. I know how tears can lead to something worse.” She didn’t look at him, but could see Bryce’s movement in her peripheral vision. His brush hovered midair as he watched her too. Embarrassed, Odessa turned her head away and felt the tears slide into her ear. “Maybe you ought to tell Miss St. Clair about all that Colorado has to offer, Sam,” Bryce said. “What she can look forward to.” They were trying to calm her, trying to ease her away from the precipice that all consumptive patients battled back from far too often. And they were right, of course, about the tears, the danger of giving in to them. But just once, this once, couldn’t she purge herself of the tears and sorrow within her soul? She longed to cry until every tear was spent. No. She could not. I am here to get better. To live. That is the best gift I can give my father. Breathe in … breathe out, she told herself, forcing away the niggling urge to cough. After a few minutes, as her tears dried, she became aware of Bryce’s mumbling words. She turned her head and found him on his knees, praying. She quickly looked back to the windows in front of her. Never had she seen a man praying like that. Certainly not outside of church. It was oddly intimate. Like the time she’d walked into the parlor and discovered her father on his knees before her mother, his cheek against her taut, round belly, full of the baby girl that would soon die. They had been so happy at that moment, so full of hope. Odessa swallowed hard. She had to think of other things, things that occupied her mind but not her heart. She’d find a way, some way, to draw her father west. Bryce moved with some effort, like that of a man twenty years older, to his feet and practically fell into bed. “Bit too cold in here to be on your knees for long.” His blue eyes sparkled, indicating that he knew she had seen him. He grinned. “I take it you’re a Presbyterian, Miss St. Clair.” She didn’t care for his assumption. He did not know her. He didn’t know the first thing about her. But there was no way around it. She nodded stiffly. “Methodist, myself. But the consumption has given me some Baptist propensities.” Odessa’s mind was back on her church at home, on the girls her own age she had seen enter womanhood and get married. A few with babies of their own. Entering that church was like being surrounded by family, with irritating and exasperating and loving and laughing uncles, aunts, and cousins all about her. Bryce settled wearily back into his pillows. “Forgive me, Miss St. Clair, I’ve made you sad again with something I’ve said. I’ll keep my peace now.” “Nurse Packard will skin us faster than a Ute if we don’t let the girl rest,” Sam said. “I thought the Ute were peaceful,” she murmured. “Pardon?” She turned to look at the men. “I had heard that the Ute were peaceful.” Bryce smiled again and Odessa’s heart skipped a beat. Odd. Such an odd situation, this! “Some are. Some aren’t. Most are on their reservation, across the mountains and farther west, now. But some have held their own. Our ranch foreman is pureblood Ute, or oo-tah, as he says it.” “He’s stubborn as a mule and not as pretty,” Sam put in. “But he’s a good man.” Odessa could feel her eyebrows rise in surprise. “You hired an Indian?” “Sure.” Bryce’s smile faded from his eyes and his lips settled into a line. “Is that wise?” she pressed. “Tabito is one of the most loyal men I’ve ever met, and a better shot than most too. A good man to have around when you’re on a ranch five miles from your nearest neighbor.” “’Specially if I’m one of your nearest,” Sam joked, then laughed at his own humor, which set him to coughing again. Nurse Packard returned, interrupting Odessa’s next question about the Indian, and Bryce dabbed his brush into his palette as if Odessa were the furthest thing from his mind. The nurse looked from Odessa to the men and back again, obviously not fooled. “I brought you some broth. We’ll work you up to the eggs and milk and meat that are standard here. You’re terribly thin. How long since your last real meal?” Odessa shook her head, trying to remember. “Some soup … maybe a little bread on the train. But nothing really since we left home.” Nurse Packard nodded, her brown eyes kind. “Well, let’s begin with this. A little soup will make you feel worlds better. And God’s creation here in Colorado will do her wonders on your lungs. I promise, Miss St. Clair. You will find a new life here, and it all begins with putting a little meat on those bones.” “Odessa,” she said, swallowing the broth. “Please call me Odessa.” But curiously, while she was glad for the woman’s company, she felt herself speaking more to Bryce and Sam than to the nurse. Chapter 3 The men down the porch were obviously trying to give the St. Clairs a measure of privacy, but Odessa was well aware they could hear every word. Yet she was in no condition to move. “Oh, Dess, you look so much better,” Moira said, taking a chair beside her sister and lifting her hand. “Doesn’t she, Nic?” “Pretty as a princess,” he said, grinning at her shyly. “I told you you’d make it to Colorado.” “Always have to be right, don’t you, big brother?” Odessa said. “Don’t have to be. Just am.” She smiled back at him. “Glad you were right about this. Now let’s hope they can see me all the way to health.” “They will,” Moira said, squeezing her hand. “I have such a good feeling about this place, Odessa. It’s going to be good for all three of us, I know it.” Odessa studied her younger sister, the sparkle in her eye. Only two things delighted the young woman so: singing or a new suitor. Their father had sent her here to avoid both. “Moira, you haven’t—” “No, no,” Moira said, looking away. “Stop it, Sissy. I’m merely happy to be someplace new. It’s all so fresh here. So … raw. It’s rather like a blank canvas, isn’t it, Mr. McAllan?” “I beg your pardon,” Bryce said, looking their way. Odessa’s eyes slid from him to her pretty younger sister and back again. “The Springs. It’s so new, so untouched, isn’t it rather like a blank canvas?” Bryce thought on that for a moment and then gave her a small smile. “I can see why you would say that, Miss St. Clair. But no, I don’t agree. I believe this country has already been painted by the hand of God. We can cover it over with our own creations, but it will merely mar what is already perfect.” Moira’s mouth dropped a bit and then she abruptly shut it. Odessa bit her lip. It wasn’t often that a man didn’t fall all over himself to please Moira. And she liked what Bryce had said. “You young people need to hire some horses and take a ride,” Sam O’Toole said. “See some of this country as Bryce here describes it. Where we hail from …” He shook his head. “The farther from any city you get, the more you’ll see what he’s talking about. You turn some corners, crest some hills, and the majesty of it is enough to make a grown man cry.” “Sam’s right,” Bryce said. “Before you get your bookshop going, spend some time riding about. Consider what it means to be on land that nothing but antelope or mountain lion or Indian have ever been on. Stare upon mountains that men have yet to climb. That’s when you’ll get a sense of Colorado.” He coughed hard then, and they all waited for him to stop. He leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes for a moment, and Odessa wondered if he was done talking. She hoped not. She liked the low, soothing timbre of his voice. The confidence, the authority of his words, that belied his ill state. Odessa looked to Dominic, who had been listening as intently as she. Moira’s attention seemed to be fading. She glanced about as if looking for an excuse to leave. “You don’t want to see this city built?” Nic asked. “City’s already well on its way,” Bryce said. “No stopping that, and that’s not a bad thing. But I’m just saying that we who hail from the East have a propensity to want to re-create what we knew before, rather than letting the new place become our home.” “We crave the familiar,” Odessa said. “That’s right,” Bryce said, his eyes meeting hers. “And sometimes, God asks us to wrestle with the unfamiliar until it becomes our new familiar. Until we can …” He stopped, clearly trying to keep from coughing, and reached for a glass of water. “Until we can breathe freely in that new place,” Odessa said. Bryce’s smile grew. Odessa felt a slow blush at her neck and she looked away. Sam laughed softly, as if he’d just been let in on an inside joke. Odessa ignored him. Chapter 4 Dominic paced the floor at the foot of his sister’s bed. Moira sat perched beside Odessa, holding her hand, tears slipping down her face. Dr. Morton stood on the other side of his patient’s bed, looking over her paperwork from under a furrowed brow. “We’re fortunate that—” “Fortunate!” Dominic exploded, covering the few steps between them in a breath. “I left my sister here yesterday, better than I’d seen her in a month, and come back to find her unconscious again and her face cut up! What happened?” “As discussed, Mr. St. Clair, it appears she tried to get up out of bed unaided, knocked a glass bell to the ground, and then fainted upon it.” “Why was she up? In the middle of the night?” Dominic spat. “Sometimes our patients get disoriented, particularly when they first arrive.” “I want a nurse with her, day and night,” he said. “Mr. St. Clair, we hardly have the nurses to cover—” “Day and night, until she’s significantly improved.” He stood close enough to the doctor’s chart to push against it. The doctor raised his chin and glanced from Dominic to Odessa and back again. “Very well, Mr. St. Clair. We can see if we might borrow a private nurse from among ranks of the nuns of St. Francis. For three days, until we see Miss St. Clair through the worst of this. Then we shall reassess. We will, of course, add the cost to your bill.” With that, he turned and left them alone. “I should stay with her,” Moira said, picking up Odessa’s limp hand and stroking it. “At least for a night or two.” “It’s a good idea,” Dominic said. He paused, took a breath, and seemed to relax, considering it. “You could stay with her at night, rest at the hotel during the day.” Moira nodded and stared at her sister. “But is this to be our life in Colorado? Always hovering over Dess? We leave her for a day and look what happens! How did Papa think we could possibly open a bookshop?” Dominic sighed. “It won’t always be like this. In a few days, Odessa will be better and begin to regain her strength. This sanatorium has a 90 percent success rate in getting even their worst patients up and on their feet and back into their own homes.” “Within three to six months,” Moira said. “I’d be happy if she was living with us in three months.” He strode to the bed and took her other hand. “That’s what we’re hoping for Odessa. It was just—just a hard go of it, getting her here from the East. She needs some time. You know our Dess. She’ll be fine.” He studied her pale skin, her shallow, labored breaths and wondered if he believed his own words. He tucked her cold hand under the blanket and turned away, sudden hot tears in his eyes. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and closed his eyes, feeling a weariness enter his very bones. What if he failed at doing what their father had asked of him—to see to his sisters’ well-being? What if Odessa died here, while he could do nothing but watch? His hands clenched and he punched the air in frustration. “Nic?” Dominic blinked slowly and turned to face Moira. She gazed at him with those big sea-green eyes, a common trait among all the St. Clair children. Her face was oval shaped, like their mother’s, whereas Nic and Odessa had inherited the longer, patrician nose and sculpted cheekbones of their father. She looked so much like their mother, with her porcelain skin and rosebud mouth, the same look of consternation on her face that he remembered receiving from his mother after he had gotten into a fight with Robby Smits from down the hill, even though he knew how she disliked his scuffles with the other boys. “What is it, Moira?” “I … I like it here. I do. But sometimes, I feel …” She looked down at Odessa’s sheets. Long lashes made her look more like a china doll than a flesh-and-blood woman. “Homesick?” She nodded and sniffled and Dominic stifled a sigh. Her tears made him feel angry, helpless. He wanted to flee. Return his sisters to their father’s doorstep and walk away. But Father had asked him to do this for him. For a year. For a year, he could handle it. Reluctantly, he placed a hand of comfort on her shoulder. “All right, Moira. That’s enough now. We don’t have time for tears.” “Tears aren’t on a schedule you can control, Nic.” He pulled his hand away. “It’s time to grow up, Moira. A grown woman knows there’s a time and place for such things.” “Go away, Nic, and leave me be.” “Think about someone else for once, Moira. Think about me or Dess.” “I am!” She glanced up at him, green eyes flashing. She jumped up and pulled her shawl more closely around her. “Forget my offer to stay with Dess tonight. You have it all under control! Hire the nurse. Let Papa see the charge, wonder if he’s made a mistake, leaving you to make the decisions about her care.” She strode past him toward the door, but he caught her arm. “That’s a foul thing to say, Moira.” “No more foul than your thoughts,” she said, wrenching her arm away and staring up into his eyes. “I’m simply more brave in giving voice to the truth than you are.” With that, she turned and left the room. Roaring in frustration, Dominic grabbed the oil lamp and imagined sending it crashing against the far wall. It felt good to hold the weight of it in his hand. It would be even better to hurl it across the room, watch it splinter and fly apart, see the oil spread into a dollop and slowly ease down the pine wall. But it would only take the edge off his anguish. It wouldn’t take away its source. He paced back and forth, hands on his head, staring at Odessa. “Come on, Dess. Come back to us. I need you.” Chapter 5 Odessa awakened late again, nothing but black at her window and a low-burning lamp in the corner. “Oh, Odessa,” came a voice beside her. “I’m so glad you are awake. I had no idea a person could sleep so long.” Odessa turned and studied her sister beside her. “Why are you here?” She moved again and for the first time recognized the pull of the bandages. Wearily, she raised a hand to her face and touched them. “What happened?” “You fell—scared us all to death,” Moira said, her tone moving from care to complaint. “Didn’t intend to,” she said. Every word scraped out of her throat and out through parched lips as her memory of the event returned. “May I have a sip of water?” “Of course.” Moira stepped toward the bedside table and poured from a sweating pitcher into a pewter mug marked with the St. Clair “S” on the side. “I wouldn’t hear of them leaving any more glass near you,” she said with a smile, “and the tin mugs simply won’t do. I unpacked a few of our trunks. I knew you loved those mugs.” She wrapped an arm behind Odessa’s neck and helped her take a sip, then another. Never had water tasted so good to her. It tasted of home. “Ah. Bless you,” Odessa said, leaning back into her pillow. “It’s as if I haven’t had a drink in years.” “Air’s so dry here, I can’t get enough. I imagine it’s even more difficult on you.” Odessa glanced at her. Moira always preferred to steer clear of Odessa when she was in her “weakened state.” “Where’s Nic?” “Nic?” Moira asked, covering her mouth as she yawned. “Aren’t I enough? I thought you’d be happy with your baby sister here.” Odessa sighed and closed her eyes. She struggled to make sense of her memories, of what had transpired. She’d been on her feet, intent on something … A low snore sounded from the corner of the room. Odessa lifted her head from the pillow and gazed over at her sister. Moira was fast asleep in the rocker. Chapter 6 Odessa awakened to her doctor unwrapping her bandages and Nurse Packard on the other side of the bed. Moira stood in the corner and then moved to the bed to take her hand when Odessa caught her eye. “Is it awful?” Odessa managed to ask, despite her terrible thirst. This morning, every muscle in her body ached, probably the result of her fall. “Not so awful,” said the doctor kindly. “The wounds are superficial. They will heal quickly.” Odessa accepted that information with some skepticism. But it mattered not—the damage was not something she could undo. Her thoughts cast back to that night, the night Sam died. Her memory had cleared, and over and over she relived those moments that drove her to her feet and into Sam’s room. Dr. Morton studied her, watching her chest move beneath her thin chemise, and then he bent over to listen at her mouth. He pulled down one eyelid and then the other. “You must calm yourself,” he said with concern. “Consider pleasant things, quiet things. Breathe in slowly, Odessa … and now out … That’s it. Good girl.” He rose to depart and Moira cried out, “But Doctor! Is she all right? Shouldn’t you do something else?” He eyed her, then gave them both a warm smile. “Miss St. Clair, twenty years ago, Odessa might have perished. One in ten still die today,” he said. His words sounded callous, but his eyes were kind as he turned toward Odessa. “But you, my dear, are in the finest care, in the finest city for consumption care in the country. In short, it won’t be long until we have you up and on your feet. Then soon into a saddle and on the trail with the others.” Odessa remembered Sam telling her about the long train of twenty men and two women, many of them deathly pale, bundled and saddled up for their morning constitutional into the mountains—part of the sanatorium’s prescription for health. “I confess,” she murmured, “it’s difficult to imagine.” He met her gaze and then examined her cheeks again, turning her chin with his hand. “Most of the patients felt the same as you three days in. All are pleasantly surprised at what they can tolerate a week later. I find that your doctors in other places have not demanded enough of you, and in doing so have robbed you of the chance at proper health. Do you trust me?” Odessa shifted in the bed, considered his question. “As much as I’ve learned to trust any other doctor.” He smiled. “Fair enough. You shall soon see, Miss St. Clair, that I am entirely trustworthy. And that you’ve placed your life in the right man’s hands.” “I hope you are right, Doctor.” His smile faded. “Do not rise without assistance. Today you begin more advanced meal treatments. The sustenance will help you keep your feet when next you wish to try.” He eyed Nurse Packard. “She is to be moved to the sunporch from one to four.” “Yes, Doctor.” With that, he was gone, already on to the next patient. Odessa met the nurse’s eye. “What happened to Mr. O’Toole? How did he die?” Nurse Packard raised an eyebrow and settled her covers again. “Well, it wasn’t the consumption, that’s for certain. He had made excellent progress.” She looked at Odessa quickly. Clearly, she had shared more than she had intended. Odessa nodded and frowned, wondering if she should confide what she heard that night. But something told her to keep silent. She gave Moira a little shake of her head, urging her to do the same, but her sister was frowning, thinking hard. “What about you, Odessa?” Moira said. “Why were you on the prowl at such a late hour that night?” Odessa shook her head, as if embarrassed. “Delirious, most likely. Perhaps I caught a chill, a fever even. That happened from time to time in Philadelphia.” She looked over at Moira and her sister nodded, as if confirming her story. Nurse Packard nodded. “Common enough among consumptives.” She shook a finger in Odessa’s face. “Just see to it that you stay put from here on out or we’ll have to tie you down.” She smiled over her firm words, but was there a note of true warning behind them? Odessa could not be sure. Chapter 7 At a table of sixteen in the massive dining hall of Glen Eyrie, all eyes hovered on Moira St. Clair. She held them with the ease of a vivacious teacher surrounded by devoted students, dragging her long lashes upward to meet the gaze of fascinated gentlemen, deferring repeatedly to Queen, her hostess, until the woman was as smitten as the men, and complimenting the others, easing them into conversation until each of them felt she was somehow more than just by being in Moira’s presence. How simple this is, Moira thought, well practiced in the ways of social etiquette and niceties, knowing how to make friends of both men and women. It was a dangerous walk, using coquettish ways with the men that made them puff their chests out like strutting animals, while befriending the women so they did not assume defensive positions against her. But by the time dinner was finished, Moira felt in command of her new little world, small that it might be. She knew that numerous invitations would follow to dine with the others, if not to return to Glen Eyrie. In Philadelphia, she had been the debutante to watch. If her future was to unfold as she wished, she would have to make sure all eyes continued to do so. She laughed, listening intently to the older woman across the table. But she could feel the heat of a man’s gaze upon her, and slowly, methodically moved her eyes across the silk-fringed tapestry tablecloth, past empty silver platters being lifted by uniformed butlers, to his chest, to his shoulders, and finally, his eyes. She let them rest there a moment, fully taking in for the first time another newcomer to the Springs, Jesse McCourt. An actor, of all things, en route to Denver, merely stopping for a night to visit a relative among them. Deliciously talking to the general about bringing his troupe here for the opening of the opera house. He was lovely, a man who would fill several slots on her dance card at home, sporting a strong cleft chin and warm eyes that covered her with a searching gaze. His chin reminded her of Reid, and just in time, she looked up and to her left to catch the sheriff laugh at the end of Queen’s story and then smile down on Moira. It was then that she felt Reid’s big hand move under the table and brush against her thigh. He was looking away from her now, but his hand pressed, skirted, and then clamped down around her leg. She froze, aghast at his forward move, and flitted her eyes about the table, feeling a sudden blush rise from her neck and begin a steady ascent up her face. Jesse continued to study her. “General,” he said, placing a napkin on the table as his host had done before him. “It is true you have in your possession the finest of Cuba’s cigars, or is that mere rumor?” General Palmer laughed and sat back against his massive, hand-carved chair, a diminutive king wielding his power. “As ever, Mr. McCourt, your timing is perfect. Come,” he said, lifting a hand in the air in invitation, “let us retire to gentlemen’s quarters and leave the women to their idle pleasantries.” Reid’s hand abruptly left Moira’s thigh and she rose in turn, wondering if his hot fingers had left wrinkles in her teal silk. He rose to follow his host, General Palmer. She eyed Jesse across the table and gave him the tiniest of nods before the men all headed off as a group. Moira turned to join Queen, taking her hostess’s offered arm as she led the way to the blue room, the women’s group following the men. “Are you all right, my dear?” Queen asked. “Of course. Why do you ask?” “You appear a bit flushed.” Moira smiled over at her hostess, a small woman. “It must be all that fine food and drink. It really was amazingly delicious. I don’t know how you can manage to bring all the comforts of the East way out here in the West. I feel as if I’m in a dream.” Queen smiled. “A princess in her castle? I confess I feel the same. I thought it a bit much but the general insisted.” “A castle fit for a queen,” Moira deferred with a grin and a nod. “Your king must be sad indeed when you all depart.” She thought of the three small children in stiffly ironed dresses and perfectly curled hair, paraded through the dining hall by a nursemaid. Later, they had peeked out from a loft, watching the adults at dinner as if observing a grand banquet play. They had been led off, all three faces glum, when their nurse discovered them again and pulled them into the shadows. It reminded Moira of her and Odessa when they were small, always wishing, wishing to be big. “It is not as either of us had envisioned. But the doctors tell me my heart cannot endure this altitude, and my husband’s heart has belonged to this city since the first day he laid out the streets with the surveyors.” “I am deeply sorry.” Queen eyed her with one eyebrow lifted and gave her a small smile. “We make do. The general will sojourn east to visit us. I fear I shall not return again.” “I hope that does not prove true.” Obviously growing weary of the subject, Queen said, “It is our understanding that the heirs of St. Clair Press wish to establish a bookshop here in the Springs.” “Indeed. My father wishes to expand his enterprise, not only publishing, but selling his wares. Since my sister was to come here for treatment of consumption, he thought it might occupy my brother while she convalesced.” “And it sounds as if your brother is in need of … occupation.” Moira paused, careful to choose her words wisely. “It is always best for Dominic to be engaged, using his hands as well as his mind. Give him a hammer, nails, and some wood and he’d have our father’s first bookshop built in a few weeks.” “He sounds like a true pioneer. But why begin from scratch if there is already something in place to be utilized? The general will enjoy having a fine bookshop in town,” Queen said. “Come. You must meet Amy Brennan. Her husband owns three square blocks of land downtown and will aid you.” Moira smiled and squeezed her hostess’s arm. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Palmer.” She put a hand on her heart. “That would be an answer to our prayers.” They swept down the massive hall, then down the wide, cascading stairs edged with stone banisters, turning, then turning again until they were again in the grand reception hall. One corner of the wide entry led to the stairs, another to a small front parlor, another to the blue room, and still another to a welcome expanse of solarium glass and a warm, wood-paneled den with a massive fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth already. The men moved off with a wave and a nod to the women, while the women turned into a north-facing room lit with a hundred candles. As Queen entered, a woman at the grand piano began playing. Moira felt quick, hot tears lace her lashes. It was as though she were truly entering a grand home in Philadelphia—it made her miss all that she’d left behind. Perhaps she had been wrong about this rough, unsettled country. Perhaps there really was a place for her here. “Here, Miss St. Clair, please sit with me and Amy,” Queen directed, depositing her upon a small divan with the plain-looking woman she had met earlier. “Mrs. Brennan,” Moira said, giving her a warm smile. “I’m afraid we were seated at opposite ends of the table. Please, tell me all about yourself. How did you come to be one of Colorado’s first residents?” “I’ve always been a Colorado resident, Miss St. Clair,” she said, eyeing her with the look of a woman on guard. Clearly, she was well used to the long nose and narrowed eyes of those from the East, scrutinizing pioneers as some odd specimens. “You have?” Moira gushed, barely letting a breath escape. “You can teach me so much! I am desperate to learn about this new land. It is frightfully beautiful, but a bit overwhelming. Do you ever get used to it?” “In time,” Mrs. Brennan said drily, thawing just a little bit in spite of herself. Moira kept up her efforts. “Please, grant me a bit of wisdom. What is the most important thing I must remember?” “Keep the edges of your skirts out of the mud,” Mrs. Brennan said. Moira laughed as if they were sharing a private jest, choosing to ignore the patronizing snippet, and Mrs. Brennan relented a bit. “Mrs. Palmer said that you might be of assistance to me and my brother.” “Oh?” “Yes,” Queen said, rejoining them on the settee after seeing to the other women. “Miss St. Clair’s brother is seeking retail space downtown for a bookshop. I think a bookshop would be just the kind of establishment that the general would like to see, don’t you agree?” “Indeed,” Mrs. Brennan said with a nod, eyebrows raised. Moira could see she felt caught, like a fly in a spider’s web. “Mr. Brennan has that quaint little shop on Tejon almost complete, does he not?’ “I believe he does.” “Wouldn’t that be a good location for a bookshop?” “I believe it has a tenant already, Queen,” Mrs. Brennan said, shifting now with discomfort. “Oh,” Queen said with a slight pout. “A pity, that. To whom?” “A merchant of dry goods.” “Hmm. Another merchant of dry goods.” She let the comment sit for several moments. “Of course, I could speak to Mr. Brennan about returning the merchant’s funds and selling him another plot.” Queen brightened and reached across to place a hand on Mrs. Brennan’s arm. Moira noted the large ruby and emeralds that she wore across her short, stubby fingers, felt the visceral pull and might of the woman, and knew she was watching the skilled efforts of a mentor. “That is a fine idea, Amy! A fine idea. I always say you are one of the most clever of my friends here in Colorado. The general will be most pleased.” Chapter 8 “You are curiously silent,” Moira said to Reid. The lanterns, strung out on arcing metal bands before the horses, barely illuminated ten feet in front of them. The miles between Glen Eyrie and the city seemed to crawl by, but Moira was comforted by a carriage both before and behind them, other guests of the Palmers who had declined their kind invitation to stay the night in the castle. The weather was unseasonably warm, the mud puddles no longer frosting over, even in the cool of night. He smiled over at her. “Forgive me. Concentrating on the road. If we suffer an accident, my lone prisoner might throttle me.” Moira smiled, covering a pang of pain at his reference to Dominic. What were they to do if Reid refused to honor his promise the next day? They were on their own here in the West, something neither of them were fully prepared for. Moira constantly caught herself looking over her shoulder, looking for her father, who had always been there. “I had no idea, Moira.” Moira focused on his words again, embarrassed to note he had been speaking and she had been too lost in thought to hear him. “No idea?” “No idea you were such an accomplished singer. When you sang that song …” Moira studied him in the yellow, pale light. He appeared visibly moved. But this was the man who had made inappropriate advances beneath the Palmers’ table. Dangerous. Perhaps the most dangerous person she had ever met, capable of wielding power over her and hers that she did not care to fully acknowledge. He coughed, clearing his throat, and glanced down at her again. “It was perhaps the most delightful thing I’ve ever witnessed.” She stared into his eyes, melting in admiration and pleasure, but knew that behind them was a steely strength that was a threat. She had to tread carefully here, like a mule on a high, narrow mountain path, a precipice on either side. “You honor me with your favor, Sheriff,” she said quietly, not too warm, leaning slightly away. “The favor is unavoidable. You are as talented as you are beautiful, Moira St. Clair. There has never been a woman who has caught my eye as completely and suddenly as you.” Moira smiled. “Sheriff, I know many a woman would be so honored by your words. But I am … conflicted. Like a bird caught in a cage. Just as my brother is now in your cage.” She stared at him until he again glanced her way. He caught her eye and held it a moment, then looked back to the horses. “I’ll go and release him tonight,” he said, voice raw, naked, hopeful. “No,” she returned softly. “Tomorrow morning, as you promised. Then, with my brother’s blessing, we shall see where this leads. He is the man my father entrusted with my guardianship. Would it be befitting to proceed without him?” Reid glowered over his reins, not answering. He knew she had him. He had made gains this day, but in holding her brother, the brother she wished him to befriend, he had lost. How to free a prisoner and gain his permission to court his sister at once? She could see him churning the idea over in his mind. But he was not like the boys at home who had lined up to court her, young men of means seeking a potential bride. He was a man. Life-hardened. Moira felt his experience, his age like an iron rod within him and knew she must proceed carefully. Soon, the dim oil lamps of the Springs’ downtown came into view as they turned around a curve in the road. In minutes, they had crossed the rough, narrow bridge and emerged on Cascade and soon reached the Antlers Hotel. Reid pulled his horse to a stop, and the mare stood there, breath crystallizing in the night air. “I’ll wait here and take you over to the sanatorium when you’re ready.” “No need. My sister is surely long asleep by now. I’ll attend her in the morning.” “Are you certain?” He seemed to be reluctant to let the evening come to an end. “Entirely,” she said. Reid set the brake and came around the carriage. He lifted her slowly down. Moira pushed away, but he held her waist in his broad hands, staring down intently on her. “I have serious intentions when it comes to you, Moira,” he said. She glanced up at him, playing up the flirtation to cover her unease. “One never knows where these things shall lead. Speak to my brother, Reid, and let time take its due course.” He bent his head as if to kiss her, but she tore away. “I’m a patient man, Moira St. Clair,” he called. She moved up the hotel steps and then glanced over her shoulder. “We shall see how patient you are. Thank you for a delightful evening.” She moved into the hotel, his gentle laughter echoing after her, muted only by the closing glass door. Chapter 9 The next morning dawned cold and bright. As was the routine, every able patient assembled in the main parlor downstairs, watching as stable hands saddled horses. Ten or more patients rode in the morning, into the hills and canyons that lined the city’s edge; the other half went in the afternoon, returning just before dinner. Every other day, a larger group—but not all—rode out for the entire day, often not returning until after nightfall, but usually bringing back a string of fish or a freshly killed deer to be gutted, skinned, and carved into fat venison roasts. It was part of the therapy at the sanatorium. Long draughts of fresh, mountain air, air so dry that it made their noses bleed. But it was plentiful and clean. Exercise, as much as they could tolerate, building muscles long dormant as they battled to breathe. Given the countless canyons and old Indian trails at their disposal to explore, it was easy to keep the patients’ attention on the path and off of their own breathing. Then hale amounts of food, vast portions of red meat, large trout, frothy fresh milk, eggs—fried, scrambled, or hard-boiled. Once in a while, an attendant would return, bringing a patient who was coughing up blood or was too weak with fever and chills to continue. But by and large, Odessa had to admit, the patients did seem to thrive in the natural air, coming back with ruddy cheeks and bright pink noses and eyes alight with stories to tell. They all began on the porch, taking in the air there, or if suffering a relapse as Bryce had done, returning there. Next they were ensconced beside Monument Creek, or even in a boat laden with blankets, fishing for hours on end. The sanatorium had dug out a large pool beside a massive cottonwood, and the waterway flowed gently into the chasm, creating a slow eddy. When Odessa sat upon the boat in its center, she gradually spun around. It was lazy and invigorating at the same time. It felt good to be doing something useful when she brought in her first fish a week after she had arrived in Colorado. “Do they have fish in Philadelphia?” Bryce asked, recovering from a coughing fit after his walk down the hillside to the creek. He had his easel and paint bag over his shoulder, which he slowly set before him. She smiled at him from the boat. “One or two.” Gently, she pulled the hook from the brown trout’s jaw and set the fish, wriggling still, in the bottom of the boat. “My grandfather used to take me and my brother out fishing on occasion. He favored a narrow, deep river with a slow eddy, like this one here. He was always trying to snag a massive, old bass that continually eluded him. Hooked him a few times but never managed to bring him in.” Bryce laughed as he got the easel legs in place. “Always one in every river, stream, pond, or lake.” Odessa decided she liked the sound of his laughter, deep and warm. It was the kind of laugh that would make any house a home. Her grandfather used to laugh like that. But she couldn’t remember her father ever laughing in the same manner. Was that because he never did, or because he had lost the ability to laugh as each of their family members died? Did she simply not remember? She searched her mind, wishing, hoping for the memory. Gentle, sad smiles she remembered. But no laughter. “I’ve said something that has upset you,” Bryce said, settling the canvas atop the easel and then leaning back upon his stool, gathering his strength. He had ridden out with the others on the previous day’s trail ride and it had clearly taxed him. “No.” She sighed. She glanced over at him. “Your laughter simply made me remember my grandfather. I miss him. And his laugh.” She cast out her line again, watching as the hook floated for a moment on the moving surface and then suddenly dropped. “I had a grandfather with a good laugh too,” he said. “Where did he live? If I may presume to ask such intimacies.” “It’s not presumptuous at all,” he returned, as he uncovered his palette and dabbed a deep blue pigment onto the wood. “Both my mother’s and my father’s people hailed from Maine for several generations. But an uncle came west, here to Colorado. We’ve always imported and bred horses, and we needed more land.” “There’s a lot of that here.” “Yes, indeed.” “Are your parents still with you?” “No,” he said, resettling his blankets around his shoulders. “They passed on.” “I’m sorry. And your uncle, he is at the ranch?” “No, he died too, this past year. He was building a house, hoping to marry his love from Maine and bring her west, when he died.” “I’m so sorry. That is tragic.” “It’s all right. He died doing what he loved to do—running horses. Just hit a squirrel hole, fell and broke his neck. It was over fast …” He glanced up at her, as if embarrassed that he had shared more than he meant to. “So it’s just you? Running the ranch?” she said. “Me and my foreman. It’s a lot, running the ranch alone. We have quite a few ranch hands to help, but it’s really Tabito who bears the brunt of it. And every time I head east or beyond to see to the business, I seem to come back sicker than when I left.” “You can’t do this sort of thing—convalesce, recover—while on your own ranch? Seems to me all they do here is feed us and send us out to take in some fresh air.” He gave her a small smile. “I have a hard time not overextending myself when I’m home. They send us out on horses to ride a trail, sure. But at home, I’m out from dawn to dusk, working, not merely riding.” She nodded. “It would be difficult. To see the work and simply turn away. I suppose there isn’t much time for painting there.” “No, there’s not.” “Are you about done with your painting of the Peak?” “Peak?” “Pikes Peak,” she said, waving over her shoulder. “Is that not what you are painting?” He smiled and then shook his head. But he did not choose to elaborate on what he was painting. Curiosity burned so intensely in Odessa that she almost pulled herself to shore to see if she could steal a look at the canvas herself. She ventured a peek at Bryce, but he only looked to the sky before dipping his brush in the vivid blue and placing it upon the canvas. She sighed in frustration. A servant who frequently was stationed by the pond to look after the patients tossed in his own fishing line. He immediately got a bite and expertly landed a beautiful fish, grinning with delight. “I think I’ll take it in, along with yours, Miss St. Clair, if you two will be all right for a moment,” the man said. “We’ll be fine,” Bryce said, smiling over at her. “If Miss St. Clair tips over her boat, I’ll jump in to pull her out.” “I think I can manage to stay put for a few minutes and avoid that,” she returned. “I’d love to have Cook fry my fish up for lunch.” The servant smiled and pulled on the rope that kept her boat firmly attached to the tree. He reached for her catch, took hold of it with a finger under its gills, and set off up the hill to present their bounty to Cook. Odessa remained in the boat, even pulled up onshore, comfortable in her layers of blankets and cozy seat. The eddy gently rocked her, like a baby in a cradle. Chapter 10 Bryce assisted Odessa out of the boat and they slowly made their way up the hill to see about the commotion. A young woman, small and wiry, but impressively strong for a consumptive, looked about with wide, wild eyes. A man, likely her husband, pried her fingers from the wagon and carried her in the door, where he handed her to a guard, laid entry documents upon the front desk, and then turned to her, ignoring the gawking crowd. “Amille, this is the best thing for you. You can get better here, sweetheart, better.” With tears rolling down his cheeks, he took her hands in his, kissed them, and then left her with the guard as he walked away. Amille writhed and wailed, her hysteria sending her into a coughing fit that made them all fear she might fail to take another breath. But her husband continued to walk away, stiff-backed, as if making himself place one foot in front of the other, down the hill. Only her lack of breath kept her from continuing to scream, but steady tears rolled down her cheeks as the doctor and nurse attempted to calm her. “John and Amille DeChant,” Bryce said under his breath. “You know them?” Odessa asked, struggling for a decent breath herself after their climb up the hill. “Neighbors of Sam O’Toole’s,” he whispered. “Amille’s mind’s been slipping for some time. Their little girl died in the creek out back on their property, near Sam’s, about a year ago. John found a silver vein while searching for her body. But no amount of silver will ever buy a mother’s peace of mind.” The others gathered along the top floor balcony and staircase indoors, watching the newcomer. She looked about madly, a lost look in her eye. It was as if a person disappeared within their depths, as if she swallowed one whole, chewing a person up in an attempt to find an anchor-hold in the storm. But more than that, Odessa sensed the woman’s terrible desperation and sorrow. She had loved her family, and now they were lost to her. Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard saw Amille to a private room, presumably to Sam’s old one. Odessa shoved aside the unease she felt at having the woman right next door, in a room that had already claimed one life. Perhaps she would find health again here, physically, and in physical gains, make mental gains as well. “Please, God, let it be so,” she whispered under her breath, wondering what it took to separate a woman so thoroughly from her mind. “Odessa,” Bryce said. “You’re looking peaked. Come, sit.” She shakily took a seat beside Bryce on the porch. Gradually, the others drifted back to their rooms or the far side of the building, favoring the mountain views, or to the stables for their afternoon ride, since the morning group had just arrived back. Again and again her mind went to the young woman upstairs, and Odessa remembered her mother, so desperately sad after each of her sons died of the consumption. She had been so hopeful, believed so clearly that the new baby would somehow begin to level a drastically tilted universe. And then she was gone. “You are sad,” Bryce said quietly. Odessa tried to force a smile. “Oh. Forgive me. Amille’s sorrow simply reminded me of my mother and her own sorrow.” Bryce hesitated. “May I ask—what sorrow?” “The family plague, this consumption. We’ve lost four boys, four of my brothers.” “Odessa,” he said. She dared to look at him and his eyes held such grief for her! Never had she seen such empathy within a man. “There are no words,” he said, shaking his head. She felt her own throat begin to swell, tears rise, but swallowed hard. “There are words. Horror. Pain to the very marrow of one’s bones. Ache. Endless waves of agony. Battered and bruised hearts—purple and barely functioning.” She rose, but Bryce caught her hand. “Your mother … has she recovered?” “She died trying to deliver my sister a year past.” It felt strangely comforting to see that her words pained him, as if he were absorbing some of her own grief, taking it in, holding it for her. But talking about it made her feel irrationally angry, as if for the moment it was somehow Bryce’s fault, these past losses. Bryce looked her in the eye as Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard returned downstairs, Amille now eerily silent. Had they administered a sedative? Laudanum? Odessa was glad for the diversion. Better to think upon Amille’s pain than her own. Did she now drift like a leaf on the river, appearing serene, but underneath, spinning, lost, far from home? “It’ll do her good, being here. You’ll see,” Bryce tried. But Odessa did not believe his weak words. She slid her hand out from his. “They can heal her body, but not her mind. I’ve heard of people like this. They don’t come back.” “You do not know that, Odessa,” he said, disappointment in his eyes. Did he believe the best, hope for the best, in all things, in all people? “No, I am no fortune-teller, no seer, but that woman is lost.” Bryce stared down the empty hall, at sunlight streaming through the open doorway. “But all that are lost can be found, Odessa. Every one. God calls us to life, to love, to healing. We merely have to find our way home.” Find our way home. Where was that, exactly, when she had left the only home she’d ever known and found she could never return? Suddenly, Odessa was overwhelmingly weary. The morning, their conversations, the arrival of Amille—all had taxed her. “I must go and take my rest,” she said, already walking away. “Sleep well, Odessa.” She didn’t look back. Chapter 11 The trail nurse gave them the signal to return to their horses and Odessa rose quickly, too quickly, and instantly collapsed, her lungs short of oxygen, her head spinning. Luckily, Bryce was there to catch her. “Glad you’re nothing but a consumptive sack of skin and bones,” he teased as she came out of her faint. “Or you might have crushed me.” She tried to push away, but he held her tight as the trail nurse timed her pulse and observed her breathing. “I just tried to get up too fast. I’m fine.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” the nurse said. “She’s all right,” she said to Bryce a minute later. “But we ought to get her back to the sanatorium. She needs to spend some more time out of doors, beside the creek, before we bring her on the trail again.” “I’ll have you address me of my own health, Nurse,” Odessa said crossly, succeeding now in pushing away from Bryce. “It is improper to address anyone but me.” Again, the sudden movement made her woozy, but she attempted to cover it. Could they see the sweat beading on her upper lip? She refused to wipe it away. “Pardon me, Miss St. Clair,” the nurse responded icily. “I wrongly assumed that you weren’t yet in your right thinking. Please, rise and mount up immediately.” She stood and lifted her chin, knowing she was asking Odessa to do something downright impossible. “Here, take my arm,” Bryce said, offering her his hand. She grabbed it like a lifeline, now too tired to feign independence any longer. “Slowly, slowly,” he said, as if whispering to a wild colt. “Take it from me. You’ll be flat on your back again if you move too fast. Cracked my head open once on a rock.” “No one there to catch you?” Odessa asked. “No, ma’am,” he said, smiling his encouragement. “Now let’s get you to that horse. I’m telling you, when you get back to your bed today, you’ll sleep the whole afternoon away.” Odessa suddenly could not wait to return to her room, her white sheets and woolen blankets. For the peaceful spin into sleep. She barely could tolerate the time it took for Bryce to help her mount up and a servant to cover her with the blanket and tuck the edges around her legs. She watched as Bryce moved toward his own horse and mounted as effortlessly as a noble equestrian, no longer a consumption patient. But once in the saddle, once they resumed their horse train back toward the city, he turned his face to her and she recognized the utter weariness of their shared ailment. Consumption. Consuming. Consumed. Eaten alive. Bryce’s eyes, his manner, seduced her toward trust. Their shared struggle already bonded them all as if they were siblings, but this man looked upon her with eyes that bespoke more. Could they both beat this monster back, into submission, maybe even entirely out of their lives? Her heart skipped a beat at the mad dream of it, the wild hope within her. What if she bested this disease at last? For good? What if her life did not end at a young age, as she had supposed it would? What if she could live to be … old? Chapter 12 Odessa awakened at dawn and immediately knew someone watched her. She turned quickly upon her bed and looked to the doorway. Amille DeChant stood there, shifting nervously, wringing her hands. She coughed, and it was then that Odessa could hear the deep wheeze of her breath. “My baby,” she managed to say as she panted for air. “I can’t find my baby. Can you help me … find her?” Odessa winced and coughed as she came to a sitting position on the edge of her bed. She reached for a glass of water, willing the coughing to not even begin this morning. “I am Odessa St. Clair. Your name is Amille, right? It’s a very pretty name.” Amille stared at her blankly, then shifted back and forth. “They took my baby.” “Who took your baby?” Odessa asked, feeling the woman’s pain. “The men. The men who want the mine.” Odessa frowned and rose. “I’m sure your baby is all right, Amille. It’s early yet. She’s probably fast asleep, asleep in Jesus’ arms.” Amille glanced at her quickly then. “No, she’s not with Jesus. She’s lost. I have to find her. Have to find her. Have to find her. Have to find her. Have to—” “All right,” Odessa said, holding up a hand. “We’ll go look. But first we must get some clothes on. It’s not seemly, going out in our night shifts.” “Not seemly. Not seemly. Not seemly. Have to find her. Have to find her. Have to find—” “Here,” Odessa said. “Let me help you choose a dress and then I’ll come back and find my own.” She sighed. Was she making a wise decision? Would it be better to stick to the truth, try and force Amille’s mind back to reality? Her heart told her no. There would be a time and place for fact. For now, fiction would soothe. Chapter 13 Over the next couple of weeks, it became easier to endure the rides and Odessa began to see how the regimen worked. Doctor Morton forced them out as soon as possible. The excursions left patients tired, but hungry. They returned to eat the huge suppers provided and sleep for hours, providing sustenance and rest for their weary bodies. It was the same in many sanatoriums. Odessa had even heard of ranchers taking in consumptives, knowing that for some decent meals and a bed, they could get free work out of them. How many were trapped in small cabins or remote ranchlands, unable to escape? She was thankful for the sanatorium here in the Springs. Although Papa had neglected to give her all the facts—that she was going to Colorado likely never to return—it had been a good choice, a wise choice to send her here. Papa had sent them a letter at last, assuring them he was well, busy as ever at work, but eager to come and see his children in their new home. April had dawned with a thin heat that blew upon the late, meager March snow, quickly melting it away, and with it went some of Odessa’s fears for what had happened to Sam O’Toole that terrible night. Gradually, she had come to believe it was all a figment of her imagination, a consumptive’s groggy mind. Amille, Sam’s neighbor, had settled into life alongside the rest of the patients, and today was on a horse for the first time. Something calming came over the woman as she slid a boot into a stirrup and sat back into the saddle. There was a new peacefulness about her features, as if being astride a horse comforted her. “You’ve done that before,” Odessa said approvingly. Bryce moved up beside her and smiled at Amille too. “It feels right,” Amille said, speaking more coherently, calmly, than Odessa had ever heard her. “Good, good,” she responded. She moved her horse along the path, right beside Amille, and they walked down the sanatorium road and out onto the broader avenue. “We used to ride. In the evenings,” Amille said. Odessa couldn’t resist glancing back at Bryce. He looked as surprised as she that Amille was speaking coherently and in full sentences. “Who? Where?” “John and I. We loved to ride out into the valley and look upon the mountains. But that was before we had Anna.” “Anna. That was your baby’s name?” Amille nodded. “But then they came and took her. Took her.” “Who?” “The men. The men who wanted John’s mine. They said if he didn’t sign it over to them, they’d hurt us.” She turned miserable eyes upon Odessa. In them, Odessa did not see a madwoman. She saw truth. She glanced back at Bryce in alarm. “Amille,” Bryce said, gently easing forward to walk beside them. “Anna died in the creek. She drowned,” he said softly. “No,” Amille said. “That is where they left her.” She shook her head suddenly, as if tossing away the bad memory. “But they didn’t get what they wanted. John still has his mine. And Sam hid his entrance. No one will find it. Not there.” Odessa sat up straighter in her saddle. Bryce caught her eye, obviously wondering the same thing. “Amille,” she said slowly, “you said Sam hid his entrance. Did Sam discover a silver vein?” “Maybe my baby is here,” Amille said, her eyes once again distant. “Do you think she’s here? I’ve been looking for her. Looking for her. Looking for her. Looking for her.” Odessa sighed and let her go ahead, her heart aching for the woman as she slipped back into her familiar, incoherent world. Bryce pulled alongside her and reached out a hand to briefly cover hers. “What do you think that means?” Odessa asked, nodding toward Amille’s back. He shook his head. “Do you think Sam discovered silver on his land?” “Could be. His land abuts John and Amille’s. It would make sense.” He shook his head. “But he never said a word about it.” “Might he have been concerned? Frightened, what with this story about John and Amille and the baby?” “John would’ve gone to our sheriff.” He dropped his voice. “The girl—she was little, not quite three years old. Slipped and fell. Amille hasn’t really been right in the head since she died. You can’t take what she says as truth.” They rode for a while in silence. “Sam never mentioned anyone coming around?” Odessa asked then. “Anyone who wanted to buy his land? Anyone pressuring his neighbors?” Bryce pulled his head to the side as if reluctant to say anything. “Mining … It’s a dangerous business, Odessa. You break your back trying to see if there’s anything but rock in your yard and if you’re lucky, you find it. But that’s when others come around. Most miners are alone. Easy prey. That’s why many take on a partner.” “Or hide their mine claim.” He studied her intently. “You don’t think …” His eyes moved to Amille and back again. They pulled up their horses, letting the rest of the group move on without them. “You’ve settled in here to recover your health,” Odessa said. “But is this thing about Sam ever far from your mind? I’d just about decided it was all in my imagination, that I was too ill to think clearly that night and misinterpreted it … but Amille—maybe God brought her here for us, Bryce. So that we might be reminded of the truth, the need to ferret out the truth. Justice.” Bryce let out a humorless laugh. “We have your memories from a night when you were desperately ill, an odd poem from a dead man, and the rantings of a madwoman. How are we to ferret out the truth?” He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, Odessa. Maybe our minds are too long idle, jumping to conclusions. The storyteller in you is acting up.” He held up a hand as she began her retort. “And even if it’s true … we’re not in any shape to go and track down any claim jumpers. Right?” “Right,” she said reluctantly. “Think on this with me, Odessa. John DeChant is apparently well and working his claim, even as we speak. I hold the land deed to all of Sam’s land—even any potential mine—and you perhaps have the key to finding the entrance, if it even exists. Until one of those pieces changes, I believe we need to treat all of this as conjecture. Agreed?” “Agreed.” Chapter 14 Dr. Morton appeared beside Odessa one afternoon, where she practiced her archery with Bryce and Charlotte and five others, shooting targets painted onto a hay bale. “Miss St. Clair,” he said, pausing, as if unsure of what to say. “Most unfortunate news has reached us,” he continued. “Amille’s husband has passed away.” Bryce lowered his bow and frowned. “John? What happened?” Oh no, was all Odessa could think. While Amille’s health improved under the doctor’s care, her mind remained fragile. And something happening to John DeChant … she shared a quick glance with Bryce. “Cave-in at his mine. The sheriff down there found him. Said he went to check on him after he didn’t show up at church.” Bryce lifted fingers to his brow and rubbed, as if he might scrub the frown from his forehead. “John was a regular. Never missed.” “I was hoping you might come with me to tell Mrs. DeChant, Miss St. Clair. She’s obviously taken a liking to you. Perhaps your presence will lend some comfort during this terrible time.” Odessa set down her bow and nodded, following behind the small man as they entered the sanatorium and climbed the sweeping stairs to the private rooms. She glanced over her shoulder. Bryce was right behind her. They rounded the corner and on leaden feet, moved past Odessa’s room and on to Amille’s. The woman was dozing in a chair by the window, sunlight streaming over her shoulder. The doctor moved forward, but Odessa said, “Please. Dr. Morton. Perhaps—perhaps it will be better coming from me.” Doctor Morton considered her over the rims of his glasses and then stepped aside, gesturing toward the woman. Odessa covered the remaining steps and knelt at Amille’s feet. She was so fine boned, so fragile yet. And Odessa knew she missed John, missed her husband. Saying a brief prayer for courage and comfort, Odessa reached out a hand and took Amille’s. The woman stirred and then opened her eyes, looking into Odessa’s. She immediately seemed to sense that something was desperately wrong. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no,” she said in anguish. How did she know? Did Odessa’s face hold some of the sorrow that John’s had when he had to tell his wife that he had found their little girl, that there was no longer any hope that she was merely lost or wandering? “No, no, no, no,” she said, tears already streaming down her face. “Amille,” Odessa said, nearly choking on her name, tears now running down her own face. “I’m so sorry, my friend. But John has died. He is gone.” Chapter 15 May Over the weeks, Moira made an excuse to walk past the opera house almost every day, watching with delight as the last of the brickwork was installed and posters were placed outside, announcing the call for vocal talent. Again and again she wondered if she could find her way onto the stage, find the way to rehearse if she even got the part with the traveling troupe. She vacillated over whether or not she should confide in Odessa or Nic, but elected to hold her own confidences. Papa had sent her west to keep her out of the theater. Surely her siblings would feel bound by honor to tell him. No, she couldn’t risk it. “Miss St. Clair! Miss St. Clair!” called a boy. She turned and waited on him, then saw the general across the street, in front of the opera house. He tipped his hat toward her. “Miss St. Clair,” said the boy, breathless by the time he reached her side. “The general … he asks if you won’t come and greet him.” Moira straightened her skirt and followed after the boy, waiting for a heavy wagon drawn by four horses to pass. At last she was with the general, who stood beside a man she hadn’t seen in some time—Jesse McCourt. The actor who had saved her from Reid’s manhandling at the Glen! “Miss St. Clair,” the general said in tender greeting. “I believe you remember my friend Mr. McCourt.” “I do.” She smiled up at the handsome man, so dapper in his fine suit. He smiled back at her. “Mr. McCourt has just accepted our offer to his troupe to play in our opera house as it opens, but we are still seeking a female lead. It occurred to me how your lovely voice seems to captivate all who hear it. Tell me, my dear, would you consider an audition?” Moira’s heart beat triple-time. “How I would love it!” Her mind briefly paused over the image of her father, his firm disapproval over the theater, then on to Reid. He wanted to stifle her, control her, own her. Yet neither man was here. She lifted her face and smiled sweetly. “When would you like me to come?” Chapter 16 “Will he live?” “If he awakens soon,” the doctor said grimly. They had brought him back to the shop, and together, managed to get him upstairs to the extra room, not wanting the neighbors to see him in such a state, not wanting the general to hear of it. “If he’s not awake by morning …” He shook his head in grim warning. Odessa sank to her knees beside Dominic’s bed. “No. No, no, no …” “It is a concussion?” Bryce asked, taking charge. “Severe trauma, besides a broken nose and eye socket. Besides that, he had two broken ribs. It will take him weeks to recover, if he does regain consciousness.” “Is there nothing further you can do?” “He needs to remain still, sleep. We want him to awaken to a point, but the brain needs to rest and recuperate. I will return at daybreak and examine him again.” “And in the meantime?” The doctor looked at each of them. “Pray. With all you have in you.” He left then, and the three stared at the battered Dominic, no word of prayer upon their lips. For all the words within Odessa, she could not seem to link any two. They remained where they were for several long minutes, Moira crying quietly. Bryce came closer and put a comforting hand on her shoulder and his other on Odessa’s. “Father God, look upon us here,” he said, his voice steady and low. Odessa closed her eyes, finding assurance, hope in his words. The St. Clairs were clearly condemned to misery. Perhaps the McAllans had a surer connection to the Almighty. “Come and lay Your healing hand upon Dominic,” Bryce went on. “We ask it with everything in us, Lord God. Come and heal this man and help him live a long life.” He did not end with the traditional “amen” and all three remained in place, hanging on to his last word, letting it roll through their minds as if it were echoing through the room again and again. Life … life … life … / Moira greeted him at the shop door the next day. It was plain she had been crying. Her bloodshot eyes made her irises an even darker shade of teal. Dominic was nowhere in sight. “Reid,” she said, forcing a smile to her lovely rosebud lips. “I wish I could stop to take tea with you, but you can see I have customers.” He moved inward, feigning concern. “Moira, are you here all alone?” “Dominic … he—he’s feeling poorly. He’s resting upstairs.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” Reid said. “Here, let me help you for a bit. The town should be safe for a few minutes without me on her streets.” She hesitated but a moment. “If you could go and climb the ladder to fetch Mrs. Chandler the medical volume she’s seeking, that would be a great help.” Moira moved off toward the cash register, where three other women waited to pay their bills. One woman looked from the pretty shop girl to the sheriff and smiled. Yes, the stranger could see it as clearly as Reid. They were a good couple, a handsome couple. They were meant to be together. They had merely suffered a bumpy stretch in the road. It was common to all relationships. Now things would be straight. All part and parcel with molding Moira, shaping her to take the proper form as his wife. There were bound to be some difficult times through that process. Probably would be a few more. But it was all worth it. Well worth it. Growth, progress, often took some breaking as part of the cycle. He thought of the fields, with deep-plowed channels for seed and water. Tree stumps, wrestled out of the earth. Cornerstones, set into broken, raw ground, declaring new rights. Yes, breaking was part of the process. But in time, all smiled and agreed it was worth it. Temporary losses for long-term gains. He whistled and smiled down at Mrs. Chandler. “My Moira tells me you’re seeking a medical volume,” he said cheerily. “Just point it out and I’ll fetch it straightaway for you.” “Why, Sheriff,” said Mrs. Chandler. “I didn’t know you were a man who favored books.” His eyes moved to Moira, who glanced his way and then pretended not to see or hear him as she tended the next customer. “Now, Mrs. Chandler,” he said loudly. “If you were a red-blooded male and the book proprietress was as pretty as our Miss St. Clair, wouldn’t you become a man intensely interested in the literary arts?” Mrs. Chandler laughed and then fanned herself, blushing furiously. “Well, I guess I would. Good day, Sheriff.” “Oh, it is that, Mrs. Chandler,” he murmured behind her. “It is that.” “Moira!” a voice called from upstairs. He could hear Odessa’s hurried step even before she peeked around the corner. “Moira,” she said, eyes bright with a smile. “He’s awake,” she whispered. “He’s awake!” The two women disappeared upstairs, ignoring the remaining customers, and Reid gazed at the empty doorway. So the boy lived. It was good, he supposed. A beating like that changed a man, broke apart a shell of bravado and awakened the core to vulnerability. And vulnerability was something another could exploit. Yes, it was good, good that Dominic lived. Chapter 17 He left without a good-bye, as she suspected he would, with nothing but a note and a wrapped package outside her door. 2 June 1883 Odessa, Forgive me for departing in silence. I hope you know that if there was a choice, I would make it. Please accept this gift from me. I have always thought of you as a fine clipper, just waiting for the right wind. Keep your bearing, Sweetheart. The trade winds are just ahead of you. —Bryce Odessa’s eyes went over the words again. There was no declaration, no promise of return. It was simply a last word of hope for her, a good-bye, achingly short. But her eyes went back to one word: Sweetheart. A man, especially a man such as Bryce, did not place such a word within his text without forethought. With a sigh she reached for the package, covered by brown paper and a loosely tied string. She climbed back into bed and untied it and slowly set the package on the side table. Then she ran her fingers beneath the flap of paper, feeling canvas and hardened paint beneath her fingertips. It was too small to be the piece he had been working on ever since she had arrived. She slid off the paper, every movement slow, as if it might delay her separation from Bryce, then turned the canvas in her hands. “Oh,” she whispered. It was a scene of a grand ship at dead calm in the distance, a mere speck on the horizon, upon a vast, still sea. It was painted in the same hues of blue as his big painting, with a touch of turquoise, as if upon the edge of the Atlantic, bleeding into the Caribbean. He had told her once of the trade winds, strong and bracing along the far-off tropics. “There are dead calms,” he had said, “when the ship barely moves upon the tide. It can be oppressively hot, so hot you believe you are suffering a consumptive attack. And then these winds arise, strong and cool off the water, and suddenly you are not only breathing, but you are moving again.” Breathing and moving again. Was this what he meant when he said, The trade winds are just ahead of you? Is that what he wanted? For her to be on the move? Toward him? Or away from him? How could he leave her? Before he even knew which way the wind would take her? Was it just his way of breaking away from her, using this excuse to seek out the true cause of John’s death, make certain there was no wrongdoing? Was it merely a way to keep her away? She swallowed hard against sudden tears. The sense of loss, abandonment, was overwhelming, bringing back days of mourning her brothers, her mother, her unknown sister.… Bryce, how could you just leave me? Our story just began! How could you leave without seeing it to the end? A nurse shouted and two men rushed down the hall outside her door. Odessa threw aside her covers and reached for her housecoat, pulling it on even as she joined others who were moving down the hall. Several huddled outside Amille’s doorway, peering in, and it was then Odessa knew. Amille was dead, succumbing at last to her sorrow or her disease, gaining her desire to join her family in heaven. Her eyes moved to Dr. Morton and two burly men who served as aides, coming down the hall toward her, moving at an unhurried pace. Did they know it already? That Amille was dead? Odessa looked in the neighboring room, to Nurse Packard, and then to the patients huddled about. Who was in on this? Or was her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her imagination? Wasn’t it a blessing, that Amille was at last free of whatever had plagued her mind? What hope had the woman had with a mind so broken? Wasn’t this a relief, an answer to prayer? But if all that were true, why was everything in her screaming to be away from this place? Chapter 18 Bryce was digging holes with Tabito on the western boundary of the ranch when Sheriff Olsbo rode by at a canter. He pulled up, touched his hand to the brim of his hat. ��Mighty glad to see you home, McAllan.” “Good to be back, Sheriff. You in a hurry? Or would you like to come back to the house for a bit? It’s about time for noon meal. The men probably made enough to cover you, too. Can’t attest to how good it will be, only that there will be plenty.” “Can’t,” said the sheriff. “I’m on my way to Westcliffe to file a report on the DeChant property.” “The DeChant property?” “Yes. For all the good that sanatorium did you, they apparently couldn’t turn Amille around. She died a few days ago.” Bryce reached out to the nearest post, hoping it didn’t look like he needed it to support him. But he did. “Don’t say. She wasn’t faring well when I was discharged, but I had hoped …” “We all did. That valley—and family—was cursed. And now, with the bullet found in John’s body—” “What?” Bryce interrupted. “Ahh, yes,” he said, as if reluctant to share bad news. “We found him in the cave-in. Thought his own mine had done him in. But as the undertaker was dressing him for the casket, he discovered it. Bullet wound to the chest.” “Murdered?” “’Spect so. Most likely a claim jumper. John probably put up a fight and the louse shot him, then staged the cave-in so no one would know.” “There’s some nice ore coming out of those hills. Bound to draw some attention.” “Yep. Fine ore, but no miners. Old Sam’s property might be popular among bidders. Heard you inherited it.” “Yes. Surprised me.” “Sam liked his surprises.” “That’s for sure. Still, I’m not entirely at ease with how things have gone down around there. Awful convenient for them all to die in such a short span of time. Did Sam talk to you, say anything about anyone that made you think twice?” Bryce paused. “Not anything definitive.” The sheriff stared at the mountains. “Strange that both Amille and Sam died at the sanatorium, ain’t it? What with all its grand reputation and all? They haven’t lost a patient in some time, right?” “Right.” “Sam seemed on the edge? You know, at the end?” “He’d relapsed a bit. But no, his passing surprised all of us. But he wasn’t exactly young. And Amille, she wasn’t right in the mind. She was refusing to eat when I left. A body can’t handle starvation and the consumption all at once.” “Right, right. I ’spect that is so. Still, as the new owner of Sam’s property, keep your ears to the ground, will ya?” “Will do. Come back when you can join us for a meal, Sheriff.” “That I will, McAllan. Don’t have to ask me twice.” He tipped his hat again and kicked his horse into a gallop down the road, a small cloud of dust rising behind him. Bryce stood there, running over his words, his heart leaping at his warning. He didn’t know where Sam’s secret entrance was. But Odessa’s poem might hold the answer. Was she in danger? Did anyone know what she had in her room? Chapter 19 If they hadn’t been fleeing, Odessa thought she would like to make her way slowly through these woods of aspen and pine. After hours of walking in silence behind her friend, it felt as if their assailants were far behind indeed, and her heart resumed a normal beat. She wondered at her breathing, the steady rhythm of it, the absence of clogging phlegm. She inhaled deeply, the scent of fresh river water and thunderstorm-dampened forest loam rich upon the wind; she relished the fact that she could breathe in and out, and that the scents did not cause her to collapse, gasping for breath. So far she had come! Had this happened a few months ago, she would already be dead. “Did you know any of them?” she dared to ask Helen when they paused for a drink from their canteens. She sank onto a boulder by the stream, and her friend did the same. Helen studied her. “No. You?” “No. Do you think they were highwaymen, merely intent on robbing us?” “Most of the highwaymen I’ve heard about surprise their victims, not try and kill them from afar. Those boys didn’t want to be seen.” “No, I don’t suppose they did.” “Are you going to tell me now?” Odessa stared at her. “Odessa, what is it you wanted me to hide?” “Some sort of treasure map,” Odessa said, giving up. “Sam O’Toole was a sheep rancher who was in the next room at the sanatorium, next door to me before he died. Bryce’s neighbor and friend. He left his land to Bryce and this poem to me, the clues in verse.” From there, she went on to tell Helen every detail she could remember. “Odessa, how do you know all this? All the details about the claims, the sanatorium?” “Because I went to the administrator’s office and looked through her files and books.” Helen whistled lowly. “That was a dangerous decision, Odessa. If there is a murderer about, you are waving a red flag before the bull.” “I know it.” “Did anyone see you? Did anyone see you enter the administrator’s office?” It was Odessa’s turn to look to the sky. “Not in the office. But they suspected me.” “Who?” “The nurse and attendant.” “The night Sam was murdered … did you see anyone near his room?” “No. I saw no one but Sam.” “But someone else … they might be afraid you saw them leave?” Odessa paused. “I suppose so.” “They know you’re either onto them or have something they want. Maybe they’ve gone hunting in his absence but can’t find the entrance themselves. So they wonder if you hold something that will.” “You really think so?” “It’s logical, isn’t it?” “We have to warn Bryce,” Helen said. “If these boys are after us, it won’t be long until they go after the only man who stands between them and whatever treasure is waiting on Sam’s land.” Odessa’s heart pounded, almost painfully. Helen stopped and lifted her nose, sniffing the air like a wild animal. She raised a hand of caution. “Hear that?” she whispered. It was utterly silent. Odessa shook her head and frowned at Helen. “Exactly,” Helen whispered, getting to her feet. “Come. If you’re right, my young friend, these men have more reasons than one to find you. And few reasons to keep you alive if they get Sam’s poem. We have to get back to town before they catch us.” “You know the way, right?” “Oh, I know the way. The only trouble is I don’t think we can get there before nightfall.” Chapter 20 Never had Odessa been more glad to see night conquer dusk. Helen had slowly hauled her from the water and remained where she was, perched precariously on a tiny ledge, stubbornly holding Odessa before her. Her meager body heat was blessed, keeping Odessa from giving in to the deadly chill, but neither of the women could pull their legs all the way from the water. There was not enough room behind the falls. Their feet had become numb and almost felt warm in comparison to the rest of their bodies, a trick of the mind. “Do you think they are gone?” Odessa asked through chattering teeth, speaking as loudly as she dared to be heard over the falls. “I think we have to move, or we’ll die here of the cold,” Helen responded. She paused a moment, obviously dreading what would come next. “There’s no way past but through the pool again.” Odessa gazed at the black waters before them. They could see, where the water parted as a curtain for a few inches, that a few stars were now shining in the sky. “We can hardly get colder than this.” Helen laughed, the rumbling in her chest making Odessa smile. How glad she was that this woman, this capable, strong woman, was with her now! Helen’s laugh faded. “Here’s how it will go,” she said determinedly. “We’ll swim across. On the far right, the falls drop over another cliff, so steer clear of that. Aim for the left. Over there, the old Indian footholds can be found. Let’s get to that side. Once feeling returns to our feet we’ll make our way down. Good?” “As long as we’re not shot while we wait for it.” Before she could have second thoughts, Odessa moved out, entering the water, surprised that it could indeed still feel cold. Her limbs clenched in protest. She had to demand they move, think through every inch of movement, much like she demanded her lungs take breath during a consumptive attack. At one point, she felt her mind slow, thicken, her thoughts turning toward giving in, letting go. Not since that day on the train had she toyed with the whispers of death. No, she whispered in her mind. No. I have come too far, worked too hard to die this way! Father God, give me Your strength! Save me! She was sinking, the frigid waters edging up her cheeks, then her nose, covering her eyes … A surge of strength came through her then, and she managed to move one arm forward, and then another, kicking all the while. “Odessa!” cried Helen. She felt the woman’s hand and clung to it. Helen hauled her the rest of the way to the pool’s rim. She could feel the draining draw of the next falls and wearily pulled her body out of it and to the far side. She glanced up. Blessedly, all was dark. No moon. Only starlight. Even if their assailants wished to fire, they’d be doing so blind. And with the pounding sounds of the falls, there was little fear that they’d be heard. Unless they were already down below them. Waiting. “Come,” Helen said, hauling her backward, her legs now out of the water for the first time in hours. “Rest here.” She took the small pack from Odessa’s shoulders, unrolling the bedroll, hoping for some dry areas. No luck. Both shivered uncontrollably. She placed a small leather pouch beside Odessa. Odessa touched the soggy material and leaned her head back against the rock. Inside was Sam’s note, probably disintegrating by now. Oh, Sam, she thought, is it really worth all of this? She closed her eyes, teeth chattering, and wondered what it would be, to be free of the consumption, feeling better than she had in a year, with nothing to worry over but Bryce missing from her life. She longed to be unencumbered, with little but matters of the heart to concern her. Had Bryce abandoned her for good? How could he have simply left her behind, forgotten what seemed to be growing between them? Was she a fool to have believed it was … love? Odessa leaned forward, strained to see her friend in the dark. Her teeth were still chattering, but feeling was returning to her feet with definitive pins and needles. “Life is never … easy. Is it?” Helen hovered near, quiet for several seconds. “Sister, I’ve lost most of my family, buried two husbands, and endured more than twenty years of consumption. I’ve moved many times, becoming close and then tearing away from people. I’ve had books that were well received and others, dear to my heart, that sold not enough to pay the publisher’s costs. And now …” She laughed lowly. “I have a young friend who has drawn me into a curious battle for life. So no.” She laughed again. “Life isn’t easy.” She paused and then took Odessa’s shoulders in her strong hands. “But this … this is life. Do you feel it? I know you’ve felt death near us this day, several times. When one recognizes death, she certainly also knows life better as well.” Odessa wished she could see her friend’s eyes, draw strength from what she knew she’d see there. Is she right, Lord? Is this a part of finding out what it means to live, to breathe? Can I find this tiny glimmer of hope and hold on to it? “I’ve talked to God, Dess. Had a little chat, just me and Him, when I was holding you across this pool. I’m convinced this is not the day that God has ordained we join Him.” Odessa swallowed past a swelling throat and nodded. But Helen couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she croaked through sudden tears. “Yes.” “Good. Now let’s get moving.” Chapter 21 Reid’s dark form filled the glass door as they neared with the lamp. He looked weary, wild in the eye, and Moira was unable to halt a shiver down her back. “Tread carefully, Moira,” Dominic whispered toward her as he unlocked the door. But Reid already had a hand on the knob and opened it, roughly pushing Dominic backward, immediately moving toward Moira. “How long?” he asked through his teeth. “How long were you carrying on with this dandy?” Moira swallowed hard and held her overcoat at the neck with one hand, her other arm wrapped around her waist. “He was a beau before I came to the Springs. We were corresponding all this time.” “So all this time, you’ve been with me but your heart has belonged to him?” “I’m sorry, Reid. It could not be helped.” The sheriff smiled thinly, sneering, “Helped? You think I can’t see through your plan?” “What plan?” she asked in irritation. “Do not act the innocent with me, miss. You forget how many people I’ve watched try and play that game.” “Reid, I know you are hurt, angry. If there was any other way—” “There is a way,” he said, pausing a second. “Marry me. Marry me tomorrow. We’ll send word to your father afterward. The general will come to peace over it, once we show him what it means for us to be together. Your father, too.” “No,” Dominic interjected. “I cannot abide by such a plan.” “Stay out of this, St. Clair. It is none of your business.” “It is all my business,” he said, moving behind the counter. “Whether you like it or not.” “Moira, I—” “Reid, I love him,” she said quietly. The sheriff quieted, snapped his mouth shut, and stared at her. “More than you love me?” She turned away and paced a few steps, then looked back. She shook her head, as if in wonder. “It seems impossible, given what has been between us. But there is something right, easy between James and me.” “Right and easy … like money,” Reid growled, striding over to her. “There is that. I confess I enjoy the finer things in life.” “I can give that to you too, Moira. I’ve made good investments here in the Springs. I have more than you might imagine—” “No, Reid. Please. Stop. My mind is made up. Just go. Go now.” “You can’t mean it. It cannot be over like this.” “I mean it,” she said, raising her chin. “And out of respect for what we once shared, I ask you to behave the gentleman. In time, perhaps we can be friends.” Reid let out a humorless laugh and looked to the ceiling, hand on head. Then he looked to her again, his eyes more wild than before. “You fickle, fickle fool.” He took a step forward and then another, backing her up until she leaned against the counter. “You are nothing more than a common whore, selling yourself to the man with the thickest wallet—” Dominic laid a shotgun across Moira’s shoulder, an inch away from Reid’s chest, barrel pointed at his heart. Reid slowly lifted his eyes to stare at Nic. “You lookin’ to go back to jail, Dominic?” “Sheriff or not, you are threatening my sister on private property. You’ve said your piece. Now it’s time for you to leave.” Reid’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Moira and Nic. “You might’ve made a deal with the general, but you haven’t with me.” He leaned closer to Moira, and she turned her face to one side. “Not with me,” he repeated. He straightened, slowly, wiping the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand and placing his hat atop his head. Then, with one last threatening glance at the both of them, he turned and left the shop, slamming the door shut so hard Moira was sure it would shatter. Chapter 22 “I’m rather weary of being shot at,” Helen said, turning her face toward Odessa. Another shot came singing through the broken glass of the Thompsons’ window. “Me, too,” Odessa said. She looked up to their brave host, young, small, and wiry. “How many bullets do you have left?” “Five,” he said, still staring outside. Odessa looked over to the corner, where Mrs. Thompson huddled with their toddler, a girl. Please, God, let our arrival not mean that these dear people die too.… “He got out,” Mr. Thompson said. “My boy. He’s quick. I don’t think they even knew he was in the barn when they came.” “But they’ll soon realize why you aren’t shooting back,” Helen said. “There’s one now,” Mr. Thompson said, squinting his eye to center the man in his rifle’s sights. “I’ll give myself up,” Odessa said. “Before your last shot is gone.” She shook her head. “I won’t be the death of you all.” “Thompson!” shouted the man outside. His voice carried as easily as the wind through the missing chinking in the log walls and broken windows. “Thompson! We know you’re running out of ammunition!” “Do you recognize him?” Helen asked lowly. Mr. Thompson shook his head. “He’s got a kerchief across his face. He doesn’t seem familiar.” He looked down to the women and over his shoulder at his wife and youngest child. “Get off my land!” Mr. Thompson shouted. “I’ve got ammo to burn!” And with that, he shot at the man on the edge of the clearing in front of the house. He grunted. “Didn’t even move. Hit an inch from his big toe and he didn’t even flinch.” Odessa closed her eyes and listened to him reload. Four bullets left. “Hand over the women!” called the man outside. “The next one won’t be a warning shot!” Mr. Thompson shouted back. “There are three of us, and one of you, best we can tell. Give ’em up and we’ll be on our way.” A rock came crashing through the back window. Mrs. Thompson screamed as glass shattered across her and the tiny girl. Mr. Thompson whirled and shot blindly through the frame. Three bullets left. Four shots came through the front door and near the window, leaving gaping, dust-strewn holes in the wood. Again, Mr. Thompson turned and shot back. He broke open his gun and loaded a bullet in each chamber, staring silently from one woman to the next. Two bullets left. “Here they come,” Mr. Thompson said grimly, lowering his rifle to the base of the window. “Two of them. I’ve warned ’em.” Odessa shook her head. Even if he got one with each bullet, he would still be one short. She stood on trembling legs, suddenly wanting it over. She could endure no more death, not when she could do something about it. “What’re you doing?” Helen asked, reaching out to grab her arm. Odessa shook her off. “What I should’ve done hours ago.” Chapter 23 Odessa had insisted she need not return to the sanatorium, and remained at the cottage with her siblings. Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard visited her twice a day. “Honestly,” she griped to Bryce as the doctor left on the third day, “if I can survive a night like I did with Helen and not die of a consumptive attack, what will strike me down here in our sweet cottage?” He watched her, admiring her lovely, stubborn curls, falling from the bun atop her head, the new curve of her cheek, symbolic of a few precious pounds regained. Today, her eyes seemed all the more bold—a lovely deep ocean green. She turned to him, aware now that he gazed upon her. The doctor had set off, and the street was empty. They were alone on the porch. Unable to stop himself, he took her in his arms and cradled her face with one hand. “Odessa St. Clair, how did I ever bear to leave you?” She smiled up at him, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “I don’t know. Some trifling thing such as a massive ranch and three hundred head of horses needing attention.” He returned her smile. “I can’t bear it. Not ever again. Come back with me.” She frowned in confusion and pulled slightly away. He went to one knee. “In the absence of your father, I’ve spoken to your brother. He thinks your father will approve.” Odessa lifted one hand to her lips. “Of what?” “Odessa St. Clair, will you be my bride? I’ve left you once. I’ve pledged to never do so again. But I cannot remain here. I must return to the ranch. You know that, right?” “I know, Bryce,” she said, pain in her voice. He shrugged and cocked his head to one side. “Only one route out of such a mess: Take you with me.” “You … you are asking me to marry you?” He smiled. “Are you stalling? Looking for a way to let me down easy?” “No. I mean yes! Yes, Bryce,” she said, placing a hand to his cheek. “I think I’ve always wanted to be your wife. From that first day on the porch. And ever onward.” He rose and picked her up in his arms, spinning her around. Gently, he let her slide back to the porch, and he felt the heat of her lithe body. He bent low, then, and kissed her soft lips. “Honestly, what will the neighbors think?” interrupted Moira, suddenly at the front door. “Odessa, I’m surprised at you!” “Let them talk,” Odessa said, staring up into his eyes. And then, with those three words, and a sultry, loving look in her oceanic eyes, Bryce McAllan knew she was really going to be his. Chapter 24 Moira walked up to Odessa, who was standing in the middle of the cottage floor, looking ill at ease. “Are you well, Sissy?” “Yes, I—” “Can you unbutton me?” “What?” “The buttons—will you help me?” “Oh, yes.” Moira could feel her sister’s fingers upon her back, but she stopped there. “Honestly, Dess. What is it? Are you in such a dreamy state over your engagement that you cannot even move?” Odessa said nothing and moved over to a picture—the one Bryce had painted for her of the ship upon a vast sea—hanging crookedly on the wall. Frowning, she straightened it. Then she turned to a small table beside the settee and straightened the tablecloth. “It’s a bit late for housework, isn’t it?” Moira asked. “Someone’s been here.” “What?” “Someone’s been here.” “The door was locked, Dess. It’s highly unlikely …” Odessa leveled her eyes at Moira and then strode over to her. “Come,” she whispered, and ushered her out the door, where Bryce and Dominic stood on the porch, talking. Both men looked their way. “Someone’s been in the cottage,” Odessa said. Bryce was immediately on the move, with Dominic right behind him. Together, they moved from the parlor and into one bedroom, then the next, and finally the kitchen. They returned to the porch and Dominic shook his head. “No one here now.” Odessa let out a long breath, and Moira realized she had been holding her breath too. “I’m so relieved.” They returned to the parlor and the four stood in a circle. “Why do you think someone has been here, Odessa?” Bryce asked. “The painting, it was off-center. The tablecloth, too.” “We could’ve brushed by either on our way to the Glen,” Moira said. But Odessa was shaking her head. “No. I mean, right. It could’ve happened that way. But it’s more a sense that someone else has been here. Smell.” She lifted her nose and sniffed the air. The others did the same. “No one but our fragrant brother,” Moira teased. He smiled and reached out as if to grab her and choke her, but Moira ducked, laughing. “Someone else has been here,” Odessa said, staring at Bryce. “All right. Someone else has been here,” he returned. “Not likely that they’re coming back, with you home now. Anything missing?” Odessa turned and rushed to her room. Fearing for her jewelry, Moira rushed to her room as well. Thankfully, all was in place as she left it. She returned to the parlor just as Odessa did, smoothing her hair. “Everything as expected,” she said softly. “Good, good.” “Together we have a small fortune in Mother’s jewels,” Moira said. “Surely any intruder would’ve taken them, right?” She reached out to wrap an arm around Odessa’s waist. “Right?” “Right,” her sister returned, after an odd pause. Chapter 25 Bryce came to; he was slumped over the back of his own horse as the group trotted along the road. It was too dark to make out where they were and Bryce didn’t want to alert his captors to the fact that he had regained consciousness. He carefully reached for his gun, but both holsters were empty, his revolvers confiscated. But he knew from the pressure at his belly that the knives remained hidden at his waist. He tried to judge how far they were from town, but he had no idea how long he had been out. Soon enough, however, the leader signaled the group to pull off the road and into a stand of piñon pines. Bryce eased a hand beneath his shirt and grabbed hold of the small knife. “Get him down,” demanded a man, and shortly thereafter, Bryce was hauled from his horse and deposited roughly to the ground. He heard the sound of a cork and then quickly detected smelling salts as they wafted beneath his nose. It was easy to feign that he had just come to. He opened his eyes groggily. Four men. All with handkerchiefs about their faces. “What? What do you want?” he groaned. The leader leaned in and grabbed hold of his hair, forcing his head back. Two others grabbed hold of his arms at the same time. “You’re being robbed,” sneered the leader. “Search him.” They went through his pockets and then ripped open his shirt, discovering the remaining hidden knife, but not the small blade in his hand. He fingered it, glad for the deep darkness of this night and the short, squat blade of the weapon that allowed it to remain undiscovered. Please, Lord, he prayed, help me find a way out of this. “Take all I have,” he said. “Then let me go.” The man nearest him lifted his hands toward the leader. “Nothing. Nothing but his purse.” “You have my money,” Bryce said, fully aware of what these men truly sought, “now leave me be.” “You’re in no position to order us about. Do you have it? The map to O’Toole’s claim?” “O’Toole? You mean Sam? I have no idea of what you’re talking about.” “Give it up, McAllan. Either you have it or your pretty fiancée does. You better pray we don’t have to go after her again.” He laughed. “Not that I’d mind.” He came closer and yanked Bryce’s head back by taking a handful of hair in hand. “Trust me, she wouldn’t escape this crew.” Bryce gritted his teeth. “There is no map. No letter. Odessa would have no idea what you’re talking about.” The punch came then, from the left, meeting his eye and sending a cascade of light shooting across his head, as if he were witnessing Chinese fireworks. But then, nothing. He could see nothing from that eye. “I don’t have it!” he cried. The men around him laughed. One even patted him on the shoulder. That was when Bryce struck, ramming his knife into the man’s kidney and then whirling to slash the other across the face. He laid hold of the man’s pistol, but a third man hit him across the cheek with a powerful punch that doubled the pain in his eye, following up with two punches to his ribs. Bryce went down. But as the fourth man came near, he flung his knife and heard the man gasp and falter. Bryce whirled, disappearing into the trees. “Find him!” shouted the man. Bryce had no illusions. They meant to kill him. And then they’d go after Odessa. Chapter 26 Bryce awakened the next day and felt Odessa’s hand in his. He smiled, wondering if he was dreaming, if she was truly here, if he was truly alive. And then he remembered. He sat up. Too fast. Pain shot through his head and he was instantly nauseous. “Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Odessa cried, a hand now on his chest, another at his back, easing him back to the blessed crisp sheets. “Odessa,” he panted, eye shut now. “Are you all right? Where—where am I?” “Shh, shh, Bryce. You must rest. You were attacked but you’re safe now. You’re at Doctor Ramsey’s. Please—” “Odessa!” He forced his good eye open and focused on her. “You’re … we’re in danger.” “Who’s in danger?” Sheriff Bannock was in the room. He hadn’t seen him. Bryce groaned. He forced his eye open again and stared at the man. “The men—” “Who were they, McAllan? Did you recognize them?” Bannock asked. “No. They had masks over their faces. I didn’t recognize any of them.” “What’d they want?” “I—I’m uncertain. I can’t—I can’t remember.” “They were highwaymen. You were robbed and beaten and left for dead.” Bryce closed his eye and lifted a hand to his head as if it ached. He shook it slightly. “They robbed me?” “Nothing on you when you were brought in, anyway. Could’ve been the highwaymen or the drunks who rescued you. Hard to tell.” “Do you remember anything of the men?” Odessa asked. “What they said? Anything about their horses? Something that could help the sheriff find them?” Bryce paused and then shook his head. “All I remember are trees. And the dark.” “What were you doing out there, McAllan? At that hour?” Reid asked. “I … I don’t know.” “Well, give it time. Maybe your memory will come back as you heal.” He placed his hat on his head and nodded at Odessa from the door. “We’ll find the men responsible for this.” “I hope so,” she said. She remembered her manners. “Thank you.” Chapter 27 “You’re telling me that my father left everything to me?” “Everything. The house. St. Clair Press. Even his bank accounts are at your disposal.” Francis Bonner, a small man with a long beard, pushed the documents across the desk to him. Dominic picked the top sheet up but stared at it with unseeing eyes. With his other hand he untied his tie and unbuttoned his collar. It was stifling hot in Philadelphia. The funeral service, although short, had seemed interminable in the sweltering church. “He never updated his will. This was drafted the year after you were born. I urged him to revise it every year, but the matters at hand always proved more demanding of his attentions.” He paused and eyed Dominic. “I must say, I’m surprised at your reaction. It is common enough—and to your obvious favor.” Nic pinched his temples with the thumb and third finger of his right hand and set the document back on the desk. “What about Odessa and Moira? What do they receive of the estate?” The small man coughed. “Well, that is up to you, of course.” “I could take it all?” “You could, although you and I both know that would not be within your father’s wishes.” “Yes, well, if it was up to my father, I’d stay here at this desk and keep running St. Clair Press. Work myself to death, just as he did, not living life, just reading about it. But it’s no longer up to my father, is it? He’s dead. Dead.” Francis blanched and stared at him with wide eyes. Nic rose and paced the office floor. How many times had he been in this office, trying to have a word with his father but having to wait for ten others to speak first? How often had he been reprimanded in here, told what to do? “Set straight,” again and again? He ran his fingers over leather-bound editions of St. Clair Press’s best-selling books. “He sent us West to find our way,” he said aloud. “He knew it was ahead of us, not behind us.” “Pardon me?” Nic shook his head and turned toward Francis. “Sell it. All of it.” “What?” “I’ll pack up the things my sisters would care about and send them to Colorado. Then you will see to selling the house, the remaining items within, and St. Clair Press. Reserve a portion of the proceeds to care for the family grave sites for the next fifty years. The remaining estate, in total, will be divided into thirds, with a third to be given to each of my sisters and a third to me.” “This will take some time,” Francis said, rising, flustered. “Of course,” Nic said easily, his confidence growing by the moment. This was the answer, his escape route, hope. “But as you work out those details, I want my father’s bank accounts immediately transferred to my name. Deduct it from my portion once the sales are complete, but I plan to depart Philadelphia within a few days and wish to have access to those monies.” “I must say, I believe your father—” “My father had ample opportunity to pursue his dreams,” Nic interrupted. “Now it is my turn to shape my own future.” “W-where will you go? Back to Colorado?” Nic moved toward the door and set his hat on his head. He turned to flash the attorney a grin. “I have no idea. But I very much look forward to finding out.” Chapter 28 “So I’ll see you both this evening,” said James Clarion, standing beside a fine gray horse and preparing to ride away for yet another meeting. “Tonight, at six,” Moira agreed, from beside her brother. She flashed a smile toward him, and for the first time, Nic wondered if she truly felt something for the man. Moira and Nic climbed the shop steps while James rode east, out of town. Dominic wished he could switch places with James, have business that carried him in one direction and then the other, varied, wide, ever expanding. Or even with Bryce, to a ranch that presented new challenges each day. He couldn’t wait to be divested of the bookshop, which, to him, felt like two wagon wheel ruts through a vast, endless prairie. He could barely stand this process of closing it down. He wished he could hop the first train through town and see where it took him. A sudden thought came to him. A deep amber shot of whiskey. Then another. His mouth watered at the thought of it. In the whiskey, he could find the patience he needed to see the sale of the shop’s contents through. Perhaps he would reward himself this night.… “Nic, I have to head over to the opera house soon for rehearsal,” Moira said. He frowned. “I thought you were going to help me here. There is so much to be done, Moira.” “I needed James to believe that. But I thought you knew I had daily rehearsals from now until opening night.” He shook his head. “You should shoot straight with James. Tell him now you’re doing the opera. He’s not the sort who will favor a surprise.” “I know it,” she said ruefully. “But I cannot find the right words to convince him. If we can just get to opening night, if he could see me onstage, how much I love it, what it’s like—” Nic shook his head again. “I’m telling you now, Sissy. You should tell him the truth before opening night.” “He’ll be frightfully angry,” she said. “He might be so angry that he leaves town, pulls out of the business deals he’s been working on. And that will infuriate the general.” “And so you’re concerned that if the general is infuriated, he’ll replace you in the opera? Are you more concerned about losing the role or the man?” “Both. What if James walks away from me?” She ran her fingers over the countertop, thinking about it. “I think it would be dreadfully upsetting.” Nic shrugged his shoulders. “He’s a good man, a nice match for you. And he certainly has access to enviable bank accounts. But you’re a woman with your own means now, Moira. Your future is what you choose to make of it.” He reached out to pinch her chin. “You are beholden to no man. Except me,” he teased. “Until you’ve helped me see this shop emptied of its contents, that is. Then? You want to go and chase the stage? I say do it. You certainly have the beauty and talent it would take.” “You think so? Really?” “Really.” “But if I could get both … launch my career and win the man, wouldn’t that be the best?” “The best, yes, but I think it’s impossible. You must convince James to let you sing. Don’t surprise him. That will not go over well.” Moira stared at him. “I’ll consider it. I will. But now I really must be off. You can manage without me?” Nic clamped his lips shut for a moment. “I’ll manage. But you owe me, Sissy.” He waved his finger in front of her face. “I expect you to rise early and come to help, first thing in the morning.” “First thing,” she agreed, and kissed him on the cheek as she turned to rush out the door. Chapter 29 They entered a new road through two lonely posts with the Circle M brand on either one, and moved northwest as the sun set behind the Sangre de Cristos. A half hour later, they crossed a hill and she could see it, the outline of their new home, nestled among the trees, near a small but tidy cabin, smoke curling from its chimney. Over the hill, she spotted the raw lumber of the two-story house, almost completed, and a white barn a short distance from it. Beyond that, among the fenced fields, was a long line of wall and shallow roofing, perhaps a windbreak or snowbreak for the horses. “Good man, Tabito,” Bryce murmured. “Either he’s in that cabin, forgetting we’re coming, or he’s gotten it all ready for us.” Odessa smiled, but inwardly wondered where they’d all sleep in a cabin so small. “Don’t worry,” Bryce said. “He’ll join the men in the barn. There’s a room in there that isn’t half-bad. Once we move into the big house, we’ll build a proper bunkhouse for the men, and Tabito will take the cabin as his own.” “How come you never built him a place before?” Bryce shrugged. “No need. You come in after a day on the range, all you want is a basin of water, a mug of coffee, some meat in the belly, and then a good straw tick. You’re out in seconds.” “But now …” Odessa led. “With a woman on the premises, we all have to behave more like gentlemen.” “Do they know I’m coming?” “I sent word a couple weeks ago. ‘Bringing a bride home, finish the house. And don’t forget the horses,’” he said with a smile, then pulled the wagon to a stop outside the cabin. Bryce called out and the small cabin door opened. A short man, powerfully built, emerged. He reminded Odessa of Nic in stature. “Tabito,” Bryce greeted him. “Meet the new mistress of the ranch, Odessa.” “Mrs. Odessa,” he said. He smiled at her with warm brown eyes. His face was like tanned leather, deep with wrinkles, although he didn’t seem more than sixty years old. His hair was jet black. She offered her hand and he took it in both of his, bowing. “You’re cold. Come inside.” “Thank you.” She followed him, ducking a little to enter through the doorway. Bryce had to duck even lower. “Keeps the wind out,” he explained. “I have some venison stew on,” Tabito said. He had a curious way of speaking, as if he didn’t want his lips to move that much. “It smells good,” she said, leaning over the fireplace and lifting her hands toward the flames to warm them. Never had she been this close to an Indian before. But it didn’t seem foreign, not like she thought it would. She sensed his stare and glanced at him. He hmphed under his breath. “Something wrong?” “You are pretty. Too pretty to marry that ugly one.” She smiled. “I don’t know. I think he’s pretty handsome.” Tabito hmphed again. “Love. It makes the mind useless.” But he gave her a smile that let her know he was joking. “Now, eat. You are too skinny. How will two skinny people fill that big new house with babies?” She blushed at such intimacies, especially from a stranger. The door closed and she looked up to see that only Bryce was left. “He never says good-bye. Just up and leaves.” “Ahh. Is that a Ute custom?” Bryce shrugged and pulled up a stool to join her by the fire. “It’s that Ute’s custom.” She dished him some of the stew. “How long has he been with you?” “He’s been with me ever since I came to the ranch. He was a trusted hand on my uncle’s ranch, the first spread that abutted my homestead.” “How big was that spread?” “Two thousand acres. The people who owned it had been here for ten years. But smallpox killed most of the family. Only a couple of the children left, barely able to look after themselves, let alone a ranch. Tabito, he loved those children. But he wanted to stay with the land. He says it’s something deep within him—the Indian in him—needs room to roam. Land and animals to care for. We still get a letter now and then from the children.” Outside, they could hear him unloading the trunks beside the front door, then speaking lowly to the horse. Eventually, the wagon creaked away, presumably en route to the barn. “That’s so sad! Where did the children go?” “To an aunt in Boston. They’re all right. And we paid them well for the land. It will see them into adulthood and beyond.” He reached out to caress her shoulder. “What do you think of the cabin?” “It’s snug, warm, comforting.” She looked about. Shelves with canned goods and sacks of coffee, sugar, and flour lined the wall near the fireplace, along with a few other blackened pots of various sizes. On the other side was a rocking chair, and behind them, two beds, with a curtain strung between them, but pushed back. Both were neatly made. She rose and reached out to touch the one nearest them. “Is that a bear skin?” “Grizzly,” he said, suddenly beside her. “My father shot it in the Sangres a few years ago.” “It’s massive.” “Grizzlies are about the biggest bear out there.” He set down his bowl and took hers from her hands. His eyes were warm, full of passion, desire. His hands moved to her hair and began pulling the pins from it, letting one coil drop and then the next. He was terribly, wonderfully close to her, and yet not touching anything but her hair. He moved slowly, clearly appreciating the moment as much as she, dragging out his seduction. Odessa closed her eyes. The cabin smelled of wood smoke and cedar and must and coffee … and her husband. Chapter 30 The next day, Bryce remained home with Odessa. He was at ease now that he had laid eyes on the horses, looked in on those that were ailing, and conferred with all his men. There had been cougars sighted near the mountains, and they had lost a few prize mares last year, so they were keeping nearer the stables. Soon, however, they would need to move them up into the high country to find enough grass. Odessa loved watching the horses move together as a herd. The young colts, now weaned, still didn’t venture far from their mothers. She leaned on a railing and rested her chin on her arms. “They’re as magnificent as the ranch.” “Yes they are,” he agreed. “Are they for racing?” “Some are used for racing, most for the finest riding horses available in America.” “Says the breeder.” He grinned. “You’ll have to pick one, as yours to ride. Any of them catch your eye?” Her hand went to her chest. “You mean it?” The mare she’d ridden at the sanatorium, a sturdy, steady, older horse, was dear, but had no spirit. It meant a lot that Bryce had understood without being told, that he was immediately about rectifying that trouble. “Of course. I’ll choose about ten that I think would be a good match for you, then you can take it from there.” “I’d like to watch them for a while.” “Always a good idea,” he said. “You’ll get a sense of their different personalities soon enough. They’ll be in the stable corrals by tomorrow. Come, I must introduce you to the men. And I imagine you’d like to see your new house.” “I’m a little curious. Shame on you, making me wait a day.” He smiled impishly. “I wanted the mason to complete the fireplace before you saw it.” “And he’s done now?” “Near enough. Come.” He offered his arm and she took it. They moved down a small hollow, and Odessa spied the big white barn and stables. No wonder the men slept there. It was lovely, a building reminiscent of any gentleman horse farmer’s in the East. Clearly, this was where Bryce McAllan had focused his spending. On his horses, of course. And land for them to roam, far and wide. Chapter 31 They crested the hill and Odessa gasped. Their house was far more beautiful in real life than the hurried sketches Bryce had done for her, modest in size but much larger than anything she’d seen in the valley. It was nestled into a grove of aspen, looking out across the ranch land to the mountains above them. They moved into the house, and Odessa hung back, moving slowly, wanting to memorize every moment of this glory. There was a small front foyer, with a staircase that climbed directly above. Bryce pulled her to the right, into a room that was already large and warm, graced by a massive fireplace. “This will warm the room nicely,” he said, running his hand down a new mantle. “And the stone is from our creek out back.” “It’s gorgeous, Bryce. Perfect. And they’ve done so much in so little time!” On the far side of the room was a large dining hall, already occupied by a table that could seat fourteen. “Tabito made it. And I was kind of hoping you could feed the boys once a day. We can get you some help,” he rushed on. “It’s only that they’ve been eating their own slop for years. They’d think they’d died and gone to heaven if there was some real cooking on this ranch.” “I think that can be arranged,” she said with a smile. They moved from there into the kitchen, a large space, with a big wood-burning stove with six burners. There were cupboards and drawers and larders and big bins of flour and sugar by the back door. “And running water,” she said moving to the pump. “Upstairs and here,” he said proudly. Beyond the kitchen was a small sitting area where she might read or write or perhaps someday entertain other ladies from around the valley. Back up front again was a large room, bright and airy. “A study, don’t you think?” he asked. “Where we can see to paperwork and whatnot?” “Paperwork like novels and whatnot like paintings?” He grinned. “Fine by me. Along with the occasional ranch ledger.” “Oh, that. Yes, I think we can work it in.” They moved upstairs. There was a water closet, with room for a washtub, and four bedrooms. “Heavens, what will we do with all this space?” she asked. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her hair. “As Tabito said, I hope we can someday fill it with babies.” Chapter 32 Odessa chose the black mare as her own, naming her Ebony. She needed a big name, an elegant name to fit her. Astride her perfectly formed back for the first time, Odessa immediately felt regal, absorbing the young mare’s strength. Every movement was rife with power, and she knew that Ebony would run as fast as she would allow. Odessa wondered about the animal’s ancestors, undoubtedly the steeds of Spanish emperors or conquistadors, reigning conquerors. She was a fine horse, a beautiful horse, and as Bryce gazed upon them both, riding about the corral, she felt more a part of his world than ever. “Bryce, please open the gate. I want to do more with her than ride in a circle.” He hesitated, studying her and then the mare. “She’s pretty green, Odessa. Barely accepting a rider. She might break and run.” “I can handle her if she does,” Odessa said, reaching down to run her fingers through Ebony’s glossy, obsidian mane, then pat her neck. “I already know her, Bryce. I can’t explain it better than that.” “I understand,” he said. “But be ready. Hold on to those reins or you might not stop until you get to Westcliffe.” “That’s a longer ride than I was—” Bryce had barely opened the gate two feet when Ebony lurched into a gallop, nearly throwing Odessa. She felt the tension in the horse’s flanks, the slight drop backward, but didn’t react in time to be prepared. Ebony was up the hill and tearing across the cabin clearing in moments. They moved so fast that Odessa couldn’t even look back or shout a response to Bryce. She had lost one of the reins, exactly what Bryce had warned her about. And without the reins, would the young mare really run as far as Westcliffe? There was only one way to find out. Odessa settled into the cadence of the horse’s gallop, thankful she had donned an old pair of pants from Bryce before beginning the evening ride. Her legs felt strong, as if they could cling to Ebony’s flanks for hours, the gift of hours of sanatorium-sanctioned hiking and riding all spring long. And she felt the horse’s power become her own again, the thrill of it elongating each muscle as she bent and gathered a fistful of mane in each hand. Her grandfather had taught her to ride bareback as a child. Granted, it had been an old, swaybacked nag, but there was still something familiar, comfortable in the action. All of the St. Clairs had been taught to ride properly as children. The boys had received more lessons than the girls, and the girls had spent most of their time sidesaddle, but Odessa knew horses, loved horses. And so although she feared the speed at which the ranch road disappeared beneath her mare’s hooves, she loved the freedom of it, the breath-stealing glory of it. She concentrated on matching Ebony’s movements with her own, leaning down as the wind passed woman and horse like a sheet over one body, not two. This occupied her mind for many minutes, but as she saw the ranch’s front posts come into view and then slide behind them, she felt a more serious strain of fear. And yet there was no stopping this horse until she was ready to stop or Bryce caught up with them. She dared to glance under one arm and thought she saw him, far behind. But she couldn’t get a good look. She nervously watched the path before them. If the horse stepped into a ground squirrel’s hole, or one of the many rain ravines in the road, she might twist her ankle and both of them would be down, possibly forever. Odessa could urge her a little one way or the other by pulling at her mane, but their fate was largely up to Ebony’s choices. Odessa could hear the heavy churn of the mare’s breath. What were her lungs like? How big were they? They must be perfection, clean and free to power her long, churning, endless strides. Odessa leaned a little closer to the mare’s neck. “That’s enough, Ebony. That’s enough,” she murmured, hoping to move into the horse’s realm of conscious hearing, understanding that Odessa was mistress and she, servant. But that might take a little more time— The horse hit a hole and stumbled, slowing her gait a little, and almost tore Odessa’s fingers from her mane, but then she was back into the same rhythm and speed as before. They passed the stage road that led from the train platform to Westcliffe and kept moving, eventually veering southwest. Odessa dared to glance again under her armpit. Bryce was gaining on them, and two ranch hands were right behind him. But Ebony was fast, a possible breeder to future racehorse stallions. They passed a homestead and a woman hanging out clothes over a line. She gazed up in surprise as they tore by. Then they passed a herd of sheep with a small boy tending them, and a burned-out rancher’s cabin. They crossed mile after mile, and still Ebony did not slow, seemingly energized by her success, her speed, her freedom. You can claim me, name me, she seemed to be saying to Odessa, but I am still my own glorious creation. Before them the Sangre de Cristos stretched out in a straight line, intent on running south until they met the untamed lands of Mexico. To her left, the Wet Mountains began as sunbaked piñon and scrub-oak-covered hills, but Odessa could see the taller peaks in the distance, peaks that as the minutes passed were getting larger and larger. As they took shape and grew closer, Odessa struggled to hold on. Her fingers and thighs and calves ached. They felt frozen, bent on holding their positions, but consequently weaker, more fragile, as if— It was then that Ebony lurched to halt, frightfully fast, and there was no way for Odessa to cling to her back any longer. She flew forward, over the mare’s head, watching as if in a dream as she somersaulted in the air and was then flying feetfirst. She braced for impact, holding her breath, wondering how long it would be before she hit.… She never truly hit the ground. Because she was then going down, down the side of a hill, sliding, grasping … wondering if she would ever hit bottom. And then she did, the sudden stop jarring her, sending a wave of pain from heel to head. Slowly, she opened her eyes and dared to look about. She was in a ravine, an arroyo dug deep into the earth by the force of spring rains and floods, about twenty feet from the rim and thirty feet from the bottom. Her foot had struck a small, rocky ledge, one of the few visible on the chalky, dusty cliff face. Odessa heard the others arrive up top, the horses whinnying traded greetings, Bryce calling out to her. She tried to call back, to let him know she was all right, but no sound left her mouth. She realized then that she was wheezing, panting. A consumptive attack. It’s all in your head, she told herself. You have been fine; for weeks you have been well, in fact. Get ahold of yourself! “Odessa! Odessa!” Bryce was right above her now, peering over the ledge. “Oh, thank God. Sweetheart, are you all right?” She nodded, hoping he could see her. “If I throw a rope down, can you grab it?” “I … I think so,” she said in a whisper. “Odessa?” “I think so,” she said a bit louder. “All right,” he said. “Hold on a minute.” The stiff rope fell beside her a second later. “Don’t reach for it!” Bryce called. “I don’t want you to fall any farther.” The rope disappeared and then a moment later fell across her belly in a loose loop. “Put it around you,” he called. She swallowed a retort about not being some cow to rope. But there was not enough breath or time for wasted words right now. The large rock beneath her foot was loosening. She could feel it move every time she shifted her weight. “Do it fast, Odessa,” he said. “Then hold on to it. We’ll have you.” Odessa gasped for a breath, lifted up her shoulders, and let the rope’s loop fall around her body. At the same time, the rock gave way. The men called out from above, but Odessa froze, squeezing her eyes shut and holding tight to the rope. She was hanging there on the steepest incline. “Odessa. Odessa, open your eyes.” She did as she was told, looking up at her husband. “Try and put your feet against the side. We’ll pull you up, but it will go easier if you use your feet to try and walk at the same time. Got it?” She nodded, trying to breathe with the rope latched tightly around her chest. She was feeling faint, a bit dizzy. But she did as she was told, putting her boots against the dry and grassy bank, trying to find purchase as the men hauled her upward. They had her up in seconds, the two men gazing at her in triumph and relief. Bryce pulled her into his arms, loosened the rope, held her cheek in one hand. He was smiling, half laughing, half fearful. “Are you all right?” She nodded, and he kissed her, over and over he kissed her. “Oh, thank You, God,” he said, cradling her close, looking up to the sky and rocking back and forth. “Thank You, thank You.” He stepped back again to examine her. “Odessa, your lips are blue. Are you breathing all right? Odessa?” She smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine, Bryce. Just give me … a minute.” “I’ll put that horse on the train. She’s too wild, too—” “No,” Odessa said, pushing herself out of his arms and upright. She stared up at Ebony, who didn’t appear the least contrite. “She’s perfect.” Bryce helped her to her feet and together they stared out over the ravine. “I don’t know what I would’ve done, Odessa, if anything had happened to you.” He took off his hat and hit it against his leg, then wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, as if he had some dust in it. Odessa glanced back to the ravine, suddenly seeing the negative space as form. “Bryce. Bryce, do you see it?” She stepped forward, looking slowly left, then right. She glanced up at him. He recognized it too, a clue from Sam’s poem. To their right, the ravine was like a huge arm, complete with the bend of wrist and bulge of fist, right below them. To their left was a finger outstretched, as if pointing. See God’s finger pointing … They both looked up into the mountains. “The Wet Mountains?” she said, already knowing the answer. “Think we can track down land ‘in my mother’s name’?” “You’re not going to let it rest, are you? Until we look?” “Just once. Show me his property. Let’s see if we can find it. Aren’t you the least bit curious?” He hesitated and looked toward the mountains. “Just once?” “Just once.” “I don’t know, Odessa. I told your brother you’d be safe here.” “And the only danger that’s presented itself is my new horse—a danger we’ll soon tame. Come now, it’ll be an adventure. You go to the land office and see if you can find out anything about Sam’s mother and land nearby. Then we’ll see what we can see.” “And if we don’t find anything? You’ll let it rest then?” “Most likely.” “Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” “Well, I can’t commit to what I’ll wish to do five steps down the road if we haven’t taken steps three and four, right?” Bryce took a deep breath. “Right.” “So we can take a few steps together, see what we see, then decide together where we go from there. Deal?” He studied her through narrowed, amused eyes. “A preliminary agreement. A temporary agreement. No deal.” She smiled. “I’ll take that.” Chapter 33 Moira had sent James a note, to be delivered within the hour at the hotel. James, Tonight you will be thoroughly disappointed with me for being unforthcoming. I beg you to understand that I could not pass up this opportunity. Never again will I have the chance to know what it means to stand before so many others and sing. It is what calls me, completes me. And so I will try this night as “Camille.” If I fail, I will know I tried. And if I succeed, we will have more to discuss. Come to the opera house. Decide for yourself if I have the talent, and what that means for us. —Moira Moira pulled on her gloves and stared resolutely into the mirror. If James cast her aside, so be it. There were always other potential beaus in the wings. The general would be furious if her subversive choices cost him business with the Clarions, but he would recover. If she succeeded in winning good reviews, then it would bring further accolades to Colorado Springs, and that would ease the general past his hard feelings. She might no longer be welcome at Glen Eyrie or even in the Springs, but if she succeeded, she would move on to sing in Denver, San Francisco, New York … maybe even Paris. The world was fascinated with the success of miners and the people from mining towns alike. An opera star rising out of a western town? She’d be the talk. Moira St. Clair would be on the lips of newspapermen and society women everywhere. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, it was a gamble. But it was a good gamble. Chapter 34 It had been glorious, perfect. People swarmed Moira after the show, complimenting her on her fine performance. The director was ecstatic, the opera house manager claiming they had sold all the remaining tickets—for every performance—before the theater was empty. Box office success was all that mattered. She knew enough about theater to know that. James would go home, lick his wounds, and find a new bauble to adorn his arm. Or he’d regret leaving her, recognize his mistake, and return for her. She was pulling on her gloves and coat to go, every nerve still singing with the glory of the evening, when a knock at her small dressing room door drew her attention. Smiling, assuming it was one last admirer, she opened it. Her smile faded as she studied first the director’s sober expression, and then General Palmer’s. “Might we have a word, Moira?” the general asked. “Certainly,” she said, gesturing inward. She didn’t know how she might fit two men inside her tiny dressing room, but she was anxious to put some wood between them and the curious glances of the rest of the cast outside in the hall. “Moira—” the general began. “General, how I wish Queen might’ve been here tonight! She would have delighted in it, wouldn’t she?” “Moira, stop. You and I both know that you’ve played a dangerous game here.” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.” “You know exactly what I mean. You came to me and asked for my blessing upon James Clarion’s courtship. I gave it, risking a friendship with Reid, to support you both.” “Come now, General. We both know it was a benefit to you as well. James will bring commerce to your city, undoubtedly to you …” He took a step to the side and leaned against her dressing table. “Ah, and therein lies the rub. James Clarion, and his father, are enormously important to me, now more than ever. There are deals in the works that are …” He paused to shake his head, then stared at her. “Young Clarion has not taken your spurning well.” “I did not spurn him, General. I merely refused to do anything but sing. I had to sing … you’ve seen how people respond to me, and I to them.” She rose and paced a step. “I couldn’t do anything else, regardless of what James wanted me to do. I thought, I thought that if he loved me, he’d support me in this. Encourage me. Dare I say applaud me along with the rest?” “Yes, well, be that as it may, it’s clear that you and Clarion will not continue your courtship.” “No, I would assume not. But you needn’t fret over me, General. I will be all right.” She waved about the room. “It’s not much, but I find it glorious. There’s no place I’d rather be.” The general and the director were silent. Moira’s heart skipped a beat. Dread made her scalp tingle. “I must see these deals with Clarion through to completion. As much as I enjoy your presence on my new stage, those contracts mean more to me and this town.” Her hand moved to the base of her neck. “What does that mean?” The director cleared his throat, began to speak, paused, and then started again. “Moira, you are dismissed from the opera. I will send you off with references. I’m certain you have a bright future ahead of you—it simply cannot be here.” He uttered every word in misery, obviously compelled by the general to do this. “I … see.” She found that her mouth was hanging open, and she resolutely clamped her lips shut and tossed her chin. She had to handle this as a gracious woman, not the silly twit everyone assumed she was. “I understand. Please accept my heartfelt thanks and my apologies for forcing you into this position. You two have given me the confidence I needed to pursue my dreams. Despite the fact that it is ending now, far earlier than we expected, I’ll always appreciate it.” The general’s eyes gentled. “Moira, with your father gone and Odessa down south, and Dominic poised to move away, perhaps you ought to wait a bit, consider all your options. You could journey east and be a companion to Queen, a governess for my girls for a season, a year even.” “Oh, thank you, General,” she managed to say. “You are most kind. But I feel the time, my time, has arrived. Be it here or elsewhere, I shall find my way.” Chapter 35 The men tore down the stairs and Odessa lost a precious second or two trying to think, torn between escape and the rifle, which was still on the kitchen counter. She could get out of the house, get to the stables, find Bryce, or if he wasn’t there, mount Ebony and ride to the men in the north quadrant. Or if she could reach the rifle, she could hold them off, even force them outside, but that might endanger Bryce. That was when she caught sight of her husband, walking down the hill from the stables. He was coming. She had to warn him. Had to reach him. One man was already halfway down the stairs. She caught a glimpse of his hulking form as she narrowly avoided the other man reaching for her. She heard the slam of the front door as she ran into the dining room, the kitchen, then toward the back door … freedom. Too far to reach the rifle, she had to get out, make the door. A man reached her then, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back roughly. She tried to scream, but his hand was there, covering her mouth. She writhed and kicked, but he easily picked her up into the air and pulled her backward, out of sight of the kitchen window and her husband. “Shh,” the man said, “Odessa, quiet down now or we’ll have to kill your husband as soon as he walks in that door.” She stilled. Who was this? Who would dare to steal into her house? Who knew her name? And moreover, who would threaten to kill Bryce? She stared at the back door in horror, praying that Bryce would be distracted, remember something he needed back in the stables … It was then she saw the doctor in the corner of her eye, in the corner of the kitchen, arms folded across his chest. Doctor Morton from the sanatorium. All at once she remembered what was familiar about this man holding her. She didn’t need to turn to recognize him. It was Sheriff Reid Bannock who held her and threatened her husband. Reid! “I think you know why we’re here, Odessa,” he said lowly in her ear. “You stole something out of the sanatorium. The good doctor wants it back.” Doctor Morton moved to a window and peered out. “Looks like Bryce has been waylaid. He’s heading back to the stables.” He motioned to others behind Reid that she couldn’t see. “Go. Make sure no one interrupts us.” Odessa closed her eyes, half in praise that God had heard her prayers, half in utter terror that her husband was not coming to her rescue. “Don’t scream,” Reid said in her ear. “If you don’t scream and you cooperate, you’ll live to the end of your natural days in this house.” He let his hand fall an inch from her mouth, testing her. He left his arm around her waist, holding her in place. But Odessa was staring at the doctor, the diminutive, kind doctor of the sanatorium. She shook her head in disbelief. “Not you. You can’t possibly be in on this. Tell me you’re not.” “Odessa,” he said. “Please. Forgive us for frightening you. All we need is the document you obtained from Sam. Sam died owing the sanatorium a good amount of money. It is ours legally. By rights. And it will go a ways in rectifying his accounts.” “I have nothing to give you. And Bryce rectified his accounts while we were still patients at the sanatorium.” She shook her head. “You murdered Sam,” she said softly. “Or had him murdered. I heard it.” “Murder? That’s a tall accusation,” Reid said, releasing her. She whirled and took a step away from him, but he reached out and grabbed her arm as if to say no, not too far. “The ears can play tricks,” Reid said, “especially as ill as you were about that time. Though I must say you’re not looking ill any longer. Marriage agrees with you, Odessa. I once had ideas of marrying your sister …” He reached out as if to touch her face and she backed away again, but he pulled her back roughly against his chest. “Sheriff,” warned the doctor. He looked at Odessa. “We need the document. If you give it to us, we will not file our suit against you and your husband.” “File suit?” she scoffed. “Sam left it for me, not you. He owed you nothing. He paid a good deal to the sanatorium, more than enough to cover the care he received.” “And how is it, my dear, that you would know such a thing?” He stepped toward her now from the other side. “It matters not.” “No? Could it be that you broke into the office and looked at private documents?” She said nothing. “Sheriff, is that not a punishable offense?” “Breaking and entering,” he said, grinning down at her in delight. “I’d say that’d do it.” “Not that you would have found anything illegal, had you been reading our files,” said the doctor. “Everything we do is perfectly legal.” She leveled a look of disbelief at him. “So what are you doing here, a day’s journey from the Springs, in my house?” She looked up to the sheriff. “And you. Just because you are a sheriff does not make you immune to the law. Speaking of breaking and entering … you broke into my house, threatened me. I can press charges of my own.” He smiled down at her, unperturbed. “The door was open. And we are merely encouraging you to relinquish what is ours. Maybe you found that document in the administrator’s office. Maybe it was in the file and you stole it.” “I stole nothing,” she spat. “It’s mine. Sam left it for me!” She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. “So you do have it,” Reid said. He lifted her chin. “You know we will not leave without it. Go and fetch it. Now.” She glanced at the doctor, vainly hoping for help, but he stared back at her with the same steely determination as the sheriff. “And if I do not?” “Come, Odessa. This need not be difficult. Give us the document and we will be on our way. You can resume your life.” “You’ll simply walk away?” He continued to smile. “Go and retrieve the document. Quickly now, before your husband tries to return. It will be easier for all if we can see this through without further … discussions.” Odessa hesitated. Bryce would be back any minute. They all knew it. But she would die if anything happened to him, if she were the cause of it. And there were two of them, both carrying a gun. Two others outside, between any of the ranch hands and the house. Chances were good that Bryce would be injured in a gunfight. She had to get them to leave, right away. “Sam’s note is gone. It was destroyed in the water when Helen and I were chased, presumably by your men.” Dr. Morton studied her. “We are merely here to claim what rightfully belongs to the sanatorium.” “Of course,” Odessa nodded. “You don’t want to confess to sending killers after us.” Dr. Morton sniffed. “Please, Odessa. Since you stole the note—” “I stole no note. It was left for me. Handed to Bryce for me by an attorney. It had my name on it! The lawyer can testify to it!” The doctor reached up to tap his finger to a lip. “I believe Sam O’Toole hired an attorney I know—and he moved away about three weeks ago.” He looked to the sheriff. “Did he mention where he was moving, Sheriff?” “Don’t believe he did.” “Pity, that. There goes your alibi. Meanwhile, my night nurse and attendant are prepared to testify to seeing you steal out of the administrator’s office. We still have yet to determine what all you took from the files.” He raised one eyebrow. “Perhaps there was more than just one document.” Odessa’s mouth dropped open. “What? They did not see me anywhere near the hall! I took nothing!” He stepped toward her and lifted a hand in an amiable gesture. “Ah, you are not very good at this game, Odessa; obviously, you did manage to make your way in. Come now, this does not need to be as messy for you as it has for others. I presume Sam left directions to his mine? I’m afraid I hadn’t had the opportunity to carefully study his file before,” he paused to cough, “you visited the administrator’s office.” “I told you, he left me the document.” “And for your sake, I do hope you remember what was on it if it, as you say, no longer exists. He gave you directions to find his mine?” “He said nothing so specific.” “What did he say, exactly?” Odessa hesitated, but Reid pulled a revolver from his holster and removed the safety, then casually lifted it to point at her. With shaking voice she recited, “‘Find two forgotten men desperate for drink, perched over a river winding, never to reach—’” “He left a poem?” “Of sorts.” A horse whinnied outside and Reid moved to the front window. “One of your ranch hands is coming.” He glanced at the doctor. “Think he spied our horses up on the hill?” The doctor looked nonplussed, but didn’t answer. “The men are still out there. Whoever approaches must appear harmless.” She glanced out and frowned. If one was coming, where were the others? “It’s Nels. He probably just wants to tell me what’s keeping Bryce and ask about supper.” She swallowed hard, again thinking that she might be the cause of an innocent man’s death. “I can send him away.” Reid studied her. “Do it.” He pointed toward the door with the gun. “Carefully.” Odessa turned and walked to the front door. When she laid her hand on the knob, she felt the cold steel of the gun tip between her ribs. Reid was at her side, behind the door, and Odessa opened it, peeking out. “Evening, Nels!” she called, as he rode up. “How did it go in the north quarter?” The thin man gazed up at her with a shy grin but slowly shifted his eyes to the crack in the door. “Mare’s back on her feet. Much improved. Came to tell you Bryce is just getting her settled in the stables and then we’ll be in.” “Oh, biscuits won’t be done yet, I’m afraid. Please tell Bryce that it’ll be another half an hour—and that I’d love it if he took a look at Ebony. She threw a shoe when we were out.” “We’ll do that, ma’am,” he said, searching her eyes. “Thank you. I’ll see you in a bit.” She forced a smile and shut the door, then looked up at Reid. He moved the gun to her chin and traced it slowly to her ear and then back again. “Nicely done. Now how ’bout you pick up a pen and write down that poem in your pretty head?” “And then you will leave,” she said, staring into his eyes. “That depends on you—and what old Sam had to say, exactly.” He followed behind her up the stairs to her writing desk, too close to be polite. But he obviously didn’t care. What all had Moira endured while he had courted her? No wonder she despised the man! He followed her into the bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She sat down. Then with shaking hands, she pulled a sheet from the cubbyhole of the desk, uncorked the ink, and picked up a pen. “Don’t forget a word, Odessa. Moira’s going to know, someday, the cost of disappointing me. Don’t you go and do the same.” Moira. She swallowed the fear at his unnamed threat and wrote as quickly as she could. Damp to her East, wounds to her West, land in my mother’s name … In her mind she whispered apologies to Sam as she wrote it out. “Sheriff!” called the doctor from down the stairs. “We need to be on our way. Do you have it?” “She’s working on it,” he called down casually. “Our boys will keep the men from coming around again.” He left the doorframe and moved over to her, then placed a hand on either side of her, leaning down until his chest brushed against her hair, until she could see him looking at her. “I chose the wrong St. Clair girl, I think. All I wanted was a pretty bride. A woman of caliber. Substance. Moira failed me.” “Yes, well, I’m sorry for that,” she said. Within an old sheepherder’s cabin, in high hills of piñon pine … He reached down and pulled a curl away from her temple, fingered it. “Do you think you and I might’ve had a chance? Had I met you first instead of Moira? There’s something about your face, your eyes, something about you that sticks with a man.” Bile rose in her throat. Wealth that burns, and that that is eternal. She bent forward and blew on the sheet, then lifted it with the tips of her fingers. “This is it,” she said, shoving her chair back, forcing him to take a step. She rose and turned to face him. She hadn’t beaten consumption to let this man bully her. “Take it. Leave and never come near me or mine again.” A slow smile grew across his face and then he gave her a hard stare. “So you’re giving me the poem, just like that. What else was there?” “That was it. Follow this and I’m certain you will find what you seek. I had planned to.” “I have a better idea.” He took a step forward and pulled her closer. “I think I’ll take you with me.” He ran his hand down one arm slowly, plucking Sam’s poem from her trembling fingertips. “Yes, we’ll need you with us for a bit, anyway. You can come home as soon as your husband signs over the deed to old Sam’s land.” He grinned victoriously and tucked the note into his vest pocket. “Come along,” he said, pulling her roughly toward the door. But Bryce was there, rifle raised to his shoulder. “Evenin’, Sheriff.” Reid slowly eased his hands in the air. “Evenin’, Bryce. Guess now that we’re all together, it’ll save me a trip back. It’s just as well.” “What’re you talking about?” Bryce stepped forward until the rifle hovered a foot from Reid’s chest. Veins bulged and pulsed at his temples. “You break into my house, threaten my wife—” “Bryce—” Odessa began. “Settle down there, brother,” Reid said. “I didn’t do anything to your wife. I simply encouraged Odessa to return something that rightfully belongs to the doctor.” “Lots of ways to threaten a woman, Sheriff. But I don’t need to tell you that. You’re obviously well versed on the subject.” For the first time, Odessa saw murder in her kind and loving husband’s eyes. “Bryce,” she said with a quavering voice, “they have what they came for. Send them on their way.” “Yes,” Reid said. “All I need is for Odessa to show us to Sam’s mine, make sure she didn’t leave anything out of Sam’s poem, and a quick signature from you on the deed.” A bead of sweat rolled down from Bryce’s temple, streaking through the trail dust on his cheeks. “You’re in no position to make demands. Keep your hands up. Turn around.” Reid did what Bryce asked, turning and sighing. “You’re making a big mistake, man.” Keeping his hands in the air, Reid tossed Odessa a lazy grin. “Better talk some sense into your husband before this gets ugly.” “You’re the one that brought ugliness into this house,” she ground out, moving forward to reach for the poem in his pocket. “Don’t do it, Odessa,” he said, eyes narrowed. She took it from his vest and crumpled it in her hand, just as Bryce grabbed one gun from his holster and then the other, tossing them to the carpet beside them. “Now move downstairs.” But Reid was staring at her. “You know that poem by heart. You know where it is. Have you seen it? Been there already?” Bryce grabbed his shoulder and pulled him roughly around. He brought the gun up to his chest. “You will leave my wife and my house now.” “Oh, I’ll be back for her, McAllan, and you can be certain there won’t be anyone in my way. She has something that rightfully belongs to us. And I’ll get it from her,” he said with a leer back at her, “one way or another.” Bryce whipped the rifle around and brought the butt of it swiftly into Reid’s sternum, making him gasp and bend over. Bryce jabbed the rifle against his cheek. “Move. Now.” Slowly, the sheriff rose and put one foot in front of the other. They reached the top of the stair, first Reid, then Bryce, then Odessa. Odessa looked about the front entry, the parlor, in confusion. “Bryce, there are others! Where is the doctor? The other men?” “Nels has the doc. What other men?” he tossed over his shoulder, concentrating on the hulking sheriff before him. Nels moved forward from the kitchen hallway, the doctor ahead of him, hands in the air. A shot sang through a bright, new parlor window and slammed into Nels. He whirled and fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder. Another came right behind it, narrowly missing Bryce’s head. “Move!” Bryce yelled at Reid, shoving him forward down the stairs. Reid stumbled forward, then righted himself to move slowly again. More shots came through the windows, splintering above their heads. “Get down, Odessa!” Bryce cried out. Nels managed to make it to his knees and return fire through the windows, shooting blindly into the hazy light of dusk. The doctor leaned down and cruelly rammed his fingers into the man’s bullet wound until Nels could do nothing but drop his revolver and fall, ashen-faced, to his back. Bryce pointed his rifle toward the doctor, but Reid turned on him, whipping the gun from his hands. Reid backed away toward the window and raised a fist, an obvious signal to cease firing. As ordered, the bullets stopped. Bryce moved up several steps, between Odessa and the interlopers, as if to cover her. Reid ran a hand across his upper lip, wiping away the sweat. “Figure neighbors heard those shots?” “Too far away,” Bryce returned, levelly. “No need to kill us yet.” “Well,” Reid said with a thin-lipped smile. “Not all of you, anyway.” Chapter 36 “Wait,” Bryce said, when one of Reid’s men raised a gun and leveled it at his temple. Odessa panted through her nose for breath, Reid’s hand across her mouth to keep her from screaming. “She knows the clues that might help you find Sam’s mine. But I know the rise and fall of Sam’s land,” Bryce said. “Been there a hundred times. You need both of us. And we won’t help you if you kill my man.” He tipped his chin toward Nels, unconscious now on the floor, a pool of blood spreading from his shoulder. “Bind him, but leave him behind.” “Can’t risk it,” Reid said. “Take him out and get rid of him.” Odessa squirmed in his arms, crying now, as she watched two of Reid’s men grab hold of Nels and carry him out, presumably through the back door of the kitchen. Her heart thudded, waiting for a telling gunshot. “We’ll take you both with us. But only because I can use one of you to get the other to do as I wish,” Reid said. He leaned toward Bryce. “After all, it’d be easier to buy the O’Toole property off a dead man.” Bryce clamped his lips shut and moved as if to lunge toward him, but the doctor moved in front of him. “Come now, Bryce. Let us see this to its—” A shot reverberated through the air, through their chests, as if it had been shot at them. Nels. Dear, decent Nels. Odessa’s knees gave way. “Whoa, whoa,” Reid soothed in her ear, lifting her. “It’s all right. I’ve got ya.” Bryce turned eyes full of misery toward his wife, unable to do anything to free her from the brute. Doctor Morton cleared his throat. “As I was saying, let us see this to its conclusion at last, shall we? Soon all will be in order. All in order.” He gestured toward the front door and Bryce opened it, then moved through, the doctor directly behind him. Reid urged Odessa forward, and on leaden feet she moved toward Ebony, in a new, small corral near the house. “No, no,” Reid said, pulling her toward his horse. “I’ll not have you on that racehorse. My men have seen how fast she moves.” He raised a hand and his men moved out from the trees and jogged down the hill to join them. Where was Peter? She glanced at Bryce, silently asking the question, but he looked away. He didn’t want these men to know Peter was anywhere near. Reid mounted and leaned down to take her arm, easily lifting her to sit behind him. “Better hold on tightly to me, Odessa,” he said, but he was looking at Bryce, taunting him. “Don’t want you falling off.” The doctor urged his horse forward. “Come, Bryce. Show us to Sam’s property and where the mine is hidden.” Bryce dragged his eyes from his wife to the doctor. “There’s no guarantee we can find it.” “I do so hope you are wrong, Bryce. Because if you are not, there will be no reason to keep either of you alive. You’ll meet some unfortunate accident; we will obtain the O’Toole property and resume our search until we find the treasure Sam left behind. One way or another it shall be ours. Why not allow it? Have you and Odessa not battled for life? Why give it up now?” “What guarantee do we have that once you have it—the entrance, the deed—that you will leave us to live our lives?” The doctor sighed. “Despite what you may think, Bryce, I wish for you and Odessa to live long and healthy lives. If we can come to an agreement as civilized people, I see no reason not to abide by it.” Bryce shifted his flat gaze to Odessa. He did not believe the man. They had to find a way to escape. Chapter 37 Odessa stayed in her husband’s arms, down on the ground, but her eyes were on the doctor. The man who had healed her. Brought her life. And others death. Blood rapidly spread across his white shirt and his hand was inside his jacket lapel where he reached for his handkerchief; he was unarmed. “I’m a doctor,” he said pitifully, looking into her eyes. “This was not what I had imagined … I only—” He did not finish his next sentence. His eyes stilled and grew blank. Odessa shivered and leaned against Bryce. … a little more … When a delightful concert comes to an end, the orchestra might offer an encore. When a fine meal comes to an end, it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert. When a great story comes to an end, we think you may want to linger. And so, we offer ... AfterWords—just a little something more after you have finished a David C. Cook novel. We invite you to stay awhile in the story. Thanks for reading! Turn the page for ... • Author’s Note • An Interview with Lisa T. Bergren • Group Discussion Questions AUTHOR’S NOTE Thanks for reading my book. For the sake of the story, I took some liberties with historical fact, either moving the dates or “revising” history (and in some cases, geography) just a bit. But I have attempted to incorporate as much as possible to remain true to Colorado Springs’ history. Here are some facts to be aware of: • The Opera House in Colorado Springs opened in 1881 (depicted as 1883), but did truly open with a performance of Camille by a traveling company on its way to California. It was seen as a poor choice for a community full of consumptives, but it was what the traveling actors had rehearsed to play, and so they had little choice. • The Antlers Hotel opened in 1883 and remained a dominant structure in the area for decades; it was destroyed by fire in 1898 and rebuilt in 1901. • Inspiration for the character of Helen Anderson was drawn from the famous writer Helen Hunt Jackson, who settled in the Springs after struggling with tuberculosis for years, and the photographer Anna May Wellington, who traveled all over Ute Pass around 1890, taking pictures with glass plates and a view camera. • Tuberculosis wasn’t named as such until after this era—which is why I referred to it as “consumption” or the “White Death.” Some historians have said that up to one-third of Colorado Springs residents came here to seek the cure. Doctors figured out around the turn of the century that the disease was highly contagious, adding to the growth of sanatoriums in an effort to isolate patients. But as early as 1870, a Mrs. Teachout had opened her property to TB sufferers, allowing them to set up tents on her ranch and providing meals. And there are reports of smaller sanatoriums built to house those struggling with the disease. Resting outside—regardless of the weather—eating three hearty meals a day, plus drinking six raw eggs and eight glasses of milk, was a popular treatment plan. • Queen, General Palmer’s bride, did indeed have a heart attack at age thirty and was advised to move from Colorado Springs’ high altitude. She moved to Newport, Rhode Island, for a time, and then to New York before moving in 1882 or 1883 to England. I do not know if she ever returned for a visit, as I depicted, but General Palmer did travel once or twice a year to see his family, even venturing across the seas when he had been paralyzed from the neck down and was in a wheelchair. His attention and devotion undoubtedly speak of a very great love and a tragedy of absence. Queen died in England in 1894 but her ashes were disinterred and brought to lay beside the general’s in 1910. • The Sisters of St. Francis of Perpetual Adoration arrived in Colorado Springs in the summer of 1887 from Lafayette, Indiana. Their first mission was to care for patients. In the spring of 1888, they opened a new hospital known as St. Francis Hospital. The sisters were outstanding nurses and administrators who also tended to the spiritual needs of their patients. For the purposes of this novel, I “moved up” their arrival to 1883. AN INTERVIEW WITH LISA T. BERGREN Q: You’ve written contemporary romance, nineteenth-century fiction, general contemporary fiction, and a medieval suspense series. Why return to the nineteenth century? A: There is something intriguing and reassuring about the 1880s to me. It’s both a vibrant time in the world with the Industrial Revolution well under way, but also somewhat simple and innocent, too. Sometimes I wish I lived in the 1880s, but with a computer, vaccines, appliances, and indoor plumbing everywhere. Q: You’re a travel junkie. Why place this series in your Colorado backyard? A: People love Colorado. I love Colorado. It’s visually beautiful, of course, and it’s been on my mind and heart to set a series here for some time. And when I learned of how so many people came to Colorado Springs to seek the cure for tuberculosis (in the early years, about a third of our residents), I knew it had to be here. But I have to say my eye is wandering back toward Europe for my next series. Can’t keep me home for long! I’ll stay put for Sing and Claim but then I’m outta here, baby! Luckily, Sing takes place in the Sangre de Cristos and the gold camps of Colorado; Claim will take place near Ouray—a fantastic, gorgeous place to visit. And Moira and Nic are on the move—around the world—so I can do some exploration, too. Q: Your fascination with travel has even led to a new business, hasn’t it? A: A hobby, mostly. Tim and I launched a Web site with friends, www.FamilyTripster.com, to encourage families to travel together. We love hearing how other families manage it—and to share tidbits on how to make it easier for all to navigate a city, foreign or close to home. Q: How much did you have to research for this series? A: I read several books about the history of tuberculosis and many first-person accounts. It’s a terrible way to die … a slow suffocation. Then some general history books about the 1880s to refresh my memory. And I always love the local books that have pictures and accounts of our forefathers; it makes it come alive for me. Q: What did you learn about yourself in writing Breathe? A: I love to learn along with my characters. It’s part of the ride as an author. For me, the “aha” was the same as Odessa’s. I think that I’m slowly coming to believe, understand, and embrace the idea that God really does hold my life in His hand. And that’s okay. I trust Him … so if He gives me another sixty years or sixty seconds, I’m good. Q: What are you working on next? A: Sing, the next book in this series. And a couple of children’s books. Q: How can readers find out more about you and your work? A: My Web sites: www.LisaTawnBergren.com; www.BusyMomsDevo.com; www.GodGaveUsYou.com; www.FamilyTripster.com are the best way. And if a reader signs up on www.LisaTawnBergren.com to receive my monthly e-newsletter, she’ll receive a new devotional each month inside it. My heart goes into those, in between novels. You’ll get a glimpse of the good, the bad, and the ugly in my life—and how Christ somehow redeems it all. GROUP DISCUSSION QUESTIONS 1. Have you ever endured a life-threatening illness or been close to someone who has? What was that experience like? What did it teach you? 2. Are you afraid of death? Why or why not? What would be the hardest part about saying good-bye to loved ones? What would bring you comfort? 3. Do you think you could have survived in the 1880s? What would you miss the most: Internet, television, or a washer/dryer? 4. If you are a woman, how would you deal with the traditional role of women in that era? Would that be a comfort or chafe? 5. In this time, people left family behind to move West, and often never saw them again. If it meant never seeing your extended family again, would you have moved to have a chance at prosperity or health? Why or why not? 6. Odessa comes through a lot to regain her health. Had you been in her shoes, would you risk your life to get to the bottom of the mystery? Or would you have walked away? 7. Do you believe the length of your life is preordained? Why or why not? 8. Discuss how you trust God—or don’t—day to day. Think of a concrete example or way you’ve trusted—or didn’t—in the last week. 9. Why do you think this book is titled Breathe? Think beyond the physical aspect. 10. Which character are you most interested in hearing more about in books two and three in this series, and why? Ads
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