Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  “It’s a lovely dream. But the beautiful valley is blocked by a couple of mountain passes.”

  “Well,” Odessa said, taking her hand, “let’s at least get a little closer to the mountains, shall we? Food always draws a man’s thoughts together. Remember how Papa was after a meal?”

  “It was always the best time to ask him anything,” she said with a sigh. Odessa smiled and nodded. “Let’s go and see how your man responds to you today after our picnic lunch.”

  They rose and gathered their supplies together. Odessa checked on Samuel, who was happily playing with Cassie in the nursery. Tabito rode up to the house, two mares saddled and ready for them. “Guess you assumed I’d be coming?” Moira asked her sister. Odessa answered with an impish smile.

  They rode down the lane at a leisurely pace and soon reached the fledgling town of Conquistador. Even in the last twenty-four hours, a remarkable amount of work had been done. Three wagons marked Westcliffe Lumber Co. and laden with lumber waited on one side of the street, and three others passed them, their beds now empty as they headed down the rutted road. Swarms of men were working on each site.

  “Dess, look,” Moira said, placing a hand over her mouth. Two walls were already framed on the charity sanatorium, which would be a twelve-room establishment to start, with a wraparound, screened-in porch for residents to recline on.

  “Oh!” Odessa cried happily, clapping her hands together. “At this rate, the building will be ready months before we find our doctor!” She’d placed an advertisement in several journals, looking for doctors to run the establishment. But most of those were not printed yet.

  Bryce, eager to get started on the place, refused to wait to build it until a doctor was hired. “If we’re going to do it, let’s get it done,” he’d said. He’d hired a crew of more than a hundred carpenters. First they worked on the snow breaks and stables for the Circle M, as well as new fencing and corrals. By the time they were done with that, the architects had completed their work for Conquistador and supplies had been ordered.

  The activity reminded Moira of a busy colony of ants, all carrying lumber on their shoulders or sawing and hammering away. “This town will be completed in weeks.”

  “I know it.” Odessa looked down the street and then the other way. “I don’t see Bryce or Daniel. Do you?”

  Moira shook her head.

  Odessa called out to a man, asking if he had seen Bryce. The man directed them beyond the framework of the two-story mercantile building, built up from what just yesterday had been their dance floor. “He’s out with the surveyor,” he said.

  They rode on in the direction he had pointed and found Bryce, Daniel, the surveyor, and a couple of other men in the fields beyond. They were marking plots of land and streets, for potential homes and other businesses, in case Conquistador ever became more than a tiny town.

  Just that morning, Bryce had decided to add a parsonage behind the church. He gave Odessa a sheepish look as they rode up. “May as well plan for success,” he said, as he pinned a rope down in the direction the surveyor pointed.

  “What will you name the streets, Mr. Mayor?” Odessa teased.

  “I don’t know,” he said, smiling up at her. “Thought I’d ask a writer I know to help come up with them.”

  “I’d be delighted. Do you have time to stop for lunch?”

  “We will make time,” Bryce said. “Let’s head over to the brook and the big oaks over there.”

  “I’m sorry, Odessa, but I need to bow out,” Daniel hedged, looking toward town. “I’ll catch you back at the Circle M.”

  “Nonsense. Come and eat first. Breakfast was a long time ago,” Odessa tried.

  “No, thank you,” he said firmly, giving her a gentle smile. He tipped his hat to her and vaguely in Moira’s direction, then turned and strode away.

  “Well,” Odessa said with a sniff.

  “Dess. Leave it be,” Bryce said. “Come, I’ll eat enough for two men. And I’ll be dining with two of the loveliest ladies in the valley.”

  Bryce arranged to meet the other men later. Then he and the ladies walked their horses across the plain, dotted with sage and clumps of desertlike grass, to the shady oaks beside the creek. They set out a couple of blankets and their picnic.

  Try as she might to enjoy the meal, the smell of food made Moira’s stomach roil. She placed a few small items on her plate, and pretended to be engaged in Bryce’s updates on the building progress, but her eyes traced across the field to Conquistador, knowing Daniel was there. Did he truly have something he had to attend to? Or was he merely avoiding her?

  Odessa gave her a compassionate glance. “Life will go on for you, Moira,” she said in a whisper. “Even if Daniel is not a part of it.”

  Moira dragged her eyes to the trees above them. It was easy for her sister to say that. She had a husband. A child. A ranch to run.

  What was ahead for Moira? At least she wasn’t penniless. She had her small share of the gold. It would be enough to hold her and her child for years.

  Moira looked up to the trees, the huge old oaks spreading thirty feet wide, with branches as thick as her torso. Life would go on, despite drought and wind and fire.

  “Moira? Moira,” Bryce said.

  Caught in her daydream, she glanced with surprise at him. He was holding out an envelope to her.

  “This came for you,” he said.

  Absently, she took it from him, her mind still on her future. “Might I … do you think I might purchase one of the plots of land?” she said. “Up by the creek, to build a house for me and my baby? Or would you prefer I purchase one in Conquistador? Build here?”

  Odessa wrapped her arm around Moira’s shoulders. “I think it would be good for you to be with us on the ranch. Near us. In case …”

  “In case I’m alone. And need your help,” she finished for her. I can’t count on Daniel for that.

  “It’s so pretty up by the creek,” Odessa went on, ignoring the bitterness of her sister’s tone. “You could have the men build you a darling little house. Cozy.”

  For two, Moira thought forlornly. Not three.

  Bryce unfolded an architect’s drawing and drew Odessa into conversation about the details for the sanatorium, where many would eventually come and seek the cure for consumption at little or no cost.

  Feeling like she was intruding, listening in, Moira looked at the letter in her hand and frowned. She knew no one in New York, other than a few people in the opera business. Had one of them tracked her down, hoping she might come to sing?

  She wouldn’t go, of course, but it was nice to dream of such things. She stood, walked over to the nearest tree, ripped open the envelope, and slipped out a couple sheets of fine linen paper. It had been the sort of stationery her mother had always chosen, with a deckled edge at the bottom. She unfolded them and hurriedly began to read.

  7 July 1888

  My Dear Miss St. Clair,

  I am writing to you as a heartbroken mother. We never had the opportunity to meet, but in Gavin’s things—

  Moira sat down on the ground. Gavin’s mother.

  —in Gavin’s things that were returned to us, I found paperwork that detailed your business arrangement. We were aware, of course, that he was your manager, intent upon seeing you to fame in the West. But until I read his journal, I did not know that you and he were intimately involved. It seems, my dear, that he was quite fond of you.

  So fond that he chose to abandon her when she declared she was more than fond of him.

  His body was returned to us for burial, and soon afterward, we learned of the “death” of Moira Colorado, famed songstress, in a tragic fire. We believed you lost as surely as our dear son was lost to us. But since then, we have read of the dramatic occurrences at your sister’s ranch and the brief mention of a certain “Moira St. Clair.” From Gavin’s journal I was able to piece together that you and Moira Colorado are one and the same. We are more than glad to know that you did not perish as was re
ported earlier, and were sorry indeed to hear of the injuries you suffered—in the fire, and at the hands of that foul man, Bannock. You have endured much indeed.

  Moira frowned. Why so effusive and kind? From what Gavin had said, she’d thought the woman would never accept her as a potential bride into the Knapp family. She turned the page.

  My dear, please forgive the indelicacy of this letter. In an effort to know as much as possible about our beloved son’s last months on this earth, we hired a man to discover all he could. He’s been to Leadville and back and brought back news that Moira Colorado had been pregnant about the time of Gavin’s departure. I know that Gavin cared deeply for you. Our man even brought back news that you two may have been married, although he could discover no legal record of the union. Dare I hope that you still carry the babe, even after all your suffering? And that the child is Gavin’s?

  Moira’s frown deepened.

  As I’m certain Gavin shared with you, we are an old, prosperous family, here in New York. And yet in the last year, we have lost both a son and a daughter. Our daughter was not fortunate enough to bear a child. And so our line, and the potential for our legacy, has come to an end. Except for this lone child we pray you still carry.

  Might I dare hope that you would write back to us or even consider a visit? Perhaps it could coincide with a return to your audience; Gavin detailed your success in Paris and London. Why not in New York as well? In any case, we would appreciate getting to know you, and having the opportunity to discuss what the future holds for you and your babe.

  I will await your reply, with a mother’s heart.

  Sincerely yours,

  Francine Knapp

  Moira slowly folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. The Knapps wanted to know her, and her baby! The shock of that realization stunned her even as Francine’s tone warmed her heart. Hadn’t Odessa told her of how she herself longed for their mother, wished that Samuel could know his grandmothers?

  She glanced again toward Conquistador, Daniel still nowhere in sight. Still so far from her. And yet this woman, this stranger, wanted to know her? Wanted to give her baby a family?

  Could this be the best choice for her baby … and her? Perhaps God was giving her a way out, toward hope?

  o

  Nic led Daisy up the steep ravine to the Vaughn place, lit a fire in the stove, and opened a can of beans with his knife. In a little while he added a hunk of salt pork to a pan, and after it started to sizzle, poured the beans on top to warm. His mouth watered at the aroma rising from the pan; it had been a day since his last meal. He pulled the beans off before they were hot, unable to wait any longer, and sat down to eat.

  It was then that he heard Daisy whinny. He knew by the sound of it that she either sensed or saw another horse. Wearily, he shoved a heaping bite of beans into his mouth and rose. Perhaps the Vaughns were back at last.

  He pulled open the door and stared outward. Rays from the setting sun cast a warm glow across the valley below him, then abruptly ended in shadow. Night was soon upon them. The Vaughns were arriving just in time. Nic squinted and peered down the dark ravine. There was a horse, and by the look of it the Vaughn boy, hunched over, moving in deep response to each roll and pull of his mount. He appeared to be barely holding on, as if injured. Where was his father?

  Nic frowned in confusion, looking beyond the boy for any sign of trouble, then slowly reached inside for his rifle. But no one appeared behind or before him. The child reached the cabin, and Nic stepped forward to take the reins. The boy’s clothes were torn and covered with brambles, his face bruised and dirty. “Everett?” Nic asked.

  The child moved dull eyes over to him. And then he collapsed off the horse and into Nic’s arms.

  Nic carried him into the cabin and laid him upon the bed. He moved to a pail and dipped a ladle for a bit of water, then went back to the bed to lift the child up and ease some water to his dry, parched lips. Everett came to and drank thirstily, saying with a froggy voice, “More, please.”

  Nic obliged him, then knelt, waiting beside the bed as Everett closed his eyes. After a long moment he seemed to force them open again. Slowly, he looked over at Nic. “You came. Dad said you would. Said he could see it in your eyes.”

  Nic shifted uneasily. “Where is your dad, Everett?”

  Everett looked up at the ceiling. “He’s dead,” he said dully.

  “Dead,” Nic repeated in a shocked whisper. “What happened?”

  “We supplied up. Dad didn’t want to pay Claude’s prices in St. Elmo. But on the way here, about a half day out, we met up against two men. Dad sent me running, into the woods. He put up a fight, but, injured as he was, he couldn’t match ’em. They came after me, but my mare is fast. And Sinopa showed me how to—”

  “Everett,” Nic interrupted gently. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “What happened to your dad?”

  “I heard three, maybe four shots. And then they took off with our mule and Dad’s horse.”

  “And did you go back to the road?”

  Everett nodded as his face clouded with grief. “I went back. I found him. They’d dragged his body to the side of the road.” He reached up and wiped a tear from his dirty cheek with the back of his hand. “Didn’t even cover him up. Just set him under some brush. He was too heavy for me to lift. I had to leave him—” Another tear dripped from his other eye, and then he sobbed suddenly, as if it had all caught up with him.

  He sat up and flung himself into Nic’s arms. Nic slowly, awkwardly held the child as he cried for several long minutes. “I’m sorry, Everett. Your dad was a good man.” He sighed and continued to hold the boy as he cried. What was he to do now? Where was the child’s nearest kin?

  Anger surged through him, and there was a fierce desire to strike out immediately, hunt the two highwaymen down, and beat each one until dead. His heart pounded as he considered the sweet satisfaction of vigilante justice. Why’d they have to kill the boy’s father? Why not take his supplies and leave him be?

  After a few more minutes, Everett grew slack with sleep. The boy was clearly exhausted. Gently, Nic laid him back down on the bed and covered him with a blanket, and then he strode to the open doorway and stared out at the mountain valley, now deeply steeped in the shadows of twilight. That was when he saw them, Sabine and her Indian. Slowly, he reached for the rifle again, but the two steadily approached, undeterred.

  Sabine came to a halt three steps away. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, showcasing fine, high cheekbones and wide eyes. She studied him without blinking. “Sinopa said the boy arrived home, but without his father.”

  What was it to her? Did they intend to jump Vaughn’s claim? He checked himself, noting that she seemed to care about the child. Maybe she has a relationship with Peter. Had a relationship.

  His eyes moved from the woman to the Indian. Sinopa, she’d called him. The same name Everett had referenced. He had an elongated face and a glossy black braid that fell over his shoulder. The Indian stared back at him unflinchingly. Was that accusation in his eyes? Nic tightened his grip on the shotgun and fingered the cool arc of the trigger.

  “Everett did get back today. Said his father was jumped by two highwaymen and killed.”

  Sabine sucked in her breath, looked away from him, and took a couple steps, gazing out to the valley.

  “The boy hid and escaped,” Nic continued, speaking mostly to Sinopa now, wondering how much English the man spoke. “The men rode off with the mule and Peter’s horse. And all their supplies, of course.”

  “I need to see Everett,” Sabine said, moving toward the cabin door.

  “No,” Nic said, reaching out a hand. “He’s asleep. And worn out. Please, let him sleep.”

  “The boy was certain that Peter was dead?” Sinopa said softly, his English perfect.

  Nic nodded. “Said he tried to lift him but couldn’t.” He leaned closer, not wanting the sleeping boy to wake and hear what they were discussing. “They left him j
ust off the road, under some brush.” He looked over to Sabine and saw that grief filled her wide eyes, and wrinkles of concern pleated her forehead. She and Sinopa shared a long, significant glance.

  Nic looked down to the ground, embarrassed at his fascination about this odd pair. Trappers had long taken Indian brides, but he’d never seen a white woman befriend an Indian. Was there anything more than friendship between the two? He tapped his heel. It wasn’t any of his business.

  “The claim is yours, then,” Sabine said.

  Nic looked up at her, sharply. “Mine? No … it’s Everett’s.”

  “In this county, no mine claim can be passed to a minor.”

  “So that’s it?” Nic said with a scoff. He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “The boy loses everything, just like that?”

  “Just like that,” she returned grimly. “And you are the first man to enter the property since Peter’s death, so by rights, you can lay claim to the mine. But I’d move quickly.”

  “Me?” He let out a breath of a laugh. “I was only here to help Peter. I’m no miner.”

  “If you’re fool enough to leave,” she said, turning to walk away, “I’ll take it. But Peter never befriended fools.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nic awakened to find Everett staring at him from his own cot, two feet away. His hands were together under his chin, making him appear the forlorn orphan. Not a smidgen of the imp he had seen in the streets of Gunnison; this was a lost boy, waking to remember his father was long gone.

  Nic sighed, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed his face vigorously. When he opened his eyes, Everett had done the same thing, his knees but a couple inches from his own. He looked up at Nic, as if waiting.

  “Look, kid,” Nic said, “I know what it feels like to lose family. My brothers—four of them—died. And my mother … my father’s gone too. It’s rough, having your dad die. But you won’t be alone for long. I’ll see to it that you reach your kin. Where do they live?”