Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy)

by Bergren, Lisa T.

  Moira’s heart began to speed up in response to Odessa’s words. She had missed singing. Her voice was rough, but it could be regained through practice.

  She glanced up at Odessa, who smiled into her eyes. “There. That’s my sister. I’ve missed that spark. Daniel brought back some of the joy, but there is more yet to come—I can see it. Perhaps that’s part of what makes him hesitant … he wants to see you whole.”

  “Whole? I’ll never be whole.”

  “You can be whole again, Moira. Just in a different way. After the consumption, after those years in bed and so nearly dying, and all that happened afterward, I was different. I lost my youth in a way. I would never again be innocent. Carefree. But I gained wisdom and awareness and appreciation for life. Why don’t you see if you can figure out what your new definition of wholeness means?”

  Moira looked out the window, thinking again of Daniel’s departure.

  “Moira.”

  She glanced back to Odessa.

  “If you and Daniel are meant to be together, you will be. You’ve never been one to avoid taking charge. So take charge of what you can—you. Your life. Seek what God has for you next.” She squeezed her hand again and rose, moving toward the kitchen.

  Moira turned back to the piano, put her finger over the F key, and paused.

  Deciding, she opened a music book before her, hearing the notes in her mind as she scanned them. And she realized she was smiling.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Word spread among the men that Moira might sing again that night after supper. With fifty extra hands on the premises working on the carpentry needs of the Circle M and, increasingly in Conquistador, they welcomed any activity that didn’t include playing round after round of cards. At first, they shyly hung around the yard around the front porch, where the open windows allowed them to hear Moira play and sing.

  But Odessa had invited them up to sit on the porch rail the night before, to enjoy a glass of lemonade and have a better opportunity to listen. The men so enjoyed it that she and Cassie generously made pitcher after pitcher the following night—having sent a man to fetch an entire crate of lemons and a bag of sugar.

  When Moira discovered the two women among piles of squeezed-out rinds, Odessa responded, “It’s my pleasure.” She leaned closer so she could add in a whisper, “Your rediscovered joy is mine as well.”

  Moira helped Odessa finish the dishes that night, trying to ignore her fluttering stomach and the clumping sound of many boots on the front porch.

  “Now what’s bringing the boys around again tonight?” Bryce said, shooting Moira a teasing glance.

  “I have no earthly idea,” Odessa joined in, picking up a pitcher of lemonade. “Ready?” she asked.

  Moira repositioned her light scarf and straightened the bodice of her dress, then gave her a swift nod. She thought it might be easier tonight than last, but it wasn’t. Her heart had returned to her throat. Could she even sing?

  Bryce moved out with a tray of glasses, for those who hadn’t thought to bring their mugs. “I like this new tradition,” he said.

  “Me too,” Odessa said with a smile.

  Shyly, Cassie stood to one side, holding Samuel and watching Moira. Taking a deep breath, Moira entered the hallway, and when a few men caught sight of her, they began to applaud.

  Moira’s hand went to her belly, willing it to stop turning—or was that the baby?—and gave them a smile and a nod of her head. Bryce and Odessa left the front door open, so more could hear her music better. They stayed outside with the men, only returning for more lemonade, seemingly aware without asking that she needed a little distance, the illusion of being alone, to perform.

  Moira went to the piano and opened the music. It was important to her not to sing any of the songs she had sung for Gavin, no matter how the men shouted out requests. To sing the songs of the dance halls and saloons brought back bad memories for her. But in the hymns, she found resonance, words that soothed and strengthened her and melodies that moved her.

  She opened a hymnal, having chosen five different pieces for tonight’s performance. She sang the first, “Beautiful Savior,” remembering her mother sitting at the piano and singing it through her tears after burying each beloved son.

  Beautiful Savior, King of creation,

  Son of God, and Son of Man!

  Truly I love Thee, Truly I serve Thee

  Light of my soul, my joy, my crown.

  Fair are the meadows, fair are the woodlands,

  Robed in flow’rs of blooming spring

  Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer

  He makes our sorrowing spirit sing.

  o

  Daniel’s gelding, pushed well beyond his normal limits, wearily trudged up the Circle M lane. Daniel’s shoulders stiffened as he saw the group of men gathered on the porch, with more arriving by the moment. But they were oddly quiet for such a large group of men. What was going on? Had something happened? Gone wrong?

  But as he got closer, he relaxed, seeing the smiles and Odessa filling men’s mugs from a pitcher. As he eased the horse to a walk, he understood at last what had them all enraptured.

  Moira was singing.

  A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he dismounted and walked the remaining paces to the edge of the crowd, straining to hear. Men nodded in greeting, but none spoke aloud to him. It was as if no one wanted to disturb her, as if the magical notes might cease altogether if she heard any sound. Bryce moved through the crowd and shook his hand. He leaned close and said, “Good to see you here, brother.”

  “It’s good to be back,” he whispered back. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Just since last night.”

  Daniel nodded, and Bryce seemed to understand his desire to stop talking and hear Moira sing.

  Then, as if she knew he was listening, the piano abruptly stopped.

  But Moira’s voice carried on, singing so perfectly on pitch, with such resonance, it was as if the heavens themselves had opened up and an angel were singing in her place. Never had Daniel heard her sound sweeter.

  Fair is the sunshine, fair is the moonlight,

  Bright the sparkling stars on high;

  Jesus shines brighter, Jesus shines purer

  Than all the angels in the sky.

  It startled him, what came next. A man from the far corner of the porch, a perfect tenor, moved to sing with her on the next verse, and three more quickly did the same. Soon all were singing or at least humming along. The hairs on the back of Daniel’s neck rose in exhilaration.

  Beautiful Savior, Lord of the nations,

  Son of God and Son of Man!

  Glory and honor, praise, adoration,

  Now and forevermore be thine!

  The crowd hushed, waiting. Daniel’s eyes moved around the men, their faces in fuzzy silhouette, backlit from a fading sun. But there was an expectancy, a peace in each of them. Moira had that ability—to instill both turmoil and peace in every man she met. It was a gift. A powerful gift. But a tricky one to wield.

  Here they all sat, a motley group of Baptists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, and Catholics, many of them probably lapsed from practicing their faith. But they were captured, utterly captured by Moira and the power of her music.

  She chose varied hymns afterward, the power of the words evident in her delivery. But the music was what caught and carried her audience. Her last was a Christmas hymn, an ancient hymn that had never failed to move Daniel.

  Of the Father’s love begotten

  Ere the worlds began to be

  He is Alpha and Omega

  He the Source, the Ending He

  Of the things that are, that have been,

  And that future years shall see,

  Evermore and evermore.

  Christ, to Thee, with God the Father,

  And, O Holy Ghost, to Thee,

  Hymn and chant and high thanksgiving

  And unending praises be:

  Honor, glory, and dominion,

>   And eternal victory

  Evermore and evermore.

  Daniel looked up as she added an “Amen” and was surprised to see many heads bowed, as if in prayer. But then he shouldn’t have been surprised, he thought to himself. Wasn’t her song as powerful as an angel’s own prayer? How could men do anything else in the face of it?

  No preacher has ever moved his congregation half as much as she just moved these men, he thought.

  The men seemed to sense that the concert was over. They began to move, reluctantly, en masse, out and into the deepening dark in groups of two or three.

  A couple of carpenters Daniel recognized from Conquistador walked by him. One said, “I could swear that I’ve heard her sing before.”

  Daniel stiffened, listening, but the voices faded as they passed by him. “You never forget a voice like that …” was the last thing he heard them say. What would happen if someone recognized Moira St. Clair as Moira Colorado? Was she ready for that? Daniel shifted his weight, silently urging them all on, hoping that he would soon be able to see Moira alone. But then he shook his head. He was filthy from riding all day. Not that she even wanted to see him.

  He’d gained what he came for—the knowledge that Moira was safe, and surrounded by a veritable army. He’d been fretting since the talk with his deputies for nothing. And he would only hurt her since nothing had changed since the last time they’d spoken.

  A few men lingered on the porch, talking with Odessa and Bryce. He wrapped his horse’s reins around his hand and pulled the gelding into motion, walking alongside him, waiting until he was out of the spreading, warm light of the house and deep into the shadows before mounting up and riding off into the night.

  o

  Mr. Dell accompanied the Dolly Mae survey team, a crew of studious-looking men with arms full of equipment. Nic didn’t mind the two who wore spectacles—it was the three rough-looking armed men who stayed on their horses just a moment too long, peering down and assessing him and Everett, who bothered him.

  Mr. Dell glanced from Nic to the men behind him. “Security detail,” he said with a smile. “I’m certain you understand. One can never be too careful when one has access to the fortunes of the Dolly Mae.”

  Nic lifted his chin to let them know he understood, but his eyes remained on the three who now dismounted. Mr. Dell didn’t bother to introduce them. Reluctantly Nic turned and led the way to the mouth of the mine. Everett followed along, clearly moping.

  Once there, the men of Mr. Dell’s security detail set up a perimeter watch, one on either flank, rifle at the ready. The third stood beside them. Nic reached out a hand. “I’m Dominic St. Clair. I didn’t catch your name.”

  The man glanced from Nic’s eyes down to his offered hand and then away. “No need to be exchanging names, sir. Far as I know, this isn’t a social call.”

  “Pay him no mind, Nic,” Mr. Dell interjected. “Rinaldi’s job is to protect me. He’s rather single-minded about the task. Come. We are most anxious to see the mine.”

  Rinaldi. Nic looked from the men on either side back to the man, Rinaldi, behind Mr. Dell. Nic didn’t like having them here. He’d spent enough time with men of his ilk to know that the wrong move—even by accident—could set them off. He reached out and took Everett’s shoulder.

  “Stay close to me, Ev,” he said lowly. They entered the mouth of the cave, an opening that was a little over six feet tall, and paused to light three lanterns.

  The surveyors touched everything as they went by, the timber braces, the rock, the dirt. They took clumps from walls and ceiling, crumbling it in their hands, studying the texture, muttering among themselves. Forty feet back, the tunnel turned to the right and ended ten feet farther. Here the glint of gold glistened in a diagonal line between two tiers of black rock. One of the surveyors lifted a lantern close to it and whistled lowly. “Whoo-we, she’s prettier than any gal in town.”

  The others with him chuckled. “Some of that in your pocket, you could have any gal you fancied.”

  “Hey!” Nic said. “Far as I know, this is all still in my name.”

  The men hesitated a moment, glancing at him, then moved on with their work in silence. The mine felt more claustrophobic than usual, being in the company of seven men and the boy.

  One of the surveyors lifted his gaze and bent, peering up above him, then down the four-foot hole that followed the angle of the vein. He lowered himself down and picked at where it disappeared into the rock below, roughly in the direction of Sabine’s property. “No end in sight,” he muttered at his companions, eyebrows raised. He and the others swarmed over the exposed line, tossing geologic terminology back and forth, speaking a different language for a time. They took measurements and samples and, with Nic’s permission, a small chunk of the gold ore.

  The leader showed it to Nic. “All right with you if we take this back to our office for analysis? We’ll pay you for any gold we extract, of course. It’s simply to measure the grade of ore that this mine is likely to produce.”

  Nic nodded once. After only a week and a half of mining, it grated to have anyone else haul out even a few dollars’ worth of gold. It surprised Nic, this protective surge within. Behind him, two of the surveyors had moved on to talking about what they’d do first in terms of structural support, widening the tunnel immediately in order to get the maximum numbers of men and machinery in here.

  Nic shook his head. He didn’t want to spend years down here, right? It would be good to sell this place, get Everett established with a proper family, and move on. Somewhere. He glanced down at Everett but looked away when the boy lifted his gaze toward him, those doleful eyes boring deep. Nic shook his head. In time, Everett’d see this as gain. Necessary. Logical. He’d see it as a man would. Nic leaned back against the far wall, watching the men work, but his mind was in another place, another time. Back at home, in Philadelphia, when his father demanded he take his sisters west to Colorado. He had desired clear things for Odessa—for her to find a cure for her consumption. But for Nic and Moira, it was far less clear.

  Father had wanted Moira to be removed from society and the stage that called her … as if the move would take away those desires from her heart. He wanted Nic to stop fighting any challenger … as if moving West would magically make any opponent disappear. Father had always been good at addressing problems on the surface; it had been Mother who could get at the dreams and delusions that both drove and clouded her children’s judgment. But by then, she was long gone.

  “St. Clair?” Mr. Dell moved in front of him, his brow knit in wrinkles of concern. “You all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” Nic said, straightening and shaking his head. “You fellows done?”

  “We’re done.” He smiled. “And I can tell you we are quite pleased with what we’ve seen here. Might you escort us to Mrs. LaCrosse’s property? As I understand it, there will be far more work to be accomplished there. We’ll need a good portion of the day to obtain the data we need to finalize our offer.”

  o

  Sabine stood at the window on the morning of the survey, both wanting the party to arrive in order to be done with it and yet dreading it, wishing something would occur to keep them away for a while longer. She loved this view, through the wavy glass. It made the valley something of an oil painting, depicted in vivid greens of the pine and cottonwood of the Gulch, the deep blue of a sky that was heavy with coming rain, the brown of the rocks upon which this cabin had been built. When everything else had failed her, this she could count on. Home and God, her only two rocks.

  All winter, she longed for home. All spring, she anxiously willed the snows to melt and recede, so she could return to this place for the summer and fall. It had been her life for ten years now, since she arrived as a young bride. She’d so hoped to come to love her husband in time, as her father promised she would.

  At least she had fallen in love with her home.

  Was Nic right? Might she find someplace else where she could live year-ro
und? Someplace beautiful? Someplace safe? Here, on the rocky, open slope, nothing and no one could approach without giving her enough notice to reach for her rifle in time to meet them.

  Her hands tightened around the rifle when she spotted the first man on horseback round the bend on the path from the Vaughn place. Seven more figures quickly followed. Sabine glanced down at her rifle. She knew how the town talked, of “Crazy LaCrosse up in the Gulch.” They said it was her Indian blood that drove her to want to kill any white man. But it was only here on her land that she became so protective. Down in town, she was the model citizen, suitable to be the schoolteacher. She knew that there was a campaign to bring in a white teacher. It was simply proving difficult to lure any woman here to teach over a shortened year; in these parts, fathers were only willing to let sons go to school through the winter and spring, and the girls were an afterthought. Sabine had tutored several girls into the summer at times, girls who wished to go to finishing school or even teachers college. Earlier that summer, she’d received a letter from one of her students, now teaching in North Dakota. Even now, the thought of it brought a smile to her face.

  Sabine set down the rifle and moved to open the door. She fought the urge to step back inside. “Sabine,” Everett called, “we’re here to check out your husband’s old mine.” As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t spent all night tossing and turning, thinking about it.

  “Is that right?” she asked gently. She’d miss Everett if they moved in opposite directions. Of that she was certain. She put her hand on the boy’s shoulder, feeling stronger somehow with him near as she looked at each man in the group. She paused over the tall one, who looked at her with hunger in his eyes. Rinaldi. She felt her stomach clench and twist. He was the one who had taken to following her down the boardwalk whenever he spotted her in town. Over the summer, his flirtations had moved to taunts when she failed to reciprocate. Her eyes moved to Nic, who returned her gaze under a furrowed brow. He’d noticed her hesitation. Was her fear that obvious?