HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  He winced suddenly, his hand going to his head, his eyes squinting shut.

  “Gavin?” Moira asked in alarm. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, another quick smile on his lips. “Just this headache. I need to eat, I think.” Just then, the waiter arrived with their soup, and Moira sighed in relief. Hopefully it would alleviate Gavin’s pain. Moira dipped her broad soupspoon into the crab bisque, and her mind shifted from her concern for him to wondering at the turn her life was taking. She thought of her parents and imagined how they would have taken to the idea of her taking a stage name. Moira Colorado, she mused. It sounded wrong—and yet right at the same time. Her eyes flitted up to Gavin, so handsome, so confident. He so clearly understood her and her needs. Her desire to be free, to explore. With him as her manager, she could let go of her fears, this instant, of running out of cash. He’d see to her welfare, make certain she had what she needed.

  A man had stopped at their table to talk to Gavin, shaking hands. He rose and slid a smile in her direction. Mama, Moira thought, talking to her mother as she used to. How can I refuse him? Look at him. He’s liquid; he’s so smooth. Surrounding me. Lifting me. Drenching me. Refreshing me. Is this how you felt about Papa?

  She took a quick sip of water, and then a gulp of wine. Why on earth was she correlating what she felt toward Gavin with the love her mother and father once shared?

  Nic left William on shore in the meager shade of a boulder. He figured he had several hours before the cold of night replaced the heat of day, potentially stealing whatever breath his friend had left. William was unconscious and shivering, a terrible shade of gray that spoke of death approaching.

  Nic moved away, wincing as a thousand coiled shells, some odd species that obviously favored this Godforsaken coast, cut and poked at his bare feet in the sand. In another time, another place, he might have considered them beautiful, with their swirls of amber and coal and coral and ash. Finally he cleared them, but hopped from one foot to another as the hot beach burned his bare soles. He set off southward, as William had directed, running from one shady or damp spot to another, heading toward a hill that marked a turn in the coastline.

  He tried to ignore the pain of his lower lip, cracking for want of moisture. Tried to forget the now enticing brackish taste from the ship’s water barrel. He only had to reach a town, a person, and beg someone to help him return for William. That was all he had to focus on now. After that, water, food, sleep would come.

  In an hour he reached the hill and struggled up the loose dry sand to the top. What he saw made him close his eyes in defeat, but the image was burned in his mind. The coast went on for miles. There was no boat. No house. No gathering of shipwrecked mates around a fire. Not even a goatherd with his flock.

  He turned back, gasping for breath, and saw the sun was low on the horizon, the sky already holding the first vestiges of pink. What was over the mountain? A verdant valley? Farms? Villages? It was impossibly high, and looked to be largely made of crumbly dry sand that might collapse with each step. Would he perish simply trying the ascent?

  He closed his eyes again and covered them with his palms, wishing he had tears to shed. Never had he not been able to see another human being on his horizon or at least known there was one around the corner. His eyes scanned the beach, toward the boulder where William lay. Was he already dead?

  “A minute spent doing is a minute not fretting,” Nic muttered under his breath, repeating a favorite saying of his mother’s. He stood and haphazardly made his way down the hillside, sliding partway. What would his mother and father think of his being here? Now? Would they be proud of him, venturing off to explore the world? Or, more likely, horrified that he’d gotten himself into this situation? He grimaced, imagining his father learning that he had spent his inheritance. Frivolous investments with high promises and low returns. A good portion on high-society travel. He’d gotten as far as Italy and Greece before he turned back and spent time among the islands. There, the rum and dark-skinned women had sucked many a money pouch dry. Soon after that, he’d moved on to South America, intent on regaining a portion of his funds before returning to the United States.

  He hadn’t even sent Odessa a letter in six months, wishing to be on his feet again before he told her where he was. Shame, he admitted to himself, forced him to hide from her. Coward, he berated himself. Able to face any man in the ring, but not a girl who has her mother’s eyes, a bit of her father’s concern about the mouth. Coward!

  How was she? How was Moira? Would he ever see them again?

  The sun reached the horizon, sending warm peach hues across the skies. He neared William, so still, so deadly still. He knelt and felt for a pulse. Faint, but there. The man was shivering, freezing although the air was quite warm. Nic settled in beside him, wrapping a leg and arm across his body to try to lend some heat. He grimaced as William trembled so hard it sent tremors through his own body. “Hold on, William. Hold on,” he whispered. “Don’t die. Not here. Not now.”

  But as the sun gave way to stars, Nic wondered if he spoke to himself more than to William.

  Bryce and Robert have settled into an easy camaraderie over the last days, a connection only born by kin. All was going well until this afternoon, when Robert asked to see the ranch books, to review what had transpired this last year. He says he only wishes to help, but Bryce bristled and moved away from the table, instantly defensive. But it wasn’t the fear of what is to come that bothered me the most—it was the evaporation of that familial companionship. Before Robert arrived I didn’t know I had been missing—

  A soft knock sounded at her bedroom door, and Odessa turned in her chair to see her brother-in-law. “Oh, Robert. Are you in need of something?”

  “No, no,” he said, giving her an awkward smile. “Bryce is off to check on the horses in the stable and I thought I’d turn in. But I wanted to thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

  “Oh,” she said, giving him a small smile. “You’re quite welcome.”

  “Odessa, in asking for the books, I didn’t mean … I only wanted …” He paused, sighed, and ran his hand through his hair, just like Bryce did when he was agitated. “As much as the Circle M is your business, yours and Bryce’s, there’s still a family stake in it. It’s just the way it has to be.”

  “I understand, Robert. I’m certain you and Bryce will work it out.” But to what end?

  He took a tentative step and cocked his head. “May I ask what you’re working on?”

  “Working on?” she repeated blankly. She glanced to her desk. “Oh. This. It’s only my diary.”

  “Only a diary? Bryce told me that you hoped to become a published author at some point.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “I fear that is an old dream for me. I’m fortunate to get a few thoughts down each day, an account of life here on the ranch.”

  Robert stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb. “For whom to read?”

  She lifted a brow and shook her head. “I do not know. Me? Samuel, someday?”

  “Come now, Odessa,” Robert said. “Think. You come from a publishing family. The nation is fascinated with life here in the West. Why not turn your journals into a book?” He put two fingers in the air and waved across the air, like it was a newspaper headline. “‘Journals of a Frontierswoman,’” he said, “‘best-seller.’”

  She smiled. “Right. I highly doubt that others would consider the day in, day out of ranch life riveting reading.”

  “You never know,” he said. “Look at what happened with books about the Oregon Trail. Or for miners. Even new territories. For all intents and purposes, Colorado is still new territory, even though it’s been a state a while.”

  “I suppose that’s true. You never know.” Her father had always said publishing was a gamble. And that invariably, his favorite books sold few volumes and the books he rather disliked sold in the thousands. There is no accounting for American reading tastes, he’d say, shaking his he
ad.

  “Well, good night, Odessa,” Robert was saying. “Thanks again for supper.”

  “Certainly, Robert.” He left her doorway and disappeared behind the door of his room, closing it softly so as not to disturb Samuel.

  Odessa stared at her journal. Might there be a chance that a publisher would be interested in her writing? She smiled and looked down to her lap. The slow turning wheel of publishing would take years to generate any income, if she could find a publisher …

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t pester old friends and acquaintances of her father’s about her little book. It wouldn’t be proper.

  No, her writing was for her benefit alone. Her family’s. That was all there was to it.

  Chapter 11

  Moira glanced up to the great glass ceiling of Grand Station and reveled in this lovely moment. Such potential, such interest, such hope. Who would have thought it possible, with so little of her inheritance left in her bags? But fortune had smiled. She gave Gavin a secretive grin as he approached across the train platform, two tickets in hand. Never had she felt more alive, and part of that feeling was most assuredly due to this man, her new friend, partner, lover. She flirtatiously cocked one brow up at him. “So … tell me. Where did you decide we should begin?”

  “I’m impressed,” he returned. “I didn’t think we’d make it to the train station without you choking that out of me.”

  “I can be patient …” she placed a gloved hand on the curve of her hip, adding, “when inspired. But now I’m done. Where are we going?” She plucked the tickets out of his hand before he could react. Her eyes scanned the words, once, then twice. “San Francisco,” she said. “I thought you said it was—”

  “I said it was saturated. The market potential largely gone. Your audience is farther afield, darling. But you wanted to see it, and see it, you shall. We’ll move on from there, directly to Gunnison, to where the first front of your market lies in wait. In the meantime,” he said, putting a gloved finger beneath her chin to lift it, “we’ll dally … and explore … and learn what we need to in order to succeed.”

  “So that is it?” she asked, pulling away slightly. “You can walk away from New York, all your business, and focus solely upon me?”

  “For a time,” he said. “For the next few months my goal is to see Moira Colorado become the most famous woman in America.”

  She eyed him from the side. “You can do that? You honestly believe you can make me famous?”

  He smiled. “Darling, we’ve already begun. Come now. Let us explore your new kingdom together.”

  Helpless, Nic held William. The man shivered so hard he shook them both. For a while, Nic hoped to bring heat back to his friend, give him a fighting chance to live. But as the hours passed, he hoped only to lessen William’s discomfort, ease his transition into death. He’d long been unconscious, but still seemed to suffer. His teeth were chattering and Nic thought they might soon break and fall out of his mouth, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Where he was going, teeth weren’t really necessary. Were they?

  Just take him, he said to God, holding William tight, hoping to lessen his tremors. Be done with it. You’re intent on it, right? “Just take him,” he ground out. He couldn’t stand it, seeing his friend suffer any longer. There was no hope here, in this godforsaken land. There would be no healing, no recovery. He didn’t even know William’s next of kin, so there was no way for him to tell them that William was gone.

  Failure upon failure. I fail everyone. Over and over again.

  “It’s all right, William,” he said. “I’ll find my way. Don’t worry about me, man. You can be done with me, if you’re hanging on for me. I’ll be all right. Always am. Somehow.”

  He thought he’d have to keep talking to him, giving him permission to die.

  But then William stilled in his arms.

  The chattering of his teeth abruptly ceased.

  He felt William’s heart thud to a final thump and then fail.

  He breathed in, once, but did not breathe out.

  It was done.

  Nic let him go and scrambled away. The cold chill of death was upon him, thicker than the layer of shells that stuck to his arms and legs. Nic crunched away across the shells, panting, hands on knees, staring at his cold, still friend.

  He looked around. What to do, what to do now?

  He’d bury William, give him a proper burial. And then—

  Nic looked northward, up the beach, then out to sea.

  He would never set foot on a ship again, not if he could help it.

  He’d walk, all the way back to the States, if necessary.

  “You can’t put those up,” Moira said, ripping a poster from Gavin’s hand.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  She stared down at the poster and struggled to answer him. It had her stage name, Moira Colorado, emblazoned across the top and a drawing of her in the middle, above the Gunnison Opera House, along with the dates and times of her appearances. The opera house was nothing like the Opera Comiqué of Paris, or even the opera houses of New York, where fine and upstanding men and women produced lovely stories and song across the stage. It might have been built to accommodate a minor show, even a true opera, at one time—like General Palmer’s opera house in the Springs—but like so many other boomtowns that had gone bust, the owner had given in to the will of the masses and now booked much bawdier entertainment. Whatever brings ’em in the door, he’d said.

  “It’s … it’s in two weeks. We’ll never be ready in time.”

  “Come now, darling. Trust me. You’ve watched the girls in San Francisco. You have it in your mind, this role. I’ve seen it in your beautiful eyes. It’s taking shape. You know the songs, we’ve hired the musicians, even your opening act.”

  “This poster says I’ve appeared from coast to coast.”

  Gavin smiled without showing his teeth. “You have. I’ve escorted you from East to West myself. Simply not on stage.”

  “It is a falsehood, Gavin. And what is this, ‘Thousands of admirers’?”

  “Darling, you do have thousands of admirers. Think of how many came to hear you sing in London and in Paris. They were in the thousands, if not more.”

  “Not more,” she said, shaking her head.

  “But thousands is accurate, right?”

  She sighed. “It’s only that—”

  He wrapped an arm around her and walked her down the wooden boardwalk. “You are ill at ease. I know. This is so new for you. But trust me. Allow me to do my job. You’ve always let word of mouth do the work of bringing people to see you. Why not sell out every seat from opening night? I want people standing in the street in front, vying to get in because they’re dying to see you, frustrated, because they can only hear rumors about how terrific you are.”

  Moira couldn’t help but smile at the image. He reached to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

  “We’ll stay here for a bit,” he went on, “until word spreads, out to the smaller towns and camps. And then when we reach those towns, we’ll stay only a few days, with but one or two appearances.” He laughed under his breath. “Trust me, darling. You’ll never feel more desired and sought after than once we begin to tour.”

  “Mister!” a boy called behind them. “Mister!”

  They turned to see three children of about nine years in age racing up the walk. “A friend said you were paying a nickel to paste up those posters across town.”

  Gavin grinned at them and then at Moira. “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded and looked into his bright eyes. “I do, Gavin,” she said.

  Gavin handed a stack of posters to each of the boys. “Now I don’t want any merchants angry with us for putting posters on their storefronts. Keep ’em to the alleyways, understood? But then I want at least one on every wall from one end of town to the other. Put two on the alley walls near the saloons and cathouses.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. “Here’s a nickel for
a bucket of paste and a brush, and a nickel for each of you. Come find me at the Worthington Hotel when you’re done. If I look around and see that you boys have done a good job, there’ll be another dime for each.”

  The boys stared with wide eyes and then broke out into grins, nudging each other. In seconds they were running down the street, leaping in the air, whooping at their good fortune. Gavin was smiling as he turned to look at her again. “They understand how it works. They can provide something I need, and if they do it well, I will pay more for it.” He reached for her hands. “And you, my dear, will take the stage and be the best thing any man or woman has ever seen on this side of the country. And they will pay handsomely. You’ll see.” He waved one hand in the air, and at that moment, Moira wondered if he were more magician than man. They resumed walking. “You’ll begin with these camp songs you’ve been learning, taking them high and then low and then high again, building, building. And at the end, I want you to sing an aria.”

  “An aria?” she asked in confusion, pulling him to a stop.

  “An aria. Something in Spanish or French so it sounds all the more exotic and sophisticated. Your audience will leave feeling cultured solely from having heard it. For some it will be the first fine music they’ve ever heard. For others it will hearken back to their best theatrical memories, if not surpass them. But you will have become their friend through the course of the evening, almost one of them with the more simple songs, so you won’t be such a distant star that they can’t think of reaching out and touching you. We want them to reach, darling. Long for you. Hunger for you.”

  Moira looked up into his eyes and saw the familiar desire in them. She sensed that he no longer spoke of the audience to come, but of his own wanting. They had checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Knapp, so they could share a room without scrutiny as well as save on the expense. It was foolish, really, to book a second room when they spent every night together. Gavin had even bought her a gorgeous yellow diamond and slipped it on her finger with the whispered words, “Our little, delicious secret.” And it was delicious. Moira loved the shiver of excitement she got passing by the hotel manager at the front desk. Did they really fool the man? It mattered little, only that she, Moira St. Clair, chose how she ordered her days and nights and with whom she spent them. For the first time since she found out Max had stolen all her money, Moira felt masterful. In control.