HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Wear the red gown tomorrow night,” he said. “We’ll find a black lace fan, and a comb for your hair. We’ll draw thick kohl lines about your eyes. You’ll remind them of the little they know of Spain, of passion, the exotic, but your blonde curls and green eyes will remind them of home. Make certain the pianist has the music for your Spanish aria today—you’ll bring the house down. This town won’t be able to talk about anything but you.”

  “Nothing but me?” she said, arching a brow.

  He smiled in her direction. “It’s already happening.” He nodded to the saloonkeeper who was wiping down the bar.

  The fat man smiled but managed to hold on to his cigar. “Hiring six other men today. From the talk around town, I’d expect we’ll draw twice as many as anything we’ve seen before. After the first night, I’ll charge to reserve a table.”

  “And we’ll get a cut of that,” Gavin said.

  The man nodded once. “Fifty-fifty, as agreed.”

  “Good,” Gavin said, turning back to her. “So tomorrow is the night we lay the bait. The next we begin to reel in the fish. And the third night, we sink the boat with the bounty. Then we move on.”

  “If it will be that good of a run, why leave?”

  “Because you always want them hungering for more, Moira. Trust me. I’ve seen this process unfold before. I’d wager we’ll have some who will follow you for miles just to see you again.” He rubbed his temples, obviously suffering from one of his headaches. Moira frowned. He never had a headache on their crossing. Was this too much? Too trying?

  “That’s the kind of excitement we need,” he went on finally. “The kind of word that will spread like wildfire, so that in the next town, we’ll be reeling in the fish from the first night on. Once we’ve been to two or three towns, I’ll hire some men to go ahead of us, secure the right spot for the show, place the posters.”

  “It is an ambitious plan,” Moira said.

  “It is a profitable plan,” he said with a wink as he pulled her to his side. “You, my darling, are about to be the belle of every county we enter.”

  Moira watched from behind the curtain as the saloon filled with men, and some women. They flooded in, filling every corner of the floor, and cheered the three girls that Gavin had hired to sing a few songs to warm up the crowd. They were a sassy trio, with heavy makeup, and when they danced, they lifted their skirts as high as their knees. Sometimes higher, bringing hoots and hollers from the male onlookers and shrieks of laughter from the women. It was the epitome of the type of performance Gavin did not want her to give, and she was thankful for that.

  But they did serve to loosen up the onlookers, and the contrast between what they presented on stage and what Moira Colorado presented was bridged, but clearly separate. They were showgirls; Moira remained a lady. They were crass; Moira was class. As they departed the stage, they reached out to touch the hands of those in the front and kiss a few men of the audience, blowing out every other lamp as they moved toward the curtain.

  When Moira entered, carrying a lone candle that cast a warm glow on her face and singing a low and lonely tune about a girl longing for the husband who had left her for the mines, the audience hushed into a reverent silence, practically holding their breath as they waited for her to sing the next lyric, to tell the story. The song ended with the girl giving up, giving in to death, and as she sang the last note, she allowed a tear to fall down her cheek. When it dropped, she looked down with heavy lids, sighed, and then blew out her candle.

  The saloon was eerily silent for several seconds before one man—Gavin—stood and began applauding. A few seconds later, every man and woman was on their feet, cheering her as well. Then she smiled and the girls emerged to light more of the candles in the lanterns, as the pianist turned to a more buoyant tune, telling the story of happier times, of the ways of a maid with a man. The music lifted into an arc and sashayed down, lifted again and hovered, showing off her broad range, trained by years of opera. But the song was written for the common man, and the common men, judging from their faces, loved it.

  So did Moira. In the opera houses, people remained somewhat distant, reserved. To be certain, they rose to their feet in a standing ovation at the end of her task, but here, now, these faces showed every emotion—sorrow over her brokenhearted portrayal, delight in the flirtations between a man and woman, hope. If she moved a step, every head followed her. If she lifted her arm, they looked to where she pointed. They were raw, untried, and extremely malleable, all of which Moira decided made them thoroughly delightful to entertain.

  She finished with the Spanish aria that pushed her to the very limits of her range. It emerged from an opera about a wealthy lord who enslaved the poor people of his land, forcing them to work in his fields and orchards for very little money. Moira sang the part of a young woman who was in love with a young man of her village, but an evil man came and squired her away. The majority of it was a pining, aching song, but at the end, the evil lord died, and the lovers were reunited, allowing her to relax and spin and smile, which in turn, allowed her listeners to relax too.

  All of it was in Spanish, of course. There might’ve been one or two present who spoke the language, but the rest were no doubt following her visual cues and the story told by the musical notes themselves. The showgirls had offered to act out the brief scenes behind her as she sang, but Gavin immediately said no—there would be nothing resembling pantomime behind Moira Colorado. So they elected to risk it, gamble on the fact that most men preferred to be seen as educated, and that opera was at its core entertainment.

  She never expected them to be transformed. But they were. By the time she whipped her black lace fan into its lovely arch and peered out at her audience over it, they were again on their feet, clapping and whooping and hollering for more.

  But with a brief, dignified curtsey, Moira Colorado left the stage, more confident than ever that her people only wanted more of her.

  Gavin entered their room that night and found her standing by the window, watching the flood of people disperse from the saloon below. He was smoking a cigar and grinning widely. He cast out his hands, “Did I tell you or did I tell you?”

  “You told me,” she said, moving toward him and kissing him deeply.

  “Moira, Moira,” he said, cradling her face, “you were perfect. You played it perfectly! I couldn’t be more proud of you.” He kissed her again, pulling her close, seductively. But then he abruptly broke away and playfully sat her down on the edge of the bed. He reached inside his jacket pocket and puffed on his cigar, grinning again as smoke emerged from his nostrils in twin streams.

  He tossed a wad of bills on her lap and Moira stared down at them in wonder. “Our bonus for the night. Saloonkeeper figures he tripled his earnings with us here.” He knelt on the bed and kissed her ear and then her neck as she counted the money. Hundreds, hundreds of dollars! She hadn’t seen this much money since Paris! She laughed then, and accepted him pushing her flat atop the bed, kissing her ear, sending shivers of delight down her spine. Briefly, she thought of the woman she had seen downstairs, the one who reminded her of her mother, but then cast the memory out of her mind.

  It didn’t matter what Mama would say now. Moira was a woman, in every sense of the word. She was free to experiment and travel where she wished. She controlled her destiny. It was good she had gone through her inheritance, really, gotten rid of the ties that were binding and foreboding and shaming. Her inheritance had afforded her the privilege of training, giving her the foundation she needed—for that she was thankful. But now she was free to do with her talent as she wished. No strings attached. And here, in the arms of Gavin, her brilliant new manager, an entire new horizon had been opened to her, as if it had been hiding behind a curtain the whole time.

  Odessa didn’t pause when she saw Bryce and Tabito making their way across the field astride their mounts. She called something to Robert about watching the baby as she flew out the door. She ran to the fence, ducked throug
h it, and tore across the field, crying as Bryce at last swept her into his arms and slowly turned her around. He kissed her cheek.

  Dimly, she saw that Tabito had moved on, giving them their privacy, but she could only look on Bryce. She put her hands on his hairy face and looked up into his eyes, her own blurry with tears. When she couldn’t say anything, so thick was her throat for the want of crying, he simply pulled her close. “It’s all right, Dess. It’s all right. He’s gone.”

  “Gone where?” she croaked.

  “To Leadville.”

  Leadville, at least a three-day journey.

  “Looks to me like he intends to settle in there. He and his cronies separated once they made town. But our man will watch Bannock every day, for as long as we like, and report back to us via telegram, three times a week, just to be sure.” He shook his head once. “He’s gone, Dess. We can let go of fearing his return—if he was coming after us, he would’ve done so by now.”

  She cried again, from relief, clinging to his sweat-soaked collar, “Please don’t leave me again, Bryce. Please don’t go to Spain.”

  He hesitated and then kissed her head softly. “We’ll figure it out, Dess. Together.”

  Chapter 14

  Moira eased into her role as Moira Colorado with such ease, it seemed like a sleight of hand, such as the magician who sometimes preceded her on stage performed. In Telluride, she paused by a poster outside a hat shop, and her eyes ran across the name, Moira Colorado, over and over. It seemed good, right. Fitting. In Colorado she had learned what freedom, what being a woman, really meant. In Colorado, she had spurned two men who fought to claim her. In Colorado she had been given her start, that first night on stage.

  “There you are,” Gavin said, pausing in the alleyway and doubling back to meet her. “You really shouldn’t be alone here, Moira.”

  “It’s midday. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “But these people have been waiting for Moira Colorado to sing for them for over a week. If they knew it was you, here …”

  She gestured toward the illustration of her on the poster—a mysterious, delightful drawing Gavin had had done of her. It showed only the top of her fantastic teal gown, her long neck, chin, and full lips, and then delicate fingers pulling the brim of a dainty hat downward, keeping her eyes hidden. It spoke of intrigue and class and … dare she think it? Seduction. Moira Colorado was swiftly finding the power and art of it, learning from the master, Gavin Knapp. More and more she could see how he slowly drew her in, eased into her life, and filled her needs as they emerged, making her think it was what she wanted all the while. It was masterful, godlike. And she was using some of that knowledge in seducing her audience every night, making them love her, making them want her, cry out for her return, mourn her departure.

  Leave them wanting more, Gavin always said. And with a start, she realized that he always made her feel the same way about him. She hungered for another moment, another conversation, another kiss. Never, when he walked in the room, did she groan inwardly, wishing to be without him. Gavin took her arm and steered her back into the flow of the busy downtown, chattering about their venue for the evening, sure to draw more than three hundred.

  She couldn’t imagine this life without him, her manager, her partner. For the first time, Moira wondered if they could continue like this forever. What would it be like if he left her? Returned to his world of business? How could she hold onto him? Make him feel as intrigued with her as she was with him? He loved a puzzle to unravel, a problem to fix. He was in the process of launching her, Moira Colorado, in a new field of theater, giving him endless puzzles and problems. What would happen when those riddles were solved? Would he tire of her?

  She’d simply have to come up with some new way to entice him if that happened. Because a month and a half after she met him, the thought of living without Gavin was suddenly equivalent to losing an arm. The idea of it brought her up short. She hesitated, and he peered down at her, eyes narrowing in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Quite,” she said, and nudged him forward.

  “Good,” he said, from the look on his face not quite believing her, and then adding, “I need to stop up here. Send off a few telegrams and make sure all is well back in New York. Do you mind? Waiting?”

  “Not at all,” she said, adding a smile. She paused outside. “I’ll stand here, in front,” she said in a low tone. “I want to watch the people, get a sense of them.”

  He quirked a smile. “Very good.”

  Moira lowered her parasol and then wound its fabric tightly around the rod. Then she stood there, hands perched atop it, watching the throngs of people pass by. This was largely a mining community, but there appeared to be a good number of gentlemen. Several eyed her as they passed, tipping their hats. Moira smiled demurely in their direction. After about ten minutes, a handsome one hurried by her, turned fully around to smile, walking backward, and then resumed his path down the street. After another moment, he rotated on his heel and returned to her.

  “You new in town, Miss?”

  “Fairly new,” she said, sliding her eyes down the street.

  “You need some assistance?” He raised a brow and crossed his arms, looking her over as if she were a pastry in a baker’s window.

  “She’s with me,” Gavin said, suddenly at her side.

  “I thank you, sir,” she said, sliding her hand through the crook of Gavin’s arm. “You are most kind. If you’d care to come to my aid, please … attend my show this evening.” She slid a flyer out of the cuff of her dress, handing it to the young man, whose eyes widened in surprise. He glanced from the flyer back to her to the flyer again.

  “May I take it as a personal invitation?” he dared to ask in front of Gavin.

  “I fear it is a most public invitation,” she returned. “Come now, Gavin, we must be off, yes?”

  “Yes,” he said, but his eyes remained on the young man as they turned.

  She wrapped her arm through the crook of his. She could tell by the clench of his jaw he was still irked. “Gavin, I was only doing as you taught me … encouraging the audience.”

  He looked down at her and studied her for several long seconds, then returned his gaze to the walk. “I want you to engage the audience corporately, Moira. The only man I want you to engage alone is me.”

  Moira doubled her steps. “Can we slow down a bit, please?”

  He did as she bade but remained silent.

  “Gavin, the only man I wish to entertain alone is you,” she said softly. Did he have no idea how much she cared for him? None at all?

  He slid a look at her from the corner of his eye. “Good. Good,” he repeated. “So? An early supper?” He gestured toward a small restaurant.

  Smoke poured out of a chimney and the street smelled of freshly baked bread, making Moira’s stomach rumble. She looked to Gavin again. There was something off, different about him, as if his mind was on other things. “Gavin, is everything all right?”

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the door.

  Moira, giving up on understanding the current that flowed just beneath the surface, sighed and turned inward. She’d need some food before that night’s performance.

  Reid Bannock was striding down the street of Leadville, enjoying the high spring sun and his new town. To his left was an impressive ridge of mountains, with a new wave of miners still exploring them, seeking their fortunes—all potential customers in his newly purchased mercantile. He had stashed away enough cash to last him a while, prior to his unfortunate imprisonment, and had easily obtained it after he was freed. Now all he needed was a home, a home fit for a successful merchant. Everyone knew that such things got around—if it came to be known that Leadville Merc was owned by a well-to-do man who knew how to run a business, turn a profit, then they’d want to be seen shopping there. It said something about a man or woman.

  He glanced at several posters, lined up, one atop another on a wall as he passed. T
hen he stopped, doubled back and ripped one down.

  “Moira Colorado, Singing Sensation of the West, Coming to Leadville, Four Nights Only, May 10–13.”

  He laughed softly, staring at the line of her profile, remembering just that expression in real life. His index finger touched her lips, remembering the sweet taste of her. She had nearly been his. Nearly.

  And now she was coming to Leadville. To a town that was rapidly going to be his town, even more clearly than Colorado Springs had once been. Right into the devil’s lair. It was unbelievably perfect. Divine.

  A man fell into step beside him. Dennis. “I have received a report on the McAllans, sir,” he said in a quiet voice.

  “Good. What do you have?”

  “They suffered a terrible winter. There was a blizzard that killed many of their horses and an outbreak of strangles took out some others. Also, Mrs. McAllan has a son, an infant of about eight or nine months old.”

  “I see,” he said, carefully keeping any glee at their misfortune from his voice. “What of the O’Toole mine? Or the gold bars?”

  “That appears to be a dead end. May even be rumor rather than fact. They’ve not touched the O’Toole land, nor have they brought any bars to the county assessor. They seem to be pursuing ranch life as if that is all that is ahead of them.”

  “Oh, they know where it is. I’m sure of it. They’re just biding their time, deciding when to let the world know where the gold is and how much they’ve found.”

  “I think not,” the young man dared. Reid shot him a narrowed look and the man quickly amended. “There’s something else. There is some speculation that Bryce McAllan might head to Spain to secure new horses to supplement his herd.”

  Reid paused and stared down at the man. “Are you certain? He would consider leaving his wife and child alone on that ranch?”