He regarded her coolly from across the room, reading her thoughts. “It’s mostly your neck. Hair must’ve caught fire. Someone must’ve gotten that put out backstage before I found you.”
She looked up to the ceiling, thinking. “Yes. Matthew, a stagehand. He got it out, but then a curtain was on fire, and then my hair and my dress …” She reached up and felt for her hair. Her eyes widened in alarm.
“Half of it’s gone,” he said calmly, as if describing a storm already passed. “If we tend to the burns on your scalp, there’s a chance it’ll come back.” He glanced over at her again. “Quit your weeping, Moira. It’ll sting the burns on your face.”
Daniel awakened again in Dr. Beason’s office. He blinked hard against the bright light of eight lanterns surrounding him. Then screamed out in pain, all of a sudden remembering what had brought him here in the first place.
“Hold him still,” the young doctor said firmly. Several people took better hold of him as the physician dug into his flesh, making Daniel scream again. “There, we have it,” said Dr. Beason, holding up a bullet to the light and dropping it into a pan with a clank.
Daniel panted hard, trying to focus, remember what had happened.
“You were lucky,” the doctor said, moving into his line of vision. “All that soot on you, it took us a while to figure out someone had shot you too.”
Moira. Bannock. Daniel’s vision cleared and he sat up.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dr. Beason cried. His assistants rushed back toward their patient.
Daniel brought his legs around.
A new man entered the room—Sheriff Chambers. “You in a hurry to go somewhere, Daniel?”
“I have business to attend to,” Daniel said, reaching for his shirt, which was covered in soot and blood.
The sheriff gave him a rueful smile. “Think you’ll want a clean one. You’re lucky to be alive, Daniel. Who shot you and left you for dead?”
The doctor and his assistants forced Daniel to stay still as they began to bandage up his shoulder.
“It was the same man who took Moira Colorado,” Daniel said, wincing as they wound the bandage around him. “Reid Bannock.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Bannock? And Moira Colorado is alive?”
“Yes, and somehow she knew Bannock. She was afraid of him, looks like for good reason.”
The sheriff thought over his words. “You’re not the only one who got shot. There was a man in town—a detective—who was shot and left for dead in an abandoned mine. We just retrieved his body.”
“Think Bannock shot him, too?”
“Could be,” he said, tucking his chin down. “The question is, why?”
Daniel stepped off the table and winced, blinking rapidly, hoping to keep from blacking out. “I need to help you find them. Moira’s in danger. And I was charged with her care.”
“You just leave Miss Moira to me,” said the sheriff. “We’ll find ’em.”
“Did anyone see which direction they were heading?” He reached out and steadied himself against the wall, then, after a moment, grabbed his jacket. It was burned full of holes.
“I’m afraid not.”
Another man peeked in the doorway and caught the sheriff’s attention. “Excuse me,” the sheriff said, moving into the hallway to speak with the man. Daniel wished he could get past the doctor and nurse and follow him out. Had they learned something more about Moira?
“Sit down, Mr. Adams,” said Dr. Beason sternly. “You’re liable to pass out. You need to give that shoulder a few hours before you even think of moving.”
“Sorry, Doc,” Daniel said, pulling on his soot-soaked shirt. “I have to be on my way.” He ignored Beason’s angry retort and left. Fortunately for him, the doctor had many other patients awaiting him; people lined the hallway and waiting room. He threw up his hands at Daniel’s stupidity and moved on to the next one.
Daniel walked directly over to the sheriff and deputy. “Listen, Sheriff, I have to help you find her. It’s my duty.”
Sheriff Chambers regarded him and then reached for the paper in the deputy’s hand. “Looks like Reid Bannock has been a bit of a nuisance down near Westcliffe.” Daniel’s eyes scanned the wanted poster, detailing Bannock’s history as a freed prisoner who had violated his parole.
“How could this have happened?” Daniel asked. “How was it that he had enough money to come here, buy the merc and the house?”
“I intend to find out,” the sheriff responded. “There’s more. The telegraph operator identified the detective who was shot as one who had been sending a telegram every other day to a couple near Westcliffe.”
“Westcliffe?” Daniel repeated. Bannock had been wanted down there. “I think Moira said something about having a sister thereabouts. On a big spread not far from Westcliffe.” He remembered her going on and on about it aboard ship one day, how her sister had become a rancher’s wife while she felt more at home in a city. She had a brother, too, somewhere.
“You said Moira appeared to have known this Bannock?”
“Yes.”
“It all has to be tied together somehow.”
“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “It does. Bannock is after something, and he’s using Moira to get it. Those people at the ranch, they clearly feared he was coming back and wanted to make sure he stayed put. We have to warn them.”
Chapter 23
Nic liked the sultry, slow-paced rhythm of Central American ports as the ship made her way northward. He even settled into the cadence of being aboard ship again, appreciating things he hadn’t before—the rations of fresh water, two meals a day, tasks to complete, and then falling into his hammock for a night’s rest. Slowly, he gained a few of the pounds he had lost, but never had he felt stronger, physically. He could endure a six-hour shift of hauling up and belaying sails or six hours before the yawning mouth of a coal-burning stove, fueling the fires that emitted the steam that helped him inch his way back to America. The combination of both steam and sail made the ship one of the fastest he’d ever sailed on.
He did not know what he would do once he reached her shores, but he knew he wanted to get back to the United States. He day-dreamed of sourdough bread and pot roast, of pie and ice cream, straight off the paddle. He thought of Moira and Odessa, hungry for word of their well-being. His father’s voice echoed through his dreams at night, urging him to see to his sisters’ welfare, make certain they—
Nic fell from his hammock, groaning on the floor. He looked up and saw that he was surrounded by shipmates, and they were laughing. It was Alejandro who had his hand on Nic’s hammock—he had dumped him. He gestured toward Nic and said something foul in Spanish. The man had been taunting him from the day he first crawled aboard, starving to death. Up to now Nic had ignored him, but this, this was too much.
Nic jumped to his feet and edged toward the man, ignoring the alarmed delight of the other men. “Stay away from me,” he warned Alejandro in his own tongue. “Trust me,” he said, switching to English, “I could pound you to a pulp.”
The man sneered at him and spit in his face. Nic waited no longer. He pulled back his fist, looking forward to seeing Alejandro spin away from him once the punch landed, when a strong arm held him back. He whirled, ready to hit the man who held him.
Manuel, the coal boss. Nic lowered his fist.
“You wish to make it to California?” Manuel asked.
“I do,” he ground out.
“Then, no fighting. The capitan, I’ve seen him toss brawlers overboard for the sharks.” He tapped Nic on the chest. “Make certain you’re not the next.”
“Manuel, you can’t expect me to ignore them?” Nic said, gesturing in exasperation toward the retreating backs of Alejandro and his companions.
“I expect you to think only of California and how you get there. Right now, this ship is your fastest way there, no?”
Nic didn’t answer. He clenched his hands and slowly flexed them.
“California,” Manuel
said again, one eyebrow arched meaningfully. “Say it.”
“California,” Nic whispered.
Nic knew it would take another twelve days to reach California’s border, another two to reach Los Angeles. Fourteen days. Could he make it fourteen days without fighting? California, he repeated silently. Just the name of it stirred him, buoyed him to belief that there he could make a new start, make a name for himself as … what? He did not know how he would make his way back to Colorado, to Odessa, only that California was the bridge that would get him there. And once there … perhaps Odessa could help him figure out what to do next.
If he couldn’t even reach the States—if he was thrown overboard for fighting—he might not see his sisters ever again.
Alejandro, the leader among six men who seemed to delight the most in his slow torture, edged past him as he emerged on deck, hitting his shoulder so hard that Nic spun halfway around. Nic paused for a moment and closed his eyes, feeling the shiver run up his neck and over his scalp, back down his shoulders and to his fingertips, now wrapped in a clench. Alejandro moved on, tossing his hand in the air and laughing, calling Nic several foul names, recognizable in any language. He took several deep breaths, repeating, “California.”
His captain whistled and lifted his chin in Nic’s direction when he opened his eyes. He gestured down, toward the steam room, and Nic turned immediately to obey. It would be a relief to be down there for a while, to shovel the heavy coal, to sweat until he felt weak, then eat, drink, and fall into his hammock. It would be another day down, another day closer to home. He rushed down the ladder. Manuel, already at his post, watched him with wary eyes as he entered, and before he could say a word, Nic picked up the shovel and began shoveling the irregularly shaped, dusty bits into the wide mouth of the stove, already making his face burn with heat.
He liked the crunch of the coal, the grinding slide of the shovel, the cadence of dig, lift, toss. He worked furiously for a while—at double the pace of the two men who stood on either side of him—fueled by thoughts of the sneer on Alejandro’s face, how it would feel to slap him with the flat of this broad shovel or cut into his nose bridge with the edge.
Use your brain as well as your brawn, his father’s voice echoed through him, seeming to emanate from the heat waves dancing off the coal before him.
I am learning, aren’t I? Granted, he longed to use his muscles to end this silent war with Alejandro, once and for all, beat him until he backed off and left him alone forever. All his life, he never tolerated bullies, jumping to take on a fight before it was ever brought to him. But what had once driven him to fight was slowly fading, still there, to be sure, but not so vivid in his chest, his jaw, his fists. He paused, panting, and stared at the fire, then over to the coal boss, who gave his nod of assent over a brief respite.
The coal boss took the cigar he had been chewing on, brought a lit torch up to the end and puffed on it until it drew smoke, as craggy lines of fire lit the tobacco leaves inside. Nic looked away, but could still feel Manuel’s gaze. After a moment, he glanced back to him, and the coal boss pulled his head right, beckoning him to come and stand beside him.
Nic did as he bade, aware that the other two men, using slow and steady movements, would soon be through with their piles. He tried not to let it annoy him; after all, they had arrived earlier than he, been at it longer. But a shift was five piles long. One could do it fast or slow and steady, but when a coal digger was done, he got a full barrel of seawater dumped over him as he exited, and then a bucketful of freshwater. The other sailors had to wait a week between baths. And after that, he was free to do as he liked. It was what made it good to work a shift in the coal bins. “Sit, sit,” Manuel said, gesturing to a stool beside him.
He lifted his cigar toward Nic, offering him a puff, but Nic shook his head. “No, gracias.”
“Dominic,” the coal boss said in Spanish, “what burns inside you?”
“Uh … por qué?” He had no idea if he was understanding the man correctly. He understood the words, but the question made no sense.
Manuel repeated it. “What burns inside of you?”
Nic frowned. “No comprendo.”
The coal boss smiled so that folds of fat at his neck grew deep with wrinkles. “You understand me fine. You are an intelligent man, a man who sees much around you. But the anger you feel is rotting you away from the inside out. Anger is hot; it burns. Like that coal there.” He nodded to the fire, and Nic followed his gaze. What was so special about Nic that would draw this out?
Manuel allowed him a moment to think. Then he continued, “I see you, day in and day out, and you are like a large piece of coal. On the outside, you are dark, silent, still. But on the inside you are burning away, your heat expanding. Look to the coal. What happens to those pieces, once they are consumed by the fire?”
“They disintegrate,” Nic muttered. He knew Manuel knew no English, but the man obviously understood what he was saying. He switched to Spanish and said, “But I am changing … if you could’ve seen me a few months ago … the burning has lessened.”
“Ah no,” said the man, laying a rounded paw upon his shoulder, “It has simply receded, gone deeper, my friend. I can see it in you, like I can see a cold coal in the morning, after it has popped out of the stove during the night, and know that if I break it open, it will glow red with heat.”
Nic moved gently away, out from under Manuel’s hand. He felt as if his skin were tender, raw at the man’s touch, and he wondered why.
“There is only one consuming fire that does not destroy us,” the man said in a low voice, leaning closer.
Nic frowned. “And that is?”
“God, my friend. If we give God our lives, then He will consume us from the inside out, but we will not be destroyed. We will become more than what we were, not less. Part of the fire.”
“I see. God.” Excellent, just what I need. A monk masquerading as a coal man. Nic lifted his chin and eyebrows and tried to keep the derision from his expression. “May I get back to work now?” he asked evenly.
“Si, si,” Manuel said, puffing on his cigar again. He released him with a wave of his hand, but his eyes held him, followed him all the way back to his position between the other two, who never looked their way, continued to do what they had been doing their entire shift: dig, lift, toss.
It was just Nic’s luck, he decided, as he entered into the rhythm of his compadres, giving in to the slow beat of those who worked on either side of him, that the coal boss fancied himself a theologian.
And that he had at least twelve more days before he could jump ship.
“You have to sell the land. Sell a couple hundred acres,” Robert said to Bryce after supper.
Odessa glanced over at the men, across from each other at the table.
“I’ve been back over the books,” Robert said. “You have to sell the land. Now.” He was pressing his brother, Odessa could see, provoking an argument.
Bryce frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “I think we should wait. See what the men find, if they have to go as far as Spain to bring back more horses, see what the auction brings in from the paintings.”
Robert let out a scoffing sound. “You’re being naive, little brother. Shortsighted.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“No. I’ve been here long enough,” Robert said, thrusting his chin out. “I can see that you need some guidance, and I’m giving it to you. Sell the land.”
Bryce shook his head, shock in his eyes. “You know as well as I that if we sell that land now, we’re not likely to get it back. And the land that my buyer will want is the land with the water rights. Land that Odessa’s inheritance went to purchase—”
“It doesn’t matter! Stop being stubborn and do what you must. If you failed your wife, you failed her.”
Bryce rose, slowly, his hands clenching and unclenching. Quietly, Odessa set down her clay pitcher, preparing to get between them if it came to fisticuffs. “You’ve c
rossed the line, brother,” Bryce said lowly.
“I guess I should’ve crossed it a while ago. I can’t sit around here forever, ignoring my own business to try and help you with yours. You need a kick in the—”
“Robert!” Odessa cried in alarm. “Bryce. Stop it, both of you. We will find a way. Find a way out of this mess.”
“I think you should be on your way, Robert,” Bryce said, seething. “Tomorrow. First train out. Get back to your precious shipyard and stay out of my business.”
“Fine,” Robert bit out.
“Fine!” Bryce said. He turned and stormed out, throwing open the door and not bothering to close it.
Odessa looked to Robert as his face softened.
“Pack up that crate of paintings, Dess,” he said wearily. “I’ll do my best by you, by Bryce. I’ll head down to the bunkhouse, tell the men to pack and get ready for the journey tomorrow.”
“You couldn’t have found another way out, Robert?” she asked in exasperation. “You had to provoke an argument?”
“How? What would be my excuse for such a sudden departure?”
She stood there, considering him. He was angry at Bryce, wanted to punish him … over her. Her.
“We’ll make amends later, down the road,” he said feebly, pausing in the doorway. “You really will need to think about selling the land, Dess. Sooner than later. I don’t see another way. Regardless of where the money came from, you’ll need it back.”
“We’ll see to our affairs,” Odessa said, standing straighter. “As your brother said, it’s best you move on and see to your own.”
He stared at her a long moment. And then he turned and was gone.
Bryce had ridden ahead of them on the way to Westcliffe, making for a long, silent, tension-filled ride for Odessa in the wagon with Robert. Doc, Dietrich, and Tait tried to maintain a quiet banter but obviously could feel that the McAllan brothers were at odds. Odessa was glad that Bryce had refused to let Tabito go—claiming he needed him, more than ever, as foreman—because if he had been here, the short man would’ve demanded they all make their peace and be done with it.
HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Page 24