"He made me promise to allow his courtship of you in exchange for releasing me last night."
"What?"
"You heard me." He sighed again heavily. "I didn't see a way out, Moira. He threatened to drive me out of town, and then where would we be? Cut off from Odessa? No way to build Father's bookshop as planned."
"Maybe we ought to go somewhere else. Come and fetch Odessa when she is better."
"No. This is the place to be. Colorado Springs is at the crossroads of discovery and untold success. If the miners keep striking it rich, there will be no end to it. Don't fret over the sheriff," he said, rising and pausing behind her. She still stared out the window, giving him his privacy in his semidressed state. "I said he could court you. I didn't say you had to make it easy. And I didn't let him in on the fact that Father demands a chaperone on any excursion outside of the public eye."
She turned to him and grinned. "Well played, Brother," she said, with surprise and admiration in her tone.
"You know me, always using my brain as well as my brawn," he said.
She laughed. "Go and wash up, dress. I believe I've secured your new storefront."
"Truthfully?"
"Truthfully. But first we must stop in to see Odessa. She'll want to know that you're a free man again."
Bryce glanced over his shoulder at the departing servant and then set down his brush, leaning closer to her boat. "Odessa, are you ... well? Have you heard anything? Seen anything?" He glanced over his shoulder again. "In regard to what we spoke of earlier?"
They hadn't had the opportunity to speak in private for two days. She dragged her fingers through the cold water, snowmelt from the mountains high above.
"Nothing more," she said with a shake of her head. "I keep running through the poem, wondering why he left it to me, someone he'd just met. What he hoped I'd do, exactly."
"He loved this kind of thing. Once, he sent our pastor and his wife on a hunt."
"A hunt?"
Bryce smiled at the memory. "He thought if they wanted his tithe, and God deemed them worthy, they could work a little for it. They had to visit eight homesteads and ranches to gather what they needed."
"Did they do it?"
"Nah. Pastor at the time was too proud. Refused to do it. Sam was just after a little fun. He tithed his money in time, but he made that preacher sweat it out for a bit."
Odessa considered that. "Bored, was he? Living all alone?"
"He found ways to occupy himself. You know what I think?"
She waited.
"I think Sam had the will drawn up, penned that poem he left you, months before he even came to the sanitorium."
"Why?"
"So he'd be ready. Just in case."
"In case?"
"The consumption proved too much to bear."
"But he didn't know me."
Bryce shrugged. "Probably figured he'd figure out who was to get his `treasure' once he saw them."
"And yet you were surprised he left you the land."
Bryce let out a wheezy laugh. "Shouldn't have been. As I said, Sam loved surprises." He looked to the Peak, and then back to her.
"I've heard that some here pledge their land to the sanatorium as collateral against unpaid bills."
"That's true. I did the same when I signed the paperwork upon entrance." His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "I see where you're going with that. But I checked with the administrator today, and Sam owed only $23. They let me pay it on his behalf."
"That was generous."
"Least I could do if the old man was going to go and leave me his land." They shared a smile.
She cast a line into the water, suddenly aghast at the quick camaraderie forming between them. Where was that servant? Flirting with the cook?
And that was when the screaming began.
Chapter
10
Bryce assisted Odessa out of the boat and they slowly made their way up the hill to see about the commotion. A young woman, small and wiry, but impressively strong for a consumptive, looked about with wide, wild eyes.
A man, likely her husband, pried her fingers from the wagon and carried her in the door, where he handed her to a guard, laid entry documents upon the front desk, and then turned to her, ignoring the gawking crowd. "Amille, this is the best thing for you. You can get better here, sweetheart, better." With tears rolling down his cheeks, he took her hands in his, kissed them, and then left her with the guard as he walked away.
Amille writhed and wailed, her hysteria sending her into a coughing fit that made them all fear she might fail to take another breath. But her husband continued to walk away, stiff-backed, as if making himself place one foot in front of the other, down the hill. Only her lack of breath kept her from continuing to scream, but steady tears rolled down her cheeks as the doctor and nurse attempted to calm her.
"John and Amille DeChant," Bryce said under his breath.
"You know them?" Odessa asked, struggling for a decent breath herself after their climb up the hill.
"Neighbors of Sam O'Toole's," he whispered. "Amille's mind's been slipping for some time. Their little girl died in the creek out back on their property, near Sam's, about a year ago. John found a silver vein while searching for her body. But no amount of silver will ever buy a mother's peace of mind."
The others gathered along the top floor balcony and staircase indoors, watching the newcomer. She looked about madly, a lost look in her eye. It was as if a person disappeared within their depths, as if she swallowed one whole, chewing a person up in an attempt to find an anchor-hold in the storm. But more than that, Odessa sensed the woman's terrible desperation and sorrow. She had loved her family, and now they were lost to her.
Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard saw Amille to a private room, presumably to Sam's old one. Odessa shoved aside the unease she felt at having the woman right next door, in a room that had already claimed one life. Perhaps she would find health again here, physically, and in physical gains, make mental gains as well.
"Please, God, let it be so," she whispered under her breath, wondering what it took to separate a woman so thoroughly from her mind.
"Odessa," Bryce said. "You're looking peaked. Come, sit."
She shakily took a seat beside Bryce on the porch. Gradually, the others drifted back to their rooms or the far side of the building, favoring the mountain views, or to the stables for their afternoon ride, since the morning group had just arrived back. Again and again her mind went to the young woman upstairs, and Odessa remembered her mother, so desperately sad after each of her sons died of the consumption. She had been so hopeful, believed so clearly that the new baby would somehow begin to level a drastically tilted universe. And then she was gone.
"You are sad," Bryce said quietly.
Odessa tried to force a smile. "Oh. Forgive me. Amille's sorrow simply reminded me of my mother and her own sorrow."
Bryce hesitated. "May I ask-what sorrow?"
"The family plague, this consumption. We've lost four boys, four of my brothers."
"Odessa," he said. She dared to look at him and his eyes held such grief for her! Never had she seen such empathy within a man. "There are no words," he said, shaking his head.
She felt her own throat begin to swell, tears rise, but swallowed hard. "There are words. Horror. Pain to the very marrow of one's bones. Ache. Endless waves of agony. Battered and bruised heartspurple and barely functioning."
She rose, but Bryce caught her hand. "Your mother ... has she recovered?"
"She died trying to deliver my sister a year past." It felt strangely comforting to see that her words pained him, as if he were absorbing some of her own grief, taking it in, holding it for her. But talking about it made her feel irrationally angry, as if for the moment it was somehow Bryce's fault, these past losses.
Bryce looked her in the eye as Doctor Morton and Nurse Packard returned downstairs, Amille now eerily silent. Had they administered a sedative? Laudanum? Odessa was glad
for the diversion. Better to think upon Amille's pain than her own. Did she now drift like a leaf on the river, appearing serene, but underneath, spinning, lost, far from home?
"It'll do her good, being here. You'll see," Bryce tried.
But Odessa did not believe his weak words. She slid her hand out from his. "They can heal her body, but not her mind. I've heard of people like this. They don't come back."
"You do not know that, Odessa," he said, disappointment in his eyes. Did he believe the best, hope for the best, in all things, in all people?
"No, I am no fortune-teller, no seer, but that woman is lost."
Bryce stared down the empty hall, at sunlight streaming through the open doorway. "But all that are lost can be found, Odessa. Every one. God calls us to life, to love, to healing. We merely have to find our way home."
Find our way home. Where was that, exactly, when she had left the only home she'd ever known and found she could never return? Suddenly, Odessa was overwhelmingly weary. The morning, their conversations, the arrival of Amille-all had taxed her. "I must go and take my rest," she said, already walking away.
"Sleep well, Odessa."
She didn't look back.
A week later, a maid helped Odessa don a second pair of stockings, carefully layering them over the long underwear she wore beneath her heavy woolen skirt and then stuffing her swaddled feet into her boots. She was barely able to lace them up. Odessa sat back in her chair and watched, already dreadfully weary from the effort. And they expected her to ride out on a trail today? For how long? Surely the other patients had felt better than she did at this moment, before the doctor demanded they mount up.
"Odessa!" Moira cried from her bedroom door. Nic peeked over their sister's shoulder.
Odessa turned and smiled at her siblings. "I'm so glad to see you both!" she said.
"The cuts are healing nicely," Moira said, gently touching her cheeks. "You should not bear many scars."
"No, I don't think I will," she said, shoving away the irritation she felt at her sister's constant fascination with appearances.
"You look so much better, Dess," Nic said, edging near, holding his hat in his hands and fiddling with the brim. "I mean, in general."
"I feel much better, but not as well as they seem to think I am," she said, aiming her words at the maid.
"What does that mean?" Nic asked.
"They intend for me to ride out with the others this afternoon," she said, leaning back again in her chair. "But I confess to thinking a nap sounds much better than a ride at this moment."
"Then you shall take to your bed," Dominic said.
"No. We agreed to submit to the doctor's care," she said. "I can't deny that I see improvements in almost all of the patients I see here. Day by day, this regimen seems to work. It's just that ... toil and strain are a bit much for a consumptive who would rather be at her writing desk, if not in her bed."
People were moving down the hallway, assembling for the ride.
"Well then, you had better get through it. Perhaps it gets easier with each day that passes. Just think, Dess. The better you feel, the more you can write. The stories must be spinning in your mind, now that you're feeling better again, here in this new place. Maybe you can take your rides in the morning and write in the afternoon, emerge from this place with not only your health but finally a book we can publish at St. Clair Press."
"I've been too ill to even think of writing. It is enough to consider filling a page, let alone an entire book."
"You only seek to avoid sending it to publishers. I keep telling you, your stories are good. Brush one of them off and turn it into a full-blown novel."
Odessa let out an exasperated breath. "Of course, Nic. I'll see to it straight away. Right after I recall how to endure a horseback ride without expiring."
He stared at her, growing exasperated as they went through a wellrehearsed conversation. "It's Father, isn't it? You don't want to write so you don't have to face him and find out if he likes it or not." He lifted a shoulder. "So, don't send it to Father. Send it to another publisher."
"Nic, this truly is idle conversation."
"No, Odessa. It isn't. Here you will reclaim your life. And isn't part of your life doing something with the gifts God has given you? Doing something with your writing?"
Odessa considered him for a long moment. "And what if they despise it? The publisher."
"One man's poison is another's elixir."
Odessa sighed. "Enough. We shall discuss it another time. I am growing weary and must preserve my strength."
"What will you write?" Nic persisted.
"Maybe I'll write of a young man newly arrived from Philadelphia, taking on three men in the street and being jailed for it."
Dominic colored and frowned. "Cease. I've heard enough from Moira."
Odessa rose wearily and tapped him on the chest. "Then you stay clear of trouble. Show Papa that you have what it takes to be a responsible man in this family." She leaned close and kissed his cheek. "Show him what I already can see in you."
"We have a storefront," he said. He pulled away and stared at her perspiring face.
"Wonderful," she said, ignoring his worried look. "Papa thought it might take a good month. How have you done it in half?"
"Moira," he said, nodding toward their little sister. "She's already made friends in the highest corners of this city. She found us something already built. All we need are some shelves, a counter, and we can bring the inventory in."
Odessa smiled and shook her head. "Honestly, Moira, I've never known anyone who could move as quickly as you."
"I try," she said, leaning in to kiss Odessa's cheek. "When might we come and call upon you tomorrow? Given this new regimen?"
Odessa paused at the door. "I'm on the shorter afternoon ride until I'm able to handle the longer excursions. I expect I'll return to rest and then rise by midafternoon."
"Tomorrow, then," Dominic said. "We'll come by later. Be well, Sister."
"Take care," she warned both of them.
They watched her move down the hill toward the stables and disappear inside. Moira turned and looped her arm through Nic's. "Odessa has Mother's eyes," she said.
"I thought we all did."
"Not the color. The look about them. As if she can see everything we're thinking."
Dominic let out a humorless laugh as they turned in the opposite direction to depart from a side entrance. "She can see into people, understand motivation, passion. She's empathetic. It's what makes her a good writer."
"I wish she'd tell Papa of her desire to write."
"Maybe she fears the disapproval she's seen in him over my actions-or the way he consistently squelches your dreams. Ever since Mother ... maybe it's better to hide dreams in our family."
"It's never best to hide," Moira said. "It's not right that we feel we have to." Their words were well rehearsed, but they never found an answer. All he wanted for his daughters was marriage, grandchildren. A good reputation and success for his son. Anything else was deemed unsuitable.
"We must send Father a telegraph on our way to the land purveyor's office," Nic said. "He'll want to know that Odessa is doing well enough to ride a horse today."
"Who would have believed it?" Moira said, taking his arm. "Perhaps this place really does hold the keys to the cure."
With several taking their first ride or recently recovering from a setback, it was announced that they would only travel a long loop around the Garden of the Gods.
Odessa sighed in relief and glanced at Bryce, mounted on the horse beside her. "Perhaps they don't intend to kill me after all."
He grinned. "Trust me, it does us all good."
"What if I cannot keep my seat and slide off the horse? Will that do me any good?"
"If you're feeling weak, hunch over like this," he said, miming the position. "It takes less strength and as long as your feet remain in the stirrups and your hands on the horn, you should be all right."
&nb
sp; "You are not instilling a lot of confidence, Bryce."
"No? Well, you should be encouraged. I raise horses, after all. My mother used to say I was born on horseback."
Odessa smiled and he smiled with her.
"I suppose it was a stretch in the storytelling. But I was told she went into labor while straddling a horse. Most likely, she made it to ground before I came into the world."
Odessa looked away, hiding an embarrassed smile. Polite society did not discuss things such as childbirth. But she was intrigued. She wished she could stand unseen and listen to him talk.
"I like stories," he said as they got their horses in line and headed out. "I'd like to read your stories someday."
Odessa frowned. "My father's stories? You mean the books he publishes?"
"No, I'm assuming you write. A woman does not get that much ink on her fingers writing letters. Unless there's a beau back in Philadelphia."
"No," she said. "There is no beau."
"Then you are writing ..." he asked, barely pausing for a beat, "a book of your own?"
"I like to spin an idle tale now and again. For my own enjoyment. Short stories, mostly. Nothing as audacious as a novel."
"Knowing you the little I do, Odessa St. Clair, I doubt they are idle stories. That brain of yours is always churning away, like a waterwheel in a constant, spring-fed creek. I can see it in your eyes."
She glanced over her shoulder at him. "You are entirely too forward, Bryce."
"Perhaps. Forgive me, Odessa."
Odessa clamped her lips shut and concentrated on the slow, rocking motion of her docile mare. She had to admit, it did feel grand to sit astride her horse-Dr. Morton would hear nothing of a sidesaddle; it was too dangerous, given their weakened state-and a nurse brought a specially made blanket that covered her exposed calves and ankles and added more warmth for her. Spring sun heated the back of her head even as snow-laden, awe-inspiring mountains rose ahead of them. In half an hour they had skirted the edge of Colorado City, a wild town where drinking was allowed, unlike her dry new neighbor, and reached the crest of a bluff, overlooking the Garden of the Gods again. Odessa knew from Moiras description that Glen Eyrie was just to their north now.
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 9