She moved past the group and a man said to Odessa over his shoulder, "That's Helen Anderson."
"Helen Anderson, the author?" Odessa asked.
"One and the same."
Helen Anderson! The woman had eight books to her name. She'd made Colorado famous in her book A Thousand Miles from Home. Odessa had loved every word on every page.
"Mrs. Anderson!" she called impulsively. Bryce and Charlotte looked up in surprise and back to the woman who was quickly disappearing down the trail.
At the sound of her name, she turned and climbed back toward them. Bryce, Charlotte, and the trail nurse moved past Odessa to give them room to speak.
"Forgive me for interrupting your hike. I'm Odessa St. Clair. I had to tell you-I love your work. I've read all your books, your stories! Everything you've ever written."
"Well, not everything I've ever written. There is much that is not suitable for publication."
"I doubt that very much." She paused, feeling an urge to keep the famous author nearby for a moment longer. Just being near her made Odessa remember the feel of home, of St. Clair Press and Papa. "Is that your camera? Your very own?"
"My very own."
"Could I-if it's not too much trouble, might I gaze through it?"
"Of course," said Helen, with barely a pause. She reached forward, intuitively knowing Odessa could use a helping hand as she rose, waited a minute, watching as she caught her breath, then led her over to the camera. "Where are you from?"
"Philadelphia."
"Philly, eh? You're not of the St. Clair Press clan, are you?"
"Indeed I am," Odessa said, flushing with pride that the woman knew of it. "It is my father's company."
"He does fine work. I've admired what he publishes for many years."
"I'm certain he'd love to add you to his roster of authors." She bent down to peer through the camera lens.
"Would you like to take a photograph?"
"Take a photograph? Me?"
Helen laughed lightly. "What good is to look through a camera lens if you don't fasten in film what you have in memory? This is a momentous occasion, is it not? You, a consumptive most probably written off as good as dead, now hiking in the wilds of Colorado." She winked at that last phrase, fully knowing they were but an eighth of a mile from the stage road.
Odessa smiled. "Yes. I suppose it is."
"Then what would you like on film?"
Odessa turned and looked at the group by the falls, perched like pale, sweaty boulders all about it. "I'd like to take a picture of them."
"Excellent choice." Helen set up the tripod and unfolded the black cloth. "Put your head back under there, tuck it around your neck, and frame your view. Move the entire camera until you get the right framing, then remove the back of the camera, here," she said, guiding Odessas hand, "to expose the plate. Got it?"
"Yes, I believe I do." Odessa grinned as she saw her trail comrades straightening clothing and running their fingers through their hair, preening for the camera. Only Bryce sat still, as at ease in these hills as he was anyplace, willing to be captured as she found him. She admired his long nose and strong chin, the wide brows that arched over his eyes with a twinge of sorrow in them.
"See anything?" Helen asked her.
"No ... wait. I think I see a man's image. It's rather fuzzy."
"It's inverted. You get used to seeing it in time. Now we'll just cap the lens and you're done!" She folded up the cloth and secured it again, then pulled together the sturdy wooden legs of the tripod, setting the entire contraption back over her shoulder. "Come and call upon me when you're up to it, Odessa St. Clair. I live on Nevada Avenue. And I shall show you how to develop your photograph."
They pulled up outside the sanatorium as the horse train arrived with the afternoon crew. Dominic slid down off the carriage and eased into the shadows beneath the porch, watching from a slight distance, while Moira tensely waited for her sister to appear. There she was at last, nearly at the back of the line. She appeared as she had yesterday, peaked and sweaty, liable to fall off her horse at any moment, but she had a wide grin on her face, which Moira returned.
"Where were you off to today?" Moira asked, looking back and forth for a servant to help her sister down.
"Oh, just a short jaunt to a small waterfall, along a most treacherous path," Odessa returned.
"That sounds frightful!"
"It wasn't really, not once you saw it beyond a consumptive's view. And it was worth it. Moira, I met-" Odessas eyes fell upon Reid, standing beside the new carriage. "Moira, where's Nic?"
The sheriff stepped forward. "I'm Sheriff Reid Bannock, Miss St. Clair. A friend of your sister's and brother's. May I assist you down off that horse?"
"I've got her," interrupted a thin but handsome, weather-roughened man. "Odessa?"
She reached out grateful hands to him and he lifted her down, holding on to her until she was steady on her feet.
Introductions were made all around. It did not take Moiras practiced eye to see that this Bryce McAllan had certain hopes about her sister. Nor did she doubt that Odessa made similar observations about Reid and herself.
"I beg your pardon, but the ride taxed me severely," Odessa said. "I must retire to my room. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sheriff. Moira, will you attend me?"
Moira turned and flashed a smile at Reid. "Thank you for the ride."
"It was my pleasure, Moira. May I come to call on you tomorrow?"
"Indeed."
The sheriff tipped his hat at each of the St. Clair women and turned away, striding as though he owned this town.
"So now the sheriff is coming to call upon you?" Odessa whispered, walking with one hand looped through Bryce's arm, one through Moira's.
"Trust me," Moira said in an undertone, "it was not my intention. There is much to tell you, Sissy. Not all of it good." She glanced to the porch, where Dominic was settling into an Adirondack chair, still unseen by their sister.
"Your man is setting up an easel," Moira said. She stood beside Odessa's window, looking down below.
"He is not my man." Odessa leaned back into the pillows, closing her eyes in pleasure. How did Bryce find the strength to go outside and paint? Perhaps that was the difference ofseveral weeks in the sanatorium's care. Perhaps in a few more weeks, she, too, could look at an afternoon's activity with pleasure rather than wishing for nothing but a good sleep. Maybe even manage to write more than a few paltry sentences.
"He is a painter?" Moira asked, still staring outside.
"Apparently."
"You haven't seen what he paints?"
"He hasn't offered." Odessa knew her tone was becoming short, but she was so desperately weary! Couldn't her sister see it?
"You haven't asked?"
"I'd be prying. I assume it's the Peak he paints."
"He's facing the wrong direction."
"Oh, for heaven's sake. Then I don't know. What do you need, Moira? You are here because you need to talk. Out with it, so I can rest."
Moira gazed at her with a hurt expression, and a surge of guilt and sorrow waved through Odessa. She closed her eyes and tried to summon up the strength she needed to apologize, but it was no use. She was too weary to care. She opened her eyes to ask Moira to return the next day, to allow her to sleep and find the composure she needed to be a decent, caring sister, to bring Nic with her when she came ... but Moira had slipped away.
Odessa sighed. It was so like Moira to act like a petulant child. No matter. She'd make it up to her soon. What she needed most, what they all needed most, was for Odessa to simply feel better. In feeling better, she'd have the strength to act better. Her eyes shifted to the window, a brilliant blue sky filling the white frame. She knew that below Bryce was again at work on his painting.
And if it wasn't the famous Peak that filled his canvas, what was it?
Chapter
13
Over the next couple of weeks, it became easier to endure the rides and Odessa be
gan to see how the regimen worked. Doctor Morton forced them out as soon as possible. The excursions left patients tired, but hungry. They returned to eat the huge suppers provided and sleep for hours, providing sustenance and rest for their weary bodies. It was the same in many sanatoriums. Odessa had even heard of ranchers taking in consumptives, knowing that for some decent meals and a bed, they could get free work out of them. How many were trapped in small cabins or remote ranchlands, unable to escape? She was thankful for the sanatorium here in the Springs. Although Papa had neglected to give her all the facts-that she was going to Colorado likely never to return-it had been a good choice, a wise choice to send her here. Papa had sent them a letter at last, assuring them he was well, busy as ever at work, but eager to come and see his children in their new home.
April had dawned with a thin heat that blew upon the late, meager March snow, quickly melting it away, and with it went some of Odessas fears for what had happened to Sam O'Toole that terrible night. Gradually, she had come to believe it was all a figment of her imagination, a consumptive's groggy mind. Amille, Sam's neighbor, had settled into life alongside the rest of the patients, and today was on a horse for the first time. Something calming came over the woman as she slid a boot into a stirrup and sat back into the saddle.
There was a new peacefulness about her features, as if being astride a horse comforted her.
"You've done that before," Odessa said approvingly.
Bryce moved up beside her and smiled at Amille too.
"It feels right," Amille said, speaking more coherently, calmly, than Odessa had ever heard her.
"Good, good," she responded. She moved her horse along the path, right beside Amille, and they walked down the sanatorium road and out onto the broader avenue.
"We used to ride. In the evenings," Amille said.
Odessa couldn't resist glancing back at Bryce. He looked as surprised as she that Amille was speaking coherently and in full sentences. "Who? Where?"
"John and I. We loved to ride out into the valley and look upon the mountains. But that was before we had Anna."
"Anna. That was your baby's name?"
Amille nodded. "But then they came and took her. Took her."
"Who?"
"The men. The men who wanted John's mine. They said if he didn't sign it over to them, they'd hurt us." She turned miserable eyes upon Odessa. In them, Odessa did not see a madwoman. She saw truth. She glanced back at Bryce in alarm.
"Amille," Bryce said, gently easing forward to walk beside them. "Anna died in the creek. She drowned," he said softly.
"No," Amille said. "That is where they left her." She shook her head suddenly, as if tossing away the bad memory. "But they didn't get what they wanted. John still has his mine. And Sam hid his entrance. No one will find it. Not there."
Odessa sat up straighter in her saddle. Bryce caught her eye, obviously wondering the same thing. "Amille," she said slowly, "you said Sam hid his entrance. Did Sam discover a silver vein?"
"Maybe my baby is here," Amille said, her eyes once again distant. "Do you think she's here? I've been looking for her. Looking for her. Looking for her. Looking for her."
Odessa sighed and let her go ahead, her heart aching for the woman as she slipped back into her familiar, incoherent world. Bryce pulled alongside her and reached out a hand to briefly cover hers. "What do you think that means?" Odessa asked, nodding toward Amille's back.
He shook his head.
"Do you think Sam discovered silver on his land?"
"Could be. His land abuts John and Amille's. It would make sense." He shook his head. "But he never said a word about it."
"Might he have been concerned? Frightened, what with this story about John and Amille and the baby?"
"John would've gone to our sheriff." He dropped his voice. "The girl-she was little, not quite three years old. Slipped and fell. Amille hasn't really been right in the head since she died. You can't take what she says as truth."
They rode for a while in silence. "Sam never mentioned anyone coming around?" Odessa asked then. "Anyone who wanted to buy his land? Anyone pressuring his neighbors?"
Bryce pulled his head to the side as if reluctant to say anything. "Mining ... It's a dangerous business, Odessa. You break your back trying to see if there's anything but rock in your yard and if you're lucky, you find it. But that's when others come around. Most miners are alone. Easy prey. That's why many take on a partner."
"Or hide their mine claim."
He studied her intently. "You don't think..." His eyes moved to Amille and back again. They pulled up their horses, letting the rest of the group move on without them.
"You've settled in here to recover your health," Odessa said. "But is this thing about Sam ever far from your mind? I'd just about decided it was all in my imagination, that I was too ill to think clearly that night and misinterpreted it ... but Amille-maybe God brought her here for us, Bryce. So that we might be reminded of the truth, the need to ferret out the truth. Justice."
Bryce let out a humorless laugh. "We have your memories from a night when you were desperately ill, an odd poem from a dead man, and the rantings of a madwoman. How are we to ferret out the truth?" He lifted a shoulder. "I don't know, Odessa. Maybe our minds are too long idle, jumping to conclusions. The storyteller in you is acting up." He held up a hand as she began her retort. "And even if it's true ... we're not in any shape to go and track down any claim jumpers. Right?"
"Right," she said reluctantly.
"Think on this with me, Odessa. John DeChant is apparently well and working his claim, even as we speak. I hold the land deed to all of Sam's land-even any potential mine-and you perhaps have the key to finding the entrance, if it even exists. Until one of those pieces changes, I believe we need to treat all of this as conjecture. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
The sheriff took to escorting Moira everywhere in town and coming to call for tea almost every day in the shop's back room. His pursuit was evolving into full-out courtship, blessed by the family or not, and Nic and Moira struggled to find a reason or rationale to end it. They knew they had to-Reid was making Moira progressively more uncomfortable; each day it continued, it encouraged him onward. Today, Dominic was helping an elderly man with his selections from the stacks of novels, patiently waiting as the man moved to put on his eyeglasses and slowly turn the pages-perusing the words as he might a crate of fruit to see if they were palatable-while Moira and Reid remained in the back room.
Every time Nic excused himself, the customer asked another question.
Feeling Reid's heated gaze upon her, Moira hovered near the doorway. "I think he might need a woman's touch," she said to Reid, moving to grab her apron.
"It's I who needs a woman's touch," Reid said in a seductive undertone, taking her hand and pulling her to him. He stared up at her from his chair, reaching for the other hand, holding both in his. "I've been fighting it, Moira, this desire in me. I've been calling on you for weeks." He rose, towering now above her. "It's time. I've been patient. You have to say I've been very patient. Please, Moira. Give me a kiss. Just one." He pulled her hands up to rest on his chest and placed his hands on her neck, pulling her closer.
"Reid, this is hardly the place." She pushed away but he held her firm.
"Good enough to steal a kiss," he said, smiling down at her, moving his face to hers. "Thoughts of your rosebud mouth drive me to sleepless nights," he said in a husky whisper. Then he kissed her, softly, searchingly.
"Moira?" Dominic called.
Moira squirmed out of Reid's grasp and looked from him to the door. She patted her hair guiltily. "Reid, we really shouldn't."
He just laid a hand on the wall as if weakened and smiled over at her, rubbing a thumb over his lower lip as if he thought to draw her back in. "I beg to differ."
Dominic appeared then, looking from one to the other. "Can you come help me package Mr. Smiths books?" he asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
"Certai
nly," she said, moving past him in a hurry.
"I'll be on my way," Reid called to the trio at the counter. "I'll be back at six to pick you up for the dinner at the Glen. Dress appropriately."
"I look forward to it," Moira said, coming around to see him to the door.
"Do you?" he asked, staring at her quizzically. "I can't seem to figure you out. One moment you seem to be my girl, the next you're a stranger to me."
"You know deep down who I am," Moira said sweetly.
He reached out as if to touch her face, caught himself and grinned. "Until tonight."
"About tonight," Dominic called, finally finishing Mr. Smiths transaction. The man took a step and then paused to peruse a display of books to his right as if seeing them for the first time. "Odessa is feeling well enough to accompany us-"
"The general graciously invited her to attend," put in Moira.
"We plan to pick her up at the sanatorium, so we'll meet you at the Glen."
"I could fetch her. Then we could all go together," Reid said. "It's our last night before I head out of town."
"No, no," Dominic said in friendly fashion. "It's way across town for you. We'll pick Odessa up and meet you directly at six thirty."
"Very well," Reid said with a smile that held appreciation but eyes that held disappointment. Moira knew he liked arriving at the general's with her on his arm. General Palmer had taken to her of late, seeming to think of her as a pleasant diversion in the midst of Queen's absence. Half the time the men ended up in the baroque blue room, listening to music, rather than taking their leisure in the general's den.
"Until tonight." She closed the door and watched the sheriff move down the stairs and into the street. "I can't maintain this masquerade, Nic," Moira said, as she waved good-bye at the window and then turned to lean against it, her face falling. She ignored old Mr. Smith, who was hard of hearing. "I hate that he is always around, and I think he's beginning to sense it."
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 12