16
"Will he live?"
"If he awakens soon," the doctor said grimly. They had brought him back to the shop, and together, managed to get him upstairs to the extra room, not wanting the neighbors to see him in such a state, not wanting the general to hear of it. "If he's not awake by morning ..." He shook his head in grim warning.
Odessa sank to her knees beside Dominic's bed. "No. No, no, no...
"It is a concussion?" Bryce asked, taking charge.
"Severe trauma, besides a broken nose and eye socket. Besides that, he had two broken ribs. It will take him weeks to recover, if he does regain consciousness."
"Is there nothing further you can do?"
"He needs to remain still, sleep. We want him to awaken to a point, but the brain needs to rest and recuperate. I will return at daybreak and examine him again."
"And in the meantime?"
The doctor looked at each of them. "Pray. With all you have in you." He left then, and the three stared at the battered Dominic, no word of prayer upon their lips. For all the words within Odessa, she could not seem to link any two. They remained where they were for several long minutes, Moira crying quietly. Bryce came closer and put a comforting hand on her shoulder and his other on Odessa's.
"Father God, look upon us here," he said, his voice steady and low. Odessa closed her eyes, finding assurance, hope in his words. The St. Clairs were clearly condemned to misery. Perhaps the McAllans had a surer connection to the Almighty. "Come and lay Your healing hand upon Dominic," Bryce went on. "We ask it with everything in us, Lord God. Come and heal this man and help him live a long life."
He did not end with the traditional "amen" and all three remained in place, hanging on to his last word, letting it roll through their minds as if it were echoing through the room again and again. Life ... life ... life ...
Moira greeted him at the shop door the next day. It was plain she had been crying. Her bloodshot eyes made her irises an even darker shade of teal. Dominic was nowhere in sight.
"Reid," she said, forcing a smile to her lovely rosebud lips. "I wish I could stop to take tea with you, but you can see I have customers."
He moved inward, feigning concern. "Moira, are you here all alone?"
"Dominic ... he-he's feeling poorly. He's resting upstairs."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Reid said. "Here, let me help you for a bit. The town should be safe for a few minutes without me on her streets."
She hesitated but a moment. "If you could go and climb the ladder to fetch Mrs. Chandler the medical volume she's seeking, that would be a great help." Moira moved off toward the cash register, where three other women waited to pay their bills. One woman looked from the pretty shop girl to the sheriff and smiled.
Yes, the stranger could see it as clearly as Reid. They were a good couple, a handsome couple. They were meant to be together. They had merely suffered a bumpy stretch in the road. It was common to all relationships. Now things would be straight. All part and parcel with molding Moira, shaping her to take the proper form as his wife.
There were bound to be some difficult times through that process. Probably would be a few more. But it was all worth it. Well worth it. Growth, progress, often took some breaking as part of the cycle. He thought of the fields, with deep-plowed channels for seed and water. Tree stumps, wrestled out of the earth. Cornerstones, set into broken, raw ground, declaring new rights. Yes, breaking was part of the process. But in time, all smiled and agreed it was worth it. Temporary losses for long-term gains.
He whistled and smiled down at Mrs. Chandler. "My Moira tells me you're seeking a medical volume," he said cheerily. "Just point it out and I'll fetch it straightaway for you."
"Why, Sheriff," said Mrs. Chandler. "I didn't know you were a man who favored books."
His eyes moved to Moira, who glanced his way and then pretended not to see or hear him as she tended the next customer. "Now, Mrs. Chandler," he said loudly. "If you were a red-blooded male and the book proprietress was as pretty as our Miss St. Clair, wouldn't you become a man intensely interested in the literary arts?"
Mrs. Chandler laughed and then fanned herself, blushing furiously. "Well, I guess I would. Good day, Sheriff."
"Oh, it is that, Mrs. Chandler," he murmured behind her. "It is that."
"Moira!" a voice called from upstairs. He could hear Odessas hurried step even before she peeked around the corner. "Moira," she said, eyes bright with a smile. "He's awake," she whispered. "He's awake!"
The two women disappeared upstairs, ignoring the remaining customers, and Reid gazed at the empty doorway. So the boy lived. It was good, he supposed. A beating like that changed a man, broke apart a shell of bravado and awakened the core to vulnerability. And vulnerability was something another could exploit.
Yes, it was good, good that Dominic lived.
Eyeing the empty sanatorium hallway, Odessa moved to her bookshelves and slid out the photograph of Bryce she had taken weeks prior. She stroked it, as if touching his face.
A knock at her door startled her. Bryce.
"Forgive me," he said ruefully. "Didn't mean to frighten you."
"No, no," she said, sliding the photograph behind her back. She smiled. "So do you wish to lose at cards or archery today?"
He shook his head. "Someday we'll race on horses and you'll know what it means to lose."
"Threats are not gentlemanly, Bryce."
"Gloating is not gentlewomanly," he returned. "Is Helen coming by?"
"No, tomorrow."
"Good. Then I only have to lose in front of one of you." He pushed his toe into the floorboard. "Charlotte's heading home today. We should see her off."
Odessa paused. The girl had made such a rapid recovery ... Odessa had thought that she and Bryce would be gone before her. She considered him, wondering why Doctor Morton kept him here. She hadn't heard him cough in weeks and she knew he was anxious to get back to the ranch, to see what he could find out about John DeChant, and Sam's land. And yet she feared asking, feared tempting the move she knew wasn't far away. "Bryce, I-"
He turned, seeing someone in the hallway. Amille. The woman wandered into Odessas room and sat down on the bed, arms crossed about herself, rocking.
"Amille?" Bryce tried.
Odessa rose and moved to sit beside the woman. As rapidly as Bryce and she were healing, Amille declined. For the last week, she refused to eat a thing. Odessa wrapped her arm around the woman. "Amille, are you all right?"
"They killed them, killed them. Killed them," Amille said mournfully. "I want to be with them, in heaven. With my Anna. With my John. With them, with them, with them..."
"I know, sweetheart. You must miss them so much!" But Amille pulled away and was on the move again, rising to walk out of Odessas room and down the hall.
Odessa turned to Bryce.
"Sam was your friend," she said, moving to her bookshelves again. She pulled out the poem from Sam O'Toole. "Aren't you curious to see what he left me? Here. Read it." She held it out to him but he did not reach for it.
"I don't want it. Neither should you." Bryce shook his head. "There's something bad going on over there, Odessa. I don't want you anywhere near it. Not until I figure it out and make sure you'll be safe. Put that thing away and make certain no one knows you have it. Understood?"
He raised miserable blue eyes to meet hers, begging her to accept his gruff demands. "This is still the Wild West, Odessa. We've come far, very far. But the sheriffs hold on the law-it's tenuous. People disappear all the time, never to be seen again, particularly in the far reaches of the county. Places like where Sam and John were mining." He lifted a hand as if to place it on her arm, then as if thinking better of it, lifted it up to run it through his hair.
"Bryce, you've made certain improvements, but you are in no condition to wade into a fight. I-I would fear for you."
He clamped his lips shut for a moment before he spoke. "I'm well enough to care for those I care about. To see about a m
an's business. Don't fret over me; I'll be cautious."
"And in the meantime, what am I to do?"
"Rest. Make further gains on your health. See to your brother as he improves."
"Rest? Sit back and simply wait? Sam O'Toole practically-"
Bryce stepped forward and hissed, "Keep your voice down!"
"Sam O'Toole," she said in a loud whisper, "practically gave me an invitation to his land with that poem. There is something there he intended for me to have."
"In time."
"If I wait too long, it might be gone!"
He shook his head. "Well, don't look to me to escort you," he said. "I'll have no part in it."
"Don't give it another thought," she said. "I wouldn't dream of asking you."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Good."
He left then, and Odessa closed the door softly behind him so she could cry as she had not in years.
It took days for them to speak again, but then it was as if they had both decided to shove thoughts of Sam and his poem and his mine out of their minds, unable to keep their thoughts from anything but each other. One day, they were out on the front lawn, Odessa attempting to learn how to lasso an object. "I'll make a cowhand of you yet," Bryce said to her. "You're pretty good, roping boulders and chairs. Let's see if you can hit a moving target," he taunted, handing her the rope again. "Pretend I'm a cow and you have to get me." He moved off, giving his best cattle imitation, mooing and pointing his forefingers off the top of his head like horns.
Pursing her lips, covering her laughter with concentration, Odessa walked behind him, letting out a laugh as he mooed again. She thought nothing of the other patients staring their way. It was highly improper, really. Mother would turn over in her grave if she saw them, but Odessa didn't care. For the first time in months, years even, she felt well. Happy, free. Barely aware of her breathing at all.
She swung the looped rope over her head, still following Bryce's moves, keeping pace with him as he had instructed. And then at just the right moment, she let the rope go sailing through the air, crying out with glee as it circled around him. Quickly, she pulled back, cinching it tight.
The patients behind them cheered, perhaps not as aghast as she had feared. Maybe in watching, they felt a part of this visceral thrill, this joy that Odessa was feeling.
"Got me," Bryce said, tossing her a grin.
She pulled up the rope, drawing him closer and closer.
"You got me in more ways than one, Odessa St. Clair." He stared down at her, unmoving, not freeing himself from the rope, simply staring with those deep blue eyes at her as if she were the most lovely thing on earth. As if he wanted to ...
Odessa swallowed hard. She was used to men looking at Moira like that, not her. "Bryce, I-"
"Shh, I know." Slowly now, he pulled off the rope and took it from her hand, lingering at their touch. She stared down at their hands as if they belonged to another, wanting him to take hers in his as he had only twice. "You're wondering what it might be like, Odessa, once we're out of here. If it will change. I wish we had time to find out. You have some months to go before Doctor Morton will want you any farther than town. But the doc released me today, Odessa. And I have to return to my ranch. I have to find out what's happened to Sam, to John, to Anna."
Alarmed at his words, she lifted her eyes to meet his again. He was leaving? Leaving now? She knew it made no sense-her sudden fear, her anger. It was the logical conclusion, the hoped-for conclusion. Arrive, heal, depart. That was the sanatorium's role.
"Odessa, we've talked about this. Surely you knew I couldn't stay here forever. That we'd both have to leave eventually. I wish ..."
It felt like all the others ... her brothers, one by one, her mother, and then her father. Sending her off on the train without even the courage to tell her it might be forever.
"It's good news, Bryce," she said, pushing the words out, willing a smile to her face, taking a step away from him, turning away from him before he could do it to her. "Let's hope there is nothing suspicious as to how John died. You can get back to your ranch, your life again. If you can't get back to the sea ..."
"Odessa-"
But she was already stumbling up the hill, desperately holding back her tears, aching with each step she took away from him.
Chapter
17
He left without a good-bye, as she suspected he would, with nothing but a note and a wrapped package outside her door.
2 June 1883
Odessa,
Forgive me for departing in silence. I hope you know that if there was a choice, I would make it. Please accept this gift from me. I have always thought of you as a fine clipper, just waiting for the right wind. Keep your bearing, Sweetheart. The trade winds are just ahead of you.
-Bryce
Odessa's eyes went over the words again. There was no declaration, no promise of return. It was simply a last word of hope for her, a good-bye, achingly short. But her eyes went back to one word: Sweetheart. A man, especially a man such as Bryce, did not place such a word within his text without forethought.
With a sigh she reached for the package, covered by brown paper and a loosely tied string. She climbed back into bed and untied it and slowly set the package on the side table. Then she ran her fingers beneath the flap of paper, feeling canvas and hardened paint beneath her fingertips.
It was too small to be the piece he had been working on ever since she had arrived. She slid off the paper, every movement slow, as if it might delay her separation from Bryce, then turned the canvas in her hands. "Oh," she whispered.
It was a scene of a grand ship at dead calm in the distance, a mere speck on the horizon, upon a vast, still sea. It was painted in the same hues of blue as his big painting, with a touch of turquoise, as if upon the edge of the Atlantic, bleeding into the Caribbean.
He had told her once of the trade winds, strong and bracing along the far-off tropics. "There are dead calms," he had said, "when the ship barely moves upon the tide. It can be oppressively hot, so hot you believe you are suffering a consumptive attack. And then these winds arise, strong and cool off the water, and suddenly you are not only breathing, but you are moving again."
Breathing and moving again. Was this what he meant when he said, The trade winds are just ahead of you? Is that what he wanted? For her to be on the move?
Toward him? Or away from him?
How could he leave her? Before he even knew which way the wind would take her? Was it just his way of breaking away from her, using this excuse to seek out the true cause of John's death, make certain there was no wrongdoing? Was it merely a way to keep her away? She swallowed hard against sudden tears. The sense of loss, abandonment, was overwhelming, bringing back days of mourning her brothers, her mother, her unknown sister....
Bryce, how could you just leave me? Our story just began! How could you leave without seeing it to the end?
A nurse shouted and two men rushed down the hall outside her door. Odessa threw aside her covers and reached for her housecoat, pulling it on even as she joined others who were moving down the hall. Several huddled outside Amille's doorway, peering in, and it was then Odessa knew.
Amille was dead, succumbing at last to her sorrow or her disease, gaining her desire to join her family in heaven.
Her eyes moved to Dr. Morton and two burly men who served as aides, coming down the hall toward her, moving at an unhurried pace. Did they know it already? That Amille was dead? Odessa looked in the neighboring room, to Nurse Packard, and then to the patients huddled about. Who was in on this? Or was her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her imagination? Wasn't it a blessing, that Amille was at last free of whatever had plagued her mind? What hope had the woman had with a mind so broken? Wasn't this a relief, an answer to prayer?
But if all that were true, why was everything in her screaming to be away from this place?
Odessa was one of five people who atte
nded Amille's funeral and burial. As their small group walked to a high hill behind the men who carried the simple pinewood casket, she felt the brisk summer wind drive past as if it intended to go through her. Their lonely procession made her ache for Bryce, for his strong arm around her shoulders. Instead, she hurried to catch up with two others from the sanatorium, taking small comfort in being beside them.
Conrad, a relapsed consumptive who'd been in and out of the sanatorium ever since Odessa arrived, was laboring to breathe. Many of the patients at the sanatorium claimed they could not attend for this reason, not with the strong winds coming off the mountains. But they were the same people who managed to go and fish or hike each day. Odessa knew it was that Amille had made so many of them uneasy, wary, uncomfortable. Some were probably even relieved she was gone, never to return to hover in their doorways or follow them down the hall.
"Her husband's death probably hastened her own, poor girl," Conrad said. "Her fragile mind could not endure such agony."
They reached the top of the hill, and Odessa noted Sheriff Bannock's presence. The tall man took off his hat and nodded at her. She nodded back, wondering where Moira was. She hadn't seen her in a week, her sister claiming to be terribly busy with Nic, who was back on his feet at the shop. Was it customary for the sheriff to be present at every citizen's burial? She glanced away hurriedly, pulling her blowing black veil back into place. She could still feel the man's eyes on her, even as the pastor began his short service, speaking words of the everlasting that Odessa hoped was Amille's future. She hoped that now she was free, her mind again intact, reunited with those she had loved. Free. Free to dance and sing and breathe.
They lowered the casket into the ground and the pastor knelt to take a fistful of dirt in his palm. He sprinkled it over the wood, and it appeared like a dark stain on the light pine. "From dust you began, and to dust you have returned. Go in peace, Amille DeChant. Go in peace." He began to pray and Odessa again ventured a glance in the sheriffs direction.
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 16