Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  A slow smile spread across his face as he brazenly stared back at her.

  Odessa stared down at the wood. Others turned away as the pastor said his last amen and the gravediggers began to shovel the dirt into the hole, laying Amille to rest forever, like a seed planted and ready to spring to life. Odessa watched for another minute, hoping the sheriff would go and she could follow behind him. But he did not. He just stood there, waiting her out.

  With one last glance and a silent promise to Amille to find out what had happened to her husband and little girl, even if Bryce did not, Odessa at last turned and followed the group down the hill. She tried to ignore the sheriff, just steps behind her the whole way, eerily silent. But she could feel his stare.

  Dominic flipped the "Closed" plaque over in the windowsill and locked the shop door behind him. Today, for the first day in weeks, he had awakened without a headache. He felt like a new man, almost able to forget his injuries other than the troublesome drag of his right foot. But even that was better. With concentration, and by holding his breath, he was able to almost keep it in alignment.

  He was a block down the street when he spied the sheriff leaning against the front porch post of the El Paso County Land Office. Dominic looked away quickly, but could see Sheriff Bannock moving to intercept him. "Little early to be closing up shop," he said amiably.

  "Just making a quick visit to the bank," Dominic said.

  "Shop must be doing well for you to be making another deposit this week."

  Dominic cast a glance in the man's direction. "Well enough."

  "That's good, good. Say, I was wondering if you and I could have a chat."

  "Certainly, Sheriff," he said.

  Reid fell into step beside Nic. "I was wondering how you felt, and how your father would feel, about Moira singing at the opera house."

  Nic took a few steps without speaking, weighing his response. He knew that the shop, and afternoon opera rehearsals that often lasted into the evening, had become a convenient excuse for Moira to evade Reid's company. But the more she avoided him, the more he seemed to come around, desperate to share any minute with her he could. And if their father got wind of the opera house ... "Moiras always had a grand talent for singing. Both our parents were quite proud of her gift."

  "But the opera house. Singing in front of all those people. It's unseemly. Surely your father wouldn't approve."

  "You don't know my father."

  "I know many decent men, and the kinds of decisions decent men make to keep their womenfolk safe."

  "Begging your pardon, Sheriff, but you're speaking of my womenfolk, not yours."

  Reid took in his words and then said, "Thought my intentions concerning Moira were clear enough. It's been some time I've been comin' 'round."

  "Comin' 'round doesn't make a woman yours. And for some time, Moira's seemed as if she wished things were different."

  Reid reached out a broad hand and stopped his stride.

  Nic paused and then looked up into his glowering face. "Sheriff?"

  "Don't press me," Reid said lowly.

  "Now I thought we were just chatting, " Nic returned, refusing to look aside.

  "Tell her to quit the opera. Don't let her take this indecent road."

  "She keeps her own counsel these days, Sheriff. Pulling her out of the opera would be like convincing a garden rose to return to a field of prairie weeds."

  The sheriffs mouth twitched. "Your sisters are full of surprises, aren't they? Makes them all the more intriguing. Puzzles to unravel."

  Dominic's mouth filled with foul-tasting acid. He didn't like how the sheriff said that. Puzzles to unravel. And since when had the sheriff had any interest in Odessa? His fists clenched and unclenched by his side.

  "Good day, Dominic. I appreciate your time."

  He watched the sheriff saunter away out of the corner of his eye and sighed. Here in the West, far from their father, Moira undoubtedly saw an opening in an iron curtain to pursue her dream. "The stage is not a place for a woman of substance," their father said to her again and again. But try as he might, Nic could not see why a woman such as she could not own the stage. She'd relished the limelight ever since she was small. Why not allow that to grow, flourish? Why not let her be the woman God created her to be?

  Odessa could still feel Sheriff Bannock's stare upon her back hours later. She shifted in her bed and looked across her shoulder, fighting the mad idea that he was there in the room, watching her. But no one was there, of course. Only the clear pine boards that lined the room. She looked to the boards that separated her room from Sam's, later Amille's, remembering what she could of them both. She couldn't keep from thinking something was wrong, off. Amille had been in decline, but what if someone had murdered her, too? Right next door? In order to gain the DeChant mine?

  She turned again, straightened the blankets, and sighed. For the hundredth time, she wished Bryce were here. He would be able to think it through with her. Thoughts of him made her feel empty. She forced herself to think about the present reality. She remembered the urge, deep within her the day before, to get out of this place. To escape. But she was making progress, healing. She hadn't felt this good in a year. Heavens, she was almost back to normal.

  But the doctor had not discharged her. And she had no mine to her name ... only clues to Sam's. And no one knew about that. Did they?

  Sighing yet again in frustration, she threw back her covers and sat up. She opened a drawer and pulled out a watch, holding it up to the low flame of her lamp. Past two in the morning. She would not fare well on the trail ride come daybreak if she didn't get at least a couple of hours of sleep.

  She leaned forward, head in hands. Please, Lord, she prayed, show me what I need to do. A thought of the sanatorium files, down in the office, cast through her mind like an autumn leaf on the wind. Maybe there was something further within them that would help her tie Amille to Sam, make sense of the little she knew. Her hands drifted down to her mouth as she stared at the wall. But the offices were locked. She had watched the sanatorium's administrator lock up each night, pulling a key that she wore around her neck on a chain, and then tucking it securely back under her bodice. What would God have her do? Steal into the woman's room and slide the key from her body?

  The front desk attendant. He, too, carried a ring of keys. And at this hour, he was routinely asleep. The consumptives all knew this. After sleeping much of the day away, they often could not sleep and would walk the halls at night like specters on duty. Some orderly keeping watch, they all joked. He slept more hours than they!

  Decided now, Odessa rose and then reached out to the table. Too fast. Her dizziness passed, however, and she laid a hand on her chest. Her heart beat quickly, but it was nerves more than the illness. She knew if she didn't try and find out, she would be awake all night. If she was discovered, she was discovered. She would claim she was disoriented, and they'd usher her back to her room, worried that she was regressing. Or they might throw her out of the sanatorium if they were unconvinced. And wasn't she getting better anyway?

  A darker thought passed through her mind. What if they claimed she intended to steal the files, and Sheriff Bannock arrested her? The feel of his eyes was again upon her and Odessa shivered. No, that would not do.

  Her eyes went to Bryce's small painting and she studied the small ship, sails just waiting for the right breeze.... Was he not doing what he could to find out the truth? Couldn't she do the same, from here?

  She was decided, then. Going to her chest, she pulled out a blue day dress she favored and hurriedly tossed it over her head. She brushed out her long hair and tied it with a ribbon, so it was out of her face. After a quick glance in the mirror, she moved to the door and slowly turned the glass knob, reaching for her lamp with her left hand. Thinking that the light might draw more attention, she set it back down, electing to leave it behind.

  The hallway was empty and silent. The patients were all at rest this night, apparently. With no new patien
ts in the last two weeks, there was no one who demanded around-the-clock care. Could she be so fortunate that all slumbered through the dark hours? Somewhere, a night nurse was making the rounds. But even she was known to give in to sleep, even atop her stiff wooden chair, arms folded beneath her head on the desk. Especially on such a quiet night as this.

  Odessa moved out into the hall and closed her door. She winced as the latch made a click that sounded like a scream in her ears. She listened hard for footsteps approaching, but all she heard was the pounding pulse of her heart, along with a symphony of snores and coughing from other rooms. The night nurse's office was at the end of the hall, right by the stairs. She would check on her first.

  Odessa moved down the hall on bare feet, feeling the chill of the night on her toes. But she could move like a dancer without her boots on, sliding down the smooth wood, easing past one doorway after another, getting closer and closer. Her mouth was dry. She tried to gather enough saliva to swallow, but failed. She hovered, paused, wondering if she should peek in at the nurse or attempt to walk by as she had on other nights when she had been unable to sleep. Shaking her head slightly, she knew she would be no good at a charade. It was Moira who excelled at such things, not her.

  She held her breath and peered around the corner. The nurse was asleep, head on her arms, a pile of papers beneath her like a poor man's pillow. Odessa smiled and watched her back rise and fall. The woman was deeply asleep.

  Odessa turned and moved back to the top of the stairs and eased down the first few, wincing again as a step creaked under her weight. She paused and held her breath, eyes wildly looking up and down, waiting to be discovered. But all was still quiet. She slid her hands down the railing until she could lean over to see the night attendant at his desk in the center of the front foyer.

  He was dead asleep, snoring, drool glistening on his cheek. Odessa smiled and moved quickly down the rest of the stairs.

  She was now on the main floor, just ten paces away from the guard. She moved as if she intended to walk down the next hallway, and then glanced back at the man's side.

  There. The ring of keys.

  Glancing left and right, she moved closer to him. She paused, watching him breathe. He abruptly closed his lips and swallowed, as if finally aware he was drooling, and Odessa stopped, heart in her mouth. But his breathing soon returned to the slow pace of deep slumber, echoing the night nurse high above them in her office.

  Odessa stepped closer. The ring of keys was on his belt, but it was an open-C ring, easily removed with deft fingers. She was close enough now. She reached out her hand and grimaced when she noted her trembling. She bit her lip and moved more quickly, deciding she had to act like a woman on a mission if she was to accomplish her goal.

  Her fingers closed around the cold metal. She was perilously close to the attendant now. Could he feel her breath upon his shoulder? Looking back to the ring, she moved it slowly, conscious she could not jingle the keys together or all would be lost.

  The keys slid down the ring as she turned it, but made little sound. The attendant slumbered on. Just a little more to edge it off his belt ... there. They were free, but Odessa was paralyzed. Did she hear something upstairs?

  Staying here, all would be lost. Her eyes went to the door of the office. She had to get in there. Now. She hurried over to the door on tiptoes and tried one key in the lock, anxiously looking back to the attendant. A cough upstairs. Someone was coming.

  She tried a second, then a third. Her hands were shaking so badly now that she could barely try the fourth. The guard moved at the desk just as the key slid into the lock. Odessas eyes opened wide with relief and she hurriedly turned it and then the knob, edging inside. She removed the key and slid the door shut, aware that her breathing was now coming in uneven, thin gasps. What if there was nothing here to discover? What was she thinking? What if she was found here? Would she be arrested?

  The office was dark, with a sliver moon's light giving only the barest illumination. She cast about and her hands closed upon a wooden chair, which she sank into, concentrating on her breathing, trying to gain control. In ... out.... In ...out ... Gradually, she was able to find some semblance of calm and she opened her eyes to study the warm light from beneath the door, as she listened for other sounds and watched for a shadow to pass by. But there was nothing. No one came. No one appeared to be coming. She had to complete her task, return the keys to the attendant, and get back to her room.

  Dominic tossed back a glass of scotch, feeling it warm his throat and then spread across his chest. He had come back to Colorado City to find out what he could about the Mexican and who had paid the man to try and kill him. Some men fought dirty to preserve their reputation; more did it because a benefactor with a certain financial investment demanded it. He wanted to know which it had been.

  After a while, Amos Burry, the saloon owner, came around, thumping him on the back in greeting. In spite of himself, he had to match the man's wide grin and smiling eyes. "I thought you were gone for good," said Amos.

  "You weren't alone in that thinking."

  "Like a mule, a mule. You should come back, man. Beat out your frustration, even the score on the next contender. How 'bout Friday?"

  "Not yet, Amos. Maybe soon. I'm here to find out about Mustang Mex. I want to know who hired him, who was behind him."

  "Behind him? You mean the two Mexicans with him?" Amos shrugged. "I don't know who they were. Family, I guess. You sure you don't want to fight on Friday? I need a good fight on for Friday."

  "No, not those guys. Someone else. Someone else paid him. He was carrying a rod, Amos. He was bent on trying to kill me."

  "A rod? That Mexican had a rod on him? If that lousy no-account ventures north of Texas again-"

  "That's fine, Amos. Fine. But I want to know who hired him. Did you see him with anyone that day before our fight? Did you see him meet with anyone you remember?"

  Amos put his chin in hand and thought for a moment. A light flashed through his eyes, as if he had remembered something, but then shadow replaced it. "Nah. I don't remember anything."

  "Amos ..."

  "No, boy. Leave it be. You don't want to chase that scent."

  "Whose scent?"

  "Friday," he said, rising, clamping him on the shoulder. "Or as soon as you're ready. When Shorty St. Clair is back, we'll welcome him with open arms."

  Dominic watched the saloon keeper walk away, chatting with a few customers. How many secrets did the man keep? And why wouldn't he tell Nic what he knew?

  Odessa could see the dim curve of a hurricane glass atop a brass base. The lamp. From her pocket, she fished out a match and moved toward the desk. After removing the glass shade, she clicked the flint and watched as a spark connected to the oily wick, catching fire. Warm light moved through the crowded room, with piles of papers and books strewn about.

  The doctor used this as his office, sharing it with the administrator, whom Odessa had only seen each eve as she departed, so often was the woman holed up in this office. On the shelf were books full of notes. In the corner, there were three crates of files. Odessa frowned. The administrator seemed to be behind on her filing. This would not be as simple as she had hoped.

  She opened the closest book and scanned the top of the pages, then set it back on the shelf It was from three years prior. She moved forward by several books and pulled the next from the shelf. Last year's. The next book was from four years ago, so there was no sequential order to them. Frowning, Odessa turned to the desk. There atop it was an open book. This year's?

  She moved around the corner of the desk and her skirts caught and pulled off a pile of papers. The resulting sound wasn't as loud as a book might've been, but the cascading sheets sounded like a thundering waterfall. She paused, motionless, listening for the guard outside, waiting for him to rise, realize his keys were gone, and rush toward the locked offices. Her eyes scanned the room as precious seconds ticked by. There in the corner was a safe. What was inside? />
  Still no one seemed to awaken in the building. After two interminable minutes, Odessa dared to move, finally reaching the book. She scanned it by date, seeing her name periodically. But it was nothing but reports on the patients' health, dictation from the doctor to be transferred into individual patient files. Odessa tapped her lips and then looked about again, her eyes landing on the pile of crates in the corner, beside a filing cabinet. She assumed the cabinet was full, and a quick perusal proved her guess correct. So the most recent paperwork would be in these crates.

  She edged the lamp closer and moved through them. Amille's was close to the front. She pulled it out and set it on the desk, then returned to the rest. The next crate held Sam O'Toole's. Out of curiosity, she pulled her own as well. With the three files in her arms, she was tempted to make her escape and read them thoroughly in her own room. But to do so meant she would have to return them. With one more glance in the direction of the door, she took a seat and began to scan each, beginning with Sam's.

  On the left side was standard patient information: health history, health upon arrival, health progress. But on the right was additional information, including financial basis, means for care, arrangements if death occurred. Odessa lifted page after page. Toward the back, under assets, Sam had listed: wagon, two horses, two-bedroom wood-frame house, iron stove, acreage in Custer County. There was no mention of the mine or the claim.

  She moved on to her file, saw her father's handwriting, granting permission for her care, accepting all expenses to be billed to him directly. Nothing out of the ordinary. Hurriedly, she placed both her file and Sam's back in the second crate. Now for Amille's. If anyone came, she could slide it back into the top crate in seconds.

  She opened Amille's file and moved directly to the assets section. There. A claim to a mine her husband had named the Silver Bucket. Signed over to the sanatorium in the event of death and the absence of cash payment. Then a death certificate and note from the administrator: