Patient deceased 12 June 1883.
Amount on account due: $238.00.
Amount in bank account at time: $110.00
Shortfall of $128.00.
By previous agreement, the Silver Bucket mine is now owned by Colorado Springs Sanatorium.
The note was signed by the sheriff, doctor, administrator, and a county clerk. Odessa sat back. Was this normal business practice? Could the sanatorium claim the mine based on a $128 shortfall? How rich was the mine? Was someone working it even now, tearing from the earth riches that rightfully belonged to Amille and John or their remaining family?
She was about to shut the file when an extra sheet of paper caught her eye. There beneath Amille's death certificate was John's. Odessa scanned the words, then let the file fall from her hands as if she could no longer hold it.
John DeChant had been found beneath the rubble of a mine cave-in. But he also had a gunshot wound.
She turned to the next page and scanned Sheriff Olsbo's report. Cave-in at the Silver Bucket reported on 28 May 1883. Short excavation into shaft reveals victim's body, identified as john DeChant ... Decomposition of body makes it difficult to determine whether wound was likely accidental or evidence of a crime ...
Odessa tried to swallow, but again found her mouth dry. She had to get water. Her throat was suddenly ticklish, terribly scratchy. She closed her eyes, willing herself to calm. She was panicking, but her eyes kept returning to two words gunshot wound.
Go. Run, Odessa. Hurriedly, she rose and returned Amille's file to the crate, looked about to make sure everything was in placeget out of here-and turned down the lamp's flame until it was extinguished. She paused for a breath or two, heard nothing, and then quietly turned the knob and peered outward.
Her breath caught.
The attendant was gone.
Dominic swirled the tawny-colored whiskey in his glass. He watched it move like a whirlpool, slow, then still, thinking about how his father never imbibed, how his mother would have hated that he was drinking. But it was his choice; he was a man. And as a man, he'd been given few others. This was his. He lifted the glass to his lips again and took another drink, holding it in his mouth for a moment, feeling the vapors drift to his nasal passages, then let it slide down his throat, warming every inch.
He shifted in his seat. He'd arrived early so he could watch the fight from here. His eyes roamed every inch of the rope that surrounded the ring, the worn floorboards inside, rubbed raw from shifting feet. There were stains on those boards-blood and sweat that no amount of cleaning could wipe clear. His own blood was intermingled there with how many others?
It mattered not. All he wanted right now was to enter the ring again, to have a chance. The last was a fluke, a cheat. No man could've stood after Mustang Mex's punches, steel rod in hand. No man. He needed to enter the ring again, prove it to himself that he was right, that he was still good at it, still could see his opponent's plan a split second before it was in play. But his sisters had agonized over his injuries, fretted over him as he and Moira had over Odessa when she was so bad off. Could he risk putting them through that again?
The crowd gathered. The fighters emerged, climbing onto the shallow stage. Nic's blood pulsed faster as he studied the men from head to toe. He could take either of them. Either of them, right now.
His eyes searched the crowd. No one he knew. The Mexicans were long gone, probably having moved on to another city, another state by now. But who had hired them? Who wanted him beaten, or turned away from the ring, and why?
There were those who bet against him. Maybe he had cost someone too much. But the gamblers learned quickly who to bet upon; they would've put their money behind him soon enough.
His focus shifted from the fighters to the crowd, a mass of miners and farmers and merchants and a few dandies-those who had made a mint off the blood of those in the ring. He knew few of them.
Nic's mind went back to those who'd want him out of the ring or even out of the way forever ... Sheriff Reid Bannock. The sheriff wouldn't want him fighting. It was unseemly, undesirable, uncivilized. Especially as the brother of his intended. Hadn't he made that clear enough in his distaste of Moiras interest in the theater, in jailing Nic for brawling? How much worse was boxing in the City of Sin next door to the pristine and holy Colorado Springs?
But Nic had enough of people running his life, pushing him, pulling him. He should be able to fight if he so chose. To drink if he so chose. And Moira, she should be able to sing if she wished. Sing anywhere she wished. Odessa, growing healthier by the day, should be able to chase her own dreams. To write, explore, whatever. The St. Clairs were not here to be governed. They were here to chase the cure-to live their lives.
And soon, very soon, Nic would find the way to do that.
Odessa could hear them upstairs, the nurse and attendant conferring, even as she locked the office door. She moved across to the guard's desk, knelt and set the keys on the floor beneath, as if they had merely fallen. They were coming out of the nurse's office. Odessa tiptoed across the floor and leaned against the wall, out of sight.
"You probably just dropped them," the nurse said.
"I'm telling you, they're not there."
"Go look again, you fool. You sleep so soundly, I wouldn't be surprised if you found them in the front door lock. Probably were sleepwalking."
"They're not there," the man said, his voice rising in agitation now. "Somebody took them."
They were moving down the stairs. Odessa tiptoed down the hallway and hid in an alcove around the corner. The nurse and attendant moved past. "Go check the patients," groused the man.
"I won't go disturbing the patients if I don't have to. Do you realize this is the first quiet night we've had in ten? Ah, you see? I told you."
Clearly, he'd discovered the keys. "I'm telling you, they weren't there."
"You probably just missed them. They were down there, in shadow, where you couldn't see them."
"How could they fall down there without me hearing it?"
"You tell me. You're the night attendant."
The man muttered to himself.
Odessa paused, wondering if now was the right time, then decided there would be none better. If the man decided to walk the floors now, or the nurse decided to check in on the patients after all, they would discover her, which would make them more suspicious. And what had she to fear? All was in place in the office. She had taken nothing. The door was locked; she could hear the attendant checking it now.
She tiptoed down the hall and began walking toward them, praying for God to give her confidence, to veil her fear. She could feel sweat dripping down her face. But that could be attributed to the illness.... She emerged into the foyer and gave the surprised twosome a small smile.
"Miss St. Clair! What are you doing awake?" asked the nurse.
Odessa kept walking. "Can't sleep. Fever must be up. I'm walking the halls like the ghost of Christmas past."
The man's eyes narrowed. "How long have you been up?"
"Hours," she said, rolling her eyes, surprised at how guileless she sounded. It was the truth, which aided her. "Sleeping too much during the day, I suppose." She kept walking past them, as if intent on completing another lap down the next hall.
"Seen anybody else up this night, miss?" he pressed.
"Not a soul," Odessa said with a woeful smile. "It appears everyone is asleep but me this night." She turned away and kept walking, heading down the next hall, but not before she spied them share a glance. Her die was cast. She moved down the hall on trembling legs, intent on the water pitcher and tin mugs at the end of the hall. Once she reached it, she poured a mug from the sweating pitcher and raised it to her lips, frustrated by her trembling. She would need to return to the front foyer and climb the stairs, still pretending all was well. The nurse and attendant might have further questions. But at all costs, she had to continue her charade. She could not faint.
She returned to the front foyer, where
the twosome continued to confer. They grew silent when she appeared again, and the nurse played with the hem of her apron while the attendant studied her. Again, Odessa tried to give him a smile. "I think I've walked every inch of this place," she said. "The doctor should hire me as night staff to join you."
The man gave her a half smile in return, a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You're off to bed then again, miss?"
"And hopefully to sleep," she said amiably, climbing the stairs. "There aren't many hours left before daybreak."
"No, there's not. Best to get back to your room and stay there, miss."
"I agree," she said lightly, ignoring his stiff tone. She was almost to the top. Her vision was tilting, her heart pounding so hard. She hovered on the stair, waiting for her vision to steady.
"Miss St. Clair?" the nurse asked.
"I'm all right. G'night," she said, pressing forward. Once out of their line of vision, she paused and leaned against a wall, trying to calm her breathing and heartbeat, waiting for her equilibrium to return. Gradually it did, and she moved down the hallway.
If they discovered Bryce was now the heir to Sam's mine, would he be next? For the first time, she was glad Bryce was away from this place. But if people were truly being murdered for their land, if John DeChant had been killed, was Bryce any safer in his beloved valley?
Odessa entered her room and closed the door behind her. She leaned her head against the cool wood and listened, but no one followed.
She had to get out of this place. As soon as possible.
Chapter
18
Bryce was digging holes with Tabito on the western boundary of the ranch when Sheriff Olsbo rode by at a canter. He pulled up, touched his hand to the brim of his hat. "Mighty glad to see you home, McAllan."
"Good to be back, Sheriff. You in a hurry? Or would you like to come back to the house for a bit? It's about time for noon meal. The men probably made enough to cover you, too. Can't attest to how good it will be, only that there will be plenty."
"Can't," said the sheriff. "I'm on my way to Westcliffe to file a report on the DeChant property."
"The DeChant property?"
"Yes. For all the good that sanatorium did you, they apparently couldn't turn Amille around. She died a few days ago."
Bryce reached out to the nearest post, hoping it didn't look like he needed it to support him. But he did. "Don't say. She wasn't faring well when I was discharged, but I had hoped ..."
"We all did. That valley-and family-was cursed. And now, with the bullet found in John's body-"
"What?" Bryce interrupted.
"Ahh, yes," he said, as if reluctant to share bad news. "We found him in the cave-in. Thought his own mine had done him in. But as the undertaker was dressing him for the casket, he discovered it. Bullet wound to the chest."
"Murdered?"
"'Spect so. Most likely a claim jumper. John probably put up a fight and the louse shot him, then staged the cave-in so no one would know."
"There's some nice ore coming out of those hills. Bound to draw some attention."
"Yep. Fine ore, but no miners. Old Sam's property might be popular among bidders. Heard you inherited it."
"Yes. Surprised me."
"Sam liked his surprises."
"That's for sure. Still, I'm not entirely at ease with how things have gone down around there. Awful convenient for them all to die in such a short span of time. Did Sam talk to you, say anything about anyone that made you think twice?"
Bryce paused. "Not anything definitive."
The sheriff stared at the mountains. "Strange that both Amille and Sam died at the sanatorium, ain't it? What with all its grand reputation and all? They haven't lost a patient in some time, right?"
"Right."
"Sam seemed on the edge? You know, at the end?"
"He'd relapsed a bit. But no, his passing surprised all of us. But he wasn't exactly young. And Amille, she wasn't right in the mind. She was refusing to eat when I left. A body can't handle starvation and the consumption all at once."
"Right, right. I 'spect that is so. Still, as the new owner of Sam's property, keep your ears to the ground, will ya?"
"Will do. Come back when you can join us for a meal, Sheriff."
"That I will, McAllan. Don't have to ask me twice." He tipped his hat again and kicked his horse into a gallop down the road, a small cloud of dust rising behind him. Bryce stood there, running over his words, his heart leaping at his warning. He didn't know where Sam's secret entrance was. But Odessa's poem might hold the answer. Was she in danger? Did anyone know what she had in her room?
Odessa and Helen were high in the foothills of the Rockies, steadily making their way on horses to an inn near Divide. With the snow quickly receding higher and higher and the hint of summer's heat on the Chinook wind, they planned to spend the night there and hike and ride about, returning to some of Helen's favorite haunts to take photographs. It was glorious to escape town and the small cottage she now shared with Moira. Her sister fancied herself a nursemaid, but then acted as if she were burdened whenever Odessa asked for help.
She sighed. She would not think of Moira today. She would only concentrate on this pretty day and these gorgeous mountains. Thick stands of evergreens blanketed the hills about them, the scent of sap heavy on the breeze. But as soon as Odessa succeeded in casting aside thoughts of her sister, something else troubling replaced it in her mind.
"You're terribly quiet," Helen said, glancing over her shoulder at Odessa.
"I need you to hide something for me, Helen."
Her friend pulled back on the reins and wheeled her horse about on the narrow path. She rested her forearms on the horn and studied Odessa. "Not much good comes from hiding."
Odessa looked about, peering into shadowed ravines as if there were enemies about, even here. "I can't risk it, Helen."
"Risk what?"
"Moira is ... adjusting to life here. Nic is finally recovered from his incident. The store is doing well. If they find out I have ... Please. Will you just hold something for me for a while?"
Helen raised a brow. "Sounds like a hot potato. Might I get burned if I take it from you?"
Odessa paused, sighed. "I don't know. I don't think so. Well, perhaps ... No, forget it."
"Why don't you back up and tell me what's going on."
"No. Pay me no mind. I'm sorry I even brought it up."
"Odessa."
"No. You're right. I don't want you burned either."
Helen lifted a hand. "All right, all right. Come, tell me. I assume responsibility for all potential burns." She smiled a little smile. "I'm a tough old bird. I can take it."
Odessa considered the woman. And the potential relief in sharing her burden was too much to pass up.
She had opened her mouth to pour out her story when a shot rang out, the bullet passing so near Odessa's head, she felt it go through a loose strand of hair. It struck a tree to the left of Helen and left a gaping hole. Helen frowned, looking from Odessa to the tree again. Odessa was too stunned to move.
"Come on," Helen said, reaching forward to take Odessa's reins. "Lean low!" she cried. Another bullet came singing past, striking a boulder to their right.
Odessa leaned as instructed and then looked back, searching the heavily forested valleys on either side of the high mountain road. Where were the bullets coming from? Who would dare to attempt to murder them here? Did someone suspect she carried Sam's secret note? No one was visible on the road behind them. Please, God ...
Another shot, this time from a different angle. How many were there? Helen's horse reared up, but Helen held on. But the mare lost her footing and was going over ... coming her way! Odessa's horse shied and the sudden movement sent her one way and the horse another.
She landed on her back and for a moment, wondered if she was in a consumptive attack. But she had simply been winded. She paused, waiting for her body to remember the newly returned habit of breathing in and out, pray
ing that she was not now an easy target for those who hunted them. She rolled to one side, looking up the hill for Helen, and yet another bullet barely missed her. Had she lain still a moment longer ...
"Helen?" she croaked, gasping. It came in ragged droughts now, but at least it was coming. Breathlessness was something to which she had become accustomed, and dimly she supposed it didn't unnerve her as it might another. She dug her elbow into the soft soil and pulled herself up, knowing that every second was another for their enemies to lock and load, gather them in their sights, and pull back on the trigger.
Helen appeared then over the edge of the road. "Take my hand," she demanded, reaching down.
Odessa did as she was told and the older woman hauled her back onto the road. They bent low and grabbed their skittish horses' reins and rushed around a bend, then paused between three old pine trees. "How many?" Odessa panted.
"Two, maybe three."
"Highwaymen?"
"None reported here of late. I was confident bringing you up here." Her gray eyes met Odessa's. "Odessa, do you think it's related to your secret?"
"Could be," Odessa returned in consternation.
"It's that big, yes?"
"This would seem to say so."
"Then we better get out of here. Quickly."
"How?"
"We could send the horses on their way and pick our way out among the forest. I know these woods well. And I can make it difficult for anyone to track us. On the road, now that they no longer can wield surprise as a weapon, we'd have to outrun them. And that's a gamble ... that our horses are stronger and faster than theirs."
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 18