"You didn't seem to mind when you were taking shots at us on the road," Odessa called, hands out, buying time.
"Turn around! Now!"
Helen's gray eyes covered hers. "Nothing to lose, friend. Only opportunity here."
They could hear the second man arrive. Where was the third?
"Nothing to lose," Odessa repeated, feeling as if she were reading a book about what was unfolding here, not living it. But then, as she stepped into the air beside Helen and felt her skirts billowing up, past her waist, around her shoulders, she knew she was living it. It was Odessa St. Clair who was about to die upon the rocks beside the pool or plunge into its depths ... or be shot on the way down.
Water ran beneath the several arched bridges that led to the castle of Glen Eyrie. Reid had told her that the waters came from high above, in Queen's Canyon-named for the general's bride-fed by snowmelt and deep springs that could meet the needs of the Palmers and beyond. It was a fine piece of land, here in the glen. Tall, rugged pines covered much of it in cooling shadow. A herd of big-horn sheep frequented the red-hued cliffs all about them. A pair of bald eagles nested on a ledge. This had been sacred ground to the Ute Indians, and for good reason. It was idyllic, really, like a far-off dream in a far-off land.
"Almost there," Dominic said lowly. "Ready?"
"Ready." Her eyes searched the carriage house and the castle beyond it, worried that they had arrived too late to beat Reid here. "We're an hour before the invitation. Will the general consider it rude?"
"No," Dominic said. "I sent word that you needed a moment of counsel prior to dinner. He's expecting us."
Moira glanced at him in surprise. "Papa was right."
"About what?"
"That being here in the West would be as good for you as it is for Odessa."
Dominic thought on that as he pulled around in the yard before the castle entrance. Despite the beating, the disappointment, the worry, coming here had been good for him. "And for you?"
Moira straightened her hat, took her skirts in one hand and the hand of a servant with the other. "It suits my purposes."
Dominic laughed. "Undoubtedly, Sissy. Undoubtedly."
She moved to take his arm and a servant opened the massive front doors. Inside, a suit of armor decorated one wall, a historic relic imported from England by the general, and their host moved down the cascading staircase and toward them.
"Dominic, Moira, it's so good to see you."
"Thank you, sir," Nic said, "for accepting our call earlier than invited."
"Not at all," he said warmly. "Come, my young friends. Let's discuss what's on your minds in the sanctity and warmth of my den."
Odessa plunged into the pool. She was breathless, in shock by the time her boots met water. She sliced into the depths and opened her eyes to look up to the fading light, high above her now. She cast out, trying to slow her descent, knowing, as only a consumptive could know, that she had mere seconds to obtain air.
A hand closed around her arm and she fought it off madly. It took a couple of slow moments for her to recognize that it was Helen, dear Helen, reaching for her, guiding her, already pulling her upward, to the surface.
But she was swimming backward at the same time, at a diagonal. Odessa frowned and tried to pull away. They had no time! She had to get to the surface, directly! But the woman's hand remained clamped upon her arm.
The thunder of the small waterfall filled her ears, louder and louder as they neared the surface. Helen was leading them toward it! Was she mad? If Odessa didn't die from this plunge, the falling water would drown her for sure.
She tried to pull away again, but at last, they reached the surface, each gasping for air. Wordlessly, Helen hauled her backward toward the cliff face, echoing her gasping breaths. All at once, Odessa knew what she was doing. Sheltering them behind the veil of the falls, hiding them from their assailants. She wanted the men to believe they had died, that their bodies were still deep below, held under by the falls or the swirling current of the pools.
Black spots clouded Odessas eyes. Her breathing was ragged, unsure. "Helen, I-"
"Shh," said the woman, reaching the cliff at last and pulling her close before her, facing out. "Shh, I know," she said through chattering teeth. "Just rest. Catch your breath. We're not safe yet. But we have to wait here for dark ..."
They entered the small, cozy den, and General Palmer sat down in his chair before a roaring fire and stroked the head of his dog. He waved to the couch beside the chair. "Please, sit. You've been so intent upon your rehearsals, I've seen precious little of you, Moira."
"It is good of you to invite us again," Moira said, reminding herself again to stop wringing her hands.
"Not at all, not at all. So, Mr. St. Clair, your note said you were seeking counsel?" the general asked. He glanced at his pocket watch. Clearly, the night's festivities were on his mind.
"Indeed. But I will let my sister speak."
"Very well. Moira?"
"Thank you, General." She paused and then plunged forward. "Of late I have been receiving correspondence from a certain young gentleman that I have known for some time, a man that courted me right before I came to Colorado."
General Palmer stared hard at her, obviously disliking where she was going. Plainly, to him, she was already as good as married to the sheriff.
Moira swallowed hard and colored prettily. "It was not my idea," she said, bringing a hand to her breast and shaking her head. "My father has always favored this young man and encouraged me to receive correspondence from Mr. Clarion, even though I was quite clear that I had a beau here-"
The general leaned forward. "Clarion, did you say? James Clarion?"
Moira smiled. "Junior," she added, "of course. But as I was saying-
"James Clarion of Clarion Iron?"
"Indeed. They are something of a first family in Philadelphia," Moira said, sounding almost dismissive.
The general sat back, but not before glancing at the ceiling as if seeking guidance.
"I know James. He's had his eye on Moira for some time," Dominic put in. "But she so recently came of age ..."
"And so, my dear," the general said. "What has transpired? Do you find his attentions ... acceptable?"
Looking appropriately miserable, Moira turned sad eyes upon her host. "More than acceptable. He is delightful. Quite ardent in his pursuit. A good conversationalist, having been schooled abroad. And most ambitious." She paused and sighed. "He is very interested in our little city. I believe he might journey west to visit us and see what all the fuss is about."
The general steepled his fingers before his chest, watching her intently. Several seconds ticked by. "And so," he said at last, "you are here to seek counsel on how to extract yourself from the sheriffs kind intentions so that you might be free to receive this new suitor."
"Yes, I thought, as the parent of three young girls, that you might have given thought-"
The general rose suddenly and turned, leaving a trailing hand on the back of his chair. He looked to the wall, then back to Moira. "You are a keen actress, young Moira St. Clair. But I am the director of this stage."
Moira realized her mouth had fallen slightly open. She abruptly shut it.
He moved the fringe of the carpet with the toe of his boot, soothing it into place. "I will speak to the sheriff myself, this night."
"I-do you not think I should have a word with him before you do?"
"No," he said. "You leave it to me."
"Thank you, General."
"Not at all," he said suddenly seeming tired, mumbling through his words. He appeared years older. "Please, my friends," he said, gesturing a servant forward and whispering in his ear. He turned back to them. "Take your leave here while we wait for the others to arrive."
"Thank you, General," Dominic said, rising and shaking his hand. "Once again, the St. Clairs are in your debt."
"Remember that, son," he said, patting him on the shoulder. "Remember that."
&
nbsp; Chapter
20
Never had Odessa been more glad to see night conquer dusk. Helen had slowly hauled her from the water and remained where she was, perched precariously on a tiny ledge, stubbornly holding Odessa before her. Her meager body heat was blessed, keeping Odessa from giving in to the deadly chill, but neither of the women could pull their legs all the way from the water. There was not enough room behind the falls. Their feet had become numb and almost felt warm in comparison to the rest of their bodies, a trick of the mind.
"Do you think they are gone?" Odessa asked through chattering teeth, speaking as loudly as she dared to be heard over the falls.
"I think we have to move, or we'll die here of the cold," Helen responded. She paused a moment, obviously dreading what would come next. "There's no way past but through the pool again."
Odessa gazed at the black waters before them. They could see, where the water parted as a curtain for a few inches, that a few stars were now shining in the sky. "We can hardly get colder than this."
Helen laughed, the rumbling in her chest making Odessa smile. How glad she was that this woman, this capable, strong woman, was with her now! Helen's laugh faded. "Here's how it will go," she said determinedly. "We'll swim across. On the far right, the falls drop over another cliff, so steer clear of that. Aim for the left. Over there, the old Indian footholds can be found. Let's get to that side. Once feeling returns to our feet we'll make our way down. Good?"
"As long as we're not shot while we wait for it." Before she could have second thoughts, Odessa moved out, entering the water, surprised that it could indeed still feel cold. Her limbs clenched in protest. She had to demand they move, think through every inch of movement, much like she demanded her lungs take breath during a consumptive attack. At one point, she felt her mind slow, thicken, her thoughts turning toward giving in, letting go.
Not since that day on the train had she toyed with the whispers of death.
No, she whispered in her mind. No. I have come too far, worked too hard to die this way!Father God, give me Your strength! Save me! She was sinking, the frigid waters edging up her cheeks, then her nose, covering her eyes ... A surge of strength came through her then, and she managed to move one arm forward, and then another, kicking all the while.
"Odessa!" cried Helen. She felt the woman's hand and clung to it. Helen hauled her the rest of the way to the pool's rim. She could feel the draining draw of the next falls and wearily pulled her body out of it and to the far side. She glanced up. Blessedly, all was dark. No moon. Only starlight. Even if their assailants wished to fire, they'd be doing so blind. And with the pounding sounds of the falls, there was little fear that they'd be heard.
Unless they were already down below them. Waiting.
"Come," Helen said, hauling her backward, her legs now out of the water for the first time in hours. "Rest here." She took the small pack from Odessas shoulders, unrolling the bedroll, hoping for some dry areas. No luck. Both shivered uncontrollably. She placed a small leather pouch beside Odessa. Odessa touched the soggy material and leaned her head back against the rock. Inside was Sam's note, probably disintegrating by now. Oh, Sam, she thought, is it really worth all of this?
She closed her eyes, teeth chattering, and wondered what it would be, to be free of the consumption, feeling better than she had in a year, with nothing to worry over but Bryce missing from her life. She longed to be unencumbered, with little but matters of the heart to concern her. Had Bryce abandoned her for good? How could he have simply left her behind, forgotten what seemed to be growing between them? Was she a fool to have believed it was ... love?
Odessa leaned forward, strained to see her friend in the dark. Her teeth were still chattering, but feeling was returning to her feet with definitive pins and needles. "Life is never ... easy. Is it?"
Helen hovered near, quiet for several seconds. "Sister, I've lost most of my family, buried two husbands, and endured more than twenty years of consumption. I've moved many times, becoming close and then tearing away from people. I've had books that were well received and others, dear to my heart, that sold not enough to pay the publisher's costs. And now ..." She laughed lowly. "I have a young friend who has drawn me into a curious battle for life. So no." She laughed again. "Life isn't easy."
She paused and then took Odessa's shoulders in her strong hands. "But this ... this is life. Do you feel it? I know you've felt death near us this day, several times. When one recognizes death, she certainly also knows life better as well."
Odessa wished she could see her friend's eyes, draw strength from what she knew she'd see there. Is she right, Lord? Is this a part of finding out what it means to live, to breathe? Can I find this tiny glimmer of hope and hold on to it?
"I've talked to God, Dess. Had a little chat, just me and Him, when I was holding you across this pool. I'm convinced this is not the day that God has ordained we join Him."
Odessa swallowed past a swelling throat and nodded. But Helen couldn't see her. "Yes," she croaked through sudden tears. "Yes."
"Good. Now let's get moving."
Bryce McAllan rode into town almost three weeks after he had left. Every day, every waking hour, his mind had been on Odessa. It was dark, past supper, but he knew he had to get to the sanatorium, at least lay eyes on her before he could sleep. So he left the hotel and rode out into a dark night, riding by feel, if not by sight. His horse knew the way. She could've done it in her sleep.
The sanatorium was a beacon in the night, many of her rooms still lit, weary consumptives undoubtedly walking her halls. He coughed, as if reminded by the sight, of his own illness, his own weakness and fallibility. For the thousandth time, he wondered if he was the man that Odessa St. Clair needed.
Was he strong enough? Did not a woman battling her own illness need a man twice as strong?
He pushed away his doubts, the desire to see her again overriding any other consideration. Two weeks. Nineteen days.
Nineteen days, twenty-two hours too long.
He licked his lips as the sanatorium drew closer. His gut was in knots, fear and hope entangled. All he wanted was to hear that Odessa was safe, see her coming down to greet him. Bryce dismounted and tied his mare's reins to the front post. Then on stiff legs, he climbed the stairs to the front entrance.
The attendant opened the door. "Mr. McAllan," he said. "Welcome back! Feeling poorly?"
All at once, Bryce remembered how awkward it was, coming to call at such a late hour.
"No, I'm feeling well," he said. "I came into town today on business and decided I would come and call on Miss St. Clair."
The guard paused oddly and glanced back at the night nurse. "Miss St. Clair?"
"Yes," Bryce managed. Why was the man acting so strangely?
"Miss St. Clair isn't here."
Bryce frowned and took a step toward the guard. "Not here? Where is she?" Panic edged into his mind.
"I ... uhh ..."
"Where is she?" Bryce demanded. "Is she all right? What has happened?"
The night nurse put her hands out in a calming fashion. "Mr. McAllan, Odessa is fine. She's fine!"
Relief flooded through Bryce, leaving him weak where a moment ago, every muscle was strong. He took a breath and leveled a gaze at her. "Then where is she?"
"She has so greatly improved, she moved into town with her sister more than two weeks ago," Nurse Packard said. "Doctor and I check on her daily, but she only continues to improve. She stopped by today to borrow that mare she favors for trail rides. She and Mrs. Anderson were heading up to Divide to take some photographs, as I understand it. They are not due back until late tomorrow."
Disappointment flooded through Bryce. "Tomorrow?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," she returned, eyeing him knowingly. "Surely you can wait one more day to see your Miss Odessa."
Reid arrived. Moira knew the general had had no time to tell him. He came to her directly, taking her hands in his and kissing each of them, looking her over with
warm greeting and joy, as if it had been three weeks, not three days, since they had seen each other. She dropped her eyes, fear overwhelming her. "What's wrong, Moira?" he asked.
"Come along, Sheriff," the general interrupted smoothly. "I know Moira is entrancing, but we must all progress into the dining hall. If we tarry, the food will be cold! Queen never could abide by cold food. Even in her absence, I won't present guests with food that would disappoint her." Reluctantly, Reid turned from Moira and followed their host's lead.
Dominic was there then, offering his arm to her. He leaned closer and said, "Calm yourself. You must see this through. The general will break it to him at the right moment."
She glanced at the general as he talked to Amy Brennan ahead of them. Moira wondered if he could turn Reid, control him. Memories of Reid standing in the street before the hotel, watching her in the dark, or at her cottage, banging on the door, sent a shiver down her spine.
So they sat down at the table, an intimate party of eighteen, and were served sauteed vegetables and roasted pheasant and delightful rolls. Servants poured champagne and then wine, but it did nothing more than make Moira more ill at ease, the moment looming ever nearer when Reid would know. She was terribly quiet, making all around her glance in her direction, clearly used to her leading discussion about people, politics, parties. At one point, Nic nudged her under the table, trying to get her attention.
She jumped and let out a little gasp, then looked around the table in dismay. Dominic kept eating, pretending nothing at all was the matter, but others held their spoons and forks in midair, staring at her in concern. "Forgive me," she stammered. "I seem to have a cramp in my foot. Would you all excuse me for a moment?"
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