"Nothing on you when you were brought in, anyway. Could've been the highwaymen or the drunks who rescued you. Hard to tell."
"Do you remember anything of the men?" Odessa asked. "What they said? Anything about their horses? Something that could help the sheriff find them?"
Bryce paused and then shook his head. "All I remember are trees. And the dark."
"What were you doing out there, McAllan? At that hour?" Reid asked.
"I ... I don't know."
"Well, give it time. Maybe your memory will come back as you heal." He placed his hat on his head and nodded at Odessa from the door. "We'll find the men responsible for this."
"I hope so," she said. She remembered her manners. "Thank you."
Reid exited the doctor's office and eyed Moira and her brother, sitting on a bench. "He's awake."
Both rose, but Reid paused in front of the door, blocking them, but staring down the street. "I imagine your Clarion will soon arrive."
"He's due on the afternoon train, with my father," Moira said softly.
He still didn't look her way. "The last time you two saw McAllan was late last night?"
"'Bout eleven," Nic said.
"See anyone else? On the street?"
"No."
"Did you see anyone else on the way home? Anyone suspicious?"
"No."
"I'll ask it again ... Know why he'd be on his way to Colorado City at that hour?"
Nic met his gaze. "Not my future brother-in-law," he said levelly.
"No telling what happened, then," said the sheriff. "Until his memory returns, I'm afraid we're all in the dark."
They watched him lumber down the steps and down the street, joining his deputy to converse about a block away.
"What do you think he'll do when James gets here?"
"Nothing. The general will see to that." She paused. "Right?"
"Let's hope so."
James Clarion climbed down the steep steps of the passenger car and paused to direct a servant toward his cases and trunks. He was as splendidly refined as Moira remembered-sandy-haired, thin but strong-and yet with a new air of maturity about him. She wondered if he sensed the same about her as they neared each other. He took her hand to kiss it, then rose to smile into her eyes. "If it isn't the lovely Miss St. Clair, Wild West adventurer."
"The Wild West is one thing. You've been to two or three continents since we last kept company."
"And do I have stories to share!" he said with a twinkle in his eye. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, as if they had been courting for months, and turned to her brother to shake his hand. "Dominic, Colorado appears to be as beneficial for you as it is your sister."
"It's a fine place, a good place," he returned. His eyes shifted over James' shoulder, looking for their father. He squinted in confusion and then looked at James again. "Was not my father on this train with you?"
James looked from one to the next and Moira watched the twinkle fade in his eye. "I'm afraid he was not. Come, let us move on to someplace more suitable and I will tell you all about your father. If Miss Odessa is in good condition, she ought to be present too." He turned as if to look for her, then added, "He sent several trunks for you-" He turned away from them to speak to the servant again and counted his luggage. Moira shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again-what could have detained Papa? "There now, all is accounted for. I do hope your carriage is large. Since I come bearing gifts, I am rather heavy laden."
"James," Moira said, reaching out to touch his arm. "Please. Is Papa all right?"
He looked upon her with genuine sorrow and concern. "For now, Moira. But he is ailing. It is rather dire, I'm afraid. Please, let us get to your sister and I will share all I know."
The telegram arrived three days later from the St. Clair Press attorney, Francis Bonner.
Regret to inform you of the death of Clarence St. Clair, at 2:10 am 10 July 1883 STOP Funeral to be conducted 15 July unless otherwise directed STOP Request Dominic immediate presence STOP Bonner
Odessa had read it so many times it quickly seared into her memory as clearly as Sam's poem. But in this there was no light, no hope, no intrigue. Only darkness, despair, death. James told them that their father had been having difficulties with his heart for some time, suffering a minor stroke right before James departed for Colorado, which finally convinced him he should not travel. She sighed heavily as she walked down the street to Doc Ramsey's, wondering again if her papa had been alone when his heart beat a final time, if he had called out for her or one of her siblings or his wife. Only the knowledge that he was at last reunited with his beloved bride, her little brothers and tiny sister in heaven gave her any sense of comfort.
Doctor Morton had refused to consider the idea of her returning home for the funeral. Not even for a few days. "The train ride itself would be too strenuous, Odessa," he'd said. "You'll spend three days en route there, and three days back. Think of the last time you made that journey. You've made too much progress to risk regressing now. Please, your father wanted nothing more than for you to find health. You've done that here in Colorado. You honor his memory more by remaining."
In the end she had agreed, knowing her place was here, with Bryce. Moira stayed to attend to the shop and James Clarion, while Dominic journeyed home to be present at the funeral and see to the estate and their father's affairs. He'd reach Pennsylvania tomorrow and the funeral would be the day after that. She didn't know if he'd return-or when. He and Moira had come to loathe the time they spent at the store and had hired the schoolmarm, Kathleen Price, to assist during her summer break. Odessa, conversely, loved every hour she spent in the store, but found she did not have the stamina to remain more than a few.
She climbed the steps of Doc Ramsey's, nodded at his wife who peeked through a doorway to a kitchen, and proceeded to Bryce's bedside.
He smiled softly when he saw her and opened his arms wide. "Come here, sweetheart," he said quietly, reading the grief in her eyes. She moved toward him and sank to her knees beside the bed, resting her head on his chest, and gave way to the sobs she had been holding in for days.
He said nothing, merely stroked her head and hair and patted her as she cried. Even when her tears were spent she remained there for a time, drawing comfort from his warmth, the steady beat of his heart, the strength in his hands. At last she straightened and wiped the tears from her cheeks and returned his tender smile.
"Now you're looking better and I'm a sight," she said.
"You're beautiful," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No, Moira could always cry and look somehow fetching. I get splotchy and puffy-eyed."
"All the more testament to your beauty. I'd meet you down that church aisle at this very moment and count myself blessed to have you as my bride."
She laughed off his compliment and studied him again. He was more coherent in his speech and seemed more like himself today. "Tell me how you are, Bryce. How's your head? Have you remembered anything more?"
"How's the shop?" he asked, trying to deflect. "Is Moira staying put at all, or merely looking to you and Kathleen?"
Her eyes narrowed and she moved to the chair beside his bed. "Why did they do it, Bryce?" she said in a whisper. "Tell me. I cannot bear the fact that I almost lost you and my father in the same week. Tell me what you remember."
"We've been through this, Odessa. I don't remember. Not a thing."
"They took your money, but not your watch. It makes no sense."
"Maybe they were angry I only had a few dollars on me. Few dollars among four men isn't much."
Bryce moved his head back and forth on the pillow and closed his eyes. "Leave it, Odessa. This will only make things worse."
"Tell me what you remember. Tell me," she urged.
"No. No! It's bits and pieces. It makes no sense, even to me. Please, stop. It's making my head throb."
Odessa sighed and leaned back in her chair, catching her breath,
letting Bryce's heartbeat return to normal. She didn't want him to regress ... but this was important. "Bryce, do you think they were after you because of Sam's poem? Did they ask you about the mine? About me? About anything in particular?"
Bryce frowned and then slowly opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. His left eye was still horribly bloodshot, but at least it wasn't as swollen. And the double vision had ended. The doctor had hope now that it would heal completely. "My memory is sketchy, but yes, I think they were after the map."
She reached forward and took his hand. "The map-Sam's poem. They thought I'd given it to you for safekeeping. Worse, maybe they meant to kill you, make it look like a robbery, because you now own the O'Toole mine."
He grabbed her hand and forced her to stop pacing again, then sighed. "It's been a terrible week for you, Odessa. First me, then your father. It's you I'm worried about. I have to get you out of here. Marry you and take you back to the ranch. We can see anyone coming from a couple miles out. Too many corners, too many ways for a man-or woman-to be ambushed here."
"You really think that?" Odessa asked. "You think we'll be safer on the ranch?"
"Absolutely."
"What about the DeChants? If Amille wasn't completely mad, if they would go to such lengths as to kidnap and murder their childthen murder John and make it look like a mining accident ... why do you think we'll be safe?"
Bryce leveled his good eye at her and waited for her to cease pacing. "Because DeChant didn't have ten ranch-hardened men on the premises dedicated to keeping him alive." He reached out to her and she took his hand. "You'll be safer there, Odessa. We'll see to it."
Chapter
27
"You're telling me that my father left everything to me?"
"Everything. The house. St. Clair Press. Even his bank accounts are at your disposal." Francis Bonner, a small man with a long beard, pushed the documents across the desk to him.
Dominic picked the top sheet up but stared at it with unseeing eyes. With his other hand he untied his tie and unbuttoned his collar. It was stifling hot in Philadelphia. The funeral service, although short, had seemed interminable in the sweltering church.
"He never updated his will. This was drafted the year after you were born. I urged him to revise it every year, but the matters at hand always proved more demanding of his attentions." He paused and eyed Dominic. "I must say, I'm surprised at your reaction. It is common enough-and to your obvious favor."
Nic pinched his temples with the thumb and third finger of his right hand and set the document back on the desk. "What about Odessa and Moira? What do they receive of the estate?"
The small man coughed. "Well, that is up to you, of course."
"I could take it all?"
"You could, although you and I both know that would not be within your father's wishes."
"Yes, well, if it was up to my father, I'd stay here at this desk and keep running St. Clair Press. Work myself to death, just as he did, not living life, just reading about it. But it's no longer up to my father, is it? He's dead. Dead."
Francis blanched and stared at him with wide eyes.
Nic rose and paced the office floor. How many times had he been in this office, trying to have a word with his father but having to wait for ten others to speak first? How often had he been reprimanded in here, told what to do? "Set straight," again and again? He ran his fingers over leather-bound editions of St. Clair Press's best-selling books. "He sent us West to find our way," he said aloud. "He knew it was ahead of us, not behind us."
"Pardon me?"
Nic shook his head and turned toward Francis. "Sell it. All of it.
"What?"
"I'll pack up the things my sisters would care about and send them to Colorado. Then you will see to selling the house, the remaining items within, and St. Clair Press. Reserve a portion of the proceeds to care for the family grave sites for the next fifty years. The remaining estate, in total, will be divided into thirds, with a third to be given to each of my sisters and a third to me."
"This will take some time," Francis said, rising, flustered.
"Of course," Nic said easily, his confidence growing by the moment. This was the answer, his escape route, hope. "But as you work out those details, I want my father's bank accounts immediately transferred to my name. Deduct it from my portion once the sales are complete, but I plan to depart Philadelphia within a few days and wish to have access to those monies."
"I must say, I believe your father-"
"My father had ample opportunity to pursue his dreams," Nic interrupted. "Now it is my turn to shape my own future."
"W-where will you go? Back to Colorado?"
Nic moved toward the door and set his hat on his head. He turned to flash the attorney a grin. "I have no idea. But I very much look forward to finding out."
On the eve of their father's funeral, Moira and Odessa stood on a cliff above Garden of the Gods, dressed in black and clinging to each other. James Clarion stood at a respectful distance behind them, and Bryce was in a carriage just beyond him. The young women leaned their heads together as they wept. One shared a memory and they would cry for a time, then the other would share yet another story, and they'd cry again. They had come here, to this place, because they had talked about bringing their father here when they saw it for the first time-the brilliant red rocks shooting toward the sky, the towering Pikes Peak, a lovely purple contrast above them.
"He would've loved it here," Odessa said.
"He would've loved seeing you looking so well," Moira said. "At least he knew you were back on your feet, Odessa, safe. That must have made him so content."
"I owe him my life twice over," Odessa mused. "He wanted nothing more than to know that all three of us were well."
They stood together in silence, watching as the sun set over the mountains. "What will become of St. Clair Press?" Moira asked at last as they turned to go. "Do you think Nic will remain in Philadelphia?"
"I don't know," Odessa said. "I hope he returns soon-even for a time. I want him to be here to give me away at the wedding, and there is much for us to discuss."
Moira spent much of her day on James' arm, at his insistence, weathering dull, long meetings in which he seemed to do little but stare at sheet after sheet of numbers. He was doing some investing for his father, principally in land, particularly land that might yield valuable commodities at some point. Her ears perked up during cloaked conversations, heavy with implied meaning and unspoken promises, innuendo meant to propel one man after another toward James' way of thinking. He was a master at deal making, and Moira reveled in watching him close each one.
After the meetings, the two would rehash the conversations, dissecting and disseminating what they thought was vital. James listened to her with some bemusement on his face, as if she were a beautiful toy that delighted him, but he also seemed to take her points under serious consideration. Moira blossomed in the light of this attention, this sense of respect that she had never found except in flaunting her beauty or singing.
They were on their way to dine together, alone at last, nine days after his arrival, and Moira believed she felt the faintest niggling of love for the man beside her. He had been very attentive, especially after her father's death. She smiled and held his arm even more tightly. He looked down at her. "Happy, pet? I mean, even in the midst of your mourning can you find a bit of contentment in this, this courtship?"
His nickname irritated her, but she shoved it aside. It was common enough. She nodded. "Very. I'm so glad you are here, James."
"As am I. Tell me, what was so important today that you could not remain with me at Dannigan's?"
"I've been meaning to tell you, James."
"Oh? What is it?" He pulled her to a stop, a block shy of the restaurant.
She paused, considering her choice of words. "I ... you have complimented my singing, in the past."
"Indeed," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. He looked lively, boyish. A youn
g man in love. His mossy brown eyes sparkled.
"James, I have a little adventure, here in the Springs. A place I've found to sprout my wings. I do so hope you'll approve."
"Anything, pet. Ask me anything, it's yours."
"I'm to sing, James. At the opera house. As the lead, opening night."
He frowned, hesitated, and Moira rushed on. "It's something I've always longed to do. To sing in front of a crowd. To ... entertain."
As his frown deepened, she knew that last word had been wrongly placed. "It is a fine opera, and deeply meaningful to me and my family, because it centers on something that brought us here, in the beginning."
"What is that?" he asked distractedly.
"Consumption. The heroine has consumption."
"Does she die?"
"What?"
"Does she perish?"
"Well, yes."
"No," he said, shaking his head, and breaking away to pace back and forth. "No, Moira. You are ill-cast. Imagine, beautiful you, dying, in front of all those people. It is oddly ... intimate. Unseemly."
"Well, yes, James. That is the point of all good theater. To let the audience in. Close. But it is all illusion. Make-believe."
"Not to me." He took her hands in his. "I cannot bear it, even watching your death in a false world. Please, do not do it."
Moira pulled her hands from his. "James, please do not ask that of me."
"Did your father approve of this?"
Moira shifted and then met his eyes. "My father did not know of my plans."
His mouth settled into a grim line. "It is settled, Moira." He laughed, a hollow sound. "Listen, I beg for your forgiveness over this disappointment. But we are courting; you are my intended. Your father is gone, unable to guide you. We will find other means for you to share your gifts."
She turned slightly away. "And how shall we do that?"
He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. "Come, let us eat. We'll both feel better after a good meal. We'll discuss it later."
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 24