But Moira knew their conversation was over. In James' mind, Moira was set to tell the director the very next day she could not take the part, and she would never set foot on the stage again.
She would just need to convince him otherwise. James Clarion was a good man, a man of the world, educated, a patron of the arts. Not anything like Reid Bannock. Surely, in time, he'd see things her way.
"I'm selling it. All of it."
"All of it? You mean the house-"
"I mean all of it," Nic said, looking from one sister to the next. "Wellington Press has put in a good bid for St. Clair Press-"
"Papa never wanted to sell to them," Odessa said, shaking her head. "He didn't care for how they did business." Bryce took a seat beside her. James stood behind Moira, leaning against a wall, listening, chin in hand.
"Francis Bonner thinks it's a decent bid, a fair bid, but we're waiting for another. I expect to receive a telegram today on it."
"What about what we want? Why did you not consult us?" Odessa asked.
"Come," Nic said dismissively. "You are to be wed tomorrow and Moira has never been as drawn to books as you and father were. Right?"
Moira nodded, reluctantly.
"If anyone was to take over St. Clair Press, Odessa, it would be you. But women are not publishers and-" He held up a hand when she began to interrupt him. "And as I've already said, you are marrying a Colorado rancher tomorrow. Right? And you can't return East even if you wished to do so. Right?"
Odessa rose and paced. "But, Nic, shouldn't you have discussed it with us first? It might be the right decision, but didn't you consider that Moira and I would want to be a part of it?"
"It wasn't yours to make. It was mine. Father left it to me."
"The decision," Bryce said.
"No. He left the entire estate to me. It's all in my name."
"He left no provision for the girls?" James asked.
"Bonner says he simply never got to it. The will is old, dated soon after I was born." He held up his hands when they all began to speak at once. "Look, we all know Father's intentions would have been to divide the estate between us, at least to some extent. So while the decision remains mine to make, I've asked Bonner to divide it in thirds."
"So that is it? It's done? There is no discussion?" Odessa asked. "Wellington will run St. Clair Press into the ground. I don't-"
"No. There is no discussion," Nic said. "It is done, Odessa. It is for the best."
"How much?" Moira asked. "How much money will we each receive?"
"Enough to buy you a nice home and keep you in fine dresses and food for decades to come. Father worked hard-"
"Worked so hard that in an instant, at the first opportunity, his son could simply sell it," Odessa said.
"What would you have me do, Odessa?" He rose to glare back at her across the table. "I don't want it! I never wanted it! I don't wish to be a bookseller or a publisher. I want to do something else. And now I have the opportunity." His face softened. "I know it disappoints you, Dess. The press was dear to your heart in so many ways. I'm sorry. I wish there was an alternative. But don't you see? This is my chance. Your chance. Moiras chance. To make Father's dream each of our own. It's a gift, really, unique for each of us."
"He's right, Odessa," Bryce said. She sank into the seat beside him and he covered her hands with his.
"And it would be nearly impossible to run it from afar," James said. "Even with a good manager in place, a business can be destroyed in months without solid oversight. I've seen it happenmismanagement of talent, siphoning of funds. It's wise to let it go if there is no one capable or interested enough to remain."
"Wise, but sad. Just another ending for us," Odessa said, grief evident in every syllable she uttered.
"But endings leave room for new beginnings, right?" Bryce asked her. "You finish the last page of a book, aren't there then ten new tales to choose from? That's what Nic wants. A new opportunity. The chance to choose his own book. Write his own script. Surely you understand that."
Odessa glanced from him to her brother. After a moment, she nodded. "I do." She reached out to Nic and Moira and they came around the table to take her hands. She looked up at each of them. "Just remember that this money is Papa's final gift to each of us. Don't waste it," she pleaded. "Make it count."
"I will," Moira said.
"As will I," Nic said.
They were married on a bright and sunny July morning at the First Presbyterian Church, one of only three churches in town, and refused any party afterward. Under the shadow of her father's death, the sale of St. Clair Press, and mindful of the still unnamed thugs who had nearly cost her her husband, Odessa had not wanted a lot of fuss and bother; she didn't want to dance and drink champagne; she only wanted to be with Bryce, wanted to absorb what it meant to finally be his wife. Desperation to escape the threatening cloud that covered the Springs propelled her forward. And the idea that Bryce could both oversee his ranch again and introduce it to her on their honeymoon had been hers. Their plan was to travel to some dry clime on belated holiday come winter.
So she had donned a simple, but elegant, ivory silk gown, gathered a small, elegant bouquet from the sanatorium gardens, and walked the aisle on her brother's arm, but with none other than Moira and James, Helen, Doctor and Mrs. Ramsey, Doctor and Mrs. Morton, Nurse Packard, and General Palmer in attendance.
But it felt right to Odessa, to stand before this small, select group. She keenly felt the absence of her father as Nic stepped back, but then was warmed by the arrival of her groom. Bryce smiled down at her, delightfully handsome in a new black suit and crisp white shirt, his sparkling eyes-both now blessedly clear-captivating her as they always had.
"Ready?" Bryce whispered, and Odessa barely choked back a laugh. What was she to do if she wasn't? Run away? But she didn't want to run away. No, this was exactly where she wanted to be. The vows were spoken, the rings exchanged. And never, ever, had Odessa seen such love and joy in her beloved's eyes. It made her take a breath, as if gasping. But it was more a desire to inhale, to hold it within her for as long as possible, imprinting this precious day on her heart as if it were one of Helen's photographs, deep within.
Outside, under joyful, clanging bells, as she bade farewell to everyone she had loved longest, and new friends who had made this place home, a sudden sorrow echoed through like the last peal of a bell hanging in the air. But it was a short-lived pain that soon faded upon the euphoria she felt at officially being Mrs. Bryce McAllan. And the two of them were escaping, running away to his beautiful ranch to explore the land, and each other.
A distant train whistle blew. "We don't have much time," Bryce said lowly.
"Here," Helen said, handing her a camera and then setting a picnic basket beside it. "I'll expect to see some fine photographs from your new abode."
"Helen, I can't -"
"You can. There are supplies in the trunk. Happy marriage, friend." She pulled her close. "I've been married twice now, happily. Treat your spouse as your best friend. Remember that."
"I will. Do come and see us soon."
Odessa turned to Moira. "Stay out of trouble, Sissy."
Moira laughed. "James will see to that."
"I'll be back in a month or two to check on you."
"Yes, yes. You concentrate on being Mrs. McAllan."
"Mrs. McAllan," Odessa said, cocking her head to one side. "That'll take some getting used to."
"Take care of my sister," Dominic was warning Bryce with a solemn expression.
"With my life," he returned immediately.
The two shook hands and then Nic turned to kiss her on both cheeks. "Take close care, Dess."
"You take care too, dear brother. Stay off the roads at night."
"Upon my honor," he pledged.
A train whistle blew again, just as a beautiful white carriage, pulled by a team of black horses, drew up in front of the church. Mud coated the side, but it mattered little to Odessa-only the thoughtful
ness of her husband filled her mind. He grinned and gestured grandly in the direction of the carriage and she moved toward it, pleased to see her trunks already packed beside Bryce's in back. Those attending the wedding added their gifts to the back and stood around shaking hands with Odessa from across the carriage door.
And then they were off. She huddled close to her husband, leaning her cheek on his shoulder. "The last time I was on a train, I almost died. It was that dire, my consumption."
"I remember." There was a shiver in his voice. "And now you board a train, a woman with a new name, new identity."
"But I am still Odessa."
"Oh yes, always, gloriously Odessa. My Odessa." And with that, he leaned down and stole his second kiss as her husband.
"Should we stop somewhere, Bryce? I need to change. I don't want my gown to be ruined, sitting on a dusty train for hours."
"No need," he said mysteriously. They reached the train station, Bryce turned to direct the men on the platform with their baggage, flipping them each coins, and hurried to board the last car, an elegantly painted and appointed car with the words "General William Jackson Palmer" on the side. He lifted his hand to her as her mouth fell open. "The Palmers' wedding gift to us. We might be spending our wedding day on a train, but it's in a borrowed, private car like no other."
Odessa squealed and took his hand. They climbed in and Odessas eyes opened wide in wonder. Rich mahogany covered the walls. Black lacquered cabinets with hand-carved ivory handles were on one end. Soft ruby velvet covered overstuffed chairs and benches along the side. Tables with carved acanthus leaves and the heads of nymphs were on either side.
Bryce was grinning, opening cabinet after cabinet. "We have our choice of what to dine upon. There are crackers, canned sardines and oysters, even caviar. Oranges, fresh oranges. And the general's cook and Helen both packed us picnic baskets."
"We won't starve," Odessa said.
"But that's not the best part," he said. He took her hand and led her to the back of the car, then opened two pocket doors. To one side was a bed fit for a queen.
She glanced up at him. "We couldn't possibly," she said, hand on her heart. "Look at the windows! I don't care to have ranchers and whatnot gazing in upon us."
"We'll be moving just fast enough for privacy," he said moving behind her and bending to kiss her ever so softly on the neck. "And there are drapes anyway. Lots and lots of drapes."
"Drapes might work," she allowed, closing her eyes as he continued his trail of kisses to her ear. She felt weak, light-headed.
The train conductor called out, "Final call! All aboard!" and a servant ducked into their car. "Sure you don't want a servant aboard your car, Mr. McAllan?" The man averted his eyes from their intimate kiss, and Odessa turned away, her face aflame.
"No, thank you," Bryce said, a laugh under his tone. "We will be just fine on our own."
"You surely will," said the man with a grin, and then he was out and closing the door up tight. She shared a smile with her husband and, feeling self-conscious, turned to pass the bed and go out to the small rail and deck that protruded from the back of the train. She looked across Colorado Springs, what she had called home these last months, and recognized that she wasn't yet home, that it was ahead.
Bryce joined her at the rail as the train blew its whistle and lurched forward, then slowly began to gain speed. He handed her a glass of champagne, bubbly and light and sweet upon her tongue, and toasted her. "To Mrs. McAllan and our new life together."
"And to my husband, Mr. McAllan."
They stood there, trying to drink their champagne, but the ride was already bumpy, jostling them about. "Want to go in?" Bryce asked, meaning deep in his eyes.
He moved toward her and kissed her, his lips becoming more and more searching, his questions and sentences broken up by kisses he couldn't stop himself from making, nor could she refuse. "Do you mind, Odessa? Very much, I mean? That it's here. Now. On a train?"
"What does it matter?" she asked. "Whether it be in a hotel ... or a train ... or a tiny cabin ... right?"
"Right," he agreed, moving behind her, unbuttoning a gown her sister had buttoned up only hours before.
Sheriff Reid Bannock dolefully watched as Bryce McAllan whisked his bride away. It chafed, seeing a St. Clair girl in white, when he had thought it was going to be him as groom, Moira as bride. But instead she was there, accepting James Clarion's arm, looking up at the dandy in adoration.
The map was not in the cottage, nor on her brother-in-law's person. Was it with Moira? His eyes returned to the train, small now, in the distance. Or Odessa? Or had it been lost when those fools chased her and Helen Anderson into the water? And if that was the case, did she remember pertinent details? Was it all in that pretty head of hers? What delicious torture might it take to extract it?
Another rider came up, joining him in the shadows cast by the swiftly climbing sun. Reid's grim smile faded. "All is in order?"
He nodded swiftly toward the train in the distance. "The men aboard will watch the McAllans day and night to see if they find their way to O'Toole's mine. Once we have the location, we uh, clear the way to purchase the property."
"McAllan will be more cautious than ever, given that beating he took."
"I've thought of that myself. We'll have to lie low. Give them the impression they have been forgotten, that they're safe on that big ranch. When McAllan relaxes, we'll move."
"Good. Long-term goals demand long-term plans. We can wait a few more weeks." He looked back to the wedding crowd still lingering. "What of Clarion? He's met all the appropriate people?"
"He has. And there's something else. Telegraph operator let me know that the St. Clairs received a message late last night. They sold the press. Word on the street is that Dominic plans to close down the bookshop and move on. They're cashing in."
Reid lifted his head in surprise and then dismissed the man.
So the St. Clair heirs had sold their inheritance while their father's body was still cooling. The girls would not have had the stomach for such a move. It had to have been Dominic. On second thought, Moira might have encouraged him. The selfish wench had big ideas in her head, plans. Would she now toss Clarion aside? He both hoped for it as much as he dreaded it. For if she severed her courtship with Clarion she was bound to move on, leaving Reid behind as well. There would be no opportunity for reconciliation ... or retribution.
His eyes shifted to the horizon. It was time to face facts. Moira would never have him. She had never had serious intentions about him. And for that, she and her family would pay dearly. The McAllans would soon die and the O'Toole fortune would be partially his. With such funds in his bank, he would retire as sheriff and track Moira down. She was still young, foolish, bound to make poor choices with liquid assets at her fingertips. He'd find a way to exploit her, leaving her vulnerable, just as she had done to him. Then, in her most dire hour, she would fall to her knees, begging him to take her back, to rescue her.
He grinned, the thrill of promise, hope, surging through his limbs. Would he take her back then? Make her his bride or merely his mistress?
There would be plenty of time to consider both options. But at that point, it would be his decision, not hers. Moira St. Clair would be entirely at his mercy. He laughed under his breath. Yes, long-term goals demanded long-term plans.
Chapter
28
"So I'll see you both this evening," said James Clarion, standing beside a fine gray horse and preparing to ride away for yet another meeting.
"Tonight, at six," Moira agreed, from beside her brother. She flashed a smile toward him, and for the first time, Nic wondered if she truly felt something for the man. Moira and Nic climbed the shop steps while James rode east, out of town. Dominic wished he could switch places with James, have business that carried him in one direction and then the other, varied, wide, ever expanding. Or even with Bryce, to a ranch that presented new challenges each day. He couldn't wait to be divested of the b
ookshop, which, to him, felt like two wagon wheel ruts through a vast, endless prairie. He could barely stand this process of closing it down. He wished he could hop the first train through town and see where it took him.
A sudden thought came to him. A deep amber shot of whiskey. Then another. His mouth watered at the thought of it. In the whiskey, he could find the patience he needed to see the sale of the shop's contents through. Perhaps he would reward himself this night....
"Nic, I have to head over to the opera house soon for rehearsal," Moira said.
He frowned. "I thought you were going to help me here. There is so much to be done, Moira."
"I needed James to believe that. But I thought you knew I had daily rehearsals from now until opening night."
He shook his head. "You should shoot straight with James. Tell him now you're doing the opera. He's not the sort who will favor a surprise."
"I know it," she said ruefully. "But I cannot find the right words to convince him. If we can just get to opening night, if he could see me onstage, how much I love it, what it's like-"
Nic shook his head again. "I'm telling you now, Sissy. You should tell him the truth before opening night."
"He'll be frightfully angry," she said. "He might be so angry that he leaves town, pulls out of the business deals he's been working on. And that will infuriate the general."
"And so you're concerned that if the general is infuriated, he'll replace you in the opera? Are you more concerned about losing the role or the man?"
"Both. What if James walks away from me?" She ran her fingers over the countertop, thinking about it. "I think it would be dreadfully upsetting."
Nic shrugged his shoulders. "He's a good man, a nice match for you. And he certainly has access to enviable bank accounts. But you're a woman with your own means now, Moira. Your future is what you choose to make of it." He reached out to pinch her chin. "You are beholden to no man. Except me," he teased. "Until you've helped me see this shop emptied of its contents, that is. Then? You want to go and chase the stage? I say do it. You certainly have the beauty and talent it would take."
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 25