"You think so? Really?"
"Really."
"But if I could get both ... launch my career and win the man, wouldn't that be the best?"
"The best, yes, but I think it's impossible. You must convince James to let you sing. Don't surprise him. That will not go over well."
Moira stared at him. "I'll consider it. I will. But now I really must be off. You can manage without me?"
Nic clamped his lips shut for a moment. "I'll manage. But you owe me, Sissy." He waved his finger in front of her face. "I expect you to rise early and come to help, first thing in the morning."
"First thing," she agreed, and kissed him on the cheek as she turned to rush out the door.
Moira walked out onto the stage, still mulling over her brother's words. The modest opera house was not anything like the glorious theaters of the East, but it was still something. It had two tiers of seats, spread in gentle arcs like the bottom of a seashell and offering prime acoustic advantage. The stage was wide and nicely lit, with the aid of candles and lanterns placed in just the right locations. And when they were all alight! Oh, it was magical. She couldn't wait for her costumes to be complete, for the glory of opening night.
In the back of her mind, she knew that there was a good chance that it might be her only night. After her final bows, a last curtain call-please, Lord, let there be a curtain calla James would undoubtedly storm in. Perhaps he'd convince the general to toss her out to the sidewalk. Or maybe, just maybe, James would see in her that this is what she longed to do; he would be proud of her performance; she would win his approval as well as his love. Wouldn't it be grand? They could travel the world together, he seeing to business while she filled various roles on the stage.
But James would not convince her to turn down this opportunity. She would leave him. He was interesting, intriguing, and fabulously wealthy, but no man would own her, manage her, control her. She was talented, the director said. Fabulously talented, said Jesse McCourt, the male lead.
She needed no man, really. As Nic had pointed out, she now had her father's money. It would give her the start she needed.
Because this was just the beginning of what she wanted to do.
The mere beginning.
She attacked the rehearsal as if it were opening night, digging deep for every low note, clawing toward every high one. She became the heroine, Camille, imagining Odessa at her most dire hour in every anguished move. She magnified the role, giving it life, even as her character succumbed to death. She felt the power of it within her, knew it was moving. Her excitement grew at the ease of it all, how it flowed from her mouth, her steps, her eyes. She became Camille for a period of time, so lost in the role was she, as if she had fallen asleep and awakened to find herself another.
Instead of barking orders, the director was silent for the first time in weeks, watching one scene after another unfold. The other actors were equally quiet, each becoming more absorbed in their own characters even as Moira fell more deeply into the well that was Camille. By the end, two women near her were weeping, as was the director.
The death scene wound to a close, each breath becoming more difficult for "Camille." Moira thought of her mother, taking her last breath, then considered her father, feeling his heart thud to a stop as if it were now in her own chest. She became Odessa in the sanatorium, once so pale, almost translucent, with such long pauses between breaths that they thought they had lost her. She emulated Odessa in those dark days, held her breath, took another sudden, shaky breath, held it ... and then another ... and then stopped breathing altogether.
The cast about her and the director paused, holding their breath, waiting for her. The other actors completed their final lines, sniffing and teary, and Moira could feel their eyes upon her, could feel the tension in the room as if they were worried she had actually expired. Finally, the last line had been spoken, but still she remained.
The stage was silent.
"M-Moira?" the director dared, climbing the stairs.
"That went well, don't you think?" she said brightly, sitting up upon her settee.
The cast laughed nervously, and then applause burst out all about.
And never, never had Moira felt more gratified.
Their car was transferred to the next train in Canon City, a narrow gauge, and from there they climbed the dry brown canyon dug over the millennia by the Arkansas River, far below. Sparse vegetation clung to the cliffs, and Odessa wondered for the first time if she was heading to a high desert valley rather than the lush valley she had pictured.
The river was high but receding, curving one way and then the next in a silky blue snake's shape as it rushed downward, ever downward. And still they climbed, the rails sometimes precariously close to the riverbank. At a tiny station-little more than a platform and water tower-the conductor drew the train to a stop and Bryce and Odessa disembarked, both sorrowful to be leaving the Palmers' lovely car behind. Several men unloaded their trunks and placed them into a waiting wagon with the Circle M brand on its side. A couple of men brought Bryce's horse out of a freight car and handed her reins to Bryce. And then the train pulled out again, heading for the mining camps higher up.
Bryce led the horse to water, but Odessa watched the train as it rounded the corner, the locomotive gone, then the first car, then the second ... three more cars and then the Palmers' car was turning the bend. And then it was gone. All at once, she could hear nothing but the rush of the Arkansas River upon the rocks below and Bryce talking lowly to the horse, who balked at the idea of hauling a wagon after her recent weeks of freedom from such chores. Eventually, Bryce got her in the harness and turned to look upon his bride with a tender expression.
"It's a little isolated out here for a city girl."
"I think I can manage it," she said, lifting her chin.
"Yes, for now. In a few weeks you'll be begging me for a trip to the Springs-or at the very least, Canon City."
"Few weeks? I can last a few months, at the very least!"
He smiled and drew her into his arms. "Is that a wager on your lips, Mrs. McAllan?"
"No, Mr. McAllan," she said, kissing him slowly, softly. "My family does not abide by gambling."
"No money will exchange hands," he said, the dare in his eye. "I'm just saying you won't last three weeks before you're begging me for a city fix."
"Three weeks is nothing," she said, scoffing. "Say I last four weeks. What will be my prize?"
"That's to be decided," he said.
"New fabric for our window curtains," she said. "And other girlish things I say we need. I don't trust you to have outfitted our new home with much more than a table and two chairs."
"Oh no," he protested, wrapping his arms around her again. "There's a bed, too. A big bed. We just need our bedroom done so we have someplace to put it."
She giggled and accepted his kisses. "Take me home, Husband."
"Lead the way, Wife."
"Right away." She stepped into the wagon and picked up the reins. "Which way is home?"
He smiled and took the reins from her, crossed the train tracks, and they began to climb a narrow dirt road with one sign: WESTCLIFFE. "See now, there's a town. That won't count in our wager, will it?"
"Trust me, Westcliffe is no Canon City, and a far cry from Colorado Springs."
"Small-town life. I'll get used to that."
"Small towns are one thing. It's the ranching life I'm worried about," Bryce said.
She laughed off his concern, but inside, she wondered. Had she ever really been more than a mile from another? In Philadelphia, there were five hundred people inside a square mile. In the Springs, still a hundred. On the road-the road toward Divide-she and Helen had been fairly isolated. But still, there had been other travelers, people heading in the opposite direction ... and others. She closed her eyes, trying to drive out the memory of the men who had chased them, tried to kill them.
"Are you afraid?" Bryce asked, taking her hand in his.
"
Afraid?" She feigned ignorance.
"Afraid. Being here. Near Sam's land. Near Amille and John's mine. Are you afraid they'll come after us?"
"Are you? I thought you felt safer here, on your ranch."
"I think you're safer here. Between me and Tabito and the other ranch hands, no one will get to you. And if you're safe, I'm content."
Odessa leaned into his shoulder, hugging his arm and looking up, intent upon only pleasant thoughts that pertained to the day, the potential in her future. Not the past. She searched the rocks as they left the river behind, some perched precariously atop others as if barely maintaining a balance, erosion creating odd shapes of others. And then she saw it.
"Stop, Bryce."
"What?"
"Stop."
He pulled the horse to a halt and turned in his seat, giving her a curious look as she stood and then climbed down, moving back up the road a bit. "We don't have much time to dawdle," he said, "not if we want to make the ranch before nightfall."
"Come here, please," she murmured, staring upward.
Wearily, he set the brake and laid the reins aside, then climbed down to stand beside her. "Rocks, and plenty of them."
"No. `Two forgotten men, desperate for drink.' Sam referenced them. See them?"
He looked for several long, quiet seconds and then laughed under his breath. "There they are, `perched over a river winding, never to reach her shore."'
She grinned and then looked elsewhere. Nothing resembled "God's finger pointing" to the southwest. "Know of any rock that looks like God's finger, in this direction?"
"No. But I know the way to Sam's land, of course."
He helped her back in and they resumed their drive up, up, among pinon pines and scrub oak, rough, dry country that reminded Odessa of the true Wild West. The road ran beside a small ranch-"the Schaefers, fine folks," Bryce said-and then back through a series of hills. Here and there, the road had been washed out, which took them more time to cross, but then Odessa glimpsed it-a tall, snow-covered mountain, more glacial and clean-edged in appearance than Pikes Peak, which tended to ramble out more as a hulking mass than an elegant presence. And then she saw another, and another. In minutes, they crested the last hill and a vast valley spread before them.
Bryce pulled to a stop. "Pretty, isn't it?"
"Magnificent," Odessa said, fingers to her lips. She shivered against the sudden wind, a wind that seemed to lift from the snow high above and rush down to cover them like a wave from the sea. But she was not eager to move. The beautiful peaks appeared as mighty ladies, shoulders jutting toward the valley and then dissolving in long, smooth purple skirts. They wore capes and hoods of snow as if it were the tip of fashion, and Odessa knew they would appear bare, unclothed, without it.
"Later in the summer, they still have a bit of snow here and there. But they become more red than purple," he said. "At certain times of day, they appear crimson, which gave them their name."
"The Sangre de Cristos," she whispered. "Far more beautiful than I could've believed."
"Even though I told you?"
"Maybe if you had painted it I would've believed you," she said with an impish grin. "Where is your ranch? Can we see it from here?"
"That's it," he said, nodding to their right. The mountain range ran southward, but here at this corner edged a bit northwest. A vast valley, her belly full of lush spring-green grass, spread out before them.
"That's ... all of it? That is all yours?"
"Ours," he said with a grin, then cocked his head. "With a small portion owned by my father."
She looked at him hard then. "Bryce, how many acres do the McAllans own?"
"Ten thousand."
"Ten thousand? How? How could you have acquired such a massive tract of land?"
"Well, my uncle left me his property in his will. We homesteaded some. Bought some more. Pretty much every penny I've earned out here for the last five years has gone back into the land. People ... people find it hard out here, Odessa. The wind, long winters, short summers. High and dry is good for ranching, but not for farming. I've lost some fine neighbors who tried their hand at tilling the soil and nearly starved to death."
"But then you were able to buy their land at a bargain price."
"True, but I would've gladly traded it for their company. Even I find it isolating out here, Odessa."
"Hopefully a wife at home will help ease that."
"Already has."
They moved out again, and Odessa gestured to another mountain range. "Are those the Wet Mountains?" They wouldn't be going that direction, but it wasn't far away.
"`Damp to her East, wounds to her West,"' Bryce quoted.
"So it's that way, somewhere."
Yes.
They rode on in silence for several minutes.
"Odessa, I want you to stay far from that land. There's a lot you need to learn, a lot you need under your belt right here ... and there-" He paused to glower toward a far valley. "I've lost some more fine neighbors. Friends. I don't intend to lose my new wife. I don't care what Sam's mine holds. I know you're dying to unravel the mystery, see where it leads. But I don't think it's worth the risk. This," he said, taking her hand again and looking into her eyes, "is all the treasure I've ever wanted. Whoever is after Sam's mine ... let's leave it to others to figure out. We have a life ahead of us. When a body has struggled to simply gain a decent lungful of air, life is enough, isn't it?"
"Bryce, I'm not going anywhere without you," she said, her tone sounding suddenly like her mother's hushing an agitated child. "I promise."
But as they turned a bend in the road, heading northwest, she couldn't help but glance back over her shoulder to the miles and miles of territory. And somewhere, nestled among those low-flung hills, was Sam O'Toole's treasure.
Chapter
29
They entered a new road through two lonely posts with the Circle M brand on either one, and moved northwest as the sun set behind the Sangre de Cristos. A half hour later, they crossed a hill and she could see it, the outline of their new home, nestled among the trees, near a small but tidy cabin, smoke curling from its chimney. Over the hill, she spotted the raw lumber of the twostory house, almost completed, and a white barn a short distance from it. Beyond that, among the fenced fields, was a long line of wall and shallow roofing, perhaps a windbreak or snowbreak for the horses.
"Good man, Tabito," Bryce murmured. "Either he's in that cabin, forgetting we're coming, or he's gotten it all ready for us."
Odessa smiled, but inwardly wondered where they'd all sleep in a cabin so small.
"Don't worry," Bryce said. "He'll join the men in the barn. There's a room in there that isn't half-bad. Once we move into the big house, we'll build a proper bunkhouse for the men, and Tabito will take the cabin as his own."
"How come you never built him a place before?"
Bryce shrugged. "No need. You come in after a day on the range, all you want is a basin of water, a mug of coffee, some meat in the belly, and then a good straw tick. You're out in seconds."
"But now..." Odessa led.
"With a woman on the premises, we all have to behave more like gentlemen."
"Do they know I'm coming?"
"I sent word a couple weeks ago. `Bringing a bride home, finish the house. And don't forget the horses,"' he said with a smile, then pulled the wagon to a stop outside the cabin.
Bryce called out and the small cabin door opened. A short man, powerfully built, emerged. He reminded Odessa of Nic in stature.
"Tabito," Bryce greeted him. "Meet the new mistress of the ranch, Odessa."
"Mrs. Odessa," he said. He smiled at her with warm brown eyes. His face was like tanned leather, deep with wrinkles, although he didn't seem more than sixty years old. His hair was jet black. She offered her hand and he took it in both of his, bowing. "You're cold. Come inside."
"Thank you." She followed him, ducking a little to enter through the doorway.
Bryce had to duck e
ven lower. "Keeps the wind out," he explained.
"I have some venison stew on," Tabito said.
He had a curious way of speaking, as if he didn't want his lips to move that much.
"It smells good," she said, leaning over the fireplace and lifting her hands toward the flames to warm them. Never had she been this close to an Indian before. But it didn't seem foreign, not like she thought it would. She sensed his stare and glanced at him.
He hmphed under his breath.
"Something wrong?"
"You are pretty. Too pretty to marry that ugly one."
She smiled. "I don't know. I think he's pretty handsome."
Tabito hmphed again. "Love. It makes the mind useless." But he gave her a smile that let her know he was joking. "Now, eat. You are too skinny. How will two skinny people fill that big new house with babies?"
She blushed at such intimacies, especially from a stranger. The door closed and she looked up to see that only Bryce was left.
"He never says good-bye. Just up and leaves."
"Ahh. Is that a Ute custom?"
Bryce shrugged and pulled up a stool to join her by the fire. "It's that Ute's custom."
She dished him some of the stew. "How long has he been with you?"
"He's been with me ever since I came to the ranch. He was a trusted hand on my uncle's ranch, the first spread that abutted my homestead."
"How big was that spread?"
"Two thousand acres. The people who owned it had been here for ten years. But smallpox killed most of the family. Only a couple of the children left, barely able to look after themselves, let alone a ranch. Tabito, he loved those children. But he wanted to stay with the land. He says it's something deep within him-the Indian in him-needs room to roam. Land and animals to care for. We still get a letter now and then from the children."
Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 26