Breathe: A Novel of Colorado

by Lisa T. Bergren

  In the last few years, more than a hundred mares birthed live foals; some even bore two. Of those foals this past spring, a hundred and ten had survived to romp together in the fields, becoming more and more independent from their mothers. Half were males, and Bryce had little need for more than ten of the finest as studs. He would sell the others for a fine profit as studs for other herds, and a few as racehorses. Those brought the largest profit of all.

  "I'll have to teach you how to ride fast," he said.

  Odessa watched him in bemusement. "Why is that?"

  "It's how we know if a horse is of true value. The best racehorses want to do nothing but run. If you run past them, they'll join in for the sheer pleasure of it. You can see a lot in their form, the length of their legs, the strength of their muscles, but until you see them run ... you just don't know."

  "What makes you think I cannot ride fast?"

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Can you?"

  "Fast enough. Once we choose my new mare, I'll show you.,,

  He grinned. "Getting any closer?"

  "It's between the black and brown ones over there."

  "Two of the best," he said. "Either would be good. Let's release the rest tonight and spend some time in the corral with just the two of them. I bet you'll soon see which is your horse."

  "I'd love that, Bryce."

  "But for now, if you're really going to be a ranch woman, you need to know another vital skill."

  "And what is that?"

  "Mending fences."

  She laughed. A few days on the ranch had clearly shown her that the bulk of the men's time seemed to be occupied with this task, mending fences. On a ranch this size, she supposed it made sense. Much of it was not fenced, but a good portion was. And horses who liked to rub against fencing, scratching their flanks, were hard on it, to say nothing of the elements that beat it to withered, rotting bits. The colts even gnawed upon the wood, cutting teeth. "Doesn't the fact that I'm cooking supper for ten men each night relieve me of fence duty?"

  "Your biscuits aren't good enough yet."

  She laughed again. "Watch it, or your cook will throw in the towel. Baking over a fire takes some time to learn."

  "Apparently."

  Odessa swatted him. "I bet it took you some time. You couldn't have been any better than I!"

  He grabbed her hands easily and took her into his arms. "You can take all the time you want, Mrs. McAllan."

  Moira bit into a light, flaky biscuit and closed her eyes in pleasure. James had even brought along a jar of honey on their surprise picnic on a cliff above Garden of the Gods, and she didn't hesitate to add a thick layer to her next bite.

  "Will you not eat any of the chicken?" he asked, lounging beside their picnic basket. "Or are you intent on making a meal of my biscuits?"

  "You have to admit that Miss Marla makes the best biscuits you've ever eaten."

  "It's true," James admitted. "They'd almost be enough to keep me here in the Springs and eating at her restaurant every day." He looked her over with an appreciative eye. But then he suddenly righted himself and looped an arm around one knee. "Moira, I must tell you something."

  "Oh? What is that?" She tried to ignore the sudden triple-time beat of her heart.

  "With your father gone, I'd like to speak to your brother. It is my hope we might come to an ... agreement. You and I practically courted in Philadelphia. We've known each other for years. Being here, with you," he said, reaching out to touch her face, "has only served to convince me. My instincts were right, Moira St. Clair. I think you're the woman for me."

  The biscuit was becoming a wad of dough in her mouth. She kept chewing, hoping to be able to swallow, but failing repeatedly. Agreement? She swallowed at last. "James, you see our union as some sort of contract? Why not simply call it a business merger?" She wiped her mouth with a napkin and stood. "Honestly, that is the single most unromantic thing a man has ever said to me."

  James frowned and rose, then reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. He looked upset, devastated really. "I ... I thought you would be pleased, pet."

  "Don't call me that. Don't ever call me that."

  Now he looked extremely confused. "I thought you liked that."

  "No, I do not," she said, turning around to stare at the Garden, and above it, Pikes Peak.

  He was silent behind her for several long seconds.

  "Am I to understand," he said lowly, "that you are not interested in any long-term arrangement between us?"

  She half-turned back toward him. "Oh, James. Cease your fretting. Did our courtship not resume but a month ago? I am still very intrigued with you, brutish as you might be when it comes to affairs of the heart. But I am young," she said with a laugh, reaching out to lightly touch his chest. "As are you. There is no need to rush this, right?"

  James looked down. "I was brutish, p-my love. Forgive me." He reached over and succeeded in taking her hands in his. "And yes, yes, we can take all the time we need. I had only thought ... only wanted to ... it matters not. I will simply see to my business at home for a time and then return to you."

  He leaned down, passion thick in his eyes, as if to kiss her on the lips, but she presented her cheek instead.

  James pulled back, hurt apparent in his eyes. But she ignored it. She had a bigger dream for her life than even James Clarion, a dream he threatened. She cared for him, could well imagine herself as the future Mrs. Clarion, but not if he couldn't love her and support her as she planned to love and support him.

  No, men might take a fancy to Moira as their potential bride. But Moira intended to choose her groom. It would take a special man to be her husband. And she was not at all convinced that James Clarion was the right one.

  Opening night would be telling for more reasons than one.

  Chapter

  32

  Odessa chose the black mare as her own, naming her Ebony. She needed a big name, an elegant name to fit her. Astride her perfectly formed back for the first time, Odessa immediately felt regal, absorbing the young mare's strength. Every movement was rife with power, and she knew that Ebony would run as fast as she would allow. Odessa wondered about the animal's ancestors, undoubtedly the steeds of Spanish emperors or conquistadors, reigning conquerors. She was a fine horse, a beautiful horse, and as Bryce gazed upon them both, riding about the corral, she felt more a part of his world than ever.

  "Bryce, please open the gate. I want to do more with her than ride in a circle."

  He hesitated, studying her and then the mare. "She's pretty green, Odessa. Barely accepting a rider. She might break and run."

  "I can handle her if she does," Odessa said, reaching down to run her fingers through Ebony's glossy, obsidian mane, then pat her neck. "I already know her, Bryce. I can't explain it better than that."

  "I understand," he said. "But be ready. Hold on to those reins or you might not stop until you get to Westcliffe."

  "That's a longer ride than I was-"

  Bryce had barely opened the gate two feet when Ebony lurched into a gallop, nearly throwing Odessa. She felt the tension in the horse's flanks, the slight drop backward, but didn't react in time to be prepared. Ebony was up the hill and tearing across the cabin clearing in moments. They moved so fast that Odessa couldn't even look back or shout a response to Bryce. She had lost one of the reins, exactly what Bryce had warned her about. And without the reins, would the young mare really run as far as Westcliffe? There was only one way to find out.

  Odessa settled into the cadence of the horse's gallop, thankful she had donned an old pair of pants from Bryce before beginning the evening ride. Her legs felt strong, as if they could cling to Ebony's flanks for hours, the gift of hours of sanatorium-sanctioned hiking and riding all spring long. And she felt the horse's power become her own again, the thrill of it elongating each muscle as she bent and gathered a fistful of mane in each hand. Her grandfather had taught her to ride bareback as a child. Granted, it had been an old, swaybacked nag, but
there was still something familiar, comfortable in the action.

  All of the St. Clairs had been taught to ride properly as children. The boys had received more lessons than the girls, and the girls had spent most of their time sidesaddle, but Odessa knew horses, loved horses. And so although she feared the speed at which the ranch road disappeared beneath her mare's hooves, she loved the freedom of it, the breath-stealing glory of it. She concentrated on matching Ebony's movements with her own, leaning down as the wind passed woman and horse like a sheet over one body, not two.

  This occupied her mind for many minutes, but as she saw the ranch's front posts come into view and then slide behind them, she felt a more serious strain of fear. And yet there was no stopping this horse until she was ready to stop or Bryce caught up with them. She dared to glance under one arm and thought she saw him, far behind. But she couldn't get a good look. She nervously watched the path before them. If the horse stepped into a ground squirrel's hole, or one of the many rain ravines in the road, she might twist her ankle and both of them would be down, possibly forever. Odessa could urge her a little one way or the other by pulling at her mane, but their fate was largely up to Ebony's choices.

  Odessa could hear the heavy churn of the mare's breath. What were her lungs like? How big were they? They must be perfection, clean and free to power her long, churning, endless strides.

  Odessa leaned a little closer to the mare's neck. "That's enough, Ebony. That's enough," she murmured, hoping to move into the horse's realm of conscious hearing, understanding that Odessa was mistress and she, servant. But that might take a little more time-

  The horse hit a hole and stumbled, slowing her gait a little, and almost tore Odessas fingers from her mane, but then she was back into the same rhythm and speed as before. They passed the stage road that led from the train platform to Westcliffe and kept moving, eventually veering southwest. Odessa dared to glance again under her armpit. Bryce was gaining on them, and two ranch hands were right behind him.

  But Ebony was fast, a possible breeder to future racehorse stallions. They passed a homestead and a woman hanging out clothes over a line. She gazed up in surprise as they tore by. Then they passed a herd of sheep with a small boy tending them, and a burned-out rancher's cabin. They crossed mile after mile, and still Ebony did not slow, seemingly energized by her success, her speed, her freedom. You can claim me, name me, she seemed to be saying to Odessa, but I am still my own glorious creation.

  Before them the Sangre de Cristos stretched out in a straight line, intent on running south until they met the untamed lands of Mexico. To her left, the Wet Mountains began as sunbaked pinon and scrub-oak-covered hills, but Odessa could see the taller peaks in the distance, peaks that as the minutes passed were getting larger and larger.

  As they took shape and grew closer, Odessa struggled to hold on. Her fingers and thighs and calves ached. They felt frozen, bent on holding their positions, but consequently weaker, more fragile, as if-

  It was then that Ebony lurched to halt, frightfully fast, and there was no way for Odessa to cling to her back any longer. She flew forward, over the mare's head, watching as if in a dream as she somersaulted in the air and was then flying feetfirst. She braced for impact, holding her breath, wondering how long it would be before she hit....

  She never truly hit the ground.

  Because she was then going down, down the side of a hill, sliding, grasping ... wondering if she would ever hit bottom. And then she did, the sudden stop jarring her, sending a wave of pain from heel to head. Slowly, she opened her eyes and dared to look about. She was in a ravine, an arroyo dug deep into the earth by the force of spring rains and floods, about twenty feet from the rim and thirty feet from the bottom. Her foot had struck a small, rocky ledge, one of the few visible on the chalky, dusty cliff face.

  Odessa heard the others arrive up top, the horses whinnying traded greetings, Bryce calling out to her. She tried to call back, to let him know she was all right, but no sound left her mouth. She realized then that she was wheezing, panting. A consumptive attack. Its all in your head, she told herself. You have been fine; for weeks you have been well, in fact. Get ahold of yourse f

  "Odessa! Odessa!" Bryce was right above her now, peering over the ledge. "Oh, thank God. Sweetheart, are you all right?"

  She nodded, hoping he could see her.

  "If I throw a rope down, can you grab it?"

  "I ... I think so," she said in a whisper.

  "Odessa?"

  "I think so," she said a bit louder.

  "All right," he said. "Hold on a minute."

  The stiff rope fell beside her a second later. "Don't reach for it!" Bryce called. "I don't want you to fall any farther." The rope disappeared and then a moment later fell across her belly in a loose loop. "Put it around you," he called.

  She swallowed a retort about not being some cow to rope. But there was not enough breath or time for wasted words right now. The large rock beneath her foot was loosening. She could feel it move every time she shifted her weight.

  "Do it fast, Odessa," he said. "Then hold on to it. We'll have you.

  Odessa gasped for a breath, lifted up her shoulders, and let the rope's loop fall around her body. At the same time, the rock gave way. The men called out from above, but Odessa froze, squeezing her eyes shut and holding tight to the rope.

  She was hanging there on the steepest incline.

  "Odessa. Odessa, open your eyes."

  She did as she was told, looking up at her husband.

  "Try and put your feet against the side. We'll pull you up, but it will go easier if you use your feet to try and walk at the same time. Got it?"

  She nodded, trying to breathe with the rope latched tightly around her chest. She was feeling faint, a bit dizzy. But she did as she was told, putting her boots against the dry and grassy bank, trying to find purchase as the men hauled her upward.

  They had her up in seconds, the two men gazing at her in triumph and relief. Bryce pulled her into his arms, loosened the rope, held her cheek in one hand. He was smiling, half laughing, half fearful. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded, and he kissed her, over and over he kissed her. "Oh, thank You, God," he said, cradling her close, looking up to the sky and rocking back and forth. "Thank You, thank You."

  He stepped back again to examine her. "Odessa, your lips are blue. Are you breathing all right? Odessa?"

  She smiled weakly. "I'll be fine, Bryce. Just give me ... a minute."

  "I'll put that horse on the train. She's too wild, too-"

  "No," Odessa said, pushing herself out of his arms and upright. She stared up at Ebony, who didn't appear the least contrite. "She's perfect."

  Bryce helped her to her feet and together they stared out over the ravine. "I don't know what I would've done, Odessa, if anything had happened to you." He took off his hat and hit it against his leg, then wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand, as if he had some dust in it.

  Odessa glanced back to the ravine, suddenly seeing the negative space as form. "Bryce. Bryce, do you see it?" She stepped forward, looking slowly left, then right. She glanced up at him.

  He recognized it too, a clue from Sam's poem. To their right, the ravine was like a huge arm, complete with the bend of wrist and bulge of fist, right below them. To their left was a finger outstretched, as if pointing. See God's finger pointing ... They both looked up into the mountains. "The Wet Mountains?" she said, already knowing the answer. "Think we can track down land `in my mother's name'?"

  "You're not going to let it rest, are you? Until we look?"

  "Just once. Show me his property. Let's see if we can find it. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

  He hesitated and looked toward the mountains. "Just once?"

  "Just once."

  "I don't know, Odessa. I told your brother you'd be safe here."

  "And the only danger that's presented itself is my new horse-a danger we'll soon tame. Come now, it'll be an adve
nture. You go to the land office and see if you can find out anything about Sam's mother and land nearby. Then we'll see what we can see."

  "And if we don't find anything? You'll let it rest then?"

  "Most likely."

  "Uh-huh. That's what I thought."

  "Well, I can't commit to what I'll wish to do five steps down the road if we haven't taken steps three and four, right?"

  Bryce took a deep breath. "Right."

  "So we can take a few steps together, see what we see, then decide together where we go from there. Deal?"

  He studied her through narrowed, amused eyes. "A preliminary agreement. A temporary agreement. No deal."

  She smiled. "I'll take that."

  Chapter

  33

  Moira had sent James a note, to be delivered within the hour at the hotel.

  James,

  Tonight you will be thoroughly disappointed with me for being unforthcoming. I beg you to understand that I could not pass up this opportunity. Never again will I have the chance to know what it means to stand before so many others and sing. It is what calls me, completes me. And so I will try this night as "Camille. "IfI fail, I will know I tried. And if I succeed, we will have more to discuss. Come to the opera house. Decide for yourself if I have the talent, and what that means for us.

  -Moira

  Moira pulled on her gloves and stared resolutely into the mirror. If James cast her aside, so be it. There were always other potential beaus in the wings. The general would be furious if her subversive choices cost him business with the Clarions, but he would recover. If she succeeded in winning good reviews, then it would bring further accolades to Colorado Springs, and that would ease the general past his hard feelings. She might no longer be welcome at Glen Eyrie or even in the Springs, but if she succeeded, she would move on to sing in Denver, San Francisco, New York ... maybe even Paris. The world was fascinated with the success of miners and the people from mining towns alike. An opera star rising out of a western town? She'd be the talk. Moira St. Clair would be on the lips of newspapermen and society women everywhere. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, it was a gamble. But it was a good gamble.