Nic sighed, weary but gleeful after reviewing the day's numbers in the ledger. The city's citizens had swarmed the store and picked it clean like locusts after a hearty corn crop. By tomorrow, the shelves would be empty. He rolled his shoulder slowly in the socket. It still was not completely healed.
"Hurt yourself?" asked Kathleen, the schoolmarm. She set a steaming cup of tea down beside him and leaned against the counter.
"A while ago. Better than it was," he said with a small smile in her direction. She was a few years older than he, brusque in her mannerisms, but more efficient than the brightest men at his father's publishing press. If it hadn't been for Kathleen, Nic wouldn't have been able to pull off the sale, even if Moira had stuck it out.
"Thank you for your work, ma'am. You saved me."
"It's been my pleasure," she said, running a hand over the counter. "Only wish I had had the funds to buy the store. It saddens me to see our only bookstore in town close down so soon after its opening."
He closed the giant ledger book, watching as dust floated up in a cloud and then settled back to the desk. He tapped his knuckles lightly on the wood table. "Yes. It was a good idea, a fine idea. It just wasn't my idea for how I want to spend my coming years."
"What will you do instead?"
"Not sure yet." He shoved his chair back and moved out of the office, back into the great storeroom, watching as people moved back and forth along the street, either heading home or conducting end-of-day business. The wind had kicked up, as it so often did here in the Springs on a hot afternoon, bringing with it fierce thunderstorms and lightning such as Nic had never seen anywhere else.
His eyes scanned the skies. He decided he'd better change and get to the opera house if he didn't wish to arrive as wet as a drowned rat. He'd purchased a ticket weeks ago, intrigued to see how his little sister would see this act through and what it would mean for all of them. She was already entertaining offstage. Was the world fully prepared for Moira St. Clair onstage?
Moira heard him coming. Heard Gerald delay him and James' raised voice. Heard a third man join the group, trying to waylay him, protect her.
She closed her eyes. Her makeup was on, heavy for the stage. Her gown was buttoned up and they were just about to begin voice warm-ups. She had hoped James would wait to do this later, afterward. She had hoped he would give her the chance to shine, to show him and this town what Moira St. Clair could do.
The shouting escalated outside her door. She rose and opened it, hands clasped before her. James stilled at the sight of her and the two men holding either arm released him. "Come," she invited sadly.
He moved forward as if on feet of lead, but onward he came, refusing the seat she offered with a gesture from her hand. "How could you, Moira?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
She closed the door slowly and turned to face him. "You gave me little choice."
"Choice? I thought we agreed!"
"No, you decided it was for the best. But it was only best for you, not for me. Don't you see?"
"How is it not good for you?" he sputtered. "How is it not good for you, nothing more than a St. Clair, to be on the arm of a Clarion?" He was shaking a finger at her, stepping closer to her. "How can you be willing to trade that for ... this?" He waved about the room, devoid of anything but mirror, table, makeup, chair, and candelabra. He reached forward and she willed herself to remain still, to not cower in the face of his wrath. He pinched her cheeks between forceful thumb and forefinger, dragging both down through her heavy makeup. "How can you wear the makeup of a whore and expect me to stand by, idle?"
She brushed his hand away. "It is theater, James. Opera. Everyone wears the makeup. It is entertainment. Diversion for the masses. A delight. And not merely idle delight-"
A man rapped at the door. "Five minutes, Moira."
She turned back to James. "Not merely an idle delight, but an opportunity to experience something different through another's eyes, to understand. It is story, onstage. And we learn, are improved, are challenged by them, James. If we are not strong enough for such challenge, we are weak indeed."
Moira bent down, peered into the mirror, and fixed the makeup he had damaged, then straightened and faced him again. "I know this is not what you wanted. And I am sorry for going against your wishes. But we are not married, James. Not even engaged. And I am my own woman. I would be my own woman even if we were married."
"So what are you saying? That you might not be the woman for me?"
"I did not say that," she said softly. "You did." She raised her eyes slowly, knowing she was using them to the most captivating effect. "James, please. I beg you." She moved over to him, took his hands in hers and raised them to her chest, never letting go of his gaze. "Please don't let this be the end. Give me a chance. This one chance."
But his eyes were steely. Resolute. "No. Then you would ask for another night, and still another. If you refuse to accept my proposal tonight-"
"What proposal?" she asked in bewilderment.
"If you get on that stage and sing, it will be the beginning of a long slide for you, Moira." He pulled her closer. Moira's heart skipped a beat. "You are young, impetuous. This is why your father did not want you to yet court"
"James, you are but two years older than I," she scoffed.
"In the absence of your father," he went on earnestly as if he hadn't heard her, "you've made a poor decision. One that will affect the rest of your life. You don't know this world you're stepping into. There are many who will lie in wait, ready to take advantage of you. You are barely of age, and now with some means at your disposal. The wolves will come at you in packs, Moira."
She let out a humorless laugh. "So that is it? Threats of potential dangers? A half proposal from you to marry? And I'm supposed to walk away from the biggest opportunity in my life-"
"I'm the biggest opportunity for you, Moira! How can you not-"
"You expect me to settle into singing in drawing room parlors for the rest of my life? Find satisfaction in being the pretty bauble on your arm? Mindless? Sightless? Without any true voice at all?" She pulled her hands from his and stepped away. "Wouldn't that be like any other woman you've ever courted, James? Isn't my independence what drew you to me?"
A knock sounded at her door again. "It's time, Moira. Everyone onstage."
James seemed to recognize that she was stepping away from him. He gazed at her in wide-eyed surprise. "Yes, it is part of what drew me to you. But everyone knows that a woman gives up her life in service to her man. It is what makes you all the more a prize, Moira. You are so ... much. So vibrant. So alive. Grant me your life and I shall shelter you, protect you, lead you."
She laughed, no humor in her voice. "You don't understand. That isn't what I seek."
"Miss St. Clair!" shouted the director from down the hall.
She leaned closer to James. "I want love. Admiration. Support. Passion."
`Miss St. Clair!"
James shook his head in wonder. "How ... how could I have been so wrong?"
"I don't know, James. Go. Go and do what you must. And I will do the same."
The carpenters had finished their bedroom, kitchen, and dining room, so Odessa had elected to move in even as they continued working. It was much easier cooking in her big, new kitchen for the men than in the cabin, and truth be told, she couldn't stand to wait any longer. She loved the smell of fresh-hewn pine, the clean walls, the empty space waiting to be made a home. It called to her to sit down and write, even as men sang and hammered and sawed a room or two away.
This morning, they had run out of lumber that passed Bryce's muster-he wanted clear pine, with no knots-and left for Westcliffe for more. Bryce had promised to stop at the land office and see if there were any properties listed under a female O'Toole. And with most of the hands driving the horses into the high country over the next few days, her cooking duties were at a sudden minimum. She could give herself to writing, dipping pen in inkwell and watching the words form upon the page
and begin to build upon the beginning of her story, her first story as Odessa McAllan. She would see it through, see if anyone considered her words worthy of mass production. The idea that her father would not be able to review it made her want to both hyperventilate and breathe freely at the same time.
She looked through her bright kitchen window to the mountains, where an afternoon thunderstorm was blowing in. Many of their men were up there with the herd, seeking the high meadow grasses. Peter and Nels, the men who had remained behind, were somewhere about-probably the stables.
Utter silence surrounded her. She wondered how long it had been since she had been so alone. The words in her mind swirled until she could barely wait to get to her desk, dip her pen, and begin chapter four.
She picked up the heavy rifle Bryce had left for her, then set it back down on the kitchen counter. The doors were locked. She'd sit at her desk by the window and would clearly see if anyone came down the road, long before they arrived. No, her mind was on her story; the rifle only yanked her back to present potential realities. It could remain where it was.
Chapter
34
It had been glorious, perfect. People swarmed Moira after the show, complimenting her on her fine performance. The director was ecstatic, the opera house manager claiming they had sold all the remaining tickets-for every performance-before the theater was empty.
Box office success was all that mattered. She knew enough about theater to know that. James would go home, lick his wounds, and find a new bauble to adorn his arm. Or he'd regret leaving her, recognize his mistake, and return for her.
She was pulling on her gloves and coat to go, every nerve still singing with the glory of the evening, when a knock at her small dressing room door drew her attention. Smiling, assuming it was one last admirer, she opened it. Her smile faded as she studied first the director's sober expression, and then General Palmer's. "Might we have a word, Moira?" the general asked.
"Certainly," she said, gesturing inward. She didn't know how she might fit two men inside her tiny dressing room, but she was anxious to put some wood between them and the curious glances of the rest of the cast outside in the hall.
"Moira-" the general began.
"General, how I wish Queen might've been here tonight! She would have delighted in it, wouldn't she?"
"Moira, stop. You and I both know that you've played a dangerous game here."
"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."
"You know exactly what I mean. You came to me and asked for my blessing upon James Clarion's courtship. I gave it, risking a friendship with Reid, to support you both."
"Come now, General. We both know it was a benefit to you as well. James will bring commerce to your city, undoubtedly to you ...
He took a step to the side and leaned against her dressing table. "Ah, and therein lies the rub. James Clarion, and his father, are enormously important to me, now more than ever. There are deals in the works that are ..." He paused to shake his head, then stared at her. "Young Clarion has not taken your spurning well."
"I did not spurn him, General. I merely refused to do anything but sing. I had to sing ... you've seen how people respond to me, and I to them." She rose and paced a step. "I couldn't do anything else, regardless of what James wanted me to do. I thought, I thought that if he loved me, he'd support me in this. Encourage me. Dare I say applaud me along with the rest?"
"Yes, well, be that as it may, it's clear that you and Clarion will not continue your courtship."
"No, I would assume not. But you needn't fret over me, General. I will be all right." She waved about the room. "It's not much, but I find it glorious. There's no place I'd rather be."
The general and the director were silent.
Moiras heart skipped a beat. Dread made her scalp tingle.
"I must see these deals with Clarion through to completion. As much as I enjoy your presence on my new stage, those contracts mean more to me and this town."
Her hand moved to the base of her neck. "What does that mean?"
The director cleared his throat, began to speak, paused, and then started again. "Moira, you are dismissed from the opera. I will send you off with references. I'm certain you have a bright future ahead of you-it simply cannot be here." He uttered every word in misery, obviously compelled by the general to do this.
"I ... see." She found that her mouth was hanging open, and she resolutely clamped her lips shut and tossed her chin. She had to handle this as a gracious woman, not the silly twit everyone assumed she was. "I understand. Please accept my heartfelt thanks and my apologies for forcing you into this position. You two have given me the confidence I needed to pursue my dreams. Despite the fact that it is ending now, far earlier than we expected, I'll always appreciate it."
The general's eyes gentled. "Moira, with your father gone and Odessa down south, and Dominic poised to move away, perhaps you ought to wait a bit, consider all your options. You could journey east and be a companion to Queen, a governess for my girls for a season, a year even."
"Oh, thank you, General," she managed to say. "You are most kind. But I feel the time, my time, has arrived. Be it here or elsewhere, I shall find my way."
Having completed chapter four of her novel by early evening, Odessa was elated. She glanced out the window, noted the angle of the sun through heavy clouds, and thought she had better get a start on supper-even with just three men to cook for, she was tardy and would have to rush. She moved into the kitchen and opened the back door, and then went down into the cellar, just outside. The rows of supplies that Bryce had brought home with him from Westcliffe and placed on the shelves only an hour prior gave her a satisfied feeling of preparedness. News that he had discovered a small parcel under the name of Louise O'Toole-directly above Sam's property-made her all the more happy. Now if she could simply pry her husband away from the ranch for another day ...
She grabbed a sack of flour and sugar and climbed the steps to the porch of her new house, setting down the heavy bundles on the counter for a moment to check her breath. She inhaled and exhaled several times, hand over her thumping heart. She smiled. Nothing more than a little exertion. No wheezing. No faintness.
She turned back to the doorway and admired the sun beginning its slow descent down toward Eagle Peak, dusted from a high mountain snowstorm, even in the middle of summer. Briefly she mused over the men and horses up in the meadows of those mountains, but she knew they were well versed in the shenanigans of mountain weather. High clouds caught the first hints of a setting sun, turning a lovely gold against a brilliantly blue sky. Odessa took a deep breath, thanking God for this place and time to find healing, love, a new home. This was just where she needed to be, as healthy as the mares in the fields.
She opened the back door and brought the sacks of flour into the kitchen, kicking the door shut with her foot. She set them down and then filled a bucket of water from the hand pump, then turned to chop some carrots and potatoes. The blade was dull and broken in places, no sort of proper instrument for one bent on making a quick and hearty stew-and she had no time to waste. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to the front door, where she kept her purse. Inside was her pocketknife, a gift from her father. It was too small for chopping, but too small was certainly better than too dull. Maybe Bryce would remember to purchase a few new knives for her in town next time he went, or get the old ones sharpened.
Odessa walked into the hallway and halted in confusion.
Slowly, fear took hold. The front door was wide open, with muddy footprints leading inward. She leaned down, gazing at the tracks against the fading light from the window, hoping they were only her own, telling herself they were.
But her prints were beside them, much smaller than the others. These new tracks led away, to the stairs. Bryce was in the stables-and he never came in with muddy boots. The carpenters or ranch hands would not come in without invitation. Once home, Bryce had sent Peter and Nels after a floundering mare in the north qua
drant....
She straightened quickly, trying to control her breathing, to not give in to panic, feeling already the familiar constriction across her chest. If she had an attack now, there would be no way for her to escape. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Bryce had returned from the stables....
She called her husband's name, trying to make her voice light.
No response. But a floorboard creaked directly above her.
And then another in the spare room. Someone else was in their bedroom.
She backed into the parlor, where Bryce had so recently been pounding nails into wallboards.
It was then Odessa knew fear more potent than any consumptive attack had ever brought on. It was the same as the night that Sam had been killed, back at the sanatorium.
Her enemies were here. In the house.
She could feel them.
And this time, they were coming for her.
Chapter
35
The men tore down the stairs and Odessa lost a precious second or two trying to think, torn between escape and the rifle, which was still on the kitchen counter. She could get out of the house, get to the stables, find Bryce, or if he wasn't there, mount Ebony and ride to the men in the north quadrant. Or if she could reach the rifle, she could hold them off, even force them outside, but that might endanger Bryce.
That was when she caught sight of her husband, walking down the hill from the stables. He was coming. She had to warn him. Had to reach him.
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