HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Page 10

  She laughed at him and tried to step away, reaching up as if to try to straighten her morning-mussed hair. “Really, I must look a sight.”

  “A most delicious sight,” he said. “Tell me, darling …” he pushed her gently backward, step by step, until her back hit the wall. He ignored the way his pictures moved, precariously pushed off-center by her hair, for his eyes were only on her. “Tell me, did you just rise? Out of my bed?”

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly dry. All she could do was give him a quick nod, feeling a bit like a schoolgirl in the arms of her first lover. She shook her head, ashamed at her stupidity. How many times had she played a lover on stage? She knew the signs, had played the part of seductress. But this, in real life, had crept up on her. She had not recognized it, had not wanted to recognize the signs that she was being seduced.

  “Ah yes, you have realized it. The lamb in the wolf’s lair,” he said, easing back a bit. He gestured toward the front door and then straightened. “You are free to leave, Moira, at any time. I will not chain you here. I am not your keeper. Only your admirer. Only a man who would like to open your eyes to things you seem to have missed.”

  She paused, confused. She sensed the truth of it—he’d let her walk away. How long had she kept men away, because they wanted her, wanted to control her, wanted to own her? But this man offered her nothing but opportunity, adventure, kindness. Wasn’t that what she wanted, really? Care without commitment? Companionship? And this spark between them, this pull … she edged across the hall toward him and lifted her chin. “I am not going anywhere yet. I promised you two more days.”

  “Three,” he whispered, leaning down to barely edge her lips with his own. “Yesterday did not count.”

  And in that moment, as he kissed her neck, slowly, softly moving downward, Moira St. Clair knew she’d promise him anything.

  Odessa carried a tray down to the bunkhouse and strode to the end, where Harold was sitting up, reading. “You’re looking like you have more color,” she said, handing him the tray, full with a hearty breakfast. “Soon you’ll be on your way, back to your family.”

  “Thanks to you, ma’am.”

  She could feel his heavy gaze upon her but ignored it. She paused at the end of the bed, turning back to force a smile. “Can I fetch you anything else?”

  He smiled shyly and then glanced at an old, worn copy of Longfellow’s poems beside him. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for another book? Perhaps some more poetry?”

  She looked down at her boots and smiled a little in return. “I imagine I have another volume or two. I’ll bring you one from the house.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Odessa turned to go, but he stopped her with a tentative “Ma’am?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I know I brought you an extra share of heartache, with the strangles and all. I’m right sorry about that. Had I known—”

  “I know,” she said quickly. “You were sick, Harold. Nothing you could’ve done differently. Our call is to deal with what is, rather than what might have been, right?”

  He gave her a sad smile. “I’ll do my best to make it right, ma’am. Once I’m home. Once I get some money, I intend to send some to you and Mr. McAllan.”

  She nodded slowly. When would that be? Two, three years down the road? What would become of them in the meantime? She forced a smile. “I’m glad to be of help to you. Please, give it no more thought.”

  But as she turned and walked down the center of the bunkhouse, her boot heels clicking on the wood, she could think of nothing else. Bryce was clearly worried. What would become of them? The ranch?

  “Why are you doing this?” Moira asked, as he tucked her hand around the crook of his arm.

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking me about. Introducing me. Showing me this … underworld?”

  “Underworld?” Gavin laughed, laughed so hard he had to stop midstride and bend partially over.

  Moira was not amused. She folded her arms across her chest and looked from under heavy-lidded brows in one direction and then another. He was drawing the eye of every passerby.

  He finally got a hold of himself, straightened, and then covered his smile with a gloved hand. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief. If he wasn’t so devilishly handsome and intriguing, Moira would’ve turned and walked away from him right then. “Forgive me, darling. That struck me as …” He gave in to another laugh but quickly regained his composure. He waved in one direction and then another. “Look about you, Moira,” he said softly. “Tell me what you see.”

  “A street filled with the poor. Factory workers. Women hanging laundry.” She wrinkled her nose. “Far fewer street cleaners than this number of horses warrant.”

  Gavin smiled benevolently, but shook his head. “Have you not listened to anything I’ve taught you?” He moved behind her and placed relaxed fingers on either of her shoulders. “Look, darling. Look again. How many people are on this street versus those that you would typically frequent?”

  “Many more,” she said.

  “Exactly,” he whispered in her ear, his breath sending a delicious shiver down her neck. “And what is that called, when there are more people in one place than another?”

  “Potential revenue,” she said.

  “Yes!” he said, smiling and taking her hand and tucking it back around his arm as they resumed their walk. “Think of it, Moira. More than a quarter of these people will stop by at their corner tavern to knock back a pint. And the wise saloonkeeper will bring in entertainment to make sure he gets more of the what?”

  “A bigger piece of that market,” she answered.

  “Perfect,” he said, patting her hand. “You are as smart as you are beautiful, Moira St. Clair.”

  “And you really and truly believe,” she said, pausing to make her way around a pile of garbage, “that I belong here, rather than—”

  “Where? Where, Moira? Considering your current place of employ, it seems that market is saturated. There aren’t enough high-brow consumers to sustain so many performers. In order for one to succeed there, they must essentially drive out the competition. But here … look again at this street.” He waved down the avenue and then came behind her to stare out with her—at the masses of people, many in drab, poor clothes, but all hurrying onward. “All these people desire is a little diversion,” Gavin said in her ear, “a little beauty. They’re hungry for it. And no, they don’t have as much to put down for a seat in a theater. But look, Moira. Look how many there are!”

  She brought a hand to her throat. The throngs parted and moved about them like a river around a rock.

  “Listen, might you not consider this as nothing more than a new role to accept, adapt to, absorb so you can convincingly play the part? One that could make you more famous within a new arena than anything you’ve ever dreamed about? Is it so impossible to consider conquering a different world than that you originally dreamed of?”

  Moira tried to swallow but found her mouth dry. “Papa … My father would not have approved.”

  Gavin gave her a curious look. “Didn’t you tell me he wouldn’t have approved of you on any stage at all? That hasn’t stopped you yet. Why let it stop you now?”

  “I-I wouldn’t know where to begin. And you—you’ll soon be off to look after your own business, not some girl you met on the crossing.”

  He paused and turned to her. He moved his gloved hand under her chin and lifted it until she met his smoldering gaze. “You, Moira St. Clair, are not some girl. You are extraordinary. A bud waiting for the sun. I intend to open that curtain, let the sunlight flood over you, and see you in full bloom.” He smiled and raised one brow. “You just might represent my greatest business opportunity yet.”

  She held on to his gaze, staring impudently up at him. “So … you propose yourself as my new manager? Someone to guide me in this dark and unknown world?”

  His smile grew wider. “
Oh my darling. With me as your guide, you have no idea just how delicious this journey shall be.” He bowed slightly. “Will you accept my humble services?”

  She smiled as she sashayed past him. “I’ll give you your remaining two days. We’ll see where that leads us.”

  “Forty-eight hours,” he said, catching up with her. “Much can transpire in forty-eight hours.”

  Reid rose several times a night to walk, solely because he had the freedom to do so. It felt grand to be out, free to do what he wished, when he wished, where he wished. Two former prisoners traveled with him—Garboni and Smythe—men who knew how to play the game, work hard, and get to the payoff.

  Stefano Garboni appeared from the trees now, making Reid shift his hand to his holster until he knew the man was one of his. The tall, thin man’s eyes moved toward his hand and then met his eyes. “That Sheriff Olsbo and his deputy are following us. They’re still a half day’s ride away, but they haven’t lost our trail yet. And they have a third with them—someone I don’t know.”

  “We’ll shake them,” Reid said, looking down the mountainside. “We need to ride above the snow line. We’re making it easy on them to track us. Another day’s ride and we’ll make the cabin.”

  Garboni came around to face him, his features just discernible in the pale moonlight. “Why, Bannock? Why are they dogging us?”

  Reid met his gaze a moment before answering. Garboni needed to know Reid was in charge, sure of himself. “He told me specifically to stay out of his county.”

  “And yet here we are,” Garboni said, throwing out his hands. His eyes narrowed as he pointed toward Reid’s chest. “You lookin’ to get thrown back into prison?”

  “The people who live at the Circle M hold the key to the treasure.”

  The man turned away slowly and looked down the valley too. “You sure they know the way? To the treasure?”

  “They know something that can get us closer at least. Chances are, it’s not easy, or they would’ve found it themselves.”

  “What makes you suppose you can find it, if they haven’t?”

  “I’m a driven man. I have nothing but time and dedication on my hands. They have a ranch to run, a baby, if Anthony is right. They’re distracted.”

  Garboni thought on that a minute, then said, “I’ll have to shoot them. I don’t like having a lawman on my trail. Not after just finding my freedom again.”

  “Fine by me,” Reid returned. “But you will wait until I tell you it’s time. And now is not the time. We take those men down, we’ll have more lawmen on our trail. And that will not further our cause. You understand me?”

  Garboni turned back to him and nodded once, then walked away.

  Reid stood where he was and smiled.

  It was good, so good, to be back in charge.

  “I can’t endure another day of this,” Nic muttered, hauling in rope at the first mate’s call. Fifteen-foot swells pitched the ship up and then down. They had narrowly survived the harrowing Drake Passage, only to encounter storm after storm as they struggled to make their way north, past the coast of Chile. So far, the South Pacific seemed dead-set against them.

  There was little concern that another would hear him and report him to the first mate. The howling wind made it nearly impossible to hear. William was three feet away from him. Terence Overby kept them both on the same shift, and on the same task, because they worked so well together. “If you want to sign on for another voyage after this—” William had suggested the day before.

  “Not on your life,” Nic said, cutting him off. “I’ve paid the captain back for his imaginary debts. He said once we passed the Horn, I collect pay, just like any other. I’ll take my earnings when we make port in Mexico, then I’ll make my way north via railroad. I don’t care if I ever set foot on a ship again.”

  Nic hauled again beside William, quickly wrapping the rope around the first aft mast sail, lashing it to the lanyard. It was a tricky business, not losing his footing, but with the swells and the constant rain—

  At that moment a terrible sound of breaking wood cut the howling wind, and at the same time, the ship pitched hard to the right, as if digging down into the wave. His eyes scanned the water, barely settling on the horrifying glimpse of rock and reef, before the ship shuddered and pitched again. Nic lost his grip and hurtled over the lanyard, and he just barely grabbed a second rope, the action sending him spinning and swinging beneath the massive crossbeam. He reached up and got another handhold, and coiled it around his leg, desperate not to slide until he could see if he had the length to reach the deck. He looked left and right, trying to peer through the rain, back to where William was last. But he wasn’t there.

  Nic looked about, watched in horror as the deck planking began to pop, first one board at a time, and then in terrible rows of three or five and eight. Men were screaming, scurrying about in no semblance of order. He watched as one, a man he knew could not swim, jumped off the edge. The ship was going down. The Mirabella was lost. Every man knew that to stay aboard a sinking ship meant death; one could become trapped in the wreckage and drown, or get sucked down with her in the final moments, or die when a mast or lanyard came down on his head.

  There. He caught sight of William, cradling his leg, his face awash in pain. Blood spread out from him like a slowly creeping red tide. Nic had brief thoughts of sliding down his measure of rope, reaching his friend. Saving him. But then the cracking planking and buckling ship reached the mast that held the lanyard from which Nic dangled.

  The mast tilted, sending Nic swinging forward to the main mast. He barely had time to suck in a breath before impact. So startling and stiff was the blow that Nic splayed his hands and immediately fell from the rope, too stunned to even grasp for it again.

  He fell, fell toward the cracked and broken decking, staring up into a sky filled with rain, rain, and more rain. It seemed to take forever, this hurtling through the air.

  And yet he had but two thoughts as he waited for the pain of impact. This will be the end. I am to die.

  Chapter 9

  Nic came up out of the depths from his plunge, gasping for air, and circling, trying to see anything, or anyone, about him. Ten feet off was a large chunk of the Mirabella’s side wall, and he swam toward it. Wearily, he hauled himself up and onto it, half submerging his raft with the weight of his body, but it was something solid, some comfort in the midst of the rolling water. Dimly, above the staccato beat of heavy raindrops pelting the water around him, above the wash of waves as they crested and rolled on, he could hear the cries and screams of men in the distance.

  So he wasn’t alone, wasn’t the only survivor. He cupped his mouth with one hand and yelled out, “William! William!”

  But there was no answering call.

  “Can anyone answer me?”

  Again there was nothing but the wash of the sea, the splattering of raindrops about him. He heard another man cry out in the distance one more time, and then … nothing. Had they all been carried out and away? Or drowned?

  Nic shivered uncontrollably and tried to haul himself farther up on the makeshift raft so less of his body was submerged. He was weary, weak beyond any measure he could remember. He stayed where he was, willing the minutes to go by, for the storm to let up, for night to relinquish its hold on today.

  At some point, he dozed off and when he awoke, Nic winced. It pained him to open his right eye, and he carefully tried the left. Bright sunlight blinded him and he quickly closed the lid, but he had seen enough in that brief glimpse.

  He had washed up on a beach, broken timbers from the disintegrated Mirabella all around him. He managed to raise himself to his elbows and dig his right and then left arm into the coarse, tawny sand, and then again, and again, until all but his legs were free of the nagging waves. One more time, he told himself, panting from the effort, recognizing the cold had made his legs so numb that they were useless. It was as if he had sprouted a long tail and was beached. And yet deep inside, he knew tha
t the cold would eventually kill him. More than one sailor had survived a shipwreck to succumb to the sea’s frigid, deathly intent. He had to rise once more and dig in, pull with his right, then with his left.

  At last, his feet were clear of the water.

  The sand here was dry. Warmed by the sun. He collapsed into it, took a deep breath, and let the dreams spirit him away.

  It had begun with the saloons. Gavin brought her to one, and Moira stood in the corner aghast, watching as the men drank, many of them until they were inebriated, and then women used their charms to seduce them. A distant part of her kicked herself for not doing the same sort of research prior to playing seductive roles on stage. She watched in wonder as a woman passed a man and slowly traced her pinky finger up his arm, from wrist to shoulder, and he immediately rose and followed her from the room as if he were a hooked fish on a line.

  Gavin watched her absorb all of this, this overt physical but silent communication between a man and a woman. He grabbed her wrist. “So innocent, darling. How could all this have escaped you? I want you to practice all of that. Your feminine wiles. The role, darling. On me. Consider me your free-for-all. There is nothing wrong. Nothing bad. All is somewhere on the target. All is acceptable. You can practice on me and learn. It’s the only way to succeed. Agreed?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. After she nodded, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her to the corner of the piano. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “I give you … Moira St. Clair!”

  The crowd erupted in applause and Moira immediately warmed to them. She leaned down and whispered the name of a tune to the pianist. The pianist frowned in confusion. Moira looked to Gavin, and he smiled and shook his head, and then leaned toward the pianist and whispered as well. Then, as the man ran his fingers along the keys, Gavin moved toward Moira, took hold of her heavy skirts, and slowly tucked the excess material up beneath her knees, revealing the tops of her boots—and even a bit of her calves.

  She gasped and reached out to stop him. But he looked at her and mouthed the words, “Trust me.”