HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Read online

  “Well, yes, other than the twelve ranch hands and foreman. McAllan’s brother is there visiting. Perhaps he’d stay on.”

  Reid looked to the mountains and let a low, small laugh emerge from his lips. “That is too perfect. She and the gold’d be there, ripe for the picking.” He lifted the poster in his hand and glanced at it again, then folded it into a tidy square and pocketed it. First Moira, then Odessa. If only he knew where Nic was, he could complete his three-act play of revenge, one after another. The St. Clair siblings would know, once and for all, that they had messed with the wrong man.

  They continued their walk to the store. “There is one other thing I need you to see to immediately,” he said. They paused, tipping their hats to a lady and gentleman passing by, and continued on.

  “What is it, Boss?”

  “There is a man following me—don’t turn around—as he has ever since I arrived here. I believe he must be a detective, hired by the McAllans to keep tabs on me. I want him to disappear as soon as I give you notice. Get Chandler, Abercrombie, whoever you need. But get the job done. And I don’t want him to turn up. When the time comes, make sure he’s disposed of properly. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then ransack his hotel room and find any telegram he’s received, as well as any receipts of those he’s sent.”

  “Done.” Dennis peeled off from his side and disappeared down a side alley. Reid could feel the detective shadowing him, about fifty paces back. Who did he think he fooled? Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he wanted Reid to know he was there, hovering, watching. It mattered not.

  Reid pulled the poster from his pocket and looked it over again as he walked. In a few days the detective would be gone.

  The man would never have the opportunity to warn Moira that Reid lay in wait. And the man would continue to send the McAllans—or whoever had him watched—telegrams, lulling them into a sense of safety. And then, only then, would Reid strike.

  Reid pocketed the poster again and whistled as he continued down the street, to a house newly for sale, on the corner, just three blocks off of Main. It was a fine house built for a miner who had gained much and then lost it all, such a common story in these mountains. He could relate to the story, but his fortune was about to turn again. Because Reid Bannock would inhabit and make fine use of the home. It was a merchant’s house, a wealthy man’s home.

  It was the house of a victor.

  Bryce heard Robert and Odessa laughing as he came downstairs with the baby. It still surprised him, that his brother and wife got on so well, but it pleased him. When he arrived though, their banter stopped and all was quiet. Bryce frowned. “Something going on here I need to know about?”

  “No, no,” Odessa said, turning toward him and giving him a kiss on the cheek before taking the baby from him.

  Deciding to look beyond whatever secret they shared, Bryce sat down at the table and gestured to both of them. “While I was out there, tracking Bannock, I had time to think some things over. Having him so close to the Circle M,” he paused, tucked his chin, and grimaced, “reminded me that I don’t want to ever be gone from this place again if he chooses to visit.” He looked directly at Odessa and reached out to take her hand. “He might come back, Dess. I can’t promise you he won’t. But I don’t think he will. If he does, we’ll face him together.”

  There was such relief and gratitude in her pretty blue-green eyes that Bryce nearly wept at the sight. But when he glanced at Robert, his brother was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, chin down.

  Robert looked up at him. “How will you make it through, Bryce?”

  “I’m well aware of how I’ve endangered my family, the future of this ranch,” Bryce said, holding up a hand. “I don’t need you to remind me.”

  Robert’s lips pressed together in a grimace. “My intention is not to remind you of your failures but to help you figure out a solution.”

  “Right, right,” Bryce said, laughing without humor, “you’re always there to help, aren’t you?” He shook his head and leaned forward. “Fact is, Robert, you’ve never trusted me. You’ve always thought you could run this ranch as well as the shipyard. Certainly better than I.”

  “Now, hold on!” Robert moved his head back and forth, as if thinking of a retort, but disagreeing with his words. “In a different world, you might’ve spent your life as an artist. Your paintings are among the finest I’ve seen.” He leaned forward too. “I’ve always been a businessman, always had an interest in the family businesses. Bryce, we both know that. It’s fate that made you ill, forced you from the sea, robbed you of your subject matter. Not me. But even as a boy, you had a gift with horses—there are none better than you. Father saw that. I see that. Are you so prideful that you cannot accept some simple business advice?”

  Bryce shrugged one shoulder. “What would you suggest?”

  “Send me to Spain,” Robert said.

  Bryce let out a guffaw. “You? You hate being at sea with a load of horses. Their fear drives you mad.”

  Robert gave him a rueful smile of agreement, and Bryce felt a bit lighter, sharing in it. “Then send Tabito, and two of your men who know horses well. Dietrich. Doc.”

  Bryce sighed and sat back. He needed his foreman here.

  “All right, all right,” Robert said, both hands up. “At least hear me out. Long term, this ranch can’t succeed unless you supplement periodically with fresh blood. Isn’t that what you told me? Now I don’t care where you get that blood—stateside or directly from the Spanish breeders you so favor—but someone has to go after them. Given your consumption and your desire to be here with your family,” he said, nodding toward Odessa and Samuel, “I’m thinking you’re not liable to go anywhere they can’t go too, and those places are fairly limited.”

  Bryce raised a brow and nodded slightly, bringing a hand to his chin as he thought through his brother’s words.

  “Now’s the time, Bryce,” Robert continued, “to train some others to do what you cannot. At least to try. But Bryce—Tabito, Doc, Dietrich, they’re men who’ve worked these horses with you for years. I’d wager they’d make their way and do well by you.”

  “If you could get Tabito to leave the Circle M,” Odessa said with a warning look. “I don’t think he’s been farther than Westcliffe all the time I’ve been here.”

  “All right then, some other man is likely more than willing to take his place.”

  “There’s still the problem of cash,” Bryce said, forcing the words out. “We have none set aside—all our money is tied up in the land and horses.”

  “And I don’t have much to lend, after losing two ships this last year. It’s not fair to the shipyard for me to risk my margin here. I hope you can understand that.”

  The three sat in silence for some time, thinking.

  “What about the gold bar?” Robert asked, leaning forward. “Isn’t this a wise time to cash it in?”

  Bryce looked at him, then to Odessa. She gave him a small nod. “It’d get us started. But it wouldn’t come close to buying the horses we need. I was thinking we’d use it to see us through the winter, as we rebuild the herd.”

  Robert nodded, still thinking. Then he took in a quick breath, eyes wide. “I’ve got it.”

  “What?” Odessa asked.

  “Your paintings, Bryce. Conner sold that one you painted ten years ago to a friend for a handsome profit. People love how you capture the sea, and ships. Do you have any others?”

  Bryce looked at Odessa, and she smiled at him. “I have about twenty or thirty upstairs.”

  “Twenty or thirty?” Robert asked in a voice tinged with excited surprise. “That’s grand, grand, brother.” He sat back, obviously calculating in his head. “For what I can sell them for back East, that’ll come close to buying thirty horses.”

  “You’re joking.” Bryce looked to Odessa, and she obviously shared in his surprise.

  “I’m not. Listen,” he said, gaining momentum, “we’ll organize
an auction. I’ll invite every art collector I know. You pay a bit to the auction house, but they’ll garner far higher prices, in a far more efficient manner, than I might ever hope to attain.”

  “Which would be terrific,” Bryce said, “but I still think we’ll be short of cash, come winter.”

  Robert sighed and leaned back. “Right.” After a moment more, he said, “So … tell me more about what you know about old Sam O’Toole’s treasure.”

  Chapter 15

  Moira and Gavin made their way through the best towns of Colorado, carefully chosen for their distance from major cities but still prosperous base. Gavin quickly groomed three young men to go ahead of them—and they plastered every upcoming town with posters, talked to newspaper editors, chatted up barkeeps and hoteliers alike. In each of those towns, Moira stayed only two to three days, meeting and charming the leaders of each community and singing in the largest venue available in each. In some towns, it was a local saloon. In others it was an “opera house”—sad comparisons to those in which she once sang. But Moira grew to not care; the money she was making each night was triple what she made in Paris, and she had few expenses, other than the “poster boys,” as Gavin called them, Gavin’s cut of 15 percent, and hotel and food and travel and her warm-up acts.

  She moved down the street of Telluride on Gavin’s arm. He wore a dapper new suit and hat that perfectly complemented her new ruby gown. This one had a slightly longer train than the previous dress, which she wore tied in a bustle during the day. It was of an exquisite Oriental silk, with tiny covered buttons on the bodice, and a daring dip to the center of her back that made the men howl when she lowered the shawl that covered it, like a secret that she held until the end of each show—Gavin’s idea.

  Gavin tugged on her arm and pulled her to a stop, staring in the window of a photographer’s shop. Moira moved to stand beside him and looked upon arresting images of Indians and pioneers, children and old people. “This man has an artist’s eye,” Gavin said with glee. “Come.”

  They moved inside, a bell tinkling overhead, but no one appeared to be there. “Hello?” Gavin called.

  “Hello?” Moira added.

  “Just a moment!” called a muffled voice.

  “Darkroom,” Moira guessed. It reminded her of Odessa and her friend with the camera in Colorado Springs. Was Odessa still making any pictures these days? Or was she too busy as a rancher’s wife and mother? Not since Paris had Moira been in a place long enough to receive word. Perhaps here, she could send off a telegram, let her sister know she was so close—but a few days’ journey away—and request a response in Silverton, their next stop. She was curious about her sister. And maybe Odessa had heard from Nic.

  “Look here,” Gavin said, gesturing to the downward cast of a woman’s eye. “And look at this one,” he said, hovering over a smiling woman’s portrait.

  One never smiled in pictures. Did they?

  “He’ll be just the one,” Gavin said. “He’ll create a stunning portrait of you, my dear, that we’ll use on every poster for the coming year. It will be phenomenal.”

  “You think it wise?” she asked doubtfully. “There is something about photography that is even more intimate than portraiture. It’s so real.”

  “Exactly,” he returned. “It will be titillating, eye-catching. No one will be able to resist looking upon your visage.”

  “What exactly—”

  The photographer emerged then, from the darkroom, smelling heavily of developing chemicals, odors that again brought Helen and her sister to mind. Had it only been a little over five years since that day she and Odessa visited Helen for the first time? That seemed preposterous, with all that had transpired since then. The proprietor, lanky and tall, peered at Gavin and Moira over a pair of half spectacles. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” Gavin said. “This is Moira Colorado. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”

  The man looked down at her, studied her a moment, and then shook his head. “Forgive me. I have not.”

  Gavin shoved down his bit of irritation and moved on. “The lady is an entertainer. A singer. And we are in want of a portrait for a new poster to advertise her coming appearances. You seem to be able to capture the unique, sir, and we wish to hire you to do the same for her.”

  The man came out from around his counter and looked at Moira. “Very well,” he said with a sigh, as if his vocation wearied him. He edged to the side of her and directed, “Chin up, my dear.” After studying her a moment, he walked around her, analyzing her from behind. “You have lovely posture.”

  “Thank you,” she returned.

  He moved on to her other side, still perusing her, like a sculptor studying his model. It appealed to Moira, reminded her of artists in London and Paris she had once known … and after several weeks in the intimate venues in which she did her shows, she found that she was comfortable under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. He moved back behind her. “Miss Moira, would you feel comfortable dropping your shawl?”

  “But of course,” she said, slowly sliding it around her shoulders and into her hands. She started to turn, but Gavin halted her.

  “No, no, stay where you are.” He looked to the photographer and motioned him over. “Look at her from this angle,” he said to the photographer. To Moira he directed, “Look over your right shoulder at us.”

  The photographer nodded. “Yes. That would be perfect.”

  The man walked several paces to her right. “Now look up here.” He pointed to the top right corner of the showroom ceiling. “Good. Don’t move.” He returned to Gavin’s side. He was shaking his head. “I’m sorry but this is far too suggestive. Do you see that when she looks back at us, she is a seductress. I assume you are not marketing a whore’s services.”

  “No,” Gavin conceded before going on. “But don’t you see—there is a touch of innocence that is equally enticing, yes? She is innocently seductive, as if caught unawares.”

  The photographer was deep in thought. “I shouldn’t agree to this,” he said. “I have a reputation as a decent businessman, a—”

  “And as an artist,” Gavin coaxed. He waited for the man to take the bait. Moira watched it unfold, had seen Gavin manage to get his way in similar situations countless times, though she was as amazed at his gift as if this were the first “negotiation.”

  Finally the photographer arched a brow. “Very well,” he said.

  “Grand,” Gavin said. He barely could keep the glee from his voice. He looked back at her, and Moira shivered in pleasure. She felt more beautiful and daring than she ever had before. “Can you do the portrait now?” Gavin pressed.

  “But of course,” said the man. He quoted Gavin a price. Gavin quickly laid out the cash on the counter. “Let’s get several renditions,” Gavin directed, laying another bill on the counter. “I want it to be perfect.”

  “Done,” the photographer said, scooping up the money and placing it in his small register.

  They conquered Silverton and then Ouray, and the new poster photograph accomplished what they intended—crowd attention. It was eye-catching, evocative, and yet innocent and hopeful. It elicited gasps and whispers, but over and over, they saw people stop and peruse the poster as if trying to decipher what caught their attention.

  After a long train ride to Crested Butte they met with the proprietor of the opera house, Andrew Wiman. He was young, as handsome as Gavin, and terribly debonair. Moira moved toward the tall, sandy-haired and blue-eyed man. He looked down at her and slowly kissed her hand. His eyes traveled up the length of her arm to her face. “You are as lovely as your posters promised, Miss Moira,” he said.

  “You are too kind,” she said, flattered by his attentions.

  “Not kind, simply honest,” he returned. He looked to Gavin, then to Moira, then back to Gavin again, clearly assessing them both. “I assume you travel as man and wife to cover your affair,” he said in an even, quiet tone. “But I would be most appreciative if I could steal Miss Moira
away for a dinner alone this night. She is an entertainer in my opera house. I always consider it a privilege to be privately entertained before opening night.”

  What did the man intend? Moira looked with alarm from him to Gavin, but Gavin was staring solemnly back at him. “I assume you speak of supper only, nothing more.”

  Andrew smiled impishly. “Why, Mr. Knapp … of course that would be all. I simply love the company of a beautiful woman and am in the position to request it. Do you mind it, terribly?” He turned his gaze on Moira. “Or do you, Miss Moira? I shall immediately rescind my request if I offend.”

  “No, no, of course not,” she said, immediately sliding a dainty hand into the crook of his elbow. She glanced Gavin’s way. He was silent, considering, playing the game—and she assumed he wanted her to do the same. “But Andrew, I shall expect the finest supper this town can offer.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And I always insist on champagne. I’ll have her back by seven,” he tossed over his shoulder at Gavin, not waiting for a response.

  Moira glanced again at Gavin and smiled her farewell, covering her shiver of glee. Gavin was seething, clearly jealous. It was just where she wanted him, again thinking solely of her and not of business affairs in New York as he had been that morning, sending telegram after telegram.

  “I didn’t need your front men to tell me I wanted you in my opera house,” Andrew said once they’d finished the main course. He leaned over the table as if sharing a secret, “I knew I wanted you here from the first time I heard your name. Moira Colorado. You are on your way, miss.”

  “My success is largely Gavin’s doing,” she said. “I was preoccupied with opera in Paris. It was he who showed me that if I simply modified my goals I could find a much broader audience.”

  “Much. He’s a smart manager. He gained a mistress and a moneymaker in one move.”

  Moira frowned. “Please. Lower your voice.”

  “You are ashamed that he is your lover?” His brow lowered as if he was laughing at her.