Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 2

  "Nurse Packard," Sam managed, still coughing as he grinned Odessas way. "A saint in white."

  "Everything is white around here," Bryce muttered.

  A few minutes later, the nurse arrived with a pewter pitcher that was sweating from the blessedly cool contents within, and a tin mug. She poured a cup and set it against Odessas lips. "There now, just a few sips. All right, one more. I know you must be terribly thirsty. But we must take it easy. We don't want it coming right back up now, do we?"

  Odessa closed her eyes and pushed back a frown at the woman's words. She concentrated on the cold liquid she could feel slide all the way down her throat, easing, soothing, calming.

  Nurse Packard set the mug on the table beside her, and Odessa noticed that she, too, had a bell beside her bed. "I'll return with the doctor," she said, and with another bob of her head, was gone.

  "They'll bring food at some point," said Bryce. "More food than you've ever seen in your life. I've gained ten pounds in my two weeks here."

  Odessa said nothing, thinking only of how perilously thin he must have been if he was already ten pounds heavier.

  "Are you from the East as well, Mr. McAllan?" she said at last.

  "Betrayed by the accent, eh? Bangor. But I've been in Colorado for five years running our horse ranch near Sam's land," he said easily. "It's in the shadow of the Sangre de Cristos. Have you heard of the Sangres?"

  She shook her head.

  "The way they rise off the valley floor, it makes these mountains appear as princes to their kings."

  "They are taller than Pikes Peak?"

  "Ten that rival her. Another couple of dozen not far short of reaching her height. But it's more that there is one after another, marching together as if in some grand parade."

  "It sounds magnificent," Odessa said.

  "This is a communal porch shared by all our patients." A short, broad-shouldered man in awhite coat entered with Nurse Packard, no doubt the physician, but his words were directed to Bryce McAllan. "But I'll thank you to pretend that Miss St. Clair is not even in the room, Mr. McAllan. This is a medical facility, not a club in which to fraternize. Perhaps you'll be well enough to ride with the others tomorrow?"

  Odessa heard no response from Bryce. She imagined he was irritated with the doctor's patronizing manner. But she understood his motivation. If they were to be ensconced in beds, all together as men and women ... it was highly unorthodox.

  "Is there not a separate porch for women?" she asked gently.

  The doctor shook his head with a small smile and reached out a hand for hers. "I am Doctor Morton, Miss St. Clair. Forgive our arrangements, but we have twenty-two patients and only five of them are women. We are nearly at capacity. There is little choice but to intermingle our patients."

  "Only five women? How is that possible?"

  He gave her another small smile and a shrug of his narrow shoulders as Nurse Packard brought him a chair on which to sit. "You're in the West now. We have a preponderance of men, all intent on seeking their fortunes. And here, mining, ranching, farming, all subject them to uncommon levels of dust, weakening their lungs. They are primed for consumption. And others arrive from the East-those from coal mines or printer's shops. Still more that have lived in the shadows of factory smokestacks. We receive them all."

  He took some papers from the nurse and gazed down at them. "I've seen to your welfare since you arrived on the train. We were expecting you, of course, but had hoped you would not arrive in such dire straits." He looked her in the eye. "It is fortunate you arrived when you did, Miss St. Clair."

  "I am aware of that. Do you ... do you believe you can help me? Heal me?"

  Doctor Morton smiled more broadly and patted her hand. "We have brought you this far, haven't we? Back from death's door? I see no reason why you won't enjoy a complete recovery and live a long life. But it will probably have to be here, near the sanatorium, in case you experience any setbacks."

  Odessa stared at him for a long moment. "I can-I can never go back? To Philadelphia?"

  Doctor Morton's face sobered. "I would advise against it. I tell all my patients to settle here, make this your home." His eyes slid over to the men at the end of the porch and back again. He was quiet for a moment, carefully choosing his next words. "Your father did not tell you? I was quite clear about it."

  Odessa barely shook her head, aghast when her eyes began to fill with tears. Papa had sent her off, sent her off knowing he might never see her again, that she might never return to him. How could he? How could he?

  Chapter

  2

  Over and over, long after Dr. Morton had left the porch, Odessa worked the question and possible answers.

  Her father had never said anything because he knew she might never have boarded that train if she had known the truth. If he had told her, she could not have borne the sorrow, the idea that she was abandoning her father, taking away his only remaining children, leaving him alone-possibly forever. His business kept him in Philadelphia. His desire to see his children prosper compelled him to send them West.

  Tears ran down her cheeks and she began to wheeze.

  "Say now," said Sam with a gentle warning in his voice, "don't do that, Miss St. Clair. I know how tears can lead to something worse."

  She didn't look at him, but could see Bryce's movement in her peripheral vision. His brush hovered midair as he watched her too.

  Embarrassed, Odessa turned her head away and felt the tears slide into her ear.

  "Maybe you ought to tell Miss St. Clair about all that Colorado has to offer, Sam," Bryce said. "What she can look forward to."

  They were trying to calm her, trying to ease her away from the precipice that all consumptive patients battled back from far too often. And they were right, of course, about the tears, the danger of giving in to them. But just once, this once, couldn't she purge herself of the tears and sorrow within her soul? She longed to cry until every tear was spent.

  No. She could not. I am here to get better. To live. That is the best gift I can give my father. Breathe in ... breathe out, she told herself, forcing away the niggling urge to cough.

  After a few minutes, as her tears dried, she became aware of Bryce's mumbling words. She turned her head and found him on his knees, praying.

  She quickly looked back to the windows in front of her. Never had she seen a man praying like that. Certainly not outside of church. It was oddly intimate. Like the time she'd walked into the parlor and discovered her father on his knees before her mother, his cheek against her taut, round belly, full of the baby girl that would soon die. They had been so happy at that moment, so full of hope.

  Odessa swallowed hard. She had to think of other things, things that occupied her mind but not her heart. She'd find a way, some way, to draw her father west.

  Bryce moved with some effort, like that of a man twenty years older, to his feet and practically fell into bed. "Bit too cold in here to be on your knees for long." His blue eyes sparkled, indicating that he knew she had seen him. He grinned. "I take it you're a Presbyterian, Miss St. Clair."

  She didn't care for his assumption. He did not know her. He didn't know the first thing about her. But there was no way around it. She nodded stiffly.

  "Methodist, myself. But the consumption has given me some Baptist propensities."

  Odessa's mind was back on her church at home, on the girls her own age she had seen enter womanhood and get married. A few with babies of their own. Entering that church was like being surrounded by family, with irritating and exasperating and loving and laughing uncles, aunts, and cousins all about her.

  Bryce settled wearily back into his pillows. "Forgive me, Miss St. Clair, I've made you sad again with something I've said. I'll keep my peace now."

  "Nurse Packard will skin us faster than a Ute if we don't let the girl rest," Sam said.

  "I thought the Ute were peaceful," she murmured.

  "Pardon?"

  She turned to look at the men. "I ha
d heard that the Ute were peaceful."

  Bryce smiled again and Odessas heart skipped a beat. Odd. Such an odd situation, this! "Some are. Some aren't. Most are on their reservation, across the mountains and farther west, now. But some have held their own. Our ranch foreman is pureblood Ute, or oo-tah, as he says it."

  "He's stubborn as a mule and not as pretty," Sam put in. "But he's a good man."

  Odessa could feel her eyebrows rise in surprise. "You hired an Indian?"

  "Sure." Bryce's smile faded from his eyes and his lips settled into a line.

  "Is that wise?" she pressed.

  "Tabito is one of the most loyal men I've ever met, and a better shot than most too. A good man to have around when you're on a ranch five miles from your nearest neighbor."

  "'Specially if I'm one of your nearest," Sam joked, then laughed at his own humor, which set him to coughing again.

  Nurse Packard returned, interrupting Odessa's next question about the Indian, and Bryce dabbed his brush into his palette as if Odessa were the furthest thing from his mind. The nurse looked from Odessa to the men and back again, obviously not fooled. "I brought you some broth. We'll work you up to the eggs and milk and meat that are standard here. You're terribly thin. How long since your last real meal?"

  Odessa shook her head, trying to remember. "Some soup ... maybe a little bread on the train. But nothing really since we left home."

  Nurse Packard nodded, her brown eyes kind. "Well, let's begin with this. A little soup will make you feel worlds better. And God's creation here in Colorado will do her wonders on your lungs. I promise, Miss St. Clair. You will find a new life here, and it all begins with putting a little meat on those bones."

  "Odessa," she said, swallowing the broth. "Please call me Odessa."

  But curiously, while she was glad for the woman's company, she felt herself speaking more to Bryce and Sam than to the nurse.

  "Dominic, look," Moira said, pulling her small hand against the crook of his arm. They were on broad Pikes Peak Avenue, heading east to return to the sanatorium and their sister.

  His eyes immediately saw what she was gesturing to, a new, unpainted structure with boards as fresh as a newborn's skin and a white "for sale" sign in the front window. Nic looked left and right, sizing up the location. It was near the end of any structures built on the street, but given the Springs' rate of growth, it wouldn't be that way for long.

  "Not very convenient to the train station," he said.

  "But probably going for a better price because of it," Moira returned. "And it's three blocks from the mercantile."

  He smiled down at her and squeezed her hand. "I'll check on it. As soon as we know Odessa is on the mend, I can think about St. Clair business."

  "Don't wait too long, Dominic," she warned. "I'm thinking buildings are sold fast in this town, or it's up to you to build it. Just consider it. If the structure is already complete, you merely have to fill it." Her eyes lit up with anticipation and she waggled her eyebrows in excitement. There was no negotiating with Moira St. Clair when she got like this. As the youngest girl in the family, she'd always gotten everything she wanted. And she wanted a lot. Spending the last few days at the sanatorium had left her restless.

  They resumed their walk. Nic was grimly aware of the many appreciative glances Moira drew. Even in a city like Philadelphia, she had many admirers and men coming to call. Father had let her dabble, but intervened before anything became too serious; he wasn't yet willing to entertain potential husbands for Moira. But he'd failed to consider the vast number of men in this country. How was Nic supposed to fend them off?

  Heading directly for them, two dandy gentlemen eyed her now. Dominic frowned. It was unseemly not to step aside and let a lady pass. Moira was chatting, talking on about how she had heard at the hotel that General Palmer intended to build an opera house-a real opera house!-in his burgeoning city. Already he'd planted hundreds of trees along the streets. If he could do that, and pass a bond to get the El Paso Canal flowing too, then surely he could knit together the funds.

  Dominic pulled his sister to a stop and looked up suspiciously into the faces of the men before them. Both were impeccably dressed in long dark coats and vests. They had eight inches on him, but their black boots and pant legs bore the same spattering of fine street mud as his own. "Pardon me, gentlemen," he ground out. He moved to one side, to guide Moira around them, but the one nearest lifted a hand to slow their progress.

  Dominic looked up, considering how he might protect his sister if this escalated into a scuffle, and then stared over at the man. He was taller, but Nic was broader. And used to brawling. These last years, through the pain and sorrow, he'd found relief in fighting, release for the anger and grief that welled inside, gratefully leaving each fight spent.

  "Nic," Moira said in a whisper, head ducked, squeezing hard on his arm.

  "Forgive me," said the man, moving his hand to the brim of his hat and removing it. "I simply could not let a moment such as this pass." He leaned slightly toward Moira and shook his head in wonder. "Permit me to say that never has this city seen a beauty such as you, miss."

  Moira giggled. Such easy prey to charm! She lifted her chin. "This city is full of men, sir."

  Dominic edged between the man and his sister. "I'll thank you to step aside and let me and my sister by."

  The man, handsome, dapper, still stared at Moira with delight. "Your sister? Then, may I dare to hope, my dear, that you are unattached?"

  "Consider her attached to me," Dominic said, edging nearer the man. He stared up at him, silently begging him to say another word and make a move against them. The man returned his look, sizing him up too, at first clearly thinking Nic was smaller, easily bested, but then taking into account the determination in his eyes.

  The stranger cocked his head to one side and gave them a half smile. "Easy, brother," he said, an altogether different expression on his face now. He pulled aside his jacket and Nic caught the sight of a bright tin star on his vest. The sheriff? This was the city's sheriff?

  "I make it my business to meet anyone moving in," the man said. "I'm Sheriff Reid Bannock." He tipped his hat, his eyes again only on Moira, "and this is Deputy Garrett Smith."

  Dominic's eyes slid from sheriff to deputy. The deputy, Garrett, seemed hesitant, as if he didn't fully approve of his boss's forward ways.

  "We don't permit brawling on our streets," the sheriff said coolly, looking down at Nic. "Maybe it was different in Philadelphia?"

  Nic stared back at him, weighing his options. So the man had already checked up on him. How much did he know? He swallowed hard. "Pardon me, Sheriff," he said, forcing a smile. "Thought you were nothing more than a dandy prowling about. Must keep the sheep away from the wolves, you know."

  Sheriff Bannock smiled, but his brown eyes remained curiously still. "A pretty sister like that would put any man on edge," he said, as if they were longtime friends commiserating.

  "As you already seem to know, I'm Dominic St. Clair, and this is Miss Moira St. Clair."

  "Pleased to meet you both," he said, sticking out his hand.

  Grimly, Nic shook it.

  The sheriff nodded at Moira. "Welcome to our city, Miss St. Clair."

  "Thank you, Sheriff." She lifted the tips of her fingers to her throat and boldly gazed back at him.

  Nic watched the sheriff force his attention off Moira and back to him. "What has brought you two to town?"

  "Three to town," Nic corrected, clearing his throat and casting a narrowed-eye warning toward Moira to lay off the feminine charms. Did she have to flirt with everyone? "We are here to set up shop for my father, a book merchant, and to seek assistance for another sister, who is convalescing at the sanatorium."

  The deputy raised a brow in surprise.

  "Chasing the cure," the sheriff said, the edge of derision in his voice. But then he stopped, checked himself. "She as pretty as you, Miss St. Clair?"

  "No," Nic interrupted, and led Moira around a
nd away from the men. "Good day, gentlemen," he said over his shoulder. And tried to ignore their laughter behind him.

  "You didn't have to be so rude," Moira said plaintively.

  "You didn't have to be so flirtatious," he returned. "Saints in heaven, Moira. Father wants me to keep you safe. Can you help me out a little on that front?"

  They strode along in silence, the sanatorium quickly coming into view. But all Nic could hear in his head were his father's whispered words in his ear before they boarded the train. "Use your brain as well as your brawn, Son. "He swallowed against the dust of the street and the bile rising in his throat. He'd agreed to his father's proposal, to watch over his sisters, to open the first St. Clair bookshop, to stay out of jail and become, as his father put it, "a respectable man." If he could meet those terms, his father would allow him two years to travel, then enroll in a university of his choice-one that had not previously suspended him-to complete his education; at that point he could try his hand at another business, if he so chose. It would be up to him. That was their agreement.

  Dominic knew his father hoped he would sow his oats, go to university, and then adopt the family business. But publishing was in his father's blood, in Odessa's. Not his. Colorado Springs would be his escape route, his path to freedom. Yes, after this year was done, he would be free.

  "He doesn't have the demeanor of a merchant," Garrett said, staring after them.

  Reid glanced at his deputy. "No. He won't last long."

  "Doesn't seem the sort to give up."

  "He will. For one reason or the other. He'll get the fever and head to the mines."

  "Or die in some saloon brawl."

  Reid smiled grimly. "You saw it in him too. That man's itching for a fight."

  "Like half the other men in this city with all their pent-up frustration after failing at the mines."

  "Or being away from their women. Too poor to stay. Too poor to go home. You ask me, General Palmer should be dealing with that issue, not getting so besotted with frivolous opera houses and such."