Breathe: A Novel of Colorado Page 3

  His deputy was quiet for a moment. Reid tipped his hat to a Mrs. Samson, plump and grinning like a happy cat, with a full basket on one arm, a child in the other.

  "Think Dominic St. Clair was lying?"

  "About what?" Reid feigned.

  "When he said his other sister wasn't pretty?"

  "Most likely. But this town isn't very big. It won't take long to find out."

  Back on the ward, among eleven other men, half of them coughing in their sleep, the other half snoring, Bryce laced his fingers together behind his head and stared up at the planks of the ceiling. A lamp burned low in the corner, courtesy of the night nurse.

  A knot in one plank reminded him of Odessas eye, wide and the most curious shade of blue-green, like the island seas; the swirls of the wood grain reminded him of her dark hair, waving about her face like the ocean at night. She was pale and thin and terribly ill, but he'd never seen such haunting beauty in all of his years.

  And she had gumption. Talking to Sam, even him a littlestrangers-the way she had. She was cultured, pure, but she had the heart of a pioneer. He could see it in her.

  But what was the sorrow lurking within? It was beyond homesickness. He knew what that felt like, the deep, lurking pull of it, the ache below. There was a grief inside the girl, dark and menacing, threatening to suck her under. It was enough to battle the disease that threatened them all at the sanatorium; what else threatened Odessa St. Clair?

  He sighed. How long until he saw her again? Her tears pulled at him, tying him to her. Had she lost someone dear to her in chasing the cure? Or would it cost her some dream to remain in Colorado?

  Did she share his pain?

  He closed his eyes in prayer for her again, praying with everything in him that Odessa would be safe. That she would find healing. And rediscover joy.

  Chapter

  3

  The men down the porch were obviously trying to give the St. Clairs a measure of privacy, but Odessa was well aware they could hear every word. Yet she was in no condition to move.

  "Oh, Dess, you look so much better," Moira said, taking a chair beside her sister and lifting her hand. "Doesn't she, Nic?"

  "Pretty as a princess," he said, grinning at her shyly. "I told you you'd make it to Colorado."

  "Always have to be right, don't you, big brother?" Odessa said.

  "Don't have to be. Just am."

  She smiled back at him. "Glad you were right about this. Now let's hope they can see me all the way to health."

  "They will," Moira said, squeezing her hand. "I have such a good feeling about this place, Odessa. It's going to be good for all three of us, I know it."

  Odessa studied her younger sister, the sparkle in her eye. Only two things delighted the young woman so: singing or a new suitor. Their father had sent her here to avoid both. "Moira, you haven't-"

  "No, no," Moira said, looking away. "Stop it, Sissy. I'm merely happy to be someplace new. It's all so fresh here. So ... raw. It's rather like a blank canvas, isn't it, Mr. McAllan?"

  "I beg your pardon," Bryce said, looking their way. Odessa's eyes slid from him to her pretty younger sister and back again.

  "The Springs. It's so new, so untouched, isn't it rather like a blank canvas?"

  Bryce thought on that for a moment and then gave her a small smile. "I can see why you would say that, Miss St. Clair. But no, I don't agree. I believe this country has already been painted by the hand of God. We can cover it over with our own creations, but it will merely mar what is already perfect."

  Moira's mouth dropped a bit and then she abruptly shut it. Odessa bit her lip. It wasn't often that a man didn't fall all over himself to please Moira. And she liked what Bryce had said.

  "You young people need to hire some horses and take a ride," Sam O'Toole said. "See some of this country as Bryce here describes it. Where we hail from ..." He shook his head. "The farther from any city you get, the more you'll see what he's talking about. You turn some corners, crest some hills, and the majesty of it is enough to make a grown man cry."

  "Sam's right," Bryce said. "Before you get your bookshop going, spend some time riding about. Consider what it means to be on land that nothing but antelope or mountain lion or Indian have ever been on. Stare upon mountains that men have yet to climb. That's when you'll get a sense of Colorado."

  He coughed hard then, and they all waited for him to stop. He leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes for a moment, and Odessa wondered if he was done talking. She hoped not. She liked the low, soothing timbre of his voice. The confidence, the authority of his words, that belied his ill state.

  Odessa looked to Dominic, who had been listening as intently as she. Moiras attention seemed to be fading. She glanced about as if looking for an excuse to leave.

  "You don't want to see this city built?" Nic asked.

  "City's already well on its way," Bryce said. "No stopping that, and that's not a bad thing. But I'm just saying that we who hail from the East have a propensity to want to re-create what we knew before, rather than letting the new place become our home."

  "We crave the familiar," Odessa said.

  "That's right," Bryce said, his eyes meeting hers. "And sometimes, God asks us to wrestle with the unfamiliar until it becomes our new familiar. Until we can ..." He stopped, clearly trying to keep from coughing, and reached for a glass of water.

  "Until we can breathe freely in that new place," Odessa said.

  Bryce's smile grew. Odessa felt a slow blush at her neck and she looked away.

  Sam laughed softly, as if he'd just been let in on an inside joke. Odessa ignored him.

  "Let's do as they suggested, " Dominic said as they left the sanatorium. "Let's go to the stables right now and hire some horses and see some of this country."

  "Nic, it's freezing. We'll catch our death."

  "Ahh, the snow's nearly melted away. We'll stop at the hotel and bundle up. Our appointment with the building manager isn't for hours. Please, Moira. We've been here for three days and all we've done is visit Odessa and look for space for the shop. Let's explore a little."

  Moira considered him and then glanced right, to the wooded hills that flanked the young city. "I don't know, Nic. Is it safe?"

  "That's the point," he said, taking her arm in his and steering her down and around the corner, heading to the stables. "As McAllan says, it's unknown. Unfamiliar. And the only way to make it familiar, Moira, is to venture forth."

  Sam O'Toole chuckled and then leaned to his right, looking down the porch at Odessa. "You'll get your opportunity soon enough to lay your own eyes on this land. They'll take you out and set you upon a horse and when you're not so sick that you think you're about to fall off, you'll catch a glimpse of what we're talking about.... Such pretty places for you to see, such grand experiences ahead, miss ..." He leaned back and looked over at Bryce, then back to Odessa. "You two. There's something special brewing here, yes indeed."

  "Sam ..." Bryce warned.

  "Bah," said Sam, flicking out his fingers in dismissal. "If an old man stuck in a sanatorium cannot meddle in the affairs of others, what else will occupy his mind? It's plain that you and the young miss-"

  "Here," Bryce said loudly, cutting him off. He tossed a Bible onto his cot. "Occupy your mind with that."

  Sam laughed again. "All right, all right," he said, leaning back and opening the worn leather cover. "Now where is the Song of Solomon?"

  "Sam ..."

  But Sam just laughed. Odessa turned and feigned sleep, but continued to listen to their banter. Sam relented from his teasing as Nurse Packard came in to check on all three of them, refill water glasses, and pull covers up higher against winter's leftover chill. The men lapsed into musings about their beloved valley, wondering how much snow they'd gotten in this last storm, how Bryce's men and horses fared, how the neighbors were weathering a snow-laden spring.

  Their easy camaraderie comforted Odessa, and she settled back, eyes closed, to listen. It reminded her
of Papa discussing a favorite new novel with a colleague.

  Bryce lowered his voice and Odessa turned slightly in order to capture his next words. "Sam, is there something else? You look like a stallion who has just discovered his own private meadow of sweet grass."

  "I do? Nah. It's nothing."

  "What, specifically, is nothing?"

  "Nah, boy," he said with another laugh. "All is in order."

  "In order for what?"

  "In order for ... anything."

  In her own room, Odessa awakened in the deep hours of morning, long before daybreak. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, half of her longing to recede back into the comforting eddies of sleep, half of her trying to make out the sounds she heard coming from the next room. With a start, she sat up straight in her bed.

  Too fast. She coughed, which began one of her fits. It was always this way; once she gave in to the urge to clear her lungs, a terrible cycle ensued. Sometimes she was successful in clearing her throat and not fainting. Sometimes not.

  Minutes later, when she finally regained control, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached a trembling hand to the nightstand. A nurse had left the lantern burning low. She turned it up, taking comfort in the warm glow that filled the room.

  She listened hard for what she had heard earlier, but could only make out the dull pounding of her heart in her ears and the high whistle from her lungs.

  But she had heard it, next door. The sounds of a man's muffled cry, rustling, as if in struggle. No one was coming down the hall to help; had no one else heard? She heard the squeak of a floorboard and the soft footsteps of someone hurrying away. Tried to hold her breath and hear. Failed. Coughed.

  She knew Sam O'Toole was next door. Was he hurt? In trouble?

  Odessa stared at the bell, thinking of the night nurse-what was her name? Not nearly as kind as Nurse Packard, but efficient. She reached for the bell but resisted ringing it. What exactly would she say to Nurse Carlson? What if she had dreamed the whole thing? It wouldn't be the first time her imagination had taken over, playing out so vividly she was sure it was true. That was part of why she had taken to writing ... to make use of the stories that continued to spool across her mind. But what if it wasn't merely a figment of her imagination?

  She looked about her private room-one of only six available at the sanatorium. "Only the finest for a St. Clair," Dominic had said proudly when she'd seen him the day before. In all reality, it was little more than a nun's convent room, stark and small. But her window faced northward, to the Front Range, the mountains that spread out from Pikes Peak like the ruffled skirt of a lady. On the wall was a simple cross. The bed was made up in standard-issue white cotton sheets and woolen blankets. And it was a relief not to have to share quarters with another.

  Odessa lifted her chin, still listening intently. Silence, utter silence. A chill ran across her arm, and then another down her back. Her eyes went to the dying embers in her corner fireplace, little more than ashes now. It wasn't the frost of her window that caused her chill. It was death. She knew this shadow, the feel of this particular quiet, creeping up on her sunset in the deepest woods.

  She swallowed hard. Still no movement, no sounds. You imagined it all, Odessa. Its in your head

  But it wasn't.

  She had to find out.

  She placed her feet on the smooth-planked floor, strengthened from her days in bed and on the porch and Nurse Packard's gently administered teas and broth. Holding on to the table, she rose on shaking legs and stood for a minute until her vision steadied. She hadn't been anywhere unassisted. Wasn't it time she tried?

  She moved forward, reaching for the doorjamb, and looked one way and then the other. No one in view. She could hear the sounds of coughing fits, but they were downstairs or on the other side of the building. Nothing from next door. Shuffling forward, she rounded the corner, still clinging to the wall, until she stood in the doorframe of the next room. She realized dimly she was in little more than a night shift, far from the proper attire of a lady about to meet a stranger, but that thought quickly left her mind.

  There was no light in this room, only the gray cast of moonlight from the window. His lamp had burned out or been snuffed.

  Her eyes slowly adjusted. She could make out an old man with a white beard. Sam O'Toole. A gentleman's hat and cane on the bedpost at his feet. She crept a foot closer. He was under the covers, but his head was at an odd angle.

  "Pardon me, Mr. O'Toole," Odessa whispered. She waited a moment for a response, then forced herself to take a step forward, reaching for his bedside table. A tickle edged her throat, and she willed herself not to cough. "S-Sam?"

  She took one more step, until the man's head was in silhouette against the moonlit window. His chin was up, his mouth gaping wide. The pillow was on the floor beside him. Odessa knew that look, that expression of terror. He had tried, tried with every effort in him to take one more breath.

  And he had failed.

  She dimly recognized that she was wheezing, panicking. But as her eyes went to the dead man before her, and the pillow on the floor, and the sounds she had heard-his pitiful cry, the soft, muffled rustlings of bedsheets as if someone had been atop him-she spun around, every corner now holding deeper, more ominous shadows. What if What if the White Death hadn't taken him? What if he had been-?

  Odessa went down hard to her knees. Her hand cast about, trying to find a hold that would keep her from the cold floor, left to die beside the old, dead man.

  As if she were ten paces away, she could hear the glass bell as it crashed to the wood and splintered into a hundred pieces. From far away she felt the shards cut her cheeks as she slid across the floor, spinning as if in a whirlpool....

  Chapter

  4

  Dominic paced the floor at the foot of his sister's bed. Moira sat perched beside Odessa, holding her hand, tears slipping down her face. Dr. Morton stood on the other side of his patient's bed, looking over her paperwork from under a furrowed brow.

  "We're fortunate that-"

  "Fortunate!" Dominic exploded, covering the few steps between them in a breath. "I left my sister here yesterday, better than I'd seen her in a month, and come back to find her unconscious again and her face cut up! What happened?"

  "As discussed, Mr. St. Clair, it appears she tried to get up out of bed unaided, knocked a glass bell to the ground, and then fainted upon it."

  "Why was she up? In the middle of the night?" Dominic spat.

  "Sometimes our patients get disoriented, particularly when they first arrive."

  "I want a nurse with her, day and night," he said.

  "Mr. St. Clair, we hardly have the nurses to cover-"

  "Day and night, until she's significantly improved." He stood close enough to the doctor's chart to push against it.

  The doctor raised his chin and glanced from Dominic to Odessa and back again. "Very well, Mr. St. Clair. We can see if we might borrow a private nurse from among ranks of the nuns of St. Francis. For three days, until we see Miss St. Clair through the worst of this. Then we shall reassess. We will, of course, add the cost to your bill." With that, he turned and left them alone.

  "I should stay with her," Moira said, picking up Odessas limp hand and stroking it. "At least for a night or two."

  "It's a good idea," Dominic said. He paused, took a breath, and seemed to relax, considering it. "You could stay with her at night, rest at the hotel during the day."

  Moira nodded and stared at her sister. "But is this to be our life in Colorado? Always hovering over Dess? We leave her for a day and look what happens! How did Papa think we could possibly open a bookshop?"

  Dominic sighed. "It won't always be like this. In a few days, Odessa will be better and begin to regain her strength. This sanatorium has a 90 percent success rate in getting even their worst patients up and on their feet and back into their own homes."

  "Within three to six months," Moira said.

  "I'd be happy if she w
as living with us in three months." He strode to the bed and took her other hand. "That's what we're hoping for Odessa. It was just-just a hard go of it, getting her here from the East. She needs some time. You know our Dess. She'll be fine."

  He studied her pale skin, her shallow, labored breaths and wondered if he believed his own words. He tucked her cold hand under the blanket and turned away, sudden hot tears in his eyes. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and closed his eyes, feeling a weariness enter his very bones.

  What if he failed at doing what their father had asked of himto see to his sisters' well-being? What if Odessa died here, while he could do nothing but watch? His hands clenched and he punched the air in frustration.

  "Nic?"

  Dominic blinked slowly and turned to face Moira. She gazed at him with those big sea-green eyes, a common trait among all the St. Clair children. Her face was oval shaped, like their mother's, whereas Nic and Odessa had inherited the longer, patrician nose and sculpted cheekbones of their father. She looked so much like their mother, with her porcelain skin and rosebud mouth, the same look of consternation on her face that he remembered receiving from his mother after he had gotten into a fight with Robby Smits from down the hill, even though he knew how she disliked his scuffles with the other boys. "What is it, Moira?"

  "I ... I like it here. I do. But sometimes, I feel ..." She looked down at Odessas sheets. Long lashes made her look more like a china doll than a flesh-and-blood woman.

  "Homesick?"

  She nodded and sniffled and Dominic stifled a sigh. Her tears made him feel angry, helpless. He wanted to flee. Return his sisters to their father's doorstep and walk away. But Father had asked him to do this for him. For a year. For a year, he could handle it. Reluctantly, he placed a hand of comfort on her shoulder. "All right, Moira. That's enough now. We don't have time for tears."