HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado Page 5

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  Bryce stared at him. Tabito looked back to the mountains and was silent for a time. “Think like the river, Bryce. Seek wisdom, the right route, rather than an end to the journey.”

  Bryce let out a breath of exasperation. “Don’t all journeys come to an end?”

  “Sometimes. Most times, the river only becomes the sea.”

  Forgetting the cut, Bryce ran his hand through his hair in agitation, winced and then stared at the slice on his palm. He leaned forward on the post and watched the blood drip down and then onto the fresh, white snow below. Tabito watched it too, saying nothing more.

  “This ranch has demanded sacrifice after sacrifice,” Bryce said slowly. “I will not be the man who loses it. Not after everything my family has put into it.”

  “Your family would not wish to sacrifice you for it.”

  Bryce looked at him and then smiled, without humor. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He shook his head and began making his way down the hill, toward the house.

  “Bryce,” Tabito called.

  He turned and looked up at his foreman, his old friend.

  “Sometimes the river disappears on one side of the mountain and appears on the other. Sometimes the river goes deep.”

  29 March 1887

  My patient cries upon hearing each shot, each one signifying a partial death to a dream. Harold Rollins is a Texan. He was driving his herd north to his new spread near Fort Collins. A young wife and three children anxiously await his return. He swears he had no idea that the herd carried the strangles, and by the time he noted the yearling was ailing, he was terribly ill with pneumonia himself. God saw fit to save him by bringing him here; one more night of exposure would have likely killed him. But will his arrival be a death knell for us?

  Odessa heard several horses pull up outside the front door, and she scurried downstairs to open it. “Sheriff Olsbo,” she greeted warmly.

  “Mrs. McAllan,” he said with a smile, then dismounted and tied his horse to the front post. Two other men beside him did the same. “Bryce around?”

  “I expect him momentarily for noon dinner. Care to join us?”

  “I don’t know about you boys,” said the burly sheriff, looking at his men, “but I could use a bite or two. Sure you have enough, ma’am?”

  “Enough for you three. Please, come in.”

  “These here are my deputies, Lance Rudell and Ernest Newland,” the sheriff said, pausing at her door. “Deputies, this is Mrs. McAllan.”

  One younger deputy mumbled a shy greeting, and the other one smiled. “We’ve met before …” she said, suddenly remembering the tall, lean man.

  “Yes’m,” he said, clearly reliving that day at Sam’s cabin in memory along with her. “You’re looking well. Much better than last I saw you.”

  “Thank you. Life has been good for me, here on the ranch.” She took their coats, remembering that fateful day in full, that day when she thought they were soon to die at the hands of Reid Bannock and Doctor Morton. Sheriff Olsbo and his men had narrowly saved them.

  “What do you hear about Mr. Bannock?” she asked, trying not to tense up. Harold was resting in the other room, where it was warmer, and Samuel was napping. She gestured toward the chairs in the formal parlor and the men took their seats.

  “Got off way too easy, if you ask me,” said Lance. “Fancy lawyer from Denver did none of us any good, helping him off that murder charge.”

  “He’ll still be in prison for a few more years,” Odessa said, taking a seat too.

  The men were silent. The sheriff coughed as the deputies shifted in their seats uncomfortably.

  “Sheriff?” she asked, glancing from one face to the next.

  Sheriff Olsbo tucked his head to the side and fiddled with his hat in his lap. “I, um … Odessa, you see …” He paused, seeming as if he was making an effort to choose his words. “The prison’s getting a bit crowded. They’re building another one, but they can’t keep up with the pace. All the newcomers Colorado has seen … it was bound to push the prison population too.”

  “Wh-what are you saying?”

  “Now, Mrs. McAllan,” he said, leaning forward and reaching out a bouncing hand as if to settle her. “I don’t want you to fret at all about Reid Bannock. I saw to it when he was released that it was a part of the orders: If the man dares to set foot in my county, I’ll string him up myself.”

  “When he was released?” Odessa repeated, considering his words for a moment. Reid Bannock. Free. “It’s a big county, Sheriff.” And Reid thought they knew the way in to Sam’s old mine—

  “Yes, but there’s little that goes on in these parts that I don’t know about. Take, for instance, your visitor.”

  “Mr. Rollins?” Odessa asked distractedly. Who cared that Harold was here? Reid Bannock might soon be upon them! She lifted a hand to her forehead, suddenly feeling woozy.

  He nodded. “That’s the rancher driving horses north?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are some rumors, Mrs. McAllan. Rumors of strangles in the herd.”

  She let out a humorless laugh. “Wish you had heard those rumors several days ago, Sheriff, and come to tell us before he arrived.”

  “I should’ve known better,” Bryce said, from over her shoulder. “You’d think I was green in the saddle.”

  Sheriff Olsbo looked up in surprise, and all three men rose to greet her husband. He had entered the house quietly, as was his way. Now she heard the ranch hands, stomping off mud on the back porch, removing their boots before coming inside to eat. And she had nothing quite ready to serve … “Pardon me, I’m late in getting the food out,” she mumbled toward her guests, and then turned to her husband. “Sorry, love,” she said lowly, “I was embroiled in this conversation.”

  “No worries,” he said, holding her hand and gazing meaningfully into her eyes. He knew. Knew about Reid. From the expression on his face he had for some time.

  Odessa frowned in confusion.

  “I’ll be back to help you in a minute, Odessa. All right?”

  She pulled her hand from his and hurried to the kitchen, sudden, hot tears in her eyes. How could he know about Reid’s release? And not tell her? Her! It was too much, too much after all that had happened in the last two weeks. But the low rumbling of the hands’ conversation in her kitchen pulled her attention away. She had to maintain some decorum. Get this meal served then excuse herself to go upstairs. Then she could cry. She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

  The men were taking turns at the washbasin, rinsing their hands. She pulled three loaves of bread from the cupboard and placed them at intervals down the table beside bowls of rich, creamy butter. From the oven she pulled a fat rolled roast, still sizzling in its juices. Her hands shook, but she moved on to the mashed potatoes, transferring them into several serving bowls. There were no vegetables to be had, but she opened three precious jars of preserved apples and poured them into three more bowls.

  “Dess?” Bryce said, suddenly at her side. His voice was tense.

  “Can you slice the meat?” she asked, her voice trembling. She dared to look at him, and he frowned at the tears in her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “Are you—”

  “I need to go and rest,” she said, hurrying out of the kitchen as tears slipped down her cheeks. She just made it up the stairs and into their room, burying her face into a pillow before the sobs broke free from her throat.

  “I thought it best to wait,” Bryce said, slowly shutting the door behind him.

  She turned around. “Until when?” Odessa asked, dipping her pen and placing it to her paper. She’d been madly writing, consumed by the emotions roiling within her. “Until Bannock showed up here again? Until he came and threatened Samuel and you and me and the men again? He nearly killed us, Bryce! Intended to kill us, all because he thought we knew the way into Sam’s mine. He’ll come again, Bryce. He’ll come after us again.”

  “We’ve b
een through this, Dess,” he said, walking across the floor to stand beside her. She saw then that the baby was in his arms. She hadn’t heard him wake. “It would be suicide to come here. I’ve told every man on this ranch to shoot the man on sight if he dares to come near. And that mine is a fiction! Sam made it up. We can’t give him what we don’t have. Bannock’ll move on to greener pastures.”

  “It wasn’t a fiction. Samuel O’Toole showed up in town with fine ore. Had money to spend. Most miners live hand to mouth. Sam did not.”

  Bryce sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Maybe he found a trace vein, as his neighbors did. Maybe his mother left him a small fortune. I’ve told you before, Sam liked a bit of mystery. But the fact remains—Sam left us nothing but land.”

  Odessa turned back to her desk and tapped the end of her pen on the wood. “But Reid does not know that.”

  “Reid Bannock has no job. He’s been stripped of everything but time. He’ll want to get on with it—on with life.”

  “You forget his ways. He’ll have money, when and if he needs it. And you don’t think he’ll consider it worth his time to come here to torment us? Retribution for sending him to prison?”

  “Bannock’s mean, but he’s not a fool. There’s one of him and twelve of us. Trust me, he doesn’t have the resources to hire help like he did the first time he came. He’s done, Dess. It’s over.” He lay back wearily, bringing the baby to his chest.

  Odessa closed her eyes and set aside her pen, then cradled her forehead, elbows to desk. She sighed heavily. “It was just too much, finding out about that threat, on top of all we’ve encountered over the last weeks,” she said.

  “I know it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to fret.”

  She longed for him to rise, to come to her, but he stayed where he was, separate. “You put down so many of Harold’s horses,” she said, barely stifling her anger, wanting him to relive the pain of it again, wanting him to take some of the pain from her shoulders.

  “I had no choice. All those horses were exposed and showing the signs. Swollen mandibles. Coughing.”

  “Why not wait, to see if they might recover?”

  “Because I couldn’t!” His voice rose, impatient. “Nine times out of ten, they die anyway. I couldn’t risk it, Dess!” He got up and handed her the baby. “Don’t you see? Strangles has a way of spreading. It puts ranchers out of business—small and large. We can’t … we’ve already lost almost a hundred …” He shook his head as if exasperated and turned away.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “Out. I told the men to tend to their own supper dishes, that you were feeling poorly.”

  “Out where?” she called to his retreating back, as he hurried down the stairs.

  “Out!” he yelled. After a moment, she heard the front door open and then slam shut.

  And never had Odessa McAllan felt more lonely.

  Moira turned to resume her walk around the leeward side of the ship, out of the sea’s spray. A small umbrella, held at an angle against the wind and light rain, served as her remaining defense against the elements. Despite her best efforts she could still feel her hair pulling out from the tight bun, the tendrils curling in the moist air. But for the first time in a week, she felt as if she could take a deep breath. She knew it wasn’t fitting, a woman alone out on deck, but she had pointedly refused several gentlemen who had offered to accompany her. She only wished to be alone. And not indoors another moment.

  She passed the bank of cabins, all with tiny windows in a neat line, then turned to lean against the rail, ignoring the shiver that ran down her back from the cold and damp. She was determined to stay out here as long as possible before returning to her cabin to snuggle beneath the blankets for a nap.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the whine and thump of the steam engines, the thump of each blade as it dug into the waves, propelling them forward to America, sweet America, still weeks away. It was an act of endurance, she decided, travel overseas. Moira took a deep breath, smelling the brine of the wash beneath them and a hint of … pipe smoke. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

  “You might have announced your presence, Mr. Adams,” she said with a haughty sniff. The enigmatic man she’d been introduced to that morning was sitting under the small roof of the cabins, atop a crate.

  “I might’ve,” he allowed. His eyes steadily met hers. “But you seemed as intent as I for a moment alone. Figured you’d move on soon enough.”

  She lifted her chin and resumed her moody stare out to sea. He wouldn’t chase her away, despite his rude behavior. She had as much right to be here as he.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss St. Clair,” he said, suddenly beside her at the rail. He looked down at her out of sad, dark brown eyes and she noticed for the first time how frightfully handsome he was. Not with the dapper, smooth looks of Gavin Knapp—a businessman who had caught her eye and flirted with her mercilessly—but with the rugged strength of a man used to hard work. There was something of him that reminded her of Bryce, her brother-in-law, but he was taller, broader. Wide at the shoulder, narrow at the waist. His black hair had a wide curl to it, so it framed his handsome face with waves. Strong chin, nice nose. But it was his eyes … they had an intensity to them she hadn’t encountered before. Dark pools that seemed to capture and hold a woman.

  “Miss St. Clair?”

  Moira started and focused more clearly on his eyes, embarrassed to be caught in reverie. Had he said something else? She felt the slow burn of embarrassment crawl up her neck. He pulled his head to the right, nodding toward the crate. “Please. Take your ease there. You’ll be shielded from the wind.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” she protested. “You were first to stake your claim,” she said, shooting him a flirtatious smile. “And I’m no claim jumper.”

  He didn’t smile back. “Please,” he said, gesturing toward the crate with his head.

  “Well, then, if you insist,” she said. She moved forward to the crate, then once there, hesitated. “It’s most kind.”

  “Here,” he said softly, reaching out to take hold of her small waist and easily lifting her to a seated position atop it. He was right; here the wind was practically nonexistent. She shifted to the right a few inches and after a second’s hesitation gestured to the spot beside her in weak invitation.

  He stared at her, his big brown eyes searching hers. “You do me an honor with your invitation, Miss, but I’m about to head in.” Again, he gestured with a wave of his head behind him. He hesitated. “You’ll be all right, on your own?”

  “Well of course, Mr. Adams,” she sniffed, feeling the burn of irritation now. “I am no young twit.” No man had ever turned down an offer from her! Who was he to do such a thing?

  “Good,” he said softly, and moved away, out of sight within a few long, easy strides.

  Moira only sat there for a few minutes longer, her mind embroiled in unraveling the mysterious Mr. Adams. Who was he? He wore no wedding ring; perhaps he had a girl waiting for him back in the States. That was it. That explained him turning away from her; he was simply honorable. She lifted a hand to her forehead and chastised herself for her idle imaginings. What did she care, really? The last thing she needed at this moment was another man in her life. She needed to concentrate on her career, her future. Men had brought her nothing but heartache and trouble.

  But her eyes lingered on the empty area that Mr. Adams had so recently occupied. Something told her that his reasoning wasn’t as simple was a girl at home. And why did she keep thinking about his big sad eyes? She much preferred to think of Gavin Knapp and his bright, blue eyes, glinting with mischief. She smiled. Yes, that man was far more exciting …

  Moira arrived at the captain’s table that night dressed in one of her finest Parisian gowns with a tiny feathered cap to match and a net that descended from it to capture her mass of blonde curls. She had always created a stir in Paris when she wore the dress; the reaction from the me
n around the table who rose in respect told her a man was a man was a man in any locale, be they on the street or at sea. The lone other woman at the table, the dowager Mrs. Jones, perused her with cool eyes and then looked to the captain, a married man of about forty with a trim brown beard, who flashed her a polite smile and then waited for someone to seat her.

  Gavin Knapp, as was quickly becoming his habit, had saved the last chair for Moira, and he graciously helped her into her seat. He was as smooth as Jesse, like a dancer in his movements, and she found comfort in his attention. It felt like a bit of home, normalcy, after the upheaval she’d experienced of late. The seas were mild tonight, but still the water and wine in the goblets before them rocked back and forth—or rather the goblets rocked and the liquid within remained level. She reached for her wine as the captain raised his own for a cheers, and that was when she noticed Mr. Adams directly across from her.

  Mr. Adams’s expression was more kind than it had been that afternoon, his lips even tilting a tad in a smile as he raised his glass an inch higher in her direction. But his gaze did not linger upon her as the others’ did. He looked down the table to the captain, as if eager to look anywhere but at her, and then he leaned toward Mrs. Jones to hear a word from her that Moira couldn’t make out. His movements said, I’m not interested; leave me alone. No doubt, he’d prefer a transatlantic voyage on a sailboat by himself, rather than in the company of all of them.

  Well, Moira thought, a ship was no place to hole up, withdrawing from others. One could take their ease for a time, on their own, but a voyage was all about getting to know one’s shipmates. Servants arrived, placing heavy plates loaded with lovely roasted chicken, hearty mashed potatoes, and cinnamon apples before each person at the table. But Moira barely glanced at the food; her eyes were upon the man across from her.

  She cleared her throat and smiled. “Mr. Adams,” she said pertly. He looked at her and frowned slightly, but she ignored it. “I do believe we’ve heard from everyone at this table about what occupies them day to day except for you.”