Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (18 page)

"Nic, go," Moira said. "I'll turn in early. But you remember your
promise."

He barely acknowledged her, his need so urgent now. He paused
outside her hotel door until he heard her turn the key in the lock,
then practically ran down the stairs. Once outside, he looked left, then
right, thinking.

This town was small, and it was Reid Bannock's town. A dry town.

What Dominic St. Clair needed was a drink.

He hailed a carriage outside the hotel and climbed in. "Colorado City," he said, leaning forward in his seat. "Take me to your favorite
saloon."

"Right away, sir."

They drove out of town and across the creek and into the next,
arriving in minutes. It was a farce, really, this separation of dry town
from a town full of saloons and whorehouses. But what General
Palmer wanted, apparently, General Palmer got.

Dominic shoved down his feelings of guilt for being present
here, shoved away the thought of how Father or Odessa, or even
Moira would react. She had sent him out, after all. She saw in him
his need for escape, release, freedom.

He entered the saloon, and several men at the bar and some at
a couple of tables turned to look his way. But as he moved toward
the barkeep, most turned back to their private conversations, private
card games, private drinking.

"Whiskey?" the barkeep asked.

"Double," Dominic returned. While the barkeeper poured, Nic surveyed the saloon. Fine wooden paneling, now a bit beat up, testified to
a wealthier age when Colorado City and the mines to her west were first
discovered. Now she was the poorer neighbor, the forgotten relative, of
a new, shinier prince of a town to her east. Well Dominic knew what it
was to be less-than. Less-than-hoped-for. Less-than-imagined. The only
living St. Clair son. Heir to a successful publishing company. An inheritance he did not want. "Live long, Father," he toasted in a whisper.

"Again," he said to the barkeep, patting the smooth bar with an
open hand, and silently, the man poured another.

"Slow down there, neighbor, or you'll end up on the floor," said
a man on the next stool.

Dominic, in defiance, tossed the second double back, studying
the man with closed lips as the hot, burning liquid flowed down his
throat. Slowly, he moved his eyes away from his neighbor in silent
dismissal. "Another," he demanded. "This time, the good bottle." In
tandem with his request, he placed a silver coin on the bar, the silent
word of every saloon in the country.

The proprietor studied him for a half second and then reached
behind him for a bottle of fine scotch.

This glass Dominic savored, letting the previous two glasses do
their work within him. He felt the muscles in his neck and back
relax, the familiar tension in his cheeks and forehead ease away. He
let the scotch sit in his mouth and then slide down his throat, as he
detected the undertones of smoke and licorice.

"New to the city?" asked another man, taking the stool on
Dominic's other side. He lifted a finger, silently ordering a glass of
the finer scotch Dominic was now drinking.

"Colorado Springs," he allowed.

"Interested in a game of cards, friend?"

"No. I have interest in the more physical games."

His new companion laughed. "Whores or the ring?"

"The ring," Dominic said. "Is there one in this town?"

"Always one in every town," the man said.

Dominic studied him, taking in the new suit, the groomed fingernails. Card shark. Traveling gambler. Nic knew the type, just as he
had been clearly made as well.

"You're kind of small to be a fighter," said the man, a tone of jest
in his voice that kept away the broad, sweeping hand of offense.

"That's what they say," Dominic allowed, taking another sip.

"Hmm. An underdog. I like to play against the odds. Shall I lead
the way?"

"Please." Dominic drank the last of his scotch.

"The brother has left her, Sheriff. Took off for Colorado City, for the
saloons."

Ah, yes, Reid thought, unsurprised. The young Mr. St. Clair
had been clearly itching for another fight. If he wasn't careful, he'd
get himself killed. The thought made Reid consider for a moment.
Dominic wouldn't be the first man to find himself surrounded and
sustain a beating that would eventually take his life. Especially in a
place as rough-and-tumble as Colorado City. Yes, he thought, picking the dirt out from under his fingernails, if the man continued to
be reluctant to accept his calls upon his sister, he might simply find
an end to his miserable, frustrated life. It might be a relief of sorts to
him, a blessing in disguise. Like a wounded racehorse that had to be
put down.

"Did he go for a woman?" he asked, handing the man a coin.

"Drink, when I left him. But plenty of it."

"And we all know where such drinking leads us. Whoring.
Debauchery. Brawling. All the worst in every man."

"Yes, sir."

"You can be on your way," he said to the spy in dismissal.

The man departed and Sheriff Reid Bannock slung his holster
around his hips. He thought he just might stop by the hotel, not to
drop in on Moira, necessarily. But just imagining her there, all alone.
In her hotel room, pulling off her dress, her corset-

"Where you off to?" Garrett asked.

"Off to make sure the city is safe as she slumbers."

"You mean your future wife, don't ya?"

"Her, too," Reid tossed back.

The ring was like countless others Dominic had seen, little more
than a wooden floor, four posts, and heavy rope between them.
The pit was full of Irish and Chinese, laborers from the railroad or
disillusioned miners, determined to earn their fortune here, if not
out there. Dominic inhaled the heady scent of men's sweat, the mood
within the room making him more alert, more alive than he had felt
in weeks. The liquor made him fearless.

This was a constructive use of his skills as a fighter, he reasoned.
A method to make a little of his own money, not Father's donations,
and the means to release the inexhaustible anger and frustration that
built within his belly.

He edged between the men, moving steadily closer to the ring
until he felt the spatter of blood and sweat across his face as one
man plowed another with a swift, iron-hinged uppercut to the right.
The loser went down, falling to the wooden floor with a dull thump
barely heard against the roar of the crowd. He stared at the man,
whose eye was swollen shut from some earlier punch, lip bleeding.
The man moaned, but didn't open his other eye, did not attempt to
rise.

Dominic stared at him and yet felt no fear. Worse, he felt no
glory for the winner. The crowd cried out, but it was as if Dominic
had gone deaf. He could see their mouths open, hands raised in the air, but he could hear nothing but the sound of the loser on the floor,
breathing, gasping from around broken ribs to breathe, just breathe.

Just like Odessa sounded. Wordlessly, Dominic moved forward,
climbing into the ring and tearing off his shirt, popping the buttons
off, tearing buttonholes in his frenzy to be free. It was then he could
hear something beyond the beaten man, carried out of the ring now,
passed off to stranger after stranger to rest and recuperate in some
forgotten room or die in a weather-beaten hotel.

Now, he could hear again. Felt the ringmaster raise his arm. "I
have a challenger here! What's your name, son?"

"St. Clair," Dominic said, looking about, no longer able to focus
on individuals in the crowd, only searching for the man he would
fight tonight.

"Shorty St. Clair!" called the ringmaster. "Who will fight the
honorable Shorty St. Clair, newly arrived from-where are you
from, son?"

"Philadelphia," he mumbled.

"From Philly! Shorty St. Clair from Philly! Who will fight this
man tonight?"

Moira pulled shut the drapes of her room, preparing to undress for
the night. But at the last moment, she caught sight of a man across the
muddy street, a tall man with guns at either hip. No one but the sheriff
and his deputies were allowed to carry weapons in town.

She closed her eyes as she turned to the side of the window, as
if he could see through the drapes, wondering if it was her imagination, or if Sheriff Reid Bannock was truly standing across the street staring at her hotel room, arms crossed. She opened her eyes. She
refused to peek out the same drapes she had just closed, refused to let
him know he had a power over her, an edge of fear.

Resolutely, she walked to her door and paused, hand hovering over
the key. She had promised Dominic she would not leave this room.

But she had to. She had to know. Just how great a threat was
this sheriff? Would he truly go to such great lengths in his pursuit of
her as to stand outside her hotel, watching her as a wolf observed a
sheep in a farmer's pen? She had had hopeful suitors in Philadelphia
who had walked past her father's mansion as if on an afternoon stroll,
while casting pining looks in her home's direction.

This was different. The man stood across the street, watching,
doing nothing but watching. Or maybe he was watching someone
else, someone who posed a danger to the city. Simply doing his job.

Decided now, she turned the key in the lock and peered down
the hallway. No one was present, all the hotel guests taking their
supper or already happily ensconced in their rooms.

She moved into the hallway, wondering why her heart was racing. What was there to fear? She was in a hotel, not alone in some
alley. Oil lamps flickered cheerfully all along the dark hallway. Moira
had watched others arrive this afternoon. She was not alone within
this hotel, regardless of how she felt at this moment.

Moira moved down the stairs, trying, inexplicably, to avoid the
creaks. It was with some relief that she made it to the ground floor
and peered to her left into the dining room, filled with guests.

She turned and moved through the downstairs hallway, squaring her shoulders as if she knew exactly where she was going. The
laughter and hum of chatter in the dining room faded behind her, then the loud, clanking noises of the kitchen. She paused outside a
door labeled "Office" and noted that no light peeked underneath.

Glancing over her shoulder to make certain no one approached,
she turned the knob and raised an eyebrow when she found it
unlocked. Colorado Springs was a young city, indeed, when an office
manager left his office unlocked. She eased inward and closed the
door, listening for several heartbeats to make certain she was alone.

It was utterly silent.

She turned and felt her way toward the window, pulling aside a
heavy drape to peer outside.

The street was empty. Not even a carriage for rent or people
heading home for the night. No one. Certainly no one across the
street watching her.

That was when Moira heard the door open behind her and
watched as Sheriff Reid Bannock's silhouette filled the doorway.
"Now, Moira," he whispered, "why are you in here? What would the
hotel manager say?" Her heart picked up a frantic beat.