Breathe: A Novel of Colorado (41 page)

Doctor Morton had refused to consider the idea of her returning
home for the funeral. Not even for a few days. "The train ride itself
would be too strenuous, Odessa," he'd said. "You'll spend three days
en route there, and three days back. Think of the last time you made
that journey. You've made too much progress to risk regressing now.
Please, your father wanted nothing more than for you to find health.
You've done that here in Colorado. You honor his memory more by
remaining."

In the end she had agreed, knowing her place was here, with
Bryce. Moira stayed to attend to the shop and James Clarion, while
Dominic journeyed home to be present at the funeral and see to the
estate and their father's affairs. He'd reach Pennsylvania tomorrow
and the funeral would be the day after that. She didn't know if he'd
return-or when. He and Moira had come to loathe the time they
spent at the store and had hired the schoolmarm, Kathleen Price,
to assist during her summer break. Odessa, conversely, loved every
hour she spent in the store, but found she did not have the stamina
to remain more than a few.

She climbed the steps of Doc Ramsey's, nodded at his wife who
peeked through a doorway to a kitchen, and proceeded to Bryce's
bedside.

He smiled softly when he saw her and opened his arms wide.
"Come here, sweetheart," he said quietly, reading the grief in her
eyes. She moved toward him and sank to her knees beside the bed,
resting her head on his chest, and gave way to the sobs she had been
holding in for days.

He said nothing, merely stroked her head and hair and patted
her as she cried. Even when her tears were spent she remained there
for a time, drawing comfort from his warmth, the steady beat of his
heart, the strength in his hands. At last she straightened and wiped
the tears from her cheeks and returned his tender smile.

"Now you're looking better and I'm a sight," she said.

"You're beautiful," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, Moira could always cry and look somehow fetching. I get
splotchy and puffy-eyed."

"All the more testament to your beauty. I'd meet you down that church aisle at this very moment and count myself blessed to have
you as my bride."

She laughed off his compliment and studied him again. He was
more coherent in his speech and seemed more like himself today.
"Tell me how you are, Bryce. How's your head? Have you remembered anything more?"

"How's the shop?" he asked, trying to deflect. "Is Moira staying
put at all, or merely looking to you and Kathleen?"

Her eyes narrowed and she moved to the chair beside his bed.
"Why did they do it, Bryce?" she said in a whisper. "Tell me. I cannot
bear the fact that I almost lost you and my father in the same week.
Tell me what you remember."

"We've been through this, Odessa. I don't remember. Not a
thing."

"They took your money, but not your watch. It makes no sense."

"Maybe they were angry I only had a few dollars on me. Few
dollars among four men isn't much."

Bryce moved his head back and forth on the pillow and closed
his eyes. "Leave it, Odessa. This will only make things worse."

"Tell me what you remember. Tell me," she urged.

"No. No! It's bits and pieces. It makes no sense, even to me.
Please, stop. It's making my head throb."

Odessa sighed and leaned back in her chair, catching her breath,
letting Bryce's heartbeat return to normal. She didn't want him to
regress ... but this was important. "Bryce, do you think they were
after you because of Sam's poem? Did they ask you about the mine?
About me? About anything in particular?"

Bryce frowned and then slowly opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. His left eye was still horribly bloodshot, but at least it wasn't
as swollen. And the double vision had ended. The doctor had hope
now that it would heal completely. "My memory is sketchy, but yes,
I think they were after the map."

She reached forward and took his hand. "The map-Sam's poem.
They thought I'd given it to you for safekeeping. Worse, maybe they
meant to kill you, make it look like a robbery, because you now own
the O'Toole mine."

He grabbed her hand and forced her to stop pacing again, then
sighed. "It's been a terrible week for you, Odessa. First me, then your
father. It's you I'm worried about. I have to get you out of here.
Marry you and take you back to the ranch. We can see anyone coming from a couple miles out. Too many corners, too many ways for a
man-or woman-to be ambushed here."

"You really think that?" Odessa asked. "You think we'll be safer
on the ranch?"

"Absolutely."

"What about the DeChants? If Amille wasn't completely mad, if
they would go to such lengths as to kidnap and murder their childthen murder John and make it look like a mining accident ... why
do you think we'll be safe?"

Bryce leveled his good eye at her and waited for her to cease pacing. "Because DeChant didn't have ten ranch-hardened men on the
premises dedicated to keeping him alive." He reached out to her and
she took his hand. "You'll be safer there, Odessa. We'll see to it."

"You're telling me that my father left everything to me?"

"Everything. The house. St. Clair Press. Even his bank accounts
are at your disposal." Francis Bonner, a small man with a long beard,
pushed the documents across the desk to him.

Dominic picked the top sheet up but stared at it with unseeing
eyes. With his other hand he untied his tie and unbuttoned his collar. It was stifling hot in Philadelphia. The funeral service, although
short, had seemed interminable in the sweltering church.

"He never updated his will. This was drafted the year after you
were born. I urged him to revise it every year, but the matters at
hand always proved more demanding of his attentions." He paused
and eyed Dominic. "I must say, I'm surprised at your reaction. It is
common enough-and to your obvious favor."

Nic pinched his temples with the thumb and third finger of his
right hand and set the document back on the desk. "What about
Odessa and Moira? What do they receive of the estate?"

The small man coughed. "Well, that is up to you, of course."

"I could take it all?"

"You could, although you and I both know that would not be
within your father's wishes."

"Yes, well, if it was up to my father, I'd stay here at this desk
and keep running St. Clair Press. Work myself to death, just as he did, not living life, just reading about it. But it's no longer up to my
father, is it? He's dead. Dead."

Francis blanched and stared at him with wide eyes.

Nic rose and paced the office floor. How many times had he been
in this office, trying to have a word with his father but having to wait
for ten others to speak first? How often had he been reprimanded
in here, told what to do? "Set straight," again and again? He ran his
fingers over leather-bound editions of St. Clair Press's best-selling
books. "He sent us West to find our way," he said aloud. "He knew
it was ahead of us, not behind us."

"Pardon me?"

Nic shook his head and turned toward Francis. "Sell it. All of
it.

"What?"

"I'll pack up the things my sisters would care about and send
them to Colorado. Then you will see to selling the house, the
remaining items within, and St. Clair Press. Reserve a portion of
the proceeds to care for the family grave sites for the next fifty
years. The remaining estate, in total, will be divided into thirds,
with a third to be given to each of my sisters and a third to me."

"This will take some time," Francis said, rising, flustered.

"Of course," Nic said easily, his confidence growing by the
moment. This was the answer, his escape route, hope. "But as you
work out those details, I want my father's bank accounts immediately
transferred to my name. Deduct it from my portion once the sales
are complete, but I plan to depart Philadelphia within a few days and
wish to have access to those monies."

"I must say, I believe your father-"

"My father had ample opportunity to pursue his dreams," Nic
interrupted. "Now it is my turn to shape my own future."

"W-where will you go? Back to Colorado?"

Nic moved toward the door and set his hat on his head. He
turned to flash the attorney a grin. "I have no idea. But I very much
look forward to finding out."

On the eve of their father's funeral, Moira and Odessa stood on a
cliff above Garden of the Gods, dressed in black and clinging to each
other. James Clarion stood at a respectful distance behind them, and
Bryce was in a carriage just beyond him. The young women leaned
their heads together as they wept. One shared a memory and they
would cry for a time, then the other would share yet another story,
and they'd cry again. They had come here, to this place, because
they had talked about bringing their father here when they saw it for
the first time-the brilliant red rocks shooting toward the sky, the
towering Pikes Peak, a lovely purple contrast above them.

"He would've loved it here," Odessa said.

"He would've loved seeing you looking so well," Moira said. "At
least he knew you were back on your feet, Odessa, safe. That must
have made him so content."

"I owe him my life twice over," Odessa mused. "He wanted
nothing more than to know that all three of us were well."

They stood together in silence, watching as the sun set over the
mountains. "What will become of St. Clair Press?" Moira asked
at last as they turned to go. "Do you think Nic will remain in
Philadelphia?"

"I don't know," Odessa said. "I hope he returns soon-even for
a time. I want him to be here to give me away at the wedding, and
there is much for us to discuss."

Moira spent much of her day on James' arm, at his insistence,
weathering dull, long meetings in which he seemed to do little but
stare at sheet after sheet of numbers. He was doing some investing
for his father, principally in land, particularly land that might yield
valuable commodities at some point. Her ears perked up during
cloaked conversations, heavy with implied meaning and unspoken
promises, innuendo meant to propel one man after another toward
James' way of thinking. He was a master at deal making, and Moira
reveled in watching him close each one.

After the meetings, the two would rehash the conversations, dissecting and disseminating what they thought was vital. James listened
to her with some bemusement on his face, as if she were a beautiful
toy that delighted him, but he also seemed to take her points under
serious consideration. Moira blossomed in the light of this attention,
this sense of respect that she had never found except in flaunting her
beauty or singing.

They were on their way to dine together, alone at last, nine days
after his arrival, and Moira believed she felt the faintest niggling of
love for the man beside her. He had been very attentive, especially
after her father's death. She smiled and held his arm even more
tightly. He looked down at her. "Happy, pet? I mean, even in the
midst of your mourning can you find a bit of contentment in this,
this courtship?"