Claim: A Novel of Colorado (The Homeward Trilogy) (4 page)

Feeling like she was intruding, listening in, Moira looked at the letter in her hand and frowned. She knew no one in New York, other than a few people in the opera business. Had one of them tracked her down, hoping she might come to sing?

She wouldn’t go, of course, but it was nice to dream of such things. She stood, walked over to the nearest tree, ripped open the envelope, and slipped out a couple sheets of fine linen paper. It had been the sort of stationery her mother had always chosen, with a deckled edge at the bottom. She unfolded them and hurriedly began to read.

7 July 1888

My Dear Miss St. Clair,

I am writing to you as a heartbroken mother. We never had the opportunity to meet, but in Gavin’s things—

Moira sat down on the ground. Gavin’s mother.

—in Gavin’s things that were returned to us, I found paperwork that detailed your business arrangement. We were aware, of course, that he was your manager, intent upon seeing you to fame in the West. But until I read his journal, I did not know that you and he were intimately involved. It seems, my dear, that he was quite fond of you.

So
fond
that he chose to abandon her when she declared she was more than fond of him.

His body was returned to us for burial, and soon afterward, we learned of the “death” of Moira Colorado, famed songstress, in a tragic fire. We believed you lost as surely as our dear son was lost to us. But since then, we have read of the dramatic occurrences at your sister’s ranch and the brief mention of a certain “Moira St. Clair.” From Gavin’s journal I was able to piece together that you and Moira Colorado are one and the same. We are more than glad to know that you did not perish as was reported earlier, and were sorry indeed to hear of the injuries you suffered—in the fire, and at the hands of that foul man, Bannock. You have endured much indeed.

Moira frowned. Why so effusive and kind? From what Gavin had said, she’d thought the woman would never accept her as a potential bride into the Knapp family. She turned the page.

My dear, please forgive the indelicacy of this letter. In an effort to know as much as possible about our beloved son’s last months on this earth, we hired a man to discover all he could. He’s been to Leadville and back and brought back news that Moira Colorado had been pregnant about the time of Gavin’s departure. I know that Gavin cared deeply for you. Our man even brought back news that you two may have been married, although he could discover no legal record of the union. Dare I hope that you still carry the babe, even after all your suffering? And that the child is Gavin’s?

Moira’s frown deepened.

As I’m certain Gavin shared with you, we are an old, prosperous family, here in New York. And yet in the last year, we have lost both a son and a daughter. Our daughter was not fortunate enough to bear a child. And so our line, and the potential for our legacy, has come to an end. Except for this lone child we pray you still carry.

Might I dare hope that you would write back to us or even consider a visit? Perhaps it could coincide with a return to your audience; Gavin detailed your success in Paris and London. Why not in New York as well? In any case, we would appreciate getting to know you, and having the opportunity to discuss what the future holds for you and your babe.

I will await your reply, with a mother’s heart.

Sincerely yours,
Francine Knapp

Moira slowly folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. The Knapps wanted to know her, and her baby! The shock of that realization stunned her even as Francine’s tone warmed her heart. Hadn’t Odessa told her of how she herself longed for their mother, wished that Samuel could know his grandmothers?

She glanced again toward Conquistador, Daniel still nowhere in sight. Still so far from her. And yet this woman, this stranger, wanted to know her? Wanted to give her baby a family?

Could this be the best choice for her baby … and her? Perhaps God was giving her a way out, toward hope?

o

Nic led Daisy up the steep ravine to the Vaughn place, lit a fire in the stove, and opened a can of beans with his knife. In a little while he added a hunk of salt pork to a pan, and after it started to sizzle, poured the beans on top to warm. His mouth watered at the aroma rising from the pan; it had been a day since his last meal. He pulled the beans off before they were hot, unable to wait any longer, and sat down to eat.

It was then that he heard Daisy whinny. He knew by the sound of it that she either sensed or saw another horse. Wearily, he shoved a heaping bite of beans into his mouth and rose. Perhaps the Vaughns were back at last.

He pulled open the door and stared outward. Rays from the setting sun cast a warm glow across the valley below him, then abruptly ended in shadow. Night was soon upon them. The Vaughns were arriving just in time. Nic squinted and peered down the dark ravine. There was a horse, and by the look of it the Vaughn boy, hunched over, moving in deep response to each roll and pull of his mount. He appeared to be barely holding on, as if injured. Where was his father?

Nic frowned in confusion, looking beyond the boy for any sign of trouble, then slowly reached inside for his rifle. But no one appeared behind or before him. The child reached the cabin, and Nic stepped forward to take the reins. The boy’s clothes were torn and covered with brambles, his face bruised and dirty. “Everett?” Nic asked.

The child moved dull eyes over to him. And then he collapsed off the horse and into Nic’s arms.

Nic carried him into the cabin and laid him upon the bed. He moved to a pail and dipped a ladle for a bit of water, then went back to the bed to lift the child up and ease some water to his dry, parched lips. Everett came to and drank thirstily, saying with a froggy voice, “More, please.”

Nic obliged him, then knelt, waiting beside the bed as Everett closed his eyes. After a long moment he seemed to force them open again. Slowly, he looked over at Nic. “You came. Dad said you would. Said he could see it in your eyes.”

Nic shifted uneasily. “Where is your dad, Everett?”

Everett looked up at the ceiling. “He’s dead,” he said dully.

“Dead,” Nic repeated in a shocked whisper. “What happened?”

“We supplied up. Dad didn’t want to pay Claude’s prices in St. Elmo. But on the way here, about a half day out, we met up against two men. Dad sent me running, into the woods. He put up a fight, but, injured as he was, he couldn’t match ’em. They came after me, but my mare is fast. And Sinopa showed me how to—”

“Everett,” Nic interrupted gently. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “What happened to your dad?”

“I heard three, maybe four shots. And then they took off with our mule and Dad’s horse.”

“And did you go back to the road?”

Everett nodded as his face clouded with grief. “I went back. I found him. They’d dragged his body to the side of the road.” He reached up and wiped a tear from his dirty cheek with the back of his hand. “Didn’t even cover him up. Just set him under some brush. He was too heavy for me to lift. I had to leave him—” Another tear dripped from his other eye, and then he sobbed suddenly, as if it had all caught up with him.

He sat up and flung himself into Nic’s arms. Nic slowly, awkwardly held the child as he cried for several long minutes. “I’m sorry, Everett. Your dad was a good man.” He sighed and continued to hold the boy as he cried. What was he to do now? Where was the child’s nearest kin?

Anger surged through him, and there was a fierce desire to strike out immediately, hunt the two highwaymen down, and beat each one until dead. His heart pounded as he considered the sweet satisfaction of vigilante justice. Why’d they have to kill the boy’s father? Why not take his supplies and leave him be?

After a few more minutes, Everett grew slack with sleep. The boy was clearly exhausted. Gently, Nic laid him back down on the bed and covered him with a blanket, and then he strode to the open doorway and stared out at the mountain valley, now deeply steeped in the shadows of twilight. That was when he saw them, Sabine and her Indian. Slowly, he reached for the rifle again, but the two steadily approached, undeterred.

Sabine came to a halt three steps away. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, showcasing fine, high cheekbones and wide eyes. She studied him without blinking. “Sinopa said the boy arrived home, but without his father.”

What was it to her? Did they intend to jump Vaughn’s claim? He checked himself, noting that she seemed to care about the child.
Maybe she has a relationship with Peter. Had
a relationship
.

His eyes moved from the woman to the Indian. Sinopa, she’d called him. The same name Everett had referenced. He had an elongated face and a glossy black braid that fell over his shoulder. The Indian stared back at him unflinchingly. Was that accusation in his eyes? Nic tightened his grip on the shotgun and fingered the cool arc of the trigger.

“Everett did get back today. Said his father was jumped by two highwaymen and killed.”

Sabine sucked in her breath, looked away from him, and took a couple steps, gazing out to the valley.

“The boy hid and escaped,” Nic continued, speaking mostly to Sinopa now, wondering how much English the man spoke. “The men rode off with the mule and Peter’s horse. And all their supplies, of course.”

“I need to see Everett,” Sabine said, moving toward the cabin door.

“No,” Nic said, reaching out a hand. “He’s asleep. And worn out. Please, let him sleep.”

“The boy was certain that Peter was dead?” Sinopa said softly, his English perfect.

Nic nodded. “Said he tried to lift him but couldn’t.” He leaned closer, not wanting the sleeping boy to wake and hear what they were discussing. “They left him just off the road, under some brush.” He looked over to Sabine and saw that grief filled her wide eyes, and wrinkles of concern pleated her forehead. She and Sinopa shared a long, significant glance.

Nic looked down to the ground, embarrassed at his fascination about this odd pair. Trappers had long taken Indian brides, but he’d never seen a white woman befriend an Indian. Was there anything more than friendship between the two? He tapped his heel. It wasn’t any of his business.

“The claim is yours, then,” Sabine said.

Nic looked up at her, sharply. “Mine? No … it’s Everett’s.”

“In this county, no mine claim can be passed to a minor.”

“So that’s it?” Nic said with a scoff. He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “The boy loses everything, just like that?”

“Just like that,” she returned grimly. “And you are the first man to enter the property since Peter’s death, so by rights, you can lay claim to the mine. But I’d move quickly.”

“Me?” He let out a breath of a laugh. “I was only here to help Peter. I’m no miner.”

“If you’re fool enough to leave,” she said, turning to walk away, “I’ll take it. But Peter never befriended fools.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Nic awakened to find Everett staring at him from his own cot, two feet away. His hands were together under his chin, making him appear the forlorn orphan. Not a smidgen of the imp he had seen in the streets of Gunnison; this was a lost boy, waking to remember his father was long gone.

Nic sighed, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and rubbed his face vigorously. When he opened his eyes, Everett had done the same thing, his knees but a couple inches from his own. He looked up at Nic, as if waiting.

“Look, kid,” Nic said, “I know what it feels like to lose family. My brothers—four of them—died. And my mother … my father’s gone too. It’s rough, having your dad die. But you won’t be alone for long. I’ll see to it that you reach your kin. Where do they live?”

Everett glanced down at his hands. His nails were black with dirt and a cut on the back of his hand had scabbed over. The boy needed a mother. Attention. Care. “Everett?”

The boy shook his head. “I don’t have any. My mother died when I was born. She had kin in Missouri.”

“Which city?”

Everett shrugged his shoulders.

Nic swallowed hard. “And your dad?”

“He had no one.”

“No brothers? No sisters?”

“Nah. He came across when he was just a little one, with his father from Germany. Dad always said we were just like him and his own dad, all alone in the world, just the two of us.” He looked away, toward the stove, his eyes round with sorrow.

“So that grandfather. He’s gone too?”

Everett nodded once.

Nic blew out his cheeks and let out another long breath. “Well, there has to be someone, someplace.”

But a fear rose in him that this boy had no one left in the world. No one but him.

o

Nic led Daisy down the dusty street, Everett sitting on her back. Summer had been long and dry here—even the crusted ruts from the wagon wheels of spring had been ground down to an even layer, several inches deep, that clouded up with each footfall. Once it started raining, this place would be a mud pit, Nic thought. He grimaced as he thought about wagons stuck in the muck, men and horses with caked dirt up their legs.

They pulled up outside the sheriff’s office, a tiny five-by-eight-foot room with a jail cell in back. No one was in either the office or the cell. “C’mon, Everett,” Nic said, leading him out. They went next door to the St. Elmo Mercantile, leaving Daisy tied to the post in front of the sheriff’s office.

The door opened with the jangle of a bell, and a middle-aged man he assumed was the proprietor climbed down a stepladder. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Name’s Dominic St. Clair,” he said, reaching across the counter. “Friends call me Nic.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Nic,” he said. “I’m Claude O’Connor.” The man was about Nic’s height, with a handlebar mustache and crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves. He looked down at the boy. “Why, Everett, what are you doing in town?”

“He’s with me,” Nic put in. “We’re needing to see the sheriff. Do you know where he is?”

Claude looked from Nic to the boy and back again. “This time of day he’s likely up at the stables, yammering with Jed, sharing a cup of coffee.” He paused. “Everything all right?”

“No, it’s not,” Nic said simply, guiding the boy out the door again. They walked the two blocks to the stables. Jed watched his approach, then nodded in their direction. A thin, pale-skinned man with red hair—far too elegant in appearance to be a sheriff—turned their way and straightened. “So you’re the newcomer,” he said, reaching out a hand. “I’m the sheriff, Drew Nelson.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” Nic said. He introduced himself and watched as the man recognized Everett. “Everett and I have something to tell you. Care to step on over to your office?”

“Sure, sure,” said the man, who nodded farewell to the stable keeper.

They walked across the graying boards of the walk to his office, entered, then sat down in two chairs, across the desk from the sheriff.

There was a long, awkward silence. Nic looked to the boy, saw he was on the verge of tears, and told the sheriff what had happened to Peter Vaughn.

The sheriff’s red eyebrows dropped lower and lower as Nic went on. He swallowed hard and then looked to Everett. “I’m sorry, son. Your dad was a fine man. A friend I’ll miss.”

Everett nodded, tears washing down his face. “Me too.”

“I bet, I bet. Tell me, boy, do you think you would recognize these men if you saw them again?”

“I–I think so.”

Sheriff Nelson rose and went to the corner filing cabinet and pulled a stack of posters from on top. “Look through those, would you? See if any of them are the men you saw.”

Everett did as he bade, shuffling through the first ten in rapid succession. On the eleventh he paused, and seemed to hold his breath.

“Everett?” Sheriff Nelson asked.

“Him. He was there.” The sheriff looked from the boy over to Nic, then back again. “See if there are any others in that stack.”

Nic took the poster from the boy as he continued to look through the remaining stack. The picture was of a tall brown-haired man with a long chin and handlebar mustache, somewhat similar to the mercantile man’s.
Chandler Robinson, wanted in Fort Collins and Denver for robbery and murder. Three-hundred-dollar reward, dead or alive.
Dead or alive. Everett reached the end of the stack and shook his head. “No more.” He sniffed, handing the rest back across the desk.

“Well, it’s something, son,” Sheriff Nelson said. “If we find this man, we can find his companion. They’ll come to justice. I’ll see to it myself.”

Everett nodded. Justice was precious little comfort for a grieving son, Nic decided. But it was something.

“I promised Everett we’d get him to kin,” Nic said. “Do you know of any family?”

The sheriff sat back in his chair and considered. After a long moment, he shook his head. “The Vaughns have been here since Everett was just a baby. I don’t remember hearing Peter talk about any kin—at least not in Colorado.”

“No visitors? No letters? Some cousin Everett’s too young to remember?”

“I don’t think so. But we could check with the postmaster.” He paused a moment, fiddling with a sheet on his desk, before looking Nic in the eye. “How did you come to meet up with the Vaughns, Mr. St. Clair?”

Was that a note of suspicion in his voice, heavy in the pause of his sentence? Nic didn’t blame the sheriff, with him turning up at the same time Peter turned up dead. “Peter came down to Gunnison looking for help at his mine. Said he’d hit some quality ore, but he was laid up from the accident. Felt he couldn’t carry on without a partner. Offered me half of the earnings.”

Sheriff Nelson studied him as he spoke, then looked to Everett. “That the truth, son, the best you know it?”

Everett nodded, wiping more tears from his cheek. “Yeah.”

Sheriff Nelson nodded slowly and then looked to Nic. “Sorry, friend. Can’t be too careful when there’s a gold mine involved.”

“I understand. Listen, I’m not much of a miner. I think I’ll be shoving off since Peter’s not here to work it with me.”

Everett’s head came up, and he stared at Nic in obvious alarm.

Nic ignored him. “Is there someone in town who can take the boy? A woman who can properly see to his care? A clergyman?”

“No!” Everett shouted, rising to his feet, his small hands in fists at his side. “No! My dad asked you to work the mine with him. He’s not here. But I’m here! I’ll help you. You promised. You
promised
.”

Nic sighed. “I didn’t promise, Everett. You said yourself you didn’t think I was coming. And I’m not the father type—”

“I don’t need a father. Or a mother!” The boy looked over to the sheriff and back to Nic. “My dad’s dead. That means I have to man up. I’ll work the mine with you. I will. Please, Nic, don’t leave. Not now! My dad … all he wanted was to strike gold, and then he did, but then there was the cave-in. You gotta help me. We gotta see it through.”

Nic frowned. “Everett, listen. I came to your place against my better judgment. I was counting on your dad to teach me what it meant to be a miner. Promising vein or not, I’ve never dug, not a day in my life. I’m not going in there without another full-grown man. I’d be a fool.”

“My dad chose
you
. We talked to lots of men in Gunnison. But you were the only one he asked. So you might not have thought it was a good idea. But my
dad
did.”

He was the only one Peter had asked?

Nic clamped his lips shut. To argue against the child was like arguing with the dead. Futile. Dishonoring Peter’s memory, the last thing Everett needed.

“By rights, you could claim the mine,” the sheriff said casually to Nic. “There aren’t many claims producing quality ore that a man can get to on his own. Most are the big operations, with manpower and machinery that can go thousands of feet. I wouldn’t walk away from it. Why not give it a week and see how it goes?”

“That’s crazy,” Nic said, shaking his head. “The mine should go to Everett. Then he could sell it to someone else, use the funds for a college education or something.”

“Everett’s too young to inherit the claim.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Only way around it is if you pull out that ore, sell it, or claim it and sell interest in it. Give a portion to Everett, here, in exchange for his help. That’d honor his daddy.”

“So I can get myself injured or killed like Peter?”

Both the sheriff and the boy stilled. Once more, Nic wished he could take back his words.

“It doesn’t belong to me,” Nic said in a conciliatory tone. “It’d feel like stealing.”

“Peter offered you half the claim. Gambler’s luck, arriving to find you might get more.” The sheriff stared at him, hard, as if he were crazy even to think of leaving, but then shrugged his shoulders. “As for folks who could take Everett in, I’m afraid there aren’t any. The preacher has a brood of his own. They’re bursting at the seams over at the parsonage. Any other women are—” his voice dropped—“not who you’d want the child to be living with.”

“Except Sabine,” Everett said.

The sheriff looked to him. “Think she’d take you?”

“Maybe,” he said.

“And you’d want to stay with her?”

“Maybe,” the boy repeated.

The sheriff cocked a brow and glanced at Nic. “It’s Sabine,” he said, tilting his head to one side, “or I’m afraid it’s the orphanage down in Buena Vista.”

“Orphanage!” Everett blurted. “No, no, no.” He looked over at Nic with pleading eyes. “Give it a week. Please. Let me show you what I know. See what you think of the work. Please. In honor of my dad.”

Nic stared at the child, then closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. What had he gotten himself into?

He puffed out his cheeks, exhaled sharply, and said, “You know enough? To show me the ropes?”

“I know enough.”

“Gold mining isn’t hard to figure out,” the sheriff said. “Just hard work.”

Nic knew he couldn’t leave, not without giving Everett at least this. “One week.”

The boy’s eyes lit up.

Nic put up a hand. “Calm yourself. You understand that after a week, I might be taking you down to Buena Vista? And I don’t want to be dragging you along, kicking and screaming. I give it a shot. But that’s all I’m promising. Deal?”

Everett took his hand and pumped it.

“I’d stop at the county assessor’s office on your way out, Nic,” the sheriff said. “Tell him you’re laying claim to the Vaughn mine.” He paused to put up his hands in defense. “However temporary it may be. Tell him to talk to me if he has any questions. But do make it official before you leave.” He cocked his head to one side. “Town this size, news will travel fast. And Peter—he was onto something special up in the Gulch. There are folks who won’t hesitate to move on it if you don’t.”

Nic stood and shook his hand. “I’ll do it, but I still don’t feel right about it.”

The sheriff dropped his hand and hooked it around his gun belt. “You, it seems, are the only way Everett here will ever see any portion of the profits that come out of that mine. Peter set out looking for an honest partner. I hope he found one.”

o

“May I help you find something?” Claude O’Connor asked at the mercantile.

Nic gave him a single nod and looked down at Everett. “Outfitting for a week’s work, up at our claim.”

Claude looked from him to the boy.

“My dad’s passed on,” Everett put in, answering the unspoken question.

Claude’s mouth dropped open and then he abruptly shut it. “I’m sorry, boy. He was a fine man, a fine man.” He didn’t ask for details; Nic didn’t choose to give them to him.

Everett nodded and looked to the floor.

“I can outfit most miners with anything they need,” Claude said, returning his attention to Nic.

“Bet you can,” Nic said, picking up a pail and glancing at the tag, then him. “Especially at these prices.”

“You know how it goes,” Claude said, ignoring his jibe. “I have to pay to get it shipped from the East and then up here via railroad.”