HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (16 page)

“Listen, might you not consider this as nothing more than a new role to accept, adapt to, absorb so you can convincingly play the part? One that could make you more famous within a new arena than anything you’ve ever dreamed about? Is it so impossible to consider conquering a different world than that you originally dreamed of?”

Moira tried to swallow but found her mouth dry. “Papa … My father would not have approved.”

Gavin gave her a curious look. “Didn’t you tell me he wouldn’t have approved of you on any stage at all? That hasn’t stopped you yet. Why let it stop you now?”

“I-I wouldn’t know where to begin. And you—you’ll soon be off to look after your own business, not some girl you met on the crossing.”

He paused and turned to her. He moved his gloved hand under her chin and lifted it until she met his smoldering gaze. “You, Moira St. Clair, are not some girl. You are extraordinary. A bud waiting for the sun. I intend to open that curtain, let the sunlight flood over you, and see you in full bloom.” He smiled and raised one brow. “You just might represent my greatest business opportunity yet.”

She held on to his gaze, staring impudently up at him. “So … you propose yourself as my new manager? Someone to guide me in this dark and unknown world?”

His smile grew wider. “Oh my darling. With me as your guide, you have no idea just how delicious this journey shall be.” He bowed slightly. “Will you accept my humble services?”

She smiled as she sashayed past him. “I’ll give you your remaining two days. We’ll see where that leads us.”

“Forty-eight hours,” he said, catching up with her. “Much can transpire in forty-eight hours.”

Reid rose several times a night to walk, solely because he had the freedom to do so. It felt grand to be out, free to do what he wished, when he wished, where he wished. Two former prisoners traveled with him—Garboni and Smythe—men who knew how to play the game, work hard, and get to the payoff.

Stefano Garboni appeared from the trees now, making Reid shift his hand to his holster until he knew the man was one of his. The tall, thin man’s eyes moved toward his hand and then met his eyes. “That Sheriff Olsbo and his deputy are following us. They’re still a half day’s ride away, but they haven’t lost our trail yet. And they have a third with them—someone I don’t know.”

“We’ll shake them,” Reid said, looking down the mountainside. “We need to ride above the snow line. We’re making it easy on them to track us. Another day’s ride and we’ll make the cabin.”

Garboni came around to face him, his features just discernible in the pale moonlight. “Why, Bannock? Why are they dogging us?”

Reid met his gaze a moment before answering. Garboni needed to know Reid was in charge, sure of himself. “He told me specifically to stay out of his county.”

“And yet here we are,” Garboni said, throwing out his hands. His eyes narrowed as he pointed toward Reid’s chest. “You lookin’ to get thrown back into prison?”

“The people who live at the Circle M hold the key to the treasure.”

The man turned away slowly and looked down the valley too. “You sure they know the way? To the treasure?”

“They know something that can get us closer at least. Chances are, it’s not easy, or they would’ve found it themselves.”

“What makes you suppose you can find it, if they haven’t?”

“I’m a driven man. I have nothing but time and dedication on my hands. They have a ranch to run, a baby, if Anthony is right. They’re distracted.”

Garboni thought on that a minute, then said, “I’ll have to shoot them. I don’t like having a lawman on my trail. Not after just finding my freedom again.”

“Fine by me,” Reid returned. “But you will wait until I tell you it’s time. And now is not the time. We take those men down, we’ll have more lawmen on our trail. And that will not further our cause. You understand me?”

Garboni turned back to him and nodded once, then walked away.

Reid stood where he was and smiled.

It was good, so good, to be back in charge.

“I can’t endure another day of this,” Nic muttered, hauling in rope at the first mate’s call. Fifteen-foot swells pitched the ship up and then down. They had narrowly survived the harrowing Drake Passage, only to encounter storm after storm as they struggled to make their way north, past the coast of Chile. So far, the South Pacific seemed dead-set against them.

There was little concern that another would hear him and report him to the first mate. The howling wind made it nearly impossible to hear. William was three feet away from him. Terence Overby kept them both on the same shift, and on the same task, because they worked so well together. “If you want to sign on for another voyage after this—” William had suggested the day before.

“Not on your life,” Nic said, cutting him off. “I’ve paid the captain back for his imaginary debts. He said once we passed the Horn, I collect pay, just like any other. I’ll take my earnings when we make port in Mexico, then I’ll make my way north via railroad. I don’t care if I ever set foot on a ship again.”

Nic hauled again beside William, quickly wrapping the rope around the first aft mast sail, lashing it to the lanyard. It was a tricky business, not losing his footing, but with the swells and the constant rain—

At that moment a terrible sound of breaking wood cut the howling wind, and at the same time, the ship pitched hard to the right, as if digging down into the wave. His eyes scanned the water, barely settling on the horrifying glimpse of rock and reef, before the ship shuddered and pitched again. Nic lost his grip and hurtled over the lanyard, and he just barely grabbed a second rope, the action sending him spinning and swinging beneath the massive crossbeam. He reached up and got another handhold, and coiled it around his leg, desperate not to slide until he could see if he had the length to reach the deck. He looked left and right, trying to peer through the rain, back to where William was last. But he wasn’t there.

Nic looked about, watched in horror as the deck planking began to pop, first one board at a time, and then in terrible rows of three or five and eight. Men were screaming, scurrying about in no semblance of order. He watched as one, a man he knew could not swim, jumped off the edge. The ship was going down. The
Mirabella
was lost. Every man knew that to stay aboard a sinking ship meant death; one could become trapped in the wreckage and drown, or get sucked down with her in the final moments, or die when a mast or lanyard came down on his head.

There. He caught sight of William, cradling his leg, his face awash in pain. Blood spread out from him like a slowly creeping red tide. Nic had brief thoughts of sliding down his measure of rope, reaching his friend. Saving him. But then the cracking planking and buckling ship reached the mast that held the lanyard from which Nic dangled.

The mast tilted, sending Nic swinging forward to the main mast. He barely had time to suck in a breath before impact. So startling and stiff was the blow that Nic splayed his hands and immediately fell from the rope, too stunned to even grasp for it again.

He fell, fell toward the cracked and broken decking, staring up into a sky filled with rain, rain, and more rain. It seemed to take forever, this hurtling through the air.

And yet he had but two thoughts as he waited for the pain of impact.
This will be the end. I am to die.

Chapter 9

Nic came up out of the depths from his plunge, gasping for air, and circling, trying to see anything, or anyone, about him. Ten feet off was a large chunk of the
Mirabella
’s side wall, and he swam toward it. Wearily, he hauled himself up and onto it, half submerging his raft with the weight of his body, but it was something solid, some comfort in the midst of the rolling water. Dimly, above the staccato beat of heavy raindrops pelting the water around him, above the wash of waves as they crested and rolled on, he could hear the cries and screams of men in the distance.

So he wasn’t alone, wasn’t the only survivor. He cupped his mouth with one hand and yelled out, “William! William!”

But there was no answering call.

“Can anyone answer me?”

Again there was nothing but the wash of the sea, the splattering of raindrops about him. He heard another man cry out in the distance one more time, and then … nothing. Had they all been carried out and away? Or drowned?

Nic shivered uncontrollably and tried to haul himself farther up on the makeshift raft so less of his body was submerged. He was weary, weak beyond any measure he could remember. He stayed where he was, willing the minutes to go by, for the storm to let up, for night to relinquish its hold on today.

At some point, he dozed off and when he awoke, Nic winced. It pained him to open his right eye, and he carefully tried the left. Bright sunlight blinded him and he quickly closed the lid, but he had seen enough in that brief glimpse.

He had washed up on a beach, broken timbers from the disintegrated
Mirabella
all around him. He managed to raise himself to his elbows and dig his right and then left arm into the coarse, tawny sand, and then again, and again, until all but his legs were free of the nagging waves.
One more time
, he told himself, panting from the effort, recognizing the cold had made his legs so numb that they were useless. It was as if he had sprouted a long tail and was beached. And yet deep inside, he knew that the cold would eventually kill him. More than one sailor had survived a shipwreck to succumb to the sea’s frigid, deathly intent. He had to rise once more and dig in, pull with his right, then with his left.

At last, his feet were clear of the water.

The sand here was dry. Warmed by the sun. He collapsed into it, took a deep breath, and let the dreams spirit him away.

It had begun with the saloons. Gavin brought her to one, and Moira stood in the corner aghast, watching as the men drank, many of them until they were inebriated, and then women used their charms to seduce them. A distant part of her kicked herself for not doing the same sort of research prior to playing seductive roles on stage. She watched in wonder as a woman passed a man and slowly traced her pinky finger up his arm, from wrist to shoulder, and he immediately rose and followed her from the room as if he were a hooked fish on a line.

Gavin watched her absorb all of this, this overt physical but silent communication between a man and a woman. He grabbed her wrist. “So innocent, darling. How could all this have escaped you? I want you to practice all of that. Your feminine wiles. The role, darling. On me. Consider me your free-for-all. There is nothing wrong. Nothing bad. All is somewhere on the target. All is acceptable. You can practice on me and learn. It’s the only way to succeed. Agreed?”