HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (19 page)

But as the sun gave way to stars, Nic wondered if he spoke to himself more than to William.

Bryce and Robert have settled into an easy camaraderie over the last days, a connection only born by kin. All was going well until this afternoon, when Robert asked to see the ranch books, to review what had transpired this last year. He says he only wishes to help, but Bryce bristled and moved away from the table, instantly defensive. But it wasn’t the fear of what is to come that bothered me the most—it was the evaporation of that familial companionship. Before Robert arrived I didn’t know I had been missing—

A soft knock sounded at her bedroom door, and Odessa turned in her chair to see her brother-in-law. “Oh, Robert. Are you in need of something?”

“No, no,” he said, giving her an awkward smile. “Bryce is off to check on the horses in the stable and I thought I’d turn in. But I wanted to thank you for dinner. It was delicious.”

“Oh,” she said, giving him a small smile. “You’re quite welcome.”

“Odessa, in asking for the books, I didn’t mean … I only wanted …” He paused, sighed, and ran his hand through his hair, just like Bryce did when he was agitated. “As much as the Circle M is your business, yours and Bryce’s, there’s still a family stake in it. It’s just the way it has to be.”

“I understand, Robert. I’m certain you and Bryce will work it out.”
But to what end?

He took a tentative step and cocked his head. “May I ask what you’re working on?”

“Working on?” she repeated blankly. She glanced to her desk. “Oh. This. It’s only my diary.”

“Only a diary? Bryce told me that you hoped to become a published author at some point.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “I fear that is an old dream for me. I’m fortunate to get a few thoughts down each day, an account of life here on the ranch.”

Robert stepped back and leaned against the doorjamb. “For whom to read?”

She lifted a brow and shook her head. “I do not know. Me? Samuel, someday?”

“Come now, Odessa,” Robert said. “Think. You come from a publishing family. The nation is fascinated with life here in the West. Why not turn your journals into a book?” He put two fingers in the air and waved across the air, like it was a newspaper headline. “‘
Journals of a Frontierswoman
,’” he said, “‘best-seller.’”

She smiled. “Right. I highly doubt that others would consider the day in, day out of ranch life riveting reading.”

“You never know,” he said. “Look at what happened with books about the Oregon Trail. Or for miners. Even new territories. For all intents and purposes, Colorado is still new territory, even though it’s been a state a while.”

“I suppose that’s true. You never know.” Her father had always said publishing was a gamble. And that invariably, his favorite books sold few volumes and the books he rather disliked sold in the thousands.
There is no accounting for American reading tastes,
he’d say, shaking his head.

“Well, good night, Odessa,” Robert was saying. “Thanks again for supper.”

“Certainly, Robert.” He left her doorway and disappeared behind the door of his room, closing it softly so as not to disturb Samuel.

Odessa stared at her journal. Might there be a chance that a publisher would be interested in her writing? She smiled and looked down to her lap. The slow turning wheel of publishing would take years to generate any income, if she could find a publisher …

She shook her head. She wouldn’t pester old friends and acquaintances of her father’s about her little book. It wouldn’t be proper.

No, her writing was for her benefit alone. Her family’s. That was all there was to it.

Chapter 11

Moira glanced up to the great glass ceiling of Grand Station and reveled in this lovely moment. Such potential, such interest, such hope. Who would have thought it possible, with so little of her inheritance left in her bags? But fortune had smiled. She gave Gavin a secretive grin as he approached across the train platform, two tickets in hand. Never had she felt more alive, and part of that feeling was most assuredly due to this man, her new friend, partner, lover. She flirtatiously cocked one brow up at him. “So … tell me. Where did you decide we should begin?”

“I’m impressed,” he returned. “I didn’t think we’d make it to the train station without you choking that out of me.”

“I can be patient …” she placed a gloved hand on the curve of her hip, adding, “when inspired. But now I’m done. Where are we going?” She plucked the tickets out of his hand before he could react. Her eyes scanned the words, once, then twice. “San Francisco,” she said. “I thought you said it was—”

“I said it was saturated. The market potential largely gone. Your audience is farther afield, darling. But you wanted to see it, and see it, you shall. We’ll move on from there, directly to Gunnison, to where the first front of your market lies in wait. In the meantime,” he said, putting a gloved finger beneath her chin to lift it, “we’ll dally … and explore … and learn what we need to in order to succeed.”

“So that is it?” she asked, pulling away slightly. “You can walk away from New York, all your business, and focus solely upon me?”

“For a time,” he said. “For the next few months my goal is to see Moira Colorado become the most famous woman in America.”

She eyed him from the side. “You can do that? You honestly believe you can make me famous?”

He smiled. “Darling, we’ve already begun. Come now. Let us explore your new kingdom together.”

Helpless, Nic held William. The man shivered so hard he shook them both. For a while, Nic hoped to bring heat back to his friend, give him a fighting chance to live. But as the hours passed, he hoped only to lessen William’s discomfort, ease his transition into death. He’d long been unconscious, but still seemed to suffer. His teeth were chattering and Nic thought they might soon break and fall out of his mouth, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Where he was going, teeth weren’t really necessary. Were they?

Just take him,
he said to God, holding William tight, hoping to lessen his tremors.
Be done with it. You’re intent on it, right?
“Just take him,” he ground out. He couldn’t stand it, seeing his friend suffer any longer. There was no hope here, in this godforsaken land. There would be no healing, no recovery. He didn’t even know William’s next of kin, so there was no way for him to tell them that William was gone.

Failure upon failure. I fail everyone. Over and over again.

“It’s all right, William,” he said. “I’ll find my way. Don’t worry about me, man. You can be done with me, if you’re hanging on for me. I’ll be all right. Always am. Somehow.”

He thought he’d have to keep talking to him, giving him permission to die.

But then William stilled in his arms.

The chattering of his teeth abruptly ceased.

He felt William’s heart thud to a final thump and then fail.

He breathed in, once, but did not breathe out.

It was done.

Nic let him go and scrambled away. The cold chill of death was upon him, thicker than the layer of shells that stuck to his arms and legs. Nic crunched away across the shells, panting, hands on knees, staring at his cold, still friend.

He looked around. What to do, what to do now?

He’d bury William, give him a proper burial. And then—

Nic looked northward, up the beach, then out to sea.

He would never set foot on a ship again, not if he could help it.

He’d walk, all the way back to the States, if necessary.

“You can’t put those up,” Moira said, ripping a poster from Gavin’s hand.

“Why not?” he asked.

She stared down at the poster and struggled to answer him. It had her stage name, Moira Colorado, emblazoned across the top and a drawing of her in the middle, above the Gunnison Opera House, along with the dates and times of her appearances. The opera house was nothing like the Opera Comiqué of Paris, or even the opera houses of New York, where fine and upstanding men and women produced lovely stories and song across the stage. It might have been built to accommodate a minor show, even a true opera, at one time—like General Palmer’s opera house in the Springs—but like so many other boomtowns that had gone bust, the owner had given in to the will of the masses and now booked much bawdier entertainment.
Whatever brings ’em in the door,
he’d said.

“It’s … it’s in two weeks. We’ll never be ready in time.”

“Come now, darling. Trust me. You’ve watched the girls in San Francisco. You have it in your mind, this role. I’ve seen it in your beautiful eyes. It’s taking shape. You know the songs, we’ve hired the musicians, even your opening act.”

“This poster says I’ve appeared from coast to coast.”

Gavin smiled without showing his teeth. “You have. I’ve escorted you from East to West myself. Simply not on stage.”

“It is a falsehood, Gavin. And what is this, ‘Thousands of admirers’?”

“Darling, you do have thousands of admirers. Think of how many came to hear you sing in London and in Paris. They were in the thousands, if not more.”

“Not more,” she said, shaking her head.

“But thousands is accurate, right?”

She sighed. “It’s only that—”

He wrapped an arm around her and walked her down the wooden boardwalk. “You are ill at ease. I know. This is so new for you. But trust me. Allow me to do my job. You’ve always let word of mouth do the work of bringing people to see you. Why not sell out every seat from opening night? I want people standing in the street in front, vying to get in because they’re dying to see you, frustrated, because they can only hear rumors about how terrific you are.”

Moira couldn’t help but smile at the image. He reached to tuck a stray hair behind her ear.

“We’ll stay here for a bit,” he went on, “until word spreads, out to the smaller towns and camps. And then when we reach those towns, we’ll stay only a few days, with but one or two appearances.” He laughed under his breath. “Trust me, darling. You’ll never feel more desired and sought after than once we begin to tour.”

“Mister!” a boy called behind them. “Mister!”

They turned to see three children of about nine years in age racing up the walk. “A friend said you were paying a nickel to paste up those posters across town.”