HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (32 page)

Moira dressed and put on her makeup as if she were a marionette, doing only as her puppet master directed. Daniel had seen to notifying Gavin’s family; the railroad had already shipped his embalmed body East. She sank into a chair before her dressing table, fighting the urge to go back to bed, wishing she might have seen Gavin one more time, to say good-bye, say good-bye forever …

Dimly, she recognized someone was pounding on her door. Henry Colvard, the opera house manager had accepted her claim of illness yesterday, but would hear none of it today. “Get on that stage, or get out of my town,” he said from the other side of the door. “I have men and women here who have come for miles to see your show. If you don’t appear, they’ll never come to my establishment again. Can I count on you to be there?”

She’d agreed, as if in a fog. At least she thought she agreed to it. She felt as ill as she sounded. What was this terrible tearing inside of her? This loss? Gavin was a fine man, the most intriguing she’d ever met, but in the end, he was but a man. She set down her pot of rouge and moved over to the bed.

Moira had thought she was acting like a woman of today—free. Unconfined. A modern woman. But where had it gotten her? Was this who she wanted to be? Alone, in a two-bit hotel in a fading mining town? She’d always been comfortable alone, because she was always surrounded by people. Until Gavin. He had given her a sense of partnership and companionship she hadn’t known was possible.

But it had all revolved around her career. Moving forward. Expanding her fame. In retrospect, Gavin had asked few questions about who Moira was; most of their conversations had revolved around who they wanted Moira Colorado to become.

For the first time, Moira wondered if her vision of Moira Colorado melded with who she was inside. She had excelled at promoting the image, the role. People loved her as Moira Colorado. But was it … her? Who she was meant to be?

A knock sounded at her door. “Miss Colorado?” It was Mrs. Duven. “I have an early supper for you here.”

“I’m not hungry,” she called. She grimaced at the thought of food. “Please, take it away.”

“Are you certain?” asked the woman after a short pause. “Mr. Colvard, he doesn’t take kindly to fainting singers.”

“I’m certain!” she replied, more sharply than she intended. Thankfully, she could hear the woman trudge away from her door and down the hallway. But then Moira started crying, and when she remembered she would be destroying her makeup, she couldn’t find the resources to care. All she could do was give in to the tears again.

Thirty minutes later, she had only an hour to get to the opera house. She forced herself to rise and go to her trunk to fetch some candied ginger. It never failed to ease her upset stomach. Gavin had introduced her to it. She wished she had at least kept the tea that Mrs. Duven had undoubtedly had on her tray. That sounded somewhat good to her too. Moira sat down at her dressing table again, and with a cloth wiped away the dark smears her tears had produced. Her eyes were puffy, but there was little she could do about that. She reapplied powder and eyeliner and shadow and rouge, finishing with more powder and some lip coloring. She didn’t look her best, but at least she resembled Moira Colorado.

She glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes until her warm-up act went on stage. She rose and paused, shoving back the bile in her throat and reaching for another piece of ginger, then she picked up her bag and hurried out the door. Downstairs, Daniel met her at the stairs and visibly pulled back. Did she look so terrible?

He seemed to catch himself and offered his arm. She took it, clinging to it as if she could absorb some of his strength. All she could think about was getting to the opera house, making it through her songs, and returning to the hotel room to sleep. Sleep. All she wanted to do was sleep for hours. Days, if she could.

She hesitated, all at once very dizzy. Daniel paused with her, one hand under her arm, the other at her lower back. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she said, brushing him off in irritation and moving down the sidewalk again, pretending she wasn’t lying.

“You aren’t walking as if you were fine. Moira, have you been drinking?”

“Drinking! No, I am simply feeling poorly. Were it up to me, I’d be skipping tonight’s performance again and resting in my room.” She paused. She needed someone. She couldn’t do it alone. Not really. “Please. Daniel, help me get there, and get me back. That’s all I can think of right now. Forgive me for being rude. I hope you can understand.”

“I’ll be right here, every step of the way,” he said, looking down into her eyes. The kindness in his gaze nearly broke her. “I’ll carry you back if I need to.”

“Thank you, Daniel. You truly are a fine friend.” She took a firmer grip upon his arm, leaning heavily against him as they made their way down to the opera house and in through the back door. The showgirls who opened for her lifted eyebrows in relief when she appeared, as seemingly unified in their thoughts as they were on the dance floor. They rushed to her, inquiring as to how she was feeling, but Daniel, bless him, moved them aside, telling them she had to get to her dressing room to rest.

Daniel settled her in a chair, and she was just allowing herself to nod off to sleep, so enticing, so dear, when he was back. “Moira, you’re about to go on. They’re calling for you.” Gradually, Moira’s ears focused on the familiar call of a hall full of men, all come to hear the famous Moira Colorado. The opera house manager had undoubtedly whipped them into a frenzy, as was his job, anticipating her arrival. She could hear the end of the showgirls’ song, and knew that right now, they were dimming the lanterns, setting the stage for her arrival.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

A shadow washed over his face. “You must,” Daniel said not unkindly. “You have obligations to a man who has obligations to others.”

“I must,” she muttered. When had her life become a series of musts? As if in a dream, she rose and took his large hand, following him out of the cramped dressing room, down a dark hallway, full of props and people, to the stage. The roar of the crowd became louder as she neared. She paused and Daniel looked back at her worriedly. “I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can’t.” She barely saw him, only felt a sudden panic. She couldn’t remember the words. The music. All of this seemed foreign. Wrong.

“You can do this, Moira,” he said, frowning. He walked around to the side, so she could see the stage before her. She was trying to remember her opening line, decipher the notes of the music as it began. A girl—did she know her?—pushed a burning candle into her hands. Was this her prop? The curtains pulled aside, and she was alone on stage. Logically, she knew she had sung this song twenty times on twenty different stages. But at this moment, in this place, she couldn’t remember a bit of it. It was if it had been erased as clearly as a teacher’s marks from a blackboard.

The pianist glanced up at her, frowned, and then repeated his introduction. A glimmer of hope lifted Moira’s chin. The opening line. A half note late, she began to sing. There was no passion, no power in her voice, but at least she was singing. The words unfolded from her mouth. She did not move, unable to think of anything but the next phrase, the next obvious musical note. But she did begin to make eye contact with the people in the room, all sitting in neat rows, in fine, red-upholstered chairs. The men purchased beer from a bar at the back, but at least they were sitting in rows—more like the opera houses in which she had gained her fame in Paris. It comforted her, calmed her, and her voice gained in strength.

She took a step forward and moved her hips in time with the next stanza, still touching each person in the crowd with her eyes, as Gavin had taught her. She could do this, even without him. Her eyes moved through the second row and then on to the third, brushing past the men but then faltering.

The words faded from her mind. Her eyes moved to the left again and hovered over an empty chair. She searched the aisle to the left and studied the large back of a man who was walking out, leaving.

Her eyes had deceived her.

Reid Bannock could not be here. He was in prison.

She glanced to the left, backstage, where Daniel watched her, his brow furrowed.

The pianist, throwing up his hands, began the song again, hoping to aid her.

But she could not remember the next line. Or the next. After a couple of measures, the pianist quit playing and the crowd was silent.

Then the first man booed. After a moment, another shouted, “Get her off stage! We want the real Moira Colorado!” Others shouted for their money back. One cried out to fetch the sheriff.

Daniel appeared beside her, but Moira felt frozen in place. It was then that a man threw his glass mug at the stage. The glass shattered all around her, and the beer made a terrible arc, certain to stain, over her beautiful silk skirt. A second mug was thrown at the stage. The crowd was in a frenzy. Several men were fighting. The girls stared at her with horrified expressions as she passed. But she didn’t care.

It was over. Done with.

She shook the image still in her head. Reid was not here; he was in prison.

This performance was an utter failure, but there would be future performances. Other opportunities.

All she needed was a little sleep.

Hidden now, Reid leaned against the back wall of the opera house auditorium, in deep shadows, watching Moira fall apart before him. It was perfect, really. Shock and terror had registered on her face as he exited his seat. He could’ve chosen to pick her up and carry her off stage, protect her, as he once yearned to do, before her betrayal. He could’ve claimed her as both victor and lover, if she came to her senses and begged his forgiveness.

Perhaps someday soon he could convince her that his actions on the McAllan ranch had been justifiable, necessary. Things had simply gone awry. It had been Doc Morton’s plan; he’d convinced Reid it was the right way to go. But he could see now how wrong it all was. After all these years of telling the same story—the last time, to the parole board in Cañon City—Reid almost believed the story himself.

“What’s the matter with her?” he asked the man to his right, while still staring at the empty stage.

“I don’t know, Boss. But I do know that the ranch is expecting some rain.”

Reid looked at him sharply. “Rain?”

His man smiled and tucked his head. “Prospector’s been out, looking for storm clouds.”

Reid smiled and stared again at the empty stage. “Find out about the man who is with Moira now.”

“You anticipating moving on that front, Boss?”

“Not until you tell me it’s pouring down there, Dennis, not till we know for sure. In the meantime, I believe I have some work to do here.”

Chapter 19

Moira stirred in her bed as Daniel knocked again. “Moira? There’s a doctor here to see you.”

“I told you,” she muttered, “I don’t wish to see a doctor.” Her voice was feeble in her own ears. She undoubtedly needed to see a doctor—something was unaccountably wrong—but she didn’t feel like seeing anyone right now. All she wanted was rest, blessed sleep, escape. But instead she heard the key scratch into the lock, turn, and the door creak open.

“Daniel, I told you—”

“No arguments, Moira,” he said sternly. He looked at her then. “Something’s wrong. Something … more. Doctor Beason will figure it out.”

She tried to focus on the man whom Daniel admitted to her room. A kindly looking man, far too young to be a doctor of any worth, pulled a seat next to her bed and smiled gently. “Hello, Miss Colorado. Please tell me what is troubling you.”

If Moira was to endure this, she wanted the doctor of her youth, old Doctor Smith.

“Miss Colorado?”

“Moira,” she said wearily. “Please call me Moira.”

Daniel slipped out the door behind Doctor Beason and quietly shut it behind him. She imagined him wincing when it creaked again. But in a moment, she was alone with the young doctor.

Moira dragged her eyes up to meet his. “Ever had your heart broken, Doctor? That is all that ails me. Do you have medicine to treat that?”

His gentle eyes studied her, and he reached down into his black satchel to pull out a stethoscope, probably to give him something to do. “I’ve had a measure of heartache, yes. But broken? No.” He put the ear pieces in his ears and leaned closer. “May I?”

Reluctantly, she folded down her blanket and looked toward the ceiling as he carefully moved aside her blouse and listened to her heart and then her lungs.