HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado (38 page)

Use your brain as well as your brawn
, his father’s voice echoed through him, seeming to emanate from the heat waves dancing off the coal before him.

I am learning, aren’t I?
Granted, he longed to use his muscles to end this silent war with Alejandro, once and for all, beat him until he backed off and left him alone forever. All his life, he never tolerated bullies, jumping to take on a fight before it was ever brought to him. But what had once driven him to fight was slowly fading, still there, to be sure, but not so vivid in his chest, his jaw, his fists. He paused, panting, and stared at the fire, then over to the coal boss, who gave his nod of assent over a brief respite.

The coal boss took the cigar he had been chewing on, brought a lit torch up to the end and puffed on it until it drew smoke, as craggy lines of fire lit the tobacco leaves inside. Nic looked away, but could still feel Manuel’s gaze. After a moment, he glanced back to him, and the coal boss pulled his head right, beckoning him to come and stand beside him.

Nic did as he bade, aware that the other two men, using slow and steady movements, would soon be through with their piles. He tried not to let it annoy him; after all, they had arrived earlier than he, been at it longer. But a shift was five piles long. One could do it fast or slow and steady, but when a coal digger was done, he got a full barrel of seawater dumped over him as he exited, and then a bucketful of freshwater. The other sailors had to wait a week between baths. And after that, he was free to do as he liked. It was what made it good to work a shift in the coal bins. “Sit, sit,” Manuel said, gesturing to a stool beside him.

He lifted his cigar toward Nic, offering him a puff, but Nic shook his head. “No,
gracias
.”

“Dominic,” the coal boss said in Spanish, “what burns inside you?”

“Uh …
por qué
?” He had no idea if he was understanding the man correctly. He understood the words, but the question made no sense.

Manuel repeated it. “What burns inside of you?”

Nic frowned.
“No comprendo.”

The coal boss smiled so that folds of fat at his neck grew deep with wrinkles. “You understand me fine. You are an intelligent man, a man who sees much around you. But the anger you feel is rotting you away from the inside out. Anger is hot; it burns. Like that coal there.” He nodded to the fire, and Nic followed his gaze. What was so special about Nic that would draw this out?

Manuel allowed him a moment to think. Then he continued, “I see you, day in and day out, and you are like a large piece of coal. On the outside, you are dark, silent, still. But on the inside you are burning away, your heat expanding. Look to the coal. What happens to those pieces, once they are consumed by the fire?”

“They disintegrate,” Nic muttered. He knew Manuel knew no English, but the man obviously understood what he was saying. He switched to Spanish and said, “But I am changing … if you could’ve seen me a few months ago … the burning has lessened.”

“Ah no,” said the man, laying a rounded paw upon his shoulder, “It has simply receded, gone deeper, my friend. I can see it in you, like I can see a cold coal in the morning, after it has popped out of the stove during the night, and know that if I break it open, it will glow red with heat.”

Nic moved gently away, out from under Manuel’s hand. He felt as if his skin were tender, raw at the man’s touch, and he wondered why.

“There is only one consuming fire that does not destroy us,” the man said in a low voice, leaning closer.

Nic frowned. “And that is?”

“God, my friend. If we give God our lives, then He will consume us from the inside out, but we will not be destroyed. We will become more than what we were, not less. Part of the fire.”

“I see. God.”
Excellent, just what I need. A monk masquerading as a coal man.
Nic lifted his chin and eyebrows and tried to keep the derision from his expression. “May I get back to work now?” he asked evenly.

“Si, si,”
Manuel said, puffing on his cigar again. He released him with a wave of his hand, but his eyes held him, followed him all the way back to his position between the other two, who never looked their way, continued to do what they had been doing their entire shift:
dig, lift, toss.

It was just Nic’s luck, he decided, as he entered into the rhythm of his
compadres
, giving in to the slow beat of those who worked on either side of him, that the coal boss fancied himself a theologian.

And that he had at least twelve more days before he could jump ship.

“You have to sell the land. Sell a couple hundred acres,” Robert said to Bryce after supper.

Odessa glanced over at the men, across from each other at the table.

“I’ve been back over the books,” Robert said. “You have to sell the land. Now.” He was pressing his brother, Odessa could see, provoking an argument.

Bryce frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “I think we should wait. See what the men find, if they have to go as far as Spain to bring back more horses, see what the auction brings in from the paintings.”

Robert let out a scoffing sound. “You’re being naive, little brother. Shortsighted.”

“Now wait a minute—”

“No. I’ve been here long enough,” Robert said, thrusting his chin out. “I can see that you need some guidance, and I’m giving it to you. Sell the land.”

Bryce shook his head, shock in his eyes. “You know as well as I that if we sell that land now, we’re not likely to get it back. And the land that my buyer will want is the land with the water rights. Land that Odessa’s inheritance went to purchase—”

“It doesn’t matter! Stop being stubborn and do what you must. If you failed your wife, you failed her.”

Bryce rose, slowly, his hands clenching and unclenching. Quietly, Odessa set down her clay pitcher, preparing to get between them if it came to fisticuffs. “You’ve crossed the line, brother,” Bryce said lowly.

“I guess I should’ve crossed it a while ago. I can’t sit around here forever, ignoring my own business to try and help you with yours. You need a kick in the—”

“Robert!” Odessa cried in alarm. “Bryce. Stop it, both of you. We will find a way. Find a way out of this mess.”

“I think you should be on your way, Robert,” Bryce said, seething. “Tomorrow. First train out. Get back to your precious shipyard and stay out of my business.”

“Fine,” Robert bit out.

“Fine!” Bryce said. He turned and stormed out, throwing open the door and not bothering to close it.

Odessa looked to Robert as his face softened.

“Pack up that crate of paintings, Dess,” he said wearily. “I’ll do my best by you, by Bryce. I’ll head down to the bunkhouse, tell the men to pack and get ready for the journey tomorrow.”

“You couldn’t have found another way out, Robert?” she asked in exasperation. “You had to provoke an argument?”

“How? What would be my excuse for such a sudden departure?”

She stood there, considering him. He was angry at Bryce, wanted to punish him … over her. Her.

“We’ll make amends later, down the road,” he said feebly, pausing in the doorway. “You really will need to think about selling the land, Dess. Sooner than later. I don’t see another way. Regardless of where the money came from, you’ll need it back.”

“We’ll see to our affairs,” Odessa said, standing straighter. “As your brother said, it’s best you move on and see to your own.”

He stared at her a long moment. And then he turned and was gone.

Bryce had ridden ahead of them on the way to Westcliffe, making for a long, silent, tension-filled ride for Odessa in the wagon with Robert. Doc, Dietrich, and Tait tried to maintain a quiet banter but obviously could feel that the McAllan brothers were at odds. Odessa was glad that Bryce had refused to let Tabito go—claiming he needed him, more than ever, as foreman—because if he had been here, the short man would’ve demanded they all make their peace and be done with it.

She didn’t want what drove Robert to this to come out. Not here. Not now.

When they got to the train platform, Robert hopped out and helped her down. She caught sight of Bryce striding toward them, and Robert followed her gaze. Bryce came up to them, sighed heavily, and then reached inside his pocket for a thick wad of bills.

Odessa gasped. “Where—” But then she knew. He’d cashed in the gold bar.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out to Robert. “The men will need some of it to get by. Who knows if my paintings will sell as well as you think they will. Then you see to it that they have enough to get to Spain and back with at least a few horses. All right?”

“But Bryce, that was to see you through the winter—”

“Never mind that. Take it. That’s our business, not yours.”

Robert accepted the money, tucking it into his own jacket pocket. “All right, Bryce. I’ll see to it.” He glanced down at Odessa. “The paintings will bring in enough,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Bryce stared at him and then her. Did he suspect something?

“I think I’ll check for telegrams while we’re here,” Odessa said. “Since we’re waiting on the train,” she added. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Without waiting for a response, she climbed down the steep stairs from the platform and hurried off down the block to the small wooden building that served the county telegraph operator.

“Saved us a trip,” the man said, as Odessa walked in the small office. “This just came in for you last night, Mrs. McAllan. And this one, the day before.”

Odessa reached for the telegrams, glad to be away from the stagecoach platform and the tension running between Bryce and Robert. Thinking of them, she shook her head and opened the first telegram. It was sent yesterday from the detective Bryce had hired. “All as normal in Leadville,” was all it said. As did the other two, all dated within the week. Reid was settling in Leadville, beginning a new life, as Bryce had suspected. It seemed a distant concern, considering what was transpiring right before her.

“May I send another telegraph?” she asked the kind man at the counter.

“Certainly. To whom would you like it addressed?”

“This name here,” she said, turning the telegram around. “In Leadville.”

The man nodded. “Go ahead, I know his name and location.”

“Do not let your guard down. He operates in shadows.”

The telegraph operator glanced up at her as if she might want to change that last sentence.

“He’ll know what I mean,” she defended. “Please, send it as I’ve said it.”

“Good enough,” he said, immediately acquiescing. He turned to the telegraph table.

“I’ll return after I see my brother-in-law off on the stage. I’ll pay my bill then.”

“Good enough,” he said, waving her out, already tapping in the message.

She left the building, a small bell ringing above the door with her exit. Robert pushed off the wall where he had been waiting and edged closer, cautiously. “You don’t have to wait until the train arrives, Odessa. You can say good-bye now.”

“Robert,” she said coolly, hoping he didn’t see how his presence unsettled her. “We’ll wait. See you off properly.” She dared to meet his eyes, and he stared back at her intently.