HT02 - Sing: A Novel of Colorado by Lisa T. Bergren Read Free Book Online Page B

breath of exasperation. “Don’t all journeys come to an end?”
    “Sometimes. Most times, the river only becomes the sea.”
    Forgetting the cut, Bryce ran his hand through his hair in agitation, winced and then stared at the slice on his palm. He leaned forward on the post and watched the blood drip down and then onto the fresh, white snow below. Tabito watched it too, saying nothing more.
    “This ranch has demanded sacrifice after sacrifice,” Bryce said slowly. “I will not be the man who loses it. Not after everything my family has put into it.”
    “Your family would not wish to sacrifice you for it.”
    Bryce looked at him and then smiled, without humor. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He shook his head and began making his way down the hill, toward the house.
    “Bryce,” Tabito called.
    He turned and looked up at his foreman, his old friend.
    “Sometimes the river disappears on one side of the mountain and appears on the other. Sometimes the river goes deep.”

29 March 1887
My patient cries upon hearing each shot, each one signifying a partial death to a dream. Harold Rollins is a Texan. He was driving his herd north to his new spread near Fort Collins. A young wife and three children anxiously await his return. He swears he had no idea that the herd carried the strangles, and by the time he noted the yearling was ailing, he was terribly ill with pneumonia himself. God saw fit to save him by bringing him here; one more night of exposure would have likely killed him. But will his arrival be a death knell for us?
    Odessa heard several horses pull up outside the front door, and she scurried downstairs to open it. “Sheriff Olsbo,” she greeted warmly.
    “Mrs. McAllan,” he said with a smile, then dismounted and tied his horse to the front post. Two other men beside him did the same. “Bryce around?”
    “I expect him momentarily for noon dinner. Care to join us?”
    “I don’t know about you boys,” said the burly sheriff, looking at his men, “but I could use a bite or two. Sure you have enough, ma’am?”
    “Enough for you three. Please, come in.”
    “These here are my deputies, Lance Rudell and Ernest Newland,” the sheriff said, pausing at her door. “Deputies, this is Mrs. McAllan.”
    One younger deputy mumbled a shy greeting, and the other one smiled. “We’ve met before …” she said, suddenly remembering the tall, lean man.
    “Yes’m,” he said, clearly reliving that day at Sam’s cabin in memory along with her. “You’re looking well. Much better than last I saw you.”
    “Thank you. Life has been good for me, here on the ranch.” She took their coats, remembering that fateful day in full, that day when she thought they were soon to die at the hands of Reid Bannock and Doctor Morton. Sheriff Olsbo and his men had narrowly saved them.
    “What do you hear about Mr. Bannock?” she asked, trying not to tense up. Harold was resting in the other room, where it was warmer, and Samuel was napping. She gestured toward the chairs in the formal parlor and the men took their seats.
    “Got off way too easy, if you ask me,” said Lance. “Fancy lawyer from Denver did none of us any good, helping him off that murder charge.”
    “He’ll still be in prison for a few more years,” Odessa said, taking a seat too.
    The men were silent. The sheriff coughed as the deputies shifted in their seats uncomfortably.
    “Sheriff?” she asked, glancing from one face to the next.
    Sheriff Olsbo tucked his head to the side and fiddled with his hat in his lap. “I, um … Odessa, you see …” He paused, seeming as if he was making an effort to choose his words. “The prison’s getting a bit crowded. They’re building another one, but they can’t keep up with the pace. All the newcomers Colorado has seen … it was bound to push the prison population too.”
    “Wh-what are you saying?”
    “Now, Mrs. McAllan,” he said, leaning forward and reaching out a bouncing hand as if to settle her. “I