vast portions of red meat, large trout,
frothy fresh milk, eggs-fried, scrambled, or hard-boiled.
Once in a while, an attendant would return, bringing a patient
who was coughing up blood or was too weak with fever and chills
to continue. But by and large, Odessa had to admit, the patients did
seem to thrive in the natural air, coming back with ruddy cheeks and
bright pink noses and eyes alight with stories to tell.
They all began on the porch, taking in the air there, or if suffering a relapse as Bryce had done, returning there. Next they were
ensconced beside Monument Creek, or even in a boat laden with
blankets, fishing for hours on end. The sanatorium had dug out a
large pool beside a massive cottonwood, and the waterway flowed
gently into the chasm, creating a slow eddy. When Odessa sat upon
the boat in its center, she gradually spun around. It was lazy and
invigorating at the same time. It felt good to be doing something
useful when she brought in her first fish a week after she had arrived
in Colorado.
"Do they have fish in Philadelphia?" Bryce asked, recovering
from a coughing fit after his walk down the hillside to the creek. He
had his easel and paint bag over his shoulder, which he slowly set
before him.
She smiled at him from the boat. "One or two." Gently, she
pulled the hook from the brown trout's jaw and set the fish, wriggling still, in the bottom of the boat. "My grandfather used to take
me and my brother out fishing on occasion. He favored a narrow,
deep river with a slow eddy, like this one here. He was always trying
to snag a massive, old bass that continually eluded him. Hooked him
a few times but never managed to bring him in."
Bryce laughed as he got the easel legs in place. "Always one in
every river, stream, pond, or lake."
Odessa decided she liked the sound of his laughter, deep and
warm. It was the kind of laugh that would make any house a home.
Her grandfather used to laugh like that. But she couldn't remember
her father ever laughing in the same manner. Was that because he
never did, or because he had lost the ability to laugh as each of their family members died? Did she simply not remember? She searched
her mind, wishing, hoping for the memory. Gentle, sad smiles she
remembered. But no laughter.
"I've said something that has upset you," Bryce said, settling the
canvas atop the easel and then leaning back upon his stool, gathering
his strength. He had ridden out with the others on the previous day's
trail ride and it had clearly taxed him.
"No." She sighed. She glanced over at him. "Your laughter simply
made me remember my grandfather. I miss him. And his laugh." She
cast out her line again, watching as the hook floated for a moment
on the moving surface and then suddenly dropped.
"I had a grandfather with a good laugh too," he said.
"Where did he live? If I may presume to ask such intimacies."
"It's not presumptuous at all," he returned, as he uncovered his
palette and dabbed a deep blue pigment onto the wood. "Both my
mother's and my father's people hailed from Maine for several generations. But an uncle came west, here to Colorado. We've always
imported and bred horses, and we needed more land."
"There's a lot of that here."
"Yes, indeed."
"Are your parents still with you?"
"No," he said, resettling his blankets around his shoulders. "They
passed on."
"I'm sorry. And your uncle, he is at the ranch?"
"No, he died too, this past year. He was building a house, hoping
to marry his love from Maine and bring her west, when he died."
"I'm so sorry. That is tragic."
"It's all right. He died doing what he loved to do-running horses. Just hit a squirrel hole, fell and broke his neck. It was over
fast ..." He glanced up at her, as if embarrassed that he had shared
more than he meant to.
"So it's just you? Running the ranch?" she said.
"Me and my foreman. It's a lot, running the ranch alone. We
have quite a few ranch hands to help, but it's
frothy fresh milk, eggs-fried, scrambled, or hard-boiled.
Once in a while, an attendant would return, bringing a patient
who was coughing up blood or was too weak with fever and chills
to continue. But by and large, Odessa had to admit, the patients did
seem to thrive in the natural air, coming back with ruddy cheeks and
bright pink noses and eyes alight with stories to tell.
They all began on the porch, taking in the air there, or if suffering a relapse as Bryce had done, returning there. Next they were
ensconced beside Monument Creek, or even in a boat laden with
blankets, fishing for hours on end. The sanatorium had dug out a
large pool beside a massive cottonwood, and the waterway flowed
gently into the chasm, creating a slow eddy. When Odessa sat upon
the boat in its center, she gradually spun around. It was lazy and
invigorating at the same time. It felt good to be doing something
useful when she brought in her first fish a week after she had arrived
in Colorado.
"Do they have fish in Philadelphia?" Bryce asked, recovering
from a coughing fit after his walk down the hillside to the creek. He
had his easel and paint bag over his shoulder, which he slowly set
before him.
She smiled at him from the boat. "One or two." Gently, she
pulled the hook from the brown trout's jaw and set the fish, wriggling still, in the bottom of the boat. "My grandfather used to take
me and my brother out fishing on occasion. He favored a narrow,
deep river with a slow eddy, like this one here. He was always trying
to snag a massive, old bass that continually eluded him. Hooked him
a few times but never managed to bring him in."
Bryce laughed as he got the easel legs in place. "Always one in
every river, stream, pond, or lake."
Odessa decided she liked the sound of his laughter, deep and
warm. It was the kind of laugh that would make any house a home.
Her grandfather used to laugh like that. But she couldn't remember
her father ever laughing in the same manner. Was that because he
never did, or because he had lost the ability to laugh as each of their family members died? Did she simply not remember? She searched
her mind, wishing, hoping for the memory. Gentle, sad smiles she
remembered. But no laughter.
"I've said something that has upset you," Bryce said, settling the
canvas atop the easel and then leaning back upon his stool, gathering
his strength. He had ridden out with the others on the previous day's
trail ride and it had clearly taxed him.
"No." She sighed. She glanced over at him. "Your laughter simply
made me remember my grandfather. I miss him. And his laugh." She
cast out her line again, watching as the hook floated for a moment
on the moving surface and then suddenly dropped.
"I had a grandfather with a good laugh too," he said.
"Where did he live? If I may presume to ask such intimacies."
"It's not presumptuous at all," he returned, as he uncovered his
palette and dabbed a deep blue pigment onto the wood. "Both my
mother's and my father's people hailed from Maine for several generations. But an uncle came west, here to Colorado. We've always
imported and bred horses, and we needed more land."
"There's a lot of that here."
"Yes, indeed."
"Are your parents still with you?"
"No," he said, resettling his blankets around his shoulders. "They
passed on."
"I'm sorry. And your uncle, he is at the ranch?"
"No, he died too, this past year. He was building a house, hoping
to marry his love from Maine and bring her west, when he died."
"I'm so sorry. That is tragic."
"It's all right. He died doing what he loved to do-running horses. Just hit a squirrel hole, fell and broke his neck. It was over
fast ..." He glanced up at her, as if embarrassed that he had shared
more than he meant to.
"So it's just you? Running the ranch?" she said.
"Me and my foreman. It's a lot, running the ranch alone. We
have quite a few ranch hands to help, but it's
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