Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Angela’s normally sympathetic feelings took a hard edge as she spun to a stop at the base of the El Train’s wooden staircase and studied her mamá’s distraught face. Instead of compassion, she only felt pity for this woman for tolerating so many years of undeserved mistreatment. She thought of her seven-year-old sister, Rosalia, who already mimicked her mamá’s subservience and cowering, despite Angela’s attempts to instill autonomy in her and get her to voice her own opinion on matters.

  She shook her head and pried her mamá’s fingers from her arm. Maybe I should run away and never come back. But she knew that was foolish to consider. She loved her family, despite their flaws. And though her papá had a temper and a mean streak, he provided for them all dutifully. Which was more than many living on the streets of New York had.

  In the distance she heard the blast of the train’s horn, announcing the arrival of the three-thirty train north.

  “Promise me you’ll come home as soon as you get your violin,” her mamá begged, tears leaking from her eyes.

  “I promise, Mamá. You know how important this is to me.”

  Her mamá’s eyes warmed with love. “Of course. You have a gift, and you must use it.” She lowered her voice and stroked Angela’s cheek. “You must chase after your dream. For if you give it up . . .” Her throat choked up, and she pursed her lips and said no more.

  Suddenly Angela understood. Her mamá had always encouraged her to play. She was the one who’d arranged Angela’s music lessons and risked Papá’s anger by secretly slipping coins from the household jar to pay for those lessons and replacement strings for her violin. Her mamá had never shared much about her own childhood, but Angela sensed a broken dream in her mamá’s voice.

  “Go, then,” her mamá whispered when they got to the top of the stairs, as the massive hulking steam engine came to a grinding, shuddering, and screeching halt at the station.

  She reached into a pocket of her skirt and emptied a handful of coins into Angela’s hand. “If you need more, send me a telegram. I can ask your zia Sofia—”

  “I’ll be fine, Mamá. Grazie.”

  A conductor yelled for passengers to board as the heavy metal doors slid open. Dozens stepped down off the train while others waited to board.

  Angela threw her arms around her mamá, and they stood on the platform in a long embrace, until Angela broke away, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

  “Ti amo, Angela.” Her mamá stroked Angela’s hair and rested her hand on her cheek. “Stai attento. Watch out for strangers. Guard your purse. Don’t—”

  The last few waiting passengers stepped into the train car as the conductor announced the final call to board.

  “I will, Mamá. I will send a telegram when I arrive, and I’ll let you know when I’ll be returning—”

  “Angela Bellini!”

  Angela heard a gruff voice yelling her name from the street below. A pang of fear stabbed her chest. Papá! She looked at her mamá’s horrified face.

  “Hurry, mi cara. Get on the train.”

  Her mamá pushed her toward the train car. Angela hesitated and held on to her mamá’s arm. She feared what Papá would do to her mamá upon learning she’d let his daughter leave without telling him. Without warning him.

  Her mamá’s urgent words left her no time to waver further. Two blasts from the train’s whistle indicated its imminent departure from the station.

  The stout conductor in his dark-blue uniform gestured to her. “It’s now or never, lass,” he said with an Irish brogue.

  “Go,” her mamá urged, a surprising hint of courage shining on her face. “Get your violin.” She gave Angela a smile that gleamed with pride and approval. That was all Angela needed.

  She gave her mamá a quick peck on the cheeks, then rushed inside the train car that was only half full this hot Sunday afternoon. She plopped onto the wooden bench as the door slid shut and clicked into the lock. With another blast of the whistle, the train lurched forward and began chugging along the rails at a snail’s crawl.

  To her shock, she spotted her papá running along the platform.

  “Angela, get off this minute!” he yelled as he chased after the train, panting and waving his arms.

  Angela, horrified and embarrassed, sank lower on the bench and turned to face the windows that looked out upon the rows of crowded multistoried brownstone buildings. She knew if he could, he would drag her off the train. She gulped thinking he might follow her somehow to Grand Station. But he didn’t know where exactly she planned to go. And Mamá will never tell him.

  A frisson of fear shuddered through her body at the thought of her papá interrogating her mamá, demanding to know where his daughter was heading. Blaming her for his daughter’s obstinacy and misbehavior. For her rebellious nature.

  Angela let the tears fall as she snuck a glimpse back at the receding station and watched her papá forcefully grab her mamá’s arm and drag her toward the stairs, as if she were one of his children who needed a spanking. Though, she knew Papá would do worse. And it’s all my fault. But it’s too late to make amends. The damage has been done.

  Angela pulled her carpetbag close to her feet and buried her head in her hands. What would she return to in two weeks? She dared not imagine. Was this violin worth the price? Worth her mother’s suffering and her own possible banishment from her family?

  She supposed she would find out—once she arrived in Greeley five days hence.

  Chapter 2

  Brett Hendricks smacked his pinto on the rump with his quirt while kicking hard with his spurs into the flanks of the distraught horse. Pressing in all around him, wild range cattle lowed and snorted, eyes ablaze and horns shaking in threatening fashion, surging across the corral like an irresistible tide. The mass of hot bodies, their hides shimmering brown and white in the late-morning sun, crushed Brett as he waded his way through, sweat streaming down his neck and soaking his shirt.

  The first shot missed by a long chalk, but the second ball whistled by his ear. Brett let out a string of curses. Steers reared up, paddling in panic with hooves dangerously close to his horse’s muzzle. His little stallion reared back, nearly dumping him onto a frightened passel of blattering calves near the pen’s railing. Brett gathered the horse, mouthing soothing words, then pressed ahead, leaning hard into the withers and half-burying his face in the mane.

  Dang fool, cowboys. These beeves are gonna stampede, break down the fence. But Brett didn’t regret the what for he’d given the arrogant kid. Though he doubted it’d do any good. Fellas spoilt like that—they weren’t likely to see the wrong of their ways.

  With renewed determination—fueled partly by anger at Orlander’s kid and partly at himself by his stupidity for thinking he could make his escape through the cattle pens unscathed—he pressed harder. He hadn’t figured that beef-headed son of a rich rancher and his cowpunchers would set in pursuit. But, come to think of it, he wasn’t surprised the fella had a hankering to kill him.

  Well, he had about broken the kid’s nose. And humiliated him in front of his pals. But he deserved it—and worse—and that was the God’s honest truth. One thing Brett couldn’t cotton to, and that was the mean treatment of women. In a flash, he saw in his mind’s eye his pa’s big, rough hands around his ma’s soft neck. He squeezed his eyes to force away the image, then blew out a breath and kicked harder, letting anger spur him like a whip to his back.

  Somehow he made it to the gate, worked the cattle back, then jiggled the heavy beam and slid it across. One thing about Dakota—you couldn’t find a better cutting horse that eager to take direction or as nimble and quick on the feet. And Brett couldn’t blame the small stallion for his fearful prancing. A crush of cattle was a danger to man and beast alike.

  But they’d gotten out of the pen unscathed, for the most part, and the open range spread out north before him.

  A quick glance back as Brett secured the gate showed the three riders working their way back out the entrance to the corral, c
ows flinching at the thrashing of their quirts to make room. Brett grunted. Orlander’s men would circle around and catch up to him in a few shakes of a rooster’s tail.

  ”Let’s get a move-on,” he told Dakota, pulling his slouch hat over his ears and securing his neckerchief that had slipped down in all that tussle. With a hard kick, they set off galloping north, billows of gritty dust swirling like devils in the wind, like cactus needles biting his cheeks.

  He tried to recall the lay of the towns north of Denver. Not much for miles. Some settlements along the Platte. He’d never ridden for any ranches in Colorado, but heard about some of the big ones. At least five or six had been at the cowboy contest.

  He grinned, thinking about the get-away money rolled up inside that blue ribbon in his saddlebag. Now that he was on the drift—again—that would tie him over until he landed in another cow-punch outfit. He hadn’t meant to get in that fight with Humphrey’s foreman, but he couldn’t take the man’s mean, ill-tempered ways of picking on the tenderfoots a minute longer. And none of the other cowboys were sad to see the brute go—he was cordially hated by all. He’d done ’em all a favor—even though the prank had cost him his job. He couldn’t help but grin.

  With wide-open space to run, Dakota chewed up the hard thirsty ground peppered with sage brush and patches of buffalo grass. The horizon wavered like ripples on a lake off in the distance. Brett reckoned it was nearing noon, and the day would only get hotter. With a frown, he took a mental assessment of the gear in his saddlebags, and while glad he had his bedroll and war bag with his gear, he’d not bothered to refill his canteen or rustle up some hard tack or even biscuits. Well, he hadn’t planned on making such a hasty run for it. At least he’d been saddled up when he’d come upon young Orlander and that Mexican girl.

  Brett gritted his teeth, thinking how he’d nearly killed the kid. He’d wanted to—badly. Good thing those three cowpunchers had been standing outside the barn—seeing ’em had made him rein in his rage. But they’d recognized him—he was sure of it. Prob’ly got a good look at his face, seeing as he’d beaten ’em all in the contest. Some cowboys were poor sports, and they’d think nothing of throwing a few punches just out of spite and jealousy. He’d been beaten up before. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been shot at either.

  When he came upon an old wagon road scrambled with ruts, he pulled Dakota to a stop and let the lathered, heaving horse rest a moment. Quiet settled on the prairie, punctuated by Dakota’s huffing and the swishing of his tail. Nothing moved in the stifling dry heat but a couple of long-eared jackrabbits foraging.

  Brett threw a hand over his eyes in the glaring sunlight and looked south, then grimaced. A plume of dust trailed in his direction, and he figured his pursuers would be upon him inside of an hour. His tongue stuck in his mouth like a boll of cotton, and he could hardly swallow past the dust in his throat. As far as he could see, there was no water to be had. No stand of cottonwoods indicating a spring or creek. Nothing.

  He checked his Colt .45 and his Springfield rifle. They were loaded and ready, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use ’em. He’d never killed a man, and he didn’t cotton to the notion, but he would if he had no other choice. Why in tarnation were those fellas still after him? He figured they’d have given up the chase by now. Go back to their outfit, have some chow, start back to their ranch. It made no sense to go that far a stretch just to even a score.

  Mumbling under his breath, he chastised himself for getting in yet another fix. But that appeared to be his lot in life. Always on the move, never staying long in one place or t’other. Trouble seemed to find him wherever he went. Or maybe he just looked for it. Didn’t matter. He’d just keep moving.

  He urged Dakota back into a gallop and thought on the way those cowpunchers had stared with wide eyes when he’d eared down that wild mare and got her under his legs in record time. He’d overheard a group of ’em talking before the event. From all appearances, his reputation had preceded him. Though he’d only competed down in Texas over the last couple of years, somehow the cowboys in Colorado must have learned about the wrangler—the one they called Bronco Brett—that could break any horse, no matter how ornery. Seemed like word traveled far and wide as cowboys went from ranch to ranch and met up at the spring and fall roundups.

  Brett had won firsts in every contest, though he shied away from the roping and bull busting. Sure, he was plenty strong and good with a lariat, but so were a lot of other cowboys. But no one could come close to beating him in the wild-horse-breaking events—not a one. He loved nothing more than meeting eyes with an animal that had never been touched by a human and working ’em into submission to a place of trust. Many had asked him how he did it—as if he had some kind of magic ability. But he’d only give a shrug for an answer. For he didn’t rightly know. A God-given gift, he reckoned.

  Hot wind abraded his cheeks, and his hair kept falling into his eyes as he rode the stallion hard. Another glance showed his pursuers within a quarter mile. He shook his head and clenched his jaw. Crimany, why aren’t they quittin’?

  Suddenly, wind gusting from the west nearly toppled him off his horse. Dust erupted from the ground and clogged the air, wrenching his hat from his head and sending it flying from the strings behind his head. He pulled the neckerchief up over his nose and stuffed his hat down, then tightened the strings. Dakota slowed, showing distress and an abiding reluctance to press forward in the dust-choked air that turned the prairie into a gloomy brown soup.

  Wind screamed across the plains, and Brett lost his bearings. He slowed to a walk, worried his horse would stumble. But his pursuers didn’t seem to share the same concerns. He felt the ground shake before he heard the pounding of hooves through the roar of the dust storm. They were nearly upon him. His right hand fell to rest on the butt of his Colt that was fixed in a loose cross draw holster on his left hip.

  He spun Dakota around. Through the oppressive haze he made out three riders, all wearing wide-brimmed hats, their faces half hidden by their bandanas. But Brett recognized Orlander’s kid by his slight build and the manner in which he rode. Brett had watched him—and those two cowpunchers—in the team roping event. Orlander was maybe sixteen, but the two swarthy types had about ten years on the kid. Maybe two or three years older than Brett was.

  Dakota’s flanks heaved. The stallion was nearly played out, and the air was clogged with dirt that kept churning up from the ground in geysers of wind. His prospects were bleak if not downright irritating.

  “Hold it right there, Hendricks,” one of the men yelled over the gusts. “Git down off y’r horse and come on back to the ranch with us, peaceful-like.”

  Brett scoffed. Not likely. He knew they wanted a clean shot and would leave his body for the coyotes and buzzards to feed on.

  The three men sat their horses about a hundred feet away, waiting. He doubted they could hit him if they fired their guns from that distance. But then, he didn’t want to gamble on the chance that one of ’em might be a good shot. Three to one. If he fired, what were his chances?

  He weighed his options. Dakota was spent, but he couldn’t see any other recourse.

  He made to swing down from his horse, watching out of the corner of his eye as the men walked their horses over to him in a cautious manner, guns at the ready.

  But just as his right leg touched the ground, two shots sliced through the air, and Brett’s right thigh detonated in a flare of hot pain. He squelched a scream as he gritted his teeth against the pain.

  He caught Orlander’s smug grin through the haze, his rifle smoking.

  Why, that no-good . . .

  Brett, in a sudden reversal, swung back up onto the saddle, pulled out his Colt, and fired back over his shoulder, the ball exploding from the gun and the weapon recoiling against his cheek.

  The man to Brett’s left yelped as the ball grazed his shoulder. In that moment of surprise, Brett wheeled back north and kicked Dakota hard.

  Shots fired in the gloom as w
ind lashed whips of dirt into Brett’s face. Hearing the horses approach, Brett leveled the Colt against his left shoulder and fired off three more rounds, hoping more to discourage and slow down the men rather than kill ’em. If he could just get enough distance, he might be able to lose ’em in this dust storm. Or so he hoped. He clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. Hurts like the dickens—and then some.

  He couldn’t hear a thing over the ruckus of the wind as he yanked the reins sharply to the right and urged Dakota on blindly across the prairie.

  “Go go go!” he yelled, leaning all his weight against the horse’s neck, keeping his head down in case more lead was heading his way. He was grateful they hadn’t shot his horse. At least they’d had enough decency to aim for him—or so he reckoned.

  As the pain turned his leg into a wad of searing heat, Brett gave the horse his head, lightening up on the reins and praying Dakota would just keep running. Brett strained to listen through the maelstrom of dust, grit, and pebbles flinging into his face and body, but he no longer heard shots or horse hooves or the voices of men.

  Brett lost track of time, his head hot, his mouth dry, sweat drenching his clothes and yet drying almost instantly in the hot wind. The pain in his leg subsided to a dull ache, but his trousers were wet with blood. He knew he had to stop and tend to his wound or he’d lose too much blood.

  Presently, the wind fluttered to a stall, and blinding sunlight streaked through the settling dust. A calm settled upon the prairie like a thick smothering blanket, and Brett pulled Dakota to a stop. While the horse heaved heavy, troubled breaths, Brett pulled down his dirt-caked handkerchief and loosened his stuck tongue. What he’d give for a glass of water right now.

  And his horse sorely needed water too.