“Here, drink.” He held up his water skin to the cracked and bleeding lips, then lightly pried them open. They were stuck together with a glue of gritty dust. Joseph dribbled water into the fella’s mouth, and most of it dribbled right back out. But he persisted until the head moved in response, then the tongue loosened and tasted the water.
After a minute or two, the man swallowed. Joseph let out a long-held breath. “Okay, we need to get you to town. I can’t fix you up out here, in this heat.” He rolled up his stiff starched blue shirtsleeves and rubbed his bearded chin. Moving the fella was going to be no easy task. Somehow he had to haul him up into the buckboard, and he had nothing he could use to aid him in this endeavor.
He hoped the fella suffered no broken bones or internal injuries. But there was nothing for it—he had to be moved, and it would be an awkward and jarring affair at best. But maybe the fella was so out of it, he’d be oblivious to the pain.
It took Joseph the better part of a half hour and a slew of prayers, but he’d managed it. He made the young man as comfortable as possible and gave him more water to drink—most of which managed to get down the fella’s throat, much to Joseph’s relief. When he made to step down from the flat bed of his wagon, the cowboy moaned incoherent words.
“What’s that?” Joseph asked, drawing close to the fella’s mouth to hear him better.
The cowboy lifted a weak arm and gestured toward the east. “Saddle . . .” His face grimaced as he tried to say more, attempting to lift his head.
Joseph laid a hand on the fella’s chest. “Easy now. I’ll go fetch your saddle.”
At those words, the cowboy’s face loosened, and he let his head fall back on the folded-up blanket Joseph had bunched up under his head.
Joseph jumped down from the wagon, fetched the saddle—and a saddlebag and rifle lying nearby—then hefted the items into the back beside the cowboy, who seemed to have either fallen asleep or slipped into unconsciousness.
He studied the fella’s face and sent up a prayer, thanking the Lord for sending him along this road this day. He’d seen only one other traveler that morning, and the farmer’d been heading south, down past Evans. Joseph believed the charge had fallen upon him alone to nurse this cowboy back to health. He hoped the fella would recover and Joseph could soon send him on his way—back to wherever he’d come from. Though, the wound in his leg suggested maybe this fella had reason not to return. For all Joseph knew, he could be an outlaw rather than the victim of some unfortunate encounter. But no matter. He was a doctor, just the person this fella needed at this moment, and Joseph’s task was to see him back on his feet. He’d put the cowboy in his spare bedroom and tend to him till he was well enough to leave.
With his plans resolved in his mind, he climbed up onto the bench, picked up the reins, and got the mules moving north along the dusty road, much to their delight.
Chapter 5
The moment Brett Hendricks jerked his head up, he regretted it. It didn’t take a genius to tell him he was bad hurt. In fact, he could hardly tell what didn’t hurt.
A groan slipped out between clenched teeth as he edged himself upright, only now noticing the softness of a feather tick mattress underneath his bruised hips and the plump cool pillow behind his head.
A streak of morning sunshine spilled onto a dust-filmed wood-planked floor alongside the narrow bed Brett found himself lying in, the soft light revealing a bedroom with little adornment.
“Where in tarnation . . . ?” he mumbled, easing up a little taller and ignoring the painful stiffness in his joints. His belly felt cavernous and empty, and his hands shook like an old man’s. He slid a hand down under the thin quilted blanket and gingerly felt for his wound. He grunted when his fingers touched on a wrapping of gauze that encircled his thigh. Through that, the skin was tender but no longer inflamed.
His clogged and woozy head cleared some—enough to stab him with the memory of Dakota paddling the air in pain with his hooves and the sound of his gun going off when he aimed the Colt at the horse’s head.
Brett squinched his eyes closed and let out a shuddering breath. Upon realizing he was wearing some man’s long nightshirt, he knew he wasn’t dead. He reckoned the afterworld wouldn’t provide him the kind of considerations he was presently being shown.
Before the barrage of questions could crowd his mind, the door to the bedroom creaked open a few inches, followed by the spanking-clean face of a man about thirty. Thick dark-brown hair famed a pale narrow face that sported a trim beard, and a set of bushy brows hung over big green eyes that studied Brett thoughtfully.
Upon seeing Brett awake, the man straightened, and a grin revealed as fine a set of teeth as Brett’d ever seen. The man’s eyebrows raised politely in question. “Mind if I come in?”
Brett gestured him in, wincing at the soreness in his shooting arm. “How long have I been here?” Wherever here was.
The man took three steps and came to his side, and Brett noticed his attire. Not a cowpuncher, this one, with his starched white shirt and pearly buttons. Brett’s eyes took in the pressed brown wool trousers and spit-polished shoes. The neatly combed hair tucked behind the man’s ears. He wasn’t very tall.
“I’m Joseph Tuttle,” the man said in a congenial manner, extending a very clean and manicured hand. Brett grunted. Was he back in Denver? He listened for sounds of a city, but the only thing he could hear drifting in through the half-opened window were songbirds warbling in a tree. The place seemed saturated in quiet as the man regarded Brett through curious eyes.
Brett shook the man’s hand. “Brett Hendricks.” He swallowed and noticed the dryness in his throat had eased, though he was fiercely thirsty. The hot windy prairie rushed into his mind, and Brett recalled the mirage he’d seen while lying next to a road. The wagon pulled by a team of mules . . .
“Ohh,” Brett said. “You’re the fella who found me.” His eyes drifted to what looked like a black medical bag sitting on the nearby dresser. Another cursory look around the room gave Brett the impression this fella lived alone—a keen lack of a woman’s touch evident.
Tuttle nodded. “You were near dead about four miles south of town. Here,” he said, reaching for a clay jug on the nightstand and pouring water into a tall glass.
Brett’s mouth twitched as Tuttle handed him the glass. He took care not to spill it over his nightshirt as he drank. “I’m appreciatin’ of your kindness.” Cool water soothed his throat, and Brett couldn’t recall a time when the simple act of drinking was so satisfying.
“I’m just thankful the good Lord led me to you.” The man smiled, and Brett hoped he wouldn’t get all religious on him. “Good thing you collapsed at the edge of the road and not out on the desert.”
“What town is this?” Brett asked, his throat no longer scratchy. When he emptied the glass, Tuttle refilled it, then sat on a straight-back chair next to the bed.
“Greeley.” Tuttle waited a moment, then said, “Where’re you from?”
Greeley? Brett has heard something of this town. Some settlement by a bunch of folks from the East Coast. City of Saints or some such. Yep, religious folk. Prob’ly aimed to set up a bastion of purity and holiness in the middle of the lawless West. Good luck with that.
“Mostly from Texas,” Brett replied, not wanting to tell this stranger any more.
Seemed like these towns were cropping up all over the open range. Grangers—taking up rangeland, making it harder for ranchers to graze their cattle. First, the buffalo—nearly wiped out. Next—the cattle. In was only a matter of time, with all families heading west, now that the railroads crisscrossed the county. Soon he and all the other cowpunchers would be out of a job. He could see it looming on the horizon, and it weren’t no mirage this time.
He drew a map in his head. Something like sixty miles or so north of Denver. He figured Orlander and his scalawags wouldn’t chase him here. They’d probably turned tail back to Denver not long after he’d been shot.
He looked at T
uttle. “Did’ja fetch my saddle?” His roll of money was in his saddlebag—or so he hoped. Though, he didn’t suspect a man like Tuttle would be the thieving type.
He suddenly felt trapped in the small bed. He’d hardly been inside a house more than a few times in the last two years, and the confining walls made his legs itch to get out.
Brett swung around, freeing himself from the unfamiliar tangle of covers and sheets, then tried to stand. His knees buckled, and a spear of pain shot up his thigh. His heart set off racing. He had to get shed of this room and fast.
“Whoa,” Tuttle said, grabbing Brett’s arm and steadying him. “You’re in no condition to walk as of yet, Mr. Hendricks.” He eased Brett back onto the edge of the bed. Brett’s head spun riotously.
Brett conceded the man was right. Just cool yer spurs, Cowboy. You ain’t goin’ anywhere right soon.
Tuttle continued. “But you’re welcome to stay in my house for as long as needed. I live here alone, and no one will bother you.” He added, “And I have your saddle and saddlebags in the pantry in the back. Can I fix you some breakfast?”
At the mention of food, Brett’s mouth watered. He nodded. “You a doc?”
Tuttle nodded in return. “I went to medical school in Ohio, then came out here about eight months ago.”
“Seeking a new life in the West,” Brett said, having heard it all many times afore.
Tuttle smiled and sat in the chair. “D’you mind if I check that gunshot wound?”
“Have at it,” Brett said, pulling up the nightshirt to reveal the bandage. It looked clean—no blood staining the wrapping.
“Cauterizing that wound may have saved your leg,” Tuttle said, carefully unwrapping the gauze. When he came to the end of the strip, Brett winced. Tuttle gently tugged the cloth free from the sticky skin and looked at the wound. The dark circle pinked around the edges, but the leg was only a mite swollen. “You took that bullet out yourself?”
Brett nodded, hoping the doctor wouldn’t pepper him with too many questions. But the fella merely whistled and pulled out a roll of white gauze and scissors from his bag and rewrapped the leg.
When done, he stood. “I’ll go fetch you some breakfast. Just stay here.” He looked at Brett, his head cocked. The eyes studied him, but Brett sensed his kindness.
“I imagine you’re keen to get going—to wherever it is you were headed. But healing takes time. You’ll just have to let nature take her course. But I’m confident you’ll make a full recovery, Mr. Hendricks, and you should be up and on your feet soon enough. I’ll get you a walking stick. There’s a privy out back, but I’ve provided you with a chamber pot.” He pointed to the other side of the bed. “Would you like something to read?”
Brett snorted. He hadn’t looked at the pages of a book since he was a young’un, when his ma used to set him on her lap and read to him from those picture books before tucking him into bed with a song. The image of his ma, all purty and smiling, beckoning him to come to her, set off an ache in his chest. He swallowed hard.
“Well,” Tuttle said, “if you would like a book or the newspaper, just let me know.”
“What day is it?” Brett suddenly asked. Just how many days had he been wandering lost?
“Friday. September fourteenth.”
Brett whistled through his teeth. The competition in Denver was last Sunday. He’d never lost days like this before. “I c’n pay you—”
Tuttle waved him off. “No need, Mr. Hendricks. It’s my pleasure and my Christian duty to help a stranger in need.” He picked up his bag and walked out of the room.
A wave of weariness washed over Brett, and he felt weak all over. He hated feeling this poorly, wishing he could leap from the bed and get back to the open range. He was as helpless as a calf trapped in a branding pen.
Brett heard the kind doctor rattling pans in a kitchen, and he lay back against the soft, clean-smelling pillows in a room free of dirt and dust and droning insects. Like a mud hog wearing Sunday best clothes, Brett felt wholly out of place. Closest he ever came to such luxury was a canvas cot in a crowded bunkhouse full of smelly, unwashed cowboys. Brett could tell the doctor had cleaned him up—even washed his hair. He pulled a crop of his red-brown hair to his nose and gave a whiff and winced. It smelled of flowers.
Brett shook his head. The sooner he got well and shucked this town, the better. He’d inquire of the local ranches. Surely he could find a spot in an outfit, even if he had to ride the drags. Wouldn’t be long before the fall roundup. All the ranches hired on extra hands in the fall to cut the herds and send the cattle to market. So long as he stayed clear of Denver and Orlander’s outfit, he’d be all right.
He closed his eyes, relishing the smell of toast and bacon cooking, his thoughts wandering to the horses he’d broken and gentled, to the cheers of crowds as he worked saddles and headstalls onto wild mounts and eased the fearful animals to their feet under his command. In the last few years, he’d spent more time on the back of a horse than off—and he preferred it that way.
There was nothing so freeing as being astride a horse in the wide-open range, thousands of stars twinkling in the night sky and the hoot of owls and lowing of cows to serenade you. Some folks considered it a lonely life, but Brett wouldn’t have it any other way. He liked being answerable to no one but the foreman of his outfit. And while other cowboys bellyached about wanting a woman and settling down, Brett thought that the worst type of corralling.
Sure, he longed for someone sweet and soft to throw his arms around, but there was a difference between roping a gal in from time to time and having a tumble and one hitching you to the post and hobbling your legs so you could hardly take a step. He’d nearly been caught unawares twice, bespelled by such beauty that he’d almost lost his head. Those gals’d thought he’d make a fine catch, but they had ’airy a clue what kind of fella he was—what darkness brooded in his heart. What he was capable of. His hands clenched into fists as he thought on his pa’s temper and the fiery blood that ran through his own veins.
Yep, he was safer on a horse on the range. Far from temptation. The distraction and hard work of cow-punching—riding point or swing twelve to sixteen hours a day, roping, herding, branding—was what he needed. No other life would suit him.
As his thoughts lapped against his sleepy head, lulling him, a strain of music drifted into his ears, a melancholy wailing, like a lone coyote pining for a mate. Sounded like someone playing a fiddle with a heavy arm and a heavier heart. The sound caused a twinge of pain in his chest, making him restless and irritable. The notes dug into his ribs, like worms looking for a dark, cold place to hide from the heat of the summer sun.
He threw off the thin quilt, which suddenly felt hot and cumbersome, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His body stiffened, as if ready to run for his life.
Joseph Tuttle strode in, a steaming plate of food on a tray in his arms, and halted in the doorway. “Are you all right, Mr. Hendricks?” His face registered alarm.
Brett managed a nod. He willed his heart to stop racing, wondering what in tarnation had come over him. “I’m fine, Doc. Jus’ hungry, I reckon.”
Tuttle’s face loosened in relief. As Brett sat back, the doctor situated the tray on Brett’s lap, the enticing aroma of the vittles wafting up into Brett’s nose.
He listened for a moment and heard more fiddle music. He hadn’t imagined it. The sounds were coming from the next house over. As Tuttle turned to leave again, Brett said, “Would you mind closing the window yonder?”
Tuttle seemed surprised at Brett’s request, but he complied. Quiet filled the room. Brett relaxed his clenched jaw. “Well, then,” Tuttle said. “I’ll leave you to eating. I’ll be in my office in the back—call out if you need my help.”
“Much obliged,” Brett said, his words thin and shaky. Yep, the sooner he got his legs back under him, the sooner he could get back on the Front Range and in the saddle.
Chapter 6
&
nbsp; George Fisk swung open the door to his shop and gestured Angela inside. The smell of varnish and wood permeated the air—the redolence reminding her of the back room of the instrument shop on Second Avenue. She drew in a long invigorating breath as her eyes widened, taking in the dozens of violins in various stages of construction hanging from hooks on the walls and dangling from the low ceiling.
Two thick, long wood tables took up most of the crowded space, every inch of their surfaces covered with woodworking tools and pots of varnishes and unfinished pieces of violins, all neatly laid out. Numerous strung bows were propped up on a shelf against the far wall. One recently sanded violin lay completed in a stand before her, awaiting its first layer of varnish.
Angela had on occasion watched the old shopkeeper sand and re-varnish old instruments of various types, but she’d never actually seen an instrument built. Her eyes snagged on large blocks of beautifully grained honey-colored wood stacked on the floor against the wall. And smaller, thinner slices of dark wood sat stacked on one table’s edge. She reached out and touched a bowl of nearly black tuning pegs that glistened in the morning light streaming through the two large windows on her right.
Angela turned to George, whose smile gleamed with pride in his work. “Those are made of ebony. All my violins have ebony pegs and fittings and tailpieces. Though at times I’ll use rosewood, for a warmer look.” He looked up to the rafters and took down a finished violin, then cradled it in his arms for her to see. It was yet unstrung and lacked the gleam of the instruments she’d played on. But it was beautifully crafted and made her long to pick up a bow and play.
“See the rosewood detail here on the fingerboard? It provides such a lovely contrast to the maple back and scroll and the spruce top. I take my time picking just the right pieces so that the grains blend in harmony.” He gave her a wink as she gazed in awe at the swirling lines embedded deep in the wood. They almost resembled a line of music, the way the threads of grain danced across the surface.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 6
