Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  “Once an instrument is completed ‘in the white’—glued and sanded and ready for varnishing—it has to sit for weeks to dry fully. In the winter, I keep a fire going in the stove there”—he pointed to a small iron potbelly stove in a corner that she’d not noticed—“but I have to be diligent and keep the heat at a constant low level or else the wood will crack.” He gestured around the room. “Building instruments takes great care and fine attention to detail, my dear. Not many have the patience to master the craft.”

  Angela thought about Violet’s words—how Mr. Fisk and his wife never had children. He looked lovingly upon these instruments he made as if they were his progeny. And, she supposed, they were, in a way. They were certainly precious to him.

  Angela was speechless as George continued to explain. He picked up a lightly varnished violin and held it up to the light. “This one has had the first ground layer applied. See, I’ll share a secret with you—one I learned from a master craftsman in Vermont.” She came closer at his urging. “The secret is in the ground coat of varnish. It must be mixed with minerals, such as silica and alumina. And then the subsequent coats of walnut and linseed oil must be sun-thickened.” He pointed to a row of glass jars filled with amber oils lining the windowsill. “Good varnish will be translucent yet friable. And when applied, it should vary in color based on how thick the layer. A thin layer will be golden, and a thicker layer will have red hues.”

  He tenderly replaced the violin back on its stand and turned to Angela. “Well, my dear, if you’re interested, while you’re staying here, I can teach you some of the fine art of violin-making.”

  “I’d love that,” Angela said, though she doubted there’d be much time for such a pursuit. She hoped she could choose her violin today, but she didn’t want to voice her thoughts. George had indicated this decision couldn’t be rushed. But what exactly did he mean?

  “But, of course, that’s not why you’ve come all these miles to this remote town, far from home. So, let’s take a look at some possibilities for you, shall we, my dear?”

  Angela nodded, her pulse starting to race in anticipation. George picked up a bow from the table and adjusted the tension in the strands of horsehair. He then narrowed his eyes as he perused the line of finished violins sitting on stands on the next table. While the violins looked similar, upon closer examination, Angela could see slight variations of color and style of detailing. They were all gorgeous, and she didn’t doubt every one of them would have a beautiful sound. She didn’t want to admit to this master craftsman that she hadn’t the ear to distinguish between one fine instrument and another. She was glad she’d left her paltry violin in the apartment; bringing it would have been an embarrassment. Why couldn’t he just pick one out for her?

  “Let’s start with this one,” he said, carefully lifting a violin from its stand and handing it to her along with the bow. “Check the tuning, but it should be close to pitch.”

  She felt suddenly nervous, not wanting to play in front of George. But he laid a hand on her arm with a knowing smile, as if reading her thoughts—as if she wasn’t the first to have a flutter of nerves in front of him. “I’ll go make us some tea and be right back.”

  He ambled out of the shop back toward the house, and Angela calmed her nerves. She supposed she was more excited than self-conscious. She had never played an exquisite instrument of such quality before and hardly felt worthy of holding this violin in her arms. Yet, the moment she plucked the strings to tune them, a smile spread across her face. And after tuning the strings to pitch with those lovely ebony pegs, she tucked the violin under her chin, held the bow over the bridge, and rested her fingers on the neck.

  She closed her eyes, taking in the feel of the instrument in her hands, the rich aroma of the room, and the quiet of the day. Not a sound could she hear but the thumping of her heart as she stood in the room surrounded by dozens of silent observers—George’s many violins all waiting for someone to draw the sweet sounds from their souls.

  With a tremble in her hand, she pulled the bow across the lowest string. A rich G resounded and seemed to fill her from toe to head. Slowly she moved her left fingers along the neck, playing random flights of notes and letting the music run loose.

  The melody rose into the air and spread out like thick honey as she closed her eyes and relished the tones coming from this magical box in her hands. She envisioned the notes of music as fireflies lighting up the summer night. Images swelled through her mind of water skipping over rocks as the bow bounced lively on the strings. Her heart soared, like a bird on its way to roost in its nest after a long absence. Nothing else made her feel so content, so fulfilled, as this. She’d needed this reminder—of what mattered most.

  Now she understood the difference between a good violin and a magnificent one. There was no comparison. She’d been limited, hindered, from playing her best on a mediocre violin. But with this instrument . . . it was as if it responded to the ache in her heart and sang for her without words—in perfect, exquisite tones.

  She startled at the sound of the door opening, quickly lowering the violin to her side. George stepped inside, a tray in his arms with a tea service. “Here we are—some hot tea and a couple of biscuits.” He cleared a spot on the table and set down the tray.

  Words failed her. Then she thought of the quote George had spouted yesterday: “Where words fail, music speaks.” That saying was never more true for her than in that moment. But clearly, he read her wordless expression.

  George poured them each a cup of tea and handed one to Angela. She set the violin on its stand and sipped as George continued. “Each violin has its special qualities. Each has a unique voice that emerges over time. There is a bonding that must take place. The instrument and the musician must become one, inseparable. And not every union is a good fit—just like with a marriage. Love cannot be forced; neither can respect be demanded. Over time the musician learns the limits and potential of the instrument, and by honoring those things, the violin, in return, rewards the musician with beautiful music.”

  He walked over to the end of the table and chose a violin with a light varnish finish. He then picked up a bow and began to play. A flurry of notes burst from the violin, and she recognized the etude as one of Heinrich Ernt’s.

  A shiver traveled down her spine, and her jaw dropped as he played. He drew such exquisite melodies from the violin in his hand, as if breaking open a treasure box and spilling jewels into the air. She watched him—it seemed as if for hours, but she knew only a scant few minutes passed by the time he pulled the bow with a long final note and let the sound melt into the air. She now understood fully what he meant about becoming one with the instrument. It was as if they had merged and blended into one voice. She longed for nothing more in that moment than to experience that with her violin.

  He opened his eyes, lowered the violin, and smiled at her.

  “That was . . . I don’t know what to say.” Flustered, she took another sip of tea, and the milky sweetness soothed her dry mouth.

  George set the violin down and rubbed his chin. “I need to purchase some things at the mercantile. Why don’t you get settled into the room in the back, and while I’m out, you can try out a few of these violins. Then later, I’d like to hear you play, so we can begin determining which instrument might be a good fit.” He took some time looking over the various instruments in the room, then collected four and set them in their stands on the table before her.

  “Let’s start with these. And then maybe tomorrow another four. Spend time with each one. Play outside as well, so you can hear the timbre in an open space.”

  Angela nodded, pushing down her desire to hurry back to her life in New York, though now she doubted she’d get another chance with the philharmonic. Though . . . there were many other symphony orchestras in the East—other auditions she could attend. With a superior instrument in hand, her chances of being hired seemed more than possible.

  She knew George was right. While any of th
ese violins would no doubt suit her, she wanted the one that would best bring out her music. She imagined she would play her chosen violin the rest of her life, for when would she ever have an opportunity like this again?

  Which made her remember her resolve to ask her aunt about living with her when she returned to New York. Tonight she would pen a letter to Zia Sofia, telling her where she’d be staying and voicing her request. She wondered how long it would take a letter to get to her—at least as many days as a train trip, she assumed. Angela wondered if she would already be on the train to New York before she received word back from her aunt. She would be sure to plead with her not to tell her papá where she was, although she imagined he had pried that information from her mamá by now. And, she recalled, she’d promised to send her mamá a telegram letting her know she arrived safely.

  That familiar despair welled up, but she determined to pay it no mind. She would instead think of how to help George Fisk, to thank him for his kind hospitality. Surely he would enjoy some home cooking, and he could use a few extra pounds on his wasting frame. When he returned, she’d offer to make dinner for them, and perhaps bake some bread or some sweet panettone cake with dried fruits and raisins.

  She smiled thinking how George might be grateful for a womanly presence in his home, at least for the time she was here. She may as well do something useful while waiting for her violin. Though, the promise of playing night and day on these sweet instruments was tempting.

  With that thought, she picked up one of the violins and tucked it under her chin.

  Chapter 7

  Throughout the day, Brett had dozed and awakened in a half stupor, only to drop off to sleep again. He hated how weak he felt, and though the food and water Tuttle had given him took the edge off his feebleness, still he felt like some old man every time he moved or tried to get up to stand.

  But he was determined to get back on his feet and out of this confining pen as soon as his strength returned. Tuttle had left for the day, to tend to his practice in town, but assured him he’d be back by nightfall. He’d left Brett plenty to eat in the kitchen and told him it’d be good for him to walk around some. But the most Brett could manage was a handful of steps before he’d collapse into a chair or back onto the edge of the bed, frustrated and impatient. He’d done plenty of stupid things in his twenty-four years, but this was the worst. Still, Orlander and his men could’ve killed him. And at least his leg would heal. He s’posed things were looking up.

  But the upshot was, he sure hated being an invalid and dependent on the kindness of others. Soon as he was able, he’d ask around town where he might find some ranchers—see who was hiring.

  He rifled through the neat stack of his clothes that Tuttle had washed and line-dried for him that morning. He hardly recognized his blue plaid shirt—so clean and sweet-smelling. Usually he did his own wash out on the range in a creek or pond, scrubbing with a rock and sand to get the grime and stains out. He felt almost silly putting on such clean duds, but he felt sillier walking around in that long cotton nightshirt of Tuttle’s.

  He pulled on his trousers, wincing as the fabric slid across the bullet wound, and noticed how loosely they hung on his hips. He’d sure lost some weight wandering through the desert in his fool attempt at escaping those men. He didn’t bother to put on his socks and boots.

  Brett gritted his teeth as he hobbled across the room and headed to the kitchen. He rubbed his raw clean-shaven face. It felt good to have gotten shed of that scraggly beard. He wished he had some whiskey, but the good doctor kept ’airy a drop in the house. Seemed this town had a prohibition on spirits. How in tarnation did folks get by without a drink from time to time?

  He paced the floor, restlessness lassoing a chokehold around his throat. His fists clenched as the room closed in on him. He threw open the back door and lurched outside, sucking in long breaths and trying to calm his pounding heart.

  The coolness of night rippled over his face, drying his clammy forehead. The damp grass felt cool and soothing under his feet. A waxing moon tangled in a listless elm’s branches nearby.

  Presently, the knot in his gut loosened, and his breaths evened out. He glanced around at the small grassy yard dotted with wildflowers. Tuttle had what looked like an herb garden by the back of the house, and not fifty feet away sat houses on both sides, also painted white and simple in design. Typical small-town dwellings similar to all the other towns Brett had visited on occasion.

  And then he heard that music again. All through the day, bits of fiddling had drifted to his ears, but now, outside, it filled the night. He guessed it was some kind of fiddle, though he’d never heard this kind of music played on one before. Instead of a lively song, the notes sounded almost sorrowful. Maybe even full of heartache. He wondered who it was playing in that small shed out back behind the house to his right.

  As he listened, his heart started to race, and his feet got twitchy. There was something haunting, unsettling, about the song filling his ears. He felt like a horse being soothed with deceptive words and sensing something wrong, fearing it was about to be roped and thrown to the ground. Yet, as much as he fought to resist the lure of this music, the more he was drawn to it in some strange, powerful way. The notes stirred in him a longing for something he couldn’t name, causing a twinge of fear to tighten his throat.

  Just when he was about to throw his hands over his ears and retreat back inside Tuttle’s house, the door to the little shed opened, and out walked a gal in a long dress with a high collar and ruffled hem, a fiddle dangling from one hand and a bow in the other.

  Brett stopped and stared, stepping back into the shadows of the eaves where he could watch without being noticed. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Moonlight splashed over her, lighting up her long black hair that trailed over her shoulders and down her back. In the glow of the light, her face resembled an angel’s—soft gentle features, purty dark eyes, and the fullest lips he’d ever seen. He reckoned her to be about twenty, with a shapely figure he imagined drew looks from fellas wherever she went. Who was she? Did she live next door? Tuttle had told him a widower lived in the house. Was this the fella’s daughter?

  He sniggered at how smitten he was by the gal, like he was laboring under some spell. He blamed it on his exhaustion and the trick of the moonlight. Not your type, Cowboy. Seeing the way she held herself, so proper-like, and her fancy dress and all told him she was used to comforts. The kind of gal that wanted a trunk-load of purty things and screamed if she saw a mouse. Still, no reason he shouldn’t enjoy drinking her in. It’d been many a month since he’d feasted his eyes on a comely gal.

  He leaned back against the house and propped his sore leg up on the wood siding. Being outside was a balm to his soul. He looked up at the stars spattered across the sky, and a wave of loneliness crashed over his heart. His life felt suddenly so empty, so meaningless. He’d been moving from one place to the next, one ranch to the next, year after year. For what? A few dollars in his pocket? Just what did he want to do with his life? His fantasies of starting his own ranch poked at him, but how would he ever save enough money for such a dream?

  He looked back at the gal, who was now looking up at the stars. From where he stood, he could tell she was charmed by the sight, as if she’d never been outside at night. Then she put the fiddle under her chin and pulled the bow across it.

  Brett couldn’t move; he was transfixed by the music swirling about his head. He closed his eyes and rocked on his bare feet, drinking in the keening melody of the fiddle as it sang to his heart. To his surprise, tears welled in his eyes. Something the bow drew from the strings fed his soul. He felt awash with sorrow once more, as if the fiddle was a key that unlocked a secret place in his heart. He opened his eyes in bewilderment, swiping a hand across them, stunned that he was so shook up.

  A shiver ran down his spine, and his jaw dropped as she played. He watched her for what seemed like hours, but he knew only a few minutes had passed. Even the air and all the stars s
eemed to be listening. Never in his life had he heard such sweet music.

  Then suddenly the night fell quiet. The gal with the fiddle was staring at him, moonlight swimming in her eyes. Once more he felt like a trapped calf in a corner of a pen, and his mouth went dry. He couldn’t look away, and his feet were stuck in place. What in tarnation was wrong with him?

  ***

  How long has that man been standing there, staring at me? Angela’s arms dropped to her sides, and her face flushed with heat. She’d been so lost in the music, she hadn’t seen him—only yards away, leaning up against the neighbor’s house. But she wasn’t surprised she hadn’t spotted him. She’d been transported by the intoxicating tone of the notes coming from this violin. Playing outside in the cool, thin air, under such spectacular stars, brought out the notes buried deep in her soul. It was as if the instrument had awakened them from slumber and set them free, like releasing a flock of birds that had been caged for years. She couldn’t have held them back if she’d tried.

  Wanting to be polite, she waved and called out a timid hello. She could barely make him out in the shadows and felt suddenly self-conscious. She pushed down a niggling fear, then reminded herself that George was nearby, in his house, should this man act unmannerly toward her. He’d assured her she was safe in this town of wholesome, God-fearing residents.

  But when the man stepped out into the moonlight, Angela stiffened. He had a rough look about him, though his handsome face was shaved and his shoulder-length chestnut hair was neatly brushed back behind his ears. Angela could tell he was a man of labor, with strong shoulders and powerful legs that could hardly be hidden beneath the neat shirt and trousers he wore. She saw he was barefoot, and his hazel eyes seemed to dive deep into hers, as if searching for something he’d lost. It was his intense gaze that unsettled her most of all. She saw hunger—and pain—in those eyes, and it made her take a step back as he approached.