Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  He stopped about ten feet from her, and now that she saw him more clearly, her breath caught in her throat. His skin was rough and sun-darkened, and a scar ran from his neck to his ear. He was nothing like the men of New York. Every inch of him seemed tough and strong—even the thick cords of his neck that bulged under a chiseled jaw.

  “Pardon me, honey,” he said in a voice that had its own lilting melody. “I didn’t mean t’ startle ya. That’s some purty music you were playin’.”

  Angela’s eyes dropped to his chest showing through the open top buttons of his shirt, then she averted her eyes. His nearness unsettled her.

  She cleared her throat, suspicious of his attempt at pleasantry. “Thank you.” Her words seemed to evaporate in the night air.

  “You live here?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” she answered quickly. “I’ve come to buy a violin from Mr. Fisk.” Why she felt so awkward around this man, she couldn’t say. She had a hard time meeting his eyes, for when she did, her heart raced. And when he smiled at her, she could hardly swallow. Everything about him exuded manliness and strength, and she sensed a wild spirit raging underneath his calm exterior.

  “What’s yer name?” he said, then winced as he shifted his weight onto one leg.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked, for he surely seemed to be in pain.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Had a bit of a scrape. But the doc here has been tendin’ to me.” Before Angela could reply, he came toward her and held out his hand. “Name’s Brett. Brett Hendricks.”

  She wasn’t sure what he wanted, so she shook his warm, weathered hand, then pulled her hand away. “I’m Angela Bellini.”

  “Where ya from? I c’n hear an accent.” His eyes lit up with moonlight as a coy smile graced his face. Angela felt flustered by his questions.

  “I live in New York.”

  “Never would’a guessed.” He turned thoughtful. “Italian, I reckon, by your name.”

  She nodded. “And you, Mr. Hendricks—?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Just call me Brett.” He reached up and rubbed his neck, and Angela watched the muscles ripple in his arm under his threadbare shirt. For a second she wondered what it might feel like to have such strong arms embrace her. Then she shook away the thought, remembering propriety.

  “Do you live here in Greeley?” she asked, feeling more awkward with each passing minute, standing out here in the yard in the dark of night with a strange man. She certainly didn’t feel comfortable calling him by his Christian name.

  He laughed again. “No, I punch cattle. I’m between jobs presently.”

  “I see.” Though she wasn’t exactly sure what it meant to “punch cattle,” she guessed he must be a cowboy. It took little to imagine him on a horse, wearing a brimmed hat and swinging a rope at some cow.

  “What happened to you?” she said, nodding at his leg—the one he wouldn’t put weight on.

  “Got shot.”

  “Shot?” Was he serious?

  He shrugged, and an uncertain smile touched his mouth. “It happens.”

  Angela blanched and fell speechless. Happens when, where? Herding cows? She’d heard the West was wild, but she really didn’t imagine men went around shooting one another.

  His eyes regarded her steadily, scrutinizing her. Her face got hot as a lengthy silence fell.

  “Well, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I wish you a fast and full recovery from your . . . wound.”

  Now she was sure he was laughing at her. Though his eyes danced with mirth, his face settled into hard lines.

  “Well, thank you, honey.” He nodded and touched his forehead as if reaching for a hat he’d forgotten to put on. “When . . . uh . . . will you be headin’ back to New York?” His eyes drifted down her body, then returned to gaze at her with a mischievous glint.

  She restrained her hand from slapping his face. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit too personal, Mr. Hendricks?” she said, her ire rising as she took a step back. She wrapped her arms around her chest, now regretting she’d said hello. It was highly improper for her to be talking to him like this. And he seemed just the kind of man who would sweet-talk a woman into his arms. Here in Colorado, she didn’t have a stern father keeping unsuitable men from making advances.

  He pursed his lips, and his eyes laughed at her. “Listen, honey. If a fella meant to hurt ya, he would’a done so by now.” He towered over her by nearly a foot, and he intimidated her more with each breath he took.

  “I have to go,” she said brusquely. She hoped he’d get the message. She wasn’t interested in getting to know Brett Hendricks beyond the usual pleasantries.

  “Good night, then,” he said with a chuckle, then turned and hobbled back toward the house he was staying in.

  Angela waited until he went inside, then hurried into the shop and latched the door behind her. Her heart thumped fast as if she’d escaped some danger as her body went limp with relief. She couldn’t get Brett’s smile and laughing eyes out of her mind as she prepared for sleep. No doubt he was a reckless man—he’d gotten shot! He might even be an outlaw for all she knew. And the way he looked at her—with the hungry gaze of a wolf. She’d best steer clear of the man for the few days she was here. No sense giving him any idea that she was intrigued by him.

  But you are, Angela. Admit it. Yes, he was intriguing, and utterly handsome, but she had not come here for adventure or romance—and especially not danger. She came to purchase a violin and then head home. Last thing she needed was a cowboy—or any man—in her life. I will not end up like Mamá, trapped in an awful marriage.

  Angela fixed that thought in her mind as she crawled under the light patchwork quilt in the narrow bed and blew out the lantern.

  ***

  Brett tossed in the too-soft bed, unable to snatch any sleep. That gal cut a wide swath through his thoughts. He replayed his feeble attempt at conversation, wondering what had gotten him so flummoxed. Sure, she was mighty fetching, with curves in all the right places and those gorgeous brown eyes and thick lashes. But he was never one to succumb to a fit of nerves around the female of the species. Being close to her had stirred something deep inside, like a sudden gush of blood. It was more than just carnal need—something he and every cowboy fought with, alone for months on the open range. No, there was something else there, something he couldn’t right put his finger on. She’d stood in the moonlight, playing that fiddle, like an angel sent from heaven.

  Well, Cowboy, get her out of your mind. She’s heading home inside of a week. Not much ya can do ’bout that. And a gal like that is too good and proper for ya.

  His mind flashed on the way his rage had erupted when he’d happened upon that Orlander kid with his hand squashed over that gal’s mouth as she squirmed trying to get shed of her attacker. The kid’d pinned her against the side of the barn, just inside the open doors, and by the time Brett had heard her muffled screams, the kid had his pants down to his knees and the gal’s skirts pushed up over her face.

  What made Brett even more furious was seeing the three cowpunchers lollygagging nearby, joking and finding it all amusing—what the rich rancher’s son was perpetrating. It took all his restraint not to shoot the lot of ’em. And, for the hundredth time, he reminded himself, that kid deserve what for. But it felt too good smashing ’is nose. Ya knew it when ya done it. You lusted for blood and wanted more. Like a fever, it took hold.

  Brett recalled the way his hands had shaken so fiercely with rage. He’d barely mustered the resolve to tear them from the kid’s throat. What stopped him from crushing the kid’s windpipe was the memory of the crazed look in his pa’s eyes the last time Brett’d seen him light into his ma.

  The sinking feeling of guilt and shame settled back in his gut—though it hardly ever left him. He winced recalling how he’d stood there and done nothing, his fear of his pa freezing him in place, until he finally worked up the nerve to run out the door. He’d headed over to Newcomb’s ranch an
d joined his outfit that day—he’d been all of sixteen. It was months later when he’d gotten the news, after coming in from a harsh winter in a floating outfit, having been far from Austin branding late calves and rounding up strays that’d escaped the roundup.

  By then, it was too late to do a thing about it. His pa was in jail and his ma buried in the little plot behind the house, next to his sisters that’d succumbed to the influenza. Though the house had been sold, Brett had ridden over and put flowers on her grave. A sorry offering that did nothing to excuse his cowardice that day.

  His hands were strong and able. With them he could bring horses under his command, throw lassoes and haul wayward calves into the branding chutes. His hands could fire a pistol or rifle with keen accuracy. But he also knew they were capable of killing, and he feared they’d someday wrap around a gal’s neck with the ease they wrapped around the grip of a gun.

  Chapter 8

  Horace Orlander paced outside the bedroom door, his heavy boots thumping on the wood planks that had been smoothed and worn down over the years, though they gleamed with polish—as did every inch of his fine domicile. He wasn’t a man who liked to wait for anything, and this fool doctor was wasting his time in there. Just how may more doctors would it take before he found one with an ounce of smarts?

  He refused to believe Wade wouldn’t walk again. The thought of his only son confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life fanned his rage into a conflagration. He couldn’t think of enough ways he itched to give that cowboy his just deserts. However long it took him, however far, he’d find that Hendricks fella and make him pay.

  The big house was quiet, his wife prob’ly still in bed, crying—like she did most every day. He could hear his hands outside, breaking the horses and getting the next string ready for range work. Most of his punchers were over by Cal’s Fork, near the Santa Fe Trail with most of the herd. That’s where Wade would be right now, he thought bitterly, his mouth souring at the way his son just sat there in bed, his eyes glazed, all the life drained out.

  He clenched his teeth and fists as he gazed mindlessly out the window, his thousands of acres of rolling grassland dry and brown in the September heat. Scatter Creek was as pathetic as he’d ever seen it, feebly pushing its way from the spring box only to be drunk up by the thirsty plains a mere hundred yards yonder. What used to bring him such pride and joy—looking out over his spread—now only gave him a big empty hole in his gut. He had one of the biggest ranches in southern Colorado, with two hundred thousand head of cattle. He’d spent decades making the name Orlander famous throughout the West, the admiration of ranchers from Texas to Montana. But what did it matter now?

  His wife had given him three sons. The two oldest had died before age five, causing him and the missus unbearable grief. He’d trained Wade since he was four to ride and rope and run cattle. Though his son had always been testy and headstrong, Horace knew he’d one day do a right good job taking over the ranching business.

  But now? How in tarnation would he be able to run a ranch if he couldn’t even walk—let alone dress himself?

  His chest tightened, and his breaths grew labored as his fury simmered to a boil. He turned from the window at the sound of the door opening.

  The fastidious doctor he’d paid to come all the way from Fort Worth slipped out of the bedroom and eased the door shut behind him.

  “Well?” Horace asked, reining in his impatience and frustration. He could tell from the look on the old man’s face that the news would be bleak.

  The doctor scrunched his lips as he approached Horace. His bag in one hand, the heavily mustached man wiped his brow with the other, then rubbed his chin.

  “I wish I could give you a better prognosis, Mr. Orlander. But those other doctors were right. Things don’t look all that promising for your son there. I’ll allow he’ll have a hard time of it. Usually if a man is injured like that and can’t feel his legs within the first day or two, it’s unlikely that’ll change. Though, I don’t discount the power of prayer. The Lord is a healer and can work miracles for those who have faith—”

  “Spare me your preachin’,” Horace snapped. “Is there anythin’ at all—practical—we can do to help him walk again? Give him some kind of exercise?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I don’t see how. The boy can move his arms and his torso, and that’s a blessing. He can feed himself and learn to dress and undress and be mostly independent. Give a boy meaningful work that can take his mind off his circumstance—”

  “He’s a cowboy, for heaven’s sake! How’s he s’posed to do that when he’s confined to a chair? Running a ranch ain’t done by sitting around.”

  The doctor shrugged and lowered his fearful eyes. “I imagine there’s other work he can do. Keeping the books, tracking sales and cattle shipped to market—”

  “I have a foreman who does all that.”

  “I’m merely suggest—”

  “Jus’ get out,” Orlander said, seething at the man’s “practical” suggestions. He was fed up and tired of hearing how he should have Wade push papers for the rest of his life. My boy has strength and skill. He’s almost a man, and a man needs to work with his body, not just his hands. Then he thought on how Wade would never be able to love a woman and what that would do to him. And that means no one to continue the Orlander family name. No one for Wade to pass the ranch to when he’s old.

  His jaw hurt from clenching it so tight. He had to do something with this anger. If he didn’t, who knew what terrible things he might do.

  Without a further word, the doctor gave a nod that oozed with pity and let himself out. Orlander’s eyes followed him as he fetched his wagon from his cowboys over at the barn. He stepped outside and watched Phineas Frye and Isaiah Cummings get the doctor on his way.

  It was time to stop dawdling, hoping the doctors would come up with a miracle. He had to face the truth, but he didn’t cotton to it one bit. He might not be able to get Wade walking again, but he could do something to ease his rage some.

  He walked the fifty yards over to the hay barn. Frye and Cummings, his two most dependable punchers, spotted him and came over.

  They’d told him the whole account of how that Hendricks fella had picked a fight with Wade over some fool thing, then, rather than take his punches, he fled on his horse north. Why his son felt he had to even the score, Horace didn’t know, but he didn’t fault him none for it. When a man insults you, you stand up to him. Wade had a bit too much pride, Horace had to concede. And he liked to fight—there was no denying that his son had a mean streak. Horace knew he’d spoilt his boy. But how could he not? He was all he had.

  And how could Wade have known that when he caught up to Hendricks that the lily-livered buster would pull a pistol on him unawares? The shots missed, but Wade’s horse got nicked and reared up, throwing him onto a pile of sharp rocks. Frye and Cummings said they’d fired back, but a dust storm had blown in, and Hendricks had ridden off. They doubted they’d hit him, but they couldn’t go after him—not with Wade in such a bad way. Plus, being hardly able to see farther than they could spit.

  They knew they had to get Wade back to the arena and fetch a doctor. They’d gingerly lifted him onto Frye’s horse, laying him over the saddle. But they’d had miles to cover, and at a slow walk—taking care they didn’t injure Wade further—night had fallen by the time they shambled in. Horace had been looking high and low for Wade, as the outfit had been all packed and ready to leave since midday after the contest.

  And by then, Hendricks had to have been miles away. Now, more than a week later, he could be anywhere. Finding Hendricks was going to be no easy task, but he knew his men would do his bidding, though he was sure they’d buck a bit at the assignment. They only had two weeks till the roundup, and Frye and Cummings wouldn’t like having to pass on their work to others. But they’d do what he asked, and they wouldn’t return until the job was done and Hendricks was dead.

  No, I want that pleasure. I’ll just have
’em find the scalawag and lead me to ’im.

  A man like Bronco Hendricks—with his talent at breaking wild horses—wouldn’t go unnoticed. No doubt he’d land with some outfit somewhere. It was only a matter of time. And Horace had all the time in the world to find the man that destroyed his son and all of Horace’s dreams.

  Chapter 9

  Angela said good-bye to Violet in front of the church and walked over to join George. He stood on the corner speaking to Violet’s friendly mother, whom Angela had met when they’d arrived at the small whitewashed clapboard building just blocks from George’s house. He’d given her a tour of the neighborhood before the service began, and Angela found the wide streets and simple one-story homes delightful and the neatly tended flower gardens quaint and pretty.

  Most of all she cherished the quiet. She hadn’t realized how much noise invaded her world night and day in New York until she came to Colorado. Sounds flitted in the air here, like butterflies, tickling her ears, only to then be soaked up in the thick quiet of summer. A lazy drone of insects played a soft melody against the occasional clops of horses’ hooves that punctuated the air when someone rode by or drove a wagon or carriage. She could get used to this quiet—and this simple style of life. Most of all she relished the freedom she felt away from the demands of her family and the tyranny of her papá. Though, she did miss her sisters and hoped they fared well.

  But as appealing as this life out west was, she couldn’t suppress the dream in her heart to play in a symphony. Would she feel as fulfilled if she settled on playing in a small town band, or for a local opera house, such as Violet did? Angela doubted she could ever truly be content on a small stage, playing with mediocre musicians. Perhaps she was being arrogant and thought too highly of herself. But how could she settle for less after hearing Miss Pappenheim play? For Angela to play the kind of music that would send her listeners into a state of bliss, she would need the backing of an exceptional orchestra—and a concert hall with perfect acoustics. And she’d need an audience with refined musical tastes to appreciate such magnificent music.