Maybe she would never grasp that dream, but she could never live with herself if she didn’t try. She didn’t want to end up like Signore Bianchi, the old frustrated shopkeeper whose dreams of being a famous violin soloist had been tossed by the wayside. All through those hours of lessons she’d taken from him, she’d sensed his regrets. There seemed nothing worse in life than letting go of a dream and watching it float away until it vanished, out of reach forever.
“Are you ready, my dear?” George asked her.
“I’m glad Mr. Fisk has you for company,” Mrs. Edwards said, trying to pull her twin boys to her side. They seemed eager to run off and find trouble, and Angela could tell Violet’s mother had her hands full with these two. Her own sisters were precocious but didn’t have the wild energy these two boys seemed to have. They’d fidgeted all through the pastor’s sermon, but she couldn’t blame them. Few boys that age could sit still on a hard bench for an hour.
“She’s spoiling me,” George said, patting his belly. “She’s trying to stuff me as if I were a pillow that’s lost its feathers.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to gain back a few pounds,” Mrs. Edwards said softly, her eyes showing compassion. “And it’s good to see you smile again.”
George made a noise of agreement in his throat, and Angela could see he was trying hard to be cordial. But pain had oozed from his eyes every time someone came up to him and offered their condolences for his loss. She hadn’t known when they headed out in the brisk morning that this was the first time he’d gone back to church since Lucy died, and while she and Violet had chatted right after the service, the pastor had taken George aside and spoken privately with him.
“I have a wonderful Italian dinner prepared for you,” Angela told George. She’d spent an hour last night preparing a special pasta dish. His smile spread across his face.
“Violet mentioned she wanted you to come over sometime this week. Perhaps you might honor us with a violin piece after dinner?” Mrs. Edwards asked.
“I’d love that,” Angela said, “though I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. I have to get back to my family.”
Mrs. Edwards nodded in understanding. “Well, I hope you won’t be rushing off too quickly.” One of her boys tugged at her blouse sleeve. “Yes, Henry, what is it?”
“Please, can we go home now? Bandit and I wanna go ridin’.” The other boy looked up with pleading eyes at his mother and bounced up and down impatiently.
Mrs. Edwards sighed. “I don’t know what’s taking Ed,” she said, looking at the closed door to the church. “All right,” she told Henry. “But you two go straight home and fix yourselves a snack. And don’t make a mess. I want you back for dinner in an hour. You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am,” they chimed in unison. Then, before Angela could blink, they were racing off up the street. Mrs. Edwards shook her head, but a smile graced her lips.
“As soon as George picks a violin for me, I’ll come over,” Angela said, giving George an entreating look. He merely shrugged. Angela was beginning to think he enjoyed being stubborn. In just a few days, she’d become fond of him, and it made her happy to know her visit was cheering him up and getting him to step back into the world of the living. But she couldn’t stay with him forever, nor did she want to.
They’d spent most of Saturday inside the shop, and they’d had a wonderful time playing duets. She’d tried all his violins, and he’d narrowed down his choices to three that he felt might be perfect for her. But she couldn’t tell the difference between them, and all three were exceptional instruments—she’d be thrilled to have any of them. Every time she pressed him to decide, he reminded her how such a decision couldn’t be rushed. His reluctance to choose was beginning to irritate her to no end, but then she suddenly wondered if he was stalling for a different reason. He was a lonely, grieving widower, and she offered both distraction and company.
She chided herself for her impatience and selfishness. Here she had an opportunity to bring a small bit of joy into this man’s life. Where was her Christian charity? She would be heartless to begrudge him for stalling—if that’s what he was indeed doing. Besides, she’d only sent her letter to her aunt three days ago. And while she’d also sent a telegram to her mamá, she didn’t expect an answer. She hadn’t said much in the telegram—only that she was fine and would return soon. She didn’t want her papá to know where she was. Though, she’d told her aunt—who would keep such information to herself, at Angela’s request. She couldn’t leave Colorado until she knew for a certainty that she could live with Zia Sofia. And if she said no? Angela pushed down the fear that lurched in the corner of her mind like a big spider. How could her aunt refuse her?
Angela and George said their good-byes and walked the few blocks back to his house, chatting about the sermon the pastor had given on generosity. Now, even more, she felt convicted about staying a while longer with George and helping him recover his joy for living. She’d seen how his eyes lit up when they’d played the Bach partitas. If anything, music was healing, and the more she could get George to play, the sooner he’d feel alive again. She was sure of it.
When they arrived at George’s house, Angela stopped abruptly and bristled. Sitting on the porch of the house to the left was Brett Hendricks. She startled when she saw that he had a rifle on his lap and a rag in one hand. He was wearing a light-colored shirt with the sleeves bunched up at the elbows, and his wavy chestnut hair fell down over his eyes and tickled his shoulders. His injured leg was propped up on a stool. She’d thought him handsome in the dim moonlight, but in the bright late-morning sunlight, his features took on a bronze glow, and his hazel eyes sparked with light. The muscles in his forearms were firm and toned.
She tore her eyes away when he looked up and saw them come up the walkway. She reminded herself of his impertinence the other night, and it was clear by the way he was dressed that he hadn’t made plans to attend church on this Lord’s day. Instead, he was sitting and playing with his gun. She hoped Brett would ignore her, but he waved and called out a hello.
She stiffened when George turned upon hearing his voice and said, “Oh, hello there, young man. I’ve not met you before. Are you a relation of Mr. Tuttle’s?”
“No sir,” Brett said, getting up and setting his rifle down on the porch planking. He walked down the steps with a slight limp and came over. Angela avoided meeting his gaze, but she could tell he was looking at her.
He put out a hand for George to shake. “Name’s Brett Hendricks. Doc Tuttle’s been nursin’ me back to health.” Angela dared glance at him from under her lashes and caught him grinning at her. She seethed and dropped her gaze to the ground, feeling heat wash over her face.
“I met Miss Bellini the other evening—she was out back playing the fiddle.”
George grunted, sizing him up. Angela sensed a fatherly protectiveness in his manner and was glad for it. Maybe this cowboy would leave her alone once George made it clear he should keep his distance.
George’s manner was reserved. “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Hendricks. I’m George Fisk. The doctor is a good man, and you’re in good hands. Is he about?”
“At church,” Brett answered with a casual wave of his hand, as if attending church was of little importance.
“And is that someplace cowboys don’t deign to attend?” Angela blurted out, instantly regretting the harsh tone of her words.
Brett’s eyebrows narrowed as he studied her. Her cheeks burned. George looked at her quizzically.
“Deign to attend?” He chuckled, and the warmth of his mirth set her heart racing again. Why did he have to stand so close to her? And why wasn’t George saying anything to discourage him?
Brett shook his head. “I don’t rightly know what you just said, miss. But I don’t have much of a hankerin’ for church. The great outdoors is the chapel I worship in, under the starry heavens. I reckon a body can get close to God just as easily outside as in. Maybe even easier—without them walls and a roof blocki
n’ the way.” He laughed as if amused by his own humor. But Angela didn’t find him funny. He sounded impertinent to her.
To her dismay, George smiled and patted Brett on the shoulder. “Are you employed by one of local ranchers?”
“Not at present. Though I’m looking to join up. Once I’m up to snuff.”
“Where are you from?” George asked, seemingly happy to stand outside and chat with this cowboy all day—much to Angela’s dismay.
“Texas, for the most part.”
“Well, what brought you to Greeley?” George asked.
“He got shot,” Angela said flatly, wondering how George would react to that.
To her surprise, he merely frowned and said, “Oh my, I’m sorry to hear that. But you look to be on the mend.”
Angela’s mouth dropped open. Was it that common for people to get shot in Colorado? Both Brett and George seemed to make light of it. She closed her mouth when she saw Brett staring at it. And then her eyes snagged on his. They again looked hungry and full of need.
Her jaw clenched and she sputtered, “Well, it was nice talking with you, Mr. Hendricks. I need to get busy preparing supper.” She started up the walkway.
“Would you like to join us?” George asked Brett.
Angela cringed. Oh please, say no. Last thing she wanted was for this cowboy to be glaring at her across the dinner table.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brett contemplating the offer. Then he looked at her again, thoughtfully, as if trying to read her mind.
“Mighty kind of you, Mr. Fisk. But I reckon I’ll pass. I don’t think the young lady is all that fond of my company.”
“Oh, poppycock,” George said. “She just hasn’t been around cowboys before. The prosperity of the West is dependent on the fine work you cowboys do. I know what a hard and dangerous life you men lead and how much work it takes to get those cows rounded up and to market. You put the meat on our tables.”
“Kind of you to say, sir.”
Angela thought he saw Brett blush from the praise George gave him as she walked up the porch steps.
“But just the same, I’ll be glad to take you up on your invitation some other day. Doc Tuttle should be back soon.”
“All right, young man,” George said.
Angela heard no more after closing the door behind her. Flustered by yet another encounter with the brash Brett Hendricks, she busied herself preparing dinner. Though, no matter how hard she tried to push his cocky smile and penetrating eyes out of her mind, she found herself unable to get the handsome cowboy out of her thoughts.
Chapter 10
It felt good to walk in the warm sunshine of the late afternoon. The town was too sleepy and too religious for Brett’s tastes, and he sure hankered for a drink. Well, he had to admit the peace and quiet of the last week had done some good for his soul. He felt rested and ready to get back in the saddle. But he was itching to get to work, for all this lollygagging was only good to a point.
Most of these townsfolk were farmers, come from back east, working the hard prairie ground with sweat and breaking their backs to grow crops, but their diligence was paying off. Though, Brett knew the locusts came nearly every year and gobbled up everything in sight. But this September, acres of wheat gleamed and rippled golden before him, surrounded by crops of potatoes and other plants he didn’t recognize. The road he followed went along the town’s wide ditch, where they channeled water across miles of open range from the Platte. The doc had told him about the town’s beginnings and how a handful of people settled in the dust and wind and were determined to make the desert bloom.
Somehow, with grit and spunk, they’d done it. And encircled the whole place with wood fencing, to keep out the range cattle. But while this afforded the folks a good life, too many towns like this were springing up, following the railroad, crowded out the rangeland. He s’posed he couldn’t rightly begrudge folks for wanting to start a new life—he surely had. But he kept wondering how long the cowboy would last if this kind of “progress” kept up.
He’d asked at the general store and feed store about local ranches and got some names, but how in tarnation could he get out to these places without a horse? He s’posed he could buy one with the money he had. But he didn’t cotton to the notion of buying just any old horse, even if to ride it for a brief spell. But maybe he’d have to. He couldn’t see any other way about it.
He was ready though. First thing tomorrow he’d find himself a horse and ride out to those ranches. He’d heard of Foster’s Cattle Company. That one was prob’ly as big as Orlander’s. And then there was Morrison’s ranch direct east at Beaver Creek. He hadn’t heard of Gerry’s at Crow Creek, but it sounded like a small outfit. He’d do better at the big spreads.
As he turned down one of the wide roads that led into the heart of the town, he stopped. “Well, looky there,” he said with a whistle under his breath.
Miss Angela Bellini was strolling down the side of the street in a purty lacy dress and pert hat, a large sack in her arms, with corn silk sticking out the top. She must have been out shopping for that fiddle maker. He didn’t understand why the gal was living in the back shed. She said she’d come from New York to buy a violin. But she didn’t seem all that much in a hurry to rush on home. She was a curious thing. Stiff and proper on the outside, but when she played that fiddle . . .
Brett remembered the way he’d felt hearing those sweet notes speaking to his soul, and how her playing had bewitched him something fierce. He’d even teared up, and he couldn’t recall any time in his grown life that he’d cried—other than when he’d had to shoot Dakota. Maybe the unfortunate events of late had made him weak and sappy and that’s why he’d gone all mushy. He didn’t like the feeling. It made him twitchy. What good could come from getting weak and sappy like that? None at all.
He stopped at the corner and watched her come toward him. She was paying so much attention to her footing that she almost bumped into him.
As she looked up, she startled at the sight of him, then lost her balance. A cry of surprise escaped her lips. He steadied her with his arms.
“Whoa, there,” he said. “Kinda hard to walk on this rutted road with them fancy shoes of yours.” They were some kind of heeled boot but must have had slick soles.
She pulled back and narrowed her eyes, which made her all the more comely. “You can let go now, Mr. Hendricks.”
He wanted to laugh at her flustered manner, but he swallowed it back and nodded politely, dropping his arms to his side. “Sure, honey. Just didn’t want to see you drop all your vegetables.”
“Don’t—” She sucked in a breath and set about composing her face. “Please, don’t call me ‘honey.’” Her cheeks looked daubbed with pink powder, and her sumptuous lips pouted. He could hardly keep from staring at them. It’d been a long while since he’d kissed any lips worth remembering. Lips like hers would burn in his memory.
She had her long black hair pulled up under her pretty bonnet, and the skin of her throat was milky smooth. He noticed her pulse throbbing under her chin and longed to reach out and run his fingers along her neck.
He gulped and took a few steps back, feeling way too hot under the collar.
“Lemme carry that for you,” he said, reaching for her sack.
She started to protest, but he ignored her and took it from her. She pouted again and said, “Thank you, but I can manage.”
“I’m sure you can,” Brett told her, smiling. “But it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, don’t you reckon?”
Reluctantly, she said, “I suppose.”
Pleased with his ploy to get her to walk with him, he started down the street, thinking how to stretch out the five long blocks to the house. She walked silent by his side, but his every sense was keenly aware of her. He smelled the lavender soap in her hair and clothes, and every nerve tingled in longing for her. It took some mighty hard determination not to pull her close and feel her body pressed up against his. He ached with need, for
being next to her reminded him of how much he wanted a woman to hold and love and how hard he’d fought this yearning every day of his life since he’d run from home.
But, truth be told, he felt more than a man’s need when he was around her. She wasn’t just purty on the outside. And while that was a plus, comely looks never did much more than tantalize him for a spell. It was that music she played. As if she had something inside her that came out, something he needed. It made him think of a wild horse that finally gives up under his hand and goes limp. Its crazed eyes turn calm, as if the fear just melted away. One moment the animal’s agitated and the next he’s trusting. Something snaps inside, and there was no right way to explain it. But that’s what happened to him when she played that fiddle. Oh, he was working himself silly over this.
He blew out a hard breath, tired of trying to untangle the knot in his head.
She stopped him and searched his face with those big brown eyes, and his throat went dry. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes. As if he could conjure the words to tell her. He didn’t rightly know what was vexing him.
He began walking again. “How’d you learn to play that fiddle so well?”
She seemed surprised by his question. “Do you like music, Mr. Hendricks?”
Brett spun to face her and cocked his head. “If you don’t want to call me Brett, that’s fine. But don’t call me Mr. Hendricks.” His gut knotted up. “That’s what my pa’s called, and I don’t want that name.”
He didn’t know why he said that, but when the words rushed out, he realized the truth of them. For most of his life, his pa had been seen as a respectable man in Austin. He’d brokered cattle into the Fort Worth stockyards. To all appearances, his pa had been a successful businessman, but none of his associates knew what a mean son of a snake he was at home. Not until he killed his wife in such a brutal fashion that his crony, the sheriff, had no choice but to throw him in jail. Brett knew his pa had cheated on his wife aplenty, yet she’d cooked and cleaned for him and kept up a right nice home. She hadn’t deserved what he gave her.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 9
