Brett realized he was standing with his fists clenched, clutching the cloth sack tight to his chest. Air was snorting out his nostrils; he was sounding like a lathered horse after a hard run.
He shook his head at her consternation. “I’m sorry, Miss Bellini. I . . . uh . . . get upset when I think about my pa.”
She made a funny sound in her throat. Brett turned and questioned her with his eyes. She shot a pained look at him, and it gave him pause. “I feel the same about my father,” she said, touching a hand to her neck.
She bit her lower lip, and Brett’s mouth went dry again as he tried to pry his eyes away from her mouth. He stared at the ground and kicked at the dirt as they stood under a languishing maple that gave little shade. “He’s a mean man—Papá is. He beats my mamá. I can’t . . . I wish . . .” She swallowed and looked at him through a blur of tears, her lips quivering.
“Does he hit ya?” Brett asked, thinking maybe going back to New York wasn’t such a smart idea.
She nodded, looking like a bunch of words were stuck in her throat.
The thought of any man striking such a sweet and gentle gal set afire his anger. He knew men like that—like his pa—did more than hit women. They brutalized and ravaged them. Just like that Orlander kid was trying to do that day. His head grew hot and heavy as blood pounded in his ears. He swatted the rage back into its pen and set the latch.
He wanted nothing more in that moment than to gently wipe those tears off her cheeks. But instead he stood there and nodded, feeling suddenly weak and irritable. He wished he’d never mentioned his pa.
“Tell me about your music,” he said, trying to lighten the mood off them both. For the life of him, he didn’t know why all that hurt and rage came gushing out. But being close to Angela Bellini did something to him, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep feeling like this. But he couldn’t seem to yank away. She was like a river, pulling him downstream into a roaring current, sucking him under the surface. He could scarcely breathe around her.
She took some steps down the street while wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Then she straightened, and he saw how she pushed back the pain—just the way he often did. Locking it away but knowing it was always there. It never left for good.
“I got my first violin when I was thirteen,” she said, working a smile back up her face.
She went on to tell him about her aunt and going to hear some orchestra play, but he didn’t pay mind to her words. He was listening more to the sweet sound of her voice, her soft Italian accent smoothing over the words the way water played over rocks in a creek. They’d gone a couple of blocks when she stopped talking and turned to him.
“I apologize for rambling, Mr.—I mean, Brett.” A smile lit up her face, the first genuine one he’d gotten from her. “I get carried away when I talk about music. It’s what I care most about in life.”
He nodded. “I understand. Though I’ve never been around much music. But I feel that same way about horses.”
“In what way?” she asked. She genuinely seemed to want to know. And her eyes were no longer throwing knives at him.
He waggled his head and shrugged. “I don’t know how to put it. There’s just ain’t nothin’ like facin’ a savage pair of bloodshot eyes, lathered flanks heavin’, tail switchin’, mane tossin’.” He chuckled. “Cruel hooves flyin’ at yer face, hopin’ to gouge yer eyes out.” He glanced at her as she listened, her gaze locked on his face. Then he looked down the road, out across the fields of wheat, feeling the open prairie call to his blood. “I love the challenge of gentlin’ an outlaw horse.”
“What’s an outlaw?” she asked as they stood there, flies buzzing about their heads.
“It’s a spoilt horse. One that’s been cruelly broken in the early stages, so completely that he’s bad to the end of his days, either as a bucker, kicker, biter, or backfaller. Usually master of all these accomplishments every time he’s saddled.”
She shook her head in amazement. “And you enjoy this? Don’t you get hurt?”
“Yeah, you do.” He huffed. “But, well . . . I reckon I got this gift.” He grinned at her. “Maybe not a purty gift like yours, but I have a way with horses. They know I don’t want to hurt ’em. I respect ’em, and they tend to be fearful—it’s their nature. Just gettin’ ’em more scared only makes it worse. Horses have a keen sense of intent, if you catch my drift. They c’n rightly tell when someone means ’em harm. And they c’n tell when someone truly loves and honors their spirit. I believe they sense this from me. It might take ’em some time to calm down enough to feel it, but when they do, the battle’s won. And a trust is born.”
Brett shut his mouth, leaving his words to hang in the sultry afternoon air. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d said so much in a breath.
He turned and looked at her, searching her eyes for understanding. He saw it there, and it made him smile. She was a bit like a scared horse, but now he knew why. She’d been beaten and mistreated, but instead of turning outlaw, she’d found comfort in her music. It soothed her the way his words and soft sounds soothed the horses under his legs. And he realized what soothed him was this power of his. Getting horses to trust him, to know he meant no harm.
But that never truly calmed the raging inside him. Or the guilt and shame that haunted him. Nothing would ever cure that. Or at least that’s what he’d reckoned until the night he heard her play her fiddle. Nothing in his life had ever given him such relief, such peace, from his suffering.
He suddenly wanted to feel that again, to let her music spill into him. As much as he longed to touch and hold her, to taste her sweetness, he needed more than that. More than just a moment of pleasure, a sating of his carnal desires. Could he have both? It was too much to wish for, but he was willing to take a chance and ask. For this one thing, leastwise.
Her name sat on the tip of his tongue. He was afraid to say it. Not because he worried she’d get mad. More like it would get tainted by his lips. Her name sounded like a prayer in his head, a pure white candle that burned with blue fire. He didn’t think he could say her name in a way that it deserved. But he couldn’t call her Miss Bellini anymore.
“Would you mind so terribly if I called you by your given name?”
The question seemed to break off and teeter for a moment before she answered. He expected her face to tighten into those hard lines he’d seen before, but she surprised him.
“No, Brett, I wouldn’t mind. Not at all,” she said, looking like she was waiting for him to continue. Then an unexpected chuckle came out of her mouth. “So long as you don’t call me ‘honey.”
“Deal,” he said. “Well . . . Angela, I wonder if you would . . . that is, if I could hear you play that fiddle again. Maybe I could come over when you and Mr. Fisk—”
He was back to fumbling with his words, but she interrupted and spared him.
“I’d be happy to, Brett. Why don’t you come over after supper, around six? We’ll play some duets for you.”
“All right,” he said, feeling empty and full at the same time. He was still a mite weak, and his body sagged with weariness. Though he wondered if it was due less to his ordeal in the desert and more from talking to Angela.
Angela. The name tasted sweet on his tongue. How he wanted to taste her mouth and the sweetness he imagined waited for him there. But that seemed as impossible as getting a pig to fly.
He walked with her, lost in his thoughts, the final blocks to Fisk’s house. He was careening down that river, starting to drown, the water way too deep for his liking. He needed to get back on the range, working cattle, breaking horses. There was nothing he could offer a gal like Angela Bellini, though his heart ached to shelter and protect her, to work the fear out of her so she could learn to trust again.
But she wasn’t a horse, and he had no way with womenfolk. But at least before she left for New York, he’d get to hear that music again. He hoped it would take him to that peaceful place once more.
Chapter 11
How had he done that—pry open her hurt? She’d meant to keep her distance from him, but seeing him turn so tender toward her had shaken her to her core. Underneath all that posturing lay a sensitive man who’d been through a lot of suffering. She didn’t know just how badly his father had treated him, but she knew what he was feeling. She saw it in his eyes. It was the same pain she saw in her own eyes when she stared at her face in a looking glass.
But how in the world had she allowed him to get close? She gave him permission to call her by her Christian name, for heaven’s sake—a stranger she hardly knew. And a man who carries guns and gets shot at. She fumed, thinking of the way he’d talked about taming horses. No doubt he thought she was just another animal to tame, to get under his control with sweet, soft words.
You’re being too hard on him. You saw how he was. He opened up to you—and how many Italian men do you know who would bare their soul like that?
Maybe it was the untamed West that brought out such sentiments. That made people question their lives. Maybe men like Brett Hendricks had too much time on their hands, spending months with only cows and horses on the lonely prairie, with nothing else to do but think. But why did you tell him about Papá, and that he hurt you? That was something she would never tell a living soul. But somehow Brett Hendricks had pulled it out of her. Him and his gift!
She pushed wayward strands of hair out of her face with her wet hand and started slicing the potatoes to make her aunt’s wonderful patate al forno dish. She wondered where George was, as it was nearly suppertime. He was probably napping. Well, she was glad he wasn’t around to see her so agitated. He would ask her questions. More prying—the last thing she wanted. She adored the older man, but right now what she needed most was to be alone, to think. Talking with Brett had more than flustered her. Anger and hurt and confusion all mixed together so that she could hardly think straight.
Worst of all, she couldn’t get his handsome face out of her mind. Those sparkling hazel eyes that dove deep into her soul, as if he could read her thoughts and memories. That quirky smile that exposed nice straight teeth set in a strong jaw. She loved the way his wavy hair fell wild to his broad shoulders. His whole body exuded strength, every muscle taut and sculpted by years of hard ranch work. She pictured him galloping on a horse, a lasso swinging a wide circle overhead as he chased down a cow. She’d seen illustrations of cowboys doing that, their hats flying in the wind, hunched forward over a horse as they rode hard across a wide-open prairie.
Dime novels and magazines romanticized the cowboy life, but Angela had always imagined such a life as mostly drudgery and dirt. And danger. Even with the Indians gone, there were still other dangers out there—storms and outlaws and wild animals. And don’t forget—snakes. What decent man would love a life like that? How could a man—like Brett Hendricks—find a respectable place in society? Could a cowboy like him ever settle down and marry, raise a family? She imagined he’d be unable to stay put, wanting to run off and be free, answer to no one. A man like that lived for himself and his own pleasure. And Brett Hendricks seemed just that kind of man—restless and noncommittal. He’d run from some dangerous situation and now he was looking for a new job. How many ranches had he worked on? Did he ever stay long in one place?
A man like that would break your heart. Why was she even thinking of him? She scoffed at her endless musings about Brett and laid the potato slices in a clay pie dish, thinking how Lucy Fisk must have used this dish to make many pies over the years. Then she thought of how heartbroken George was. She could tell it lingered in his heart, a heavy pain, like a rock with sharp edges. He had surely loved his wife. He’d spent years devoted to caring for her, faithfully staying by her side throughout her illness. Perhaps he was the one who had made the pies in this dish.
Love that unselfish and true was a rare thing, Angela realized. She could hardly think of a handful of married couples who expressed such devotion. It seemed foolish to hope that she’d ever find true love. While her heart cried out for it, what good would it do for her to feed that longing? None at all. And what if her “perfect” man ended up like her papá? There was no way to tell. Behind all those sweet words and gentle manners could lie a monster. And once married, it would be too late.
No, the only thing she could depend on to bring her joy, that wouldn’t fail her, was music. She had to remind herself of that, of why she’d come to Colorado, and how close she was to grasping her dream. Soon she would have her violin in hand, and then she’d—
“Hello!”
Angela turned at the muffled voice coming from the front porch. She wiped her hands and hurried to the door, hoping George wouldn’t be woken from his nap. When she opened it, letting in a draft of hot air, she wondered who this man was. He looked like any one of George’s neighbors, neatly dressed in a starched white shirt and pressed trousers. His bearded face held a serious expression as he touched the brim of his bowler hat and said, “Are you Miss Angela Bellini?”
She paused, wondering what this man wanted from her—and how he’d known she was staying here. “Yes, I’m she.”
He held out a hand that grasped a pale-yellow envelope. “A telegram came for you this afternoon.”
A telegram? It must be from Tia Sofia. But why would she send a telegram? To ensure it arrived before I left Greeley?
She stepped out onto the porch and took it from him, noting George’s address scribbled in pencil in the corner of the blank Western Union Telegraph Company envelope. “Thank you,” she said, a shiver of worry running up her back. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear news from her family. Guilt over leaving her mamá so hastily pushed tears into her eyes. “Do I . . . owe you any money for this?”
“No, miss,” the man said, again touching his hat brim. “Well, good day to you.”
He marched down the walkway, and not until he was out of sight many blocks later did Angela turn the envelope over and consider reading it. For some reason dread filled her heart, but she told herself she was being silly. Zia Sofia was probably writing to tell her how much she’d love to have her come live with her.
The thought of returning home loomed large, like a giant gaping maw. She missed her family and the excitement of the city—the smells and flavors of her neighborhood, and her friends she often walked and picnicked with. But the longer she stayed in Greeley—in this quiet little town with the air so dry and clean—the less she felt the pull to go home. Even the prospect of auditioning with her new violin for a symphony chair hovered on the horizon of her thoughts like a receding mirage.
Still, New York was where her dream awaited. Despite the troubles and conflicts she’d surely have to face upon her return, she could see no other course. She had no money with which to support herself, which meant relying on her aunt’s generosity until she could find suitable employment—hopefully by playing her violin. She couldn’t bear the thought of living in the same apartment as her papá, nor could she start anew in another city—not without some savings to sustain her.
With a resigned sigh, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper. At first the words were confusing. The long paragraph ran on in capital letters, punctuated with STOP every line or so. But upon rereading the message, the meaning grew clear, and with that clarity Angela felt all the blood drain from her face.
Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the porch and plunked onto the top step. Her hand holding the telegram shook so hard, she couldn’t reread the words. But she didn’t need to. Her aunt’s message was brief and to the point.
All the guilt and worry and fear she’d been pushing into a tiny corner of her mind now burst out in an explosion of pain and shock. “Don’t blame y
ourself,” her aunt had said. But how could she not? It was all her fault her mamá was in the hospital. And what if she never awoke? “A concussion, when she fell down the stairs at the station.”
Her papá had struck her mamá after dragging her from the train. When she tried to pull away, she tripped and fell. Angela squeezed her eyes against the flood of tears, picturing her mamá tumbling down the two dozen steps to the street below. She imagined the piercing sound of her mamá’s scream of fear and her papá’s angry scowl.
Angela wiped her eyes and reread the last lines.
“Don’t hurry back STOP Papá is angry STOP Not safe STOP I will write again soon STOP Love you STOP Zia Sofia STOP.”
Stop. Angela wished she could stop—stop the pain, the crying, the ache in her heart. Stop her papá’s violence and the images assaulting her of her poor mamá crashing down the stairs of the El Train. What can I do? How can I sit here and do nothing?
Angela buried her face in her hands and wept. Great sobs racked her chest, hurting her ribs, but she couldn’t stop. Then she startled at a hand touching her shoulder.
She twisted around and looked up into George’s compassionate face. He said nothing as she dropped her head and held the telegram up for him to take from her hand.
After many minutes, she was emptied of her tears, and her sobs turned to painful heaves as she gulped air, unable to fill her lungs.
“Come, my dear,” George said softly, reaching for her hand. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Angela nodded, aware of what a sight she must look like to anyone passing on the street. But what did that matter? Here she was, a thousand miles or more away from her mamá, who needed her. Yet, her aunt had told her not to come home. She could go back and sneak into the hospital. She longed to leave this very minute. But if her papá saw her or knew she was back, what further trouble would erupt? Would he take out his anger on her sisters? She couldn’t take that chance. She would just have to wait until her aunt wrote again. But I will send a telegram back, telling Zia Sofia she must let me know how Mamá fares. If she dies . . .
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