The thought brought on a new paroxysm of grief and tears. George—no stranger to grief—helped her to her feet with great care, as if she were an invalid. Her legs barely held her up as she stumbled into the house with George’s help.
Oh, why did I ever come out here? This was a selfish, foolish decision.
***
Phineas Frye took a long pull of his beer, then wiped the foam from his moustache as he scowled, looking out the window of the empty saloon that faced the flour mill sitting like a lump of clay in the hot sun. Heat simmered on the rough wide dirt lane called Main Street in this sorry excuse for a town. Loveland. What was to love about it? There were only two stores, no railroad, and a measly hotel that even fleas wouldn’t dare spend a night in. He scratched his neck, which itched something fierce. Probably all those fleas were in the saloon, nursing their cares on unsuspecting visitors.
“I still don’t git why Boss sent us ta go find that Hendricks fella. He could be halfway to Mexico by now. We don’t even know he went north.”
Isaiah Cummings combed his fingers through his thick red beard. “Don’t I know it? I told ’im half as much. But’s he’s got a burr in his craw.” He fingered his vest pocket and pulled out his rolling papers and pouch of tobacco. “Listen, we’ll make the rounds, then report back—like he told us. Boss knows it’s a snowball’s chance in hell we’ll git word of ’im.”
“Roundup’s inside o’ two weeks. If that buster didn’t hoof it back to Texas, he’d prob’ly joined some outfit here in Colorady.” Phineas upended the glass and gulped down the dregs of his beer. The barkeep was nowhere in sight, so he plunked down a coin on the stained and peeling counter. He thought on Boss’s face yesterday when he told them to pack up and go on the scout for Hendricks.
He could still hear the gruesome crack of the kid’s back when his horse dumped him onto those rocks. It was some miracle Wade was still alive. Yeah, but what kinda life c’n he have? Better off if he’d died.
Orlander loved that kid—and spoilt him thoroughly—though, if truth be told, Phineas reckoned Wade’d had it coming. More times than he could count, Wade had forced his way on a gal—everywhere and anywhere he went. Saw what he liked and took it. Didn’t matter none if’n it was a little girl hardly out of her pigtails or a hitched woman. If his wily charms didn’t get ’em willingly into his arms, then he used muscle or the threat of his knife. It sickened Phineas to no end—listening to the frantic pleas and screams and whimpers, and then hearing that mean laugh o’ his. He’d had a knife to that Mexican girl’s throat, and the terror in her eyes had made Phineas want to spit. But he did what the kid ordered—stood guard to let his boss’s kid ravish that poor gal.
He ground his teeth as he ran his finger over his moustache again and again, thinking. But there was nothin’ for it. He’d had to lie to Boss to cover for Wade—again. When Orlander had questioned them that night, Phineas had toyed with blurting the truth, once and for all—for it distressed him something awful to hold all that inside—but he reckoned it was too late. What good would it do? Not like Orlander would punish his kid—not now. Living the rest of his life in a chair was God’s punishment enough, weren’t it?
“What’s got you so deep in thought?” Cummings cast a sideways look at Phineas as he stood to his feet and struck a match along the top of the counter and lit his cigarette. A hand mindlessly wandered to his shoulder to rub it. He’d been Boss’s wrangler for years, but a rough fall had messed up his back, and he’d been relegated to riding point for the outfit most times, instead. Phineas got along fine with the fella, but it irked him some to see the way Cummings smirked and got pleasure off of watching the kid do his dirty business, though Cummings never said a word about it. But Phineas could tell—by that feverish look in his eyes and the way he grinned as he stood guard.
Out in cattle country, it was unwritten law that womenfolk were to be respected. It was the duty of cow men and horse herders alike to protect ’em and their innocence. A rich kid like Wade could have his pick from the purtiest gals in the West—could have had. So there was no excusing his bad behavior. He thought on the Hendricks fella, and how the instant he caught sight of Orlander, he went on the attack, swinging hard out the gate. Downright admirable. The right thing to do, and hardly a few fellas would dare risk a fight—’specially not over some Mexican gal’s honor.
Phineas pushed back his stool and stood, then grabbed his hat off the nearby stool and stuffed it on his head. “Where to now?” he asked. It hadn’t taken them long to suss out that Hendricks hadn’t come this way.
“Fort Collins’s to the north o’ here. Plenty of outfits runnin’ around the Powder River and north o’ the Platte.”
“Still, we’ll be meetin’ up with most of ’em in the roundup, more’n likely.”
Cummings sucked in a long draw from his cigarette, then blew out the smoke. “I know it. But Boss wants—”
“Boss wants that Hendricks fella to pay.”
Cummings nodded. “So let’s git.”
He followed Cummings out the saloon door over to their horses tied up in the shade around the side of the building. The air was hot and thick and damp from the Thompson River flowing down the hogbacks at the edge of the town. He smirked, thinking of Wade’s face when that buster yanked him off that girl, his pants down to his knees and so startled he’d dropped his knife. Before Wade had a chance to take another breath, Hendricks had about flattened his nose and gave a swift kick to those parts what were all exposed for the kicking.
Phineas had sucked back a laugh that almost snuck out as he watched Orlander’s kid grab his privates and fall onto his rear in the dust. But when Hendricks sent the girl running off and then caught Phineas’s eye, that laugh petered out and Phineas had felt ashamed. That’s what is what—plain and simple. And now, here he was chasing down the fella, so’s that Boss could put a bullet through his head. It just weren’t right, no sir.
Well, he thought as he untied the reins and swung up on his horse, maybe we’ll get lucky and find ’im. For then, he might get the chance to warn the fella. Yep, that’s what he’d do. His ma had taught him that it was never too late to do the right thing. She’d also taught him and his brother about sins of omission—that’s what she called them—and he shoulda followed her advice long ago. Phineas had stood by way too many times doing the wrong thing, and his sins were piling up to where they haunted his sleep. A body could lose his life at any time, ’specially in cattle country, and he’d put off too long making things right with his Maker. Yep, that’s what he’d do—warn the fella.
With that resolved, Phineas put spurs to flank and galloped down the main street of the sorry excuse for a town, headed north for Fort Collins.
Chapter 12
“Sorry I was out till all hours last night. I was assisting another doctor with an emergency surgery,” Doc Tuttle said, taking a big bite of toast and swallowing it down with the bittersweet coffee Brett was now enjoying while sitting at the table.
“This coffee’s the best I’ve had in a spell,” Brett said, savoring the flavor after he’d put a few spoonfuls of sugar in. Usually the kind of mud he got out on the range could make a horseshoe float—as the saying went.
“I been thinking,” Tuttle said between bites of egg. “You still looking to get hired on with a ranch?”
Brett nodded and stared out the window and across the way at Fisk’s house. All morning his thoughts were atumble over Angela. When he’d gone over last evening, figuring the old man and her had supped, the fiddle maker met him at the door with a strained expression and kept his voice low when he said, “She’s received some bad news in a telegram, I’m sorry to say. I’m afraid she’s retired for the night.”
Brett guessed the news had something to do with her ma, and his first thought was that her pa had hurt the woman—just as Angela afeared. Though he hoped the news spoke of her pa’s demise, he didn’t expect that’d be the case. Fellas like that—like his pa—rarely got their comeuppanc
e. It was a God’s miracle that his own pa was now rotting in the Alamo jail.
He hated thinking of Angela wearing her heart out with tears, alone in that back shed. His feet itched to run over and comfort her.
He snorted. Like she’d have any of that. Him trying to comfort her would be like barking at a knot to get it to untie. He had to stop thinking about her. Especially now. What with that news, no doubt she’d be jumping on the next train rolling east, and he’d never see her again. But maybe that was for the best—before his feelings got all tangled up like a calf in a patch of barbed wire. He needed to get on a horse and out on the open range before he got all sappy again. But he sure would’ve liked to kiss those scrumptious lips at least one time before she disappeared from his life.
Sadness sat heavy on his shoulders, like a sack of feed. He needed to shake it off. He pushed his chair back from the table, then realized Tuttle had been talking to him.
The doc looked at him and cocked his head. “You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?” he asked good-naturedly. “You feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” Brett said, straightening and busying himself with taking his dishes to the wash sink. “Sorry. My mind was wanderin’.”
Tuttle smiled. “I was mentioning my rancher friend, Logan Foster. He owns a big cattle company.”
Brett’s ears perked up at the word friend. “I heard of it,” Brett said. He doubted few hadn’t. “How’d you get to be friends with a rich rancher?” Brett asked as he set his dishes down and leaned his back against the kitchen wall. His leg still ached some, but it was hardly noticeable. He doubted it would cause any trouble when he got back to riding with an outfit.
Tuttle cleaned his plate with a swipe of crust mopping up the last bit of egg. The fella sure had a big appetite, but nothing stuck to his bones. “Funny story, that,” Tuttle said, smirking. “I’d just gotten to Greeley and opened up my practice on Sixth Street. It was an icy, cold morning after a bit of snow, and Mrs. Foster—Adeline—she had her little girls in tow and wasn’t looking. Her feet slipped out from under her in front of my office, and she broke her ankle. I hurried outside when I saw the commotion. I think she was more embarrassed than hurting, for her skirts had flown up into her face, exposing her undergarments. The little girls were bawling, and a crowd was gathering.
“I managed to quickly get her up and into my arms. Good thing I only had a dozen or so steps to take, for she’s not . . . how can put it delicately? She weighs a bit, and I’m not as strong or used to carrying heavy things as you no doubt are.”
Brett sniggered, picturing this lightweight hefting a heavy woman with a flounce of skirts in his face and her arms flailing about.
“Needless to say, she was grateful for my quick action, and by the time her husband found her in my office, I’d set the broken bone and wrapped it in plaster and given her something for the pain. The little girls had nearly destroyed my office, so I was relieved when Logan arrived, and I helped his wife and children into the wagon. Which wasn’t easy, seeing as Mrs. Foster was woozy and giddy from the medicine I’d given her, and she kept trying to throw her arms around me in gratitude while singing some silly song. Logan apologized and thanked me, appreciating my discretion and efficient handling of her injury.
“Ever since then I’ve been a regular guest at their ranch—for dinner and holidays and such. I think Mrs. Foster wants to adopt me, seeing as I have no family left back in Ohio. Her unfortunate accident, however, has established me in the town, and her word of recommendation has brought considerable success to my humble practice. For which I’m grateful to the good Lord.”
Brett nodded, chuckling.
“So,” Tuttle said, getting to his feet. “What do you say we pay a visit to Mr. Foster of the Foster Cattle Company this afternoon? I’m sure that if I introduce you to him and tell him what a fine cowboy you are, he’ll hire you on the spot.” Tuttle’s smile turned into a frown. “Not that I’m eager to see you go, Mr. Hendricks—”
“Brett.” He shook his head. “It’s just Brett.”
“All right, Brett. But I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your company and your stories. If my life were half as entertaining and adventurous as yours, I don’t know if my constitution could take it.” He gathered up Brett’s dishes along with his own and set them in the wash basin.
Brett grinned. What a stroke of good luck—that Tuttle was friends with Foster. Now he wouldn’t have to go buy a horse. If he got hired, he’d have a whole herd of ’em to work with. If he got hired. But he’d never had trouble landing a job once he showed off his skills. Every rancher needed a good wrangler or three, though Brett could do just about any job when it came to horses or cattle.
“When do you want to head out?” Brett asked, thinking he’d like to find some way to say good-bye to Angela, but he wasn’t sure it’d be proper to impose. He wished he knew what that telegram had said, but it was none of his business. Well, it wasn’t meant to be, and he knew it. Didn’t hurt to entertain fantasies though. He couldn’t think of a sweeter, purtier gal to settle his thoughts on, and he reckoned he’d be spending many a lonely night out on the range picturing her in his arms.
“How about in two hours? I have to do some things in the office, and I’m expecting an important delivery. I’ll meet you back here.” He walked over to the door and grabbed his hat off the peg. “Oh, and when we get there, please don’t say anything about Mrs. Foster’s accident to her husband. I think he’d rather not be reminded of the incident.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” Brett said, smiling and picturing the rancher’s wife blathering after a big swig of laudanum. “But, there’s some things I’ll need to buy afore we go out there—just in case Foster does hire me on.” He had his saddle and a few items he’d put in his saddlebags, and he was grateful the doc had fetched those things for him. Somehow he’d lost Dakota’s bridle. He thought he’d put it in the bag, but he’d been so addled, he’d likely forgotten. He could do without a bridle, but he’d need some other personal items and clothes and such to fill his war bag. And he’d lost his bedroll, so he needed to pick up a good wool blanket or two and a tarpaulin, oh, and a heavy coat in case they ranged in the high country.
His head had been feeling right naked without a hat. His was blowing across the prairie somewhere, full of dirt. While he hated the notion of breaking in a stiff new hat and looking like a tenderfoot, he’d just have to make do. All those purchases would just about eat up his get-away money.
“All right. We can swing by the mercantile and wherever else you need.” Tuttle tipped his hat at Brett and left.
Brett stood in the quiet house, feeling a rush of loneliness come over him despite his eager anticipation over a possible job. Usually he only felt like this when he’d been too long out on a cattle drive, and most often in the winter by a lonely fire. But this was more than the usual empty feeling. It was more like a hunger that a hearty meal couldn’t satisfy. Or the kind of thirst that a bucket of water just couldn’t slake.
He turned and looked out the window to the shed in the yard yonder. No, he was sure it had nothing to do with ordinary living and everything to do with Miss Angela Bellini.
***
When Doc Tuttle swung the buck-boarded wagon into the road that led them under the Foster Cattle Company sign, Brett whistled. He’d expected a big, nice spread, but this place was something else. Rich bottomland spread for miles from a wide fork of the South Platte that cut a swath through the valley, chock-full of cottonwoods and willows along the water’s edge. As far as Brett could see, green pastures encircled the many barns and pens, which were sturdily built with fine woodwork. Nothing here had been thrown together, and Brett could tell the minute a post broke or a window needed replacing, it was done pronto.
The two-storied ranch house was the finest he’d ever laid eyes on, with all that fancy trim work around the doors and windows and a slate-rock entry, like something he’d see in a magazine on a rack in a general store. The whole front of the house
was laid in slate, so that when Tuttle slowed the mules, their hooves make a loud clackety sound on the rock. A wide set of slate stairs led up to a landing that featured a fountain.
Brett narrowed his eyes as he stepped down from the bench and nudged his hat back. The giant fountain had white sculptures of two ladies draped in gowns and pouring water from huge pitchers into the round tiled pool at their feet. It was surely a sight to behold, and Brett didn’t know what to make of it. He’d never seen the likes of it in all his life.
A young cowboy ran over from the yard and took hold of the bridle of one of the mules hitched to their wagon and clucked at the animals to get them moving. He led them clacking along the rock and down to a carriage house with two wide hanging doors that sat off to the left of Foster’s home.
Brett was staring up at the roof, at an enormous brass weathervane of a horse, when his attention was drawn to three riders galloping over to the horse barn that sat about fifty yards behind the house. The horses were nearly played out, their muscles heaving and manes tossing. The late-afternoon sunlight made their lathered flanks glisten, and Brett watched the fellas slide from their mounts with haste, their faces knotted with concern. Dust and grime coated every inch of their clothes, and their faces were dirty and haggard. One appeared to be a Mexican, with his silver-girt sombrero, and the other two Missouri types, from the looks of their features and dress.
Tuttle came to stand beside him and watched. An older fella, who could be no other than Logan Foster, strode up to the three men and had a powwow as their horses pawed the ground and snorted dust from their nostrils. Foster had a commanding presence, wearing a tall wide-brimmed black hat and a sparkling silver belt with a huge buckle. He stood nearly a head above his punchers and listened thoughtfully as the fellas gave him some sort of distressing news. Foster nodded and blew out a hard breath, then shook his head. Even from where Brett stood, he could tell the rancher was boiling up. Maybe this ain’t a good time for introductions—or to ask fer a job.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 11
