“Roberts!” Foster caught the attention of a cowboy about Brett’s age that was loading some bales of alfalfa onto a palette just inside the barn. The redheaded fella ran over to Foster, who nodded and grabbed the reins of the three horses and led ’em into the barn, likely to unsaddle ’em and give ’em a rubdown, then water ’em. Foster then dismissed the three riders, who stomped off in the direction of a bunkhouse situated behind the big barn.
Foster hadn’t seen his visitors yet, so Brett waited at the base of the steps with Tuttle and used the time to take in the feel of the ranch. A few hands were doing the usual chores, and dozens of horses grazed lazily in the pastures, swishing flies with their tales. There was ’airy a cow in sight, but he’d expected that. With the roundup only weeks away, most of Foster’s cowpunchers would be out with the herds, spread out in who knew how many directions over creation.
Funny how the buffalo were almost gone and the cattle had taken over the Front Range. Brett recalled hearing that after the War of the Rebellion between the North and South, upwards of a half-million wild cattle were roaming free on Texas soil—cattle that reproduced so fast, every four years the herds doubled. Free for the taking after the war.
Brett saw Foster turn and spot them, and he waved him and Tuttle over. When Brett stopped before the rancher, he took in the man’s chiseled face, weathered from years on the range in hot sun and harsh winter winds. Foster was well-nigh sixty—a sinewy man with a shock of iron-gray hair tickling his buckskin shirt collar and a thick moustache to match that fell over his lip. He carried himself with confidence and dignity befitting his success, but his eyes gleamed warm and friendly. He gave Tuttle an unreserved smile and patted the doctor heartily on the back with hands as large as dinner plates. Whatever had distressed the rancher was no longer evident on his face.
“Doc, it’s good to see you, as always,” Foster said. “What c’n I help you with?”
“This is Brett Hendricks,” he said. “He’s looking for work.”
Foster held out his hand, and Brett shook it. “Logan Foster. Pleasure to meet you, son. Where ya from?”
“I’m up from Texas.” Brett hesitated. He didn’t know what reason to give him and hoped the rancher wouldn’t ask. “I’ve ridden for some big ranches, including Patterson’s down in Austin.”
Foster nodded in recognition. “What c’n you do?”
“Just about everythin’,” Brett said. “I’ve punched in outfits year-round. Ridden point, flank, and swing. Spent a winter in a floatin’ outfit near Houston and once as an outrider. But mostly I’ve worked at bronco bustin’.”
“I see,” Foster said, chewing his lip. “Well”—he looked at Tuttle, then back at Brett—“I could use a good buster right now. We got a wild string in, and more on the way. We need to get ’em ready for the roundup. I got two cowboys who do a right good job, but I’m guessin’ they won’t be able to work through the bunch in time.”
Brett sensed there was something troubling the rancher’s mind—prob’ly the news those punchers had given him. Maybe some problems with his herd. There were always problems cropping up out on the range. If it wasn’t one thing, it was seven others—accidents, fights, cattle drifts. With thousands of head, it was to be expected. But usually a rancher took it all in stride. No, this had the smell of something personal.
Tuttle smiled. “Mr. Hendricks has been staying with me this past week. I can attest to his character. I think he’d make a fine addition to your crew.”
“That so?” Foster said with a touch of amusement. “You jes found this fella alongside the road and took him under your wing?”
Brett cringed inwardly but kept his face unexpressive. Last thing he wanted was for Foster to hear his shameful tale of how he’d almost died in the desert.
But Tuttle—thankfully—only chuckled as if this was a joke the two fellas shared. Maybe Brett wasn’t the first sorry sod to be rescued by the good doctor.
Foster turned to Brett. “Did’ya bring your rig?” he asked.
Brett nodded. “All but a bridle, Mr. Foster.”
Foster grunted thoughtfully, then turned and gazed at the horse barn. Then he looked back at Brett, a sneaky kind of delight lighting up his eyes. Brett knew just what Foster planned to do, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.
“I got a pinto named Rebel that the boys jes can’t seem to get under ’em. You wanna give it a shot?”
Brett grinned. He’d have this job in his pocket afore the day’s end.
“I reckon I would,” he said.
Chapter 13
When Angela awoke this morning, she’d decided to push the guilt and grief to the back of her heart. She’d cried buckets of tears last night, mostly while pacing in the yard. The tiny room in the back felt like a prison cell, and it was too easy for her to wallow in her misery. In there, her flood of tears threatened to pull her under and drown her. But outside, the expanse of sparkling stars soothed her pain and enabled her to surrender to God’s will. Seeing the heavens in such glory reminded her of how small and insignificant and powerless she was to fix or change her circumstances. It was all in His hands.
And so resolved, she prayed with abandon and with her “amen” felt the burden lift. She would trust that, in time, at the right time, she could return home. And that the Lord would make a way for her here in the meantime.
Meantime. What a strange word, she thought, and so appropriate. Her papá’s meanness was the root of her suffering. And she would never be able to change him or what he thought of her and her dreams. She was an adult, not a child any longer, and it wasn’t until last night—as she stood in the warm, dry wind that blew her hair into tangles—that she realized she didn’t have to allow her papá to prevent her from becoming the musician she longed to be. He treated her as if she would always be answerable to him. And she’d wanted so much to please him and be an obedient daughter. But now she knew she would never truly please him. Not unless she dutifully married Pietro and suffered in silent misery in subservience to her husband and her culture. It wasn’t until she’d spent her first week in the West that she saw the appeal of a life free of such expectations and encumbrances.
But how could she support herself here in Greeley, until the Lord made it clear it was time to return to New York? This was what worried her as she smoothed out her bedcovers and went to wait for George in the shop. She’d forgone joining him for his usual breakfast of eggs and fried potatoes, her appetite eluding her.
Presently, he came through the door, a concerned look filling his face and etching shadows into the lines above his brows. He’d kindly refrained last evening from pressing her to talk. Perhaps she had sparked his own grief, for he looked haggard this morning—much the way she had seen him when she’d first arrived. She smiled warmly at him; she didn’t want to add to his burden of grief.
Surely her cooking and laundering and helping in other ways around the house was a blessing to him. And she hoped her company had been uplifting in some small part. But she realized she couldn’t keep staying here and taking advantage of his hospitality. He was providing her food and lodging, and while he assured her she was more than earning her keep, it wasn’t proper for her to stay here indefinitely.
What would George’s pious neighbors think of a young woman spending so much time in the company of a recently widowed man? She was often in the house with him at night, eating dinner, sitting in the drawing room discussing books and music. He was old enough to be her father, but that still wouldn’t stop tongues from wagging or hurtful gossip from spreading. Not from what Violet had told her about many in the town. “What’s to be expected in a town as small as this, in which everyone thinks your business is their business?” Violet had said. It wasn’t so much her reputation she was concerned with; it was George’s. Though, she was sure he would deny caring a whit about such things.
Still, it was time she found a suitable position of employment and another place to stay. The thought befuddled her.
&n
bsp; “Well,” George said, his usual mug of tea steaming in his hand. “I’ve made a decision.”
His declaration hung in the air between them. Angela wasn’t sure what he was referring to. But then he reached across the table and lifted one of the violins she’d been playing.
“Let me hear one of the etudes you’ve been working on,” he said, settling onto his stool and folding his arms across his chest.
No longer nervous playing for him—after so many hours of trying out his instruments at his direction—she picked up the bow lying on the table and quickly adjusted the tuning on the instrument. George, as was his habit, closed his eyes, as if that helped open his ears.
She smiled and closed her eyes as well as she tucked the violin under her chin and drew the bow across the top string. She especially loved this etude, and while in Greeley, she’d perfected the fingering and trills. It was a lively, cheerful piece that sent a rush of joy into her heart. She hoped her enthusiastic playing would buoy George’s heart as well. She felt bad that she’d troubled him with her family problems, and he’d been so gracious and kind to her.
She wished her papá was half as thoughtful and considerate as George. If only she had a father like George Fisk. What a different childhood she would have had. And Mamá. She deserved such a loving husband—not a harsh, ungrateful one.
The thought of her papá striking her mamá caused such anger to flow through her fingers, a string snapped as she bowed the violin. She gasped, realizing she was gripping the violin so hard that her knuckles were white. The last lingering notes resounded in the small room with an edge of fury and defiance. The raw emotions hung palpably in the air.
She lifted her gaze from the bobbing broken string as she placed the bow on the table and set the violin back on its stand. Embarrassment kept her from looking at George, but she heard him clear his throat.
“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “this is your instrument.”
She looked at him, curious.
He studied her face, then a smile lifted his pale cheeks. “A violin must be strong enough and sensitive enough to express any emotion its master desires. Our instruments are merely extensions of our arms—and our hearts, my dear.” He shrugged. “When words fail us, our instruments speak for us. The right instrument will adeptly convey every nuance of our feelings as expressed through our musicality. It mustn’t resist or transpose a jot or a tittle. It has to be the most faithful of friends, year in and year out.”
Angela pondered George’s words, which he spoke with great earnestness and conviction. While she still couldn’t tell the difference between the three he’d narrowed his choice to, she trusted him. And she doubted he’d let her choose another. It was clear his mind was made up.
He picked up the violin and held it up to the light streaming through the window beside her. Dust motes danced in the air around the lightly varnished instrument. It lacked the rich red hues and luster the other two violins displayed.
“Two, maybe three more coats,” George announced.
“Oh,” Angela said, now understanding. “But . . . how long will it take?” She couldn’t recall what he’d said about how much time each coat needed to dry.
George furrowed his brows. “Three weeks. Maybe four—”
“Four weeks!” That was a month. Could she stay that long? She supposed she could—and even longer—if she could find gainful employment. Though, perhaps if she went home, he could send the instrument to her by rail.
The thought of leaving Greeley without her violin caused an ache in her stomach. No, she would wait for the Lord to tell her when it was time to go back to New York, and she would return with violin in hand.
George thought for a moment. “The opera board is meeting for lunch tomorrow, and I’m certain that if I introduce you to some of the fine ladies there, they might have some referrals for students for you.”
Angela smirked at George’s unsurprising mind-reading ability. He seemed just as adept at reading expressions on others’ faces as he did the timbre of notes coming from his creations.
“You see, my dear, I spent many hours a week teaching violin . . . up until Lucy’s death. It was a . . . helpful distraction for me at times. But I found my patience stretched thin, having to listen to such inexperienced heavy-handed playing. I’m afraid I’m not all that good with children. And while there are a number of qualified violinists in town, none desire to teach. And the few music teachers in Greeley are lacking in the knowledge of stringed instruments. Most, like Mrs. Green, play the piano.”
He walked over to the door, then turned back to her. “Which means, my dear, if you are willing to take on some squirrely young students, I imagine you’d do well for yourself here and be in high demand.”
Angela was thrilled at the idea. She knew how much her mother had paid Signore Bianchi for her lessons, but she had no idea if he was charging her what amounted to city prices or if she’d been given a discount. She also had no idea how much it might cost her to rent a room somewhere—if there was even such a thing to be found in Greeley. Her head spun and began to throb from the questions circling inside.
She sighed and said, “I’d love to teach the violin. It certainly would suit me better than working in a shop or hoeing potatoes for some farmer.”
George laughed. “Wonderful, my dear. Tomorrow, meet me on the front porch at eleven. And we’ll get lunch in town—my treat.”
Angela nodded, her affection for George filling her heart. Imagine earning money teaching music! She sent a prayer of thanks up to heaven, her heart light and happy for the first time since she’d received that telegram.
She stepped outside the small shop and breathed in the thin fresh air. Specks of white fluff from the cottonwood trees floated on the breeze, landing like fat snowflakes on the ground. Her eyes wandered to the house next door. She hadn’t seen Brett at all since he’d walked home carrying her sack of vegetables. She felt bad that she’d promised to play for him last night and assumed he’d come over while she was burying her face in her pillow and drenching it with tears.
Her heart pounded a little faster at the thought of his strong arms, recalling how he’d steadied her when she nearly tripped. Brett Hendricks was certainly like no man she’d ever met. And not just because of what he wore or how he spoke in that uneducated manner. He was deep and complex, yet under that cocky, teasing demeanor she sensed a gentle spirit. She would never forget how his face filled with pain when speaking about his father. She of all people knew how awful it was to have a violent parent. As much as she and Brett were different—so very different—in this they were well met.
All the young men she knew in Mulberry Bend were cut from the same cloth as her papá. She blamed her culture, for it encouraged men to be arrogant and domineering. Women were only good for taking care of the home and birthing children. Men bragged about their large families, as if that proved their virility. And the men that showed any sensitivity or deference to women were chided for being weak, spineless.
She’d thought perhaps all men were like that everywhere, for what did she truly know about them? She’d been so sheltered and had never traveled more than a few miles from her apartment except on rare occasions. Other men she’d observed from a distance, and while their dress and mannerisms differed from those in her Italian community, she could hardly tell a thing about what they were like beneath their public face. Perhaps they all beat their wives.
But George would never harm a fly. And though Brett’s eyes had flared with excitement when he spoke about the wild horses he broke, she heard the affection and tenderness in his voice, and it had tugged at her heartstrings like fingers plucking notes on a violin.
A yearning filled her as she stood there staring at the quiet house. A yearning to see Brett step outside. To look upon his sculpted muscles and strong shoulders. To gaze into those bottomless hazel eyes that glinted with specks of gold. And that mouth . . .
She swallowed, thinking of how it might feel to join her lips t
o his and taste his mouth. Heat spread down her body at the thought of him kissing her, his hands lovingly caressing her skin, his warm, hard body pressed against hers.
She tried to stop the images exploding in her head, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t ever felt such a strong need take over her—a need for a man’s touch. For a man’s mouth on hers. Never before had the thought appealed to her. Certainly not when she thought of Pietro with his small brooding eyes and fidgety fingers. He repulsed her.
Yet, she couldn’t help thinking of Brett without her body responding as if being coaxed open like a flower. She felt weak and vulnerable at this rush of need, at this yearning that played over her like a caprice of gentle notes. When her imagination began unbuttoning his shirt and had her hands sliding down his taut stomach, she slammed the door to her mind in fear and shock. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Was it the thin rarified air that addled her mind? Or the result of emotional exhaustion? Her thoughts were running as wild as the horses Brett tamed.
She hurried back inside, glad that Brett Hendricks hadn’t seen her standing there and come out. Had he watched her from one of the windows? The thought made her face heat with shame. She saw the way he’d looked at her—that longing in his eyes. At first she thought it was nothing more than male lust—she’d seen that same look on Pietro’s eyes every time she’d been near him. And on the faces of many of the old men who stood on the corners and talked in the evenings in Mulberry Bend. They thought nothing of staring lecherously at young women, teasing and flirting with them—even smacking their bottoms or trying to pinch them through the layers of petticoats. It disgusted her, and she couldn’t understand how many girls she knew merely laughed and were flattered by the attention. She didn’t want her younger sisters to be like that, but what could she do? It was the way of her culture.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 12
