“I am,” LeRoy said, reflecting back on that night and how Lucas had ridden all that way in the middle of a blizzard to warn them and help stop those scalawags. LeRoy had never killed a man afore that night, and it’d sure rattled him—Eli too. But there was nothing for it—’twas either kill or be killed.
He shook off the jittery feeling the memories gave him and turned to watch his ma. She stood beside the corral fence and tapped the cowboy on his shoulder. Logan Foster just shook his head again—LeRoy could tell he was more than a mite displeased that the mare wasn’t going to be his—and walked over to the barn.
***
Brett spun around at the touch on his shoulder and found himself face-to-face with an old Injun woman. Cheyenne, from what he could tell by her features. She gave him a toothy smile and introduced herself as Sarah Banks.
So this is the woman Foster was talkin’ ’bout—the one Doc Tuttle said would wanna hire me. Bet these are horses from her ranch.
“Name’s Brett Hendricks,” he told her when she asked. He’d been around plenty of Cheyenne over the years. She had the look of a medicine woman, with that pouch noticeable around her neck, and he wondered why she’d stayed on the Front Range when all her people had been moved to Oklahoma. Injuns like her were now few and far between, and they still faced a lot of hatred and mistrust. But Brett commiserated, knowing what it was like to lose your home and family. At least to some measure.
“C’n I help you with somethin’?” he asked when she didn’t say anything. She looked long and hard at him, and he politely waited for her to speak. The Cheyenne he’d known had taken their time to fashion their thoughts into words, something Brett respected. Too many a fool let their mouth run off without their head and got into a world of hurt and trouble for it.
She suddenly smiled at him and nodded. “I want to give you somethin’, Brett.”
Brett frowned as she turned and walked over to a pinto mare leaning half asleep against the fence.
“This is Ho’ehase’o’o. Her name means Fire Starter.” She grunted. “But now I see I need to change her name.”
Brett frowned deeper. “I . . . don’t understand. Uh, what does this mare’s name have to do with me?”
Brett startled when the woman put her hands on his shoulders and stared hard into his eyes. She searched in there, like looking for something lost. He caught a strong whiff of sage brush and creosote and something spicy like cinnamon. A shiver passed over his neck, and a pain started up in his chest, as if his heart was being squeezed by a strong fist.
“Wha-what are ya doin’?” he asked, a strange sinking feeling growing in his gut.
She broke off her gaze and looked to the north. Then she turned and patted the mare’s neck. “He’kotóo’moehá.” She nodded, and the mare tossed her mane and snorted. Sarah laughed. Brett coulda sworn that horse knew what the word meant.
“You can call her Kotoo.” She gave him another mysterious smile. Why was she saying all this? “Calm water. Calm in the midst of fire.” She nodded, making a kind of grunting sound of approval. “She will teach you how to go through the fire. And come through without gettin’ burned.”
“I don’t under—”
“I want ya to have her, Brett Hendricks.”
Brett whistled and shook his head. “I . . . I couldn’t, ma’am. She’s a fine mare—that’s clear to see. But I—”
“You lost your horse.” She said the words so matter-of-factly, they stabbed like a knife in his gut.
He drew in a shaky breath. “Yes’m,” he said, barely getting the word out. The world around him grew fuzzy, and the sounds of the ranch activities were muffled, the way a ground fog snuffed out the cows’ scuffling and lowing on the open range. He pictured Dakota lying in the dust, squealing and kicking. He squinched his eyes shut, trying to push away the pain and guilt and shame of it. Tears pushed at the lids of his eyes, and he swallowed them down.
“Sometimes we have to pay a high price when we do the right thing.”
He forced his eyes open, as if she’d commanded him to look at her. He saw no condemnation in her gaze though—only compassion. Oddly, it sent a rush of relief through his limbs. What right thing? He guessed she was talking ’bout the way he’d tried to defend that Mexican girl, but how would she know that?
“Not too many stand up. No, not many at all.” Her eyes flashed with sadness. Brett rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache coming on behind his eyes.
“So,” she said abruptly, untying the mare’s rope from the fence rail. She handed him the end of the lead. “I want you to have this horse.”
There was no arguing about it, Brett knew. He could barely speak—his throat was raw with emotion. All the anguish and guilt he’d felt in that moment, when he’d watched Dakota thrash on the ground, gushed like an open wound. And then, to his shock, it vanished in one blink of his eyes.
He looked at the mare’s face and saw the wildness deep inside her. Yet, he also saw something he knew all too well—trust. He hadn’t personally broken her—clearly this Cheyenne woman had—but the pinto looked to him the way a hundred or more horses had done. And when he laid his hand on the horse’s forehead, the animal closed her eyes with the contended look that only a horse could convey. A look that made Brett’s heart swell with affection. He had a sudden urge to gallop her across the range.
Sarah Banks nodded. “When the fire rages, look for the calm water. You will hear the song.” She added in a solemn tone, “Follow the song. It will lead you out.”
Brett looked at her, confused, her face as undisturbed as a lake covered by morning fog.
“When a fire races across the prairie, it burns the grass to stubble. It is not a bad thing. From the ashes, new grass sprouts. New life begins. It must be.”
Brett suddenly saw in his mind his pa slapping his ma and knocking her across the kitchen. He heard the thwack of her head hitting the wall and winced. But at that juncture, instead of his ma’s face, he saw Angela’s. She glared at him in shock and horror. The sight of blood trickling down her forehead sent a fierce wave of panic through his heart. His body shook, from head to toe.
“The song is the path through the fire, the way to peace.” Sarah’s words sounded far away, underwater, muted and faint. He then heard a ripple of music, a thin strand—as thin as a hair on his head—and an ache swelled inside his chest. It was a high keening note of a fiddle bowing a string. Or was it the voice of a woman singing? It made the panic erupt inside him—just like that day he lay in Tuttle’s little room and heard that music coming in through the window.
Angela . . . Her face filled his mind, and he thought his head would explode from the pressure.
Then he felt Sarah’s hand light on his wrist. The anguish and pressure and emotion blew away like a leaf in a mighty wind.
“Why don’t you take Kotoo for a ride?” Sarah said softly, smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
Brett couldn’t think of a thing to say. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He nodded, thinking how he had about a half hour before the dinner bell rang. But a horse! His own horse. He couldn’t fathom it. He’d have plenty of horses to ride here on Foster’s ranch, but he never thought he’d own another horse—not for a long spell. Not after what happened to Dakota. He didn’t understand why this Injun woman wanted to give him the mare, but clearly she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He managed to get a thank-you out of his mouth, her words swirling in his head. “When the fire rages, look for the calm water. You will hear the song. The song is the path through the fire, the way to peace.”
He didn’t have a clue what Sarah Banks meant by all that talk of fire and song and calm water. But somehow he knew they were important to stick in his mind. He didn’t dare dismiss the words of a Cheyenne medicine woman.
He felt her eyes smiling at him as he led Kotoo to the barn to saddle her up. He had no doubt that Dakota’s saddle would fit the mare just fine.
Chapter 18
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br /> Angela looked around at the beautifully appointed foyer of the Fosters’ ranch home. Her reflection gleamed back up at her from the polished marble floor that stretched out into a spacious living room filled with elegant furnishings—upholstered sofas and chairs of exquisite imported damask fabrics, cut-glass oil lamps, thick Oriental rugs, and vases overflowing with flowers of every color, including gigantic purple and yellow peonies alongside blood-red and white roses. Not a speck of dust lined the floors or surfaces of furniture, and Angela imagined Mrs. Adeline Foster kept a staff of servants polishing the silver and dusting with lemon beeswax for many hours each day. With all the dust flying around the ranch from the many animals and cowboys working outside, it seemed an impossible task.
Her aunt’s apartment displayed the luxury and wealth Angela noted here, but on a much smaller scale. Angela imagined the Fosters’ home had at least six bedrooms and boasted indoor piping and heated water. How wonderful to live in such comfort, but the sheer size and opulence adorning every corner intimidated her. Every piece of artwork and table runner and sofa coverlet seemed painstakingly designed to coordinate in pattern and color. She felt as if she were looking at a photograph in Harper’s Bazaar or Vanity Fair.
George stood admiring a painting of snow-dusted mountains that hung on a foyer wall, his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on his feet, the soft light of dusk creating a halo around him. He’d dressed in a fine suit—perhaps the first he’d worn since his wife had died—and he nervously raked his hand through his thick dark hair. The Mexican maid that had shown them in could be heard upstairs speaking in quiet tones that were answered by a woman’s boisterous and confident voice. The heat of the day—which had made Angela feel grimy and disheveled during their hour-long ride in the wagon—waned to a comfortable warmth interspersed with hints of a cool breeze. Angela loved the way the hot days gave way to chilly nights in this high altitude, making it so easy to sleep. Her hot and stuffy New York apartment was an oven all summer long, without reprieve until late fall.
Presently, someone came traipsing down the wide polished mahogany staircase, layers of stiff petticoats rustling and ringlets of golden hair bouncing along the sides of a cheery face of a plump woman of about thirty years. She waved her arms excitedly, her eyes lit with excitement, as she hurried down to meet her guests. No doubt this was Adeline Foster. George had succinctly described her, having engaged her in conversation at numerous past opera events.
Angela had worried that they’d be interrupting the Fosters’ dinner upon their late arrival, as the aroma of freshly baked bread and stewed meat and vegetables wafted through the house from some unseen kitchen. But it appeared to Angela that the rancher’s wife had just dressed for the evening meal, as the dark-blue satin gown she wore—not to mention the elbow-length white gloves—could hardly be attire she’d spent the day in. The style of dress would befit a woman of high society in New York, though Angela wondered why a rancher’s wife in the wilds of Colorado would bother to dress in such fashion. Did Adeline Foster wish for a citified life rather than this dust-choked one? How would such a woman find joy living so far away from town, with no neighbors for dozens of miles?
“Ah, Mr. Fisk!” Adeline announced in a lilting Southern accent, her smile genuine and welcoming. “So wonderful to see you again. And such a prompt response to the request I sent by way of our good doctor Tuttle.”
She held out her hand to him, and he pressed his lips to it with a bow of his head. “How could I delay with such a summons, my dear?”
Adeline’s face flushed even pinker—if that were possible. Angela felt an immediate affinity for this gregarious woman who reminded her in some small way of her zia Sofia with her piquancy and enthusiasm. Joy exuded from this woman—something so lacking in Angela’s home life. Rarely had she seen her mamá ever smile with such abandon, such lack of care.
The thought of her mamá lying in a hospital bed sank Angela’s spirits as quickly as a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of a dark well.
“And whom do we have here?” Adeline said, taking Angela’s hands in her own. The rancher’s wife gave a few little squeezes, much the way Angela would her younger sisters’ hands. Angela’s face heated like an iron as Adeline studied her from head to toe.
George gestured with his hand to the rancher’s wife. “May I introduce Angela Bellini, who has recently come to Colorado by way of New York? Angela, this is Mrs. Adeline Foster.”
Adeline gave her head a slow shake with widened eyes. “My, what a beauty you are—exquisite European stock. And that skin—ah! How I envy your olive complexion. I can hardly stand outside in the sunlight for more than a minute before my skin begins to burn and my freckles pop out across my nose!” She looked down at the hands she was still squeezing.
“And unmarried! How is that possible? My . . . I do declare, you must be twenty years at least. Why has no man yet snagged your heart, Angela?”
Taken aback by such forwardness, Angela tripped over her words in an effort to reply. But before she could untangle the words, Adeline said, “Well, I imagine you have high standards, and, of course, one must if one is to go far in life. No doubt you’ve had many suitors, but none has yet won your heart. Is that right?”
Angela, feeling a bit overwhelmed by Adeline’s probing of her romantic life, could only nod, keenly aware of George’s nervous but silent fidgeting at her side.
The rancher’s wife tipped back her head and laughed merrily. “Well, Angela Bellini, one must never compromise.” She leaned in close as if about to share a secret, and her lilac perfume wafted over Angela’s face. “Somewhere out there”—she turned her head and looked upward as if searching the heavens with a wistful look of longing—“is your true love, waiting with open arms. And when you find each other . . .”
Angela waited while Adeline kept gazing aloft, perhaps imagining Angela’s perfect beau floating on a passing cloud. She abruptly turned and questioned Angela with her eyes. “You do want to marry, don’t you?”
“I . . . I suppose . . .” Her thoughts filled suddenly with Brett’s teasing smile and broad, strong shoulders rippling under his shirt. Heat collared her neck and seeped up into her cheeks.
“Oh . . .” Adeline said with a knowing grin. “There is someone tugging at your heartstrings.”
Angela looked at the floor, awash with embarrassment.
Adeline laid a hand on Angela’s arm. “Well, Mr. Fisk,” she said, turning to the instrument maker, “is this darling girl one of your students?”
“On the contrary,” George replied, giving Angela what looked like an apologetic smile, no doubt due the personal inquiries of the rancher’s wife. She had to repress a smile. No wonder George and his doctor friend felt a bit unhinged around a woman like Adeline Foster. Both were presently unmarried, and Angela held little doubt that Adeline Foster was the consummate matchmaker.
George continued. “Angela is a superb violinist, and she traveled halfway across the continent—from New York City—to purchase one of my violins.”
Adeline threw her hands up in surprise. “My word—you traveled all this way from New York, alone, just to acquire one of Mr. Fisk’s violins? How . . . daring of you!” Her corpulent body shivered with feigned fear. “You must truly love to play.”
“I do,” Angela said in all sincerity, suddenly longing to bow the delightful violin George had lent her in the interim.
“Then, you must play—for us all, after dinner. Of course, you will join us at the table, will you not? My girls will be thrilled.” She cocked her head at George with pursed lips. “Have you brought Miss Bellini here to teach my girls to play?” Her head swiveled back to Angela. “How long do you plan to stay in Colorado, darling Angela?”
Angela looked to George, the woman’s questions befuddling her.
George cleared his throat. “I’m finishing a violin for her. It will take some weeks. In the meantime, Angela is hoping to teach violin lessons—”
Adeline clapped her han
ds in delight. “You’ll be perfect for my girls,” she said, giving Angela a wink. The tinkle of a high-pitched brass bell sounded from down the hallway. “Ah, it’s almost time for dinner. Let me show you where you can freshen up. You will dine with us, of course. And after dinner, Logan and the girls and I would be honored to have you both perform some pieces for us. Oh—you did bring your instruments with you?” When George nodded, she added in a quiet conspiratorial voice, “I can’t tell you how excited I am to hear more about your passion for playing music, Angela. I do hope you’ll consider staying in Greeley and sharing your talents with our fine community. We so very much need musicians of high caliber to not only perform works of the masters but to teach our young ones professional technique and repertoire.”
“We’d be honored to join you and your family for dinner, Mrs. Foster,” George said. “And we have some duets we’d be happy to play for you.”
Adeline rolled her eyes. “Please, Mr. Fisk. Just call me Adeline. There is no need for such formalities between us.” She linked her arm with Angela’s. “Ah, I’m so thrilled you’ve come. You’ll love Madeline and Clementine. They don’t like to practice their violins, but I’m sure once they hear you play . . .”
While Adeline chattered on about her girls, leading her guests up the wide staircase in the exquisite ranch house, strains of Schubert’s lullabies tickled Angela’s mind. The violin sitting in the case in the foyer called to her, and the longing to play it made her fingers move over imagined strings. While Adeline’s effervescent personality overwhelmed her, she felt oddly comfortable here in this ranch house—a place as different as could be from the life she’d left behind in New York.
Adeline’s urging her to stay in Greeley sparked doubts in Angela’s mind. In the brief time she’d been in Colorado, the stark beauty of the high desert and open plains—with the stunning array of stars that blanketed the night sky—called to her heart and inspired her playing. From the sparkling snow-packed peaks of the majestic Rockies to the miles and miles of golden wheat fields they’d passed on their drive over to the ranch, Angela found the expansive and unmarred landscape soothing to her troubled soul. As much as she longed to return to New York—she so missed her mamá and aunt and siblings—she hated the thought of leaving behind such a wild, untamed place that stirred her passion for playing violin more than any other. She feared that, upon her return, her inspiration to play would shrivel—or dry up like a shallow pond under a hot summer sun. She also feared that the guilt and worry and fear of her papá’s wrath would suck away every last vestige of musicality she coveted so tenaciously here in the West.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 16
