Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Tufts of chestnut-brown hair strayed out from under his hat, and Angela’s eyes riveted on the way his body moved with grace and confidence as he slipped off the horse and brought the animal to its feet. A chuckle came from his throat as he took the horse’s rope and walked it around the pen. The big horse danced and pulled at the rope, but Brett lightly tugged on it and muttered words in its ears. Angela smiled at the way the horse’s ears twitched as it listened, and she wondered just how much it understood what Brett was telling it.

  Angela stepped back, hoping he wouldn’t see her. What would he think? What would he do? She didn’t want to startle him and make him lose his concentration and get injured.

  The sight transfixed her. The rapport between man and animal was astonishing to see. Even from where she stood, the bond between them was evident—which reminded her of George’s words. About how she had to bond with her instrument. She well knew now what he meant—how it felt to surrender to the music, to let herself go, let go of all restraint and judgment and allow the songs to emerge from the sound board as her fingers danced over the strings.

  She saw this same thrill, this same abandonment, in Brett. There was no mistaking the deep joy in his eyes as he got to his feet and prodded the horse into a smooth run, paying out the rope attached to the bridle, his eyes locked on to the animal as he turned in slow circles, bringing the horse in closer and closer until it stopped mere inches from him. Face to face they stood. And as Brett looked deep into the horse’s eyes, Angela’s heart pounded hard in her chest. The morning stillness wrapped around her like a shawl, and she shivered as if something tickled her neck.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He seemed utterly handsome standing there in his dust-coated canvas pants and cotton shirt that couldn’t hide the lines of his taut muscles. And when he pushed the rimmed brown hat from his head and raked his fingers through his thick tousled hair, the muscles in his strong jaw twitched. His was a body hardened from hours of roping and riding. There was nothing soft about him; he was so unlike the men she’d known, who sat behind desks or store counters. Who hardly lifted more than a fork to their mouths. Angela couldn’t help but imagine again those arms encircling her, gently brushing her hair from off her face, his fingers trailing down her neck and his lips . . .

  Heat rushed to her cheeks just as Brett turned and saw her. His face reflected the same surprise, but his shocked expression quickly turned to pleasure as a grin lit up his face.

  He squashed the hat back down on his head, brushed off his trousers, and headed straight to the corral fence, a compliant horse in tow.

  Panic made blood pound her ears at his approach. His smile nearly melted her heart. If she was flustered before, she was practically apoplectic now. Why did this cowboy unhinge her so? What could be so attractive about an uncouth, uneducated, and unrefined man like Brett Hendricks?

  “Angela? I can’t believe . . . What’re ya doin’ here, at Foster’s ranch?” He stopped merely inches from her and stepped up onto the bottom rail to get a clear look at her.

  Angela searched for words to say, but they eluded her. She was aware of two small sets of curious eyes staring at her.

  “She’s here to teach us the violin, mister,” Clementine declared, as if challenging him to refute her.

  He gave the girl a big grin, but his piercing eyes remained fixed on Angela. A shiver ran all the way up her spine at his hungry expression. What frightened her more was knowing she felt a hunger herself, a fierce longing to pull him to her, to feel his body pressed against hers. Were her unbidden feelings giving her away? She tried to wrench her gaze from his but couldn’t. Her face turned as a hot as a flame—even her ears burned.

  “That so?” he said to Clementine.

  “Mister, why were you sitting on that horse?” Madeline asked.

  Brett pulled his gaze from Angela’s face and looked at the girls. “You must be . . . uh, let’s see—Clemaline and Madetine. Did I get that right?” He frowned as if he were puzzling a problem.

  The girls erupted in laughter as they clambered up to the top of the fence and sat on the rail in front of him. “No!” they said in unison.

  “I’m Clementine, and this is Madeline.”

  Brett frowned deeper, but his eyes glinted in merriment. Angela loved the affection she saw in his eyes directed toward the girls. She wondered if Brett had any younger siblings. “Ain’t that what I said? Clemaline and Madetine.”

  “No!” the girls shouted, as if he were deaf, exploding in laughter.

  Brett shook his head. “Well, how ’bout I just call ya Clem and Maddie?”

  Madeline gave him a big smile, her eyes wide in surprise. “That’s what Papa calls us.”

  “All right, then.” He blew out a breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes drifted over to Angela’s once more, which set her heart galloping away again. She lowered her gaze, feeling suddenly awkward and self-conscious. “I sat on the horse,” he told the girls, “to get him to respect me.”

  “Huh,” Clementine said with a frown. “Doesn’t seem like respect to pin someone to the ground.”

  Brett laughed and threw back his head. “I reckon that makes a lot of sense, Clem. And don’t let that give ya any ideas.” He blew out a long, tired breath. “But horses, ya see, have to learn respect a different way. Through trust.”

  “You mean, if you sit on ’em, they can tell you’re not gonna hurt them,” Madeline said. “And then they trust you.”

  Brett nodded with eyes wide. “That’s exactly right. My, you girls are plenty smart . . . for being so little and rascally.”

  That made the girls giggle and blush. Angela was more than stunned at his easy way with these girls. He knew just what to say to make them respect and trust him—just like he did with that horse. He truly did have a gift, and it was no less special than hers, she realized. Sometimes it was a lot harder to understand people than it was to figure out the bowing of an etude.

  “So,” he said to her, hesitating. “You’re stayin’ here? For how long? Aren’t ya s’posed to be gettin’ on that train back to New York?”

  “Her violin’s not done yet,” Clementine offered. “It needs three more coats of varnish. George says you can’t rush things when it comes to making a violin.”

  “I see. Well, George would know,” Brett replied thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “So . . . Miss Bellini here is stayin’ with y’all till her violin’s done cookin’.”

  The girls laughed again. Madeline shook her head vigorously. “No! You don’t cook a violin.”

  “Ya don’t? Ain’t that how it gets all brown—from cookin’ on a grill?”

  “No!” the girls shouted again. Madeline said, “It has to sit and dry between coats. That’s how it gets pretty.”

  “Oh, I git it now.” He stepped down from the fence and led the horse over to the gate, then opened the gate and came out of the corral. The girls ran right up to him and the horse, but Angela hung back, intimidated by the big animal—who looked much more menacing up close.

  Brett looked at her and pursed his lips as the girls reached up and patted the horse’s neck and nose without a care in the world. Angela worried the wild horse might bite them, but it only made a huffing sound and pawed at the dirt. Surely Brett wouldn’t have let them approach if the animal was any real threat. And those girls have been around horses all their life—they’re probably just as comfortable around them as you’d be around a kitten.

  Still, she couldn’t get her feet to take even one step forward.

  “You ever been on a horse, Miss Bellini?”

  Angela noted Brett’s propriety in his address of her—no doubt for the sake of the young girls. “Uh . . . no, I haven’t.”

  “Well,” he said, looking at the girls sandwiching him, “we’ll just have to remedy that, won’t we, girls?”

  “Yessir,” they said.

  “But not now,” Clementine added. “We’re s’posed to be picking berries for tarts.�
��

  “Oh.” He rubbed his head, pretending to think hard. “So if I come with y’all, does that mean I can get a tart?”

  “Only if you help pick,” Clementine answered in all seriousness. “It’s a lot of work.”

  Brett chuckled. “I’m not opposed to hard work. I reckon I’m up to it—that is, if Miss Bellini don’t mind.”

  The girls spun around and gave her eager looks. Clearly they wanted this cowboy to come along. Angela did too, but she would never say it. She didn’t dare give him any reason to think she had feelings for him. Unreasonable, silly feelings! Her stomach did flips thinking of him close by her side. She still couldn’t believe he was here, working for Logan Foster.

  She cleared her throat. “Mr. Hendricks is welcome to come along.”

  Brett looked at her sideways, those hazel eyes sparkling with mirth. “It’s always good to have the womenfolk in the protection of a big, strong cowboy—in case a bear or a wolf tries to attack—”

  The straw basket fell from her hand to the ground. “Bears? Here?”

  Brett lowered his head and shook it, smiling. But Angela sensed he was laughing at her ignorance. Her face heated again.

  “You should see your face,” Brett said, chuckling again.

  “Of course there’s bears. And wolves,” Clementine said. “This is the wild West. Papa shot a bear once—just the other side of Johnson’s Creek.”

  “We had bear steaks for a week—yum!” Madeline added.

  Angela couldn’t open her mouth. She was utterly horrified. It was one thing living in a town like Greeley, where perhaps the only dangers were blizzards or sickness. It was another thing altogether to be living where predators might wander across your yard and kill you.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Bellini,” Brett said, stuffing down his laughter. “I’ll bring my Winchester.” He winked at the girls. “Wouldn’t want some pesky bear snatchin’ those berries we picked, would we?”

  “No sir,” they chimed, beaming and rocking up and down on their toes.

  “All right, then. I’ll be back presently, and we’ll get on the scout for them berry bushes.”

  He gave Angela a wink, and she thought her heart would turn to mush. The hunger had returned to his eyes—and she was sure it had nothing to do with blackberries.

  Chapter 21

  Brett walked alongside her, his rifle slung over one shoulder by a strap, near enough to make her unsteady and self-conscious. He made a pretense of looking for ripe blackberries, and from time to time plopped a handful into her basket, but she was aware of his eyes on her when he wasn’t scanning the creek bank or looking over at the girls, who were hard at work in a nearby patch, bickering over something—Clementine’s voice dominating her meek sister’s.

  “Tell me something about your family, where you grew up,” she asked, realizing she knew almost nothing about him. He flinched—just a little—but it made her think of his remark about his father the other afternoon. She quickly asked, “How did you get to be a cowboy? Did you grow up on a ranch?”

  Brett chuckled and popped a berry into his mouth. “Well. You’re suddenly full o’ questions.” She clamped her mouth closed, but that only made him laugh harder.

  “Let’s see—I lived near El Paso—that’s Texas—most o’ my life. I avoided the big war between the states by joining up with a cattle outfit in Mexico, where I rode for a time. Till the war was over, leastwise.” He stopped and held out a giant berry between his thumb and forefinger. “This here’s a whopper. I bet it’s juicy sweet.” He came closer and held it up to her mouth.

  A flutter of nerves tangled her stomach. Once again she was drawn into his gorgeous hazel eyes that seemed aflame with mischief and desire. Was she mistaken? Perhaps he was just teasing her, being friendly. But no, there was no mistaking his desire. Though she’d never had a man look at her in such a way, every pore in her skin responded. He was like a sublime melody that seeped deep into her soul.

  He waited until she opened her mouth for him, then dropped the berry in. Angela abruptly closed her mouth and chewed.

  “Good, huh?”

  She nodded, wishing her stomach would stop doing flips.

  “Sweet for the sweet.” He winked at her and took a step back.

  She finally remembered to breathe. As he told her about living in Texas and working on cattle ranches, she found her thoughts drifting. His words strung together in that lilting way of his, reminding her of a caprice she’d played last week, with her bow skipping delicately across the strings. She realized she was listening more to the tone and timbre of his voice—his husky warm voice that coated her like treacle—than she was hearing his actual words.

  Her eyes kept returning to his deft hands working through the sharp thorns of the bushes to pluck the ripe fruit. Those hands were his livelihood, and they were rough and cut up and scarred. But they were the hands of a man who calmed the wildness out of wild animals with a gentle but firm touch. Hands she imagined touching her in such a way.

  “I didn’t have proper schooling such as ya must’ve had. Most of what I learned came while on the back of a horse. But contrary to what some folks think, cowboys ain’t uneducated. They’re just educated differently, about different things.” He pushed his gray hat back on his head to get a better look at her. “Just about any cowboy can tell ya all ya need to know about anyplace in the West. If’n you’re in Texas and ya want to know about the Gallatin River in Montana territory, just ’bout any puncher can give ya all the details—every peak and valley, every creek, best place to fish, where the trails lead. Better’n any map. Cowboys spend a whole lot of time observin’. They can spot anything out o’ the ord’nary from afar. Tell whether an approachin’ rider is a line rider or an Injun, and what kind, by his dress. Many a cowboy’s observed new species of animals, studied the way they move and eat and live, learned about the migration of birds. This here open country is like a book, filled with hundreds of pages of knowledge the likes of which any ol’ stuffy Easterner wouldn’t have a clue about. There’s no replacin’ real experience for book learnin’—wouldn’t ya say?”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, though there is a big world out there. Wouldn’t you want to learn all about it?”

  “What for? How’ll that help me any out here in cattle country? Why should I learn about some city or mountain in a foreign land? Or study paintings or ancient pottery or the like? I don’t see the point.”

  “It’s culture, heritage.”

  “Not mine. I c’n see ya wantin’ to learn about Italy and yer people from there. Maybe ya got a hankerin’ to go visit back there someday. But . . . the way I see it is this: where yer people come from or how they lived might be nice to know, but it don’t define who ya are. You aren’t where you’re from. You aren’t an Italian or an Irishman or an Injun. Yer behavior, the way ya treat others—that’s who ya are. Too many folks use their fine and educated pedigree to excuse their mean treatment of others. I seen it plenty on the range. Englishmen and Easterners who can list back all their ancestors to some earl or king or the other. But they don’t have a lick o’ sense or decency, and would jus’ as soon steal the clothes off your back as say ‘how-de-do.’”

  Angela studied his face, surprised at his words and the passion behind them. And his words rang with truth. She realized she had spent her life defining herself in just that way—as an Italian woman bound by her culture and required to play the part defined by the men surrounding her. Proud men who often felt they did no wrong, who rarely apologized for any mistreatment of others. Who bragged and flaunted their money or station in the community. She’d tried hard to fit in, to accept her lot, but she saw now that she could never fit. How could she, when it wasn’t proper for a young woman to seek a career, to want to become a professional musician and play on the stage? Was there anyplace she could fit in and still realize her dreams? She doubted it, feeling that familiar heavy sadness seeking to pull her under.

  “So, ya have any siblings?�
� Brett asked.

  “An older brother. And two younger sisters.” She tried not to look at him, knowing she’d get lost in those eyes again, and her cheeks would give her feelings away. As she pulled the fat black berries from the vines and dropped them into her basket, she noticed the juice was staining her skin purple.

  “Ya miss ’em?”

  Angela nodded, wondering if he planned to ply her with questions now.

  “They all live with that pa of yours?” His tone had grown quiet and serious.

  At the mention of her papá, her mouth tightened. Why had she mentioned him to Brett that day? How could she have told a complete stranger that her papá beat her? Come stupido. She looked at him, and he just stood there, waiting for her answer. Her nervousness shifted into irritation.

  “Let’s just enjoy this beautiful day,” she said, turning abruptly and walking over to the girls. She hoped that would put a stop to the subject.

  Her eyes dropped to her feet at a tiny rustling sound, and she half-expected a snake to slither out from under the prickly berry bushes and bite her. Her imagination had run loose upon his mention of bears and wolves. It took all her resolve to hide her fear, and she felt altogether foolish to be so frightened.

  She noticed the girls were without a care in the world. Ten feet from her, they concentrated on the task, filling their baskets with berries—though a good portion ended up in their mouths instead, staining their lips purple. What a happy, carefree life they lived.

  The thought soured in her mouth as if she’d eaten an unripe blackberry. These two girls not only had their own violins, they had parents that encouraged them to play music. Who loved and adored them.

  The fuller her basket, the emptier her heart felt. What was she doing here watching over someone else’s girls instead of protecting her own sisters? How could she be so self-indulgent, chasing her dreams instead of facing reality? Her mamá was lying in some hospital bed, alone, no doubt worrying herself sick over her eldest daughter, who’d run off to some Western town to buy a violin. What was she thinking when she got on that train?