The heavy weight of her guilt and fear over her mamá came crashing down on her shoulders. She stifled the sobs as best she could, keeping her face turned from Brett so he couldn’t see her tears. The last thing she wanted was for this uncouth cowboy to try to comfort her. But you want to be comforted. You’d like nothing more than those strong arms to hold you and for Brett to tell you everything will be all right. Tell you that Mamá will recover and Papá will have learned his lesson and will never hurt her again. She choked back a new flood of tears. But those are lies, and you know it. Papá will never stop, never change.
She realized she stood frozen in place, staring out at the horizon stretching for endless miles, which only emphasized the distance that lay between her and New York. The sea of tall brown grass was a vast ocean separating her from Mamá.
A hand touched her arm, and she flinched. She turned her head and locked eyes with Brett. Before she could turn away, he stopped her with his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered, her throat raw and her face wet.
“Angela, I’m sorry.” He gave a quick glance over at the girls, who had run over to another patch of berries nearby.
“Sorry?” Her thoughts clustered thick in her head. What was he apologizing for?
“I shouldn’t’a mentioned yer pa.” His mouth tightened into a hard line of self-recrimination.
She stared at the ground, her feelings aching to gush out. It was all she could do to keep them bottled up in her chest. “It’s . . . not you—or anything you said. I . . . I just shouldn’t be here—”
“At the ranch? Or ya mean Colorado?” When she didn’t reply, he said in a hushed tone, “Or ya mean here, with me?”
The way he said the words caused her to tremble. His voice was so thick with longing and tenderness, she could hardly breathe. The air seemed suddenly stifling, choking her. All she could do was shake her head and let the tears fall. She couldn’t have been more embarrassed by her emotional display.
And Brett was just standing there watching her—maybe studying her the way he did those volatile horses. Was she just another thing to calm with his soft words? She didn’t want to be calmed or reassured or comforted. She didn’t deserve it. But the ache inside would explode if she didn’t say something to ease it.
“My mamá’s in the hospital. I don’t know how badly she was hurt . . . I should be there, helping her . . . But my aunt told me to stay away, that Papá was furious I’d left . . .” She could say no more. Her eyes brimmed with more tears, and her throat pained her such that she couldn’t swallow.
After a long stretch of quiet—the air so still now, the silence seemed to pulse—Brett said softly, “It’s not your fault—”
She spun around to face him. “It is! What do you know about it? Nothing!” A string of Italian curses flew out of her mouth—to her shock. Words her papá often flung at her mamá.
“Whoa, whoa, there,” he said, shushing her. But she didn’t want to be “shushed.”
She wanted to run. To be free, like a wild horse. To race over the open prairie and leave her pain drifting behind. But there was nowhere to run. She was trapped inside this burning fire with no escape.
“It’s not your fault,” Brett repeated, this time with firm insistence, hands on his hips. “You didn’t make your pa the way he is. And you cain’t change him and make ’im different. The only person you c’n change is yourself. It don’t do any good beatin’ yourself over the head with a stick.”
Angela saw pain in his eyes, and she suddenly understood. That’s what you do. She drew in a long breath and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. And that’s why you run. She huffed, seeing him as clear as the air around her. Because you can.
How many men sought a new life in the West because they were running from something? She narrowed her eyes at him. He was just a coward—the same as she.
“Running doesn’t solve anything either,” she said, her words biting and sharp.
He looked stunned, as if she’d slapped him. She regretted her thoughtless retort.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling his hurt ooze out like an untended wound.
He grunted, and his features took on a hard edge. “No. You’re right. I run from trouble.” He shook his head slowly, and a sour smirk rose on his face. He stuffed his hands deep into his pants pockets. “Always have. Prob’ly always will.” He came up close to her face and looked down into her eyes with a scowl. His words hung in the inches between them. He smelled like horse and grass and sweat, but it was an intoxicating, heady scent that made her falter.
She tried to take a step back, but a hedge of tangling blackberry bushes prevented her.
“Hey, are you two having a spat?”
Angela turned her head and saw Clementine marching over to them, her basket full to the brim with plump blackberries. Madeline trailed a few steps behind her.
Angela forced a smile onto her face, feeling as if she’d just escaped some danger. “Of course not. Let’s see those berries.”
Clementine held up her basket, then frowned. “Your basket’s only half full. You’ve been dallying, I’d say.”
Brett raised an eyebrow at the girl, and Angela almost laughed. Clementine’s tone was so chastising and parental, it was comical. Apparently the cowboy thought so too, for the dark cloud that had momentarily engulfed him had shredded and blown away, and that sweet, arresting smile had returned.
Madeline came over to Angela and took her basket. “Clem and I’ll finish picking for you. We’re experts.”
“Apparently so,” Angela said, throwing a quick look at Brett. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, thoughtfully watching as the girls scampered off, back to the patch they’d been picking at. Clem stopped and yelled to them.
“And the sooner, we’re done, the sooner we’ll have tarts!” She ran over to her sister and got busy again.
Brett gave Angela an apologetic look. “Maybe we should help ’em.”
“Oh no,” she said, “we’re not experts. We’ll only get in the way.” She gave him a smile, sorry for snapping at him. What in heaven’s name had gotten into her? She’d never uttered such awful words before. Good thing Brett didn’t understand Italian.
Her own dark cloud seemed to have blown away too. Though crying hadn’t solved any of her problems, it had at least emptied her of her pain and sorrow for the moment.
“So . . .” he said, running his tongue across his lower lip. Angela felt a new surge of desire wash over her. A smile snuck up on his face, which only heated the flames more. “Under that sweet demeanor of yours there’s a bit of a temper, I’d reckon.”
She shrugged in resignation. “That’s the Italian part of me.”
He stepped closer, then stopped and cocked his head. She swallowed and met his gaze. “What’s the other part?”
His question flustered her. Or maybe it was his nearness and the way his eyes searched her face, as if looking for the answer there.
“There . . . is no other part,” she said, feeling like she had cotton in her mouth.
“Oh yeah there is,” he was quick to say. “A whole lot of other.”
“I don’t understand—”
He took up the distance between them such that she could feel heat from his body. There remained a hair’s breadth between them. Angela froze, though her arms started to shake.
Brett fastened his eyes on hers, his face impassive.
“What I mean to say, Miss Bellini, is . . . you’ve got this sweetness about you.” His warm breath now tickled her cheeks. She held her own breath, unable to pull away from his mesmerizing stare. “Sweet like honey and as soft and gentle as a spring lamb.”
Angela burst out in laughter, startling him.
“What’d I say that was so funny?” He looked entirely flustered, and it was utterly endearing.
She waggled her head at him. “No one’s ever compared me to a sheep—”
“Not a sheep. A lamb. A spring lamb.” He frowned, taken aback.
When she laughed again, he threw his hands in the air and made a noise of frustration.
“Well, what’s the difference?” she asked, trying to get her chuckling under control. But the look of confusion in his eyes only made her erupt in giggles once more.
“See here, miss. I’ll not brook such impolite teasin’—”
“Oh? What do you plan to do to stop me?” The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them.
With raised brows, he pulled her swiftly into his arms—those strong muscular arms that she’d dreamed of feeling again. Her breath whooshed from her body.
“Oh I know jus’ the trick,” he sighed into her ear, making her knees so weak she thought she’d fall. But he held her firm against his chest, and she could feel his heart hammering to match her own beat.
What was she doing? How could she let this man hold her so? And she was supposed to be watching Adeline’s girls. And they’re probably watching us right now.
Angela tried to pull back in protest, but before she could manage, Brett’s lips found hers, and his tongue ran across her upper lip. Angela gasped, and Brett pulled her even closer, almost crushing her against him. But it felt good, oh so good. Her head spun with dizziness as his moist tongue worked its way past her lips, forcing her mouth open.
She was like a fish sucking for air, yearning for more but not able to get enough, not enough of him, as his lips teased and kissed hers. Every inch of her body was set afire, craving him, needing him. She trembled in his arms as she fought to pull back, fearful and shocked by the passion that he’d sparked inside her.
But Brett didn’t put up a fight. To her surprise, he dropped his arms to his sides and pulled back, tenderly tucking a strand of hair back under her bonnet. He bit his bottom lip as if tasting her still on his skin. Her heart hurt from its fierce thumping.
She’d never been kissed before—not like this. And though she’d imagined what it might be like, a million times over, Brett’s kiss was nothing like she’d pictured. It had shaken her to her toes, and now she felt as fragile and weak as butterfly emerging from a cocoon.
He cleared his throat and gave her a crooked smile, those hazel eyes making the embers flare again and filling her with such a rush of passion, she could hardly look at him.
“That’s . . . the other part I was talkin’ ’bout. I knew it was in there, somewhere.”
She gaped at him, flustered, tongue-tied, torn between wanting to be furious at him and longing for him to kiss her again. His smug smile made her think he’d been playing her like a violin—seeing if he could get this naïve, emotional woman to succumb to his wiles.
A cowboy! She’d let a cowboy kiss her. And not just a little tiny peck on the lips either.
She put her fingers on her mouth and spun around. Dizzy, she strode to the girls, who’d filled her basket almost to the top.
“I think we have plenty for tarts,” she managed to get out of her mouth. Her heart still raced, and her tongue tasted Brett’s lips on her own lips. She wanted to run into her room and hide under the coverlet. “Let’s head back to the house.”
The girls chattered with excitement about the delicious hot tarts Cook would make them, leading the way along the creek trail. Angela followed, and Brett fell in step behind her, his boots making a soft thud in rhythm with her beating heart, her head filled with a new and frightening kind of music that made her hurry all the more to the sanctity of the ranch house.
Chapter 22
Angela’s face paled under the overcast sky. “Are you sure this is safe? He’s awfully big.”
Brett stood in front of Miz Foster’s appy gelding, holding the reins loose in his hand while trying not to gawk at Angela, who looked purty as a picture in that split riding skirt and high boots the rancher’s wife had given her to wear. Her thick black hair was pinned up under her straw hat, exposing her milky neck. Brett swallowed back a sigh.
Miz Foster smiled, gave that high-pitched titter of hers, and put her hands on her wide hips. “He’s a cotton puff,” she said to Angela, with a thick drawl. “He won’t do a thing unless you make him. The girls learned to ride on him.”
Angela looked about to swoon as she studied the horse from hoof to head. Ol’ Nicker couldn’t have been more bored. Prob’ly knows it’s Sunday. Folks and horses were meant to have a day o’ rest. But a pleasant little ride round the ranch wouldn’t take long. Then you c’n git back to nappin’, he told the horse silently with a pat on the neck.
He had approached the missus when the family—and Angela—had returned late morning from church, after Angela had gone inside the big house and the rancher’s wife was giving some instruction to the cook out in the garden. Miz Foster about turned pink when Brett had inquired whether he might take Angela out for a ride, explaining that she’d never sat on a horse afore.
Brett’s affection for Angela must’ve been written all over his face, though he tried his darndest to hide it. But women like her could smell a man courting a mile away, and her eyes lit up in a kind of conspiratorial way. He knew Angela would need some riding clothes and a lady-broke horse and reckoned he’d have to ask Miz Foster’s help in that regard. Plus, if Angela was staying in the big house, he’d best get in the missus’s good graces.
She’d been more than happy to comply. Truth be told, the idea had sent her in a tizzy, with her hands flapping and mouth working, looking like a busy bee off to fill the hive with honey. Brett had rushed to clean up and put on his nicest clothes—a pair of brown denim pants and a pale-yellow shirt he’d bought at the Greeley mercantile he’d not yet worn—wanting to make the right impression on Miz Foster. And, he had to admit, on Angela.
Archie and Tate had given him looks when he changed out of his busting clothes after supper. But Brett reckoned if he smelled like a sweaty horse, he might not get another chance to kiss those delicious lips.
Standing there, watching Miz Foster help Angela up onto the side saddle and instructing her how to sit and use the reins, Brett could hardly contain his fidgeting. He knew he had to do the proper thing and be all gentlemanly—’specially riding around the ranch for all eyes to see. The cowboys doing their chores or just lazing around on their day off would catch sight of ’em, and he also knew the kind of talk that would follow. But Brett didn’t care a whit about the joshing he’d get. All he cared about was spending as much time with Angela Bellini as he could before she left to go home.
It was a kind of torture—he readily admitted it—hankering for something he could never have. But after spending the night reliving that kiss over and over, so utterly bewitched by her charms, he knew there was no use fighting it. He could no more keep away from her than the sun could keep from rising in the morning sky.
A tiny spark of hope had lit in the night, as he lay in his bunk. What if he could convince her to stay? He mulled over all the things he could say to her, but his thoughts kept circling back to the same spot. What would a gal like her want with a cowboy like him? He had nothing to offer her. She deserved better. And then he’d reminded himself about the bad blood that flowed in his veins. About his wild temper that might take hold of him without warning. He’d kept seeing that image of him hitting Angela, and the blood dripping down her face. He knew it was the Cheyenne woman’s way of warning him.
But she’d also told you of a way out—a way through the fire. “Follow the song. It will lead you out.” He wished he understood the meaning of her words.
If he truly cared about Angela, he wouldn’t let her heart get tangled with his.
But he already had. It was evident in that kiss, plain as day. She had the same longing for him as he did for her. A tiny voice screamed a warning in his head, telling him he’d only end up hurting her and to stay away. But the other part of him squashed that warning—like a stampeding herd of buffalo riding roughshod across his heart. How could he ignore the fervent desire he felt for this gal? Even standing here, a few feet away, he thought his heart might burst out of his chest. It took ever
y ounce of restraint not to rush over to her and swoop her into his arms.
He was sure Miz Foster sensed his every thought, for once she situated Angela up on the saddle, she gave him a chastising look that told him to be on his best behavior. He appreciated the trust she showed him, for she didn’t know him at all, and plenty of cowboys couldn’t be trusted as far as you could spit. Angela was a guest at her ranch and came under her care and responsibility, and Brett intended to prove worthy. He could thank Doc Tuttle for that kind testimony of character.
“Take her along that trail that starts back behind the bunkhouse,” she told him. “It follows the Platte for a half mile east along a stand of cottonwoods, then opens up to the prairie.”
She turned and patted Angela’s leg. The gal sat nervously on the horse, gripping the reins hard in fisted hands. “He’ll go nice and slow. Nicker’s about the gentlest horse you’ll ever meet. Nothing flusters him.”
She added with a reassuring smile, “Relax and enjoy the ride. There’s nothing more peaceful than seeing the wide-open country from the back of a horse. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hendricks?”
Brett nodded and touched the brim of his hat to thank her. Then he walked over to Kotoo, who was standing alongside the corral fence, and swung up on her. He’d packed some water and tied his rifle to his saddle, just in case of trouble.
“You alright, Miss Bellini?” He brought his mount alongside Nicker. Kotoo stepped about, eager to run. But there’d be no letting loose today. Both horse and rider would have to exercise some mighty restraint.
Angela blew out a shaky breath, looking like she couldn’t wait to get this over with.
Brett chuckled. “This ain’t like a visit to the dentist. And ya don’t have to hold on so tight.”
He noticed her hands loosen a bit on the reins, but she sat stock-still, her face as tight as a drum. The sight made his heart swell with affection. She looked like a little girl up there on the saddle, afraid she might fall off. Her right leg was hooked around the large horn, and her skirts spread out like a fan over her leg. She was so fetching, she about took his breath away.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 20
