Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Perhaps the snake attack was a blessing in disguise. It had revealed to her the truth about Brett Hendricks. Now, more than ever, she knew it was time to return to New York—violin or no violin.

  Chapter 23

  A cheery fire blazed at the tail end of the chuck wagon, but Brett felt anything but cheered on this dead-calm evening. He reined in the gelding he was riding, while Archie Halloran and Tate Roberts rode the string over to the rope corral the wrangler had set up a ways past. About the fire sat a dozen or so punchers, who eyed him as they ate from plates loaded with beans and beef and powder biscuits and drank from tin cups. A coffeepot bubbled over the fire, the strong aroma drifting into Brett’s nose, and the small Mexican cook busied himself with his pans of food.

  Brett dismounted, and a kid in a hat too big ran over and took his horse, then led it over to the makeshift corral where all the strings were put up for the night. The punchers ranged in age—young like Archie, some of ’em, and others maybe sixty. As he approached the fire, he noted all were grimy and dusting and reeking from the lack of a bath. Included in the bunch were Ned Handy and Rufus Shore, whose narrowed eyes followed Brett as he introduced himself and got back nods and hellos.

  Roberts and Archie joined him over at the wagon, where the cook handed them tin plates loaded with steaming food. Archie blabbered on excitedly, and Brett politely nodded. His stomach grumbled. He’d hardly eaten a thing since they set out to join the roundup. Truth be told, he’d hardly eaten much all week, his appetite soured. Foster had Brett stringing the last of the broncs late yesterday, and so he and Roberts and the tenderfoot had set out at dawn. They’d led the bunch without incident north and east across the desert, passing herds of Foster’s cattle and giving a wave to the riders moving the animals to the roundup location.

  Usually Brett looked forward to a roundup. It was a time for sharing stories and meeting punchers from other ranches. But Brett had no hankering for comradery here. Ever since last Sunday with the snakes, his spirit had snuffed out, like a candle in a strong wind. He felt nothing but emptiness. Emptiness and shame. He couldn’t get Angela’s horrified expression out of his mind. And he knew it wasn’t just the snakes that had scared her.

  He found a secluded spot on a log away from the campfire and ate his food without tasting it. He noted Roberts had taken Archie under his wing and was introducing him to the punchers around the fire. He was glad for it, for last thing he wanted was to swap pleasantries.

  Angela had said ’airy a word to him when they rode back to the ranch. He knew he’d lost his temper. He’d lost her. Yet he hardly recalled what he’d done. One moment he was grabbing his rifle and running to save her, and the next moment he was covered hat to boot in snake blood. His eyes had dropped to his hand, which held his big Bowie knife. He had no memory of pulling the knife from its sheath on his calf. Or of cutting all them snakes into pieces. Something had come over him, something awful.

  He groaned as despair sucked him under. He’d known his pa’s blood ran through his veins. But up until that moment he’d hoped that he’d mercifully been spared the curse. All it took was a pile of rattlers to show him the truth. That, and the look in Angela’s eyes, condemning him.

  The whole rest of the week, he saw no sign of her. Nor had he heard her sweet fiddle playing. He knew she was still at the ranch—Foster’s little girls had told him so—but Angela had stayed out of sight. Out of yer sight. He couldn’t blame her. He just wished he’d had the chance to apologize before the roundup. Who knew if he’d ever see her again. Foster had told ’em this roundup would be a small one—maybe only four ranches and take about two weeks. Even so, he reckoned Angela would be long gone by the time he got back to the ranch.

  Well, it was for the best. Better that she saw his true self. Better that he saw. For it drove home the truth of the evil residing in his heart. Never, never, could he allow that rage to bust out of its cage around a woman. He was destined to spend his life alone and lonely. So be it. A wildfire burned hot across the barren wilderness of his soul, and no calm water or sweet song would lead him out, despite that Cheyenne woman’s proclamation.

  He finished off his food and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat there, wallowing in his misery and knowing he had to get over it. Get over her. A big empty hole sat in his heart, as if someone had shot him. He’d never loved any woman before. Never really knew what love meant—all that mushy talk he’d heard cowboys blather about, their eyes moony and their spirits low, missing some gal back home. Cowboys often spent the long hours under the stars talking about some gal or other they had their heart set on or broken by. But Brett thought it mostly wishful thinking or some sort of delusion or fever.

  Lovesickness. It surely was a sickness, truth be told. He could hardly deny it now. For that pain in his chest never let up, and the longing for her drove him mad with need and desire, worse than any sickness he’d suffered. He sorely rued the day he’d laid eyes on Angela Bellini.

  It would take time, but he’d purge that sickness from his bones if he had to dig it out with a knife. That, or end his life and the suffering. You’re stronger than that, Cowboy. You don’t have to end up like your pa. But what was his life worth—without Angela? Nothing. Why run cattle twelve hours a day, year in, year out. What was the point? There ain’t none. But ya don’t have a choice, do ya? This is yer work, yer life.

  He was good at running. Angela said it plain as day. Well, then, he’d just keep running from trouble, even it if dogged him like some hound of hell. If he ran fast and long and hard enough, he might be able to keep one step ahead of his simmering rage. He didn’t see any other choice. And maybe if he chewed up enough miles, he’d forget the haunting face of that the gal he loved.

  ***

  They finished breakfast just as the sun glared over the rim of the horizon. Punchers were rolling up blankets, stuffing war sacks, rounding up their string. The cook was rattling camp kettles, packing up the chuck wagon for the move. The camp was astir with activity and chatter, horses and punchers alike eager to get a move on. Brett’s back ached from the lumpy mattress of buffalo grass he’d slept on. Didn’t help that he’d tossed like a land-bound fish all night.

  Word had it the five ranches had converged at the appointed site—a place called Willow Creek—inside of ten miles from where Brett stood putting a saddle on Rebel. The deplorable mood Brett was in, the pinto had better not even blink his eye in a thought of defiance. Rebel must’ve sensed Brett’s threat, for he hung his head like a sorry dog.

  Brett tightened the cinch with a sharp pull, waited a minute until Rebel puffed out a breath, then yanked once more and ran the end of the strap through the cinch ring. Brett had five other horses in his string—ones Foster had kindly let him choose. He’d met the wrangler before dawn—a grumpy squat fella named Templeton that looked to need two pots of black coffee each morning before he could utter a word. And last evening, as Brett was rolling out his bed, Mack Lambert, the foreman and wagon boss, had introduced himself.

  Brett heard his name called and turned. Lambert was heading his way. And Roberts was a step behind him, his expression grim.

  Brett pushed his hat back and studied the foreman. He looked as distressed as Roberts, but it was a telltale riffle under his calm. Though a foreman dressed like any other cowboy, he had an air of smarts about him. He needed to know the layout of the land, the general count of the herd, the punchers and others that made up his outfit. Lambert had a head full of wild black hair that could hardly stay stuffed under his hat. With thick side whiskers and moustache and beard, and monstrous shoulders, he resembled more bear than human. Contrasting that, his eyes were the palest, clearest blue Brett’d ever seen, set in a face that had seen plenty of years in the hot sun, though Brett took him to be around forty.

  Mack only needed to cock his head at the stand of cottonwoods to let Brett know he had something to tell him. Brett threw Rebel’s lead to the kid helping the wrangler and followed afoot. When they wer
e out of earshot from the outfit, Mack drew them close and spoke in a hushed voice.

  “I need t’ ask you boys a favor,” he said with his heavy Texan twang. He waited till he was sure they were paying attention. “Logan’s been losin’ cattle to rustlers. It’s been ongoin’, and he has some notion who it might be.”

  Roberts chewed his lip. Judging by his expression, Brett guessed he’d known about this trouble.

  He reckoned this was what those riders had talked to Foster about the day Brett had shown up on the ranch, when Foster looked perturbed at their report.

  Rustlers showed up all over the Front Range at times—as it was a sore temptation, all those animals freely ranging over hundreds of miles—and Brett had seen a few caught and brought to justice. But they were slippery, and over thousands of acres of rangeland, it was easy enough to cut some of the cows off from the main herd without being seen. ’Specially where there was heavy brush and places to hide. Sometimes they’d snatch young animals that hadn’t yet been branded or ones that had missed the spring roundup. Other times rustlers would just steal a rancher’s marked cattle and rework the brand out on the range and let the animals go. At the roundup, the rustlers would cull out all their stolen cows, proving ownership with the false brand. It was the worst kind of thievery, and the punishment was hanging.

  “We’ll be headin’ east first up Crow Creek and Pawnee butte country, then along to Fremont’s Orchard. If’n ya two don’t mind, I’d like to have ya ride the drags—just for a few days. Seems these rustlers dally around the edges of the herd, then work some of the beeves back and into the brush. They’re range brandin’ ’em.”

  Roberts didn’t look eager to eat dust, but he readily agreed. Lambert continued. “I’ll be riding point, and I’ve got Daniels on swing. If’n you see somethin’, git to him. Y’all will be paid fightin’ wages.”

  Brett’s eyebrows raised at the hint of danger. Though, confronting a rustler was danger aplenty. “Why ya want me on this?”

  Lambert studied him. “New set o’ eyes. You’re new to the outfit. Ya may notice somethin’ no one else will. Plus, word has it you’re the best buster and rider in the outfit. Ya may need to chase these fellers down. I know Roberts c’n keep up with ya.”

  Brett nodded. Normally a compliment like that would make him feel right proud. But seeing as he presently felt as big as a worm, the words just slid by him matter-of-fact.

  “Alright,” Brett said, “but I don’t need no extra pay. I’m glad t’ help.”

  “Same here,” Roberts said, a determined look etched into his features.

  “Well,” Lambert said. “Sorry to stick ya back there, but Foster’ll greatly reward the one that can nab them scoundrels. Go on, then. Mount up and head on out.”

  ***

  When out an hour from the camp, they caught up with the herd, which was strung out a mile or more along the south bank of the Platte. From where Brett sat his horse, the many-tinted ribbon of cattle moved ever forward across the sea of rolling buffalo grass upon the hillocks, and two punchers riding drag were shouting and pounding the lazy, lame, and footsore animals to keep up with the rest.

  Roberts rode over to the punchers and had a powwow with them. Presently, the two riders loped off along the flank leaving Brett and Roberts to take over their task. This part of the range had little cover, so Brett doubted he see signs of trouble, but he kept vigilant, rounding up strays and prodding the cows that fell behind or tended to wander off.

  Brett kept as busy as he could, letting the heat of the day pound his shoulders and back and draw the pain and heartache from his body like a poultice. Only when the sun was westering above him did he take a break, coming up beside Roberts, who was drinking water from his canteen and sitting his horse on a hill thick with sage brush. Green trees to the north edged into hilly shrub land.

  “Over yonder.” Roberts pulled off his sweat-soaked hat and smoothed down his red hair. “By that slow piece o’ water.”

  Brett craned through the evening haze choked with dust and made out the mass of bodies congregating along the river in the midst of an abandoned apple orchard. He spotted the chuck wagon backed up against a rocky hillock and made out other riders swinging round from the north, pushing the strays back into the main herd. An old corral teeming with lowing cattle, with posts lashed together with strips of cowhide, stretched out beyond the orchard with wings running out at least a hundred yards. Brett could tell by the hard trampled ground that it had been used plenty over the years for rounding up cattle.

  “So, what’re ya thinkin’?” Brett asked Roberts.

  The Missourian shrugged. “I got a notion.” He scrunched up his face as he looked off at the camp. “You reckon ya wanna give my hunch a spin?”

  “Let’s hear it,” Brett said.

  Roberts didn’t name names, but he outlined his plan to Brett. It made a lot of sense. Clearly he’d been on the scout for some time sussing out the rustlers.

  “So, I figure we got a half a moon—’nough light to see by.” Roberts kept staring, his mind working the angles.

  “Ya really think they’ll take a chance so close to camp.”

  “I do.” He left it at that. Brett sensed Roberts knew a whole lot more than he was telling. And maybe more than he’d told Lambert or Foster.

  “Where ya want’a meet after supper?”

  Brett listened as Roberts laid out the last details. He knew there could be a heap of trouble if they ran up on those rustlers in the dark. But Brett trusted Roberts—not just with his good aim and keen eye. He trusted the cowboy’s character. And that was more important than a fast trigger finger—by a long chalk.

  “Let’s bring these drags in,” Roberts said suddenly, then kicked his mount and loped off across the prairie. Brett itched to get into some action after spending the day at the tail end of the herd. It was a thankless job, but it felt like a kind of penance for Brett. Though, he doubted even the flames of hell could burn out the evil in his soul. He wished with all his might there was something he could do, some way to purge the blood of his pa from his veins. If it meant bleeding to death in a confrontation with rustlers, so be it. Maybe dying a noble death would give him reprieve for the perdition awaiting him.

  In the meantime, he’d planned to stay as far away from the fairer sex as was humanly possible.

  Well, that wasn’t going to be hard to do so long as he rode with an outfit. Maybe after the roundup ended, Foster would keep him on. So long as cattle needed punching on the open range, Brett would always be able to rustle up work. And keep running from his life.

  Chapter 24

  “Darling, I wish you would change your mind. The girls will miss you something awful.” Adeline stood in the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, giving Angela her most pathetic look. But Angela was decided. And George had graciously agreed to allow her to move back into the small room behind his shop until her violin was ready.

  After Brett had escorted her back to the ranch that awful day—saying not a word, even when he’d helped her dismount and watched her storm into the sanctity of the Fosters’ home—she’d calmed down and told herself not to be hasty. Getting her violin and pursuing her dream was more important than anything—or anyone—else, and that included Brett Hendricks. She could wait a couple of weeks.

  But not here. Not if there was any chance she’d see the cowboy again.

  “I’m sorry, Adeline. You’ve been so generous and kind to me. But I can’t stay.”

  “If it’s because of those rattlers, you can stay close to the house—”

  Angela stopped packing her small carpetbag and looked at Adeline. The rancher’s wife had a knowing frown on her face.

  “It’s not about the snakes, is it?” she asked delicately in her Southern drawl. “It’s the cowboy.”

  Angela’s cheeks grew hot, and she returned to packing.

  As she put her hat on her head and picked up the bag, Adeline added, “From what I hear, Brett Hendricks is a good man, and”�
��her frown turned into a mischievous smile—“anyone can tell by looking at him that he has it bad.”

  “Has what bad?” All Angela could see in her mind was the crazed rage in Brett’s eyes as he slashed at the snakes with that knife, followed by the black emptiness she saw in his soul when he’d killed every last one of them. Was Adeline talking about his bad temper? But no—her entreating look said otherwise.

  Adeline shook her head and gave Angela the kind of smile a mother would give a naïve child. “Darling, I saw the way Brett looked at you. The man’s mad in love—can’t you tell?”

  Angela huffed. In love? If so, he sure has a strange way of showing it. She started to walk toward the door, but Adeline blocked her egress with her large form, which filled the doorway. Clearly Angela was not going to be permitted to leave until Adeline said her piece.

  Angela sighed and set down her bag, then rubbed her weary eyes. She’d hardly slept a night since she’d been attacked by those snakes. The creatures invaded her dreams and chased after her in the dark hours, making her jerk awake in sweat and fear. Not even playing the violin helped pacify her tremors.

  She had wished for Brett to hold her in his arms and comfort her once the snakes were dead. But he’d turned into some kind of monster—standing there glaring at her, covered in blood. She couldn’t wash away the image of him like that—as if the snake blood had indelibly stained him. She couldn’t bear to see him like that ever again.

  “Don’t you want a man to love you?” Adeline asked pointedly.

  Angela’s mouth dropped open at Adeline’s forwardness, but no words came out.

  Adeline pressed her further. “It wasn’t his fault that the snakes attacked. They’re everywhere on the Front Range—”

  “Just another reason to leave,” Angela sputtered with haste, wrapping her arms across her waist. “I just . . . I can’t take this life. This isn’t what I’m used to. I just want to go home.” Without warning, tears pushed out of her eyes.