“Oh, I understand, darling,” Adeline replied, her own eyes glistening as she put her arm around Angela and led her to sit at the edge of the four-poster bed. She plopped down next to her, and the feather mattress sank low. “I felt that way when I first came out to Colorado Territory. Here I was, not even twenty, and I’d hardly been ten miles outside of Savannah. I’d met Logan at a party given by his great-aunt—a woman of means and prominence among the great families in that part of Georgia.” Her eyes turned dreamy at the remembrance as Angela sniffed and wiped her face.
“He was so handsome, and he asked me to dance. I had no idea he ran a cattle ranch in the West. I wanted nothing more than to stay in Savannah. But he’d swept me off my feet, and we were soon married. When we arrived by coach to Evans, I was horrified. What had I gotten myself into? I thought. The place was desert as far as the eye could see, and Evans was hardly what one would call a town, with one street and a handful of clapboard storefronts. How could I live in such a place?”
She smiled wistfully at Angela. “But Logan aimed to make me feel at home and, bless his heart, did everything to please me. He built me this beautiful house and keeps me in comfort and security. And he’s such a good, doting father to the girls.” She took Angela’s hands in hers and squeezed them, as if that would drive home the truth of her words. “Darling, when a man loves a woman the way Logan loves me, there is no greater joy. You need a man in your life, sweet girl, and there’s no better catch than a cowboy with a true and loyal heart.”
Angela bit her lip, thinking of how good, how right, Brett’s arms had felt around her. And that kiss . . . Heat washed over her thinking of how his lips had tenderly met hers, and how his hot tongue had played with her mouth. Oh, how she longed for the kind of heated passion his kiss had promised. And the comfort and security Adeline spoke of.
But Brett was much too like her papá. There was no escaping that fact. No matter how much Brett might love her, or claim to love her, she knew, in the end, a marriage to a man like him would end up just like her parents’ marriage. Marriage to a man like Brett—like her papá—would be a prison sentence and not the bed of roses Adeline gushed on about.
Adeline hadn’t seen what Angela had in Brett Hendricks. And she probably wouldn’t understand. She has no firsthand knowledge of what a violent-tempered man is like. And besides—what kind of life could Brett offer me? He wasn’t wealthy, like Logan Foster, or from a fine, established family. And while Angela wasn’t looking for riches, she didn’t want to live in poverty either.
“Promise me, this, then, darling,” Adeline said, still squeezing Angela’s hands. “That you won’t leave Greeley until after Logan’s birthday party.” When Angela began to protest, Adeline held up a hand and gave her a chastising look. “I’ve spent nearly a year planning his fiftieth bash. It’s going to be a magnificent party, and ranchers and those of high-society from all parts will be attending. George Fisk has promised me a string quartet, and I want you to play.” She added, “It’s the very least you could do, and Logan will be so thrilled to hear you play again. As will the girls.”
Angela buckled under Adeline’s urging. It was the least she could do to show her gratitude for the Fosters’ hospitality.
“When is the party?” she asked with a sinking heart, feeling trapped in a corner.
“Right after the roundup. On October thirteenth. By then, surely your violin will be ready. What better way to finish up your stay in Colorado than to play your new violin at Logan’s birthday party.”
“Will . . . all the cowboys be there too?”
Adeline frowned at Angela, but her eyes took on that glint that Angela saw often enough. “Of course. His cowboys are the lifeblood of this ranch, and they rarely get to dress up and partake of such fine food and drink.”
“I see,” Angela muttered, wishing there were some way out of committing. But if Brett showed up, she would be polite and brush him off. She would be there to perform—nothing more. And then George would take her back to town, where she could pack and leave Greeley on the next train south to Denver. Surely she could manage that. She straightened in determination.
“So, you’ll play at the party?”
“Yes,” Angela said with a sincere smile. “I’d be honored.” It would be an honor to play for Adeline and her guests. No doubt George had already picked out the music. And the thought of playing in a string quartet sent a surge of excitement through her. She’d never played with more than one other musician before.
She stood and picked up her bag. The jangle of breaching outside the window told her the wagon was ready for her departure. Cook was heading into town for groceries and would drop her off at George’s house.
“Will you at least come by a few times in the next two weeks to give the girls their lessons? All the cowboys will be at the roundup. The ranch will be like a ghost town.”
Meaning, Brett won’t be around when I come.
Angela nodded. “I’ll see if I can arrange it.”
“Cook can pick you up and bring you here on Mondays and Thursdays, after doing the shopping. And there is always someone at the ranch that can take you back to town. Thank you, darling. The girls love you so.”
“And I love them,” Angela said, for she did. They were adorable despite their precociousness. The kind of children Angela would love to have someday—full of spirit and free to express themselves. She recalled the way Brett had playfully teased them, eliciting their trust and laughter. He seemed to have a big heart full of love and would make a wonderful father.
How deceiving appearances are, she reminded herself emphatically.
As she headed down the grand staircase to the entry, she couldn’t help thinking with bitterness how she’d had such dreams about Brett Hendricks. No other man had ever stirred her with such longing and desire. He alone understood her. He knew the pain and hurt a child felt at the hands of a mean father. Would she ever meet another man that spoke so truly and deeply to her heart as he had?
But he’s just like his father. The apple never falls far from the tree. There was truth in that saying. And she’d do well to remember that.
Chapter 25
The makeshift corrals were filled with wild range cattle that glowed in the evening light—golden duns, pales yellows, soft reds, piebald black-and-whites. Brett hung back and watched as Foster’s punchers yelled and waved their hats, funneling the last of the cows in. Above the din of the snorting and stomping and lowing, Brett heard the supper gong ring.
From his reckoning, it was a Tuesday. The four-mule team pulling the supply wagon could be seen cresting the ridge, heading back to the ranch, a plume of dust like a feathery tail trailing behind it. He’d been with the outfit rounding up cattle for more’n a week, the orchard jam-packed full of punchers from the five ranches. And while he and Roberts had scoured the range for signs of rustling, they’d seen ’airy a clue. Still, Roberts was both keen and certain about the scoundrels being among them, and whatever suspicions he had, he kept to himself. Roberts wasn’t a man of many words—and few words that jumped to hasty conclusions. Brett liked the Missourian more every day that passed.
When the last of the bunch were shooed into the pens, Brett tapped Rebel’s flanks and rode him over to the wrangler, where he slid off and uncinched the horse. The aromas drifting over from the chuck wagon made his mouth water. He was sore tired after thirteen hours in the saddle, though glad his leg had mostly healed and wasn’t throbbing the way it had those first few days. Tuttle had done a right good job on him, and Brett was grateful.
A huge campfire crackled and sent sparks up into the night sky by the time Brett had washed up. Twenty or more cowboys sat on logs or stood around the warm blaze that cut the chill out of the air, eating with gusto and bandying jokes about. Brett smelled the season shifting—almost like he could tell the earth was tilting a little further away from the sun. This time of year the light thinned out, casting soft, long shadows across the ground. He caught a whiff of wint
er coming his way, the scent mingling with burning creosote and fir and strong coffee bubbling in a pot set on a rock next to the fire.
Laughter rose into the air, along with the murmuring of quiet talk among cowboys that had done this very thing more times than they could count. Brett thought on the many campfires he’d huddled in front of on cold Texas winter nights, and on the many times he’d laughed at some cowboy’s funny tale or antics. But he’d lost all his mirth since that day Angela walked out of his life. More like stormed.
He sighed. He still hadn’t been able to squash thoughts of her. She kept seeping into his mind, like black ink spilled onto a white page. Thoughts of her blotted everything else out. In time. You’ll forget her.
He sighed and made to go join Roberts and Archie, figuring he may as well be social and could use some distraction. The nights were the hardest—when he lay in his bedroll and stared up at the stars. He’d never been lonely on the open range, but every night since coming to the roundup, the ache he’d pushed down all day floated to the top of his heart and hurt something fierce. All the while his hope for any kind of happy life sank like a boulder. Some nights he fantasized the way he would love Angela, imagining her warm skin as he held her in his arms under the blankets and under the stars. Other nights he swore he heard her fiddling—soft and low and sweet, a balm to soothe his ache, his need.
Just as he stepped into the circle of light, firelight flickered on the faces of the punchers. Brett froze and studied the man sitting beside Roberts. He’d seen that short, crusty fella with the thick red beard somewhere. His every nerve went on alert. The man wore a dark hat with a wide brim, and he nodded at something Roberts was saying. Archie’s face lit up and he started in gabbing, while another fella—this one with sandy hair tickling his shoulders and trim side whiskers—glared at Archie, who seemed to be telling some funny story. Roberts was chuckling, but those two punchers acted like they weren’t listening.
Brett dropped back into the shadows and eased his way over to where Roberts was sitting. Close enough to listen, Brett ducked his head down and turned his back. He only needed to hear the cowboys’ voices to know who they were. Them two are Orlander’s men. I seen ’em standin’ by the barn when I gave that kid what for. They’re the ones that chased me.
While Brett didn’t imagine they’d still be on the scout for him, he wasn’t going to take any chances. Riding the drags each day kept him well away from the other outfits, but evenings, all the punchers wandered about, chatting up fellas from the other ranches—just like they were doing now by the fire. Not much chance Brett could keep from being found if Orlander’s men were still searching.
He caught snippets of their talk, though Archie’s voice rang loud above the rest. Brett couldn’t hear what Orlander’s men said, but he stiffened when Archie said, “Hendricks? We got a Brett Hendricks in our outfit.”
Brett turned enough to glimpse Archie swiveling his head this way and that—looking for him, no doubt. Brett dropped back a few steps behind two fellas smoking cigarettes and talking between themselves. He could still hear Archie, who was now telling these fellas what a great buster Brett Hendricks was, and how he could work the wild out of any horse in a few seconds flat.
Brett blew out a breath. Every nerve in his body tingled, telling him these fellas were fishing. Orlander prob’ly sent ’em to the roundup to find me. And to finish what they started.
He slipped away from the crowd and went to fetch his bedroll. Tonight he’d sleep somewhere else—and not tell Archie or Roberts. And he’d keep his Colt by his side.
He’d thought he gotten away scot-free. Colorado was big, but word passed between ranches and punchers like wildfire. And he imagined plenty of fellas had spread the word about the new buster who had a way with wild horses. He’d been a fool to think Orlander wouldn’t catch up with him somewhere. So long as he stayed a cowboy, he wasn’t safe.
But why in tarnation would Orlander be dead-set on findin’ me? The answer shot into his mind, fast as a bullet. I must’ve shot his kid. Brett strained to recall what went down in that sudden dust storm. He’d taken that bullet in the leg, and the pain had all but erased the minutes that followed. But he did recall firing off some shots over his shoulder as he spurred Dakota into a run. And right after that, the cowboys stopped pursuin’. He’d reckoned it was due to the dust and poor visibility. But now he wondered.
Maybe I killed him. And Orlander wants revenge. The thought made Brett’s gut ache.
Well, the roundup would be over inside of a week. He could probably stay out of sight until they broke camp. And then what? Ya can’t run forever.
Well, why not? That’s all he’d been doing since the day he slammed the door on his ma. While he really liked Foster and this outfit, clearly he hadn’t put enough distance between Orlander and himself. Maybe if he went into Montana Territory. Or Oregon—
“Hey, Brett.”
Brett spun at the whisper reaching his ears. He stopped, and Roberts came up to him. They stood close to camp, near the rope corral where their strings were kept for the night. Horses snuffled and nickered, but no other cowboys were close by.
Roberts cast a glance around, doffed his hat, and smoothed his hair. “Seems some cowboys are lookin’ for ya, from the Flying Y Ranch,” he told Brett, then got quiet for a moment. “They appeared all friendly, but I could tell somethin’ was up. Smells a whole lot like trouble.”
“I saw ’em—sittin’ with you and Archie.”
Roberts nodded and chewed his lip. “You know ’em?”
“They chased after me in the desert a few weeks back.” He touched his thigh. “One of ’em put a bullet in my leg.”
Roberts gave Brett a knowing look. Brett figured he’d noticed the bit of limp Brett’d had when he first joined Foster’s outfit.
True to Brett’s expectations, Roberts merely nodded and didn’t ask any more questions. Brett was glad—he didn’t want to tell the story or explain how he ended up being chased by those men. Still, he didn’t want Roberts to think he was an outlaw.
“Their boss’s kid was mistreating a gal. I interfered. Busted the kid’s nose, I reckon.” He let the words sit between them. Enough said.
After a time, Roberts shifted on his feet and looked out over the dark plains. A sliver of a moon sat high in the bowl of stars, and the Milky Way stretched in a thick cinch overhead. Night owls cooed in their holes. “Not likely them fellas are lookin’ for ya over a busted nose.”
Brett snorted. “Nope, not likely.” Brett sorely hoped he hadn’t killed that rich rancher’s kid—though such a fate might be considered justice. Problem was—if he did kill that kid, there might be a price on his head. The thought soured his gut further.
“Well,” Roberts said, “ya wanna go ride over yonder and check out what’s behind them hills?”
Brett nodded. He wasn’t sleepy even though he was plum tuckered out. Prob’ly wouldn’t get any shut-eye tonight, what with his longings for Angela warring with his unease over Orlander’s men close by.
“Alright, let’s see if we c’n catch us some rustlers.” Roberts smirked and patted Brett on the shoulder—the gesture telling Brett he had his back.
A feeling of gratitude filled him. Tate Roberts was a good fella, and good fellas were often rare in cattle country. Roberts reminded him a lot of Ol’ Tex—the foreman at Lazy R who’d watched out for him, though Roberts was Brett’s age.
***
After a quiet and lonely ride of a few miles through hilly country pockmarked with dry gulches, the wind kicked up cold. Brett tucked his chin as they loped past tall pines and broad balsams and slender birches, keeping his eye on Roberts’s coat as it flapped against his cantle in the scant light.
“Looky there,” Roberts said as he drew his horse to a halt and Brett stopped beside him.
Roberts pointed at a clear trail through some brush—easy enough to see by moonlight.
They tracked in and found the remains of a campfire with the embers
still smoldering enough to give off an ashy smell.
They dismounted and looked around. Roberts scrounged through some nearby brush and presently brought up a stick of metal. A running iron.
Brett went over to him.
Roberts nodded, thinking. “I seen some of the cattle marked with a lazy eight.” He ran a finger along the brand, which looked like a wave. “They’re usin’ this to alter Foster’s brand.”
“Ya think these rustlers’re pullin’ cattle out at night? Range-brandin’ them?”
“Disfigurin’,” Roberts said. “Yep. Look at the brush, how it’s been trampled. I figure two fellas—one to hold the rope and the other t’ work the brand.”
“Workin’ for someone else?” Brett asked. It seemed likely.
Roberts nodded. “Someone, sometime, will be gatherin’ up them beeves. Boss might know who’s got that brand.” He took one of the irons in hand.
His look told Brett what he already knew—that just knowing who owned a brand didn’t prove a thing. Only that cows with your brand were yours. If the branding was done well, there was no telling it was an alteration.
“Now what?” Brett asked, feeling twitchy about the whole thing.
“We catch ’em,” Roberts said. “I got a feelin’ they’ll be back tonight. Maybe went back to get a couple more cows.”
Roberts pointed at a stand of small pines that bunched thick passed the gulch they’d last crossed. “Let’s head over yonder and sit awhile.”
They mounted and made their way over to the trees, but as soon as they entered under the canopy of branches, the low, heavy rumble of horse hooves drifted to Brett’s ears.
Presently, two riders came into view, bringing their galloping horses to a stop not more than ten feet from the fire pit.
Voices carried on the chill air, but Brett couldn’t make out either words or whose voices they were. But he recognized the horses. So did Roberts.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 23
