Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  “Just as I thought,” Roberts hissed to Brett. “Handy and Shore.”

  Brett thought the two punchers were arguing about something. Rufus Shore was wildly waving his arm and shaking his head. Ned Handy slid down from his chestnut gelding, his lean, sinewy body easy now to make out in the moonlight. He walked over to the fire pit, kicked something, then marched back to his horse.

  Brett and Roberts sat their night horses, watching until the two punchers rode away.

  “Don’t prove nothin’,” Brett said.

  “Nope, it don’t. But it’ll be enough for Mack to set them afoot. Chances of catchin’ ’em brandin’ are little t’ nothin’.”

  Brett whistled. Having recently experienced the mercilessness of the desert, he knew that could be a death sentence. Punchers dreaded more than anything being discharged in such fashion. And these two would have at least ten miles of wandering across sage brush in the heat—stripped of weapons and packing no water—with only a coyote chorus for company.

  “Ya really think Lambert will do that to ’em? They won’t take it lightly.”

  Roberts shifted in his saddle to look at Brett full-on. “I reckon there’ll be gun play. I doubt the two’ll confess who they been rustlin’ for. But Boss’ll worry ’bout that.”

  The night fell thick with quiet as they waited a few more minutes before heading back to camp. Roberts said, “Let’s go back thataway—jes in case those two stopped somewheres.”

  Brett nodded and fell into a lope behind Roberts’s horse as he led them over the desert to the north and east. Rebel whinnied, and Brett felt the horse yearn to run. The powerful muscles worked under his legs, and Brett wished he could give Rebel his head so together they could outrun the wind.

  He didn’t look forward to the confrontation awaiting the outfit when Lambert dealt with the two scoundrels. It could only get ugly. As the cold wind bit his cheeks, he turned his thoughts to a warm fire—and the warm body of Angela Bellini lying next to him, her big dark eyes filled with love and desire, and those full tender lips parted and waiting for his kiss.

  He flinched with need as he kicked Rebel with his spurs. Sure, he could run—run hard and fast, away from this life, this world of cattle, this country. But no matter how fast he ran, he would never be able to outrun his fervent need for Angela—that was the God’s honest truth.

  Chapter 26

  “I see you seem to be enjoying the book.”

  Angela looked up from where she sat on the porch chair. George held out a tall glass of iced sweet tea, a smile wide on his face.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the drink from him, grateful for his consideration. Never once had her papá ever served her a drink. “Come sit.” She patted the chair next to her, and the violin maker eased onto the cushion. He seemed pale and weak today.

  “Are you unwell?” she asked, setting down the little book about the fiddler and dabbing her brow with a handkerchief she’d kept in her lap. The day was horribly hot and so dry that her lips hurt from the tiny cracks that had developed. She’d meant to go to the druggist’s to get some cream, but had been so engrossed in the lives of the characters Christian and Naomi that the thought had slipped her mind.

  “No, no, my dear. Just weary with age.” He gave her another sweet smile. “Something you won’t have to worry about for some years.”

  The noonday sun made the air so bright, Angela could hardly look at the glaring white paint on the steps to the house. She sipped the tea, and the cold liquid soothed her dry throat. Colorado was so dry all the time—even when thunderstorms drenched the earth in passing squalls. “You mentioned you had spoken to Violet. She’s going to play with us at the party on the thirteenth?”

  “Yes, and I’ve written out some parts for her, since the pieces for string quartet, of course, don’t include flute. But I think these Beethoven compositions will provide the perfect music to entertain Mrs. Foster’s guests.”

  “So do I,” Angela said, her fingers itching to get playing once more. She’d hardly touched the violin at Adeline’s house. Just knowing Brett might have been outside listening to her made her leave the instrument on its stand. She’d been silly, not wanting him to know she was still staying there—as if he couldn’t find that out. In fact, the day before she left to return to George’s house, Madeline had snuck up to her as the family gathered for the evening meal and whispered in her ear that “the handsome cowboy’s been asking about you.”

  She’d wanted at that moment to rush out the door and search for Brett. She’d imagined him dusty and sweaty, his hair matted under his hat, as she ran and threw her arms around him. Why did she find such an image of him so intoxicating?

  Even now, she ached for his kiss and tender embrace. Nights were torment, for instead of sleep they ushered in visions of Brett’s hazel eyes sparkling with mirth and tinted with pain. She knew in that kiss that he hadn’t been toying with her. She’d felt his need—and not just his physical craving for her. It was as if his soul played a song that made her soul cry out in kinship. The way two instruments or voices perfectly harmonized in timbre and melody.

  Two people could hardly be more different, she admitted. But did those differences really matter when it came to the heart? She’d been trying to convince herself they did. But with every day she was apart from Brett, her conviction weakened a tad more. So much so that now, merely ten days after she’d run from his arms, she couldn’t imagine anyone else holding her and kissing her. She longed for him to love her—to touch every inch of her body, to explore her with his fingers. Just as she longed to run her hands over his tightly muscled limbs and taut stomach. He was like a rock—solid, strong, unbreakable. She’d felt so right in his arms . . . and then . . .

  Then she’d seen what was beneath his tenderness and affection. A man driven by rage, out of control. Violent, heartless, killing with cold passion. She winced recalling how he’d slashed at those snakes again and again. He’d become possessed with rage. Just like her father. And just as with those snakes, there was no telling when such rage might strike—without warning, without a care. How could a woman truly feel safe in arms that might go from embracing to strangling or striking?

  “Perhaps I can arrange a rehearsal for tomorrow with all the musicians,” George said, interrupting her dark thoughts.

  She turned to him and pushed away the images of Brett with a knife in his hand dripping with blood. “Yes, I would love that.”

  He stood and said, “Wonderful, my dear. Violet has been nagging me to send you over to her house. Perhaps you’d like to take a walk with me after supper to pay a visit. We can bring her the flute parts I’ve written out.”

  “Perfect.” Angela’s mood lifted at the thought of seeing Violet again. She needed a girlfriend now more than ever. Though, she wasn’t sure if she could tell Violet about her conflicted feelings for Brett. But why should she? In two weeks’ time, she would be on a train, and Brett would become a memory—a cherished memory of her first real kiss. Someday she’d look back on this time and think how silly she’d been to romanticize love with a rough-edged cowboy.

  No, now was the time to immerse herself in music. That would cure her melancholy and bring peace into her heart. Music was the great healer. If only my music could heal Mamá.

  Angela suddenly noticed George studying her face. “Are you still troubled over your mother?” he asked.

  His words made her realize she had hardly given thought to Mamá in the last few days. How could she have so easily forgotten the suffering she herself had caused? The reminder stabbed her with guilt. She’d been so absorbed with her own trite feelings.

  George laid a hand on Angela’s shoulder. “You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, dear girl. Each must take responsibility for his own actions. Sometimes the powerlessness we feel over changing another is one of the most difficult things in life to accept.” He picked up the book about the fiddler and thumbed through it. Then he stopped and read: “‘Would that all the past could crumb
le into nothing. Yet, I will not be my own tormentor. I will enjoy the fragrance of this life.’ Wise words, my dear. Life is too short for regrets. Live with passion and embrace all that God offers us in this world. Don’t let guilt or fear hold you back from reaching your dreams.”

  Angela sighed, grateful for the reminder. And for George’s wisdom and kindness. She was glad she’d come back to spend time with him. And she would do all she could to encourage him as well—and add a few pounds to his languishing frame.

  She jumped up from the chair. “I’ll make us a special meal tonight. And after that, we can visit Violet and her family.”

  George slipped his hands under his suspenders and rocked on his feet, his delight evident. “In the morning, I’ll pay a call on Daisy and Rebecca—they play viola and cello, respectively, with the Greely Orchestra. We can rehearse in the Opera House building.”

  “I’m excited,” Angela said. “Do you have time now to spend with me, reading through the movements? I have to admit—I’m a bit nervous about playing in an ensemble. It was hard enough to play for you when I arrived.”

  “But now you’re not nervous, are you?”

  “Not at all. When I’m playing one of your magnificent instruments, I seem to disappear. Only the music exists.”

  “As it should.” George took her hand. “Come, my dear. Beethoven awaits your sensitive ear and touch.”

  She followed him inside the house to the living room, where the violins sat in cool repose, waiting for them. Her violin needed one more coat of varnish, George had told her this morning while showing her the rich red tones that highlighted the exquisite grain of the wood.

  One more week. Then she’d have her very own Fisk violin—made by the man the newspapers called “The Stradivarius of the West.” How many twenty-year-olds could boast of such a thing?

  As she picked up the violin George had lent her and tuned the strings, a smile spread across her face. Before even running the bow over the strings, music washed her soul and lapped against the wall of her heart. The melodies of the many pieces she’d played with George since arriving in Greeley ran through her head. She felt about to burst with anticipation as George scooted over the music stands and opened up the folded sheets of paper dotted with notes that danced and leaped across staves, filled with promises of joy.

  Rich, deep notes sounded as she played the music before her, filling her with a calm, serene feeling. But that feeling grew heavy with overtones and harmonics of loneliness and desire as, unbidden, Brett Hendricks’s face appeared in her mind—the way he’d looked at her when she played the violin.

  She suddenly knew what she’d seen in those eyes—why the sight had riveted her. Her music had brought a measure of healing to his hurting heart. Just as it healed her own heart.

  She let this thought settle into her bones as she played on, the strains of the violin erasing her with every note, until only the music remained.

  ***

  Brett stood off to the side as the punchers and others in the employ of the Foster Cattle Company gathered in camp in the ruddy dawn light around the campfire. The dusty-booted punchers with spurs clanking shifted restlessly as wind canted smoke into their faces. The cold air danced across Brett’s neck, but it was more than the air that chilled him to the bones. He knew this was going to turn ugly fast, and Lambert had told him and Roberts to be ready for lead to fly.

  When he and Roberts had reported what they’d seen last night and showed the foreman the branding iron, Lambert hardly flinched. Brett knew then that Lambert’d had his suspicions confirmed by the news. Though Roberts had reminded the boss that “those two kin draw ’n’ kill ya ’fore you could git your gun out,” Lambert replied, “I gotta take the chance. Maybe they won’t call the play. But if’n they do, there’s nothin’ for it.”

  A glance over to Roberts showed him moseying up behind Ned Handy and Rufus Shore. Both scalawags showed bored expressions, but even from where Brett stood ten feet away facing them, their shifty eyes flickered with worry.

  As Brett’s fingers twitched near the Colt in the holster at his side, he eyed Archie, who rubbed sleep from his face as he stood yawning among the bleary-eyed punchers shuffling restlessly, no doubt wondering why breakfast was delayed. The smell of hot coffee wafted like a temptress around Brett’s head, along with the aroma of eggs and beans and bacon.

  But breakfast would have to wait.

  “I know y’all are eager to eat,” Lambert announced to the silent, surly outfit, “but there’s a matter that has to be dealt with afore we git to work.” Lambert tugged on his big thick beard and pursed his lips in thought. Then he lifted his face toward Shore and Handy and took a step toward them, looking every bit the bear.

  Brett let his hand slip down to his pistol, his eyes locked on the two men, who stiffened with eyes wide and hands hovering over their guns. Roberts moved in close behind them, watching Lambert like an eagle fixed on a mouse.

  “You two.” He pointed a steady finger at the pair of scoundrels. “Ya got ten minutes to quit the camp and hit the trail back to the ranch.” His words hung like molasses in the thin air. “An’ don’t fetch yer things. Just git a move-on.”

  At first the punchers’ expressions were of blank astonishment. And then, as realization came over them that they’d been found out and were about to suffer the indignity of being set afoot, their lips tightened and their eyes glowered murderous hate. Like most cowboys, Brett reckoned these two had hardly walked a total of ten miles in ten years, and without food or water or mounts, they’d have a tough time of it.

  More than that, their days as punchers were over. At least they weren’t caught with cattle in hand. Then they’da been hung. They were getting off easy, the way Brett saw it.

  Handy screwed up his face. “Fire us to hoof it to the ranch? Fer what?”

  “For engagin’ in unlawful activity.”

  Handy snorted. “Why, you . . . It’s a dog trot to hell for you, ’n’ you starts right now!”

  His hand flashed to his pistol, but before his fingers could tighten on the butt, Brett landed a violent kick on the flat of his shinbone. At the same time, Roberts threw an arm around Shore’s neck as the scoundrel reached for his gun.

  Lambert stood and watched as Handy doubled up, howling with pain—which gave Brett a chance to snatch the fella’s pistol from its holster and smack him upside the jaw. Brett felt the bone crunch through the tips of his fingers.

  Brett then whirled out his own gun and set a bead on Handy’s head. Gasps erupted from the crowd as cowboys jumped back out of the fray.

  Shore wriggled free enough from Roberts’s grip to pull out his pistol and aim it at Lambert, but the foreman was ready. He punched Shore’s face with a terrible crack, breaking his nose and laying him out stiff. Presently, both of Shore’s eyes swelled until they were in poor shape for any accurate shooting, and blood trickled down his cheeks. Dust motes danced in the crisp morning light streaking across the camp and settled to the ground as the outfit fell quiet.

  Brett caught a glimpse of Archie, who stood trembling with his heavy long-muzzled pistol in the air, his hand shaking so hard, he’d have probably end up shooting himself in the face if he pulled the trigger. Brett pushed down a grin.

  “Whoa there, kid,” he said, coming over and taking the gun from Archie’s hand and returning it to its holster. The tenderfoot blew out a hot breath of relief, and his body slumped like a sack of rocks. Brett threw him an appreciative smile, admiring the kid’s bravery and gumption.

  With Handy moaning on the ground—Lambert’s gun trained on him—and Shore unable to see straight, the fight was over. Roberts came alongside Lambert and dropped the guns he’d taken from the two at his foreman’s feet. The rest of the outfit stared in stunned silence.

  “Alright then, entertainment’s over,” Lambert finally said to the outfit under his charge. “Let’s git to eatin’ and to roundin’ up Foster’s cattle.”

  Punchers moved away from the fire, sa
ying little, gathering up their things and fetching plates. The mood was thick and solemn. Cowed and defeated, without another word, the two scoundrels stumbled to their feet at the boss’s urging, eyes downcast.

  Lambert patted Handy and Shore from hat to boot and pulled out a couple of knives. Shore had a Derringer tucked into his belt at the back, which the foreman threw into the pile.

  “The ranch is thataway.” Lambert pointed south and west. “I reckon if you don’t run into trouble, you’ll make it there by nightfall. I’ll send word so’s Foster’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

  Brett knew there’d be little chance those two would make it that far—seeing the shape they were in. While they might be inclined to find refuge to nurse their wounds, Brett hadn’t seen hide nor hair of a dwelling anywhere between Foster’s ranch and Fremont’s Orchard. The punchers might wander north and catch up to the river, but it would be a fool cowboy that’d wander afar without a gun or food or bedroll to stave off the cold of night.

  He thought back to his ordeal in the desert not a month back, and he’d been lucky the heat had been so fierce as to keep the warmth locked in the rocks and dirt through the night. Otherwise he would have died for certain. Plenty of cowboys had met their death from a cold night on the open range. The way the frost had been icing the ground in thin sheets, without a bedroll those two’d be froze-stuck to the ground at first light. Lambert had given them good as a death sentence.

  As Brett stood off to the side, waiting till the other punchers got their vittles, he kept an eye on Shore and Handy. They faced Lambert, scowls set hard on their faces, then, saying ’airy a word, they stumbled off in a westerly direction, which took them presently past Brett.

  Pulling his coat tight around his neck in the cold breeze skittering across the prairie, Ned Handy slowed, his hand cradling his cracked and swollen jaw, a hard limp evident in his gait due to Brett’s kick to his shin. Rufus Shore, his eyes swelled like black plums, hung on to the hem of Handy’s coat like a blind man. Brett had hardly seen a sorrier-looking pair.