Brett stiffened when Handy stopped in front of his face. But he didn’t expect more trouble. Handy’d be a fool to try to incite him into a fight in his condition. Brett caught sight of Tate Roberts in the corner of his eye, watching and ever ready to jump into action, if the situation warranted.
Brett clenched his jaw and glowered back at Handy, saying nothing, keeping his face as still as a pond at sunrise.
“I know ’twas you,” Handy sputtered through clamped teeth. Pain swam in the puncher’s eyes. Pain and hatred. “You ’n’ Roberts.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “You set us up. We don’t got nothin’ to do with no rustlers.”
Brett grunted. “Who said anythin’ ’bout rustlers?” A smile inched up Brett’s face as Handy realized how he’d good as admitted his crime.
Shore merely hung his head and moaned. “Come’on, Ned. Let’s just git goin’. We got a long ways back.” He tugged on Handy’s coat and was met with a slap to the head.
“Shuddap,” Handy said. He turned and looked hard into Brett’s face. “You’re gonna pay for this. You ’n’ Roberts. You’ll see.”
“Handy!”
Lambert’s voice bellowed. The two scoundrels looked behind them. Lambert was marching over to them. “Git a move-on, or I’ll kick you seven ways to Sunday.”
“Alright, we’re leavin’!” Handy muttered.
Handy and Shore trudged off with the glare of the sunrise at their backs. Lambert and Roberts came alongside Brett and watched to make sure the two left camp. Hands in pockets, the three stood, unspeaking, as the sounds of cowboys packing up bedrolls and clanging dishes filled the morning air.
***
Phineas Frye swung his lariat at the pesky calf, finally coaxing it out of the stand of creosote bush. His horse was already played out after a hard morning’s work, but they’d pretty much gotten all of the Flying Y’s cattle over along the northwestern ridge beyond the Platte. Instead of a month, they’d be done and heading back to Denver inside a week. He’d thought there’d be more ranches taking part in this year’s roundup, but only five came. Then he’d learned that the three others had run their cattle up into the northeast corner of the territory—by the Overland Trail coming down from Nebraska.
“Hey!”
Phineas pushed back his hat and squinted under the hot sun as he watched Cummings gallop over to him and rein to a hard stop.
“There ya are. I wondered where ya’d run off to.” He looked at the calf that was trotting over the hill bellowing, having gotten free of the brambles. “That one o’ ours?”
Phineas shook his head. “Second time I seen that lazy eight brand. Whose is it?”
“Don’t know,” Cummings said, wiping his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
“I gotta switch out my horse.”
Cummings nodded, then stiffened in his saddle. He threw a hand over his eyes and looked afar. “What’s that?”
Phineas trained his eyes on the wavering horizon, where Cummings was pointing. “Huh. Someone’s afoot.” His nerves tingled alert, slacking off his tiredness.
“Who’d be out here, if’n it’s not someone with one of the outfits?” Cummings cocked his head, a wary look on his face. A fella without a horse was a rare sight on the range, and it often spelled trouble. Back in the day it usually was Injuns, but Phineas hadn’t seen hide nor hair of one in more than a year. “Let’s check it out.”
Cummings kicked his horse into a slow lope, and Phineas followed. Before long he made out two shapes—male, dressed like cowboys. Maybe they’d run into wolves, or they got thrown from their horses. Not likely. One might. But two? And why would they be out thisaway?
When they got within hailing distance, Cummings called out. The fella in front—limping hard—stopped and turned. The other one—shorter and fatter—slumped like a drunk behind him. They didn’t carry a pack or water jug—nothing. Just had coats slung over their arms, which Phineas thought odd in this heat. And as far as he could tell, neither fella carried a weapon. Leastwise nothing in plain sight.
“Got . . . got any water?” the taller fella asked, his voice rough and dry.
“Sure,” Phineas said, sliding down from his horse and offering his canteen. “What’re you two doing out here?”
Cummings sat his horse, eyeing the two with suspicion. But Phineas could tell these fellas were in no shape to start throwing lead. They looked to be on their last legs. They had the appearance of longtime punchers.
The tall fella glugged down the water, then handed the canteen to his pal. The two looked beat up—with swollen faces turning black and green in bruised patches.
After they’d drunk their fill, the tall fella wiped his mouth and said, “We were with Foster’s outfit. But we had a . . . scrape with the foreman. We was wrongly accused of somethin’.”
Phineas could barely make out the cowboy’s words, but the fierce expression on his bashed-up face told all.
The shorter one with a mess of brown hair matted to his forehead said, “C’n ya help us?”
“Mebbe,” Cummings said. “We heard there’s a fella recently joined up with y’all. Name of Hendricks. C’n bust horses like nobody’s bizness.”
The two footsore cowboys shared a look. Then the squat one said, his eyes nearly swollen shut and gummed with dirt, “Yeah, he’s there.”
The bitter scowl on both faces told Phineas these two had little love for Hendricks. The taller one narrowed his eyes. “What ya want with ’im?”
Cummings said, “He hurt the boss’s son. Mr. Orlander wants that buster to get his comeuppance. But, uh, we cain’t jes march into yer camp and take ’im.”
“No, that ain’t gonna happen. Plus, that kid see ya comin’, he’ll shoot. And he’s got an aim and an ornery temper to boot.”
“So, ya see our little dilemma. We gotta find us a way to nab the fella and haul him back to Orlander.”
The short cowboy snorted. “Ya wouldn’t git three yards afore you’d be stopped. Hendricks is Foster’s pet.”
Phineas took it all in as he got back up on his horse, and he could see Cummings’s mind working.
“But I know jes the way fer you to catch ’im,” the tall one said. “Foster’s having a big party in a week. Saturday next. Big bash at the ranch house, for the boss’s birthday.”
“So?” Cummings said.
“So all o’ the cowboys’ll be there. Hendricks too.”
Cummings’s brows lifted. “Any ranchers comin’ to this party?”
The short puncher said, “Yup. Your boss wanna come—if’n he’s not already invited, no reason he wouldn’t be welcome. Don’t all them rich ranchers know each other?”
Cummings said, “I reckon.”
“Easier for him to show up unannounced than the likes of you,” the tall one said, having trouble staying on his feet. He came over to Cummings and rested a hand on the horse’s neck, breathing hard. “Listen, you help us, and we’ll help you. Saturday, right at dark, you meet us at Logan’s ranch, behind the bunkhouse. There’s a well and spring box set back by a gulley. Hendricks ain’t the type to be caught off guard, and we c’n set a trap for ’im, so’s your boss can . . . see justice done.” He gave Cummings a big smile full of crooked teeth.
Cummings looked over at Phineas. All Phineas could do was nod. He didn’t like this one bit, but maybe he’d still get a chance to warn the buster. Orlander would be out for blood, but this Hendricks fella would have his outfit and his boss there to cover his back should things get ugly. Even so, Phineas doubted Orlander would call him out. He’d just as soon lure the fella out into the night and shoot him in the back. And that would be a low and dirty way to get revenge.
Not if I c’n help it. It weren’t right that an honest and decent fella would get killed for some foul-headed spoilt kid’s misdeeds. But ya cain’t say a word—not if’n ya mean for Boss to ask you to come with. Ya gotta play along—and hope ya git the chance to warn Hendricks.
“So, c’n ya get us two horses? Jes anyth
ing so’s we can make it back to town.” The tall fella stepped back away from Cummings and implored him with his sorry expression.
The shorter cowboy looked confused. “We ain’t goin’ to the ranch? Lambert tol’ us to head—”
“What for? Foster’ll just give us a grillin’, and then boot us out anyways,” the other said, snarling. He turned back to Cummings. “Ya help us, and we’ll make sure your boss gits Hendricks.”
“Saturday next?”
“Yup, that’s it. At sunset, behind the bunkhouse. Rufus an’ I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”
The short fella named Rufus nodded, and his gunked eyes tried to blink.
“And what’s yer name?” Cummings asked the tall one.
“Ned Handy. I been with Foster’s outfit six years. And this is the thanks I git,” he ground out with bitterness. “Ya think yer boss would give some kind o’ reward? For helpin’ him nab Hendricks?”
“I reckon.” Cummings pursed his lips and looked back behind him. Phineas heard the cattle lowing over the hills to the east.
“Alright, you two wait over yonder.” Cummings pointed at a stand of scrub pines. “Here.” He threw them his canteen and then dug into his saddlebag for some hard tack and threw that too. “We gotta get back, but I’ll fetch ya two horses.”
“How ya plan to do that?” Phineas blurted.
Cummings shot him a look. “Leave it to me. They won’t be missed.” He glared at the two punchers. “Ya better not double-cross us or you’ll be sorry.”
Handy forced out a gravelly laugh. “We wanta see Hendricks get his comeuppance jes as much as yer boss. We’ll be there.”
And so will I, Phineas thought, not looking forward to next Saturday—no, not one bit.
Chapter 27
Angela carefully tucked the violin into the hard case, the strains of Beethoven wending through her mind, the lingering notes soft and sweet, feeding her soul. What more did she need? Music filled and overflowed in her, and she was so grateful for this gift. How could she ignore or squander it? If only she could find a way to support herself playing music.
As she watched Violet talking to stodgy Mrs. Green by the stage in the small and unadorned auditorium that seem buried in a film of dust and grime, her dream to play with the New York Philharmonic seemed nebulous and out of reach. While it had taken a measure of courage—and desperation—to board the train to come west to Greeley, she didn’t think she had what it took to carve out a life in the city—or any city—living alone in some tiny apartment and practicing her violin and going to rehearsals and performances. If she indeed did get lucky enough to land a position in a symphony orchestra, she doubted she could earn enough to pay the high cost of her living expenses. And that would mean taking on some other job. Perhaps she could trade for a room, by cooking and cleaning for some wealthy matron. Or she could find a position as a nanny for a rich woman’s children. If there were such positions.
Her dream seemed entangled with so many complications and “what ifs.” Every possible path to her dream landed her back on her aunt’s doorstep, depending on Tia Sofia’s charity. And while she was certain her aunt would welcome her gladly, living in New York in the sticky heat of summer and the piercing cold of winter, trudging through city streets amid noise and the stench of horse-drawn carriages, grew more distasteful with each day she was in the West.
True to her expectations, the undeveloped open space of the Front Range and the simple, unpretentious town of Greeley provided the peaceful and inspiring tableau she needed to let loose the music that had been trapped in her heart. She couldn’t help but fear that if she returned to the big crowded, noisy city she might lose her way to the heart of her music. For the first time since she’d come west, the niggling question had grown into a full-fledged possibility. What if I stayed here and chose not to return to New York?
As impractical and defeatist as it sounded to her mind, her heart argued otherwise. For what was truly awaiting her in Mulberry Bend? Only anguish and heartache and opposition. Yet, the thought of being so far from her mamá and sisters and aunt stabbed her with guilt. But they are only a five-day train trip away. You could visit anytime.
“Angela, dear. I want to introduce you to these lovely women who serve on the opera board.”
Angela turned at the sound of George’s voice and swallowed back the tears that lodged in her throat. Three old women in pretty dresses and summer bonnets came up to her, their petticoats swishing and gloved hands outstretched to clasp hers. Angela felt genuine warmth in their smiles.
“Oh, Angela,” crooned a matronly woman with a head of tight white curls and cheeks as big and round as apples. “Your violin playing is divine. I’ve never heard such celestial music come from any instrument.”
Angela’s cheeks heated at the praise. George, standing alongside her, sported the smile of a proud father. Not a smile I would ever see on Papá’s face, she thought with a sharp pinch of hurt. She glanced at the women hemming her in. She hadn’t known they’d had an audience during the quintet rehearsal, but she’d been so lost in the music, she hadn’t looked out into the dark auditorium.
“I’m Lavenia McConnoly—one of the founding members of Union Colony and chairwoman of the opera board.” The elderly woman fingered a strand of pearls around her neck. “And this is Arta Pilsbury and Berta Gilmore.” She gestured to the two other silver-haired ladies whose faces shone with excitement. Soon hands were patting and squeezing her arms.
Mrs. Pilsbury rolled her eyes while shaking her head. “Utterly divine—just as Lavenia said. My dear girl, you have such a gift. And we are so honored to have you here in our quaint little town. George told us you’d come all the way from New York to buy one of his violins. Such a brave undertaking for a young woman all alone.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Gilmore added. A tiny woman, her voice fluttered like a warbling wren. “Please tell us you’ll be making Greeley your new home. We have such a need for a violinist of your caliber. The fall season at the opera is already in progress. Did George tell you we are beginning rehearsals for Verdi’s Ernani?”
“And as coordinator of the Greeley Orchestra,” Mrs. Pilsbury said, taking Angela’s hands in hers, “I can assure you a position of first violinist. Ever since Mr. Fisk vacated the chair, we’ve been in dire need of finding a replacement.” She gave him a sympathetic smile.
“And Angela would more than fill my shoes,” George said, lifting a foot and wiggling it—which made the ladies titter in amusement.
Angela, cornered on all sides, saw the spark of conspiracy in George’s eyes. No doubt he’d put these women up to this onslaught of persuasion. But how could she be upset? Their accolades were sincere—and they gave Angela such a warm feeling of acceptance and appreciation.
Wasn’t that why she played? So that she could move others with the music that so touched her own heart? Did it matter where those listeners lived or what kind of room they sat in to hear her play? She thought of the many families that braved a move west, into unknown reaches of the country, facing life-threatening hardships and difficult living conditions. Didn’t they deserve to hear beautiful music? Wouldn’t they be all the more grateful an audience?
Angela had never consider this—considered what a blessing she could be to those who needed to be comforted and uplifted by her gift. Did she really want to perform for wealthy city patrons only—those who could afford the high-priced ticket of an opera or symphony in a fancy performance hall? She suddenly realized she had been equating success and fame with self-worth, thinking that if she played with the New York Philharmonic, that would somehow prove to the world—to Papá—that she was worthy, that her life had value apart from her expected role of wife or mother.
Now she saw how wrong she was. All her dreams had been built on a lie. A lie she told herself. Her music wasn’t about her. Her gift wasn’t given to her to make her feel special. It was a gift given to be shared to others. And Angela wanted more than anything to inspire and move those who most
needed the healing power of music. Regardless of their station in life.
“Angela, dear?” George’s voice startled her. She realized the women were still chattering at her, but she hadn’t heard a word.
“Oh,” she said, “my apologies. My mind wandered off.”
“These ladies would love to take you and Violet to lunch.”
Just as he said the words, Violet came hurrying over, an bemused look of exasperation on her face. Angela guessed her discourse with Mrs. Annie Green was the reason for her expression.
“We’re taking Angela to lunch,” Mrs. McConnoly declared to Violet. “And we’d love to have you join us. Are you free to come?”
Violet’s eyes sparkled. “Oh yes, I’d love that.” She turned to Angela. “These ladies are the most wonderful supporters of the arts in our town. And the funniest.” She cocked her head at Mrs. Gilmore. “You’ll have to tell her the story of how you and your husband showed up in Union Colony in the middle of a blizzard.”
Mrs. Gilmore’s eyes went wide. “Why, Violet, dear, do you mean to scare Angela away? We’re hoping to convince her to stay.”
Violet laughed, and the other ladies cackled in merriment. “A good blizzard story will be welcomed in this heat.” She patted her forehead with a handkerchief. “I could use two or three feet of snow right about now.”
She linked her arm around Angela’s and added, “Besides, the stories of how this colony was founded are tales of courage and vision and hope. They’re inspiring. We may still have plenty of hardship and setbacks, but life is so much easier than it was five years ago. Why, who would’ve thought back in seventy-two that we’d have an opera house? At this rate, by 1880, we’ll be known as one of the country’s top centers of culture.”
Angela smiled, astonished at Violet’s words. “You have big dreams, Violet.”
Mrs. Pilsbury nodded with the others. “We all do. That’s why we came here. To make our Colorado dreams come true.”
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 25
