He thought about Angela—for the hundredth time that day. Seemed she was never far from his thoughts. She had a dream, a big one. The kind of dream not many gals chased after. Most gals he’d met wanted to settle down and have a passel of kids. And he reckoned there was nothing wrong with that. But Angela wasn’t most gals. She had a gift with that fiddle. He could tell that when she played it, the music that came out fed her soul—just as it did his. It was some kind of magic. And he wanted nothing more than to be wrapped up in her spell every day for the rest of his life.
All morning, a tune had been playing in his head. He’d even started to hum it. For the life of him, he couldn’t recall where he’d heard it or why it was stuck between his ears, playing over and over. But the notes were ones Angela had played—he was sure of it. The tune filled him with a heavy sadness. Yet, at the same time, he felt something else. Something he couldn’t put a finger on. A kind of peace or calm. Soothing, the way a babbling creek sounded. Or evening crickets chirping at the end of a quiet fall day.
He’d been so deep in his thoughts, he hadn’t seen Roberts trot up beside him. They’d covered the miles at a steady canter a good part of the morning, but now that they had Greeley in their sights, Brett had slowed the herd to mostly a walk—to let them cool down gradually and keep them from foundering when they hit the river to drink.
“Hey,” Roberts said. “You seem a million miles away. Thinkin’ ’bout a girl?”
Brett raised his brows in surprise. He hadn’t known Roberts to talk about women—not like most cowboys did. Which made him wonder why the Missourian hadn’t quit punching to settle down. He suspected Roberts was good-looking enough—had a set of straight teeth and an unscarred face and the kind of features most womenfolk took a fancy to.
“I might be,” Brett replied.
Roberts laughed—a hearty laugh—as he looked over at the horses following Kotoo with ’airy a fuss.
“What’s with that Injun pony o’ yours?” Roberts asked, tipping his head at Kotoo. “Ya reckon that Cheyenne woman put a magic spell or somethin’ on the mare? I never seen wild horses follow a mare like that. Like a schoolmarm keepin’ the li’l rascals in line with jus’ a look.”
Brett shrugged as they neared the fence line. He thought about telling Roberts how it felt to ride Kotoo, but he knew he’d sound foolish. But there was no denying the odd sense of peace Brett felt the moment he lit onto her back. Soothing, just like that tune going through his head. It didn’t squelch the loneliness that needled him, though. He knew only one cure for that, and she was out of his reach.
“What ‘bout you?” Brett asked. “You ever think about gittin’ hitched?” Brett hadn’t known many punchers that quit the range to get married. Most that did had gotten hurt and couldn’t ride in an outfit like they’d been doing. Cowboy work was hard on the bones, but it appealed to a certain type of fella. Mostly the kind that liked the company of a gal, but not every day and not under the same roof.
“Sure,” Roberts said. “All the time.”
Brett looked at him sideways. “Ya do?”
Roberts nodded, keeping one eye on the horses. They were getting twitchy with the wind blowing hither and yon and pelting them with dirt. Brett hunkered down and squashed his hat over his ears.
“I been punchin’ for ten years straight,” Roberts said with a sigh. “I’ve saved up a bit o’ money. Figure mebbe next year I git me a homestead out Fort Collins way, along the Powder River. Good fishin’ there.”
“An’ ya got a gal you’re sweet on over yonder?”
“Nope. But I reckon I’ll find me one. Plenty o’ nice spunky gals in Colorady—same as anywheres.”
“An’ you’ll jus’ quit ridin’? What’ll ya do instead?”
“My pa’s a woodworker and taught me the trade. I reckon I can set up a shop, or work for someone already in the business.”
Brett shook his head. “Ya mean you build tables and chairs and such.”
“Yep. But also houses and window sashes and custom moldin’. Things all them rich folks want done to their fancy houses—like Miz Foster’s place.”
Brett thought of that fountain spewing water with the slate rock all around. “I s’pose there’ll always be rich folks needing moldin’.” Whatever that was.
The fields to the east, on the other side of the fence, lay fallow, the brown-red earth churned up in rows of clods, all the wheat and corn and potatoes harvested for the year. The first snows weren’t long in coming. Though, on a hot, dry, and windy day like this, it was hard to believe.
“There’s the park,” Roberts said, pointing. “Every July Fourth the local folks have a big picnic there and horse contests. Those Banks boys—they win jus’ ’bout every ribbon. ’Cept for a few Lucas Rawlings snags each year.”
“Who’s he?” Brett asked.
“Local vet. Comes out to Foster’s ranch on occasion. Right nice fella. He—”
A loud rumble broke out across the sky above them, followed by spears of lightning striking the ground off to the west, near the hogbacks. Wind rose to a gale, and Brett grabbed his hat that danced madly behind his head, pulling on the strings under his chin.
The horses behind them startled and pranced, and without a word, Roberts fell back quickly behind them, pushing them against the fence and keeping them moving forward. Brett clicked his teeth at Kotoo, who alone looked not a bit fazed at the storm. Still, not a drop of rain fell, and the air thickened with dust. The hair on Brett’s forearms stood on end as another three spats of lightning struck near the river. Thunder rolled in loud waves overhead, and Brett yelled over the hot wind.
“Let’s git ’em movin’. I don’t know what this bunch’ll do if lightnin’ gits closer.”
Roberts nodded, and the two broke into a run, sending hooves flying. Roberts brandished his quirt and yelled “Haw! Haw!” at the ponies.
As Brett led the tight bunch in a gallop along the fence line past the fallow fields, the cluster of fairground buildings in his sights, his every nerve tingled. A twinge of fear raced across his neck before he could figure why. Then he smelled it.
Smoke.
Strong, acrid, and close.
The prairie was on fire.
***
Angela took a sip of her sweet tea as she and Violet sat underneath the branches of a small willow tree. The remnants of their picnic lunch lay scattered on the white china plates Mrs. Edwards had brought—crusts of blackberry pie and smears of mustard tinging leaves of lettuce from the sandwiches they’d enjoyed. They’d had a wonderful time at the park, talking about music and cooking, with the Edwardses sharing some of the funny tales about the colorful people who founded the colony.
Violet was so gregarious and naturally friendly, and Angela warmed to her as a friend unlike any other. Sharing a love of music gave them a special bond and made Angela feel her dream to play music wasn’t all that silly or unattainable.
And then the weather had shifted without warning.
Hot wind wreaked havoc with Angela’s hair, pulling strands loose and whipping them into her eyes. She was losing the battle to stuff it all back under her bonnet. Violet fared little better with her thick tresses. Angela had never seen a storm move in so quickly.
“Did you see that?” Violet said, suddenly getting to her feet. Crumbs fell from the lap of her brown-and-yellow calico dress. Flashes of lightning speared from the thick clouds overhead, just the other side of the park. Deafening thunder followed on its heels. The air felt heavy with dust and moisture.
Angela wasn’t alarmed by the heavenly turmoil. In New York, the summers were punctuated daily with thunderstorms. But Violet’s expression of fear gave her pause.
“Are we in danger?” Angela asked her.
Violet frowned. “We’re not on the highest ground, but there’s always a chance of getting hit by lightning out on the prairie. I’m more concerned about the animals.”
Angela stood and looked to where Violet’s gaze landed. Her father, Ed Edw
ards, was fussing with the breeching attached to the two mules, who pranced nervously as the thunder undulated overhead.
“They’re not usually bothered by anything,” Violet said, her frown deepening. “I don’t know what’s upsetting them so.”
Mrs. Edwards, who had been playing a game of catch with Violet’s young brothers, said something to the two boys, gesturing to the buckboard wagon. She then hurried over to Violet and Angela, agitation plain on her features as the brothers ran to help their father.
Around them, other families gathered up their baskets of food and folded up blankets. Women chattered excitedly as men loaded wagons and helped their wives and children onto benches and into saddles. Soon, Angela and Violet’s family were the only ones left in the spacious riverside park. From the looks of the clouds, a deluge was about to be unleashed.
“Hurry up, girls,” Mr. Edwards yelled over the moaning wind. Within seconds, the wind had gone from a slow and steady breeze to a violent gale that threatened to knock Angela off her feet.
“Oh!” she cried as her bonnet took flight from her head. Before she had a chance to chase after it, it had tumbled across the grass on its way into the river. Her skirts wrapped around her legs, entangling her.
Violet bent down, one hand anchoring her hat, and hurriedly threw the plates and glasses and silverware into the straw basket. Mrs. Edwards helped her and Angela fold up the checkered blanket as the ominous clouds roiled overhead.
“Girls, hurry and get in the wagon—”
Another bright splat of lightning struck the ground, this time only yards from the mules. Mrs. Edwards screamed and threw a hand over her mouth as one of the mules reared up and nearly struck Mr. Edwards in the head.
He jumped back, and the boys ran behind him, cowering. As lightning speared the ground again, a mule brayed in terror and broke free from the leather straps attaching it to the wagon. With a jerk and heave, the wagon lifted up sideways, then crashed back to the ground as the mule raced off down the road. One of the wheels broke upon impact.
Mr. Edwards’s mouth fell open, but if he said anything, his words were sucked up into the wind that whipped and whirled like a dervish. Angela fought down the fear rising in her throat as Violet took her hand and stood huddled next to her, shaking.
Then, to her further shock, the other mule screeched as if something had bit it, then bolted. Still attached to the wagon by its side straps, it pulled the heavy contraption behind it for a few halting yards. But in its frightful effort to flee, it upturned the wagon altogether. The wooden sides crunched into the dirt in pieces as the mule kept pulling and pulling.
Mr. Edwards managed to grab the mule’s headstall and bring the frantic animal to a stop. But behind it, the wagon lay crushed and mangled.
Mrs. Edwards froze halfway to her husband, and the picnic basket fell from her hands. Henry and Thomas threw their arms in the air, voicing their astonishment.
“What should we do?” Angela managed to say. “How will we get back to town?” The park was on the far south edge of town, perhaps only a mile or two from any houses or structures that could provide shelter.
“We’ll just have to walk,” Violet said with determination in her voice. “It’s not all that far. Though, I wish I’d worn different shoes.” She gave a smile that was clearly intended to reassure Angela. No doubt her own face revealed the fear she was trying so hard to keep at bay.
Angela stood beside Violet and watched as Mr. Edwards fumbled with the tangled breeching and extricated the panicky mule. Mrs. Edwards watched on as well, her feet stuck to the ground and her hands covering her mouth. When Violet’s father finally got the animal free, he calmed it by walking it in circles. Angela could tell he spoke soothing words into the mule’s ear, to keep it from bolting after its companion, who was far down the road, heading toward town.
“Leave everything,” Mr. Edwards yelled when his wife lifted the basket from the dry brown grass. Violet set down the folded blanket. “Hurry!”
He looked up at the sky just as lightning struck an elm tree at the other side of the park, near the corrals and wooden stands that Violet had told her was the arena for the summer horse events. Flames erupted in the branches and ignited the few desiccated brown leaves clinging to the tree. Sparks flew into the air and blew their way, landing on the grass.
Angela stood transfixed, staring at the glowing orange tendrils that gobbled up the fingers of grass as if a voracious beast. Violet yanked on her arm, pulling her toward the road. Suddenly the air was filled with smoke.
Angela looked around her. Smoke billowed in the distance, the Rockies poking their peaks out the top of a blanket of gray that seemed to coat the entire prairie. Her gasp caught in her throat.
She swiveled around, looking in the direction of the wide river. The far bank was lined with a ribbon of flickering flame. She ran alongside Violet toward the others huddling on the road. The mule reared and brayed, and now Angela understood why the two animals had panicked. They’d smelled the smoke before the humans had. Mr. Edwards could barely keep hold of the mule.
“Just let him go,” Mrs. Edwards said, her voice a hysterical pitch. “He’ll hurt someone.”
Mr. Edwards, clearly frustrated and at wit’s end, stepped back as he threw the ends of the reins in the air. The mule wasted no time and ran off to join its partner.
“All right,” he said, gesturing everyone to come close as he looked in all directions. “The wind is pushing the fire our way. But if we stay on the road and run as fast as we can, we should make it.”
He looked at Henry and Thomas. “Stay with the girls. I don’t want you running ahead.” He took his wife’s arm, and they exchanged a glance of courage. And then they all took off running.
Angela’s heart pounded as the wind thickened with smoke. She pulled the top of her cotton blouse up over her nose once she loosed it from the waistband constraining it. Violet did likewise. Together they ran over the uneven ground, Angela squinting hard as smoke stung and forced tears out the corners of her eyes. Then, she tripped.
A cry of pain shot from her mouth as she tumbled to the ground, wrenching her hand from Violet’s grasp. She grabbed her ankle and groaned in pain. A quick feel assured her she hadn’t broken anything, but when she struggled to stand, the moment she put weight on her foot, she collapsed in a wash of new agony.
Violet knelt beside her. “Is it broken?” Her eyes were wide as she darted glances down the road, her parents and brothers widening the distance between them, as they were unaware Angela had fallen.
“No, but I can’t put any weight on it.” Angela berated herself for her clumsiness. She turned her head, and to her horror, the entire park seemed engulfed in flames. Now the wind was so hot, it seared her cheeks. Gray ash lighted like snow on her face and caught in her eyelashes.
Presently, Violet’s father looked back, spotted her and Violet crouched on the road, and halted.
Angela’s mind went numb as she straightened to stand with Violet’s help. Fire swept across the prairie around them, closing in on them. Violet whimpered and clung tightly to Angela’s arm. Tears fell hot onto Angela’s cheeks as if drops of lava.
“Go!” Angela told her friend.
Violet shook her head hard, her face tight with refusal.
Hope of escape evaporated in the conflagration raging around them. Stabbing pain ringed her ankle as she dropped back to the ground and waited and watched in horror as fire consumed the world around her.
Chapter 29
As Brett kicked Kotoo into a run, the prairie laid out before him burst into flame. He pulled leather and brought the mare to a sliding stop. The dozen horses behind him bumped into one another, whinnying in protest and fear. Roberts trotted up beside him, and together they gaped at the sight.
“That fire’s headin’ to Greeley,” Roberts muttered.
Brett lifted his chin, feeling the searing heat of the wind and sensing its erratic shifting. Sparks flew like fireflies around him, lighting on
his hat and shoulders and on Kotoo’s mane. Even now, his horse stood unruffled, eyes and ears alert, making ’airy a sound. How had that Cheyenne woman knowed this was gonna happen? A tendril of fear slithered up the back of his neck.
“We gotta head back,” he said. “Leastways, Foster c’n keep this herd awhile, till the wildfire burns out.” He’d seen plenty of fires sweep across the desert, but always from a safe distance. Something about this one made the hairs prickle on his arms.
“Seems like we should jus’ let ’em loose. Folks in town might need help with a fire brigade,” Roberts said, chewing his lip and staring at the prairie. His gelding tossed his head, itching to bolt.
“Foster charged us with deliverin’ this bunch to the fairgrounds. Seems we oughta—”
Brett froze. He heard something tucked into the wind. It sounded like a woman’s scream—coming from the park area. He swiveled in his saddle and looked at Roberts.
“Ya hear that?”
Roberts nodded, narrowing his eyes and craning to see through the thick wad of black smoke ahead.
Crimany! There’s someone smack dab in that fire.
He hesitated only a second before deciding. The wild horses would run to safety; they maybe could find them later. Or not. But now, delivering horses was no longer his first concern.
Brett spun Kotoo around and waved his arms at the herd. “Git! Go on!” Roberts joined in the effort to scatter the bunch, but they huddled ever closer, snorting and prancing, paralyzed by the smell of smoke and fire. They were used to a stallion leading the way, and though Kotoo had led them this far, she wasn’t budging an inch at his urging.
“Oh for the love o’ God . . .”
Brett reined Kotoo back around and kicked with his spurs toward the fairgrounds. “Haw!” he yelled.
Roberts rode hard beside him, and together they headed toward the brushfire that slithered across the open range like spilled oil, the herd blindly following them. Brett’s face burned, and his eyelashes and eyebrows felt as if they were melting on his face. To his amazement, Kotoo remained calm under him—not a flinch of fear could he detect as she ran headlong into danger.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 27
