Admit it, Angela. You’re in love with him. Madly, truly, deeply. She shivered as if a cold breeze danced across her neck. You can’t love him. You musn’t. He’s a wild horse, unpredictable, untamable. And what about your music? What about your dream?
Her love for music suddenly felt like a curse to her rather than a gift. She recalled a passage in the little book George had lent her. At the end of the story, Christian concluded that the common gifts to man were so great, it was sinful to desire “uncommon abilities from the Divinity.” Longing to play the violin became a curse to him, and his pursuit of his dream caused him utter pain and despair. His next words felt branded in her heart with a hot iron: “The man who stands in the beams of the sun is scorched by them.”
Is that what would happen to her, should she chase after her dream to be a great violinist? By longing for fame and approval and adoration on the stage, was she destined to be scorched?
Angela felt overwhelmed with sadness. Perhaps their ordeal in the clutches of the fire had seared her mind.
Why couldn’t she be like most other women? Be content to be a wife and mother? Was that so bad?
She looked at Ginny Edwards, who stood humming as she stacked dishes in the wash basin, a wistful smile on her face. Mr. Edwards adored his family, and he’d been so relieved when they arrived in town with his family delivered from the fire, he’d wrapped his wife up in his arms and kissed her with such passion that Angela had flushed with embarrassment and turned away. Violet had laughed at Angela’s reaction and ran to her parents and threw her arms around them. Envy had pierced Angela’s heart in that moment, making her wish she would have reason to throw her arms around her mamá and papá like that.
Since she’d arrived in Greeley, she’d seen happy families. Families who loved one another, stuck together through difficult trials and seasons, and treated one another with the greatest respect and kindness. The Fosters, The Edwardses . . . and George—all showed her what true love and devotion looked like.
Was it so hard to believe she could find happiness like this? Find a gentle, loving man like Logan Foster or Ed Edwards or George Fisk? Was she willing to take a chance on Brett?
Tate had finished his story, and while he sipped his coffee, he and Violet chatted quietly. If Angela wasn’t mistaken, the lanky cowboy seemed just as enamored of Violet as she was of him. Mr. Edwards had excused himself, and the boys had run off somewhere, leaving the two cowboys at the table with Angela and Violet. Brett seemed lost in his thoughts, staring out the large window at the purple-tinted sky.
Would Violet be content marrying a cowboy? Tate’s uneducated speech didn’t seem to dampen her interest in him. Angela had been taught the importance of a proper education and of marrying a man of her “station.” Her papá had been relentless in pushing her and her siblings to academic excellence, expected them all to learn more than spelling and counting. To keep a proper home, he’d drilled into her, you need to handle money and make wise decisions in running a household. The wives in Mulberry Bend purchased all the family’s goods and staples, bartered and bargained over purchases with salesmen. They were well read and well informed of the goings-on about town and the country.
Still, all that education was for one purpose—to create a wife a man could control, who would obey his every order and fulfill his every whim.
But a woman who loved her husband would want to please him. Just as I want so much to please Brett and see his love for me well up in his eyes.
Yet, how much did they really have in common? She could hardly picture them sitting around a fire discussing Handel’s sonatas or Paganini’s caprices. And how much interest would she find in his tales of chasing cows and breaking horses? She feared that the passion she felt for Brett was only physical—and that he only wanted her because he thought her beautiful. Mamá was beautiful once too—before she became a battered and defeated wife.
“Wanna get some fresh air?”
Brett’s voice startled her. She turned to him, and his smile snagged her like a skirt hem on a floorboard nail.
Flustered, she said, “Are . . . you and Mr. Roberts staying in town tonight? I mean, don’t you need to get back to the ranch—?”
“Doc Tuttle’s invited us to hole up at his house,” Brett said. “We stopped by his office in town after seein’ to the horses.”
“Yep, Brett promised to tell ’im the harrowin’ tale of the escape from the Island Grove Park Fire of 1877,” Tate said, giving Violet a flirty wink.
Violet narrowed her eyes, incredulous. “That fire already has a name?”
“Does now,” Tate said with a hearty laugh. “Generations from now’ll be tellin’ the story of brave Brett Hendricks—”
Brett stood to his feet, shaking his head. Tufts of bark-brown hair fell into his amused eyes. “Not if I c’n help it,” he said. “Come,” he told Angela, holding out his hand, “let’s git away from the tall-tale teller.”
Angela smiled but was taken aback by his gesture. How forward of him to expect her to take his hand—here, in front of Violet and her family.
“Come on,” Brett repeated, “I ain’t gonna bite.”
Violet erupted in giggles as Tate shook his head, averting his eyes so Angela couldn’t see the mirth he was trying to hide. Her friend waved a hand at her, as if pushing her along.
With a sigh, Angela gave in, and Brett nearly pulled her to the front door. She startled as he stepped outside onto the porch with her in tow, then closed the door behind them. The porch lay recessed in darkness as the night closed in around them. The warm air was filled with crickets chirping.
Her heart beat so hard, her chest hurt. “I don’t know if this—”
Before she could finish her thought, Brett’s lips were on hers, warm and wet and needy.
Stunned, she froze in place, and he took her in his arms. Without thinking, she pulled from him and turned to run down the stairs. How dare he kiss her in public, on Violet’s front porch, for all to see?
She skipped down the steps, but Brett threw out an arm and hooked her at the waist. With a strong sweep, he lifted her off her feet. She spun into his steely embrace, and he crushed her to his chest. She could barely breathe as his warm skin melted against hers.
“Whoa,” he whispered hot into her ear. “Why’re ya runnin’ off?” He trailed light kisses along her neck.
Unable to resist, she threw back her head, aching for more. A moan slipped from her throat. The touch of his wet lips and tongue behind her ear sent her wild with desire, and her body burned for him, for his hands to touch her all over. She hated her thoughts, her need for him. But she was helpless, like a cornered horse in a pen, as Brett coaxed her back into the darkest corner of the porch and found her lips with his own.
His mouth moved frantically all over hers, but not with force. They seemed to seek her, to beg for her to answer, and gladly she did. Her mouth opened in response, like a flower under the warmth of the sun, and her tongue entwined with his as he cradled her face in his hands and pulled her close, as if yearning to draw the love from her heart and into his own.
He fingered the buttons on her blouse, and before she knew what he was doing, her shoulder was exposed. His mouth fell on her skin hungrily as his hands slid down and covered her breasts.
A riffle of heat enflamed her, hotter than the fire that had simmered around her on the prairie. And while her mind protested in shock at his bold and brash action, her body went wild at the feel of his fingers playing with her nipples. Once more she tossed her head back and moaned, unable to resist, squirming under his touch as he pushed her hard against the wall of the house. With his body pressed against her, she felt his hardness and gasped—more at her wanton desire for him than at the shock of feeling him hot against her skirt.
This was wrong, so wrong. What was he doing?
She gritted her teeth and pushed him back. He tripped up on a board and righted himself, questioning her with his eyes. In the dim light coming from the lamps in the li
ving room, she saw his face and it frightened her.
His eyes were hard and distant, causing an icy coldness to wash over her. Gone was the tender look and easy smile. Then his face loosened into a pained look.
“Angela, I’m sorry,” he said, his words rushed. He put out his hands, palms up in apology. He took a step back, and she eased her way around him to the porch steps. “I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, all I wanted to do was kiss ya. I’d been longin’ to kiss ya again, ever since that day—”
“So you took what you wanted?”
Brett gave a pathetic grin. “I kinda thought it was what ya wanted too.” He dropped his gaze to the ground.
Angela fumed, more angry at herself than at him. She was as much at fault by succumbing to his advances. She glanced through the window into Violet’s house. Thankfully the room seemed vacated. The street was quiet, and no one was about.
“Maybe the women you’re used to don’t have qualms about throwing themselves into your arms—”
“Qualms?”
“Objection. Scruples.”
Brett blew out a breath, the hurt in his eyes unmistakable. “I’m not around women all that much. Look,” he said, “I . . . I just had to kiss ya. To show ya how I feel ’bout you. Ever since ya left Foster’s ranch, I’ve been missin’ ya every second o’ the day. I thought you’d gone back to New York. So when I saw ya in the park, on the ground . . .”
Angela ignored his defeated look. “It’s improper. You took advantage of me.” A burst of anger laced her words, surprising her. “Just like a man. You’re no different.” Her head filled with pictures of her papá striking her mamá. She winced at the memory of the sound of his hand slapping her face.
She stormed down the stairs and hurried along the walkway. Brett ran up to her and kept pace at her side. “Where’re ya goin’?”
“To George’s. Please tell Violet I wasn’t feeling well.” She threw the words at him, her heart tumbling with her confused feelings. Didn’t she want him to hold her and kiss her? Why then was she being so mean to him? She knew he cared for her; he wasn’t toying with her.
But he pushed himself on you. He didn’t first ask if he could kiss you. And you saw his eyes—that look. He was like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And that wolf hiding there, behind his eyes, scared her to her bones.
“Will ya trust me?” She heard Brett’s words ricochet in her head. No, she couldn’t. She hardly knew him. He lived in the lawless West, a cowboy who answered to no one but himself.
He took her arm lightly, but she pulled away. Tears threatened to push out of her eyes. “Please, let me go.”
He dropped his arm and stopped walking as she rushed ahead. She didn’t dare look back. But she knew he wasn’t chasing after her. All she could hear were her slippers slapping against the dirt street as she hurried toward George’s house, a sky full of stars overhead, the clouds that had dumped rain nowhere to be seen.
The acrid smell of fire lingered on the air, and Angela thought of the way the wildfire had raced across the dry grass and burnt it to charred stubble. The heat of her passion for Brett had done the same across her heart, leaving it scorched and raw. She wondered if it would ever heal.
Chapter 32
“Though mebbe you’d like a swig o’ this.”
Brett turned at Roberts’s quiet voice. The buster held out a small tin flask that gleamed in the soft moonlight. Whiskey—just the thing to ease his throbbing head and hurting heart.
Nodding his thanks, Brett took it and said, “Where’d you git that?”
“Always have it tucked into ma belt.”
Brett leaned against the back wall of Tuttle’s house, a wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and let the smooth whiskey glide down his throat as he stared up at the night sky peppered with stars. He wished he had a whole bottle of the stuff to snuff out the awful feelings that rattled around inside him like a bucket of rocks on a three-wheeled wagon.
All he’d wanted to do was show Angela how he felt. And he’d let things spin out of control. Again. He’d been so stirred by his hunger for her that he’d forgotten her proper upbringing. A gal like her needed time and plenty of courting. He’d tried so hard to show her his good qualities, and in one moment all his hard effort to earn her trust had been squashed. He felt like a cockroach crushed under her foot. He doubted she’d ever speak to him again.
“So . . . uh, what’s the story with you an’ Angela?” Roberts asked, squatting on the spongy green grass that Tuttle watered each day to keep all nice in the hot weather. “You two know each other afore joinin’ Foster’s outfit?”
Brett’s gaze lit on the tiny room in the next yard. Blinds covered the windows, and ’airy a hint of light seeped out. Angela was probably asleep in her bed. The picture of her that flitted in his head—of her in her nightdress, something soft and cottony and thin hugging her curves—heated his blood. He could hardly think of her without his body flaming with desire.
But that’s what got ya into trouble tonight. You could do with a dunk in the river.
He flung away the image and turned to look at Roberts, who had lit a cigarette and was taking a long draw.
“We met here, come to think of it. In this here yard.” He nodded at the little shack. “She’s staying next door with an ol’ fella that makes fiddles.”
Roberts nodded. “Violet was tellin’ me how the two of ’em play music. They’ll be entertainin’ at Foster’s party Saturday.”
Brett’s brows rose. He hadn’t known she’d be there, back at the ranch. Maybe he’d get a chance to apologize. But what’s the use? She jus’ don’t feel the way you do. And she deserves better—ya keep forgettin’ that.
“Ya seem sweet on ’er in a big way,” Roberts said with a grin. “But Violet told me she’s plannin’ on going back to New York right after the party. Now that she has her fancy fiddle.”
Brett’s chest felt like someone had punched him hard. He knew Angela was set on going home. Her ma was in the hospital. And she has those big dreams of playin’ her music in a fancy performance hall. He’d been a fool thinking he could convince her to stay in Colorado. There was nothing for her here.
“Well, I saw the way you were lookin’ at Violet. She caught yer fancy?”
Roberts nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, like someone had asked him to add up a bunch of big numbers in his head. “I like her fine. She’s spunky and fun—just my type. And I like her family. ’Sides, her pa’s a builder in town. Mebbe he c’n rustle up some work for me.”
Brett laughed heartily. “Listen to ya. Ya got all the angles worked out.” He shook his head. “Ya think she’d go fer a crusty cowboy like yourself?”
“Why the heck not?” He smoothed out the baggy clothes Edwards had given him to wear. “I clean up as good as any other fella. All a gal really wants is for a fella to take a bath from time to time, be a good provider, and shower ’er with a lot of affection and purty dresses.”
“Oh, is that right?” Brett said, amused at Roberts’s serious manner.
Presently, a pale yellow light spilled from one of the windows in Fisk’s house. The fiddle-maker was probably having trouble sleeping too, Brett reckoned. He didn’t know the hour, but dawn was but a few shakes away. Like him, Roberts had trouble bedding under a roof. They probably would’ve slept better if they’d hauled the blankets outside and lain out under the stars on the squishy grass.
Brett hadn’t even tried to get any shut-eye—not with his mind replaying his kisses and the way Angela had moaned under his touch. The way she’d pressed against him, begging for more, told him she’d wanted him. He knew he’d let his wild side take over, but how could a fella resist her soft, creamy skin and those scrumptious lips? He doubted any man with a healthy appetite for a gal could rein in such a craving. Was she so ignorant to think a respectable fella would be able to?
“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout those fellas at the roundup—from the Flying Y Ranch.” Roberts stood and paced, the cigarette dan
gling from the side of his mouth.
The faces of those punchers were crisp in Brett’s mind. He’d almost forgotten about them.
“Chances are Orlander’ll be at that party,” Roberts added.
His words made Brett straighten and push off from the house. He walked over to his pal, who was looking at some sculpture of an eagle sticking up in a patch of flowers next to Fisk’s house.
Brett kept his voice low, not wanting the fiddle-maker to hear them through the partially opened window.
“Ya think there’ll be trouble?” Brett asked.
“Those two at the roundup—they were keen t’ find ya. A rancher like Orlander—he ain’t gonna send his cowboys on the scout for someone ’less’n that someone had done somethin’ bad.”
Brett could tell Roberts had spent a bit of time pondering this. And he was right.
“Mebbe it’d be best if’n ya didn’t go to the party,” Roberts said, turning to look at him.
Brett thought a moment, then answered, “Naw, I ain’t gonna hide. If Orlander means to settle a score, I’d as soon face him there as elsewhere.”
Quiet settled thick around them in the cool air. Brett wrapped the blanket tighter around him, but he shivered anyway.
“Ya think he’s dead—the rancher’s kid?” Roberts asked.
Brett drew in a long breath and held it awhile before blowing it out. “That’s what I’m afeared of. I shot at ’im over my shoulder, and the dust was too thick to see what I hit. But the kid and his pals stopped chasin’ me right after.”
“I heard tell that kid is all Orlander’s got. That whole ranch—thousands of acres and as many head of cattle—all goin’ to the kid. A rich fella like that, losin’ his only son . . .” Roberts’s words ran out, as if he knew he’d said too much.
Brett handed him back the empty flask. “Yep,” he said, kicking at the ground. “I reckon Orlander is plenty mad.” A scowl twisted his face. “But I’m not sorry—not one bit. I’d do it again, if’n I had to.”
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 30
