Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roberts nod. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for trouble at the party. I reckon we should be able to see it comin’ a long stretch away.”
“More’n likely,” Brett said. “I’m appreciatin’ of your help. Not many good fellas like you, Tate.”
Roberts snorted at the compliment. He looked up into the sky. “Mornin’s not long off. May as well try to git a little bit o’ shut-eye before collectin’ those horses.”
Brett chuckled. “It may take some coaxin’ to git ’em out of that nice, cozy barn with all that fluffy straw and those fat flakes of hay. Prob’ly so spoilt now, they’ll dig in and put up a fuss ’bout leavin’.”
Roberts laughed. “They’ll do whatever yer Injun pony tells ’em.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Brett said, thinking on how Kotoo had kept the herd calm and led ’em through the fire to the river. How she’d kept Angela safe on her back. He hoped Sarah Banks would be at that party, so he could tell her the tale and thank her again. Though, he had a hunch she already knew plenty about the fire.
He threw another glance at the little shack behind Fisk’s house. It sat dark and lonely back there. He wondered if he’d see Angela in the morning. The thought both excited and worried him. Would she even speak to him? Better if he gave her time to cool down before he tried to talk to her again. He and Roberts could slip out and head to the livery at first light. Saturday was two days away. While the thought of having to wait that long agonized him, it was probably for the best.
Why did he harbor such a foolish hope that she cared a whit about him? What did it matter? After the party, she’d be on the next train home. Unless, somehow, by some miracle, you c’n convince her to stay.
He snorted as he followed Roberts back into Tuttle’s house. Fat chance, Cowboy. You’d have better luck lassoing the moon.
***
Angela gripped the teacup so hard, she thought she might shatter it. Despite the warm shawl around her shoulders, she shook as if chilled.
She couldn’t believe what Brett had said. He’d killed someone? A rancher’s son? And he’d do it again if he had the chance?
She could hardly swallow past the lump of shock and terror in her throat. If she’d had any last vestige of affection for Brett Hendricks, it was gone now. How on earth had she succumbed to his wily ways? He was a true cad—a criminal! And a man was after him, possibly with intent to kill him.
She knew the moment she’d arrived in Greeley and saw those cowboys at the hitching post that she was entering a lawless, dangerous world. Fine for someone like Violet, who lived in town, sheltered from the madness of the West by a protective and moral father. But the idea that a young unmarried woman could come to such a place and live in security was foolhardy and unconscionable. She’d be safer under her father’s roof than here. At least the men she knew in her neighborhood, however domineering, weren’t murderers!
Managing to set down the teacup without dropping it, Angela huffed in frustration and heartache. She began pacing the living room, careful to keep quiet and not wake George. She’d come into the house to get a cup of tea when she’d tired of flopping like a fish in her bed, sleep eluding her. And then, when she sat in his big padded chair, she’d heard voices outside. When she realized it was Brett, she’d inched close to the window. Yes, it was rude to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hear what he might say about her to his friend. But she hadn’t imagined . . .
Brett shot someone—some rancher’s only son. And he was glad he had. Her head whirled in confusion. She had been so wrong about him. And he’d fooled her into thinking he was a respectable, honest man. What an idiot she’d been.
She thought about the letter George had handed her when she’d hurried from Brett’s arms back to his house. Her aunt had wired her the money to pay for her return train trip. She urged Angela to come home, saying that Mamá was now out of the hospital. Zia Sofia was spending each day helping with Rosalia and Maria, as Mamá was still weak and tired easily. And Papá and Bartolomeo were readying to leave on a business trip—to Italy, for three months! While the thought gladdened her—for Mamá would be safe from his brutality should he leave—it meant her mamá would have to take care of all the household duties and chores. How would she even carry the trash down the flights of stairs to the incinerator in the basement? Her aunt had her own life to live. It would be wrong to expect her to stay all that time—it was Angela’s responsibility to care for her mamá.
It was settled. She would take the first train to Denver come Monday morning. That would give her Sunday to attend church, rest from the party, then spend some time with George and Violet before leaving the West for good. While she would miss her new friends, her life was in New York. Her family needed her. At least with Papá gone, I can stay in the apartment awhile. And maybe, just maybe, the philharmonic committee will consent to letting me audition again. While Angela knew it was a silly hope, she was determined to hold her chin high and not let doubt crumble her nerve. One way or another, she would support herself by playing music. She had to. Any other life would be misery.
A peek out the window assured her Brett and Tate had gone back inside Dr. Tuttle’s house. If Brett was still awake, she couldn’t tell, as the windows were dark. She let herself—just for a few seconds—recall the way Brett’s lips had felt on her neck, reliving the ecstatic feeling she’d reveled in when his hands slid over her skin.
Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. She’d wanted so much to believe in him. To believe he truly loved her. To believe he was a kind, gentle man capable of love.
How wrong she’d been.
Chapter 33
The lively sounds of the party preparations drifted up the stairs of the ranch house to the familiar family room, where Angela sat by the window, tuning her violin. My violin.
George had surprised her yesterday afternoon, as they readied to leave for the rehearsal at the Opera House. He’d laid the open case on the table by the door, where she couldn’t miss it. She recognized it immediately—the unique patterns of wood grain and the etched ebony pegs George had painstakingly detailed for her. When she’d lifted it from the case, George’s smile spread from ear to ear. With a nod of encouragement, she’d picked up the bow and drew out a long high D note. The sublime timbre of the string resonated in a shimmer of sound around them, thick and intoxicating, musical nectar of the gods.
Without a doubt, this was her instrument—it would speak to her heart and sing out the music bubbling up from the caverns of her soul. It would speak the volumes of words she could not utter, and the music enticed from its heart would heal her own. Of these truths she had no doubt. She imagined this violin would be her closest companion, now and for years to come. And she so needed the soothing comfort it provided her, especially now.
Guests would begin to arrive shortly, and a few who’d come from far away were already settled into rooms in the big house, freshening up or napping before the festivities began. George was downstairs chatting with Violet, Daisy, and Rebecca, who’d come with Angela and George in the lovely carriage he’d leased for the weekend. Mrs. Edwards, such a wonderful seamstress, had worked magic on one of her own beautiful silk gowns and fitted it to Angela’s thinner frame. Layered with crinkling petticoats underneath, the deep-gold gown accented her brown eyes—or so Violet insisted while having her try on the many stylish shoes she had in her closet. Long lacy white gloves and a beaded reticule completed her attire, making her feel elegant and much the lady of fashion—something she rarely felt and hadn’t expected she’d feel in a small town in Colorado.
Riding over from Greeley, the carriage reminded her of those she’d been in at Central Park with her aunt, and though she’d engaged in the light and happy banter as they traveled along the bumpy, rocky road, her thoughts wandered lost. As much as she tried to push Brett Hendricks from her mind and heart, she found herself circling back to him, as if he were around every corner, pleading with her w
ith those pained and needy eyes.
She wished Brett wasn’t going to be at the party; he’d be a distraction she could ill afford. Adeline Foster had put months of work into this party, and Angela would not let her down by allowing her performance to suffer. While the pieces they planned to play weren’t difficult, they required keen concentration so she didn’t miss her entrances.
Yesterday’s rehearsal had gone beautifully, and the music had erased all her heartache while she played. The magical feeling she reveled in as part of a quintet only reinforced her determination to become part of a symphony orchestra. How wonderful it would be to sit in a chair on a stage surrounded by fifty or more stellar musicians, the strains of her music weaving with that of all the others to make an exquisite tapestry of sound. She’d experienced such divine delight as a member of an audience, in a darkened auditorium, sitting next to her aunt and listening to Eugenia Pappenheim play. But she imagined that joy would pale in the light of the thrill she’d feel creating part of the music itself.
And while tonight’s performance couldn’t compare to those held in the New York symphony hall, it still required her professional demeanor. If Brett came into the room, she would ignore him and immerse herself in her music. And when they were finished, she’d keep by Violet’s side, or George’s, the rest of the evening, until it was time to leave. With sixty or more guests, surely she could avoid Brett Hendricks.
The door to the room flew open, and Angela, startled, jumped to her feet.
“Oh, there you are, darling!” Adeline, her hair pinned with a riot of thick curls topped with a slender diamond-studded tiara, came flouncing into the room in a gorgeous green silk gown with gathered sleeves and a V-neckline. A string of pearls graced her neck. “Have you gone into hiding?”
“Why, no. I’d planned to practice a bit before the party began. I hope that’s not rude of me. Do you need my help?”
Adeline giggled and waved her gloved hand jangling with silver bracelets in the air as if shooing flies. “Oh, darling, of course not! The girls have been asking for you, but I told them they’ll see you downstairs. Oh! Is this your new violin? George was telling us about it. Are you sure you don’t want to come downstairs and meet some of the guests?”
Angela had seen the way Adeline spoke when excited, but the rancher’s wife could now hardly catch a breath between sentences. Her powdered cheeks glowed with excitement as she waved a fan in frantic motion in front of her face, causing her lilac-scented perfume to tickle Angela’s nose.
“I’ll . . . be down shortly,” she told Adeline, sensing her hostess’s eagerness to show off her “favorite” violinist. Angela had overheard Adeline gushing about her to someone in the foyer when they’d arrived.
Adeline took a few steps into the room and lowered her voice with lashes aflutter. “And your cowboy is outside, waiting.”
Angela stiffened. Brett, here? Asking for her? No doubt the perplexed and horrified look on her face is what made Adeline laugh mischievously and flap her fan even harder. She must mean Brett, Angela thought, recalling the way the matchmaking Southerner had teased her about him when she’d stayed here.
“Wh-what do you mean—he’s waiting?”
Adeline giggled again and came up to Angela, looking her over. “You look like an absolute peach, darling. And that lovely dress is sure to set his itty bitty heart racin’.”
“I don’t—” she began to protest, but Adeline laid a hand on her arm.
“Remember what I said? That there’s no better love than from a cowboy with a true and loyal heart?”
Angela’s stomach soured, wishing Adeline would stop talking about love and cowboys. She’d had enough of cowboys to last a lifetime. She just wanted to play the pieces the quintet had prepared and pack for the trip home.
“Is he . . . downstairs?” All the more reason to hide up here and stall her entrance into the great room, where the guests would be milling and where the quintet’s chairs and music stands were set up on the raised dais festooned with drapes of gold-trimmed cloth Adeline had had built for the occasion.
“Oh no, darling. The cowboys will be invited in later, after the guests have all arrived and mingled. Canapes and fine wine would be . . . wasted on those with unrefined tastes.” She frowned, her arm still resting on Angela’s. “You seem so upset. Is there something you need to talk about? George tells me you’re still planning on leaving our wonderful state of Colorado to go back to the big, noisy, crowded city.”
“It’s not as awful as all that,” Angela said, reacting to the look of distaste on Adeline’s face. “But, yes, I’m leaving Monday. My mamá is home from the hospital, and she needs me.”
Adeline’s fan flapped again, blowing another burst of perfume into Angela’s face. “Oh, surely there must be others who can tend to your mother. You have your own life to lead, darling. Your dreams. Your music. If you return to New York, you’ll never know what you missed.”
Angela looked at her in confusion. “Missed?”
Adeline sighed, and her body seemed to sag with disappointment. “Oh, Angela. Love, darling. Love.” She said the words pointedly, as if each one were a nail she was hammering into Angela’s heart.
A retort sat on Angela’s tongue. Surely love could be found just as easily in New York as in Greeley, Colorado—if love were something Angela actually wanted right now. But she was already tired of this conversation. And she didn’t want in any way to spoil Adeline’s special night, so she mustered a warm, agreeable smile.
Adeline, not one to miss a hint, sighed again. “Twenty minutes. I’ll have Clementine come fetch you when it’s time.”
“Thank you,” Angela said, grateful that Adeline dropped the subject of love. But what did she mean by “he’s waiting”? No doubt this was merely Adeline’s way of getting Angela to seek him out, the rancher’s wife so determined that Angela fall for a cowboy. Maybe she merely wants to sway you to stay in Greeley so you can keep giving the girls violin lessons. That was more likely the reason for Adeline’s persuasive discourse.
After Adeline bounced out of the room, melancholy sat heavy on Angela’s shoulders. Muffled dialogue and laughter seeped through the floorboards, and Angela felt her loneliness swell like a wave that crashed against the seawall of her heart.
Letting her mind empty of words, she again picked up her violin and bow and put the instrument to her chin. With her eyes closed, the poignant melody of the old Scottish folk song George had taught her swirled in her head. She lowered the bow onto the strings and let her fingers move of their own accord.
Why this particular melody haunted her, she couldn’t say. It was as if it were composed of a thousand grains of sadness, and with each note she played, the more that sadness was drawn out of her, the way a poultice pulled heat from a fever. And like a fever, each note pained her with tiny pinpricks. Still, she played on, unable to stop either the notes from spilling out or her longing for Brett Hendricks from pouring into the empty space it carved into her heart.
***
Just as he had weeks ago—or was it a lifetime ago?—he stood out of sight below the upper window behind the house, listening to the fiddle music coming out the window. The sounds of carriage wheels rolling across the driveway and slate tiles, as well as the noisy activity of ranch hands at their chores around him and animals lowing, neighing, and clucking clogged the air, yet through it all, Angela’s playing, alone, reached his ears.
Most of the other punchers were in the bunkhouse, getting ready for the big party—slicking their hair and moustaches with wax and putting on their best bibs and tuckers. After he and Roberts had driven their little herd of horses back to the ranch yesterday—much to Foster’s surprise and relief over their safe return—Foster had given them both a bit of spending money and use of a wagon to go to town to buy some new duds for the party.
Brett’s ears had gone hot when Roberts blathered how Brett’d gotten the folks safely back to town just in the nick of time, for the other buster had done
as much or better to that end. And Brett told the rancher just so, though Roberts shook his head, being contrary.
But the good that came of it, aside from the pleasant satisfaction that they’d all come through the fire unscathed, was that Brett now had the means to wear something other than his tattered or threadbare riding clothes. Dressed in a soft gray chambray shirt and jeans, blue suspenders, and a pair of short black boots, he almost felt like a gentleman. He just wished Angela would think of him as such. How in blazes could he win her heart? It seemed a lost cause, and watching her play her fiddle all night was sure to make that ache in his heart grow to the size and hardness of a pumpkin.
He and Roberts had left at dawn to make their purchases, making it back to the ranch by midday, and Brett hadn’t seen Angela—not that morning or since he’d come back from his shopping spree. But Miz Foster had stopped him with his arm full of duds from the mercantile when he stepped from the wagon over by the horse barn nigh lunchtime today. “That gal you’re sweet on—she’ll be here soon.”
How in the world did Miz Foster know his feelings? Or was she just assuming, after that day he’d gone with Angela and Foster’s girls to pick berries? Or mebbe Angela said somethin’ to her.
He’d known women like Foster’s missus, matching folks up, all a-titter with gossip about fellas and their courting ways. He reckoned women like Miz Foster had a lot of time on their hands, and maybe being stuck on a ranch away from town left them little else to do besides gossip and match-make.
Brett stood under a big tree with thick bare branches, the crisp fall day shining that thin sideways light that Brett loved, especially in the late afternoon. Smells from the big house drifted on the air—juicy meats and fruit pies and a whole tangle of mouthwatering vittles cooking in the kitchen. He thought about Roberts’s warning—that Orlander might show up, on the scout for him. But he didn’t care. He only had one thing on his mind, and that was Angela. She was dead set on leaving Monday. And he was dead set on stopping her.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 31
