Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  His body slumped heavily against the tree trunk, and he closed his eyes and listened. After a moment his pulse started to race, as the familiar sad melody snaked in through his ears. There was something about that tune. She’d played it before—he was sure of it. Then he recalled that night he’d woke at Tuttle’s house, feeling all twitchy when the fiddle playing floated in through the open window. It was making him feel the same way now. Like he wanted to bolt. Like a scared horse or a spooked jackrabbit.

  What was wrong with him? Music never rattled him like this—and not something as sweet and sorrowful as what Angela was playing. And why would she be playing that? Mebbe she’s moonin’ fer ya the way you’re moonin’ fer her. He snorted. More like she’s missin’ her home and her ma.

  He squinched his eyes to hear better over the hollering of some of the ranch hands doing their last chores of the evening around the barn.

  The tune Angela played sounded like something a ma would sing to her babe—

  Suddenly a voice sang in his head. A gal’s soft and gentle voice. A voice he recognized but couldn’t place. He strained to listen—to the words behind the music Angela played. He was slapped hard by a clear, bright memory.

  “The water is wide

  I can’t cross o’er

  Neither have I wings to fly

  Give me a boat that can carry two

  And both shall row, my love and I . . .”

  He saw a gal hovering over him, her sparkling eyes full of love, wheat-colored hair waterfalling over her shoulders. He was lying on a bed, staring at her, adoring her. Love so painful poured out of him; he couldn’t take his eyes off her bright-green ones that shone in the light of the oil lamp on the nearby table. She reached down and stroked his cheek. Her singing melted his heart and made him feel safe, so safe. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

  “A ship there is and she sails the sea

  She's loaded deep as deep can be

  But not so deep as the love I'm in

  I know not if I sink or swim . . .”

  Sitting stock-still under the massive branches of the tree, he swiped at his face, and his fingers came away wet. He opened his eyes. Tears? He shot a glance up to the window. The music had stopped. His blood surged in his ears as he hurried over to the side of the house and looked up, hoping to catch sight of her. But he couldn’t get the angle right. He had to hear more, to know who that woman was in his mind. To know why she looked at him like that. And why did Angela’s playing make him feel so weepy?

  He squatted on the ground and cradled his head in his hands, trying to swallow back the wad of hurt stuck there. With his eyes shut, he searched for that face, and then he found it, lantern light making her hair shimmer, like she was some angel.

  “Oh love be handsome and love be kind

  Gay as a jewel when first it is new

  But love grows old and waxes cold

  And fades away like the morning dew . . .”

  Just then, the head yanked back, and the gal screamed—a piercing, terrified scream. Then he screamed—a high-pitched wail that filled the dark room. The lantern toppled, and hungry tongues of fire raced across floorboards, eating up the oil.

  Brett sucked in a breath as shock rippled through his veins at the sight of his pa’s giant scowling face glowering at his. Behind his pa, he saw her struggle to her feet, her hand inching up the side of her head, blood pouring from a gash above her ear.

  Smoke filled the room, and Brett coughed, choking. Heavy footsteps ran across wooden floorboards, the sound fading as Brett wailed and wailed, staring at his ma, who lay up against the wall, stunned, blood dripping down her face.

  He was thrown into that vision Sarah Banks had given him. He thought he’d seen Angela hurt. Thought it was he that’d struck her.

  But it wasn’t Angela—it was his ma, when she’d been oh so young and purty. Her light-brown hair looked dark in the smoky room, drenched with blood. And his pa had left her to burn with her babe, running to save his own hide.

  A flood of tears streamed down Brett’s face. He hardly felt them or his wet skin. Or his shirt wet around his neck. He watched as his ma scooped him up from his little bed—some kind of crib with sides on it—and kept up her singing, even though she stumbled and reeled from the blow. Flames danced around them, but she plunged headlong into them. Brett saw them eat at her hair and nightdress, and she pulled him hard against her chest, protecting him as she crashed through the house that bucked and groaned around them, fiery boards dropping from the roof and sparks raining on her head.

  He peeked out from the swaddling blanket, staring at the house coming down atop them. But still she sang, meaning to comfort him, to keep him from wailing in fear.

  Somehow, they got outside, out of the heat and into a cold night. A thin layer of snow lay on the ground, glistening bright orange as the reflection of the flames caught in the crystals of ice.

  His ma dropped him and fell into the snow and rolled. The tongues of flame on her dress snuffed out, and the stench of burnt skin and hair filled his nose. He was cold and wet and started up crying again, but she gathered him into her arms once more. Her voice shook, packed full of fear and hurt and misery—he heard it so clearly in his head—as she sang one more verse.

  “Must I go bound while you go free?

  Must I love a man who doesn't love me?

  Must I be born with so little art

  As to love a man who'll break my heart?”

  Brett fell back against the tree, feeling as if someone had drained every drop of blood from his body. Rough bark dug into his spine as he sat there, unable to move, staring at the gloaming light settling over the ranch house.

  As the memory slipped from his grasp, it left him with a heavy sadness. He’d all but forgotten his ma and how purty she once was. The years right before his pa killed her, she’d lost all joy. She’d looked as if all the life had been sucked out of her, and that twinkle in her eyes had been snuffed out and replaced with a dull glaze that looked beyond this world. Her hair that had shone lost its sheen and lay pinned up tight against her head, as if those pins were all that held her together.

  And while her empty eyes never entreated him, through all those years they’d suffered the slings of hate from his pa, he knew the burden had rested upon him and him alone to protect her. And he’d done nothing. Nothing at all. He’d cowered in corners and stuffed his pillow over his head to smother her cries. Even when he’d grown near as tall as his pa, he hadn’t done a damned thing. The one time he dared to yell at his pa to stop, the beast had roared up and smashed Brett so hard upside his head, Brett had been knocked out into the next day.

  Rage smoldered anew in his gut, but more from his failure than his hate for his pa. He replayed in his mind that last argument with his pa, when Brett had thrown his few belongings into a sack and told his pa just where he could go as Brett stormed to the door. His pa had yelled, “Go on, then. Git! An’ don’t show yer hide ’round here no more.”

  As his pa threw every dirty name at him that he could think of in his whiskey-soused head, Brett had caught sight of his ma hunched over the tiny kitchen table, her head in her hands. That look she gave him when she lifted her head burned like a hot brand once more. She’d urged him with her eyes to leave, to flee. “Just go, Brett. Go. Save yourself while you can.”

  She’d always wanted the best life for him—a life she couldn’t give him. When he’d told her of his dream to be a cowboy and one day own his own horse ranch, she’d smiled and said, “Don’t let anything stand in the way of your dream. No one and nothing. You hear me, Brett?” He’d been maybe ten or eleven, back when things weren’t so bad. Back before his pa’s drinking and womanizing got out of hand. Back when she still clung to her thin thread of a dream. A dream of a happy life, a happy family. A dream you shattered by walkin’ out.

  Brett buried his head in his hands again, thinking he’d best just leave the ranch, fetch Kotoo and ride off somewhere, bed out under the stars
at night and chew up some miles during the day, get even farther away from Texas, his past. From Angela. Leave all those stupid dreams behind to rot in the dust of the prairie.

  Just run, he told himself, the thought tempting him like a meaty haunch of deer meat dangling from a tree in front of a hungry grizzly.

  Run.

  As if the very word set fire to his feet, he jumped up, wiping his sleeve across his wet face, intent on heading back to the bunkhouse to fetch his bedroll and war bag.

  But the sight meeting his eyes made him freeze in place.

  Angela stood in the back doorway, framed by the light spilling out of the house—looking every bit like that angel he saw in his memory of his ma.

  His thoughts turned into a mush of confusion as he watched her come toward him, in a gorgeous dress, her silky black hair swept up onto her head, white gloves riding up to her bare elbows, the skin of her upper arms creamy and soft in the light splattering on her from the open door.

  “Brett?”

  He knew he looked ragged, with red-rimmed eyes and cheeks blotchy from rubbing. He wanted to pull his hat down so she couldn’t see him, see his shame that he was sure was written all over his face. He felt as brittle as a sheet of ice crusting over a pond the first night of winter.

  “What’re ya doin’ out here?” he asked her bitterly, not meeting her eyes, wishing for the first time that she’d go and leave him be.

  “I . . . I was going to ask you the same thing. I wanted to get some fresh air, before I was called to play . . .”

  Her words trailing off made him lift his head. She stood a few feet away, a frown deep-set on her dazzling face. Those full pouty lips set his heart aching anew. Her beauty hurt his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Brett. Are you unwell?”

  A grunt of self-reproach blurted out of him. He shook his head, unable to form any words that made a lick of sense.

  “Jus’ go, Angela. There’s no cure for what’s ailin’ me.” And runnin’ won’t help neither—ya know that.

  He suddenly thought of the Cheyenne woman’s pronouncements. His mouth dropped open as his mind pieced together a jumbled puzzle. The meaning was now clear as a glass window pane. Clear as snowmelt running over rocks on a crisp spring day. An urgency filled his blood—a need to understand.

  “What is it?” Angela asked, laying her hand gently on his arm.

  He breathed in the dizzying scent of her, his mind reeling, her nearness both comforting and agonizing. “She . . . she said, ‘Look for the calm water. The song will lead you out.’” He searched Angela’s confused face, wanting so much for her to understand what he finally understood.

  “What are you talking about? Who said?”

  “Sarah Banks, the Injun woman. She said, ‘When the fire rages, look for the calm water. You will hear the song . . .’” He heard her strong voice in his head. “There is a way out. You don’t have to burn in the flames.”

  He could kick himself for his stupidity. She wasn’t talking about the brushfire that had trapped ’em at the fairgrounds. Not at all. Sure, Kotoo was the calm in the midst of the fire, and the pony’d led them out. He thought the calm water was the Platte, but that’s not what she was talking about—not at all.

  A grin rose on his face, pushing up the sides of his mouth and forcing out the shame that had presently been drowning him.

  He stared hard into her eyes. “What was that tune ya was playin’ up there?” He tipped his head up toward the window.

  She swallowed, and her creamy throat glistened. Longing swelled and crashed over him.

  “It’s a Scottish folk song that George taught me. It’s called ‘The Water Is Wide.’” She looked at him, more with curiosity than alarm, her hand still on his arm. Her touch electrified him, but he couldn’t think what that might mean. He had to figure this out. Maybe she could help him understand what it was he needed to know.

  Before he could stop himself, the words poured out of his mouth. “When I was sixteen, I walked out on my ma. My pa beat her all the time, and I never stood up to him.” His throat choked up with emotion, but he pressed on. He had to tell her. She needed to know.

  She was the way out of the fire, out of the burning house of his soul.

  He felt as if he were back in his ma’s arms as she stumbled through the crashing, burning timbers of their shack, singing that song to him, her dress afire.

  “I ran that day, and I been runnin’ ever since. I cain’t stop runnin’.” Like a wildfire’s been on my tail, chasin’ me down, followin’ me everywhere.

  He took hold of her, gently, his hands on her bare forearms. He thought she’d bolt or protest, but she kept staring at him with that perplexed look.

  “Doncha see?” he said. “That song ya played. Yer music . . .” There was a way out. Angela was the way out. Is that what Sarah’d meant?

  He recalled Sarah’s smile, that knowing smile. Like she’d known all along that he’d figure this out. He suddenly wondered if she was here, at the party. Surely Foster would’ve invited her. He had to talk to her. She could tell him. Tell him if there was hope for him. Any hope at all . . .

  Someone called from the house. Brett turned. The violin maker stood in the doorway, waving an arm. “Angela!” he called out. “We’re about to begin.”

  Angela met Brett’s eyes, a brief glance. He saw so much there tangled up in confusion. Judgment, desire, hurt, anger. But he had no time to untangle another knot. One at a time.

  “I—I have to go,” she said.

  He nodded and dropped his arms to his side. Her words slapped with the sting of finality. She wasn’t talking just about now. She was talking about forever.

  Desperation rose up into the back of his throat, tasting rancid. He swallowed it back down. A sense of danger and foreboding lassoed his gut. He knew he had one chance, just this one night, to convince Angela to stay. But he couldn’t try until he knew for sure he’d found a way out of the flames.

  And if he did, then he wouldn’t have to run any longer.

  Chapter 34

  Phineas Frye paced nervously behind the long rough-planked bunkhouse, throwing an occasional peek around the corner. Isaiah Cummings stood talking to Orlander back a ways under a clump of trees near a corral. Phineas couldn’t hear the two talking, but Boss was giving some instructions.

  Presently, the Mexican named Marino and Big Bill Studley came rushing over to the shadows of the eaves. Phineas figured they’d tucked the wagon out of sight after tying up the horses. When they’d arrived at the fork that split off the road to Foster’s ranch, Boss’d told ’em to circle around to the back, then meet ’em where them two punchers said.

  But the two cowboys hadn’t shown yet. Phineas worried they’d forgot. Or maybe something happened to them and they couldn’t get here. Then he reckoned it wouldn’t be hard for Boss to find out who this “Bronco” Brett Hendricks was. All he’d have to do was ask around. Phineas figured he could recognize the cowboy himself, but he didn’t want to tell Boss. Phineas was hoping he’d catch sight of the fella first, so’s to warn him about Orlander.

  He thought on that look Boss had on his face when they’d stopped in the road. Hate twisted his features into a mess of lines, and his words had been spiked with poison. He knew Orlander wouldn’t leave until Brett Hendricks was full of lead.

  Fancy music drifted on the air, along with the smells of meat and bread and pies coming from the big kitchen round back of the ranch house. His mouth watered, imagining all them platters of food. He’d eaten some jerky and hard tack when they’d set out, and that’s all he managed to grab when Boss announced it was time to go. They’d ridden hard and fast from Denver, following the fancy carriage Orlander rode in, all by himself. Miz Orlander had bowed out, said she was in no mood for a party, from what Phineas heard. She spent her days sitting by Wade’s bed and nights crying. They’d hoped Wade would have gotten better by now, but he was the same. Those legs of his weren’t never gonna work, and that was the God’s honest t
ruth.

  From around that corner, Phineas could see all the bustle, with what looked like servants coming in and out, wearing black suits, and carriages arriving, one after the other, pulling up to the front of the big house.

  A sinking feeling made Phineas slump against the siding. This was wrong, all wrong. Orlander should give the fella a chance to tell his side—not just shoot him dead.

  “Hey,” Cummings shot out in a loud whisper, waving him over with his hand. Phineas and the two other punchers went to him as Orlander, in his party duds, walked back up to the ranch house.

  “Boss is goin’ inside. We’re to wait a half hour—no longer. If’n those two cowboys don’t show, this is what he wants us to do . . .”

  Phineas listened only partly while Cummings laid out the plan. Marino, in his sombrero, nodded, his smile showing half his teeth missing. Phineas had heard tell of this Mexican with the fast draw and a heart as black as pitch. Orlander had hired him special. Studley was a bear with a cadaverous face and could beat anyone in an arm-wrestling match. The cowboy’s arms were as thick as lodge poles. He was the one Boss sent to break up fights atwixt his punchers. When anyone saw Big Bill coming, they shut right up, and fists dropped as fast as rocks skittering down a well.

  Just then, the sound of boot steps on hard ground made them all turn around.

  The cowboys they’d been waiting on were behind the bunkhouse. Their faces had lost the swell and purple from the roughing up they’d suffered, and Phineas took a good, hard look at them to fix their features in his head.

  “There ya are,” Cummings said, striding over to ’em, the rest of the group following.

  “Told ya we’d be here,” the tall, lanky fella said with a sneer. “We wanna see Hendricks get his due.”

  “But how’re ya gonna get him to come outside? Orlander wants to do this quiet—”

  “He won’t s’pect a thing,” the short one said, his beady eyes no longer swollen like plums.