Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Angela saw the Indian woman nod at Brett. He stood tall and looked directly at Mr. Foster. Violet mumbled beside her. “I don’t believe a word of it.” Angela turned and saw the angry expression on Violet’s face. She whispered to Angela, “A man who risks his life to save strangers from a fire isn’t the kind to go around shooting at folks for no reason.”

  Violet seemed about to say more, working up into a speech, but Brett started speaking. Violet clamped shut her mouth and noticed Tate Roberts smiling over at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she lowered her eyes. Angela could almost see the electricity spark between the two.

  Violet’s words spun like wheels in Angela’s head. Brett was an enigma. Her papá was a selfish, mean, insensitive man. He never showed the kindness and sacrifice Brett showed again and again. Nor the tenderness and humility that often slipped out of Brett at the most unexpected times. Wasn’t there a difference—between a man who cared not at all about the women he hurt and a man who struggled with his temper but whose heart was soft?

  Brett’s voice pulled her attention to his face. His jaw was set, and his eyes were dark even in the light of the many bright lanterns hanging from the rafters.

  He cleared his throat. “After the contest, I was headin’ to fetch my horse at the barn. That’s when I saw yer son.” He chewed his lip, then continued, his voice strong and sure. “He was attemptin’ to rape a young Mexican gal—”

  Orlander threw his hands up and yelled, “Liar! You’re makin’ this up!”

  “Hear ’im out!” Mr. Foster demanded, blocking the other man with his arm, to keep him from jumping on Brett. Brett stood, unflustered, unblinking. “Go on, son,” Foster told him.

  “I . . . uh . . . interrupted yer son. Well, I punched ’im—I’ll admit it. But he had it comin’.”

  Mr. Orlander’s face was nearly purple with rage. Mr. Foster grabbed the rancher, who started to lunge at Brett. Angela thought Orlander might drop dead of a heart attack right where he stood.

  “I helped the gal get away, and then fetched ma horse. But then I saw yer kid and his pals runnin’ after me, yellin’. So I took off, and they soon chased after me.”

  Mr. Orlander was shaking his head in a furious manner. George made a noise of irritation. His sympathetic gaze told her he believed Brett’s story and didn’t like the angry rancher one bit.

  “I rode hard, headin’ north, but a fierce wind kicked up. I couldn’t see for all the dust, but I heard ’em ridin’ after me. When they caught up, I stopped. They tol’ me to git down off ma horse, and they held their guns on me. So I got down.” He looked Mr. Orlander in the eye. “But jus’ as I made to git off ma horse, yer kid shot me in the leg.”

  Orlander screeched. “I heard enough!” He got up into Brett’s face, Mr. Foster trying unsuccessfully to pull him back. “You’re a lyin’ son of a snake, and I’ll see ya dead—”

  “He’s tellin’ the truth. The whole truth!”

  Everyone turned at the sound of the loud, gravelly voice coming from an alcove off to Angela’s left. A large balding man in a long brown coat came striding toward the center of the room, a deep frown etched on his bearded face.

  “Frye!” Mr. Orlander said in a growl. “What do ya think you’re doin’, ya stinkin’ traitor? Ya just ’bout got Cummings killed. And mebbe ya did. I don’t see him anywheres.”

  Just then a young skinny cowboy no more than sixteen came through the kitchen door, dragging a short, fat cowboy with a dark-red beard and bushy brows behind him at the end of a rope. The man’s hands were tied behind him, and he looked angry enough to strangle someone.

  “Is this who you’re lookin’ fer?” the young man asked in a high, squeaky voice.

  “Cummings!” Orlander said, his visage one of utter disappointment and chastisement.

  “Them two—they were the ones chased me, along with yer kid,” Brett told Orlander. But he studied the one called Frye. No doubt Brett, like everyone else in the room, was wondering why the man was speaking up on Brett’s behalf.

  Frye stopped in front of Orlander, blocking him from Brett. “I didn’t speak up—on account o’ Wade being hurt like he was. But I’m speakin’ up now, Boss. This here buster—he did right. Yer son”—he sucked in a breath and straightened tall—“is a piece o’ dirt. More times’n I c’n count, he’s taken advantage of defenseless women.” He scowled at the other cowboy called Cummings. “I tried to look t’other way. But it’s wrong—there ain’t no two ways ’bout it. ’N’ while I ’preciate my job and all the consideration ya shown me all these years, I cain’t, in good conscience before the Good Lord, keep ma trap shut no longer.” He took in a deep breath and added. “That’s the God’s honest truth.”

  He looked over with sheepish eyes at Brett. “I’m sorry, Hendricks. I shoulda tol’ Boss the truth. I feared for my job. ’N’ that weren’t right o’ me. I shoulda spoke up years ago, when that kid started in on his bad behavior. Maybe a good whippin’ woulda taught ’im a lesson and spared some o’ those women he mistreated.”

  Orlander stood aghast, his mouth open wide, like a fish out of water. He looked at the other cowboy, whose twisted features attested to the truth of Mr. Frye’s words.

  But Angela was also aghast. Like the rancher, she’d been quick to judge Brett, to believe he’d so easily shot a man. But he was the one who’d been shot. Dr. Tuttle had found Brett nearly dead and nursed him back to health. She felt ashamed for jumping to conclusions, for letting her fear turn Brett into her papá. He’s nothing like Papá.

  Her heart ached with love for Brett as he stood there, a grateful smile on his face as he listened to Mr. Frye talk.

  “An’ it weren’t this fella here that shot first. After Wade shot ’im in the leg, he got back on ’is horse. The dust was so thick, ya couldn’t see a derned thing. Hendricks fired off a couple o’ blind shots—so’s he could git away—an’ I’d’a done the same. One o’ them bullets grazed Wade’s horse, and it reared up and tossed ’im into some rocks. That’s how come he hurt ’is back.”

  Orlander snorted air out of his nose like a horse, but Angela noted the defeat on his features. In a strange way, she felt sorry for him. How awful it must have been for him to hear the truth about his son. But that in no way excused his violent actions.

  Her shoulders slumped in relief as Foster’s cowboys took Orlander’s three gunmen in hand, after getting them to their feet, and escorted them out the double doors that led to the foyer. No doubt Mr. Foster would inform the sheriff of what had transpired.

  Logan Foster put his arm around Brett and said something to him, a smile on his face. Brett’s knotted features softened at his words, and he cast a glance at Angela that made her body shiver. It was a look of love so tender and needy, so utterly reckless with desire, she could hardly take a breath.

  Her urgent need to flee Colorado and this wild Western town melted like snow under a hot sun. Brett’s need and the adoration in his eyes for her was like that sun—hot, oppressive, relentless.

  Seeing the way Brett stood up to that rancher—proud of the way he’d protected that woman—swept away the last shreds of fear she had for this rough-and-tumble cowboy. She knew now, with a certainty, that she would always be safe in his arms.

  ***

  Logan Foster patted Brett on the back. “I hope you’ll stay on with ma outfit, son. You’re a fine buster—the best I ever seen—and a man o’ honor. I see a big future for ya with the Foster Cattle Company.”

  Brett felt warm all over as the rancher’s words sank deep inside him—words he’d always wished his pa would’ve said to him but never had. All those hateful feelings he’d carried for his pa melted away under Foster’s proud and approving gaze. He reckoned then and there that some men weren’t deserving of respect—they never earn none. And scoundrels like his pa could never be happy because they only lived to please themselves. Brett expected that as his pa rotted in jail, the scalawag only had himself to blame for his miserable life. His pa was to be pitied, not hated.


  Brett looked over at Roberts, who smiled back, a grin that stretched the limits of his cheeks. Brett wasn’t sure whether that smile was prompted by Brett slipping from the Devil’s grasp or Violet’s quick thinking with that hard fiddle case that had saved Roberts’s life. Or both.

  Just then, Brett caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  Orlander leapt at Roberts, and before the cowboy could react, the rancher snatched the pistol from Roberts’s dangling hand, knocking him off-kilter.

  Orlander spun, roaring in rage, swinging the gun around to face Brett, only a few feet from his face.

  Brett froze, feeling Foster stiffen beside him. His mouth soured as his stomach flopped, his eyes locked on Orlander’s thumb cocking the trigger.

  Foster tried to push Brett aside in a flash of desperation, but Brett grabbed the rancher and swung him behind him, blocking him from the bullet about to come his way.

  Just as Orlander made to fire, a blast of gunpowder erupted by Brett’s ear. Orlander yowled as the gun he gripped flew like a startled bird out of his hand. Blood squirted from the hand Orlander cradled as he dropped hard to his knees. The pistol slapped the floorboards and slid a dozen feet to a stop at the fiddle-maker’s shiny black shoes. Fisk stared at it as if it were a dead rat.

  All eyes swiveled around to see Archie Halloran—the kid who couldn’t hit a cow in the middle of a stampede—holding Brett’s own long-barreled Colt, smoke twirling from the muzzle. Archie’s hand shook like a dried-up leaf clinging to a tree in a gusty wind, his eyes as wide as saucers.

  Roberts took Orlander by the arm and yanked him to his feet. The rancher stood, hunched over, hugging his shot hand to his chest, blood soaking into his starched white shirt, a dark-red bloom spreading across his chest. The fella’s face was pale and stricken with a look Brett couldn’t suss out. It almost looked like remorse.

  Foster seethed, his face almost purple with rage. But instead of chewing out Orlander, he turned and walked over to Archie, shaking his head. With his thumb and pointer finger, he plucked the Colt out of Archie’s hand—all eyes fixed in shock upon the tenderfoot who had just saved Brett’s life—especially the punchers, who knew Archie’s lack of aptitude for hitting a target.

  Foster gave the kid a nod of approval, a grin tugging at the sides of his mouth, before he turned back to deal with Orlander. Brett shook his head, still unable to believe what’d just happened.

  “Archie, I’m astonished at how you managed t’ knock that gun outta Orlander’s hand,” Brett said, patting the shook-up tenderfoot on the shoulder. “Not many cowboys c’n hit a mark like that on a quick draw.”

  Archie’s face turned blotchy with embarrassment. “I . . . I was aimin’ fer ’is chest.”

  The downtrodden look on Archie’s face made Brett chuckle. The other cowboys in the room burst out laughing and called out Archie’s name with whoops and hollers. Archie’s eyes lit up with a crooked grin. The kid sure had gumption.

  Brett looked around him at Foster’s disheveled guests and the tore-up room. The whole crowd of about fifty had relieved smiles on their faces, but the one that grabbed his attention was Sarah Banks’s. She nodded her head thoughtfully at him, then her eyes fixed on something behind him. Brett turned and saw Mack Lambert stomping into the room, his thick black hair flying and a look of utter confusion on his face. Foster’s foreman stopped short and took in the room, ill at ease in his fancy suit, the coat looking like it pinched his massive shoulders.

  “What in tarnation happened here? I thought y’all were havin’ a party, not a saloon brawl.”

  Foster grunted good-naturedly. “If’n ya’d got here on time, ya wouldn’t’a missed all the fun.”

  Lambert snorted. He muttered beside Brett, “I couldn’t find a suit that fit.” He lifted his head and called over to Foster. “Reckon I didn’t need t’ go t’ all that trouble gettin’ dressed in all this fumadiddle fer yer party after all.” He added, “I shore hope y’all saved me some food.”

  Laughter rippled across the room again. Brett looked over at Angela. Her face gleamed like an angel’s. All he wanted in that moment was to pull her into her arms. But her smile gave him hope that he just might get that chance—another chance.

  An old woman in a big blue dress that hardly restrained her ample bosom was wrapping Orlander’s hand as he sat on the polished pine floor. Tate hovered close by, but it was clear all the steam had gone out of the rancher. Funny, Brett didn’t feel any malice toward him. Just a peculiar sense of sadness. The fella loved his son—that counted for something. For a lot, in Brett’s book. His own pa wouldn’t have cared a whit if Brett had got hurt.

  The rancher looked up at Brett, his eyes teary. Then the rich and successful owner of the Flying Y Cattle Company broke apart. Loud sobs burst from his chest, and as he shook up and down, his head dropped into his hands, the room got deathly quiet—a kind of respectful silence.

  Lambert sidled up to Brett with a puzzled look on his face. “Ain’t that Horace Orlander?” When Brett nodded, his eyes glued on the rancher, stunned at seeing the man cry, Lambert whistled low. “Last time I’ll be late for a party—you c’n be sure o’ that.”

  “I understand this is yours,” Foster said, coming up to Brett and holding out the gun, his features quiet and solemn. “I’m s’prised ya trusted that tenderfoot, but he shore proved his mettle tonight.”

  Lambert’s eyes went wide. “What? That green kid did somethin’ heroic? Won’t no one tell me what’s goin’ on?”

  Foster said, “I gotta go find Adeline. I’m sure she’s crying in her pillow over all this mess.” His serious expression turned amused. “I doubt she’ll believe me when I tell ’er this was the best birthday I ever had—but it’s the God’s honest truth.” He laid a hand on Brett’s shoulder. “You c’n fill ’im in—but first, tell ever’one to gather in the parlor yonder. I reckon folks could use a stiff drink—or some coffee, if’n whiskey ain’t their fancy.”

  Brett gave a nod, and Foster hurried out of the room. Angela came over to Brett, and while he ached to hold her, there was something pressing on his heart. He asked Angela if she and Violet would herd the guests into the parlor, and maybe ask the folks in the kitchen—if they’d come back—to fix some coffee.

  “I gotta do somethin’ first,” he told her, when she questioned him with her eyes. “I’ll be in presently.” She nodded, those smiling lips beckoning him, but then she turned and set about the task.

  Brett heaved a sigh and coaxed his feet to move. A heaviness sat on his shoulders—maybe from all the fighting and gunplay. Or maybe because some of Orlander’s sadness triggered so much of his own. He imagined the rancher was suffering from regrets—something Brett knew plenty about. And then some.

  Tate Roberts was leading Orlander out of the room, three other punchers flanking him, like they’d rounded up a calf that had torn away from the bunch and were now dragging it back to the pen.

  “Hold up,” Brett said. Roberts and the others stopped. Orlander’s narrowed eyes locked on Brett’s. The fella looked weary and defeated, as if all the life had seeped out of him.

  Brett faced Orlander, but kept out of arm’s reach—just for good measure. He cleared his throat, and Brett saw a barely perceptible flinch on Orlander’s face.

  “I jus’ want to say I’m sorry ’bout yer son. It was never my intention to hurt him bad. I only wanted to help the gal git free. An’, I s’pose, teach Wade a lesson.” He recalled that was the name Foster’d mentioned. “As far as I’m concerned, the matter’s over. Jus’ go home and love yer son.”

  His words hung in the air between them. A long shaky breath slipped from the rancher’s mouth. “I’m the one shoulda taught ’im his lessons. I knew he . . . was a domineerin’, headstrong boy. It’s my fault.”

  Tears filled the wells of the rancher’s eyes. The other punchers stood, unmoving. Roberts watched Brett, his grip loosening on Orlander’s arm.

  “I . . . I’m sorry, Hend
ricks. Right sorry. An’ I’m much obliged for your kindness.” The rancher’s voice was rough with emotion, and he swiped an arm across his eyes.

  Brett glanced down the hall, through the foyer to the open front doors. Some of Foster’s cowboys aimed pistols at Orlander’s three accomplices, who stood on the steps with their hands tied behind them.

  Brett looked at Orlander. “If’n ya promise to take those scoundrels with ya and keep ’em outta trouble, we’ll untie ’em and let ’em go.”

  Orlander nodded. Brett looked at Roberts, who gave him a grin of approval, then left the cowboys to go find Angela.

  When he walked into the big parlor, Miz Foster was there, rushing around like a mother hen, pouring coffee into cups from a big silver pot. Two of the servant gals passed out slices of cake on little white plates. The ladies took up the chairs, and more had been brought into the room. The male folk stood crowded behind the ladies, drinking coffee and whiskey and talking quietly. Sarah Banks and LeRoy and his gal stood by the hearth, and a newly lit fire crackled and spit as flames danced, throwing a warm glow of light onto all the faces. Angela stood by a table, opening up her fiddle case.

  Miz Foster gave a little speech, chattering faster than a chickadee being chased by a fox, waving a fan, her round face looking hot and flustered. Foster and his cowboys gathered in the wide doorway, and Brett caught sight of Orlander’s puncher, Frye, hanging back behind them. A cowboy with no place to go.

  Brett had been there plenty of times. And he’s afoot cuz of you.

  Then Miz Foster said, “I’ve asked Angela Bellini to play us something on her violin”—she threw a Brett a sly-looking smile—“to help . . . ameliorate the night’s tumultuous and unexpected turn of events . . .”

  Amelio-what? Brett shook his head, chuckling to himself, his eyes trained on Angela. A strand of long hair had slipped from her head and tickled her ear. He wanted to push it back and run his fingers down her cheek, feel her tremble in his arms again the way she’d done the other night.