His body erupted in a hot passionate need for her—a need so strong he could barely stay still on his feet. But he reined those feelings into a tight corral, then locked the gate. Keeping a polite distance from her was torment. He wanted to blurt out his love and his need, and declare his eternal devotion to her, but this wasn’t the time or place. Would he have that chance? He had to get to her, talk to her privately, before she slipped off into the night and out of his grasp.
Chapter 37
Angela picked up the bow, then positioned her beautiful violin under her chin. Violet sat in a big upholstered wingback chair by the heavy damask drapes and gave her an encouraging smile. George, behind her, closed his eyes, preparing to listen to the music about to fill the room. The eyes of dozens of people—wealthy townspeople and ranchers and cowboys—watched her expectantly. But none more so than Brett.
Angela swallowed. She knew just what to play.
Adeline nodded at her to begin, curls bouncing around her face. The room fell utterly quiet. Angela’s nervousness drifted away as she pulled the bow across the strings. Warm, rich tones spilled from her violin, like honey, saturating the room with the gentle, simple melody. George’s lips curled into a smile in immediate recognition, but Angela didn’t dare look over at Brett.
After the quintet’s last rehearsal the day before, Angela had asked George about this Scottish folk song he’d taught her. He’d pulled a book from a shelf in his library and showed her the poem that had inspired the song. It made her think of the characters in that little book George had lent her, Only a Fiddler, and particularly about Christian, who’d never seen his dreams come to fruition, and who lost his true love, Naomi. Why George had given her such a sad book to read, she didn’t know. But the story now wove into the notes she drew from the strings, and her heart ached over a lost life, a lost love, a lost chance.
The song’s lyrics were sad as well. About love’s disappointment—how, at first, love proved kind and bright and full of hope. But then it waxed cold and faded like morning dew.
The song’s words embodied all her deepest fears. They told her that if she loved another, it would only lead to disappointment. That one day she would be old, alone, and lonely, lamenting her bad choices and lost chances.
Yet, as she played, the music transcended the words, soaring above her, like a bird escaping from a raging wildfire below her.
The notes held power in them—and healing. She knew then that the power was in her hands, in her heart. She had a choice—she wasn’t bound by the words. She could escape on the wings of her music—escape the prison she’d lived in all these years. A prison of her own making.
Strangely, she felt awash with peace and an abiding sense that she could make Greeley her home. All that awaited her back in New York was disappointment, denigration, and despair. Yes, her mamá needed love and support, but she had family and community surrounding her. Her mamá needed to find her own strength to stand on her feet. If she didn’t want to tolerate her husband’s mean treatment, she would need to speak up or walk out. Angela couldn’t do that for her.
She was stung by the realization that she had been enforcing her mamá’s weakness, by cowering alongside her instead of standing up to Papá’s temper. That was her prison. And it was her choice to wallow in it or soar above it.
What had begun as a sorrowful tune now skipped around the room like water babbling brightly over rocks. The slow, dark melody had changed into a lively, uplifting, hope-inspiring jig that caused her listeners to straighten with surprised looks and begin tapping their feet.
Violet excitedly jumped out of her chair and found her flute. Soon, her high dulcet tones joined with Angela’s in delectable harmony as she stood at her side. Angela’s smile made her cheeks hurt as she bowed with the greatest enthusiasm, reveling in the way her heart kept soaring and soaring, their notes entwining and resonating layers of rich harmonics.
But it wasn’t just the music and the surprising freedom she felt that made joy fill her to overflowing. It was the look on Brett’s face as he watched her play. He was utterly transformed in her eyes.
***
Brett thought his heart had stopped. When Angela played those first notes, he froze. So many feelings tumbled like rocks inside him, he feared an avalanche would bury him. He stood, unable to move a muscle, as heard his ma’s voice singing in his head and felt the age-old guilt and anger rise in his gut. The sad, sorrowful sound of the fiddle near broke his heart. He felt as if he were far away, watching himself as he stood in the house that day he left, looking at his ma sitting at the kitchen table, tears shining on her cheeks. He recalled the hopeless feeling he’d had when he slammed the door behind him, leaving her to his pa’s abuse.
Sarah Banks’s words played again in his head, now so clear to him. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make a different choice. The fire of his shame had charred him to the core. “But you don’t have to burn in the flames. There is a way out. When a fire races across the prairie, it burns the grass to stubble. It is not a bad thing. From the ashes, new grass sprouts. New life begins. It must be.”
It must be . . . Brett understood that now. The fire served a purpose—to burn away all the ugly stuff growing like mold inside him. But at some point, the fire petered out. Rainclouds dumped water, and plants grew out of the blackened ground. A fresh start.
Then the song had changed. Angela’s face had gone from serious to practically gleeful. And with each new lively note her fiddle sang out, Brett’s spirit lifted a little higher. And soon, he felt it soar like a bird to the heavens, freer than he’d ever felt, like he’d been locked in a cage all his life, and Angela had the key.
It wasn’t just the song or the way she played her music. It was Angela’s heart. He felt it now, as if it were beating in his own chest. As if the song she played was his song—their song. A song that could smother any fire except the one he wanted to keep smoldering in his heart—this fierce love her felt for her. He never wanted to put that out, and, if truth be told, he knew nothing on God’s green earth could ever put out the love coursing through his veins right at that moment.
He had a temper—that was certain. He often acted impulsively, without thinking. He sometimes let his anger take over. He’d shot at a few fellas and punched twice that number.
But that don’t make ya a killer. It merely means ya have passion, that ya care for others. That you have love in yer heart—like yer ma had. An’ that’s not a bad thing, not somethin’ to be afraid of.
He would declare his love for Angela, and he would do whatever it took to convince her he could be her protector. He’d learned from horses how trust was something earned, something that took time. He couldn’t expect her to lose all that fear inside of a week—fear that her pa had instilled in her. It might take years, but what did he care? He would take all the time needed to win her trust. Even if it meant chasing her to New York.
Brett watched, enchanted by the truths ringing clear in his head and by Angela’s beauty. In the glow of the lamps and firelight, she was breathtaking. He let his eyes roam over every inch of her, his hunger for her gnawing at him. Her skin looked milky and smooth, and her black hair shone like obsidian rock. He thought he’d explode with all the things he wanted to tell her.
He might not have the book learning she had, and he couldn’t speak proper either, but he knew they were meant for each other. He believed with all his heart that God had saved him in the desert and brought him to Tuttle’s house so he’d meet her. So he’d hear her music. So he’d be freed of this weight he’d been dragging behind him for years. Free to love.
Brett let his mind empty and just listened as Angela played the last bouncy notes, Violet blowing her flute with gusto alongside her. When that last long note faded away, everyone in the room clapped and cheered, and the two gals gave a little bow.
Brett glanced over at Sarah Banks and caught her studying him. He got the feeling she had something more to say to him. He wasn’t sure, though
, if he wanted to hear it.
With everyone praising the two gals, like hens pouncing on a bug, Brett hung back, his heart pounding, waiting for a chance to get Angela alone. One by one, Foster’s guests drifted into other rooms, and the cowboys and some of the other men stepped outside to smoke and drink under the stars. Then Brett saw that puncher Frye looking to slip away unnoticed.
He figured the fella to be nearing forty. Punching cattle was a hard life, and not many cowboys lasted up to the age of this fella. Brett figured with all the times he himself had been thrown off a horse, been tripped up, been stepped on by a cow, slept on rock-hard ground, got bit by snakes and bugs and other critters, he’d never make it to forty on the open range.
That longing for a ranch grew bigger and more desirous with every new ache and pain. If only he could see that dream come true. If only he could provide for Angela the way he longed to. Maybe, if he stayed on with Foster, he’d eventually work up to foreman. Make enough to at least buy a little place on a piece of water.
He called Frye over. The cowboy caught Brett’s wave and headed to him.
Up close, Brett made out a scar running under Frye’s right eye. Frye rubbed his part-bald head.
“Where ya headed?” Brett asked him.
Frye shrugged. “I’ll find me a place.” He huffed. “I rode ma horse over here, but I’m guessin’ my boss took it back to Denver with the others.” He made a face. “Former boss.”
Brett noticed Foster looking his way and nodded him over. Before Brett could bring up the idea, Foster spoke in that low, big voice of his. “That took a lot o’ guts to speak out like ya did. Seein’ as you’re presently out of a job, would ya like to work for me? I’d be right proud to have a fella of your integrity in ma outfit.”
The cowboy’s face filled with a mix of relief and gratitude. “Thank you. Ya got winter work?”
“Always plenty to do round here. What c’n ya do?”
“Pretty much everythin’. My back’s not as good as it used ta be, but I c’n still work cattle out on the range.”
Foster held out his hand. “Consider yerself hired. What’s yer Christian name?”
Frye shook the boss’s hand. “Phineas. Phineas Prescott Frye.” He gave a shrug. “Jus’ call me Frye.”
Brett put out his hand for Frye to shake. “I’m in yer debt, friend.”
Frye shrugged again, the matter closed. But Brett would never forget it. “I’ll show ya around, git ya set up in the bunkhouse. But . . . uh . . . I got a few things to do afore that.”
Foster waved him off with a wink. “Go talk ta yer gal. I’ll git Frye introduced to the other cowboys.”
Brett felt his neck go red. He’s jus’ as much a matchmaker as ’is wife.
The rancher patted him hard on the shoulder. “Hurry up, now. Don’t keep ’er waitin’. Gals always want a fella to show up when they’re expected.”
Frye grinned along with Foster, then the two turned and strode over to the door leading outside, chatting amiably.
Brett looked over at Angela. She’d put her fiddle away. Violet gave her a hug, then hurried over to where Tate Roberts was standing by the fireplace, watching her with a crooked smile on his face.
Maybe love was in the air. Brett sorely hoped so.
***
“Would ya like to take a stroll under the stars?” Brett asked, his voice hesitant. If she didn’t know him better, she’d think he was shy. But she imagined that after the way she’d reacted to his kiss the other night, he was downright terrified.
She didn’t blame him. She felt such a fool, the way she’d acted. It was her fault, really. She’d been so swept up in the passion she felt for him, she’d practically ravaged him.
She giggled at her thoughts.
“What?” he asked, standing erect beside her, polite and unbearably handsome. He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaved chin. “Did I forget a spot when I shaved?”
She thought his smile would be the death of her. That smile made his hazel eyes sparkle. She saw so much in them—mirth, joy, teasing, silliness. Love.
Definitely love.
Oh my Lord, I truly am head over heels with this cowboy. Heaven help me.
“Penny for yer thoughts.”
“I think not,” she teased, hardly able to gather her wits about her. She entwined her arm around his, and his eyes opened wide in surprise. She demurely looked at him from under her lashes. “Mr. Hendricks, I’d be pleased to take a stroll with you under the stars.”
Violet and Tate stood in front of the fireplace, the flames flickering light over their clothes and faces. The two were oblivious to Angela and Brett, engaged in quiet, intimate conversation. If Violet didn’t seem to think loving a cowboy was a mistake, then maybe . . .
Brett was quiet by her side as they walked through the foyer to the front yard. The cool fall air took her breath away, and she dropped her head back to gaze at the thousands of shimmering stars that floated in the sea of night.
Brett untwined his arm from hers and let his hand slide down to grasp her fingers. His skin was warm and rough, and his hand was big and enclosed hers entirely. When he played with her fingers, a rush of heat ran through her body, and her knees grew wobbly.
“C’n ya smell it?”
She kept her gaze upward, distracted by his fingers stroking the back of her hand. His touch was oh so gentle, it tantalized her. “Smell what?” She identified the pungent fragrance of sage and other desert plants, the horses and hay. She breathed deep, relishing these scents she’d come to love—so fresh and alive. Not like the acrid and metallic odors of the city.
“Snow’s comin’. Tonight, mebbe in the mornin’.”
She looked at him. “Truly? The sky is so clear. How can you tell?”
He turned to face her, his eyes searching hers—the way he often did, as if looking for something he’d lost. Looking for her. She had been lost, but he’d found her. Found her heart.
“Honey, ya oughta know by now—we cowboys are good at predictin’. We seen enough weather to know when a storm is comin’ or rain, even a flood.”
This time when he called her honey, it sent a thrill through her. “What else can you predict?” she asked, blood rushing through her veins. She thought her heart was thumping so loud, he’d surely hear it.
Brett let go of her hand and stroked her cheek, then let his hand drop to her neck. She shivered, holding in the moan aching to slip out of her mouth. She wanted to melt into him, until they was no space between them.
“Well . . .” he said, his eyes dropping from her face down to his hand trailing along her shoulder. A muscle twitched along his sculpted jaw. “I predict some right happy times ahead for a young and purty fiddle player.”
She gasped as he put his mouth to her ear. He breathed against her, his lips trembling. But he didn’t kiss her. She didn’t dare move for fear of falling. She was already falling—falling hard. But she hoped Brett would catch her before she hit the ground.
“Is . . . is that right, Mr. Hendricks?” she said, barely squeezing the words out. “And . . . why . . . why would you predict such a happy life?”
She yearned to hear him say it. He didn’t disappoint.
“Because ya got a cowboy that loves ya. And he plans to spend the rest of his life showin’ ya just how much,” he whispered in her ear.
She pulled back and met eyes that overflowed with love. He was inches from her face, his lips almost on hers. She couldn’t utter a word, and her mouth fell open. He licked his lips as if getting ready to taste her, and she thought she would swoon. He was torturing her.
“And since . . . uh . . . this cowboy is so crazy in love with ya, do ya think it’d be all right if’n he kissed ya?” He added, “I don’t want to appear overbearin’ or demandin’.”
Angela’s heart pulsed in her throat. Somehow, she managed to answer him. “I believe I . . . I’ll allow it—just this once, mind you.” She lifted her chin and gave him a stern look, but he merely grinned and took
her head in his hands and kissed her—deeply and sweetly and gently. She collapsed into his muscular arms that enwrapped her, but just as she pressed into him for more, he pulled back.
“What?” she asked, flustered and hot, even with a biting wind nipping at her neck. Why had he stopped? She wanted to kiss him all night, even forever.
Brett raked a hand through his thick chestnut hair. “Ya said jus’ once. That was a bit more’n once.”
“Was it?” she asked, putting her hand on the back of his head and pulling him toward her. “I couldn’t tell.” Her lips landed on his, and she kissed them playfully. Brett groaned and threw back his head, his hands gliding up and down her sides. “Maybe we . . . ought to try it again. I’ll pay better attention this time,” she assured him.
Brett laughed, his lips working their way down her throat. Angela’s longing for him exploded like a wildfire, racing over her skin hot and unstoppable. But this time she let the fire rage, knowing she would come through unscathed, unburned. Just as Brett had led her through the flames at the fairgrounds. Led her to cool, soothing water. A way out of danger. To safety.
His lips came back to her mouth—hot and needy and moist. She couldn’t get enough of his mouth and his teasing tongue. After minutes of excruciating delight, he stepped back and took her hands in his.
“How was that, Miss Bellini?” he asked, his face flushed and his body taut, like a wildcat ready to pounce. The air around them pickled with electricity, just like on the day of the fire. “Did that kiss suit yer fancy?”
Angela laughed. “It suited me just fine.” She added, staring deep into those gorgeous eyes, “You suit me just fine.”
Brett’s smile widened until his whole face was alight with joy. “Angela Bellini, if ya don’t stay and marry me, I’ll come chasin’ after ya. I aim to make you ma wife.”
Angela heart soared. She couldn’t believe her ears. Or her feelings. He was asking her to marry him . . .
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 36
