Before coming out West, she’d decided she’d probably never marry. What man would marry a woman who wanted more than anything to play music? A fear tickled her neck.
“If I marry you, Brett Hendricks, would you expect me to give up my music? Relegate me to the kitchen to cook?”
“Relegate? What’s that?” His face held a stricken look. “I would never want ya ta give up yer music. That’s who ya are. You gotta chase yer dreams. Ain’t it yer dream ta play on the big stage, in the big city? In front of hundreds o’ folks?”
“It is. Was,” she said, wrapping her arms around her chest, feeling suddenly cold. Would she be giving up her dream if she married Brett and stayed in Colorado? Couldn’t she make hers a Colorado Dream and find joy in playing for a few appreciative people? She knew her dream had been fashioned more from a need to be loved and approved than from a desire for fame and recognition. It was a flawed dream, a mistaken dream. This—this cowboy—was her real dream come true.
She reached up and rested a hand on Brett’s cheek. He turned and kissed her hand, taking it in his own.
“I don’t want ya to give up yer dream,” he said, clearly meaning every word. She was amazed. She never thought she’d hear any man say such a thing to her.
“What about a family? Do you want children?” she asked him.
He blinked. “I . . . I never thought that far ahead. I didn’t reckon I’d ever find a gal ta love. I wasn’t expectin’ to fall for ya, Angela. I didn’t mean to. But I couldn’t help myself.”
She laughed at his serious explanation. Before she could respond, he said quickly, “If’n ya want kids, that’s fine by me. I’d like ta wait until I saved some money afore we married, so’s I could buy ya a house. But if’n ya don’t want kids—If ya jus’ wanna play your fid—yer violin—then I’d be jus’ as happy. Ya got a gift. Ya cain’t give that up—never. It’d be wrong.”
His sincerity was undeniable, his affection genuine. How could she doubt him? How could she say no to a man who loved her truly and deeply for who she was? Her music had brought them together, healed both their hearts, entwined them in love. No, she couldn’t see him ever demanding that she give up playing. Her songs were his songs.
“So,” he said, shifting nervously on his feet, squeezing her hands. “Ya got an answer fer me?”
She couldn’t help but smile. His face, even in the half-moon’s light, was flushed red. He looked like a schoolboy waiting miserably to learn if he’d flunked a test. She’d put him out of his misery.
“Yes,” she said, waiting for him to respond.
“Yes, you’ll marry me?”
She nodded, a laugh bursting out at his shock.
He rubbed his jaw. “Well, I’ll be . . .” He shook his head. “I . . . I plum run outta words ta say how I feel.”
Angela took his hands and draped his arms around her neck. “Then just kiss me, Brett. Like you mean it this time.”
He laughed—a big hearty laugh. Then he said, “With pleasure, honey. A whole lot of pleasure.”
His sparkling eyes danced in the moonlight as he pulled her tight against him and kissed her, feeling his love pour into her like a roaring waterfall. She had no doubt he meant it.
Chapter 38
Adeline tapped a spoon against her glass as she stood at the end of the long trestle table, the chandelier overhead flickering with a dozen tiny flames that made the crystal glasses and china plates sparkle. The dining room was replete with decorations for the Thanksgiving holiday: chains of large orange and yellow maple leaves draped the walls, and a large overflowing horn of plenty sat on a table in the corner, filled with colorful gourds and dried sunflowers and nuts.
A cheery fire snapped and crackled in the hearth, adding to the warmth and glow at this joyous occasion. Angela couldn’t imagine being any happier than she felt at this moment.
The eyes of Adeline’s twenty elegantly dressed guests gave her full attention, and Angela listened as her hostess and friend cleared her throat.
“My dear, honored guests. I am sooo overjoyed to have you join Logan and me, and our precious girls”—she tipped her head at Madeline and Clementine, who sat poised and mannerly in their beautiful chiffon dresses, their hair coiffed in curls and looking so much like their mother—“to celebrate the end of harvest and to give thanks to the Lord for all our many blessings . . .”
As Adeline gushed about all the things she was grateful for, Angela set eyes on her gorgeous fiancé, who looked itchy and uncomfortable in his three-piece wool suit. He’d complained earlier in the day that he wished he didn’t have to dress up, when she saw him by the barn, getting ready to wash up for the extravagant dinner Adeline was preparing. But ever since the disastrous birthday party more than a month ago, Adeline was determined to make this Thanksgiving party the most memorable in her family’s—and perhaps the West’s—history. So Brett was willing to suffer for a good cause.
It seemed the rancher’s wife would get her wish. Surrounded by close friends and family, Adeline beamed as she spoke, the intoxicating aroma of turkey and yams and freshly baked bread steaming from the imported chafing dishes covering nearly every inch of the table.
Brett sat, listening attentively to his hostess, looking every bit the gentleman—as did Tate Roberts and Mack Lambert. A stranger would never know these men were cowboys who spent more time in the saddle than on the ground, slept on a blanket in thunderstorms on the dirt, or risked their lives day in and out to move thousands of temperamental, dangerous animals across hundreds of miles of perilous desert.
Since she’d come to Colorado, her impression of cowboys had greatly changed. She’d thought such men slackers, unprincipled, uncouth, and disrespectful. But since she’d come to know well Logan Foster and some of his “punchers,” as he referred to them, she realized how wrong she’d been. Now she understood why George had so highly praised and defended the life of a cowboy when she’d first arrived in Greeley. She’d been shocked by his words, for she had just met the abrasive and cocky Brett Hendricks, and he embodied—or so it had seemed—everything she loathed in a man. How wrong she been with that first impression.
Brett must have felt her eyes upon him, for he turned ever so slightly and snagged her gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting into a grin. Every time he smiled at her, a delightful warmth spread over her, like a comforting blanket. As she passed her days at the ranch, teaching the girls violin and Italian cooking, while waiting eagerly for her Christmas wedding, she and Brett strolled along the river in the evenings, after he finished his ranch work. Sometimes he took her riding—often putting her up on Kotoo, his beautiful mare, instead of Nicker. Brett had assured her it was too late in the season to worry about rattlesnakes, but he indulged her by keeping their rides confined to the cool, damp banks of the river, where crisp fall breezes puckered the surface of water and shimmering blue dragonflies hovered over clumps of cattails.
And when Angela wasn’t busy helping around the ranch house, Adeline engaged her relentlessly in the planning of her wedding, as if Angela were her own daughter about to be wed. Though Brett had expressed hope that they could have a small ceremony, with just a handful of friends, Adeline wouldn’t hear of it. But Brett good-naturedly shrugged when Adeline dragged him and Angela into the parlor to lay out her strategy for an unprecedented Christmas wedding that would be the talk of Colorado. How could they so disappoint the woman who had played a hand in bringing the two of them together?
Adeline insisted on hiring her favorite seamstress, who lived in Fort Collins—a young woman named Grace Cunningham—to make Angela’s wedding dress, and the two of them had taken a day trip, accompanied by Brett and Tate and Violet, to the sweet little town nestled along the Cache la Poudre River. Angela had taken an instant liking to Grace and had been surprised to learn she and her husband, Monty, were close friends with LeRoy Banks and his family.
Her eyes lighted on LeRoy and Gennie. No one could miss the love that passed between the two. She looked around
the table—at George, Sarah Banks, Dr. Tuttle, the ladies from the opera board, Violet, Clem and Maddy, and a dozen other friends of the Fosters. Angela felt so at home, so content. She couldn’t wait to introduce her mamá and aunt and sisters to these wonderful, special people. Perhaps when they came out for the wedding, they’d consider staying and making a life in Colorado.
She planned to do all she could to convince them, which included introducing her mamá to a few Italian transplants who’d come from Mulberry Bend and were now living in Greeley. With her papá and brother now living in Italy, with no plans to return to America, there was no reason for her family to stay in New York—not reason enough, Angela thought. Here, her family could create a new life, a new dream—just as she had done.
Her aunt had hinted at Papa’s reason for leaving New York. He could no longer hold his head up in a community that whispered about his mistreatment of his family. Many in Mulberry Bend had witnessed him pushing Mamá down the El Train stairs. The thought of never seeing her papá again saddened her only a little—mostly for what had never been rather than what she’d lost. Would he someday feel remorse for all the hurt he’d meted out to his family? She didn’t know, but she hoped so. While forgiveness was difficult to summon, she knew in time she’d find it in her heart to forgive her papá. She needed to—to come to peace with her past.
Adeline turned to her husband after finishing her long oratory and asked him to say grace. When the amens died out around the table, the guests chatted boisterously as they passed the platters around and dug into the food, which was delectable and beautifully prepared by a staff of cooks. Angela, though, had slipped into the kitchen earlier in the day to prepare a special Italian holiday dessert—a new favorite of George’s.
“Well, this is a lovely dinner,” George said, at her side. “Much less . . . exciting than Logan’s birthday party.” He added with a smile and nudge, “Though, I’d go through all that mayhem again just to hear you play that piece the way you did that evening. Exquisite, simply exquisite. You played as if the melody welled up from the very depth of your soul.”
“You chose the right violin for me,” she told him. “I’ll cherish it forever.” And the fact that he’d hardly charged her half of what it was worth. When she’d protested, he would hear none of it. Her heart swelled with affection for the sweet violin maker. If not for him, she would never have come to Greeley—or stayed long enough to fall in love with a cowboy.
He smiled and slathered butter on a chunk of dark bread. “And I’ll get to hear you play it for years to come. I can’t tell you, my dear, how happy I am that you’ll be staying in Greeley. You will stay, won’t you?”
“I don’t know where we’ll end up. Brett plans to keep working for Mr. Foster, but we can’t stay on the ranch forever.”
George’s face hinted at a secret. Angela knew him too well.
“What?” she asked. “Is there something you know that you’re not telling me?”
“Have you tasted this bread?” he said, changing the subject. “It’s . . .”
Logan Foster got to his feet, and the guests quieted and gave him full attention. “I have a few happy announcements I’d like ta share with y’all. Brett, Angela—would ya come ’ere for a moment?”
Angela exchanged a curious look with Brett. Whatever Mr. Foster planned to say seemed to be a surprise to him as well. Angela supposed the rancher intended to share the news of their upcoming wedding with those guests who hadn’t yet heard.
Brett got up from his chair and walked to the end of the table, where he took Angela’s hand in his when she came up beside him. Her heart beat fast as he squeezed her fingers and whispered softly in her ear, “I love ya, Angela.”
He never seemed to grow tired of saying those words to her, and she never tired of hearing them. He was just as amazed that they’d fallen in love as she was. Funny though—none of their friends seemed amazed at all. They expressed the sentiment that the two of them were more than well suited—they were a match in every way.
Logan Foster cleared his throat and stroked his trim moustache, looking at Brett and Angela. “It always brings me—’n’ the missus—great joy to see young folks fall in love. Life in the West is no picnic—unless o’ course yer talkin’ ’bout one beset by ants ’n’ wildfire.” That earned him a few chuckles. “With what-all we face out here in Colorado—blizzards ’n’ droughts ’n’ locusts ’n’ floods ’n’ such—without someone to love ya by yer side, standin’ faithfully with ya, keepin’ ya warm nights—well, it makes it a rough road. Love has a way o’ smoothin’ it out. And it’s my hope ’n’ deep desire that you two will enjoy many years o’ love and happiness—”
“And have lots of children,” George chimed, eliciting a smattering of lighthearted laughter.
“So,” Logan continued, his brows furrowing in seriousness, “while the missus and I have enjoyed havin’ ya both here at the ranch, ya won’t be here much longer. We’ll miss ya, but we hope ya won’t forgit us.”
In the silence that ensured at his strange pronouncement, Angela looked at Brett. His face showed the same confusion she felt—but worse. He looked upset. Surely Mr. Foster wasn’t firing him.
“Logan, don’t torment the poor lovebirds!” Adeline said, tugging at his coat. His serious expression then turned mischievous, and Adeline smacked his arm with her fan.
Logan laid a hand on Brett’s shoulder, giving him a big smile as he pulled an envelope from his vest pocket.
“I told you a while back that I’d pay you ’n’ Roberts fightin’ wages for helpin’ stop them rustlers.” He nodded his head at Tate. “Already done paid yer pal there. This here’s your share.”
He handed the envelope to Brett, who took it with a look of gratitude. “But there’s somethin’ more in there.”
Brett waited for Logan to say more, but the rancher gestured for Brett to open the envelope. As he did so, Logan looked at the guests at his table, who hung on his words.
“Horace Orlander—the owner o’ the Flying Y Ranch—sent a letter of apology for his . . . behavior at ma birthday party. I know y’all feel as bad as I do ’bout his son, Wade. He loves his son dearly, and because of . . . a misunderstandin’, he acted as he did. I cain’t blame ’im fer what he did. I know what it’s like to love a child so much it nearly breaks yer heart.” He looked at his two girls, who were paying more attention to the bubbling pies being set on the table than their father’s words. “And in a show of quality, Horace wanted ta give Brett a little somethin’ in compensation. Fer the trouble he caused. And to thank Brett for teachin’ ’im a lesson in honor.” He looked at Brett. “It takes a heap o’ courage to stand up and do right. Not tolerate bad behavior. It takes a man, a real cowboy, ta do what ya done, Brett. Ya deserve this.”
Angela choked up at hearing the rancher’s words. Brett looked stunned as he stood, unmoving, the envelope fisted in his hand. He turned to Angela, and she urged him with her eyes to open it.
***
Orlander sent an apology? Brett flashed on his pa, who was rotting in a Texas jail, trying to imagine hearing an apology come from those lips. He reckoned that was something he’d never hear. Even though Orlander had tried to kill him, Brett understood his rage and need for revenge. The fella’d just been misinformed, that’s all. The rancher was probably decent, all in all, his only failing in loving his son too much. That sure beat a pa that loved his son not at all.
Brett figured he’d read Orlander’s letter later. He wasn’t all that good with the written word, and all of Foster’s guests were looking at him. It made him twitchy, and what with being trussed up like a turkey in this suit, his feet were halfway out the door ahead of him. But he’d be rude if he didn’t comply with Foster’s request.
He opened the envelope and saw a bunch of money pinned together, a fifty-dollar bill on the outside. Brett gulped. Just that one bill was more than a month’s wages. He fished out the piece of paper behind the money.
At first, when he unfo
lded the slip of paper, he was perplexed. It wasn’t a letter. It was a ledger of some kind, with some numbers on it. The heading at the top said, “Bank of Denver City.” Then it hit him. He’d seen the like before. His pa used to get these slips after brokering the cattle to the shipping yards. It was a bank check, signed by someone at the bottom and stamped with an official-looking seal. His eyes locked on the amount. He wasn’t sure what all those zeros meant, but it was a whole lot of money. His money?
He looked at Foster, whose big grin answered him. “Enough there ta buy yerself that ranch. I cain’t think of no one better to break and train horses than you, Hendricks. Sarah Banks knows of a place ya might like ta buy. Talk ta her.”
Brett’s head swam. A ranch? His ranch? He looked down at the slip of paper again. Blood thumped in his ears, and he swallowed back the raw emotion seeking to undo him. A warm hand took his, and he turned and saw Angela’s face—his angel. Her eyes regarded him with love and pride. He never imagined, in any of his dreams for his life, that he’d be standing next to such a fetching, amazing gal—one soon to be his wife. And that he’d have enough money to buy that ranch. To raise horses and train them and sell them. And to build a fine house—a house where he and Angela could happily live out their days on the Front Range. He’d been fretting so, about how he’d be able to make a life with her. Now . . .
His heart swelled with gratitude. Gratitude for so many things. He’d felt so lost and alone for so long. He’d thought if he kept running, he’d someday stop hurting. Stop feeling the guilt and the shame for his past. But he’d been wrong, oh so wrong. Running wasn’t the answer. He’d needed to go through the fire and let it burn him to cinders. That was the only way he could start over. A new beginning, Sarah Banks had said. “It’s not a bad thing,” she’d added.
A grin spread across his face. No, not a bad thing at all.
He drew Angela into his arms, and she laid her head on his shoulder, her soft cheek against his skin, wet. He pulled back and saw tears glistening in her eyes. But they were tears of joy. The only kind of tears he ever wanted to see trickle down those rosy cheeks.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 37
