Music played in his head—Angela’s sweet fiddling. He hoped she’d play for him every night. Music that would heal their hearts and wrap them up in joy. She’d been worried that he’d want her to quit playing. But he was flabbergasted to hear it. “You could no more quit playin’ yer fiddle than I could quit breakin’ broncos.” He was glad to hear she’d joined the Greeley Orchestra. He pictured sitting in the audience with her up on a stage, looking up adoringly at her as she enchanted one and all with her playing—like she’d done the night of Foster’s birthday party. He’d be nothing but proud.
Chairs scraped and guests got to their feet. Roberts and Violet came up to him and Angela. His pal shook his hand, grinning. “I happy fer ya, Brett. I bet one day yer horse ranch’ll be famous the world over.”
Brett chuckled. Others came over to congratulate him and Angela. He shared a few words and laughs with Lambert, noting the big cowboy wasn’t wearing that same troublesome suit that had made him late for the last dinner party. Doc Tuttle practically talked Brett’s ear off with all his excitement over their getting hitched. Brett could hardly keep up with all the well-wishing and pleasantries thrown at him.
As the guests left the dining room and Miz Foster’s servants began clearing the table, Sarah Banks came up to them. She gave Angela a hug and a big toothy smile, then looked deep into Brett’s eyes. He felt a mite squirmy, hoping she wasn’t about to hint at some new danger soon to vex him. But she eased his mind.
“When Lucas Rawlings met Emma,” she said, glancing back and forth between him and Angela, “he wasn’t sure if his feelin’s were true. If he could risk hurtin’ his heart again. Risk lovin’ another woman.” She grunted, a smile on her face like she was remembering back over the years. “I told him what I want to tell you. ‘When two people are meant for each other, their hearts will sing together. The sky will embrace them, and the stars will shine ever brighter.’ When I look at ya two, I hear your heart song, beating loud like a drum. I hear music stronger than any Indian medicine. Music that heals. Music that speaks.”
She turned and looked directly at Angela, whose mouth had dropped open—that mouth that Brett couldn’t seem to stop kissing at every chance. “Listen to it, to the music, Angela. Let it heal your heart. Let this cowboy”—she poked Brett in the side—“love ya. For he surely will, to the end of his days.”
Angela sighed with a tremble that Brett felt through his own chest.
Then Sarah Banks looked at Brett and said, “I’m glad you aim to start a horse ranch. My old, tired bones are complainin’ more an’ more ever’ day. Eli’s up and married, living in Fort Collins. LeRoy and Gennie are helpin’ with the horses, but they won’t stay forever. I been hopin’ someone—the right someone—might go chasin’ down those wild herds so’s I don’t have to. When ya find some time, after the wedding, I’d like to show ya some land I know about. A perfect spread, just south of Greeley, east, along part of the Platte. Has a pretty little house on it already. The owners up and left for Oregon last month. LeRoy and I can teach ya all ya need to know about breeding and selling horses. Bustin’ them?—ya do that better’n anyone in the territory.” She winked and said, “But I can teach you a few Cheyenne tricks I bet ya don’t know.”
Brett shook his head, feeling overwhelmed. Every secret dream he’d held close to his heart was coming true. A whole avalanche of blessings he didn’t deserve. “I’d be much obliged fer any help ya c’n give me. Any advice.”
Sarah chucked—a big hearty chuckle. “Best advice? Love your gal with all your heart, an’ do right by ’er. The rest’ll fall in place, like pebbles settlin’ to the bottom of a still pond.”
Brett pulled Angela close, his arm around her waist. He gave her a squeeze, and she squealed and pushed at him playfully. “That’s jus’ what I plan to do, Miz Banks. Thank you—for everythin’.”
Sarah merely nodded, turned, and went to join LeRoy and Gennie by the warming fire, leaving Brett alone with Angela. Conversation drifted to his ears as he took her hand and led her out of the dining room and over to a quiet, dark corner of the big living room. Brett stopped in front of the large glass window that looked out over the prairie. The night spread like a black blanket punched with holes that firelight peeked through. So many feelings clogged his throat, he couldn’t think of a thing to say. But Angela didn’t seem to need any words from him. She looked up at him, her eyes moist with tears, her lips curled up in that smile he loved to see.
What else could he do but kiss her?
***
Angela drowned in Brett’s kiss, then resurfaced, catching her breath as if she’d been underwater for an eternity. And that’s how she felt, in a way. That she’d been drowning, flailing in a tumultuous sea, with no sight of land. She’d longed for love, and when it didn’t seem possible she’d ever find it, she’d buried herself in her music. Music became her solace, her closest companion. Music comforted her, cheered her, healed her heart. Where words failed, music spoke.
And her music had spoken to Brett—it had drawn him to her, like a moth to flame. But instead of burning him, they’d burned together in these coals they couldn’t escape. Coals that incinerated their fears and pain and hurt. What Sarah Banks said was so true—their hearts sang together. Together they would create a new song, many songs. Songs of love and promise. Songs of comfort and joy.
She and Brett would see all their dreams come true. All their Colorado Dreams.
Angela threw her arms around Brett’s neck, and to her surprise, he swung her around and swooped her up into his arms. She exploded in laughter as he carried her to the door leading to the wide and wild outdoors—the desert prairie that spread out for endless miles in all directions. A place that had once frightened her but now she could call home.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, giggling as she looked into his eyes so full of love and playfulness.
“I ain’t got a clue.” He stopped and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Will ya trust me?”
She gave him his answer—a long, deep kiss that left her head swooning and yearning for more.
The End
Note from the Author
Many thanks, once again, to Peggy Ford, director of the Greeley Museum. She spent hours with my husband and me last year, telling us stories of Greeley’s past, about the founding colonists and some of the colorful people who played interesting roles in the history of this town. The museum’s exhibit featured history on a violin maker named George Fisk. Many of the facts of his life come alive in Colorado Dream, and his story was the spark for my novel. When I heard how people came from all over the world to buy a violin from the “Stradivarius of the West,” I instantly imagined a young woman in the East, who longed to play in a symphony but lacked both a proper instrument and the support of her family.
Then, while my husband and I were having dinner in the downtown area—where thirty years ago he’d once played jazz gigs while attending UNC, we met a cowboy who was world famous for breaking wild horses. As he told us his tale, I pictured my young violin player meeting a wild cowboy on the run, with a wild, untamable heart. I thought of how soothing music can be, and then pictured this cowboy always restless, yearning for peace but unable to find it—until he heard her play the violin.
And that’s how Colorado Dream began to form. While the rest of the characters in the novel—except the colorful Annie Green (who penned the song lyrics noted at the beginning of Colorado Promise)—are figments of my imagination, I did my best to capture the type of people who lived in Greeley in those days.
After our visit to Greeley, we then drove north to Laramie, and while visiting this unique town with a strange history, we took the tour of the Wyoming Territorial Prison. When I learned that women also were incarcerated there, and that more than 25% of the prisoners escaped, I had an avalanche of ideas for future books.
So next year, watch for the release of the next books in The Front Range Series, set in Laramie, Wyoming.
I pored through
more than a dozen books on the lives of cowboys and the early days of cattle ranching in order to bring color and accuracy to my novel. Some of the events, characters, and even dialogue have been borrowed faithfully from accounts by punchers that lived in the 1870s. I feel it’s my duty to not only tell a wonderful, engaging story but to also be as historically accurate as I can. And while fiction writers use license to expand on the truth or even fabricate outright fantasy, I do my best to convey the flavor and description of Colorado in the 1870s to the best of my ability. Any errors in accuracy are mine—either through lack of knowledge or deliberate tampering.
I’m ever grateful to all my fans for their support, wonderful comments and reviews, and encouraging words. If you enjoy my novels, please tell your friends, leave reviews on Amazon, and join my Street Team! If you join my mailing list, you’ll get free books and sneak peeks. You can even suggest characters and plots for me to include in future novels! I write for you!
~ Charlene Whitman, October 2016
About the Author
Charlene Whitman spent many years living on Colorado’s Front Range. She grew up riding and raising horses, and loves to read, write, and hike the mountains. She attended Colorado State University in Fort Collins as an English major. She has two daughters and is married to George "Dix" Whitman, her love of thirty years.
If you enjoyed this book . . . One of the nicest ways to say “thank you” to an author is to leave a favorable review online. I would be appreciative if you would take a moment to do so! Thanks so much! Leave your Amazon review here.
Comments? Questions? I love hearing from my readers, so feel free to contact me via my Facebook page: Charlene Whitman, Author, or e-mail me at [email protected].
If you’ve missed the first novel in The Front Range Series, Colorado Promise, get your Kindle copy HERE.
Don’t miss Colorado Hope—the second book in The Front Range Series
You can purchase Colorado Hope for Kindle HERE.
Be sure to join Charlene Whitman’s readers’ list to get free books, special offers, giveaways, and sneak peeks of chapters and covers. JOIN HERE!
Here’s a sneak peek at Wild Secret, Wild Longing—a long novella that tells the story of LeRoy finding love in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains …
Wild Secret, Wild Longing
Chapter 1
October 7, 1876
Bright laughter tumbled through the heavy oak doors behind LeRoy Banks as he shouldered his way out of the stiflingly warm lodge. A cool breeze tickled his face, and the sweat on his brow swiftly dried as he stood in the late afternoon glare of sunlight that splattered golden patches across the brown grass of the pastures sprawling up into the foothills west of Whitcomb’s ranch.
He walked over to the hitching post, undoing the top buttons of his stiffly starched white shirt, and breathed like a man freed of chains. But it wasn’t just the collar that had been constricting his throat. He knew that for a fact, but what he didn’t know was how to sort through the feelings rippling through his heart.
He wasn’t one to take a deep dive into such things, but this uneasiness tugged on him with the relentlessness of a green horse fixing to break through a makeshift pen. It made his feet twitchy.
His gaze came to rest on the herd of horses grazing lazily afar, and he listened to the comforting snuffling and flicks of their tails. Blankets of droning insects shimmered in the light, and heavy dark clouds sagged over the peaks of the mountains, whispering of snow.
Horses, he knew. A wild, terrified mustang confined within fences for the first time in his life LeRoy understood. One look into the eyes of a wild creature displaced and fearful of his future and LeRoy knew just what the animal was feeling. And he knew exactly what to do to help the horse work through that fear and come to trust. Not just trust, either, but also to find his joyful place living among his two-legged brothers.
LeRoy let loose a sigh and gripped the splintered railing, thinking of his brother, Eli, and the way his eyes had shone like crystals as he recited his vows to his new bride, Clare McKay. LeRoy’s heart beat in happiness for Eli, and as he’d stood by his brother’s side and watched them be pronounced man and wife by the preacher, he couldn’t recall a happier moment in his life. But as the exuberant pair stepped down from the festooned platform to be congratulated by the dozens of guests, LeRoy had felt a strange and disturbing sadness threaten to dampen his joy.
Why this sadness in the midst of such a happy occasion? LeRoy wished he knew.
The loud eruption of fiddle music caused him to swivel back around.
“There you are,” Eli said, waving at LeRoy, Clare hanging on his arm like a new permanent appendage. LeRoy chuckled as they pushed the doors wide and strode over to him. Eli, all dressed up in such finery, with his boots polished to a spit-shine that almost hurt LeRoy’s eyes—he was quite a sight. LeRoy doubted he’d ever see his younger brother in attire like this ever again. With his wheat-straw hair slicked back and his face scrubbed and shaved nearly raw, Eli reminded LeRoy of a newly shorn sheep—one that wouldn’t stay all clean and purty for long.
“What’re ya doin’ outside? We’re about to start dancin’,” Clare chided him, narrowing her eyes playfully at him. “And ya did promise me you’d do a reel with me.”
“That I did,” LeRoy said, giving Clare a smile that acknowledged she’d caught her quarry. He marveled at the intricate beadwork along the neckline of her floor-length wedding dress—tiny creamy pearls. Now that he had a chance to see the bride up close, he noted the hand-stitching rivaled anything he’d seen in the Cheyenne ceremonial garb his ma kept in her cedar chest.
“Grace make you that dress?”
Clare beamed and sashayed from side to side, making the layers of petticoats flounce against her dainty little shoes. Shoes like nothing feisty Clare McKay ever wore. She and Eli sure looked like porcelain dolls, all gussied up like that. They shoulda listened to his suggestion to get married on their horses, all roped and tied up, like they’d just lassoed each other. They hadn’t much liked his idea, go figure.
Clare bounced on her toes, her face alight with joy. “She did. Just like she promised. Made it exactly like the picture too. She’s some amazin’ seamstress.”
LeRoy merely nodded. Eli punched his shoulder. “Maybe she’ll make one for your bride someday.”
A laugh caught in LeRoy’s throat. He pushed words past it. “Don’t hold your breath, Brother. I ain’t fixin’ to get hitched anytime soon.”
“Why not?” Clare asked. She pursed her lips and stared LeRoy down.
“My, you’re being personal, Mrs. Banks,” Eli said, his eyes dancing with mirth despite the scowl on his face. “My brother’s just waitin’ for the right woman to come along. Ain’t that right, LeRoy?”
Clare rolled her eyes. “Huh. We’ll be waitin’ until the snow melts atop the Rockies,” she said, her tone chastising. “I introduced you to Shannon—ya didn’t like her?” she asked LeRoy with a raised eyebrow. “She’s every bit as good a rider as I am. Well, nearly—”
Eli playfully tugged Clare’s arm, tipping his head at the lodge. “Clare, leave him be. Your sister ain’t but sixteen. That makes LeRoy nearly ten years older.”
“So? What’s wrong with that?” She frowned at Eli, who tugged her a few steps toward the doors. Music drifted to their ears—a rousing tune of fiddles, bass, and washboard, and the accompanying stomping of dozens of boots on the wood-plank floorboards.
“Honey, don’t you wanna dance?” Eli asked her. “All the guests are gonna be wonderin’ where we went—”
“Oh, let ’em wonder.” She turned and pinned her eyes on LeRoy. “I’m serious, LeRoy. You need a wife. It’ll do ya some good.”
The laugh that had snagged in LeRoy’s chest now burst out. He shook his head. “Clare, I do love you. You’re . . . something.”
“Somethin’ else, for sure,” Eli said, giving LeRoy a surrendering shrug and that crooked smile of his.
“And I l
ove ya too, LeRoy,” Clare told him, finally giving in to Eli’s urging and letting herself be dragged toward the doors. She waggled a finger at him with a giggle. “But I won’t brook rude behavior at my wedding. So c’mon back inside and give me that dance ya promised.”
“Will do, ma’am,” LeRoy said, touching the brim of his hat, still chuckling as Eli pulled his beautiful headstrong wife back inside Whitcomb’s lodge.
He caught a glimpse of his ma through the open doors of the big log house, her dark braided hair shining under all the many flickering Chinese lanterns strung along the rafters. She was chatting with Lucas Rawlings—LeRoy’s closest friend—but she suddenly turned and saw LeRoy, and fell silent upon seeing him.
LeRoy grunted. As if he could hide his inner turmoil from a Cheyenne medicine woman who knew him better than he knew hisself.
He had a sudden urge to head over to the bunkhouse to find a piece of quiet. He’d been living this past month among Whitcomb’s ranch hands, helping the rich rancher break the wild mustangs he and Eli had run down the mountain that day they’d gone after those two outlaws—the last of the Dutton gang. What a day that had been—cornering that varmint Wymore after he shot dead Monty’s lying snake of a wife, and watching him get trampled underfoot by the stampeding herd. Finding the other outlaw nearly dead, the cabin ablaze. Monty gone after Grace, who’d fallen with her baby off the cliff.
LeRoy shook his head and blew out a breath. That had been more’n enough excitement to last out the year. He was grateful for the predictable daily routine of working the horses, and although he considered Whitcomb’s men plenty amicable, he tended to keep to hisself. It took some adjusting—living with a dozen men in one room, with all their snores and stench. Some were plenty rough around the edges, and a few took issue with LeRoy’s Indian blood and made snide remarks, but Whitcomb brooked neither drunkenness nor tomfoolerly, and so any scuffling and contentions were soon snuffed out.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 38
