Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  But no, that longing of Brett’s that she’d seen—it wasn’t lust. She didn’t know why she was so certain, but it made her think of the subtle differences in timbre in the violins she’d played. You could bow the same note on the same string on a dozen violins, and somehow each had a tiny variance in tone. Underneath the note lay the undertone, and often hidden even deeper were hints of harmonics. Angela understood that when a string resonated in just the right way, it would produce beautiful higher harmonic tones, adding richness to the sound.

  When she thought of Brett, it was as if she sensed those rich overtones that resonated somewhere deep inside her—tones only she heard and felt.

  She smirked at the silliness of her thoughts. He was hardly a violin to be played. But oh, wouldn’t it be sweet to hold him in her arms and let her fingers play over his skin?

  A shiver ran up her spine in the heat of the late morning. She again chided herself for her fascination with the footloose cowboy. Mere girlish fantasies. She imagined plenty of women romanticized falling in love with some wandering cowboy. The allure of a wild, untamable man was fine for a daydream, but in the harsh light of reality, such a man offered nothing but fleeting thrills and lasting heartache.

  She had no doubt Brett Hendricks was trouble. Trouble seemed to chase after him wherever he went. And she had no interest in bringing more trouble into her life. She had a dream to chase down.

  Chapter 14

  Brett, standing outside the fence, studied the pinto that the two wranglers had directed into the corral. A crowd of about ten cowboys gathered around, clambering onto the fence or leaning their elbows on railings, glad for a break in their workday and grinning at the prospect of seeing who they reckoned was some fool trying to prove his mettle.

  Not a few jeered and hollered at Brett as he stood there, but he paid them no mind. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to break a horse with folks watching—and hoping he’d be kicked seven ways to Sunday. A lot of cowboys took an evil delight in seeing a newcomer to their outfit suffer humiliation. Well, Brett had every intention of disappointing ’em.

  He reckoned the horse was four, maybe five—an unusually stocky build for an Injun pony, heavier than average by at least two hundred pounds, lacking the typical long barrel, ewe neck, and light quarters of his breed. A powerful beast for his inches.

  Brett climbed over the fence and jumped down into the pen, facing the snorting horse, his lariat in hand. With a gentle swing, the rope landed on the animal’s neck, and the captive began surging on the noose tightening around its throat. The pinto then snorted and reared, paddling his forelegs in an attempt to strike Brett. But Brett kept working the horse around the pen, talking softly, while the beast kept charging and retreating, mouth open and teeth bared.

  Brett lost track of time, and the effort nearly wore him out, considering his recent ordeal and too many days’ bedrest. But he was determined not to show any weakness, though his shot leg began to throb something fierce. Presently, he worked up the rope hand over hand until, while dodging the horse’s strikes, he succeeded in slipping a half-hitch over his nose. There followed another long tussle before he could approach the horse, but when he again got within arm’s reach, he rested his palm on the animal’s nose and lightly rubbed it.

  The horse stood, astonished and wary at the tender touch and absence of harsh yelling or brutal treatment so many of these outlaws experienced. Brett knew right away that Foster’s wranglers had lit hard into this poor animal, thus compounding the fear and mistrust it felt toward humans.

  Brett then worked the half-hitch in his rope so that it encircled both forefeet, and with a hard yank, he dropped the pinto to the ground in a huff of dust. The horse squirmed and kicked as Brett lit on him, and soon he had the thrashing hind hooves safely half-hitched and all four bound in a hog-tie.

  He pushed the shouts and cheers and jeers of the cowboys out of his head, as if they were the sound of distant water babbling in a creek, then sat on the pinto’s side. He gestured over at the saddle sitting on the fence railing, and the redheaded fella with eager eyes who Foster had called Roberts—the one who’d taken hold of the three riders’ spent mounts—rushed over, scurried over the fence, and hefted the saddle with a bridle thrown over its seat. The fella cautiously set the saddle down behind Brett, keeping distance from the struggling legs trying to break free of the restraints. Brett tossed him a smile of thanks as the fella backed away but stayed within reach should Brett need further help.

  In moments, Brett had the pinto saddled and bridled, then he stood astride the horse and tucked his boot into the left stirrup. Quickly he seized the reins in one hand while with the other released the bound feet. The horse rose under him with Brett firmly in the saddle and bogged his head between his forelegs, then he started coming apart.

  The violent bucking that would have unseated most fellas was only a matter of course for Brett. Twenty minutes of frenzied horse pitching wore out both horse and rider, with the beast repeatedly trying to bite him on the legs and falling backward to get shed of his load.

  But Brett hung on, and when the pinto’s flanks started quivering, and the horse could hardly keep standing, Brett stroked his neck and started up with the breaking patter he always used to wear down the last of a horse’s resistance. Then he clicked his tongue against his teeth, touched the horse’s flanks with his spurs, and the pinto took a few hesitant steps.

  The nervous ears drooped lazily, and the resentful muscles relaxed under Brett’s legs.

  The thrill rushed through him as he sat straight and with a calm expression walked the pinto around the corral, giving him his head after a time, which allowed the pinto to toss his mane and snort, voicing his many complaints the way an old biddy might to the other old ladies in her knitting circle.

  “I know, I know,” Brett said, chuckling and patting the horse’s neck. “It’s a hard life, but it’ll only get easier for ya from here on out.”

  One of the cowboys leaning over the fence called out, “Well, I’ll be. If that don’t beat th’ Comanches. I’d never believed there was ’airy a puncher ’tween Texas an’ Canidy could bridle an’ saddle Rebel thataway without fightin’ him all over a five-acre lot.”

  Logan Foster, who’d watched the whole thing from atop a table under a willow not yards from the corral, came over and entered the corral through the gate. Brett walked the horse right up to Foster, who laid a hand on the horse’s nose, shaking his head as he studied the animal’s now pacified demeanor. The pinto that had liked to kill Brett moments ago now looked bored and thought of nothing more than dozing lazily in the warm afternoon sun.

  A man years older than most in the crowd called over to the rancher, “Boss, do you allow it’s loco or sense an’ sand the kid’s sufferin’ from most?”

  The rest of the cowboys laughed, and most, shaking their heads in disbelief, jumped down from the fence rails and went back to work, the afternoon’s entertainment over. As Brett’d expected, not a few showed a twinge of disappointment. But the redheaded fella caught Brett’s eyes, nodded, and smiled wide at him.

  “I never seen anyone do that—sit astride like that with the horse hog-tied—and not use a blindfold,” Foster told him, still stroking the horse’s nose. Brett slipped off the saddle, then lifted the reins over the pinto’s ears and handed them to the rancher.

  “I think you’ll find him agreeable from here on out.” The horse raised sleepy eyes and hardly paid Foster any mind, tired out from his cranky behavior.

  Foster smiled with a grin that showed all his teeth. “And you can have him on your string, when you head out to camp, during the roundup.”

  Brett grinned back. He had a good feeling about Logan Foster. He seemed to deal an honest hand, and, from what Brett could tell, his punchers and wranglers liked and respected him. “I’m appreciatin’ of yer kindness.”

  “Go get your rig, then. Roberts’ll show you to the bunkhouse and get you settled in.” He cocked his head at the fell
a, who was opening the gate for ’em.

  Brett counted in his head. It’d been ten days since he’d fled from Orlander’s men after winning those bronc-buster events. He’d nearly died, but now he’d been given another chance at life. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but he thanked the good Lord for the recent events that led him here. He was back in the saddle, doing what he loved, free and unencumbered.

  As Brett followed Foster and the docile pinto out through the gate, he spotted Tuttle off to the side, smiling and shaking his head. Brett went over to him.

  “I’m impressed, Brett. I don’t know how you managed to stay on that devil’s back. And I have to admit, I worried about your stamina. How is your leg feeling?”

  “No worse for wear,” Brett replied, glad the throbbing had eased. If he could get through half an hour of that kind of grueling affliction, he reckoned he could manage a full day’s work. It would be some weeks before he’d have to sit in the saddle sixteen hours straight for days on end in the roundup. By then he’d have his strength full back.

  Brett imagined the thought of sleeping in a bunkhouse with a bunch of smelly cowpunchers wasn’t something that appealed to a man like Doc Tuttle, but Brett knew he’d feel more at home there than in that purty little room with those lace curtains. He was grateful for the doc’s hospitality, and he’d make sure to thank him sincerely, for he owed the fella his life.

  As he walked with Tuttle to go fetch his wagon, Brett’s excitement waned, and an empty feeling grew in the pit of his gut. His thoughts drifted to Angela and the way the tears had smeared those striking brown eyes when she talked about her pa.

  A sudden longing to hold her seized him, and it startled him with its ferocity. Like a wild weed entangling his heart, it seemed to squeeze the breath out of him. But there was nothing for it, no lovely waist to pull her to him so he could kiss away those tears. She was in Greeley, and he was here on Foster’s ranch, miles away. Angela Bellini would be on a train in a few days’ time and out of his life forever. You gotta stop thinkin’ about her, Cowboy. It’ll only make your heart hurt.

  He looked around at the thousands of acres of open range off in the distance, the pinks of dust sketched like chalk against the big bowl of sky. A coyote howled afar, and the smell of rice and beans and cooked pork wafted on the air. His mouth watered, and his stomach growled. He was peckish and thirsty, but those needs paled compared to the gnawing hunger he felt for Angela. How long would it take for him to forget her—for the painful ache to leave for good?

  Well, it’d better not take too long. You got ridin’ to do and a life to live—one that doesn’t include a woman.

  ***

  “Where’d ya learn how to do that?” Foster asked Brett as they stood near the fountain, waiting for the wagon to be brought around.

  Brett shrugged. “I’ve always had a way with horses, Mr. Foster.”

  Foster’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Well, I’m impressed, young man. You’ll be a fine asset to my outfit.” He nodded at Tuttle. “Sarah Banks should see this kid work.”

  Tuttle chuckled. “If she does, she’ll want to steal him from you.”

  Foster laughed. Brett wondered who this Sarah Banks was, but he kept quiet.

  “My foreman, Mack Lambert, and most of the punchers should be back tomorrow. That’ll give ya time to get situated in the bunkhouse. Tate Roberts—the redheaded cowboy yonder—will show you around and tell you how things are run on the ranch. I expect all my hands to work hard, and I don’t brook fighting or bickering. I pay forty dollars a month. You’ll get three squares, and drinkin’s your own business after hours. But I’ll toss any puncher on his ear if I catch him drinkin’ on the job. Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” Brett said without hesitation. The rancher’s rules were the same as any other’s, but Brett knew there were always some hands that snuck a flask into their saddlebag and tucked into it from time to time. He didn’t see no harm in it so long as they did their job proper.

  The thought of a shot of smooth whiskey set his mouth watering. He’d been two weeks without a drink, and he wondered if this fella Roberts had any in the bunkhouse. A drink or two late at night helped him relax and get to sleep, and the way his thoughts kept circling back to Angela Bellini, he figured he was going to need something to get his mind off her.

  A kid about fifteen rode the wagon over, then yanked the mules to a stop and hopped out. Brett walked around to the back of the flat bed and pulled out his saddle and bags and bedroll and set them on the slate rock. The blankets looked squeaky clean, and he figured they’d be a bit itchy until they were washed a few times. He stood, feeling restless and wanting to get to work. Foster must’ve noticed his twitchiness.

  “If’n you want to, after lunch you c’n round up some of those mestengo broncs in the pasture yonder and work with ’em in the corral. Rusty should be around somewhere—he’s one of my busters. I’ll have him join you.”

  Brett nodded, feeling that tickle of eager anticipation at spending the day breaking broncs. He couldn’t think of anything he liked doing better—other than enjoying the affections of a purty gal. Though, there was only one gal roping in his thoughts presently, making him forget every lovely face he’d ever laid eyes on. Every time he thought of Angela, he felt a sour ache in his chest, as if he’d been punched. Why’d he let himself get smitten with a gal he could never have? She must have bespelled him with that fiddle—that’s all he could think of to explain why he couldn’t shake her from his head. Well, work was the best cure for a lonely heart.

  Brett turned at the sound of the front doors blowing open. Foster and Tuttle, engaging in quiet discourse between them, spun around. A lady who looked to be about busting out of her seams in a pale-green silky gown with a half-dozen rustling petticoats flounced down the steps and came over to them. Her hair was a mass of whiskey-colored curls pinned to her head, and she oozed elegance and money. Brett knew without an introduction that this was the rancher’s much-younger wife. Her cheeks had a pink powder on them, and she’d painted up her eyelashes so they were long and thick. But in a tasteful way—not like some saloon gal.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you before you left,” the woman said with a Southern drawl to Doc Tuttle. Foster seemed to want to roll his eyes, but he merely smiled and introduced his wife to Brett. Her name was Adeline, and she gave him a polite hello before turning back to Tuttle with a breathy sigh.

  “Joseph, darling,” she said, laying a gloved hand on his arm. Tuttle smiled at her, and Brett pictured Miz Foster slipping on the ice and her skirts flying into her face. He held back a chuckle. “You live next door to that violin teacher, is that so?”

  Tuttle’s lips pursed together. “I’m not sure Mr. Fisk teaches violin. He builds them; they’re purported to be some of the finest instruments made in the country.”

  Adeline nodded, flipped open a fan, and waved it vigorously at her face. “Well, my girls were given violins from their aunt in Savannah for their birthdays.”

  At this, Logan Foster did roll his eyes. Brett could only imagine the screechy sounds two girls with fiddles might fill a house with.

  “I’d very much like to have Mr. Fisk come to the ranch and teach Clementine and Madeline how to play. They didn’t do well with Mrs. Green. She . . . lacked the patience.”

  Brett guessed from the look on the rancher’s face that he wished his girls never got those fiddles. He reckoned it took a whole lot of years of diligent practicing to play the way Angela did. The sweet sounds of Angela’s music drifted into his head.

  Tuttle nodded respectfully, fully attentive to Miz Foster.

  “Would you please ask him to pay a call, as soon as possible?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Foster. I’ll do that.”

  She clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, thank you so much, Joseph. Will you and . . .” She looked at Brett as if seeing him for the first time. Her eyes took in the length of him, and she smiled approvingly. Brett felt a little hot under the collar and kept his eyes
cast down. He felt like a calf on the auction block.

  “Brett Hendricks, ma’am,” he said when he realized she’d already forgotten his name.

  “Yes,” she replied, her words bubbly as she flicked her fan faster and turned back to the doctor. “Will you and Mr. Hendricks join us for lunch?”

  Brett smiled, but inside he cringed. Last thing he wanted was to sit down at some fancy table and try to figure out which fork he was s’posed to use for what food. Thankfully, Tuttle shook his head.

  “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Foster. But I have to get back to my practice.” He gave a slight bow, then shook the rancher’s hand. “I’m glad Brett will be working for you. I’ll be sure to give Mr. Fisk your message.”

  Adeline nodded her thanks and flounced back up the steps. Brett heard a girl’s shrill voice coming from the second story. Then he heard something crash to the floor.

  Brett looked over at Foster, who hardly flinched at the sound. He shrugged and said, “Those girls fight like alley cats.” His face glowed with adoration for his young’uns. “They got a lot of spunk. Like their mother.” He said this to Tuttle, as if looking to the doctor to agree.

  Foster added, “When’re ya goin’ to nab yourself a wife, Joseph?”

  “Ah, don’t you start in on me. Adeline is always trying to fix me up with one of her friends.”

  Foster gave a playful frown. “It ain’t good for a man to be alone.”

  Tuttle waggled his head like a guilty dog that had stolen a hunk of meat off the counter. “In due time,” he said. “When I find the right woman.” He added, “They’re not always easy to come by.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Foster said, grinning and slapping the doctor on the back. “I’m a lucky fella to have found Adeline.”