Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

LeRoy walked Gennie over to the wagon and helped her back up. She picked up the reins and leaned over to give her husband a kiss. He took every advantage of the moment to get his fill, waiting until he heard his ma clear her throat again. She did an awful lot of throat clearing these days on the ranch.

  He wished Eli was coming along. They’d always delivered horses together—LeRoy couldn’t count the trips over the last ten or so years. The place still felt way too empty with him gone. Off living in Fort Collins and running a freight company. Clare about ready to pop out that baby any day now—no doubt the first of a dozen, if’n you looked at the size of her Irish family. But Eli was happy, and life was treating him well. Besides, up till recent, when Clare got too big to make the fifteen-mile trip, they’d come over for Sunday supper every week. LeRoy hoped once the baby came and Clare was back to snuff that they’d make their regular rounds again.

  He had to admit he was looking forward to being an uncle. He loved Ben—Grace and Monty’s little fella—and he did secretly wish he and Gennie would be blessed with young’uns. But she’d been bad hurt when young—harshly abused—so they reckoned she might not ever be able to bear a babe. And if that was so, they’d accept that as their lot. They had plenty of love ’tween ’em to keep ’em happy.

  With the horses all bunched together and ready to go, his ma trotted ahead and out the gate, setting the pace. LeRoy hung back on the right flank a few yards in front of the wagon. He threw Gennie a kiss and thought she looked right perky sitting on the bench holding the reins.

  The wagon’s wheels clacked along the dusty road in a soothing rhythm, and the horses trotted along, alert, with ears twitching and some tossing of heads. LeRoy didn’t expect much fuss among the group, seeing as Renegade wasn’t able to wander off to graze and get into trouble. He smiled at the orderly conduct of animals that had not all that long ago never seen a human nor had any reason to trust one. The transformation from wild to tame never ceased to astound LeRoy. It was as if, deep inside, a horse yearned for human companionship and when it was offered, gladly embraced it.

  He glanced over at Gennie in her purty calico dress—the gal who’d worn men’s clothes for years and had lived as wild and isolated a life as he’d ever seen. It had only taken a few days to get her to trust him, and that in itself was some miracle. One he’d forever cherish.

  ***

  After Angela and George had dined in the lovely café next to the Greeley Hotel, they strolled along the storefronts on Eighth Avenue on their way to meet the members of the opera board, discussing her favorite subject—repertoire.

  “When we get back, I’d like to show you some lullabies I transcribed from Schubert’s piano music,” George said. “I wrote some little duets I thought you’d enjoy playing.”

  “I love Schubert. That would be wonderful!” Angela couldn’t wait to pick up one of George’s violins and play again. All she wanted to do was play, night and day. She’d never felt so at one with the violin before, and truly understood what George had said about bonding with her instrument. She longed to hold it in her hands and pull the beautiful music from its heart. When she wasn’t playing, she felt anxious, her mind distracted with melodies, her fingers aching to move across the strings and wield the bow.

  But even as this passion rippled over her unceasingly, another passion simmered under the surface. She didn’t want to heed its call, but how could she not? Every pore in her skin, every nerve in her body, vibrated and hummed as if in resonance with another. And the more she sought to deny the yearnings she felt, the more they fought for her attention.

  It was all Brett Hendricks’s fault. He had done this to her—somehow. As if he had plucked a string inside her—a deep, rich, beautiful tone that sent her heart racing.

  From the moment she’d awoken this morning, she couldn’t push thoughts of him from her mind. Thoughts of them in embrace, their bodies hot with desire and their hands and mouths exploring the other. Her imaginings made her blush in shame, and she chastised herself for her ungodly and improper thoughts, but they ran roughshod over her. No matter what she did to push them away, like a stubborn dog, they kept coming back again and again.

  She’d hoped playing the violin and losing herself in the music would prove to be the antidote for this madness that gripped her—her own strain of “Western fever”—but playing music made it worse. In some crazy way, her yearning for Brett ignited her passionate playing, which only stoked the fires of her longing for him. She played as if possessed, carried off by the exquisite and frightening feelings emerging from the recesses of her heart. Feelings she never knew lay hidden there—so intense they were almost palpably painful.

  Would this madness never cease? She feared losing the passion, but how could she cut away the fervent desire she felt for the rough-and-tumble cowboy without destroying this precious gift of music that seemed to bleed from her heart? They seemed enmeshed, like two threads twined in a tapestry. Surely in time her inexplicable attraction to him would wane. It was childish—a fantasy. Merely her natural urges manifesting because of her encounters with Brett.

  Yet, the thought of losing these feelings—losing him—detonated a burst of panic inside her chest. She’d never felt so alive in her life and couldn’t bear the thought of losing this feeling. This glorious, tortuous feeling . . .

  “Well, if it isn’t my neighbor, the good doctor,” George said, stopping and laying a hand on Angela’s arm.

  She looked up, unaware of the blocks they’d walked. They were now in front of the mercantile, and a youthful fastidious man with short dark hair, thick eyebrows, and a smart neat beard hurried their way, an eager smile on his face. This must be Dr. Tuttle—the man Brett is staying with. She imagined he was very busy with his medical practice, for though she’d been residing in the instrument shop for nearly a week now, she’d not caught sight of him once. Her first thought was to inquire about Brett, then she chided herself once more.

  “Ah, Mr. Fisk. Just the man I wanted to see,” George said. The doctor stood a hair taller than Angela, wearing a starched white shirt tucked into loose gray trousers that only stayed up over his narrow hips by the grace of a pair of striped suspenders. She imagined he’d normally wear a proper coat and vest, though the day’s heat precluded even the thought of such attire.

  “May I introduce you to Angela Bellini? She’s recently come to Greeley to purchase one of my violins. This is Joseph Tuttle, one of Greeley’s newest physicians.”

  Dr. Tuttle gave Angela a polite little bow. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Bellini.” His eyes lit up in understanding. “Oh, so you are the one I’ve been hearing play out in the shop in the back.”

  Angela nodded. “I’m pleased to meet you as well. I hope my playing hasn’t bothered you.”

  “Oh, not in the least.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve greatly enjoyed it, as it drifts into my house late at night. A very soothing sound—to my ears, at least.” He grinned as if something tickled him.

  “Well, Joseph, how might I be of service?” George said, his face curious as he stroked his side whiskers.

  “Oh, I’ve just returned from visiting the Fosters. You remember the rancher and his wife?”

  “Oh yes, they are strong supporters of the opera, and his wife serves on their board.” He turned to Angela. “No doubt, my dear, you’ll meet her. She’s very . . . exuberant.”

  The two men shared a knowing chuckle. “Well, George,” the doctor said, “Mrs. Foster wondered if you might consider coming out to the ranch and giving her girls violin lessons—”

  George threw his hands up into the air. “Oh heavens, no.”

  Dr. Tuttle frowned, but Angela could tell he wasn’t at all surprised by George’s response.

  “I promised her I’d ask,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve faithfully discharged my duty.” He added with a warning tone, “But Adeline will be very disappointed. And surely, we need to find a way to keep the rancher’s wife happy.”

  Or w
hat? Angela wondered. She sensed this Adeline Foster had great influence in this town. Or perhaps it was her husband they meant to please. But the solution was obvious, wasn’t it?

  “I’ll teach her girls to play,” she announced.

  Both the doctor and George stared at her as if they’d forgotten the English language.

  “Ah yes, you of course would be perfectly suited for the task, but . . .” George hesitated and searched for words. “. . . let’s pay a visit before you make such an offer. Those girls are a handful. And Adeline Foster is a very exacting woman. But then, you two might just get along fine.”

  Angela frowned. “But, how would I get to this ranch? Is it far?”

  “About a half-hour’s ride from here,” the doctor said, pointing south.

  “I’d be happy to take you, but I don’t own a horse or a wagon presently,” George said. “Though, we can hire one from the livery,” he added, looking with eagerness at her, as if she’d offered to bail him out of hot water.

  “I appreciate your offer,” she told him. “But surely I can’t depend on you to take me there for every lesson. Or to pay for the wagon.”

  “Why, it would only be once or twice a week, my dear. And we could include the extraneous expenses of time and travel in your fee. I have no doubt she’ll pay whatever price you ask.”

  How hard could it be to teach two girls to play violin? Angela smiled—maybe these girls would be her first students. How long would it take—and how many students—before she saved enough money to rent a room somewhere? And could she truly trust that when her violin was finally ready, she could safely return home? Just the thought of facing her papá and seeing her injured mamá twisted her stomach into a knot.

  “I’d offer you the use of my wagon,” the doctor told George, “but you never know when an emergency might call me out of town.”

  “Of course, of course, dear Joseph. You mustn’t think of it,” George said.

  “I have an appointment in”—the doctor pulled a watch dangling from a chain attached to his trouser pocket—“ten minutes. So I’ll bid you two a good day.”

  “Of course,” George said, then as an afterthought asked, “How’s that cowboy of yours? Has his leg healed? We met him the other day.”

  Angela’s breath hitched as she waited for his response.

  “Oh,” the doctor said, turning to hurry off, “he’s left. Got a job breaking horses. He’s quite amazing to watch. Good day, George, Miss Bellini.”

  “Good day,” George said, watching the doctor go in through a door halfway down the block.

  Left? Angela felt as if she’d been kicked in the ribs. Just like that? No wondered why she hadn’t seen any sign of him these last couple of days. Her throat constricted as she pictured Brett riding a horse across the open range, the glistening mountain peaks in the distance, the lonely sounds of night owls hooting. She knew he’d return to the life he loved and the freedom that called him, but she hadn’t expected it so soon. Surely it took longer than a week to recover from a bullet wound, didn’t it?

  Well, no matter, she told herself. He was bound to leave, whether sooner or later. And, why should you care? He was probably just toying with you all along.

  His departure would only expedite her recovery from this strangling malaise she was feeling because of him. Maybe now that he was gone from her life, she could forget him—once and for all—and focus on her music. Even if thoughts of him had somehow inspired her playing, she would find a way to perform just as passionately without him as her muse. For she knew that even when men and love and dreams failed her, her music never would.

  However, this assurance did nothing to smother the persistent ache in her heart.

  Chapter 17

  By the time LeRoy and his ma drove the bunch of horses onto Foster’s ranch, a half-dozen hands had come out to the front of the big fancy house to watch their arrival. The neighs of Foster’s horses back in the pastures were answered with enthusiasm by the dusty and tired bunch he and his ma directed toward the corral.

  Behind them, Gennie rode in the wagon, and the mules huffed and snuffled as she pulled them to a stop on the gray slate driveway fronting the ranch house. He knew she’d be right cared for—offered some elaborate lunch and a pitcher of sweet tea by Foster’s talkative wife.

  LeRoy chuckled as he slid down from No’kest’a’s saddle alongside his ma and slipped the reins over the animal’s head. He wondered what Gennie would make of the rancher’s wife and hoped she didn’t retreat like a turtle inside its shell. The woman had a tendency to talk a body’s ear off, given half a chance. And LeRoy reckoned Gennie would give her that chance, polite and shy as she was around strangers. He didn’t know whether she’d ever lose that fear. Hard to think she’d stayed that shy what with being around his ma so much every day.

  LeRoy took a look-see around him. The ten geldings they’d brought were handily encouraged into the corral alongside the hay barn, where they were presently being rubbed down and watered. LeRoy smiled thinking about the new adventure awaiting the horses. They’d have a whole new bunch of brothers to meet, and LeRoy knew Foster would ensure their fair and kindly treatment.

  How they’d do out on the range driving cattle would be anyone’s guess. You never knew which horse would take to the task and which wouldn’t. But he and his ma had broken and trained this bunch so they’d be fine cutting horses. He glanced over at Renegade, who tried to take a nip out of his ma’s backside when she loosened the lead rope. He sniggered. That one might be another story.

  She gave the horse her meanest eye and said, “You want to be meat for some wolf? Jus’ keep that up.” Renegade promptly dropped his head and studied the ground as if he’d all of a sudden found a hill of ants highly entertaining.

  LeRoy chuckled again, noticing his ma had tied Ehase’o—the brood mare—to a nearby fence post. He understood why she’d not wanted the mare in the pen with all the other geldings. But he still had no clue why she’d brought the horse in the first place. She’d raved about that mare for weeks, saying what a calm and steady spirit she had. Just what was his ma up to?

  After she unsaddled O’asé, she eased him into the corral to join the other horses. Then she turned and cast her eyes around the ranch, clearly looking for something.

  LeRoy went over to her, brushing dirt off his trousers. A few hands were working in the hay barn, loading up a wagon. Then LeRoy saw Logan Foster come around the back of the house toward them, a big grin on his face. The rancher came over and nodded hello, sticking his thumbs under that big shiny silver buckle of his.

  “Sarah, that’s a fine-lookin’ bunch y’all brought over. I never have to worry none about any of the horses I buy from y’all. I won’t buy from any other.”

  LeRoy’s ma smiled and pulled her hat off her head. Her silver-streaked black braids fell over her shoulders and shone in the afternoon sunlight.

  “I’m pleased to sell these’ns to you,” she told him. “Jus’ one a bit ornery, but nothin’ your cowboys can’t handle. He’ll be handy for roundin’ up the drags. Good for him to eat a little dust now and then.”

  Foster laughed along with her. Then his gaze caught on the little brood mare tied to the fence. His smiled turned curious. “What do we have here?” He walked over to Ehase’o and looked her up and down. “That’s some fine pinto mare ya got there—mighty fine conformation. What’s her name?”

  “Ho’ehase’o’o,” she said. “Cheyenne for Fire Starter.”

  LeRoy noticed how his ma wasn’t paying the fella any mind. Her gaze kept sweeping the ranch with narrowed eyes and bunched-up brows.

  “Well, I’ll be pleased to have her. I’ve got one particular stallion I’ve a mind to breed her to—”

  LeRoy’s ma turned suddenly and stared at Foster. The man cocked his head and smoothed out his thick silvery mustache as he stared back.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That mare’s not for you,” she said, plain as day.

  LeRoy sc
ratched his chin and pushed his hair back over his ears. Then why’d she bring the mare along? For exercise? It made no sense. But, much of what his ma did and said made little sense at first. Later was another story.

  Although Foster flinched at Ma’s rebuke, the rancher knew LeRoy’s ma well enough to know when it was time to stop asking questions and just wait. Folks did an awful lot of waiting around her.

  “That one,” she said, finally, pointing to a cowboy closing a gate to one of the far pastures. A horse nickered at him as he set the latch, and the fella stroked the animal’s head. He seemed ordinary enough, LeRoy thought, not recognizing him and guessing he was new to Foster’s outfit.

  “The cowboy yonder?” Foster asked, his face scrunched in puzzlement. “He jes joined up yesterday.” LeRoy watched as the cowboy strode over to the corral and climbed up on the railing to look at the horses they’d brought that were lazing in the warm sun.

  His ma nodded. “I want him to have Ehase’o.”

  Foster’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it. Without another word, LeRoy’s ma made a beeline for the cowboy.

  “Why she wanna give that buster a horse—and such a fine one at that? She know the fella?”

  “I don’t reckon she does,” LeRoy said, surely as befuddled as the rancher. “But there’s no explainin’ her ways.”

  Foster nodded. “Your ma’s highly regarded around here. Hands down, y’all have the best horse ranch in all of Colorado and further parts.” He turned thoughtful and lowered his voice. “When Dunnigan and Woodson and them were killed, I know a lot of ranchers got in a huff, and there was a lot of talk—some pretty nasty.” He shook his head. “Still a lot of hatred t’ward the Red Man. But I knew y’all must’ve had your reasons. Then when the sheriff explained how they’d ambushed ya at your ranch and set your horse barn afire . . .” His words dropped off, and he stared at the cowboy on the fence. “I’m jes glad y’all weren’t hurt—your horses neither. I didn’t know Dunnigan well, but I’d heard things. You can’t help hearin’, what with punchers moving from ranch to ranch. It was despicable the way they was tryin’ to force y’all off your ranch. Your ma’s a strong woman, and you should be proud o’ her.”