Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Yet, how could she stay in a place like Greeley? A tiny town with few residents, and a small opera house and community orchestra? How could her aspirations to perform magnificent music on a stage before hundreds of appreciative listeners ever be satisfied? But you don’t know if any symphony will hire you. Maybe your dreams are too big, too unreasonable. She swallowed back the rising fear and frustration. But I have to try. If I give up now, I’ll regret it.

  For the first time since she’d heard Miss Pappenheim play all those years ago, Angela was riddled with doubt. Maybe it wasn’t the big stage in a crowded city that was calling to her. Maybe it was the big open sky of the unspoiled, uncrowded West that tugged at her heart. What mattered most? Playing on stage for accolades or playing under the heavens with a heart full of gratitude for the gift of music? What if the reason she had so longed to play for the philharmonic came from her need for approval—for the praise and love and adoration she’d never gotten from the one person she needed it from—her papá?

  The thought shook her to her core. She knew in that moment, as Adeline stopped in front of a door at the top of the second-story landing, that, up until now, her aching need for approval was what had driven her to play. Only when she played for George, on his beautiful instruments—away from the pressures and problems of home—had music flowed unfettered from her heart. If she wanted to be the caliber of musician she longed to be, she couldn’t allow guilt or hurt or fear to contaminate the wellspring of her inspiration. But how could she ever purge those feelings from her soul? Was it even possible? If so, how?

  “Here we are, darling. You’ll find everything you need to freshen up,” Adeline said, gesturing Angela into a boudoir that featured a claw-foot tub with copper pipes coming from the wall and a dressing table displaying brushes and combs and pins for her hair. Thick white towels sat folded on a side table in the prettily wallpapered room. “All the hot water you desire—just with a turn of a knob.” Adeline gave Angela a big smile. “Listen for the dinner bell in a half hour, then come downstairs when you’re ready.”

  Before Angela had a chance to thank Adeline, the rancher’s wife had already taken George by the arm and was leading him down the hall, speaking quietly to him in a patter of words that sounded like a susurrant melody to her ears. Maybe soaking in a hot bath would dissolve the thoughts troubling her heart.

  ***

  Hoot owls called one to the other as Brett walked Kotoo through a patch of squishy marsh weeds not far from the bank of the river. A full moon sat on the edge of the world, fat and blotchy, lifting into the night like a heavy balloon. The searing September heat of the day slipped into the cool sheath of evening, and a light wind tickled at his ears. Ever since that Cheyenne woman gave him the mare yesterday afternoon, he’d felt wobbly—like his saddle was loose. But it was more than that. He couldn’t get shed of that picture of Angela, with her head trickling blood, out of his thoughts.

  You didn’t hit her, he kept telling himself. But maybe the vision he’d seen meant that he would. That the rage and temper he tried to keep in check would detonate—just as he feared.

  He told himself for the millionth time that this was why he had to forge ahead in life alone, not let his heart get pulled into loving a gal—any gal. But the force of that current, that need, was surely strong and abiding. He’d have to fight that current, like a salmon thrashing upstream, against the powerful forces of nature—to make it. The prospect of a loveless life was sorely unbearable, but he’d just have to buck up. He could no sooner get the wild out of his soul than he could get the wild out of this mare he was riding. It was a fact of nature.

  He sighed and patted the mare’s shoulder and ruffled her mane. She tossed her head and picked up her pace, seeming wholly content with the world and her lot in life. If only he could feel such contentment. The soft throb of his shot leg reminded him of the constant ache in his chest—an ache that never let up, never gave him a minute’s peace. Shame was like a piece of lead lodged in his rib. He couldn’t pry it out without killing himself—and in dark moments he’d considered that as the only way to lift the burden that often sought to crush him. The only thing that helped was burying himself in his work. Riding and busting twelve hours a day, thinking on the tasks at hand and locking the door to his memories. But at the end of the day, as he lay on his bed in the bunkhouse or slept on the range under the stars, that door creaked open, and those memories and bad feelings came gushing out willy-nilly.

  Yet, when he rode Kotoo—gave her her head with a loose rein to run at will—he felt a strange calm come over him. Like a warm, soothing poultice spread over a wound. Is that what the Cheyenne woman meant when she gave the horse a new name? Calm water in the midst of fire. That’s just what Kotoo felt like underneath him, as they raced across the prairie.

  He’d had many horses in his life, and Dakota had been the best. But none had ever given Brett such a sense of calm. The constant nudge of restlessness and anger seemed to get chewed up over the miles they rode, and the feeling was so much a relief, he’d taken her out again last night, long after the other cowboys had dropped off to sleep. And then again before dawn, an hour before the breakfast bell sounded. Too bad he couldn’t take her out on the range, during the roundup—only geldings were ridden then. He’d already gotten so attached to her, he knew he was gonna miss her during those weeks. He grunted, wondering why that Injun had given him this horse. No one had ever given him a gift like this, and it perplexed him.

  As they turned onto hard-packed ground, Brett caught sight of the ranch house, all lit up with warm yellow lights from the oil lamps lit in the rooms. He caught glimpses of movement in the upper windows and shimmers of cloth as the curtains riffled in the breeze like ripples in a stream. It was a cheery sight that reminded him painfully of how much he wished he’d had a real family and a home.

  He didn’t care about wealth such as what Logan Foster enjoyed. But he saw the way the rancher adored his missus and girls. He’d watched those two young’uns throw their arms around their pa and hug the daylights out of him before jumping up into the wagon to head to town with their ma. There was no missing the true affection between Foster and his missus when he pecked her cheek and sent her on her way, waving until the wagon turned down the drive and out of sight. Brett had stood transfixed, envy coursing through his veins, wondering for all the world why he’d been stuck with such a viper for a pa. If only his ma had met someone else along the way. Someone kinder, gentler. Instead of a rogue and a scalawag like Jed Hendricks. She’d deserved better. If only I’d done the right thing. I shoulda killed him. I had plenty of chances. But he’d been a coward, and he’d walked away. And sealed her fate.

  He reined Kotoo to a stop a dozen or so yards in back of the house and listened to the night, trying to cool his spurs. A few cows lowing in the pens. A horse nickering in the pasture. A tickle of laughter and conversation drifted past his ears, so quiet it sounded like the murmur of water over rocks. The guilt that had welled up unbidden seeped out into the night, the way thirsty ground soaked up rain.

  He lingered in the peacefulness cast by the moon, again keenly aware of the quiet inside him—a quiet so foreign to him, he didn’t know what to make of it. Did the horse put some kind of spell on him? He knew when he let her loose in the pasture, those old uneasy feelings would wash back in and engulf him again. He couldn’t rightly stay on her back all the time. But somehow he had to find a way to get that feeling of calm to stick around. Nothing else worked—not drinking, not women, not even wrangling till he dropped from exhaustion.

  His ears perked up at a new sound puncturing the quiet. Someone in the big house was playing a fiddle. His breath hitched as he strained to listen, remembering the silky, smooth notes he’d heard that night when he stood against Tuttle’s house and watched Angela play, the moonlike gleaming in her hair and lighting up her face that looked like an angel’s.

  He breathed deeply, drawing in the music that set his bones trembling. Who was playing so
beautifully? Was it Miz Foster? It couldn’t be. No one could play like that—except maybe that violin maker. Maybe Fisk was visiting. Seemed everyone in that tiny town knew everyone else. Had he been called out to Foster’s ranch to play for the family? Brett had known ranchers that hired musicians to come play at shindigs and for special events.

  He closed his eyes, sitting still on Kotoo, and let his mind run wild. He thought on Angela’s beautiful brown eyes and her full lips and the way she smiled. A fierce longing seized him again—just at the thought of kissing those lips. Every inch of his body erupted in need, and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to pull her into his arms and smother her with kisses. Somehow he knew if he held her like that, he’d never feel the same again. Could it be possible that a gal like that could snuff out that anger raging inside him? Why couldn’t she be the one to quench that fire Sarah Banks had talked about? “Follow the song—it will lead you out.”

  He shook the thoughts from his head, like flinging water. What song? It made no sense. A song couldn’t lead anyone out of a fire. And surely not away from the kind of hellfire raging inside his soul.

  Besides, you fool, the gal’s off to New York. Get over her.

  He listened awhile longer, mesmerized by the lively tune being fiddled. He clicked his teeth at Kotoo, and the horse walked ahead. Brett stopped only yards from the house, under the branches of a wide-spreading willow, staying in the shadows in case someone had a mind to look out the window. From there he could make out the rancher and his wife sitting in big padded chairs. And the two girls sat at their feet. They were all looking in the same direction, listening to whoever was playing that fiddle.

  Then he heard two fiddles. Their notes bounced off the other’s like bullets ricocheting off rocks. He’d never heard the like. Sure, he’d listened to some fast fiddling, but this was different. Instead of a ragged, rough kind of fiddling, this was like honey—every note sweet and smooth. Then, the fiddling stopped, and when it started up again, Brett sucked in a breath.

  The silhouette of a woman moved into view, pulling the bow across the strings.

  Angela! There was no mistaking her shape or her music. The strains of the fiddle soared into the night sky like tiny birds glinting with moonlight. He stiffened as the notes pricked him almost painfully. He fixed his eyes on her, both astonished and confused. What was she doing here, at Foster’s ranch? And just when he began to doubt it was her, she turned toward the window, and he could see her eyes were closed as she lost herself in her playing.

  He could barely make out her features, but it was enough to set his heart pounding. The thought of her so close yet so out of reach made the ache in his chest feel like a rock lodged in a crevice. He had to talk to her—one last time before she left. He didn’t know why—it wouldn’t do any good. But here she was, like he’d been given another chance.

  Fool! What do you plan to do? Knock on the front door and invite yourself in? Wait until she’s getting into the wagon to go back to town and scare the living daylights out of her?

  He couldn’t figure why he was so smitten by her. And then he realized—her music made him feel just the way riding Kotoo made him feel. But was it her music or was it her?

  Don’t matter. She’s up there, and you’re down here. She’s a refined gal from the city, and you’re just a restless, homeless cowboy. More than ever, his dream of owning his own horse ranch seemed impossible—a foolish dream to cling to.

  He sat his horse, listening until the music stopped and the last notes floated away, leaving him empty and feeling more alone than ever. He heard talking and laughter as if he gazed across a chasm that he could never cross. He considered taking Kotoo out for another ride, but the mare was nearly asleep on her feet.

  With a heavy heart, he led the horse out from under the tree and headed over to the barn to unsaddle Kotoo and brush her down. The thought of slipping into the smelly bunkhouse with a dozen snoring cowboys at his elbows soured his mood even further.

  He glanced back at the window, but the lamps had been snuffed out, and the room was dark. He felt his momentary joy at seeing Angela snuff out as well. She was so close, but she might as well have been on the moon for all he could do about it.

  Chapter 19

  “Angela, darling. Are you still in there?”

  Angela sniffled and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse as she sat on the ladder-back chair in front of the dressing table. Adeline Foster pushed open the door to the boudoir and peeked inside. The rancher’s wife gasped as she studied Angela’s face.

  No doubt her eyes were red and puffy from the crying she’d done. She hadn’t meant to fall apart, but somehow playing those pieces with George after dinner and seeing the Fosters listening so intently, their darling girls cuddled at their feet, made her homesick. More than homesick—the pain that crumpled her was from seeing the warmth and affection between the rancher and his wife as they sat on the divan, holding hands, Adeline leaning against her husband with such tenderness. And the way he mindlessly stroked her hair while listening to the music made Angela’s anger toward her father boil—to the point that she had to stop playing and excuse herself.

  Yes, she was feeling sorry for herself, and it was unbecoming. But life was so unfair. She couldn’t recall a time—or even imagine one—when her papá had shown even a smidgeon of such affection for her mamá. Living in their tiny apartment in a climate of loathing and cruelty made it worse than a battlefield. Her heart ached for her Rosalia and little Maria, who had years still ahead of bearing up under their papá’s hard hand. While a mother’s love could make even the most horrible situation tolerable, since Angela had arrived in Greeley, it seemed everywhere she turned, she saw more and more how much she suffered from the lack of a father’s love.

  What would it have been like for her had she grown up with a father like George, who not only loved music but understood and respected her need to play? George was exactly the kind of father she wished she had—a gentle man with a humble heart. And here was Logan Foster, a busy man running one of the most successful cattle ranches in Colorado—yet he had time to attend to his wife and children, and showered them with affection, even indulging them to the point of excess.

  Angela felt more tears coming on. Oh, why was she so emotional? She’d never had a problem barricading her feelings before coming to Greeley. Maybe it was because of her mamá’s accident. She hated being so far away and not being there to sit by her bedside. She felt so useless, so helpless.

  A great sob burst from her throat, and Angela buried her face in her hands. Adeline hurried to gather her up in her arms.

  “There, there, darling,” Adeline said, shushing her softly, much the way Mamá used to do when Angela was little and fell and scraped a knee or elbow. It had been so long since anyone had held her this way, and Adeline’s strong, warm arms made Angela’s tears fall anew. She hadn’t realized how starved she was for human touch, for some comfort. She’d been holding so much inside, so much pain . . .

  After she’d cried, soaking the shoulder of Adeline’s beautiful blue satin dress, Angela sniffled and gladly accepted the handkerchief Adeline pulled from a hidden pocket. The rancher’s wife smiled sweetly at her as she said, “Always carry one on me. You never know when a tear or two might fall when you have rambunctious girls living on a cattle ranch.”

  Angela mustered a smile, grateful for Adeline’s kindness and surprising lack of prying. She’d expected the woman to drench her with a flood of questions, but she waited quietly, seemingly content to let the room grow silent. After a moment, Angela started to get up from the chair, but Adeline motioned her to stay.

  “George is downstairs with Logan, enjoying cigars and brandy.” She winked and added, “We should let them have their time together. I imagine George hasn’t been out in company much since Lucy passed.”

  Angela looked at the rancher’s wife with new eyes. Her face was full of compassion for a man Angela assumed Adeline hardly knew.

 
; “Did you know Lucy Fisk?” Angela asked, the soreness in her throat easing.

  Adeline reached for the silver-handled hairbrush and, to Angela’s surprise, pulled the pins from Angela’s head and let her long hair tumble down her shoulders. As she ran the brush through Angela’s hair with long, gentle strokes, she said, “Oh yes. Lucy was on the opera board too. Such a brave woman. And how she suffered those many years with seizures and a weak constitution. But not a word of complaint.” Adeline shook her head and clucked with her teeth. “Poor George. He looks completely lost without her. You can see it—in his eyes. So sad, so sad.”

  Adeline’s eyes filled with tears, and then she abruptly laughed and said, “Soon we’ll both be weeping, and then what will we say when the men come and find us in such a sorry state?”

  She straightened up and set to work re-pinning Angela’s hair. “Oh my, you have such beautiful hair. Do you ever curl it with a hot iron? It would look . . . ravishing.”

  Angela couldn’t help but giggle, feeling the heaviness finally lifting from her chest. “I’m not sure I want to look ravishing.”