Adeline grunted and waved her hand full of pins in the air. “Of course you do! Though, you hardly need to do a thing with your hair or your face. Your natural beauty glows, but more than that,” she said, tucking and pinning more hair, “it’s the beauty of the soul that shines the strongest. That’s something a woman can’t hide or fake, truth be told.”
When she finished with Angela’s hair, she went over to the wash basin and wet a laced-edged hand towel. “Here, let’s wipe those tears away and go downstairs. We’ve peach cobbler for dessert. I do hope the girls left us some.”
“Thank you,” Angela said, feeling drained and exhausted.
Adeline studied her. “Where are you staying? With Mr. Fisk?”
Angela nodded. “In his small shop. Where he builds his violins.”
Adeline threw her hands up again. “Oh heavens, that won’t do. All those varnish fumes and dust. I don’t imagine you would have a toilet inside?”
When Angela shook her head, Adeline make a whimper of protest. “Darling girl, we have rooms upon rooms that no one ever uses. While you’re waiting for your violin, you must stay here, with us—”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Angela began to say.
Adeline frowned, and her perfectly plucked brows knitted in disapproval. “I insist. And I know Logan will as well. Now, don’t worry—you’ll still be paid for teaching the girls to play the violin. But this way, they can have daily lessons. And you’ll find that living on a ranch can do wonders for your constitution. George can bring round your things as soon as it’s convenient. Or perhaps the next time one of the hands makes a trip to town, he can drop by George’s house and fetch your belongings. In the meantime, I’m sure I can provide you with all you’ll need in the way of clothing and womanly necessities.”
Adeline wrapped an arm around Angela’s shoulder and helped her to stand. Angela smiled at the change in the rancher’s wife—back to her boisterous, talkative self. But she had to find a way to gracefully refuse. She didn’t want to take advantage of this family’s hospitality—or impose on them.
“I’m grateful for your offer, Mrs. Foster—”
“Oh puleeze, you must call me Adeline.”
“Adeline, it’s very kind of you, but—”
She put her hands on her wide, full hips. “I won’t take no for an answer, Angela. I know you hardly know me, but when I put my foot down, there’s no lifting it. Whatever your troubles, the last thing you need is to be alone with a sad widower. Yes, George could use the company. And I’m sure you’ve helped lift his spirits. But it’s hardly proper for you to stay at his house for an extended time, don’t you know. Small towns have big ears.”
Adeline confirmed what Angela feared. She didn’t want gossip that might hurt George. And she had no other place to go. Her money had been meant to feed and house her for a day or two—not a month or more. But she could hardly accept Adeline’s offer of being paid when she would be living in their home and eating their food.
“Well, I’d have to do more than teach the girls violin lessons—”
“What about Italian?” Adeline asked, walking toward the door.
Angela stopped. “Italian what?”
“Why, the Italian language. And cooking. You could teach the girls. I can tell that they already adore you. Would you be willing to do that during your stay?”
Angela smiled, thinking of how her little sisters helped her roll out dough and layer pasta in the big iron casserole pan. “I’d be pleased to teach them.”
Adeline clapped her hands. “Well, that’s settled, then. Oh, I’m so thrilled. If anyone can get those two to produce beautiful sounds from those violins, you can. The sooner the screeching starts sounding like music, the happier we all will be.” She gave Angela a little wink.
Angela joined Adeline in a hearty laugh, excitement bubbling up at the thought of staying here with this wonderful family. She never imagined she’d live on a cattle ranch, surrounded by horses and cowboys, and though it would only be for a few weeks, it seemed a thrilling adventure—something to take her mind off her worries while she waited for George to finish her violin. And I’ll have plenty of time to play, with no one to complain.
“Now, let’s join the men and let them know of our plans. And then indulge in a dish of peach cobbler. After that, I’ll show you to your room and get you settled in. Oh, the girls will be so happy to hear you’re staying with us.”
Adeline strode with renewed purpose out the door, and Angela followed, wondering just what a peach cobbler might be.
Chapter 20
“See, hold yer hand steady—out here, like this.”
Brett told hold of the kid’s arm, standing at his shoulder, and straightened it so that the pistol lay in a line of direct sight from Archie’s eye to the tin can on the fence. “Ya can’t have your gun hand loose like a noodle, floppin’ hither and yonder.”
Archie heaved a sigh while narrowing his eyes and setting a bead on the target. “I know, Brett. Listen, the safest thing around me is the thing I’m aimin’ to shoot at.”
Brett chuckled and released his hold on the kid. It was those bruises spattered on the kid’s forehead from his Colt .45 six-shooter recoiling in his face that led Brett to take him aside for some mighty needed shooting practice.
“Well, like they say: ‘practice makes better.’ Suck in a breath and hold it. There ya go.”
The powder exploded, and the ball whistled across the yard. Archie scowled and dropped his firing arm. “Dang it all. I missed by a mile. Agin.”
Brett clapped him heartily on his back. “But ya didn’t smack your face—that there’s a fine improvement, don’t ya think?”
Archie fumbled with swinging open the chamber and stuffing more bullets in from his pouch. “I reckon.” He sounded downright despondent.
“Well, keep at it. Oh, and if ya see any horses come wanderin’ through the pasture, hold off shootin’ till they pass. I don’t reckon the boss will take kindly to you killin’ his animals.”
Brett was joking, but Archie nodded solemnly. His face was clouded with trouble.
“Hey,” Brett said. Archie stopped messing with the pistol and turned to Brett. “Those punchers botherin’ you?” Ever since those two—Handy and Shore—played that dangerous prank on the kid with that heifer, Brett’d been keeping one eye on him. But what with all the busting Brett’d been busy with—he and that good fella Tate Roberts—he hadn’t had time to pay Archie much mind. The kid was gonna have to learn fast to keep watch and stand up.
Archie shook his head, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes.
“Listen,” Brett told him. “You gotta have the guts to stand the life of a cowboy. Like the boss said: ‘Make good or make tracks.’ You’re young—and ripe pickin’s for the likes of Handy and Shore. Just keep close to my flank—or Tate’s. In a few days we’ll be dumpin’ our blankets and tricks at the chuck wagon, and you c’n make down with me and him. The punchers are gonna rough you up some, but most of it will be good humored. So don’t get over-sensitive about it. A tenderfoot’s always gonna be the brunt of jokes, so try to laugh good-naturedly about it. But keep an eye out for them two. I c’n tell they’re nothin’ but trouble. Every outfit’s got one or two bad apples.”
“Alright,” Archie said, listening hard and nodding.
Brett took a look-see around him. A flock of songbirds dove into the giant willow beside them and erupted into song. Flies buzzed around their heads, and a jackrabbit rustled through the sage brush down by the riverbank. Brett relished the cool quiet of the morning—a welcome feeling after his restless, sleepless night. He wasn’t a man immune to the beauties of nature, as some were. He liked nothing better than taking in the world around him, setting his gaze on the mountains that rose like a wall of jagged teeth in the west. The air was so clear this morning, he could almost see into next week.
The wide lazy creek shimmered in the morning light, and a few prairie dogs sat and barked on their haunches, looki
ng like spinsters in church with their paws folded on their stomachs. Brett chuckled at the sight, then turned back to Archie.
“Kid, you gonna keep practicin’?”
“I reckon.” He smirked. “I don’t guess I’ll have to run back and forth much to that fence yonder to set up more cans.” He looked at the half dozen lying next to his feet. “I’ll be lucky if’n I hit that can even once.”
“You will,” Brett assured him. “Listen, I gotta drop my twine on that brute called Renegade over in the pen yonder. That Cheyenne horse breeder told me he’s got some kinks to iron out. You gonna be okay out here?”
Archie nodded, getting ready to aim at the tin can on the fence. Brett figured that can would probably still be sitting there if he came back in an hour, and Archie’d still be in a snit.
“Alright, then. I’ll see ya back at the bunkhouse round lunchtime.” He gave Archie a slap on the shoulder. “Keep that arm straight and stiff, now.”
“Thanks, Brett,” Archie said. “I really ’preciate the help.”
Brett left the kid to his devices and headed over to the pasture below the hay barn. Roberts and the others were out on the range, rounding up some strays that’d been spotted to the north, so he was on his own today. He scooped up the rope he’d left hanging on the fence post and presently looped it around the dun horse’s neck. The look in Renegade’s wide eye told Brett he’d have a time of it, but he was glad for it.
Since the moment he’d seen Angela playing in that upstairs room in the ranch house, she’d been cutting a wide swath through his thoughts, and he needed the distraction. What were the odds she’d pay a visit to the ranch he was riding for? Would she come back? What if she’d changed her mind about New York and decided to stay in Colorado?
Whoa, there ya go again—gettin’ up your hopes. You’re headin’ down a slippery trail.
She was like a pesky mosquito nipping at his ear in the dark of night, and the more he slapped her image away, the more she pestered him. Seemed the only thing that eased the throb of desire for her was getting in the pen with an ornery horse.
The antsy gelding pulled at the lead and pranced about as Brett led him to the fence, where he’d set out the bridle and saddle after breakfast on the top rail. He studied the dun—a powerful sixteen-hand beast with stocking legs—then let him loose. “Alright, mister—let’s see what ya got.”
Renegade broke apart and thrashed his forelegs in the air, but drifting through the noise of the horse’s prancing, Brett heard something else. He craned his neck to see over the fence to the ranch house up the hill. He must’ve been imagining things. He coulda swore he heard the sweet sounds of that fiddle—the way Angela played it.
He chided himself with a huff and turned back to Renegade, who was doing fine working his kinks out all on his own, running around the pen and kicking up the dust enough to scare the Devil.
***
Two bright-faced girls poked their heads into the study, where Angela was working on polishing one of the Schubert lullabies. She lowered her instrument and noted the way they bounced up and down in excitement. They were garbed in matching green calico dresses and had on ankle-high button-up boots that had seen a lot of the outdoors.
“Mama says to ask if you’ll take us berry picking,” Clementine said in a voice that brooked no argument. She had her mother’s blond curls and bright blue eyes—every bit her mother’s daughter. Last evening, Clementine made it clear she was the “older sister,” and it was evident that she took her role seriously. Madeline, not even a year younger, stood shyly behind her sibling, her brown eyes and hair showing more resemblance to her father. At eight and seven, they were a tad older than Rosalia but so much taller.
“Please say yes,” Clementine pleaded. “If we bring enough home, Cook will make us berry tarts!”
“Yum,” Angela said, putting the violin back in its case. “That sounds like a wonderful plan. Where do we need to go to find the berries?”
“Not far,” Clementine assured her, taking her hand and yanking her toward the door.
“Wait, I need my bonnet.” Angela went over to the dresser and fixed the hat on her head. She supposed she was dressed in a manner befitting blackberry picking. Adeline had lent her a soft cotton blue blouse to wear, and though it was a bit loose on her, she’d tucked it into her skirt’s waistband. But her shoes wouldn’t do. They were fine Italian leather slippers with embroidery and button closures, given to her by her aunt.
Madeline noticed her studying her shoes. “Those are pretty,” she said. “I like the pearly buttons.”
Angela smiled at the girl’s sweet innocent face. She missed her sisters so much and wished they could be here to see this beautiful wide-open land. When would they ever have the chance to pick berries? Everything her family ate was purchased at the local grocers or butcher shop.
Sadness welled up once more at the thought of her sisters hiding in their beds at night with their hands over their ears, trying to drown out Papá’s shouts. Now, more than ever, Angela dreaded the thought of returning home. If only she could steal away her sisters and bring them here. She frowned in frustration as she tucked a stray strand of hair under her bonnet.
Madeline tugged on Angela’s skirt. “Mama has lots of mud boots. I bet something will fit your feet. Pretty shoes belong inside, not outside—Mama always says.”
Angela took her hand and headed out the door. “Well, she’s right. Same goes for pretty dresses.”
Clementine huffed and tossed her curls, just like Adeline. “We know that. Why’d you think we wore these old things?”
Angela couldn’t help but laugh at Clementine’s expression. She was a perfect replica of her mother, only smaller and with a higher-pitched voice.
As they made their way down the staircase to the foyer, Angela said, “Don’t forget—before dinner we’re going to have a violin lesson.”
As if on cue, both girls groaned. She wondered what kind of teacher Mrs. Green had been to make these girls so loathe playing their instruments. Perhaps they’d been forced to practice scales without having a bit of fun. But Angela knew how to remedy that.
True to Madeline’s word, the room off the porch had plenty of worn, sturdy boots to choose from, and Angela found a pair that fit fine with thick stockings. A cool breeze greeted them as they headed out of the house and down the back porch, baskets in hand.
Gratitude welled up in Angela’s heart for the Fosters—for inviting her stay in their home. And for George, for having treated her so kindly and graciously, in the midst of his own lingering grief. She thought about Violet and how nice it would be to get to know another woman near her age, realizing everyone she’d met thus far in Colorado had been genuinely friendly and helpful. Perhaps all that noise and crowding in the city set people on edge. In New York, everyone seemed to be in such a rush most of the time, finding few moments—and few quiet open spaces—in which to covet peace and solitude.
She didn’t miss the noise, nor the way the women in Mulberry Bend were treated as if they had little worth. Most of the women she knew in her neighborhood worked their fingers to the bone to cook and clean for their husbands, who gave them little regard and even less respect. Italian wives were practically servants, answering to every whim of their husbands. She was so glad to have escaped marriage to Pietro. But how would she ever return? How could she be with Mamá but not face Papá? She would have to find some way.
Guilt weighted her steps as the girls led the way along a narrow pack-dirt path bordered by tall brown grass. She couldn’t help but remind herself yet again that it was all her fault her mamá was in the hospital. If she hadn’t left on the train . . .
Movement caught in the corner of her eye. She turned and looked over at the corral, and the girls halted in front of her.
“Hey,” Clementine said, “that’s the new buster. I heard Mama talking ’bout him yesterday.”
“Buster?” Angela said.
Clementine made a face at her. “You don�
��t know what a buster is?” She seemed altogether shocked at the thought.
Angela smiled and shook her head. “I’m from New York City, remember? We don’t have ‘busters’ there.” She added, “You have heard of New York, haven’t you?”
Clementine rolled her eyes and flipped her curls with her hand. “Of course.”
Madeline said in her soft voice, “Busters train the wild horses so they can be used out on the range. Every cowboy gets a string of them to ride.” She spoke authoritatively and matter-of-factly, which made Angela grin. “Herding cattle is hard on horses, Papa says. That’s why they have to change mounts all day long.”
“Come on,” Clementine said, “let’s watch awhile, then pick our berries.” She gave Angela a sly smile, and her eyes sparked with mischief. “I like to watch the busters get thrown off. It makes me laugh.”
Madeline giggled too, but Angela imagined getting thrown wasn’t all that much fun for the cowboy. Taming wild horses had to be hard, challenging work. She recalled the way Brett had described it—the way his eyes had shone with exhilaration when talking about breaking an outlaw horse. How could something that dangerous be thrilling? She wondered at this strange thing called “The Cowboy.” The men she knew would never risk life and limb like that. Reckless and childish, she thought, to find danger enticing.
“Well, look at that!” Clementine pointed at the man inside the corral.
Angela froze, and her breath caught in her throat. Brett? She walked a few steps closer to the fence, looking between the poles. It was Brett! What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Doctor Tuttle had said he’d gotten a job on a ranch. But he hadn’t said where, and you didn’t ask.
Angela felt flustered all over and told her heart to slow down as she watched Brett in the corral. He had his back partially turned to her and seemed unaware of the three gawkers at the fence. And he was sitting on a horse that was lying on its side, with its head pinned to the ground by Brett’s hand.
Angela didn’t dare breathe. The girls gaped at the sight, mouths dropped open. With those strong muscular arms, Brett held the horse down, but he didn’t seem to be scared at all—though she couldn’t imagine how he could be so calm and cheerful, perched on top of a snorting powerful beast like that.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 18