Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4)

by Charlene Whitman

  Angela’s mind spun with their words, which tangled her heart with warring desires. But beneath it all, the truth of their comments plucked a loud string in her heart.

  Admiration for these pioneers swelled. They’d given up secure, comfortable lives and risked all for a dream. A dream that was no less daunting and as seemingly impossible as hers.

  In that sense, she and the founders of Union Colony were well met. She’d thought she would find the residents of Greeley, Colorado, to be entirely different from her—in background, in personality, in attitude. But they were much like her—chasing a dream. The difference being that they had grasped that dream and made it a reality. She could learn much from these people, she realized, greatly humbled. From George, from Violet, from these kind ladies standing beside her.

  “I’m starving,” Violet announced.

  “Then let’s be off,” Mrs. Gilmore answered with a brisk wave of her hand.

  Angela smiled, feeling a strange sense of freedom come over her as Violet, her arm still linked in Angela’s, led her out of the building and into the hot fall day. A steady wind chafed Angela’s cheeks and tugged at her bonnet as they marched down the wide boardwalk behind the three older women, leaving George to close up the auditorium.

  Violet stopped suddenly. “Oh, tomorrow we’re picnicking at Island Grove Park. My mother asked if you’d join us. Some of the ladies in her reading circle will be there with their families. They all love to bake, so there will be lots of yummy pies.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Angela said, trying to adjust to this surprising sense of belonging coming over her. She could think of nothing she’d like better than to spend a day at the local park eating pies and conversing with her new friend and hearing tales of the early days of this small and simple town in the West.

  Well, there is one thing you’d rather be doing—even though you don’t want to admit it.

  Brett’s face reappeared unbidden in her mind—as it often did throughout the day and in the late lonely hours of night. An ache of longing spread through her body as she once more imagined those muscular arms pulling her close to his chest, his lips finding hers. And once more tried, unsuccessfully, to force him out of her thoughts.

  ***

  Brett’s first thought when he’d slid down from Rebel’s saddle was of Ned Handy and Rufus Shore, wondering if they’d made it back to the ranch that day last week when they’d been set afoot. Word at the roundup was that no one had seen ’em and that they’d probably ended up as lunch for the wolves. If that had been their fate, it was likely no one would ever know for sure. Brett wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it, at any rate. Even if those two had somehow survived, he didn’t think Handy would make good his threat to get even with him and Roberts. They’d be fools to show up at Foster’s ranch at this juncture.

  Wind from the west blew hard, churning up grit and causing Brett to squint as he looked around the ranch. The place was like a ghost town in the late afternoon, with all the punchers wrapping up the roundup and driving the cattle to the rail station for transport to Denver and the stockyards. As the other outfits and their chuck wagons were pulling out around noon, Lambert had told Brett and Roberts to go off herd and head back to the ranch, saying the boss had something in mind for them. No doubt Foster’d heard the whole account about Handy and Shore. Maybe he wanted to hear Brett’s accounting of the events.

  Tate Roberts trotted up to a halt beside him, his bandana covering his nose and mouth, the rest of his face coated with a layer of dirt. The fierce wind whipped bits of his red hair about his face as he pulled off the cloth and blew his nose. Their horses, weary from fighting the headwind and being pelted with hard grit, dug at the ground with restless hooves, heads hanging.

  “Let’s get these animals into the barn and rubbed down,” Roberts said, then spun around at the sound of neighing and whinnies.

  As Roberts dismounted, Brett stared into the hazy dust-choked air and made out shapes coming from the north toward the ranch. A tight herd of horses materialized—mostly Injun ponies and a few mixed breeds that were bigger and stockier. Out of the corner of Brett’s eye, he saw Logan Foster come out from behind the big ranch house fifty yards yonder. He watched the herd of about two dozen move at a slow lope toward the far calf pen with the wide wings feeding into a narrow chute.

  Now Brett made out two riders flanking the herd, and the young kid Brett had seen his first day raced over to open the pen gate. Just in time too. For not a moment later the first of the ponies stormed into the chute.

  Brett watched in quiet astonishment. The wild horses ran into the corral with ’airy a complaint—as if they were happy to oblige. He’d never seen the like. Not a look of panic or fear on their faces. Yet, it was clear they were of wild stock. It wasn’t until the two riders sat their horses after the kid latched the gate that Brett realized who they were.

  Roberts whistled. “Ya see that?”

  Brett nodded. “Some good-lookin’ bunch there.”

  “Yep. Wonder how far away they fetched ’em.” There were still plenty of wild horse herds on the Front Range, for the taking. But the numbers had been dwindling, along with the buffalo. Brett remembered many a time seeing hundreds of horses roaming across the Texas prairie, along with thousands of cattle, belonging to no one.

  The wind died down like a flapping hen settling on her nest. The air cleared, exposing bright-blue sky. Sarah Banks—the Cheyenne horse breeder—sat astride her pinto in deerskin chaps and a cowboy’s clothes. Her son sat his horse next to her. LeRoy—that was the fella’s name. He had her dark Injun looks, but now, seeing him clearer than he had the other time, Brett could tell he was a half-breed.

  An uneasy feeling seeped into Brett’s gut as he thought on the words she’d said to him that day—that stuff about the calm water in the midst of fire and some song leading him out. And the pictures that had seared his mind—of his pa striking his ma, and Angela’s face with blood trickling down her neck.

  He knew not to take a medicine woman’s words lightly, and they worried him. Was that vision just a warning, or was it something that one day would come true? Well, if’n ya never see Angela again, you won’t ever hurt her. But what if he did see her? What if he tried with all his might to contain his anger? Could he do it? Ya might as well try catchin’ the wind and stuffin’ it inside yer hat.

  He thought about Sarah Banks giving him Kotoo—a mighty generous gift. Something a person would hardly do for someone he knew and cared for, yet he was a stranger to her. He still couldn’t reckon why she’d done it. Most folks would want something in return, but she’d given him the horse because he’d stood up, because of that Mexican girl he’d rescued from the clutches of Orlander’s kid. But how in the dickens did she know about that?

  He looked afar over the miles of pasture. Where was Kotoo? Probably out with the other ranch horses, clustered with them under a tree out of the wind. Just as he thought to find her, he heard her.

  Brett swiveled around to see Kotoo running to the fence, then sliding to a stop in the brown pasture grass. The mare nickered and tossed her head, but she wasn’t looking at Brett. She was calling over to Sarah Banks.

  The Injun woman slid off the pinto and walked the fifty yards over to say hello to the mare. Brett reckoned he ought to join her, though his insides flipped at the thought of hearing more of her mysterious pronouncements.

  “Go on,” Roberts said, “I’ll take care o’ Rebel and Star.” He took up both horses’ reins and led them away. Brett slapped at his dusty pants and wiped his face with his sleeve. A dip in the river and some clean clothes would have to wait a spell. As he headed over to the pasture, he saw Foster talking to LeRoy Banks by the corral filled with the range horses.

  Sarah Banks wore an old beaver-skin hat with a woven band, the kind cowboys used to wear back before the war between the states. She gave him a toothy grin when he came beside her. Kotoo nickered at him, then and pushed her nose toward him so he could rub her head. A bi
g smile rose on his face at the sweet nature of this horse—his horse—and the way the mare made him feel every time he was near her. It was like all his cares just blew away on the wind. He couldn’t explain it. But who would believe him if he tried?

  “Your horse missed ya,” Sarah said, patting Kotoo’s neck.

  “I missed her too.”

  Sarah nodded and kept patting, a thoughtful look on her face. Brett felt like he should say something, to thank her again, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Some wind, eh?”

  Just as she spoke, the hot, dry wind kicked up again, twirling dead leaves around their feet. Kotoo threw back her head, tossing her whiskey-colored mane.

  “Thunderclouds’re movin’ in,” Sarah added, nodding at the foothills stretching out in front of the Rockies, the clouds casting dark shadows that drifted like ghosts over the land. “Hot dry wind and lightning—dangerous combination.”

  Brett nodded, wondering why she was going on about the weather.

  “Tomorrow, you be sure to ride Kotoo.” She turned to look him directly in the eye. “Remember what I told you? When the fire rages, look for the calm water.”

  She fell quiet, but Brett heard more words loud in his head. “You will hear the song. Follow it. It will lead you out.”

  The wind whistled through the stand of pines and cottonwoods to the north, near the river. The lonely moaning sound made Brett shift on his feet, the uneasiness growing in his gut.

  “There is a way out,” Sarah told him, still studying his face. “You don’t have to burn in the flames.”

  Her matter-of-fact words startled Brett, but then he thought maybe she wasn’t talking about a real fire. Maybe she meant the fire of rage burning in his heart. Still, it was a plenty odd thing to say.

  He looked at her and she nodded. Then a smile lifted her wrinkled brown cheeks, and she patted Brett on the shoulder.

  “I will see you on the other side, Brett Hendricks.” She chuckled as if she’d said something funny, then strode off to where Foster was talking to her son.

  “What the . . . ?” Brett blew out a hard breath. All that funny talk made him edgy. Best he go fetch his towel and head for the river to wash up and cool off. As he made for the bunkhouse, though, Logan Foster waylaid him on the path, Roberts right behind him.

  “Hey, Hendricks,” the tall man said, his iron-gray hair splaying out from under the wide-brimmed black hat he always wore. The boss’s smile told Brett he was glad to see him, and Foster wasted little time telling him and Roberts what he’d learned about the rustlers. Seemed that altered Lazy 8 brand had led to a couple of disgruntled cow punchers that had a beef with Foster from long days past. “Slackers is what they were, and I’d let ’em go. They’d put up a big fuss, and I thought that’d be the last I’d hear of ’em. I reckon it were more greed than spite that drove ’em to do what they did.” Foster snorted in disgust. “They got what was comin’ to ’em.”

  Neither Brett nor Roberts asked for more details. But Roberts then said, “What ’bout Handy and Shore?”

  Foster shook his head as his lips pinched tight. “Don’t rightly know. And frankly, I don’ care, long as they stay away from my ranch and my cattle. Not likely they’ll be gettin’ involved in more rustlin’, seeing as their pals got caught.”

  Brett didn’t imagine they’d dare try to join any outfit in Colorado—if they were still alive. Someone, sometime, was bound to recognize them and send word back to Foster. If I was Ned Handy, I’d hoof it to Mexico and stay there.

  “So listen, I got a job fer you two. Bill Johnson over Greeley way is lookin’ to put on a cowboy contest this weekend—just for some of the small local ranches, for the punchers to blow off some steam after the roundup. While I reckon you boys’d like to compete, Saturday’s my big birthday party”—he gave a twisted smile that showed he wasn’t all too keen about the idea—“and I’m ’specting all you cowboys to attend. It’s just as much a party for y’all as it is for me. There’ll be music and food and dancin’. Once the rest of the outfit gits back, y’all will hear more ’bout it.”

  “Alright,” Roberts said, shifting his weight and looking every bit as eager as Brett to jump in the water and wash off two weeks of grime. “How c’n we help?”

  “That lot of wild horses yonder?” Foster pointed at the corral behind them, where Sarah Banks and her son had driven in the herd. “They need to be taken over to Island Grove Park, to the fairgrounds, where they’ll be holdin’ the contest. I reckon if’n y’all head out at dawn, you’ll make it back in time fer supper. Usually I’d send out a half-dozen or so cowboys for this many head, but Sarah Banks said you two’ll do. She said to keep that little mare of yours in front, and the rest would follow.” He shrugged as if to say, “Who am I to argue with a Cheyenne medicine woman?”

  Brett and Roberts exchanged looks. Since when did a wild herd ever follow a mare? “Ain’t there a stallion in that bunch?” Brett asked.

  “A couple of young bachelors, but no,” Foster said. “I reckon Sarah and LeRoy cut that group from a bigger herd. Though, how they’d managed that . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked over at the corral. Sarah and her son were back on their horses and walking up toward the road. Foster gave a wave, and with a nod of heads, the two Injuns urged their mounts into an easy canter, heading north. Brett wondered why Sarah and her son hadn’t run the herd over to the park themselves, but then, he figured maybe Foster’s ranch was closer to where they’d rounded ’em up. Made sense to pen ’em up, feed and water ’em, give ’em a night’s rest. Putting in a few broke horses overnight did wonders to calm down a nervous bunch.

  Brett looked back at Kotoo, who still stood at the fence, looking at him as if reading his thoughts. You volunteerin’? Since that Cheyenne woman wants you in the lead, you prob’ly oughta spend the night with that bunch, settin’ the rules straight.

  Kotoo threw her head, and Brett shook his, just this side of astonishment. I’ll pretend I didn’t see that.

  “So, y’all good with the plan?” Foster asked. Brett and Roberts nodded. “Alright, then. I got some nice whiskey back at the house, and I think you both rightly deserve a glass. I’d like to hear your version of what all happened that mornin’ when Lambert told those two scoundrels to pack it in. But after you two clean up. The missus wouldn’t cotton to havin’ you step inside her clean house smellin’ like y’all slept in a pile of cow pies.”

  Brett smiled along with Roberts. He could already taste the fancy rich whiskey soothing his dry throat.

  “Yessir,” the two said.

  Brett glanced up at the big house, and his eyes snagged on the second-story window where he’d seen Angela playing her fiddle. The window looked like a lidless eye, staring him down, and the room beyond was dark and empty—just like his heart.

  Chapter 28

  Fat gun-metal-gray clouds skittered overhead as the October wind buffeted Brett’s face. The smell of rain clogged the dusty air, and wide dark streaks fell like curtains from the thunderclouds, the water drying up before making it halfway to the ground. The thirsty land begged for rain, but Brett doubted he’d see any water hit the red clay this day.

  The years he’d spent living out of doors on the open range gave him and every cowboy a keen sense of weather. And of all the things the heavens threw at a puncher while driving cattle, one in particular sparked fear. Brett felt it now—in his fingertips as he held Kotoo’s reins loosely in his gloved hand and all over his skin. Electricity tickled even the parts of him covered by clothing, and the hairs on his neck bristled.

  He glanced back at Roberts trotting at the rear of the dozen horses in their orderly procession. He kept one eye on their charges and another one on the sky. No doubt he sensed it too. But not much they could do about it. They were on open rangeland between Evans and Greeley, nearing the fairgrounds set beside the South Platte on the outskirts of the town. It felt odd to be off herd for the day.

  Brett made out the dull silver of the
wide, slow-moving river to the north and a hint of the wood fence erected around the farmland. He’d heard that shortly after the shareholders of Union Colony had arrived at this dry godforsaken part of the desert, they’d build ditches to carry water twenty miles uphill to found their town. Brett couldn’t believe the gumption of folks so determined to irrigate the desert, but they’d done it. And to keep out the range cattle, they’d built a fence—around the whole town.

  What had driven them to such a hard task? And it wasn’t just the Greeley folks. Towns like Loveland and Fort Collins and Longmont had been started by rich folks back east in places like Chicago and New York and Boston willing to give up a soft and easy life for a dream. A crazy dream—beset by blizzards and locusts and drought and Injuns.

  And what about your dream? He hadn’t much thought about his secret hankering to start a horse ranch. He’d always chided himself, thinking such a dream was foolish, that wishing for something that grandiose would only cause disappointment. Be glad for your lot in life, he told himself over and over. Could be worse. Yeah, you could be dead, like a lot of other fool cowboys.

  He thought about the bullet he’d pulled out of his leg. About his nearly dying in the desert. About the times he’d been shot at and thrown from a horse and trampled and bit and kicked. Foster had told him and Roberts this morning as they saddled up how Sarah Banks’s husband had died when a horse threw him and he hit his head against a post. It could happen to the best buster. To anyone, on any given day. He’d been lucky, so far.

  So, you c’n try to play it safe, but there’re still no guarantees. Why not go after your dream?

  But how? Those folks that came west and founded towns—they were rich. You got nothin’. Well, lots of folks started with nothing. Nothing but a dream. A dream plenty of gainsayers probably told them to quit wasting time on.

  Fact was, the whole country was built on dreams. Dreams of freedom, of a better life. If you didn’t go after your dreams, what was the point of living?