“I wanna talk to yer boss,” the other said. Phineas recalled his name—Handy. Ned Handy. The name seemed to fit.
“He’s already inside,” Cummings told him. “Look, this here’s Marino and Big Bear Studley. Once ya git Hendricks to come outside, git him over to these trees here. This is where these fellas’ll be waitin’. Boss wants Hendricks tied and gagged so’s we can git him away from the house. No one’ll be the wiser.”
Phineas added with warning in his voice, “Orlander wants t’ deal with Hendricks all hisself. He don’t want ’im hurt.”
Cummings glared at Phineas, chewing his lip. Phineas stared back, hoping his true feelings wouldn’t leak out. Good thing it was too dark for Cummings to see his hands shaking.
“I gotta visit some bushes,” Phineas said. “I’ll go around the back of the house, keep my eye out in case Hendricks slips out.”
Cummings’s eyes narrowed even more. He was all business. “Alright.” He turned back to Handy and his pal. “Git goin’. I’ll git inside and sneak a look at who all is there. Keep an eye out fer any trouble.”
The two cowboys nodded and headed for the bunkhouse. What their plan was, Phineas had ’airy a clue. But he figured they’d find a way to get Hendricks outside. And once he was outside, he was as good as dead.
I gotta get inside and find Hendricks. I gotta warn him. Maybe he could hide somewheres till the party’s over. Or git someone to help ’im slip away without Boss noticin’.
Phineas scowled and fisted his hands as he left the men in the shadows of the trees and headed for the brush behind the house. Orlander had always been a right fair man. And Phineas understood him being angry and wanting revenge. But Boss didn’t know the truth of it—that Wade was to blame, and the pain his kid was suffering was of his own making.
Phineas wished he’d come clean and told Orlander the truth. But he hadn’t. And he prob’ly wouldn’ta believed ya anyhow. A man so torn up with grief like that needs t’ find someone to blame.
He stopped and squatted behind some bushes at the back of the house. The pretty music was louder here. He imagined all those dolled-up guests drinking wine out of crystal glasses and eating piles of food laid out on big tables covered with starched white tablecloths. He’d never been to a party—not the likes of this one. Miz Orlander threw parties like that, from time to time. He doubted he’d ever get asked to one. Logan Foster had invited all his cowboys to the festivities. That was right nice of him. Maybe I c’n git in with Foster’s outfit.
He reckoned, after tonight, there was no way on God’s green earth he could keep on at the Flying Y Ranch. He just couldn’t fathom it.
The knot in his gut tightened like a noose around a rustler’s neck. He looked up and nudged his hat back. The moon and stars above shone bright on a cloudless cool night. A perfect night for a fancy party, he thought. Not the kind of night a fella expects to be shot dead.
***
Angela’s eyes wandered from her sheet music as she bowed her violin. Quiet discourse carried on around them, but most of the guests’ eyes were on the musicians—she supposed there were at least fifty in attendance at Mr. Foster’s birthday.
Adeline stood nearby, her fan fluttering, smiling in approval and occasionally making excited remarks to those who sidled up to her and complimented her on the delightful party. Her husband made his rounds, greeting guests, chatting with them and thanking them for coming. For all the protesting Adeline claimed he’d done about her party plans, he strutted about like a happy peacock, proud of his ranch and family, and deservedly so. Mrs. Annie Green sat stiffly in a chair at one of the tables, her eyes fixated on their playing. Other guests talked around her, and her head bobbed with an occasional assent to a question asked of her. Angela never imagined there were so many of high-society tucked away in the tiny towns of the West.
What an exquisite party it was. Angela knew Adeline had been planning this for months. The house was decorated with streamers that hung from the walls and rafters and staircase, and a full staff of uniformed waiters served hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne and white wine. Angela had never seen so much food for so small a number of people, and the imported English serving dishes sizzled and steamed and bubbled with casseroles and cobblers and soups. Breads of all shapes and colors overflowed baskets at the end of the long table, and Angela longed to taste some of these Southern delights Adeline had told her about.
The two little girls sat like princesses at one of the small ribbon-festooned round tables arranged in front of the dais, their eyes riveted on the quintet. She saw the same surprise and delight that she must have expressed the first time she’d heard the philharmonic. She hoped Maddy and Clem would have a new, better appreciation for their violin lessons after this. Though, now Adeline will be pressuring George once more to come teach them—once I’m gone.
The thought of her impending departure dampened her spirits and compounded the heaviness she felt in her heart. And the confusion. Seeing Brett so distraught had stunned her. She hadn’t expected to stumble upon him back behind the house. She’d had no doubt he’d been crying, and crying hard. Something she’d never seen a man do. Beneath all Brett’s bluster was a sensitive man who seemed to harbor much hurt. And then he’d smiled and turned suddenly excited. She didn’t understand a word of what he told her, but she knew it had something to do with the folk song she’d played earlier. Perhaps he’d recognized it from his childhood.
But what was all that about the music leading him out from the fire? About some woman named Sarah? Angela had no idea, but he’d become intense, urgent. She wished she could have heard his explanation. But now that would have to wait.
As would the more important explanation—why he’d shot at a man . . . and why he’d do so again if he’d had the chance. As kind and sensitive and handsome as Brett was, she could not—must not—forget he was a deplorable man who lacked morals. He might claim a belief in the Almighty and worship under the stars on the open range, but he thought nothing of marring a woman’s reputation or shooting at someone who’d wronged him. She’d seen the way he lost his temper, let rage overtake him. He was little different from Papá. And he carries a gun.
And while Greeley might be a small shoal of God-fearing families intent on living good Christian lives, it was a tiny island in the lawless frontier. A rickety wooden fence erected around the town couldn’t keep out the wild of the West. Brett was cut from this cloth. He could no easier change into a refined, honorable man than a wild horse could be truly tamed. Whom was she kidding?
She shook loose her wandering thoughts and gave full attention to her playing. Violet cast her curious looks between her flute passages. That is, between glancing over at the open double doors to the great room. Angela guessed she was hoping to catch sight of Tate Roberts. Maybe a rough-edged uneducated cowboy suited Violet just fine, but Angela just couldn’t trust that Brett could ever love her the way she longed and needed to be loved.
She lost herself in her music, feeling each note feed and nourish her soul. A sigh of contentment slipped out of her as the strains of strings and flute blended together in perfect harmony. Daisy and Rebecca, while far from professional, did a wonderful job with their parts. George played his violin with gusto as they worked through the allegro movement, a smile beaming. It made Angela’s heart glad to see him venture out of his grief and enjoying life. She knew it wouldn’t completely erase his sense of loss, but George spoke truth when he told her music was a healer. She hoped it would heal all her hurts one day.
As they bowed the last few notes of the sonata, Angela noticed Violet’s face light up. A glance across the room showed Brett, Tate, and a young redheaded teenager enter through a door behind the buffet table. Brett’s gaze went right to her, regarding her steadily, and then he searched the room, as if looking for someone.
Applause broke out, and Violet nudged Angela to stand. The members of the quintet nodded their thanks, and George then motioned for them to sit and begin the next pie
ce. Seeing Brett in the brightly lit room in his clean, pressed clothes, his auburn hair smoothed back and hatless, made her breath catch. He seemed more handsome than ever. But she knew what lay beneath his chiseled looks and muscular body. She just had to stop trying to make excuses for him.
For, that was just what her mamá had done for years, whenever Papá struck her or exploded into one of his loud tirades that all their neighbors could hear. Her mamá always had an explanation for his outburst. “Your papá is tired. He’s overworked. He’s worried about the business. He’s had a hard day . . .” The excuses were as numerous as the stars in the sky. But there was no excusing violent behavior—not ever. If a man could shoot and even kill another without remorse, he’d think little of slapping or beating his wife.
You’re too forgiving. And too weak. Just like Mamá. And if you don’t want to end up like her, you’ll put Brett Hendricks out of your mind forever. Just focus on your music, chase after your dream, and get on that train Monday morning.
***
LeRoy grinned as he watched Gennie, sitting so purty and listening to the music. She sipped at her iced drink and tapped a slippered foot in time with the music. When she felt his eyes on her, she looked up and over her shoulder, and he gave her a wink as he stood behind her chair, watching all the goings-on with the eye of a hawk. Folks all dandied up were socializing and eating tidbits of food off tiny plates that servants in stiff black suits offered them.
“Don’t you want to sit with me?” Gennie’s playful eyes nudged him, and he wished he could join her. But his ma had said some things on the way over in the wagon that gave him pause. Particularly when she’d asked, “Did ya bring your pistol?” She’d said it in her irritating matter-of-fact manner—which told LeRoy that question was more loaded than his gun.
He spotted his ma across the big room, over by a table chock-full of fancy glasses filled with bubbly liquid he guessed was champagne. He’d tasted the stuff once but didn’t cotton to all those bubbles going up his nose. He wasn’t much of a drinker anyways. His ma was talking to Foster, nodding and smiling at some tale he was bandying about. But when she saw LeRoy studying her, she shot him back a warning with her eyes. When they’d been welcomed into the gaily lit house and stepped into the foyer, his ma had whispered to him, “Go find that cowboy I gave that mare to—Brett Hendricks. He’s gonna need your help tonight.”
LeRoy leaned down and nuzzled against Gennie’s ear, suddenly wishing he’d left her at home. But she’d wanted to come, and seeing as how she’d spent all those years alone in the mountains with only a wolf-dog for company, he would never think to dissuade her from a chance to get out of her ranch clothes and into something frilly with all those petticoats. Besides, his ma voiced no objections to Gennie’s attendance. If some trouble was coming down the pipe, his ma didn’t afear for Gennie’s safety.
“Darlin’, I’d like nothin’ better’n to sit by yer side. But there’s some fellas I need to say hello to. I’ll be right back.” She shot him one of her sweet smiles that made him want to scoop her up and plant kisses all over her mouth. Then she went back to tapping her foot and listening to the music.
Brett Hendricks had just walked into the room, with two punchers at his side. LeRoy recalled seeing those two at the corral the day they’d brought in the horses. The young skinny kid stood wide-eyed taking in the festivities. The other cast an interested glance at the musicians on the little stage. Hendricks’s friends hung back as a few other cowboys ambled into the room, all looking like ducks out of water in their spiffy duds and slicked-back hair.
LeRoy figured they felt naked without their hats. He knew he did, but Miz Foster had insisted on a no-hat rule for the evening. Might just as well have told her guests to take off their boots. A cowboy’s hat was his most cherished and useful piece of clothing. Not only did it protect his head from hot and wet weather, it sometimes served as a drinking cup or a pail to cart water to put out a fire. It was often a pillow on hard ground and a signal flag to warn the approach of danger. A head without a hat just felt plum naked.
Hendricks seemed to be searching for someone, but when he caught LeRoy’s eye, he came toward him. LeRoy met him halfway, by the swinging door that led into the kitchen.
The buster had an excited look about him. He stuck out his hand for LeRoy to shake, saying, “You’re Sarah Banks’s son—ain’t that right?”
LeRoy nodded. “How’s that mare workin’ out?”
Hendricks whistled and smoothed his hair. “She’s a fine horse. I still don’t git why she gave ’er to me, but I’m mighty grateful. That mare got us through the fire t’other day—calm as all git-out. We had to break through to the river, and I was with some town folks ain’t never rode before.”
When LeRoy had smelled fire two days ago, he’d ridden fast to the river just north of their ranch, where he saw the wildfire streaking across the prairie. He’d meant to turn back and head to town to help, but then the clouds had bust loose and dumped rain in sheets for miles around. Wet smoke and ash had soaked the air. He later heard the fairgrounds had been charred to cinders.
“Glad t’ hear y’all got out safe.” He took an immediate liking to Hendricks. He knew this fella had to be something special for his ma to do what she did.
Hendricks chewed his lip, lost in some thought. “I was wonderin’ if’n yer ma was here. I’d like to—”
The cowboy’s face drained of blood. His hands fell to his sides. LeRoy turned his head and looked to where Hendricks’s gaze had swiveled to. Two fellas, obviously cowboys, stood back in shadows behind the long trestle food tables. Presently, one other eased into view near them, with a cruel and humorless mouth. They had trouble written all over them.
“Who’re they?” LeRoy asked, his fingers drifting down to his Colt at his side, hidden under his dressy coat.
Hendricks spoke through a pinched mouth. “Ned Handy’s that tall one yonder. Fella next ta him is Rufus Shore. Don’t know t’other one. They got mixed up in a rustlin’ outfit, and Foster’d set them afoot. Why in tarnation would they show their faces here?”
“’Cause they got some trouble planned.” LeRoy nodded his head toward Hendricks’s two pals, who were leaning against the wall near the main entry, eating food from plates they held in their hands. “Might be a good idea t’ let yer pals know. And yer boss.”
LeRoy looked back at his ma. Logan Foster was still chatting her up, and a few old ladies had joined them by the drinks table. His ma was chuckling at something the rancher said, paying no mind to the unsettling developments. The appearance of those cowboys at the rancher’s birthday party could mean only one thing, from what LeRoy could figure—they wanted payback. Which meant Foster—and maybe his family—were in danger. So what was his ma up to?
***
Phineas had planned to sneak into the house through the kitchen, but when he saw Cummings join up with those two punchers and slip inside through a back room window, he had to follow.
His knees had shook as he clambered up and over the sill moments after he watched their shadows move silently through what looked to be a bedroom and out the door to a brightly lit hallway. A streak of light splashed across the floor, and Phineas inched quiet as a mouse behind them. But instead of following the three, he went left down the hall and found himself in a part of the ranch house that lay in darkness.
He could hear music seeping through the walls, so he edged along past closed doors until he came to a parlor. A few older folks all gussied up in stylish clothes, sitting in stuffed chairs, gave him a polite hello as Phineas nodded at them and smiled for all the world like he had business being there—though for the life of him he couldn’t think of an excuse to give ’em if they asked.
His heart beat hard against his ribs as he took stealthy steps past them and stopped in the doorway at the end of the room. Before him a grand party was underway, maybe fifty people all gussied, eating and talking and listening to folks playing some kind of lively music the likes of which P
hineas had never heard before.
It didn’t take him but a second to spot Orlander. The rancher stood by the little stage in brown trousers, a silk vest, and a long-tailed coat that Phineas knew concealed his long-barreled Colt. He was pretending to enjoy the music, but Phineas could tell he kept one eye on Cummings, who was now standing behind some tables alongside those two disgruntled punchers.
Phineas had tucked his own revolver he’d kept from the war into the back of his trousers, and it sat like a lump of hard coal against his spine. He nervously scouted the room. So where was this fella Hendricks? And how in blazes did those punchers think they could lure him outside? Maybe Cummings would go up to him and tell him he wanted to show him something. Or maybe he’d be foolish and push the nozzle of his gun up against the buster’s back and tell ’im to start walkin’. But that wasn’t likely. Too risky.
Suddenly, the music stopped, and a bright sound of metal against glass rang out. Phineas saw a young heavy-set woman in a blue dress poofed up with a bunch of petticoats step up onto the stage, her head bobbing with a hundred blond curls. She was clanging a glass with a spoon.
“Foster and I are soooo overjoyed to have you here to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. Logan, darling, come, come!” She waved a gloved hand toward a fella Phineas reckoned was the rich, famous rancher Logan Foster. The fella grinned and headed over to her, followed by an Injun woman in a buckskin skirt and white button blouse. Two silver-streaked black braids draped over her shoulders. Just as the rancher got to his wife’s side, Phineas saw Cummings’s face blanch and his mouth twist into a scowl.
Two young cowboys were headed straight for Cummings. Phineas reached his hand around his back and grabbed his gun, then dropped to a crouch. He was maybe forty feet from Cummings, but he could get a bead on him if he had to. He just knew one of them fellas was Brett Hendricks.
Chapter 35
Brett’s pulse rushed like water in his ears. Handy and Shore had a lot of nerve stepping foot into Foster’s house—especially at a time like this. Whatever they meant to do, it involved hurting a lot of people and causing Logan Foster as much anguish as possible.
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 33