Brett knew they had a beef against Foster. But he also recalled the venomous threat Handy had given Brett and Roberts for exposing their rustling activities. Nothing but bad was gonna come out of this, and Brett knew Roberts had the same idea—get those two outside and away from Foster and his family.
He was glad he’d listened to his gut about bringing his gun. He’d hoped he wouldn’t need to use it. But he reckoned it was a fool’s hope. Jus’ keep Angela safe. Whatever happens. The thought of Angela getting hurt stirred up all those old feelings of protection and fury. Never again would he let some scum of the earth hurt someone Brett loved.
“I came was hopin’ you’d come over here,” Handy said with a nasty sneer when Brett and Roberts walked up to him and Shore and stared hard into their faces.
“What d’ya reckon you’re doin’ here? Ya got a lot of nerve,” Roberts ground out in a quiet breath. “Foster’ll have yer hide.”
Brett caught a look at the cowboy standing off to the side, behind Shore. The crusty fella with a fat gut, thick black hair, and a red-streaked beard looked to be about forty, and he regarded Brett with glassy, empty dark eyes. This close, Brett recognized him, and then recalled where he’d seen him. All the air whooshed out of his lungs.
Orlander’s man. That’s why Handy and Shore are here—to deliver me on a stake to Orlander.
Brett laid a hand on Roberts’s wrist. The Missourian turned and questioned Brett with his steel-cold eyes.
“Let me handle this, Tate,” Brett said. “Jus’ . . . go and keep Archie outta trouble.”
Roberts’s steely gaze told Brett—and the three scoundrels watching him—that he had no intention of leaving Brett’s side.
Handy’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Listen, Roberts. As much as I’d like to give ya what ya deserve, I got somethin’ to say to Hendricks here—in private. So, skedaddle.”
Roberts didn’t move.
Orlander’s man pushed up against Brett, and Brett felt the hard metal of a gun’s muzzle press against his coat at his ribs. He stiffened.
“Outside, Hendricks,” the puncher said with a bitter grin.” Ya don’t want ta cause a commotion in the middle of this here nice party—with all these nice people havin’ such a good time.”
Brett looked over at Angela sitting on the little stage. She was smiling and listening to Miz Foster ramble on about her wonderful husband.
Brett turned back to the fella at his side. He said in a low voice, “Jus’ take it easy, fella. I’ll head over to that door yonder”—he pointed at a side entrance to the big room—“and you c’n follow me out to the road.”
“I got a better idea,” the fella said, while Handy and Shore nervously watched the room, their hands twitchy at their sides. “Let’s you ’n’ me slip back into the kitchen.”
Brett shrugged. “Fine. Let’s go.” He shot Roberts a warning. Don’t follow us. He’d leave Roberts to deal with Handy and Shore. If those two thought they’d get away scot-free after helping Orlander’s man, they were sorely mistaken. Brett wondered if Lambert was somewhere in the room. If he caught sight of those two, they’d never make it three feet.
Just then, a fella with a balding head in a dirt-brown coat yelled from across the room.
“Cummings! You hold it right there!” His voice had a heavy Texan twang.
Orlander’s man spun around but kept the gun jammed up against Brett’s ribs. “Frye,” he muttered, equal parts shock and outrage.
The balding man brandished a gun, and party guests screamed and scrambled away from tables. Logan Foster, standing on the platform, swung around, scowling.
“Who in tarnation are you—?”
“Stop that man!” the gun-toting fella yelled, pointing at Cummings, who clenched Brett’s arm tighter.
Through the noise of chairs clattering and women shrieking—Miz Foster’s voice the loudest and most hysterical—Brett heard the whistle of a bullet. An explosion of splinters rained down on his head when the bullet hit the rafter above him.
Cummings yanked Brett and practically threw him into the kitchen after kicking open the swinging door. The folks cooking and washing dishes screamed and ran pell-mell for the back door, vacating the kitchen. Brett twisted sharply and wrenched free of Cummings’s grasp, then smashed his first into the fella’s cheek.
With a woof, Cummings careened sideways into the wall as he pulled out his revolver. Pans hanging on the wall crashed to the floor.
Brett lunged and tackled him as screams erupted around him. The fat old puncher struggled to get purchase with his feet as Brett plowed into him, head aimed at the fella’s bulging gut. Cummings’s gun clattered along the floorboards when Brett laid him flat.
A gunshot fired in the room behind him. Brett’s rage roiled like lava, but he swallowed it down and grabbed the gun tucked against the wall between some cabinets. A memory of Cummings’s heartless and lustful expression flitted into Brett’s mind. He’d stood by and grinned while his boss’s kid tried to ravage that Mexican girl. Cummings had been one of the cowboys that had chased him into the desert, fired at him.
Brett kicked Cummings in the chest as hard as he could. The cowboy grunted in pain and tried to push up to stand.
Footsteps sounding behind Brett made him turn his head. Archie Halloran came tumbling into the kitchen, then skidded to a stop, his eyes wide.
“Brett! You’re alright.” He swiped at hand across his forehead, staring at Cummings moaning on the floor. “Things are going crazy in there!”
“Hold this,” Brett said, handing him Cummings’s pistol. “If he even moves a pinky, shoot ’im.”
Brett saw the terror in Archie’s eyes, but he knew the tenderfoot could handle it. “I know ya can’t aim well, but this fella’s big and close. Even if ya aim fer the wall, you’re bound t’ hit ’im in some part of his body.”
Archie gulped and cradled the gun in both hands. Brett gave him a pat on the shoulder and rushed back out into the great room. His gaze swept the scene.
Roberts was embroiled in fisticuffs with Handy. LeRoy Banks had Rufus Shore by the arm and was dragging him toward the stage, which presently was a jumble of overturned chairs and music stands. Logan Foster crouched by the stage, his gun at the ready, his head swiveling around, watching for the next sign of trouble.
Brett searched the room until he found Angela. She was huddled with George and the other musicians—and a dozen other guests—in the corner behind the stage, nowhere near the doors leading out. He didn’t see Miz Foster or her girls. Good. Mebbe she got ’em out.
But where was the balding fella in the brown coat that had fired the first shot? And who was he? Why’d he call Cummings out? Was he one of Orlander’s men?
Just then Ned Handy yelled out and pointed at Brett. “That’s him. That’s Hendricks!”
Roberts smacked Handy’s temple with the butt of his Colt, and Handy slumped, his head flopping to the side. He slid to the floor.
The doors to the great room flew open. Two big fellas rushed in—one a Mexican wearing a sombrero and gray poncho and the other a huge lumbering ox—their pistols on the draw. The room echoed with high-pitched screams as they slid to a stop and looked for someone.
Brett’s eyes followed theirs and set upon one of Foster’s guests standing with a defiant look by the food table. He was about the same age as the rancher, all spraddled out in fine party clothes, and he glared at Brett as he stood at the kitchen door. The fella then pulled a gun from the side of his trousers and aimed it at him.
Shocked, Brett barely flinched in time as another bullet whizzed past his ear. He dove to the floor and heard Angela scream. He strained to see across the room. Foster spun around and stared at his guest, flustered in confusion.
“Horace . . . ?”
The man ignored Foster. He aimed again as the two big fellas that’d just burst in took up positions behind overturned tables.
Crimany, this’ll be a bloodbath soon enough.
Roberts landed a punch to
Handy’s kidney as LeRoy Banks tripped up Ned Shore, who planted his face on the floor. Sarah Banks stood over both, a pearl-handled revolver held in steady aim at the two now sitting doubled over.
Freed up, Roberts and LeRoy ran toward Foster. Lead flew through the air as the rancher ducked. The bullets weren’t for him.
Roberts crashed over tables and chairs, silver utensils scattering and dishes shattering. He stumbled and fell, then got to his feet and found himself facing the Mexican.
The ugly fella smiled, half his teeth missing, as he set a bead on Roberts. Brett cursed and rushed headlong to stop him, but he was too far away. No time to shoot him either.
Another bullet exploded. The floorboard in front of Brett splintered and threw wood chunks into his eyes as he dove again, this time behind a giant potted plant.
Suddenly Brett saw movement in the corner, behind the Mexican. A big black object smashed down on the Mexican’s head just as the scoundrel looked about to shoot. It was some kind of music case, like Angela owned, only bigger. One of the musicians stood behind the fella as his knees crumpled and he collapsed sideways.
Violet! Brett couldn’t believe his eyes. The purty young gal had walloped the giant of a fella and knocked him out plum cold, a smug smile on her face as she looked down him sprawled at her dainty shoes.
Roberts could hardly believe his eyes either. He flashed a grateful smile at Violet, then spun around to grab the other burly fella. But LeRoy was already on the bear, a knife at his throat. He stood limp in LeRoy’s arms, his beady eyes flashing with fear.
Two other of Foster’s punchers had grabbed the finely dressed man by the arms, forcing the gun to fall from his hand. Another puncher picked up the weapon and then searched him for more.
Brett listened to the sound of quiet sink into the room. Voices hushed. Logan Foster got up out of his crouch and straightened, smoothing out his party clothes and twiddling his moustache. A heavy snort blew out his nose as he strode over to the man Brett had no doubt was Orlander.
It dawned on Brett—this whole shenanigans was about him. About what he’d done. About Orlander’s kid. He’d thought he’d outrun all his troubles, but here they were, dragging behind him, the way they always did.
He stood and came out from behind the plant, then walked into the middle of the room and stopped. He set his face and waited.
Orlander scowled in disgust, mean spite in his eyes, flinging the cowboys’ hands off him. Then he pulled himself tall and looked Foster in the eye. The two men faced off inches apart, glowering at the other.
“Horace Orlander, ya wanna tell me why ya brought yer scalawags here to shoot up my party?” Foster spit out.
The room got quieter than the grave. Orlander pursed his lips, then said in a trembling voice, “I didn’t have no intention of ruinin’ yer party. I jus’ want to see justice done for ma boy.”
Foster waited. Brett noticed Angela standing with her arm around the violin maker, watching and listening. His heart ached, longing for her, for her arms around him. What would happen now was anyone’s guess. But Brett had a terrible sinking feeling that once Orlander told his tale—which would surely be a passel of lies—there’d be no hope that Angela would ever speak to him again. Who would believe a poor, homeless cowboy over a rich and powerful rancher? No one.
“I’m takin’ yer fella there with me.” He pointed at Brett.
Foster’s brows narrowed. “Why? So’s you c’n put a bullet through his head?”
Orlander exploded and got up in Foster’s face. “He shot my boy.”
Foster frowned. “Wade’s dead?”
Orlander scowled, his hands fisted on his hips. “As good as.”
Brett swallowed past the rock lodged in his throat. Clearly these two men were friends and cut of the same cloth. Hopelessness sought to suck him under.
A roomful of guests and servants stared at the two men. Sarah Banks stood at the back, her gun still aimed at the two rustlers. She looked straight at Brett, but not with pity. She knows the truth of what happened. She gave ya that horse because ya done the right thing.
Her look swept away his glum feelings and shot courage into him. He took steps toward Orlander. Foster cocked his head and studied Brett. “Whatta ya got ta say ’bout this?”
“I done nothin’ wrong,” Brett answered, glaring at Orlander.
The rancher detonated at Brett’s words, lunging with hands outstretched for Brett’s throat. “I’ll kill ya! I’ll kill ya!”
“Whoa,” Foster said, grabbing hold of Orlander’s shoulder and yanking him back hard. Orlander slapped Foster away, venom in his eyes.
“Stop protectin’ him, Logan. He picked a fight with Wade, and then shot at him, no warnin’ at all. Yer man’s a killer.”
“An’ so ya brought these scamps with ya, to do yer dirty work?” Foster gestured to the bear of a man that LeRoy had a knifepoint and the Mexican that was groaning woozy on the floor at Roberts’s feet. Brett met Roberts’s eyes, and the cowboy’s mouth quirked up into a grin. He told me he’d have my back. Roberts was as good a friend as Brett’d ever had. But nothing Roberts or the Cheyenne woman said could be of help. It was just Orlander’s word against his own. That Cummings fella—he’d lied to his boss, covering for the kid. Well, no surprise there.
He turned and looked at LeRoy Banks, wondering at the satisfied smile on his face. And there was his ma, standing over Handy and Shore as calm as day, as if watching chickens setting on their eggs, a young, purty gal standing guard with her. Brett reckoned the gal to be LeRoy’s wife. He might even have said they looked downright gleeful at this messy turn of events.
Some cowboys itched for a fight, but LeRoy and his ma were different. They’d risked their lives for him, jumping into the fight. This was all about honor for them.
He grunted at the word. What kind of honor did he really have? Even if he saved every gal in the world from the likes of Orlander’s kid, it would never ransom the guilt he felt over leaving his ma in the clutches of that monster. No God in heaven, nor any human, could forgive him for his cowardly, selfish action that day. That song Angela played may have brought him a moment of peace, but it was like pouring whiskey on a gangrene leg. It couldn’t save him. It led ya out of the fire but dumped ya into the fryin’ pan.
Chapter 36
Angela leaned against George, who held her close and stroked her hair. The room around them was in shambles, and her head reeled with the flurry of violence that had erupted around her. Streamers hung limply from the rafters and lay trampled on the floor. The beautifully decorated tables were strewn all over, and the chairs and music stands sat in a jumble on the dais. Food smeared the polished and varnished wood flooring that only ten minutes earlier had reflected back the shiny, happy faces of Adeline’s dinner guests. At least she and the other musicians had kept enough wits about themselves to stash their instruments in the trunk behind the dais that had housed all the linens.
She shook from head to toe, glad Adeline had managed to escape with her girls. They were probably hiding under a bed upstairs somewhere. Never, in all her wildest imaginings, would she have expected a gunfight to break out at Logan Foster’s birthday party.
So much for the West being gentrified, she thought with consternation. The sooner she fled back to New York, the better. Though there were perils there as well, at least they were ones she could anticipate and avoid. Those dark alleys and neighborhoods where the criminal element of society took advantage of unsuspecting passersby were pockets of danger. But here, in the West, danger was everywhere. There was no place safe—from snakes, from the harsh elements, from unprincipled men. Guns or fists seemed to be the answer to every problem.
The guests around her seemed just as flustered and distraught—especially the old ladies on the opera board. A gentleman leaned over Lavenia McConnoly, who’d managed to find an unbroken chair to collapse into. He spoke consolingly while Arta Pilsbury dabbed a handkerchief along Lavenia’s brow.
Thick tensio
n choked the room as Mr. Foster stood and argued with the rancher called Orlander. This was the man Brett and Tate had been discussing outside the window the other night. Tate had been right—the rancher wanted Brett dead for shooting his son.
She thanked God that no one had been shot, and that this angry rancher had been apprehended. But while it appeared that Mr. Foster was doing his best to protect Brett, she imagined that once the law got involved, there’d be no hope for Brett. Would he be hung? She had no idea what justice looked like in Colorado, but she’d heard stories. Terrible ones.
Her heart wrenched with misery and disappointment. Despite it all, she loved him. Loved him wildly and deeply. She couldn’t help it or sway her feelings. No reasoning of her mind could squelch the passion pouring from her heart. Just looking at Brett—standing there, facing these accusations with dignity and calm—made her love him even more.
But she loved a criminal, an outlaw. If he didn’t hang, he’d probably go to jail. And if by some miracle he walked away from this crime a free man, how could she ever believe he could be the kind of husband she needed and desired? How could she trust he wouldn’t turn on her, hurt her? She couldn’t. All of this—this awful mess—was because Brett Hendricks had picked a fight and lost his temper. If he can blow up and shoot a gun at some cowboy, who’s to say he won’t shoot you—or your children?
“I wanna hear Hendricks’s side,” Mr. Foster said after a long pause. He turned to Brett. “Son, why doncha tell what happened.” He shot the other rancher a stern look. “And don’t ya interrupt.”
Mr. Orlander took a step back, his hands on his hips, and huffed. Mr. Foster looked at Brett, encouraging him to speak with a nod of his head. Brett let out a long breath and looked over at the Indian woman who was holding a gun over two men on the floor. Angela wondered who she was and why she doing that. She guessed the young man holding a knife at the throat of that huge frightening man was the woman’s son. Were they Brett’s friends? Why were they at the party?
Colorado Dream (The Front Range Series Book 4) Page 34