Page 11 of Willing to Wed the Rancher
He pressed his hand against his starched shirt, feeling the outline of a new chain and the two rings back where he’d worn them for years—right near his heart. He’d found the best jeweler in Denver and commissioned a new chain, which had taken more time than he’d anticipated.
Then one evening while dining at his hotel, he’d recognized an older couple who had been friends with his parents and the family. They now lived in New York City but were on vacation in Denver. They’d convinced him to join them for several of their excursions around the city including the theater, opera, and gardens.
Since he wanted to make the most of his time in the United States and in seeing all the sights that he’d only read about, he hadn’t minded postponing his departure. During one of their last outings, when the older couple had paired him with a young lady—a friend of a friend—he’d decided it was finally time toleave Denver. Not only hadn’t he wanted to spend time with any marriageable young women, but he also had to do what he’d come for.
Franz halted at a dirt path that wound through overlong grass and shrubs and aspens to the cabin. His stomach gave a lurch. This was it. The moment he’d been thinking about since the day he’d boarded the steamship in Hamburg more than a month ago. He was about to see his brother after six years apart.
What would they have to say to each other?
Franz pushed down his trepidation and forced his feet to start down the lane.
The place was quiet, almost as if no one were home or even living there anymore. Though a crisp morning breeze whispered among the long blades of grass, there wasn’t movement anywhere else, except a lone hen to one side of the cabin, pecking the earth.
Eric had said that he made a living by growing crops, mostly specializing in hay. The cleared fields beyond the cabin attested to those crops.
Franz paused and let his gaze sweep over the cabin and fields and the mountains rising in the distance beyond. Taken as a whole, he could admit the land was beautiful here, more so than he’d expected.
In fact, during the stagecoach ride up Boreas Pass, he’d enjoyed the view of the snow-covered peaks as they’d loomed larger than life. He’d seen several moose, elk, and even a black bear fishing along a riverbank. When they’d reached the summit of the pass, they’d driven by heaping mounds of snow that hadn’t yet melted even though the first day of June had been upon them.
He supposed he could understand to some degree why Eric had chosen this area to build a new life. Not only was it breathtaking, but it was far away from the gossip and loathingand shunning that Eric and Luisa had earned from friends and family for all that had happened.
At the crack of a branch nearby, the hairs on the back of Franz’s neck stood up with the premonition that someone was watching him. He scanned both sides of the dirt path, but only small butterflies and other insects fluttered about the grass.
Franz straightened his shoulders with resolve, then strode onward down the path.
“Now!” came a loud whisper from the trees.
A moment later, something began to fall above him. He glanced up in time to see what appeared to be a blanket before it landed upon his face and over his body.
“We got him!” came a boy’s excited shout from a nearby tree.
“Help me down, Dieter,” said a little girl from another tree.
“I’m coming. But first I need to secure our prisoner.”
At the thump of feet hitting the ground and the crackle of brush, Franz guessed the boy had launched himself down from the tree. Dieter was the name of Eric’s boy. Which meant the girl was Bianca. Eric had talked about both in his letters.
Were they playing some sort of game with him? Should he toss off the blanket or should he allow them to pretend that they really had captured him as their prisoner?
“Do you think he’s the killer?” The little girl’s voice contained a note of fear.
“He has to be. Why else would he be here?”
Their English was impeccable, without a trace of a German accent. Clearly, Eric and Luisa had wanted their children to be seen as Americans and not Germans—likely because of the discrimination German immigrants often faced, if the stories were true.
Little hands grabbed at the blanket that barely covered Franz’s head and chest. “Don’t move, mister,” the boy said as he yanked the blanket tighter only to pull it halfway off Franz.
Franz held himself motionless. “Like this?”
“Yes, just like that.”
The boy found Franz’s arms and tugged first one behind his back and then the other. A second later, he began to wind a rope around Franz’s wrists.
“Dieter? What’s wrong?” A woman’s worried call came from the direction of the cabin—or at least, what sounded like that direction, since Franz couldn’t see with the blanket draped over his head and covering his face.
“We captured the killer!” Dieter yelled back, excitement still lacing his voice.
“Dieter!” This time the woman’s voice was laced with rebuke more than worry. “You can’t capture anyone. It’s not safe.”
