Colorado Hope by Charlene Whitman
Copyright ©2014 Charlene Whitman
All Rights Reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book, for the most part, are fictitious, although the author has tried to keep as historically accurate as possible. Some license was taken with names and settings of actual people and places but with honest intent. Any errors in this regard remain the fault of the author.
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Cover and Interior designed by Ellie Searl, Publishista®
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Morgan Hill, CA
Praise for Colorado Promise
Book 1 in The Front Range Series
“A fresh new voice in Historical Romance, Charlene Whitman captured me from the beginning with characters I won't soon forget, a sizzling-sweet romance, a love triangle, spiteful villains, heart-throbbing heroes, and a plot full of intrigue that kept me guessing. Ms. Whitman's magnificent research transported me to the Colorado plains and left me longing to join the characters amidst the wildflower-dotted fields, rushing rivers, and panoramic Rocky Mountains. Fans of Historical Western Romance will not soon forget Colorado Promise.”
—MaryLu Tyndall, best-selling romance author
“An adequate writer of historical fiction will include minor bits and pieces about the setting of their story. A good writer will do a bit of research to make sure there are historical facts included in the pages of their novel. A superb writer will create characters that could have actually lived during the time in which the story takes place and allows them to act as people in that time period would have really acted. Charlene Whitman is a superb writer."
—Examiner.com
“Ms. Whitman's voice is honest and true to the times. Not only in the way her characters spoke but also in the narrative. I lost sleep because I wanted to know what happened next. It's one of those stories you become invested in the characters. Five stars and 3 ‘YEEHAWs’ to Charlene Whitman and Colorado Promise!”
—author Su Barton
“The author has done a great job of telling the story about early Colorado and the settlers transplanted from the East. She drew the growing love between Emma and Lucas perfectly. I give it five stars.”
—author Sheila Huntington
Also in The Front Range Series by Charlene Whitman
Colorado Promise
Wild Secret, Wild Longing
Colorado Dream
Chapter 1
May 16, 1875
A fierce wind whipped Grace Ann Cunningham’s hair, yanking at the long strands and pulling them free from their pins. She squinted through the haze of the blustery day and stroked her bulging belly, trying to comfort her baby, who seemed just as agitated by the sudden storm. Her back ached from sitting on the hard buckboard bench all these miles—much less comfortable than the plush sleeper car they’d enjoyed last week on the train from Illinois to Cheyenne.
She frowned at the dark roiling clouds that had moved in and quickly blotted out the sun. What had been a pleasant uneventful morning was now turning into an ominous and unsettling afternoon on the open prairie.
Grace sucked in a breath as the baby again kicked her ribs in protest. Her sweet husband’s sun-browned face tightened in concern as he caught her gesture. He pulled on the reins of the two draft horses—sturdy ones they’d bought yesterday in Cheyenne. Surefooted, the seller had told them. And Monty knew his horses, so she trusted his purchase and assurance that they’d haul them without incident to Fort Collins. But looking at her husband’s face now, seeing the subtle telltale signs indicating that he hadn’t expected this squall nor felt at ease about it, gave her pause. And her normally talkative husband had been too quiet this last hour, eyeing the sky and listening to the roar of the nearby river, as if hearing their complaints and trying to suss out nature’s intentions.
“The baby all right, darlin’?” He scooted over on the buckboard seat to look her over, then took her hands in his.
Warmth from his gentle grip comforted her, but not as much as the love streaming from his adoring gaze.
“I think so,” she told him, then smiled as he laid his hand firmly on her belly.
Grace thanked the Lord in a silent prayer for this wonderful man who’d married her in a simple ceremony last September. All those years she’d lived with her doting aunt Eloisa in the boardinghouse back in Bloomington, she never imagined she’d be blessed with such happiness. When Montgomery Cunningham had first stepped into the parlor to take a room before starting college at Wesleyan University, she’d been a shy, giggling girl of ten. Neither of them foresaw the love that would spark six years later when he showed up again unexpectedly, about to head west to explore and survey lands unknown.
Monty closed his eyes, his hand still on the baby in her womb. She imagined him communing with their baby, speaking to it the way he spoke to rivers, to trees, to the land he traversed by boat and on horseback and on foot. Something had happened to him when he returned from the Hayden Yellowstone Expedition. He had changed from boy to man, yes—but it was more than that. He had fallen in love with the West, and with rivers in particular. Although he’d studied geology in college with John Powell, water captured his heart, and he sought out trips that had him navigating whitewater. Nothing made his eyes sparkle more than talking about the way water moved and sang as it cascaded and carved the face of mountains and spilled into waiting valleys. Well, except the way he looked at her.
Monty may have loved rivers, but Grace knew he loved her more. So much more, for he gladly gave up his exploring to settle down and marry and start a family. Although, Grace thought moving to the new town of Fort Collins, Colorado, was adventure enough. She hoped he’d come to see it that way as well and not be beset by a restless stirring to venture back out into the wild.
The West! Quite the change from her simple, comfortable life in Bloomington—if the lawless and untamed town of Cheyenne was any indication. She shuddered thinking of the seedy saloons and lecherous unwashed men they’d encountered as they sought purchase of their horses and wagon yesterday. If Monty hadn’t assured her she’d live in the manner she’d been accustomed to—with the same stars twinkling overhead—she would never have considered moving west. Not that she fancied some ostentatious lifestyle; she’d lived in a modest home under her aunt’s care. But she desired familiarity and the comfort of belonging to a community.
When he opened his eyes, she dared asked, “How much further?” They’d been traveling since dawn, making good time despite the roughness of the road and the boggy sections dotted with patches of melting snow. They’d been assured in Cheyenne that the fifty-mile road south through Colorado Territory was a bit rough but well traveled—but then, they’d also been given predictions of clear skies and gentle breezes the whole way to Fort Collins.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, glancing around as the unseasonably warm wind increased to a dull roar. “Not much further. The river is coming closer to the road now, and according to the map, that large bend in the road back there comes right before the northern ten-mile marker.”
A finger of wind lifted the brim of
his felt hat, showing eyes as stormy as the day, his one hazel eye catching a glint as a fork of lightning snapped out of the brooding clouds overhead. A second later the ground rattled with thunder.
Grace cried out as the horses reared and whinnied—then thumped down hard on hooves that pounded the ground in agitation.
Monty jumped down from the buckboard and calmed them, speaking words that the wind snatched from his mouth as he held fast the hat on his head. He took the closest horse’s leather neck strap in hand and, cooing comforting sounds, got the frightened beast to take a step, then another. He shot Grace a look that set her heart racing. She could tell he was afraid, and that wasn’t a look she’d often seen on Monty’s face. He seemed to be searching for some shelter, but they were on wide-open land, with no trees in sight.
“We’d best turn back,” he yelled to her over the snarling storm, leaning close to make sure she heard him. Dirt and debris swirled in the air around their heads, and Grace squinted as it pelted her cheeks. “Maybe head to that ranch we passed a couple o’ hours ago.”
Grace wrapped her shawl tighter around her body as the balmy air suddenly turned chilly and icy fingers of wind tickled her neck. Monty grumbled something under his breath as fat raindrops assaulted them.
Monty rushed back to the wagon and pulled out a canvas tarp from underneath their boxes and crates filled with their possessions. Another flash of lightning streaked the angry sky, followed by an even louder thwack of thunder that sounded as if it had rent the earth.
Grace blurted out a cry and buried her face in her hands as she listened to Monty wrestle with the tarp. Presently, she felt it fling over her head, and the rain pelted the thick cloth sheltering her in dull thuds. Monty slipped in beside her and huffed, his body heat instantly warming the space.
He turned to her, and in the stuffy enclosure that ensconced them both, he planted a gentle kiss on her lips, then pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, as if to drink in every bit of her. As if the rain and the river were not moisture enough for his soul. Her heart thumped hard against his chest and the baby kicked again, making him chuckle as he reluctantly ended their intimate moment.
“He’s a strong one,” Monty said, his face gleaming. “And already making sure he’s not left out of the fun.”
“He?” Grace teased. For some reason Monty was sure she was carrying a son. But she knew he would just as gladly welcome a girl into his arms. He grinned and gave her a look that made her pulse race. That lopsided smile on his strong, square jaw never failed to stir her passion.
He lowered his voice and whispered hot words in her ears. “I’m looking forward to a bath and then a sweet night in your arms in a clean, warm bed—with a soft feather-tick mattress.” He rubbed her bulging belly mindlessly as he peeked out at the storm that now howled like a sick wolf. Grace ran a hand through his hair as thick and brown as molasses, which inclined to curl around his ears.
“Maybe we should just wait a bit?” she said, thinking how Colorado weather was known to change suddenly. Just as this squall had come upon them unawares, perhaps it would clear up just as quickly. Or so she hoped.
He chewed on that idea a moment, then shook his head. “We’re too exposed out here. The storm has stalled overhead, which means we’re a likely target for lightning to strike. We need to get moving, get somewhere safe . . .” He blew out a frustrated breath as rain seeped in under the tarp and soaked his hair. His eyes grew stormier with the weather, and water dribbled down his rough-shaved cheeks and under his shirt collar. Grace felt the weight of her soggy skirt hem pulling on her, and noticed her stockings were wet and leaking water into her shoes. Her teeth started to chatter.
“It’s bad and getting worse,” Monty mumbled as the horses began dancing in place, just as eager to get out of the rain and the open prairie, as if they sensed danger coming their way. He jiggled the reins and yelled out, “Haw!” to get the animals moving. With a lurch they trotted forward, throwing their heads in protest.
Grace now heard the river as the wind momentarily calmed. It was close, and raging. They’d been skirting the Cache la Poudre for miles now, admiring the wild waters bouncing over boulders in the narrow sluices carved in the canyon. Most of what they’d glimpsed showed a swollen wide river moving at a fast clip, but as they neared Fort Collins, the banks had risen more steeply, with evergreens growing clear to the water’s edge, and steep cliffs sweeping up into canyon walls that thundered with the echo of whitewater. Grace wondered if Monty would feel safer and more in control right now if he were at the bow of a canoe instead of holding the reins of two skittish horses he’d barely made the acquaintance of.
“The bridge can’t be that far off,” Monty said, pulling her attention back to the dirt road that was starting to resemble a pond before them. Grace shuddered. “Maybe we should try to cross, and seek shelter on the other side.” His voice sounded unsure, which unsettled Grace even more.
“Can you make out the road?” What she really wondered was if the horses would mire in all the mud. They were less upset though, now that Monty had them moving again. Moving was better than sitting still, out in the open, she reasoned. Although, from what she could make out up ahead through the sheets of rain obscuring the horizon, there was nothing but more open, flat land. She hadn’t been paying attention these last few miles. She’d been nodding off in the cool spring afternoon, the weak sun hardly warming her shoulders. How long would it take them to get to the bridge? Would it be safe to cross? A jolt of fear coursed up her back, and her baby kicked hard.
“Shh, little one,” she said, more to herself than to her baby, “it’ll be all right; just sleep . . .”
She fingered the silver chain around her neck and found the small round pendant, then gripped it tightly in her fist. Monty had given this trinket to her when he came back from his exploration of Yellowstone. An Indian guide had gifted it to him, after he helped rescue the man who had toppled overboard in some strong rapids. Etched into the flat silver disk was an eight-pointed star—an Indian symbol of hope, he was told.
She choked back tears as she huddled close to Monty, shivering and wet, listening to the rain beat on them, as if trying to drown out her dreams. She fussed with the tarp, trying to keep it draped overhead, as the wind grabbed at it, wrenching it from her grasp. Monty’s full attention was on the road and the horses reluctantly pulling the wagon.
Would they make it to Fort Collins? She pushed down her panic as the wind attacked anew. The horses now fought Monty’s attempt to urge them forward, and once more he jumped down and took hold of the long side strap and tried to coax them along the flooded road. Grace saw their hooves sink into mud with every step, which made them prance in agitation and throw their heads against the headstalls and blinders as if trying to get free.
Another crack of lightning exploded in the sky and set the horses into a near panic. Grace stiffened and clung to the side panel of the buckboard, shifting her feet but unable to get better purchase on the slippery wet wood.
Monty offered his hand. “You better come down, Gracie. I can’t predict how these horses will behave. They seem right ready to bolt.”
Grace nodded, and trying not to show her fear, gave him an encouraging smile, assuring him it was all right, that she’d brave this trial alongside him. She wanted him to see she was stalwart—despite her pregnancy—that she could handle the rugged West. They hadn’t much further to go, she consoled herself, and now, through the haze of mist and wind and rain she could make out what looked like a sturdy wood bridge—unlike like others they had crossed, which had been constructed from old metal railroad cars—spanning the Poudre River just a ways ahead. The roar of the river gave her more shivers, for it sounded altogether monstrous.
But if anyone could assess a river and its dangers, Monty could. She trusted him to get them safely across to the other side. Although, even from here she could see the dark water roiling and churning and overflowing its banks, splashing the underside of the bridge wit
h fury.
She gulped, let out a tense breath, then eased carefully down from the seat, Monty holding tightly to her hand and wrapping his other strong arm securely around her back to help lift her down and onto the saturated ground. Her nice new leather traveling shoes sank into sticky mud, but she would clean them later. Once they made it to the hotel in Fort Collins.
She steeled her nerves and took a deep breath. A surveying job was awaiting Monty’s arrival—in their new western town. They’d head to the land office tomorrow and file a homestead claim. They had plenty of money from the sale of her aunt’s property, plus the savings Monty had accumulated from his jobs as surveyor, cartographer, and river guide on the various expeditions he’d gone on over the last few years. They would spend the summer building a cabin and planting a garden and getting ready for the birth of their child—the first of many to come. They would make a home in the West, in the small but growing town of Fort Collins, presently to double in size with the advent of the railroad, assuring plenty of surveying work for Monty for years to come. The Indians no longer a threat, the West was becoming tamed, and towns like Fort Collins promised church, community, and hope for a bright future to those who dared to dream. Next year the nation would celebrate its centennial, and Colorado was slated to be admitted as the thirty-eighth state in the union. Yes, the country embraced hopeful prospects.
Grace consoled herself with these positive visions of her future, a way of fanning the flames of her hope against the attempts of the Front Range storm to snuff it out. With Monty’s arm holding her close as he urged the horses forward, Grace settled into that hope and reminded herself she was safe. Monty would make sure they made it. He’d had many close calls on his wilderness expeditions, but he was careful and strong and knew how to keep calm and level-headed in danger—and he’d faced plenty of situations more dangerous than a little rain and lightning.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 1