Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  She managed a chuckle, thinking of how silly she was being. They weren’t out in the wilderness. They were on an well-traveled road, and they’d passed not a few people riding north only two hours prior. She owed it to Monty to encourage him and show her trust in him.

  But just as she turned to say something to him, the ground slipped out from under her feet. She screamed as a loud explosion erupted around her, and her world turned upside down.

  ***

  Although the antique mirror was cracked and silver flecks of paint curled and distorted her image, Lenora Dutton could still see enough of her reflection in the glass to assess she was ready for the big day—a day she’d been long awaiting, yesiree. A quick glance out the window of the second-story room in the Drop Dead Saloon told her a nasty storm was brewing, but it only brought a pleased smirk to her face. God’s judgment was about to descend upon the evil remnants of the Dutton Gang. Namely, her snake of a husband, Hank, and the last two beef-headed scalawags that had faithfully and blindly followed their boss everywhere he led them—which, much to her delight, included the last stop on their bank-robbing journey: the Denver City Jail.

  The hanging had been scheduled for high noon, but due to the inclement weather—more likely the lazy men assigned to erect the gallows—it was now set for three p.m. Lenora figured it was approaching noon, but she had no timepiece. Her head was a little woozy after imbibing a bit too much whiskey last night. She craned her neck closer to the mirror and scrutinized the bags under her eyes, then reached for her powder puff and minimized the damage.

  Last she remembered, she’d been sidling up to some such feisty card chisler whose name she couldn’t recall—and didn’t care to—and had no memory of being helped up the stairs and into her bed. Thankfully, when she awoke this morning, she still had her clothes on. Which made her wonder if the kindly but seedy saloon keeper had escorted her upstairs. The first thing she did upon waking was feel under the mattress for her leather satchel, then made sure all the contents were still there.

  A little giggle bubbled up as she thought of Hank swinging on the end of that rope, his legs kicking frantically, a black hood over his ugly, squat face. Thank God she would never have to stare into that mug ever again or hear his grating laughter. Good riddance! She’d bided her time and paid enough dues all these miserable years, pasting her smiles on and playing sweet on his every word. But it had been worth it. Because after today, the gold would be hers. All hers for the taking. And then she could head to San Francisco and start her new life—buy herself a big fancy mansion in the heart of the city, overlooking the ocean. Far from the dirt and grime and all uncouth manner of folks on the Front Range. She’d be the lady she was meant to be.

  Lenora grinned. Hank was as mean a rogue as ever was, but today he’d be dead. He’d rough-handled her plenty, and she’d had many a black eye and a few broken bones to show for her loyalty. But it was worth it, all worth it. Because she had watched him hide the gold in that cabin north of Fort Collins, up in the Poudre River Canyon. And it was a heap of gold.

  As she dabbed at a bit of beeswax from the unlit candle on the dresser with a spent match, she puckered her lips and turned her head from side to side. She was still young and attractive. And she’d learned all the tricks to snagging a man’s attention and heart, getting him to do her bidding. With her money and looks, she could live that high society life waiting for her in California.

  She tapped her foot as she thickened her long lashes with the wax, then adjusted the combs in her ebony hair. The traveling skirt and neat wool jacket she wore would keep her warm should that storm edge in. But she didn’t care if she arrived at the cabin soaked to the bone. She hadn’t been there in months—not since the time she’d finally had the opportunity to ride up there and move the gold before Hank got back from his latest escapade in Nebraska. She’d sweet-talked Clayton into letting her go “visit her poor, ailing mother” for a few hours. He never could say no to her, and he was sour at Hank anyways, since Hank chose to assign Clayton the task of babysitting her while the gang held up a stage heading to the armory.

  After plying that dunderhead with enough whiskey to choke a buffalo, she took his horse and rode north, returning the next day, Clayton nursing a pounding headache and none the wiser that she’d been gone a lot longer than promised. It gave her a thrill to know she alone knew where the gold was hidden, and it wouldn’t be easy to find, nosiree.

  But upon returning, she realized what would happen if Hank looked for his stash and found it gone. He’d question her, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to lie with enough convincing. Which made her go through with the plan she’d had all along. Her next opportunity, she used her feminine wiles—and another bottle of whiskey—to loosen Clayton’s tongue to learn where that week’s robbery would take place. And once the gang rode out of town, in the dark of night, Lenora slipped an itty-bitty note under the sheriff’s office door.

  Imagine her surprise when news spread through town the next day that there had been a confrontation at a bank in Colorado Springs, with a goodly number of outlaws shot—none other than members of the notorious Dutton Gang. Sadly, Hank hadn’t been among the dead, but at least he’d been caught—along with Clayton “the Blade” Wymore and that simpering chucklehead Billy Hill Cloyd—who couldn’t bear to hurt a flea, even though he was a better shot than Clayton and Hank combined.

  Lenora checked her reflection one last time, figuring her wagon would be ready by now. She’d paid the boy triple the usual to make sure all her bags and boxes were neatly packed and ready for her departure. She’d be able to get as far as the turnoff to Coyote Gulch up the Poudre canyon, but from there she’d have to unhitch the horse and ride the last few miles to the cabin, which was situated up against a wall of rock above some of the biggest rapids on the river.

  After pulling her satchel out from beneath the mattress, she stuffed her makeup and handkerchief in, then strode out of the room, her nose assaulted with the stale odor of cheap cigars and even cheaper perfume. Wind brushed branches against the cobwebbed windows that lined the walls near the long mahogany bar below the red plush-carpeted landing she marched across. She stepped over one drunk, who was lying facedown and blubbering something incoherent. She heard a loud snoring from the door on her right and lightly flounced down the staircase, eyeing the few patrons holing up inside the saloon on this stormy day. Most were nursing drinks and shuffling cards. Probably waiting to watch the hanging—along with everyone else in Denver City.

  The varnish on the banister railing had been worn down by the thousands of grimy, greasy hands that had drunkenly gripped it over the years, which made Lenora look forward to gracing the proper, upstanding hotels of San Francisco. There she would pursue her dream to act on a stage—a real stage, not some rickety, termite-infested saloon platform. She was meant for the stage, and had talent. Oh, no one had told her such, but she’d fooled plenty of folks with the roles she’d played throughout her life. She had more acting experience than anyone on Broadway in New York City, she figured. She’d even chosen a stage name: Stella Twilight. Wasn’t that just divine? It meant the stars in the sky—or something akin to that. She met a saloon gal once upon a time by that name and thought to use it someday. She would be that star on the stage, come hell or high water, yesiree.

  A glance at the newspaper on a nearby poker table showed headlines announcing the hanging. Already a crowd was gathering outside, their excitement building just like the storm. She had chosen to stay the night in this saloon on Blake Street for its proximity to the square, the courthouse visible from the front door.

  She positioned her shawl over her head, pulled on her long leather gloves, and ventured outside. Upon opening the saloon doors, she was hit with a blast of cold wind and a splatter of rain. Overhead, mean, thick black clouds hung, ready to dump their wrath upon the earth. A big smile lifted her cheeks. Soon, she told herself. California, here I come!

  Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the street. Ro
cks and rubble flew into the air the next block down—where the jail was. Shouting ensued, and then gunshots. Lenora ducked under the saloon’s porch overhang, ready to bolt back inside, when she heard someone shouting and the rumble of horse hooves pounding down a nearby street.

  “They’ve escaped!” a man yelled.

  Lenora clutched her heart. Oh no! She prayed the man wasn’t talking about Hank. How could they escape? She gritted her teeth. Clayton’s brother . . . He wasn’t a member of the gang, but he lived in Denver City, and he was a locksmith. He’d been useful when they needed to jimmy a lock. He owned some fast horses too. She hoped she was wrong and it was some other prisoner that had gotten out. She pursed her lips and grunted. Well, there was plenty of law around. Even if Hank got out, he wouldn’t make it very far. He’d be caught before he hit the city limits.

  At that moment, the boy from the livery rode up in her Schuttler & Studebaker spring wagon and jumped quickly down from the seat. He squatted alongside the wooden boardwalk, using the wagon for cover. More shots rang out in the air, and people screamed and ran as the bullets whined. Her horse reared up but didn’t break from his harness. If only she could see what was happening. But no doubt she’d find out soon enough.

  Lenora slipped behind a few of the men who’d run out from the saloon to see the commotion.

  “What’s happening?” one of them asked, his head darting from side to side, trying to make sense of the mayhem.

  Lenora heard rather than saw more horses. This time they were racing down Blake Street, in front of the saloon. She counted the animals’ legs—what she could make out through the crowd now huddled around her. Five or six horses, she figured. Then she caught a glimpse of the men riding like the Devil was on their tail.

  She gasped. Hank! Followed by Clayton and Billy. She cursed under her breath. With clenched fists, she watched as more horses galloped past, kicking up dirt and grit that mixed in with the pellets of rain whirling in the air. She wiped her face and covered her eyes until the sound of hooves petered out, and the crowd erupted in animated talk.

  The boy came up to her. “Miss, here’s your wagon.” His eyes caught hers, and she shook her head to sort what he was saying.

  “Oh, yes. Here’s somethin’ for your trouble.” She reached into her satchel and pressed a coin into his palm.

  “Thank you, miss,” he said, wide-eyed and craning to see down the street, where the outlaws had made a run for it. “I wonder if the sheriff will catch ’em.”

  She showed him a nervous smile. “I sure hope so. I’d hate to think of those horrid outlaws on the loose.”

  A nicely dressed man that oozed money next to her gave her a look-see and gazed approvingly. She saw the longing in his eyes and smiled demurely, a smile full of innocence and tinged with the appropriate amount of fear. “Perhaps you could find out . . . if it’s safe for me to travel all alone . . . ?”

  He gave a sweeping bow, removing his hat to reveal a large bald spot on the center of his head. Lenora hid a chuckle under her thick lashes. The moustache he sported must have borrowed all that hair from his scalp. “It would be my pleasure,” he told her, giving his facial hair a twirl before walking purposefully down the street. She really didn’t need his help, but she just couldn’t resist watching another slobbering fool rush off to do her bidding.

  Lenora climbed up with as much ladylike grace as possible onto the seat of her wagon and picked up the reins. Before she’d even said “giddap,” she saw the sheriff and two deputies trotting back her way—with a man on horseback in tow.

  She ducked her head under her shawl as Hank rode past, careful to not look up until they were long gone. She was glad she’d bought a new horse, for Hank would have surely recognized her piebald gelding. Not that he could do much about her being here.

  She squelched the urge to ride over to the courthouse and watch the hanging—from the front row. Pictured giving Hank a sweet smile so he’d know just who put him in his predicament. But she didn’t want to take the chance that someone, somehow, would recognize her and connect her to the Dutton Gang. She’d never joined in on any of their robberies, but she knew she could be considered an accessory of some kind. She’d been treated like one—that was for sure—Hank’s accessory to wear on his arm and toss about when he lost interest. She knew he’d had other women on the side. He’d often come back to where they were laying low with his clothes reeking of another woman’s perfume.

  Through the shouting, running crowd, she’d determined they’d only caught him. And from what she could tell from the loud exchanges around her, two of the Dutton Gang had somehow given the sheriff the slip. A group of concerned citizens was gathering on the steps of the courthouse, but Hank was being hauled over to the gallows.

  “They’re not taking any more chances.” The man she’d sent to suss out news ran up breathlessly to her, his eyes shining with longing. She knew he was more interested in her and what she could offer him than what fate awaited Hank Dutton, bank robber.

  Lenora gave him a coy smile and demurely fluttered her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

  He pointed. “Look, they’re hanging him now, without any delay or last words.”

  “Oh my,” she said breathlessly, imagining herself in the role of a helpless woman lost on the prairie. Her heart pounded hard, and she suppressed a cry of glee as she watched from the seat of her wagon as her husband, the long-sought-after brigand, was led up the pine-planked ramp to the gibbet sporting the waiting noose.

  “But what about the others?” she asked innocently. “Weren’t there more in the gang? Did they catch them?”

  “They’re assembling a posse. The men just . . . vanished.” At her horrified look, he patted her hand reassuringly. “But don’t you worry your pretty head about that, miss. I’m sure they won’t get far. And then it’s the noose for them.”

  A nervous tic attacked her gut, and she rubbed her gloved hands. She wouldn’t be so quick to agree. Clayton had smarts when it came to disappearing. And there were plenty of places to hide in the bowels of the city. But she knew just where they were headed—of that she had no doubt. They’d beeline it to the cabin and look for the gold. Then, when they failed to find it, she knew exactly what they’d do next—look for her.

  Perspiration broke out on her brow even though the day was cool. She pulled out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed her forehead. She dared not take the chance of heading to the cabin. Not just yet. What she needed to do was find some place near it, where she could lay low and wait until word of their capture. And somehow not be anywhere obvious where they could find her. Surely not in Denver City.

  She realized the man was speaking to her.

  “Miss? I said, would you join me for lunch? I’m sure the events of the day have flustered you greatly. Let me help you down from that wagon—”

  “Why, that’s perfectly kind of you, sir,” she said in a syrupy voice, using a gloved hand to gently push him back from the wagon, which he was leaning over to get close to her bulging bodice. “But, I’m afraid I have other plans. And I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  More than a bit. If she didn’t get far from Denver City quickly, she stood the chance of running into Clayton and Billy. And even though she had a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol under her seat in a locked wooden box, she did not want to face “the Blade” anytime soon. If he had any inkling she was the reason for his recent appointment with the undertaker, she’d be carved like a side of beef. She’d seen some of his handiwork, and it wasn’t pretty.

  Without further ado, ignoring the rich suitor’s protests, she swung her horse and wagon around to head north and slapped the reins to get the gelding trotting up the street. A bolt of lightning arced the sky, bright white against dark clouds, followed by a loud cheer erupting behind her, over by the jail. She didn’t look to see her husband’s fate, but she could see him in her mind’s eye—swinging from the gallows. Relief washed through her as she smacked the reins harde
r and forced the horse into a run. The heavens opened up and dumped rain upon her, filling the streets with water and washing away her trail. There would be no trace of her now; she was leaving her loathsome life in Denver City—for good.

  And one way or another, no matter how long it took, she would get the gold and head to San Francisco. The glamorous stage awaited her.

  Chapter 2

  “Grace!”

  Monty’s heart lodged in his throat as he swiveled from the panicking horse to see his wife fall to the ground not three feet from stomping hooves. He muttered a curse under his breath, ruing his trust in the seller of these temperamental beasts. He should have looked harder for a team of mules, but he’d wanted to get Grace off the streets before dark. It didn’t take a sackful of brains to see that Cheyenne wouldn’t be safe past sundown. Monty chided himself for his impatience at wanting to get to Fort Collins and claim his quarter section. He’d waited so long, and he’d let his eagerness get the best of his smarts.

  He threw aside the reins and lunged for his wife, using his body as a block from any blows that might be forthcoming from the powerful animals. He wrapped his arms around her and scooped her close, half crawling, half stumbling away from their rig.

  The ground shifted. Monty froze. Grace moaned, then found his face and gave him a questioning look. But he didn’t say a word; he was listening.

  He had listened to rivers for the last twelve years of his life, and he knew every voice, every intonation. And this river was angry and crazed. Something caught in the corner of his eye, and his gaze locked on to a massive tree tumbling trunk over limbs in the churning water twenty feet away. He looked over at the bridge and watched the water chomp at its undersides, like a great beast hungering for anything to fill its belly. If they didn’t cross now, they might never make it to Fort Collins. At least not today. But he felt the urgency to get Grace into a warm bath and feed her a hot meal. He never let on how much he worried over her and the baby.