He studied the muddy ground as he fisted his clammy hands at his sides. Clay, limestone, some sandstone. Practically no vegetation matting the sloshy mess underfoot. The thick gray color of the swollen river attested to lack of cohesion of the banks. This was desert, and the rivers here on the Front Range traversed mostly sand. Now that they’d passed the strong sedimentary rock of the mountain canyons, the riverbanks were being eaten away. He’d seen it countless times on his treks through the Great Plains and in Yellowstone. He’d seen it back when he was a youngster working the loading docks on the Missouri River and its tributaries.
He weighed all he knew with what he stood to lose. And he had much too much at stake to risk crossing the Cache la Poudre at flood stage.
“We’re turning back,” he told her over the bellowing wind whipping their faces. Grace looked down at her sodden, muddy clothes and mustered a weak smile—for his benefit, he surmised.
“I’m such a mess,” she said apologetically. She tried to stand, but winced at the effort.
“What is it?” He studied her carefully, knowing she wasn’t one to complain. She’d had a pretty easy pregnancy so far, and he had a mind to keep it that way. He grunted as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her—with some difficulty—away from the river, hoping to find ground a bit more solid and less slippery.
“Montgomery Cunningham! What do you think you are doing?” She added a playful swack with her protest. “I must weigh . . . two hundred pounds—”
He laughed as he gently set her down on the only patch of grass he could find amid all the mud. Rain squalled and squabbled like a flock of cantankerous birds overhead, and by now they were both thoroughly drenched.
“Well, maybe a hunnerd and eighty pounds . . . not two hundred—” He received another swat for his teasing, but at least Grace was smiling now—a genuine smile that heated his blood.
He could never tire of seeing the love burning in her eyes. He drank in her soft, sweet facial features: the small mouth and pouty lips, her high and prominent cheekbones and button nose. Sometimes when he looked at her he saw the feisty, outspoken ten-year-old he’d first met all those years ago sporting a patch of freckles galloping across her nose. But that little girl had grown into quite the lady—one still full of spirit, but mature and kind. And fully woman, her child’s body given way to just the right curves in the right places. Curves he never tired over exploring.
What a shock it had been to check in at the boardinghouse years later, expecting to see Grace the tomboy. Instead, a stunning young woman with a radiant smile had opened the door, and for a long moment he hadn’t recognized her. Not until she spoke his name. And on her lips, his name sounded angelic. Her dark amber hair that had tickled her ears six years prior now tumbled like a honey waterfall over her shoulders, unpinned and unbonneted, for she had just had her evening bath and hadn’t had time to yet put it up properly. But at the sight of her, he had blushed, not she, for Grace made no apologies and welcomed him inside, as if long-lost family.
He shook his head, remembering how hard he’d fallen in love with her. How many hours they’d spent talking in the parlor, singing popular songs at the piano as her aunt pounded mercilessly on the keys, the notes coming from the ancient instrument as out of key as their voices. Sipping chocolate in the kitchen by the giant cast-iron stove while watching Grace roll out biscuits in the early hours of the morning, before all the boarders had awoken. He almost didn’t leave to go on that first expedition with Ferdinand Hayden, but he had made a commitment, and the team was counting on him. But he knew he’d be back.
He didn’t dare tell Grace how he really felt, for he nursed a certain trepidation, knowing what disasters often befell those who explored the wilds of the West. If he declared his love, she might fret all the more. And more to the point, he worried that she might not reciprocate the feelings he had, and he couldn’t bear to head west to unknown parts for untold years knowing she wasn’t duly fond of him. So he just gave her a kiss good-bye that he hoped she’d know was a promise, and if he made it back alive and in one piece and she was still unmarried, well then, he’d ask her to marry him. Which he did. And to which she agreed, much to his great relief and joy.
And here she now sat, a muddy mess, soaked to the bone, her belly round with their first child.
A frantic need to protect her welled up in his chest, unhinging his usual calm. Another blinding spear of lightning smacked the earth not thirty feet away, and Grace shrieked and covered her head with her hands.
The horses squealed and ripped at their harnesses, upending the wagon. A rush of helplessness swept through him as thunder ricocheted across the sky.
He wrapped soaked arms around her shivering body and nestled his mouth against her ear. He whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Grace. We’ll get through this. The Lord will make a way—He always does.”
He felt her nod against his hammering heart. Oh, how he wished to stay with her, keep her safe in his arms. But he couldn’t risk the animals suffering injury.
“Stay put,” he told her, making sure she saw the seriousness in his eyes. She nodded, and then he raced back to the horses, who were tearing their breeching apart. When he saw they would not calm from any of his words, he threw up his hands, and with teeth gritted and steam snorting out his nostrils in the chill air, he fussed at the leather straps, his fingers numbing, even inside his thick gloves.
The ground shook again, and this time Monty felt his feet shift noticeably. He sought purchase and spread his legs for balance. The river roared at him like a vicious lion. He watched logs and railroad ties tumble in the raging waters, then felt a hard yank as one of the horses reared again, this time breaking away from the wagon. With straps flying and reins dragging, the horse ran pell-mell in frantic circles, causing the other horse to buck against its restraints.
Monty cursed again and lurched back, out of the mad animal’s striking range. He thought quickly what he needed to salvage from the wagon. They would have to leave it, and the horses, and walk back along what was left of the road. How far behind them was that ranch? He’d seen the sign—Whitcomb—in an arch over a long, wide road west that wended into the hills. They’d passed it maybe two hours ago. But now, on foot, how long would it take them to get there? Three, maybe four hours, with Grace wobbling slow steps. Without being able to see the sun, he knew there were maybe two hours of daylight left.
He’d need a lantern, then. Fuel, matches. Rope, blankets. Everything warm he could wrap around them. He didn’t have arms enough to carry all that they needed to make it to a safe shoal—one he hoped was out there. There just had to be someone at that ranch, and if not, surely they’d find shelter. He could make a fire anytime out of just about anything, so he wasn’t concerned about getting Grace warm and dry once they got there—or even to a thick stand of trees. He doubted anyone would be coming down the road, not now, not anytime soon. They were on their own, but he’d survived worse. Yeah, but not with a pregnant wife.
Monty gritted his teeth and rubbed his stubbled jaw, watching the horses gallop back north along the road together, finally free, unconcerned about the fate of the two humans they’d been accompanying. The wagon sat listing in mud, the rain coming down in canted sheets from a black churning sky. The whole world was tumbling in turmoil around them. He slapped his fist into his palm. He was wasting precious time.
He checked on Grace; she was huddled where he’d left her. Good. First thing—his pack. That was the only thing that really mattered. In it were their important papers. Their marriage license. His letter offering employment with the Larimer County Land Improvement company in Fort Collins. Their personal letters and papers. His college diploma from Wesleyan University. And then, there were his surveying tools—the ones small enough to bring along and that he’d carried with him through all the hell and high water he’d encountered on his expeditions. His transit theodolite, his brass plane surveying compass that Hayden himself had given Monty, his circumferentor.
/> He looked over at the wet crates and thought about his reflecting telescope, and his books—especially Wollaston’s Catalogue of the Stars and Mackelyne’s Observations and Tables. They’d have to be left behind. He’d have to hope their things would still be here tomorrow—or whenever they’d be able to get back and fetch their wagon. He hoped no one would rob them, but he knew that was a lot to hope for. For now, all he really hoped was that he could get Grace and the baby to safety soon, unharmed. Please, Lord, with your help.
He grabbed the bulky leather pack from beneath the seat of the buckboard and slung it over one shoulder and across his chest. It also contained Grace’s jewelry, and all their money, every last bit. They’d decided not to leave any in the bank in Bloomington, seeing as they had no plans to return—no one to return to, no family left, for either of them.
A quick sting of bitterness sliced his gut as he thought about his hateful father and drunk of a mother. He’d last seen them outside of ten years, surprised they were both still alive, living in that squalor and filth they called home. He’d run away when he was fifteen, as far from Chicago as he could get on the few dollars he had in his pocket. That’s when he got jobs working the rivers, where he met the crusty but kindly Joseph Bartlett on the docks, who taught him about rivers and urged him to go to college and make something of himself. In those short months, Joseph had watched out for him and taught him what decency and honor were—something Monty had known in his heart but surely never learned in his home. And then the old man had died when a stack of logs broke their chains and crushed him.
No, he and Grace had left nothing behind that mattered. Their future was all they had. And each other. But that was all Monty needed. All he cared about in this world.
As the wind clawed in fury, Monty strained to grasp the edges of the thick tarp. He wrestled the tangled mess out of the metal struts of the bench and worked to lay it over some of the crates—the ones containing Grace’s clothes and her keepsakes. Some had only sentimental value, but Grace treasured the items her aunt had left her, and Monty didn’t want to see them ruined, especially the needlepoint that Grace loved. And her special dresses that she’d designed and sewn. Grace, taught by her aunt, was an expert seamstress and dressmaker, and hoped to one day open her own shop in Fort Collins. Monty was determined to make that dream a reality for Grace.
He’d tucked three corners over the front stack of crates, knowing the few trunks were mostly watertight. But when he worked to slip the tarp under the last large crate, he lost his footing.
He glanced down and watched the ground whisk his legs out in a torrent that raged beneath his feet. His hands flailed in surprise, finding nothing to grab on to. The road disappeared.
With the force of a tornado, he was pulled into water as thick as porridge. A gasp slipped out of his mouth. From of the corner of his eye, he watched the front end of the wagon slip down out of sight, as if the ground had sucked it in, and then the bench followed, with the wagon almost tilted vertically upright, its back end in the air.
Anger and frustration roiled like another river, inside him, filling him with fury and determination. He would not let this puny river best him.
The roar of water surged around his ears as it dragged him down, and freezing wet waves engulfed him, smacking in erratic abandon at his head as he struggled to stay afloat, his mouth filling with dirt-choked water. With effort, he managed to extricate his arms from his coat sleeves and shrug himself free of its weight. He did not panic.
But his aggravation and annoyance sought to undo him. And his worry for Grace—whom he was leaving behind and who he knew would try to run after him to save him. No, Grace, don’t, he wished he could yell out to her. He knew if she came near the river, she would die. There was no question about it.
But he could not tell her, so he prayed. Please, Lord, don’t let her move an inch. Keep her safe in the storm, in the shelter of your arms. His heart hurt. If only his own arms were now wrapped around the woman he loved.
Somewhere in the distance, as if miles away, he heard a scream. It was Grace’s voice, and as the water yanked and pulled at him, thrusting him into an eddy and down a slipstream that spilled into the Poudre River, he realized he had never heard her scream before. The sound was a keening, mournful cry that rent his heart.
He took short, shallow breaths in the icy water, keeping his chin upraised. He’d tumbled in rivers before—many times. Some more fierce than this one. It took a moment to suss out the pulse of the water—its speed and force and turbulence. Rivers danced and jerked in a rhythm to the rocks and rain and temperament of the land. Thankfully, he knew this stretch of the river ran flat, then eventually widened and joined the South Platte at the confluence just north of Greeley. There would be no jagged rocks or cascading waterfalls. Nothing too dangerous. Nothing he couldn’t handle.
With chattering teeth he rode the undulating waves that tossed and tumbled him, always righting himself, sucking air, going under. He was freezing in the rushing snowmelt. He could no longer feel his extremities as he tried uselessly to paddle toward the northern shore, but it ever eluded him. Fear pounded his temples. What if he couldn’t get out in time to make it back to Grace before nightfall?
He doubled his efforts to reach the shore, but he was tiring quickly. Every time he clawed at the steep bank, a surge of water dragged him back to the center of the current, as if it had a mind to deny him his goal. He kicked hard at an angle against the current, playing with it the way he imagined a fish might as it spawned in desperation upstream, to its mating grounds. He was a salmon yearning for his mate, with only one goal in mind, a singular need pulling him. His arms stung with pain, and every sharp intake of breath was a knife in his chest.
He couldn’t just roll onto his back and ride it out, knowing at some point the river would slow and spit him out like an unwanted fish miles downstream. He’d die of exposure soon if he didn’t scramble out. And every mile the river carried him was a mile he would have to trudge his way back to Grace. He was already too far from her.
But the river had other intentions, and Monty had neither gills nor a strong tail to help him work his way upstream. The water fought him like a formidable foe, and Monty lost miles as he struggled, helpless and weak. He would have to relent and let the river carry him. He had no choice. He berated himself for his foolish decisions, for his bad choices this day. For endangering Grace and their baby.
As he rolled over resignedly onto his back, he gasped. He stared upriver, horrified.
Barreling toward him was another tree, bigger than the one he’d seen earlier. Branches of the massive pine thrust out from a dark rolling trunk as thick as a cow. Sharp, angular branches windmilled through the rapids, churning water as if it were soft butter.
Monty sucked in water. He coughed, spit, flipped over and swam downstream with all his might, to outrun it. But he knew it was to no avail. Within seconds he felt a heavy crash on his back and arms, felt bones snap. He screamed in pain, and reflexively rolled into a ball, hot throbbing engulfing his back. He went under as he saw black spots fill his vision.
Paddling with useless arms, he managed to get his head above water and sucked in a desperate breath, but more water filled his mouth, and his vision failed. As he slipped down beneath the turbulent surface of the Poudre River, something smashed the back of his head, and he reached out in one last, weak attempt to grab something, anything.
His frozen hand hit a hard surface. He curled fingers, latching on to a rough object. He found a way to wrap his arm around what he guessed was a branch, wedging himself into the wooden arms of the tree. Then the world drained away.
Chapter 3
Lenora smacked the reins to get the horse to move faster, casting a grateful glance at the sky showing the tiny bit of blue breaking the clouds apart. She figured Clayton and Billy would have to hole up awhile somewhere. As masterful as Clayton was at sneaking and hiding, half of Denver City—and likely a good portion of Colorado Territory—wou
ld already be on the scout for the last two living members of the notorious Dutton Gang.
Lenora let out a little laugh as she wiggled her head from side to side and did what she could to re-tuck her errant strands of hair back under the combs. She regretted she hadn’t stayed a few minutes longer to watch her dearly beloved husband choke and squirm under the noose. It wouldn’t have delayed her much, and it would have given her a right nice feeling of satisfaction. But no matter. The deed was done, and dead was dead. She’d be mistreated by Hank Dutton no longer. And she had no doubt the posse would catch up with the two renegades before long.
The wagon she’d bought wasn’t all that awful, but already she had been racing north on the road from Denver City to Evans for a few hours, through deep puddles and soggy ground, and she longed to stop and stretch her weary bones. Out here, on the open range speckled with prickly pear cactus and tumbleweeds, the wind wailed, singing a song—one Lenora liked to imagine was an Indian victory dance. Her heartbeat sped up thinking about all those bars of gold. All hers!
She’d studied the maps carefully. She knew the best spot to cross the Platte. Even with this storm, the river would have sand bars that weren’t all that deep. She worried the wagon would get stuck, but she’d figure something out. She always did. She believed in serendipity.
A smile lifted her lips. That was a word her friend Dolly had taught her. It meant a kind of luck or good fortune in finding things. And she always found a way, by golly.
But right now, she wished she’d eaten something for breakfast. She was awfully hungry, and that meant a stop in Evans—the small town looming ahead of her a ways. She’d get some chow, maybe a whiskey—and one for the road. Then make it to Greeley and figure out how much time she had before she got to the Platte. If she could just get across and head east, she’d be in good shape. Wouldn’t dare try to head to the cabin, but if she camped close to the foothills, she could start fresh in the morning, and the horse would be more agreeable. Maybe hole up in Fort Collins, since it was the closest town to the stash of gold. Then wait until word got out about Clayton’s capture. How long could it take a posse to catch him and Billy?
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 3