Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  Suddenly the wagon lurched to the side and wobbled violently. Lenora collected the reins and stopped the horse, letting out a string of curses and berating herself for not bringing an extra wheel with her. She jumped down, hoping it wasn’t broken but only loose. Surely she could find someone in Evans who could help her. She’d didn’t cotton the thought that she might have to spend the night there—she hadn’t much money on her. A chuckle popped out of her mouth. Well, that never posed a problem. Money was no farther than a sweet smile, a wink, and a few sappy words away.

  The culprit was the rear right wheel. The thimble cap was missing, and she noted the linchpin that held the wheel onto the axle had sheared clean off. She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed her forehead and eyes, which were fairly caked with a sheen of red dust. The wheel was resting at an angle, partway off. She had to figure something out, and didn’t want to try to elevate the wagon or get her hands and clothes full of tar from the lubricated joints.

  Just my luck. She blew out a breath that lifted her bangs out of her eyes. If she had to walk into Evans looking this bedraggled, she’d only get pitiful looks. Although, maybe that would earn her some sympathy from a kindhearted cowboy.

  A flash of movement caught her eye. Two horses, headed her way. She straightened and smoothed out her skirt and blouse, then tucked her hair back in place as best she could. If only she had a hand mirror. No matter. She would put on her “damsel in distress” act. That never failed to make them melt. Men just fell over themselves helping a helpless lady. And she figured whoever these two men were, racing down the road as if to beat the wind, they wouldn’t try anything untoward with her—not in daylight on the main road the stage traveled. A Concord coach had passed her not an hour ago, heading to Denver City.

  She waited until the two riders began to slow. Seasoned riders, not greenhorns. They rode like they’d been born on horses. They were young men—one appeared to be a half-breed. No, they both were. Brothers, she concluded—and plenty easy on the eyes, she mused appreciatively. One had fairer hair and eyes as warm as honey, but the resemblance was clear in their carriage and muscular build. The darker-haired one with the brooding eyes was older. He’d be the one for her to work.

  They slid off their horses and left the reins loose over the saddle pommels. The horses stayed in place like obedient dogs, not even looking to munch the grass. Horse trainers, she thought. Cheyenne, looks like.

  “Afternoon, miss,” he said. The younger man merely nodded, then looked over her wagon. Lenora could tell they’d been raised with manners—her favorite kind of sucker. “C’n we offer some help here?”

  “Why, I’m grateful! I fear I’m losing a wheel, and I don’t have a spare.”

  She noticed the younger one give her a slight glare of disapproval. Maybe he felt she was a foolish, helpless woman with no sense, traveling alone in the frontier. The older brother showed only a polite, kind expression. Yes, both were plenty easy on the eyes, but they were a mite young for her. Still . . .

  The two men eyed her wheel and talked quietly.

  “We really don’t have time for this, LeRoy,” the younger told his brother. “We have to get to Burlington before dark.”

  LeRoy scolded his brother with his eyes. “Look, if you can find something to prop up the wagon with, I can fix this—enough so she can get to Evans. I’ve got some wire in my saddlebag. That’ll work in place of the pin.”

  Lenora smiled demurely at the younger man. “And what’s your name, Cowboy?” She resisted the urge to sweep the stray strands of unruly dark-gold hair from his face. He was sure a sweet one—a lot prettier than old, dead Hank. She would just love to run her long manicured nails through that mane.

  “Name’s Eli Banks, ma’am.”

  “Oh, please,” she said with a pout, while watching LeRoy rummaged through his saddlebag. “Ma’am sounds so old! Call me . . .” She sucked in a breath, then coughed. She couldn’t very well use her real name, now, could she? “. . . Stella.”

  The young man merely nodded, then wandered around looking at the rain-soaked ground—ugly, bleak desert potholed with prairie dog tunnels. Lenora enjoyed watching the way he moved, his strong back and well-toned arms evident under his cotton shirt. By the time LeRoy had returned to the wagon, Eli had found a broken plank of wood, something that looked to have been part of an old cabin or other building.

  “Where are you two boys off to in such a hurry?” she asked as they worked to prop up the wagon so that the wheel hung loose.

  LeRoy cast her a quick glance, then focused on wiring the wheel back on. He knelt beside the wagon. “We’re joinin’ a posse that’s being organized in Burlington—that’s just west of here a bit.”

  Lenora stiffened. “And . . . who are y’all going after?”

  “Didn’t you come from Denver City?” Eli asked, standing and facing her, his brows furrowed in suspicion. “You must’ve heard about the Dutton Gang, and the jailbreak.”

  “Jailbreak! No, I hadn’t heard.” She narrowed her eyes. “How did you know I came from Denver?”

  Eli shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “C’n tell by your horse. How weary he is. And the color of the dirt caked on his ankles. You’ve been ridin’ him pretty hard.” A streak of ire crossed his features. “Seems you’re in a hurry too. Need to get someplace before dark?”

  LeRoy nudged his elbow into Eli’s rib. Maybe he thought his brother was being rude. But Lenora only gave them both an innocent smile, admiring the Indian powers of observation the younger brother showed. He clearly had some worthy tracking skills. “Well, yes, I was in Denver City. Visitin’ my sick sister. But she’s better now. And I’m . . . headin’ home now.”

  LeRoy turned his attention back to the wheel. Lenora stood in polite silence, making it clear she had nothing more to say. More mean clouds gathered overhead, and she longed to get out of her damp clothes and take a nice hot bath. But simple pleasures would have to wait.

  Eli grunted and watched his brother. In a moment, LeRoy got to his feet and brushed his hands on his leather chaps.

  “All set. I’d go easy until you get to Evans. The wheel’s in good shape, but you’ll need a new linchpin.”

  “And be sure to rub down that horse. And don’t give ’im cold water to drink when you get there,” Eli added in a lecturing tone.

  Here’s a man that loves horses more than women, that’s for sure, Lenora realized. “Yes sir,” she told him, like a soldier to his commander. “I’m mighty thankful for your help,” she said, mostly to LeRoy, batting her lashes for good measure. She added with a bit of concern, “Those bad men you’re after—”

  “The Dutton Gang,” Eli said. “Two of ’em were seen headin’ north out of Denver City.”

  “They’re very dangerous,” LeRoy added in warning. “Best you stay on the main roads and travel only in daylight. I hope you don’t have much further to go.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, distracted by the thought of Clayton and Billy still at large. And already north of Denver. How in the world had they eluded the sheriff and all his men searching for them? Those slippery eels. She just might run into them after all. The thought sent a shiver up her back.

  “Well, I do hope a lot of brave men such as yourselves join that posse and catch those bad men. But take care and don’t get shot at,” she said, scrunching her face in worry.

  “We’ll do our best.” LeRoy tipped his hat and swung up on his horse. Eli followed suit. “Afternoon, miss,” they both said, then took off at a gallop down the wide dirt-packed road. A few sprinkles of rain lighted on Lenora’s hair, and she clucked at the horse, putting him in a slow trot.

  She mulled over her choices. She needed grub, and as prudent as it was for her to spend the night in a hotel in Evans, the thought of Clayton riding into that town made her uneasy. She had lucked out with those two half-breeds helping fix her wagon, and no doubt the way LeRoy wired the wheel, it would make it well past Evans. But she didn’t want to push her seren
dipity nor her horse.

  Wisest course would be to stop long enough to load up on supplies, maybe find a dry goods. Then keep heading north, to the river. She should make it well before nighttime, and once she got a good look at the water, she could decide whether to cross or wait it out somewhere—maybe find some abandoned shelter or cabin along the river. She just didn’t cotton the thought of being in a town where people would notice her arrival. People in small towns talked. And every new face was grist for the gossip mill. She’d rather get in and out quickly without much ado, though sitting at a bar and drinking whiskey all night was a sore temptation.

  With that decided, she covered her head with her woolen shawl and headed into Evans with a tired horse and a functional wagon, feeling a bit adventurous but aware of a sense of foreboding behind her, like a shadow following her. As if Hank’s men were on her tail.

  ***

  “Miss . . . miss?”

  Grace tried to open her eyes, but they felt glued shut. Where was she? Who was speaking to her? She felt around with her fingers and grabbed mud, and the cold touch shot fear through her heart. Suddenly, memories rushed at her in a flood, as images of the raging water and Monty slipping into the river assailed her.

  Her eyes opened and she cried out. “Monty!” She rubbed mud-encrusted fists across her face, and a stab of pain streaked her belly. My baby!

  “Whoa, hold on there, miss.”

  A weak sun throbbed overhead. She turned to find the voice and felt arms helping her sit upright. She looked down at her dress, her waist bulging below her, no longer a pretty brown calico. Her clothes and shoes were covered in mud, and she shivered from the cold. With chattering teeth, she fumbled with words.

  “Monty—where is my husband?” She swiveled her head, looking for him, but only found the unfamiliar but concerned rheumy eyes of an older cowboy with a grizzled face. His bony, weather-roughened hands helped her to stand, and she took shallow breaths, assessing her condition. As if in response, her baby kicked, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “You all right, miss?” He held her arms firmly, as if she’d fall in a sodden heap should he let go.

  “I . . . I think so.” Panic raced through her cold limbs, setting her heart pounding in fear. “I don’t see him. Where . . . where is our wagon . . . ?”

  She looked around in astonishment as she got her balance, grateful for the man’s assistance. Not far away the river squirmed in a tangled skein of muddied channels—the former raging waters now subsided. But where the wagon had floundered in the mud, she saw nothing. Nothing at all. Had everything she’d owned been washed away . . . along with her husband? She gulped back tears.

  “Don’t see any wagon, miss. Nor any man.” His voice was quiet, apologetic. “But, don’t go gettin’ yerself upset, now. Best we get you somewhere warm and safe, where you can git a proper bath and into some dry clothes. You’ll catch yer death ’fore too long.”

  She stared at the river, her mouth hanging open. How could the wagon just . . . vanish? She’d seen it sink partway into the mud.

  “Oh no . . . oh no . . . Monty . . .”

  Her head spun with horror, and brown spots dotted her vision.

  “Here, miss.” He gently tugged on her arm. “Can’t have you swoonin’. Let’s git you into my wagon. I just come from Fort Collins—crossed the river over yonder”—he pointed upstream a few dozen yards—“and it be best I take you back there.”

  She flailed at him with her arms. “No, I need to find my husband—”

  “I unnerstand. But one thing at a time.” He helped her take small steps, but her dress weighed her down, as did her petticoats, which were also caked with mud. The air was balmy, thick with moisture, but thankfully the wind had abated. Her whole body was racked with shivers, and her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. She prayed her baby was all right and put her hands protectively over her belly.

  Surely Monty was alive. He understood rivers better than any man. He’d regaled her with many a story telling how he’d been thrown into raging waters in expeditions. How he knew to float on the waves and become part of the river. She didn’t care about the loss of her belongings—those could be replaced, and although some held great sentimental value, they were just possessions, nothing more. All that mattered was finding Monty and making sure he was unhurt.

  The thought of him lying along the riverbank, injured or dying, sent another rush of panic into her heart. She pulled away from the kindly cowboy who was trying to help her get to his small buckboard wagon situated on a soggy mound of grass.

  “I have to look for him—”

  “Please, miss. I promise I’ll round up some help—to find your husband--once we git you to town. Night’s a’comin’, so we shouldn’t dally. It’s not far.”

  She stopped and looked at him, perplexed. “But . . . I have nothing. I’ve lost . . . everything. Lost . . . oh, Monty!”

  Her knees buckled and she fell to the wet ground, shivering even harder, and sobbed in great heaves. She knew this couldn’t be good for her baby, but she couldn’t help it. How could she leave? What if he came back—stumbling and cold and hurt . . . ?

  After a long moment, the man again reached for her arms. Like an invalid, she let him help her stumble to his wagon, then clumsily clambered up into the flat bed, where there lay a stack of buffalo pelts surrounded by filled burlap sacks. She smelled grain and dust and sneezed.

  “Here,” he said, taking one of the buffalo pelts and wrapping it around her as she sat on the wonderfully dry fur. The pelt around her shoulders warmed the chill from her bones, but her heart lay encrusted in ice and mud.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, willing her teeth to stop chattering. Finally, enough warmth permeated her skin to where she could draw in a deep shuddery breath without shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly she was tired, oh so tired. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Tears kept streaming down her face, and she moved a tentative hand to her neck and grasped the silver pendant tight in her fist.

  I won’t give up hope.

  She knew more than anything else, the love they shared would buoy her, sustain her above the raging waters of fear. Monty loved her with all his heart. He would never let a river best him, rip him from the arms of his wife. He would come back to her. He was safe, somewhere. He knew how to survive in the wilderness.

  She repeated these reassurances over and over as the wagon lurched forward and they forded the now-placid river engorged with silt. Off to the west, the snow-frosted Rocky Mountains towered, like sentinels watching her ambivalently. As the rocking of the wagon lulled her, she clutched the pelt tightly around her baby, the warmth making her drowsy.

  I won’t give up hope, Monty. I’ll find you . . . no matter how long it takes. Oh please, Lord, help me . . . help Monty . . .

  Chapter 4

  Evening streaked the sky a fiery pink as Lenora spotted the metal sheen of the river in the distance. She had made a quick stop in Evans, found a sap to fix her wagon, loaded up on some supplies, and headed north—all the while keeping an eye out for Clayton. No one in Evans seemed disturbed by the news of the jailbreak. But then again, she didn’t hang around long enough to hear any gossip.

  The wide dirt road was rutted so deeply, she had to take care not to mire the wheels. The thought of crossing the river gave her pause, but if the wagon sank into the mud, why, she’d just unhitch the horse and load as much as she could in her saddlebags. She could hide the rest of her belongings and come back for them later. In fact, that wasn’t a bad idea—ditching the wagon and riding horseback the rest of the way to Fort Collins. She’d make better time that way. Maybe give her the advantage so that she’d disappear into that backwater town before Clayton could find her.

  Then again, it might be more prudent for her to hole up somewhere farther away, awaiting word of their capture. Don’t be a fool, Lenora. You know what that cutthroat Clayton will do to you if he finds you. She hated the thought that they might find the gold. Sure, she’d hidden
it well, but in their desperation they would look hard—and take as long a time as needed—to tear that place apart, plank by plank. But she had buried it out in the meadow south of the woods. No way could they figure out where—not with a whole winter of snow dumped on the ground. No—they would not find the gold. And when they didn’t . . .

  Lenora thought back to when Hank had bought the cabin, when he first started his gang, figuring its location and difficulty of access made it the perfect hideaway. From time to time the gang met up there to plan their robberies, but since it was so far from Denver City, they’d rarely gone in recent years. She had sweet-talked him into taking her that last time—when he needed to hide all that gold. He didn’t trust anyone in the gang to go with him. And he didn’t trust her either. He made her stay with the horses down a ways from the cabin. But when she returned on her own just before he’d been arrested, neither the cabin nor the gold was hard to find. The fool had left a trail of muddy boot prints across the wood-planked floors, and he’d hid the gold underneath a loose floor plank. Hank wasn’t much for neatness, and for that she was grateful.

  She also knew he’d lied to his men, telling them the gold was in an old abandoned mine shaft near Boulder. But Clayton hadn’t believed Hank; he told her so one night in his drunken stupor. No doubt Clayton had suspected all along that the gold was at the cabin—and that she knew where it was. So she’d better get to it before Clayton got to her.

  Lenora huffed. Patience, patience. That was not her strong suit. She hated waiting for anything, and that gold was calling her. She wasn’t getting any younger either, and her marriage to Hank Dutton had taken its toll on her youth and beauty. She hardly looked her twenty-five years. She could still pass as a young lady, innocent, untouched, untarnished. A dab of makeup here, a proper corset, and a few stiff petticoats could hide a multitude of shortcomings. She grunted. All this fretting wasn’t helping. She would just have to trust serendipity.