Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

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Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 5

by Charlene Whitman


  As she got closer to the wide river, she noticed how the flat marshy land was reeling from a recent flood. Ugly gray water moved at a fast clip and tickled the tops of the banks. She huffed. Didn’t appear she’d be crossing this anytime soon. A day, two days maybe?

  She looked across the marshy land to the desert stretching before her. The Front Range went on for endless miles—a stark, drab, lonely place. Full of dust and cactus and tumbleweeds. Why anyone in their right mind would choose to live out here in this wasteland was beyond reckoning. All those stuffy rich people from back East, thinking to settle here and find their paradise . . . well, they were fools, every one of them. Putting up with blizzards and drought and tornados and locusts. Yep, truly fools to give up their creature comforts and heated houses for this. She had passed the temperance town of Greeley a few miles back—the “city of saints” it was called in Denver City. No drinking allowed—how fun was that?

  She let her mind wander as she rode up to the river and watched the swirling, churning waters of the South Platte. To the northwest, the Cache la Poudre tumbled down canyons of rock and merged with the Platte. Only after traversing miles of flat desert did the river slow and widen enough for a safe crossing. Off to her right a ways sat a copse of willows and cottonwood, and she got a glimpse of a wooden structure. A cabin maybe. Aside from the ranch she’d passed fifteen minutes ago, there were no signs of habitation. And rightly so. Anything built close to the river would be in danger in a flood. She wondered how that little hideaway had weathered the many times the Platte overran its banks.

  While she sat in the wagon, pondering her next move, toying with the idea of riding back to Greeley and getting a hotel room and then coming back at dawn to make the crossing, she caught something out of the corner of her eye. Upstream, a giant oak had speared itself into the riverbank, with dozens of branches like broken arms supplicating the heavens sticking every which way. But entangled in the branches was a shape that greatly resembled a man. A swath of brown fabric hung ripped in shreds from one branch.

  She got down from the wagon bench and stepped carefully through the mud, her boots squishing as she walked. Upon closer inspection she noted that indeed it was a man—poor fool—and dead most likely. His mop of bark-brown hair hung down from his head as he lay facedown across the branch he was trapped in. Even from twenty feet away, she could tell he was young and strong. His body draped over another branch, his muscular legs in thick brown denim pants and feet in sturdy boots.

  Not one to miss an opportunity, Lenora picked her way through the debris-littered riverbank—over broken timber and planks and mounds of upended grass that had been violently ripped from the earth and sent careening down the river. Her eye caught on light glinting off his finger. A gold ring!

  Serendipity, she sang in her head, turning the word into a little ditty she began to sing as she pulled on the ring, twisting it this way and that, until she finally held the prize in her hands. It was a simple band of matrimony, not worth all that much—which made her wonder about the fate of this man’s wife. Had he been traveling with her? She looked around and saw no other bodies. Then, she spotted what looked like a finely made leather satchel draped across the man’s shoulder. She hadn’t seen it at first, as it lay underneath the man. No doubt it contained his valuables.

  She pocketed the ring, then grabbed the cold, lifeless body and flipped it over. She gave a little gasp of delight, which quickly turned to pity. What a handsome face! A chiseled jaw, strong nose, broad forehead, thick neck. The strong muscles his wet clothes hugged told her this was a man who had spent his life in physical labor, but the gentle features and lack of scars told her he was no scrapper. A man of means and education, she guessed. But one who reveled in work and using his body strength. She smiled as she ran a finger along his cheek, imagining such a man touching her. She wondered what color his eyes were, as he had them closed.

  She sighed. Such a waste.

  She pulled out the knife she kept strapped to her ankle and cut away the satchel. After some hard tugging, she freed it from the branch it was snagged on and walked back from the river a bit to look through her lucky loot. Would there be money? Gold? Her hands trembled in anticipation.

  She found a somewhat dry patch of sand and dumped out the contents of the large satchel. A flutter of papers fell to the ground, along with some strange pieces of equipment. She picked up the two brass objects and studied them. They were heavy in her hand. Something to do with navigation maybe. Was he a sailor? What would a sailor be doing this far from the ocean? She craned closer and made out initials that had been etched into each piece—M.C. She doubted they were worth much, but she’d find out. She could sure use some extra cash.

  Lenora set aside the objects, stuck her hand in the waterlogged pouch, and rummaged inside. Her fingers caught on a packet tied with string, and a folded silk scarf. And then a small box. She pulled them out and examined them. The packet she quickly unwrapped, for she could tell it held money. And lots of it. She giggled in delight and set the soggy bundle aside. The small box revealed the match to the ring that had been on the man’s finger.

  No doubt his wife had died—for why else would he be carrying her ring in his satchel? She concocted a sad story in her head and envisioned herself on the stage, under bright lanterns, playing the role of the dying wife, with this handsome hunk at her bedside, shedding tears of grief as his beloved wife crossed over into the great beyond.

  Another search revealed nothing more in the pouch beside water and sludge, so she looked through the papers at her feet. Surprisingly, the papers were mostly dry, having been sandwiched atwixt the packet of money and the scarf. The first was a letter addressed to Montgomery Cunningham. M. C.—those were his initials on the brass objects. Lenora perused the letter and found it to be an offer of employment with the land office in Fort Collins. A surveyor job. That explained the brass objects. Poor fella. On his way . . . from somewhere . . . to start a new job, a new life. With his wife dead and still grieving over her, no doubt he’d been driven to leave his home—wherever that was—and find new hope in the West. She turned the letter over, but there was no indication of where it was from. The signature at the bottom was too garbled and the ink too smeared to read.

  Another letter—this one a recommendation from someone named Hayden. Whoever he was. And another—one from a man called Powell. Lenora read with interest about this Montgomery Cunningham. Apparently he came highly regarded—had attended Wesleyan University in Bloomington, Illinois, and had gotten a degree in geology and then went on expeditions in the West.

  That was the explanation for his manly figure. She sighed and fingered the man’s ring. Such a sad, sad story. But the West was full of disappointment and death. Of dashed dreams and squashed hope. You had to be tough to survive—and lucky. But luck wasn’t enough. You needed smarts, and she’d had to develop those quickly on the mean and dirty streets of Denver City, since her mother practically ignored her—so busy she was entertaining men.

  The last slip of paper was not a letter but a certificate of marriage. Ah, the final sad piece to the puzzle. He’d married a woman named Grace Ann Wilcox, and the date showed they’d only been married about eight months.

  She got to her feet, feeling stiff and sore and tired. She tossed the satchel into the river and watched it float away, leaving the pile of letters and papers on the wet sand, although she’d pocketed both rings. She would let the wind carry the useless papers away as it willed. None of them could benefit her, although she wondered if his surveying tools had value. With the tools and rings in hand, she turned to head back to the wagon, but then a noise startled her. She spun around.

  The man groaned. He was alive! She hadn’t thought to check if he was breathing—he was so cold and lifeless—go figure.

  Before she could decide whether to hurry away and leave the man to his fate or stick around to see how he fared, his eyes opened and caught on hers. Inching closer to him, she noticed one eye was a deep m
ud brown, and the other was speckled with green. How odd, but somehow fascinating. She studied him passively, then realized if the man came to, he might realize she’d robbed him, and might apprehend her. Well, not likely in his condition. But he’d be able to identify her, and that could pose a problem. Better to leave him. He wasn’t in danger of being dragged back into the water, and if he had any broken bones, no doubt someone would be along in the morning and would offer him assistance—if he survived the night. What if he had internal injuries?

  He’s not your problem, she told herself. Although, upon looking at his angelic face and the pitiable look of confusion he displayed, she thought what a nice problem he might prove to be. Here was a man mourning a dead wife, about to start a job in the booming new town of Fort Collins . . .

  Her mind started plotting. Then, the man moaned again and tried to move. He made to pull out his arm, then screamed in pain. Her heartstrings were tugged. And she longed to touch him and feel those big, strong shoulders under her fingers. Why not just play this out and see where it led?

  The man—Montgomery, she told herself—mumbled something incoherent. She drew close to his face, smelling the river and silt and sweet scent of his sweat.

  He found her face, and his eyes opened wide as he looked into hers. His penetrating gaze sent a shudder through her. She found herself grasping for something to say.

  “Where . . . what . . . ?”

  “Shh, shh,” she said in her best comforting voice. “You’ve been hurt. I think you may have broken your arm.”

  He ignored her admonition and wiggled on the tree until he could extricate his arms. Wincing in pain, he gingerly rubbed his right shoulder, his eyes filling with panic. She offered him her hand, which he took, and hesitantly, wobbling, he got to his feet, pulling his snagged shirt free from the branch.

  He was a mess, but he was one handsome mess. He stood a good foot over her petite frame, with shoulders like a horse. He licked his dry lips, and Lenora couldn’t pry her eyes from his delicious mouth.

  “I have water,” she said. “In the wagon.”

  When he dropped to the ground and sat with his head in his hands, moaning, she took the opportunity to scoop up the papers from the beach—just for leverage, if needed—then hurried to the wagon and hid them—along with the booty rattling around in her pocket—inside one of her boxes. She grabbed a bottle of water and a blanket and came alongside him, the darkening shroud of evening granting little light by which to see. Mountain air blew cold across the Front Range, and Montgomery shivered, cradling his arm.

  She wrapped him in the blanket and watched as he guzzled the water down his throat. Her eyes lighted on his broad chest and slim waist. An explorer, indeed. How I would like to explore his terrain . . .

  When he set the bottle down, he looked at her, a frantic expression searing his features. “I don’t remember . . .”

  “You don’t remember what?” she urged gently.

  He looked at her intensely, then scanned the river and the twilight-draped prairie. “I don’t remember anything.”

  She stiffened, then her heart raced. Was this more good luck? “Your name?” she asked tentatively.

  His brows furrowed as he thought, then he shook his head. “Where am I? And . . . who are you?”

  She grabbed the opportunity for another challenging acting role. With a soft, worried look, she said, “Why . . . Malcolm—you don’t know who I am?” She thought it best not to tell him his real name—at least not yet. More wheels turned in her head. M.C. She needed to give him a last name. Chambers, Chisholm . . . Connors! That sounded nice. Malcolm Connors. She smiled, then frowned when he shook his head with that sad hangdog look on his face.

  She forced tears to spill down her cheeks—she was always able to turn on the waterworks with just a thought. It was one of her greatest talents, and had come in handy on many occasion. Men melted before a woman in tears. They were so frightened by such shows of emotion, they would do anything to stop the crying.

  But, to Lenora’s surprise, Montgom—Malcolm—took her hands in his and said, “How could I have forgotten you, your lovely face? I . . . I’m sorry.” He bit his lip and used his good arm to wipe away her tears. “I . . . just don’t remember.”

  My oh my! With that she fell into all-out weeping, while concocting a wonderful history in her head. “I’m . . . Stella.” She looked back at the wagon and spotted the Childs & Co. name painted on its side, now softly illuminated by the rising moon’s glow. She looked pleadingly at his face. “Stella Childs. Your fiancée. We were on our way to be married. We’d come . . . all this way from St. Louis. You’d hoped to find a surveying job in Fort Collins.” She waited for any signs of recognition, but he only stared at her with grief and misgivings in his face. Oh, he was so endearing. And that deep, gravelly voice of his sent shivers up her back.

  “And when we got to the river, you stopped our wagon and walked to the river’s edge to see if we could cross. And then . . . then you slipped and hit your head on that tree coming downriver . . .” She sobbed anew, and, to her surprise, the man draped his arm across her shoulders and held her close.

  He muttered into her hair. “Oh, Stella. I’m sorry, so sorry . . .”

  Then, he let out another pained cry and doubled over. She tried to hold him up. He gritted his teeth.

  “I’m sorely hurt,” he said. “My arm’s broken, but I think I . . . I . . . my stomach . . .”

  He nearly passed out in her arms, but she did not have the strength to hold up so heavy a man. She felt his head—it was hot.

  “Come, you must get in the wagon. I have to get you inside somewhere. Find a doctor.”

  He could barely nod, and stumbled along, trying to walk as she led him in the moonlight. She didn’t dare ride into Greeley with him. What if Clayton was there? He could be anywhere. No, she had to lay low, someplace out of sight. That old abandoned cabin she’d passed would do the trick.

  She could set his arm—she’d set bones enough with all the rough tumbling and fights the men in the Dutton Gang engaged in. But if he was bleeding internally, well then, there was nothing for him. Still, she was willing to help him. Who knew? He might just recover, and she’d have the perfect disguise. So long as his memory didn’t return, she could nurse him back to health, help him “regain his memories” by weaving the stories of their romance and engagement. And then, once he was well enough, they’d marry and head to Fort Collins. What better way to hide out in plain sight than to be a married woman—a respectable member of the community. No chance Clayton would be able to find her then.

  Mrs. Stella Connors. She smiled, liking the ring of the name. And—she looked over at Malcolm’s handsome face—she liked the idea of holing up with this hunk, tending to his wounds, and getting him back on his feet through her loving ministrations.

  With effort, she helped hoist him up into the wagon. He bravely stifled his cries of agony and nuzzled up to her, half incoherent, on the bench. Maybe he wouldn’t even last the night. Though, she hoped he would. Regardless, she would do everything she could to make him comfortable, sidling her warm body next to his under woolen blankets. And maybe, in time, he would realize he was in love with her. Wouldn’t that be dandy?

  Chapter 5

  Grace woke up in a strange bed, with an urgent need to use the chamber pot. As she made to sit up, every muscle ached, and she was feverish all over. She laid a hand on her belly, but the baby was quiet, probably sleeping as it usually did in the morning. She could tell it was morning, for cool sunlight splintered through the frosted glass panes of this small, simply appointed bedroom. A patchwork counterpane lay over the bed, and gingham curtains adorned the two transom windows. The room reminded her of the neat little rooms her aunt used to rent out in her boardinghouse.

  She jerked to her feet. Monty! The memory of arriving at this place in the dark was hazy. The man who had found her by the river woke her gently after she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, saying they’d arrived i
n Fort Collins. All she remembered were hushed words exchanged between the man and an older couple—whose house she must now be in.

  She looked down and saw she was wearing a long cotton dressing gown, a bit faded and threadbare, but clean. She could tell someone had made an attempt to clean her face and hands, but mud still left its smears along her legs and arms. Her head spun dizzily as she found her balance and wobbled to the door. She smelled bacon and perhaps hotcakes. Her stomach grumbled in hunger. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  But how could she think about food when Monty was . . . somewhere out there, alone, hurt? Had he found his way to Fort Collins late in the night? Was he looking for her?

  She found a thick white robe lying on the settee by the door and put it on. Fortunately it was large, and she could wrap it fully around her belly. She had to get help, to find Monty. Oh, how could she help him in this condition? She steadied her head with her hand. Every step she took sent shooting waves of pain through her limbs and back.

  Hushed voices drifted toward her. She caught snatches of words as she leaned against the coolness of the bedroom door.

  “. . . said she had a wagon and a husband . . . no sign of it . . . no doubt traveling alone . . . lost her horse . . . foolish to travel pregnant . . . running away in shame, that’s plain as day.” The voices were a man’s and a woman’s, with the woman sounding irate and disbelieving. She heard the man say in a deep, calm voice, “For pity’s sake, Charity, the Good Lord admonishes . . .” and then “the poor girl got herself in trouble, is what happened . . . must show mercy to those who need it . . .”

 

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