Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  The whiskey went down smooth and she sighed, but although it warmed her innards and slaked her thirst, it did little to soothe her agitation. The idea that Clayton Wymore and Billy Hill Cloyd were still alive and maybe just a few miles away made her gut sour and her palms sweaty. If the news was true, it meant two things—two bad things. One, that those two men were still alive and hadn’t gotten caught yet, and two, they hadn’t found the gold. For if they had, they wouldn’t very well be robbing banks, now, would they? Nosiree.

  Lenora blew out a hard breath and ordered another whiskey. When the barkeep hesitated, Lenora said, “You deaf? I want another.” She fidgeted on her stool, her corset pinching her waist. She never did abide by those dang things, but she had to keep up the appearance of a somewhat refined woman. Once she was in San Francisco, she’d be wearing them all the time, so she lectured herself to buck up.

  The barkeep jerked slightly and gazed around, as if looking for someone, then slid over another shot. No one else was in the dim bar with its dark wood paneling and shiny waxed counter. The large mirror behind the bar showed guests milling about in the foyer, near the registration desk. But Lenora didn’t care who saw her drinking. She hardly knew anyone in this backwater excuse for a town—which was little more than an ill-arranged set of frame houses and shanties. So pretentious and shallow, all these women thinking they were something out here in the Wild West. Every one of them seemed so biggity and preoccupied with their silly little activities, so proper. And the men were so polite. Didn’t anyone want to have a bit of fun in this town? Granted, at least there were saloons here. Lenora had ventured into Greeley weekly for food and supplies while she’d nursed Malcolm back to health, and it sorely vexed her that nary a pint of liquor could be procured in that “holy” town. For crying out loud, how in tarnation did those people get through the trials of living on the Front Range without a stiff drink or two?

  Just her luck that the sucker who’d washed up on the riverbank was a teetotaler at heart. It sure would have made those long, cold winter nights more fun if Malcolm had joined her in a drink or two. Or three. She’d hoped that once they married, he’d loosen up a bit, be more fun. But he was a bore, and her patience was growing as thin as a thread living with this man while waiting for her chance to leave.

  Lenora downed the second drink and winced. My, that was good whiskey. Her rattling nerves began to relax a bit as she sat on the stool and pondered her options. One stern look at the barkeep sent him scurrying off to wipe glasses at the other end of the bar. She didn’t need him hovering. She needed to think, think.

  So, if Clayton and Billy hadn’t yet found the gold, and they were staying close to the cabin—or maybe they were on the dodge out there, which made a heap of sense—she figured they would keep hunting for the gold as the snow melted and afforded them the chance to examine the nearby woods for signs of the treasure. Lenora was certain they would never find the stash no matter how long they looked, for she had buried the box deep and covered it well, out in the meadow a ways from the cabin. Even shouldered a few big rocks to rest on the spot.

  But as long as the gold was safe, she wasn’t. She had to make sure those two ruffians never spotted her. They’d recognize her in a flash, no matter how well she tried to disguise herself. And that would mean she’d have to stay on the homestead, never venture out—which would make her go plumb crazy.

  Her blood boiled. She felt like a trapped coon ready to bite at the slightest provocation. How long would she have to hide? Should she pretend to be with child, complain of the morning sickness, tell Malcolm she had to stay in bed? The thought of him fawning over her and worrying for her health made her wince. That was the last thing she wanted. She suspected Malcolm desired children; they hadn’t talked about it, but she could tell. And he was the type to go all soft and mushy at the news of a pregnant wife. He would be intolerable in his ministrations to her.

  No, she needed some other excuse to stay at home and not venture to town. Maybe something less complicated, like dysentery or malaria.

  She shook her head, enjoying the wonderful woozy feeling the liquor gave her and wishing she could just drink away her problems. She had truly hoped Clayton and Billy had died. There’d been no news of them for a year, and she’d been fixing to sneak away to the cabin just as soon as the snow melted enough to allow her to trek up there. She figured maybe two weeks, if the weather held. She was so close to her goal—and now this!

  She mumbled a string of curses under her breath. Patience, patience. You’ve waited this long; you can wait a bit longer. Besides, she told herself, there were some benefits to being married to such a hunk of a man.

  A little smile inched up on her face as she thought about those warm strong arms and his firm body entwined with hers. Even though he was a bit too tender and sweet for her liking, he did provide pleasure on many a night, which was some consolation. But how much longer would she have to play this game? Malcolm was already showing signs that he was starting to remember something. Clearly, those dreams of his were memories bubbling to the surface of his mind. And like bubbles, she feared they would pop open, and then what?

  In this gossipy town, she just knew her cover would be blown. Any man discovering such deception would be enraged. Maybe it was best if she left, just ran off and holed up somewhere else, until Clayton and Billy were either caught or killed. But making any move right now would be foolhardy and noticed. The last thing a hunted animal should do is bolt and run; that’s when the predator would spot it. She couldn’t know if Clayton was looking for her right now, here in Fort Collins. Chances were he could be. She shouldn’t even be in town right now.

  Just as she was about to signal the barkeep for another whiskey, she caught the reflection of a man entering the bar and marching her way. Her heart lurched into her throat, but then she sagged in relief. It was only her dutiful husband.

  “Stella?” Malcolm strode up to her, his face etched with confusion and not a little irritation. “What are you doing in here? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He cast a quick glance at her empty glass, then studied her face and frowned. “You’ve been drinking.”

  Well, wasn’t that obvious? she wanted to say. But instead, she put on an apologetic face and ran a finger along his cheek. He flinched and pulled back. “I’m sorry, darling. I . . . I don’t what came over me. I just felt so melancholy.” She gave him her best pathetic weak-woman look. “Best I get home and to bed. I’m feeling right poorly.” She plopped a few coins on the counter and gave him a sad smile.

  She could tell from the way he was looking at her that, for the first time, he didn’t seem to be swallowing her line. Maybe she’d need to bait the hook with some sugar. She leaned closer to him and ran her hand through his hair. He stiffened. Good, like hypnotizing quarry. She whispered, “And maybe you could join me in bed, for I’m so cold, and I know you could warm me up just so . . .”

  He took her arm with a firm grasp and yanked her up from the barstool, throwing a quick look at the barkeep. Lenora could tell he was flummoxed and ashamed over her. Mercy, what a saphead this man was. Getting his dander up over a drink or two.

  “Come on, let’s go,” he told her, not meeting her eyes. She couldn’t afford to have him at odds with her right now. She needed him pliant, and since he didn’t drink, the best way to do that was to coerce him into bed. So she went along meekly, her head hanging a bit in mock shame, and walked with him to the waiting wagon.

  While he untied the reins from the hitching post, she glanced around under her lashes to look for any disturbance in the street. Nothing. A normal day in this boring town. As much as she’d like to think she’d be safe hiding out on the homestead, she knew better. If Clayton showed up in Fort Collins looking for her, with his sweet and wily ways, no doubt he’d suss out that she was here, and would eventually find her. Even though he didn’t know the name she was using, he could probably describe her well enough for one of the old biddies in town to show a glimmer of recogni
tion. And that’s all it would take to have Clayton hot on her heels.

  She let Malcolm assist her into the wagon, and moaned, feigning some unnamable pain. His face softened, as if he felt bad for doubting her. Good. She could count on his compassionate heart to cut her some slack. And she only needed a short length of it to play out until she could figure out what in tarnation she would do next in order to get the gold so she could catch a train to San Francisco.

  Chapter 10

  Grace had never been inside the courthouse before. She’d had no reason to before now. But she’d decided while tossing in her bed restlessly late last night it was time to do what she’d put off all year.

  Her shoes clicked on the tiled floor as she crossed the high-ceilinged spacious room to the information desk. A short man with curly hair and a serious face stood behind the counter busily sorting papers and stamping them with an ink stamp. She noticed three high-society women in a close huddle over by the courtroom doors, whispering among themselves. When they saw her, they stopped speaking. Grace felt their attention rest heavily on her. She kept her eyes forward and walked up to the desk, then waited patiently for the man to finish his stamping and attend to her.

  Tildie had given her the afternoon off, for, after seeing Monty walk into the shop yesterday, Grace couldn’t concentrate on her work, and her head pounded mercilessly from crying. She had lain awake all night weeping, holding Ben close for comfort, and when the first streaks of dawn tickled the room, she rose and washed to get ready to go to work, exhausted and shaky. Her reflection in the mirror showed red swollen eyes and a wan complexion. It took every ounce of effort to brush out and pin up her hair and get dressed. She had no strength or courage to face the day, but neither did she want to cause any alarm or incite more gossip. Staying home would mean suffering Charity’s probing questions, and she couldn’t foster the thought of dodging such an interrogation. So she left Ben in her care with a cheerful smile and rushed out into the cold morning, a thin layer of ice crunching under her shoes as she walked, her mind numb and her heart aching.

  The whole morning, Tildie had eyed her suspiciously but only shared the usual pleasantries. Grace feared the woman had seen the way she reacted when Monty came into the shop. No doubt she had. But what would she have thought? It was all Grace could do to pretend all was well with her world, when in reality it was shattered in a million pieces. With her employer’s keen eye on her, she could not focus and declared her head was pounding. Tildie sent her off to City Drug to fetch some powders, even gave her a coin to cover the cost. Grace mumbled her thanks and hurried out, feeling as though she were fleeing a jail cell.

  The man finally looked up and stared at her through thick spectacles. His eyes widened, and he got a bit flustered.

  “Good day, miss. I’m the court clerk—name’s Alan Patterson. How might I assist you?”

  He smiled warmly at her and waited as she composed her thoughts. How much should she tell him? She laid her purse on the counter and said, “Thank you. I hope you can help me, but I’m not all that sure how to go about getting the papers I need.”

  His eyes urged her to continue. She noticed he seemed a bit nervous, or perhaps shy. She said, “I’d like to get a copy of my marriage certificate, which was recorded at the Bloomington Illinois courthouse on September 23, 1874.”

  His glance darted to her left hand, no doubt looking for a ring, but with her hands gloved, he might not be able to tell she wasn’t wearing one. “I see,” he said meekly. “Well, yes, I believe I can help you with that.” He reached under the counter and fussed for a moment, then straightened and slid a piece of paper and a lead pencil over to her. “If you would kindly fill this out for me . . .” He gestured to the row of benches along the wall by the courtroom, indicating for her to sit there. “It may take some time to get the copy sent here, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Cunningham. Grace Cunningham.”

  The man’s brows furrowed in thought. “Cunningham . . . that name sounds familiar.” He paused. “What does your husband do for work, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “He’s . . .” Her throat choked up. How should she answer? Had this man not heard the gossip about her?

  “I’m sorry, I can tell I’ve upset you,” he said in a sincere tone. “I had no right to inquire. You don’t have to answer that. It’s not necessary for the paperwork.” He nervously played with his hair, twirling it around his fingers.

  Something about this man’s kindness loosened her throat. “Please, don’t feel bad.” She breathed in deeply, then released a long shaky breath. “On our way to Fort Collins last May, we were overtaken by a storm, and while attempting to cross the Poudre, my husband was swept away in the river. I . . . I’ve apparently lost him.” And so she had. The river hadn’t killed him, but it had surely taken him from her just as cruelly, for he was still as far from her now as if dead.

  “I’m so sorry,” the clerk said. He added hesitantly, “May I ask, then, why you want a copy of your marriage certificate? For . . . sentimental reasons? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  His sincere inquiry was another kindness. First Clare, now this man, Alan Patterson. How much she longed to pour out her soul to someone who would give credence to her story. But who in their right mind would believe her husband was living here in Fort Collins, married to another woman, and showed no indication he’d ever known her? Such a claim would only confirm the gossip that she was lying, fabricating fantastic stories to inspire charity and pity. Yet, keeping the truth bottled up was another agony she could hardly bear.

  Monty had been her close companion and confidante, the one she could confide in no matter what the issue. He would listen to her with full attention, never disbelieving or belittling her. Oh, how she longed to talk to him and tell him everything she felt. What horrid fate had befallen her. Loneliness sought to swallow her up.

  When her aunt Eloisa had lain dying of pneumonia and pleurisy, Grace feared for her own future, having no other family left in the world. Her parents and younger brother had died in 1860 from a cholera epidemic—when she was only six—leaving her in the comforting arms of her aunt. But in the fall of ’74, Monty had walked through the front door to the boardinghouse—three years after she’d last seen him, that day he left to explore the wilds of the West. He found her frightened, alone, and lonely—and wasted no time telling her how all those months he’d thought only of her, anxious to get back to Bloomington, so he could marry the woman who had captured his heart. The spark of hope—for her future—had nearly been extinguished, but Monty rekindled it anew, promising her a secure future filled with love.

  She hardly remembered her parents now. It had been her deepest wish and prayer that she and Monty would be blessed with many children, and would both live to see them grow up and become fine, upstanding adults. And now . . .

  She realized the man was politely awaiting her answer. She said, “It’s for my son. He’s just a baby, but I want him to know who his father . . . was. So that he will know he was not illegitimate but the result of a marital union.”

  Alan nodded. “I’ll do what I can to help, Mrs. Cunningham.” He stopped short and cocked his head. “Cunningham. That name . . . Was your husband coming here for work?”

  “Why, yes. He’d been offered a job with the land office. He . . . was a surveyor.”

  “Ah,” Alan said. “That’s where I saw his name. On some paper. The assessor is quite short-staffed. And you came from Bloomington, to settle here?”

  “Yes,” Grace said, suddenly feeling so weary she could hardly stand. “I suppose the assessor wondered why my husband never showed up . . .”

  Alan must have noticed her face pale, for he hurried around the counter and took her elbow in a light, tentative grip. “Here, Mrs. Cunningham, come sit and fill out your paper. I’ll go get you a glass of water.” His eyes searched hers, perhaps watching to see if she might swoon.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said, taking the paper and pencil from
his hand.

  She did her best to fill out the certificate request through tear-filled eyes. It felt as though it had been only yesterday when she and Monty had exchanged vows at her aunt’s bedside.

  In the quiet of the room, she heard women’s voices just around the corner. They drifted to her ears, and she caught snatches of conversation. She stiffened and stopped writing.

  “. . . has the gall to claim a married man is actually her husband! Sakes alive! Why, Charity told me . . .”

  Grace gasped. Charity. Grace did not understand how such a devout religious woman could spread such gossip. Grace knew from the first morning of being in that house that Mrs. Franklin didn’t believe her story. But she never imagined she would tell others.

  Another woman’s voice sounded excited. “. . . and showed up at Tildie’s shop just yesterday. Tildie is sure that he’s the one the poor girl imagines . . . must have suffered so from that fever . . . and her poor baby . . . should have put it up for adoption . . .”

  “. . . quite improper for her to raise the child without a father . . . has she no shame . . . ?”

  “ . . . says she is taking advantage of their kindness . . . a pretty sob story if you ask me . . .”

  Grace’s heart sputtered with indignation, listening to these woman deride her. She pressed her eyes closed, then startled at a touch to her shoulder.

  Her eyes flew open, and she turned her head. Mr. Patterson was holding out a glass filled with dark liquid for her to take.

  “I found some sweet tea. I thought, well, maybe, that would be better than water . . .” He shrugged and awaited her response, reminding Grace a little of a dog wanting to be petted with approval. He was awfully nice, and Grace smiled for him.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking a long refreshing sip. She finished filling out the paper, putting in the pertinent details of her former address, names and dates, and where the certificate should be mailed to. She was about to write in the Franklins’ address, but then frowned. How could she continue to live with them, with Charity? She knew now that she must find another place to live—and a new sitter for Ben. Oh, how would she manage that? She hardly made enough money to help pay for her food. She was tired of Charity’s gossip and disapproving stares. Tired of taking charity from others. Perhaps Clare could help her—on both counts.