Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  Clare pouted. “You’ve spoiled my mood.” Clare’s face then lit up, her eyes sparking with excitement. “Hey!” she said. “Well, lookie who’s come to town.”

  Grace turned to see Eli and LeRoy Banks trotting on pretty paint horses down the street toward them. The men had spotted Clare, and Eli’s face showed a mix of pleasure and wariness. Grace immediately thought of Sarah’s warning and admonition she’d given her sons Sunday last. They were here to scout out some wild horses, and to speak to the sheriff about something to do with tracking outlaws.

  A shiver tickled the back of Grace’s neck as she thought of violent men riding hard through town, firing pistols at innocent bystanders. She hoped Eli and LeRoy weren’t about to get hurt, and by the look on Clare’s face, Grace knew the sentiment was shared.

  The two men pulled up to a steady, slow stop in front of the boardwalk, and Grace was glad they avoided splashing mud on her clean plaid linen skirt. Their tangled hair blew out behind their heads from under wide-brimmed hats, and their horses puffed from the exertion of the ride. Their cotton shirts were soaked with sweat, and Grace could tell they’d been on a hard ride.

  Eli slid off the saddle, dropping his reins, and came around to hug Clare, slinging an arm around her waist and drawing her in for a quick kiss on the cheek. Clare blushed and pushed him away, but Eli only laughed, showing those bright straight teeth, his smile pushing dimples up his cheeks. Grace couldn’t have asked for a better diversion to lighten Clare’s mood and get her to lay off with her attempts at persuading Grace to stay in Fort Collins.

  The men turned their attention to Grace and said their hellos. LeRoy continued to sit his horse, gazing out over the town and watching the goings-on—the local citizens shopping, tending shop, riding through town on some errand or other. His dark eyes took in the streets, which he assessed with the manner of a hawk circling the updraft waiting to pounce on a rabbit.

  “Where did’ya go?” Clare asked Eli. “You look tuckered out, and I know that ride from Greeley ain’t all that tirin’.”

  “Up Trail Creek, northwest of town. Then on into Laporte and back along the hogbacks.” He tipped his head toward the foothills.

  “We lost the trail for the horses up in a canyon just above the Poudre. The river’s running way too high. We’ll give it another go inside a week or two,” LeRoy added.

  “Are ya gonna go talk with the sheriff?” Clare asked them both.

  “Yep, soon. He was out when we stopped in at his office,” Eli said, chewing his lip and wiping his forehead with a cloth he’d pulled from his vest pocket. Grace noticed the pearl-handled revolver at his waist, under the front of his long duster. “No one’s heard news of the Dutton Gang lately, from what we could gather.”

  LeRoy added nothing, just kept up his vigil, his face a strong Indian profile. The two brothers were markedly different, with Eli being the outspoken one, quick to japery. LeRoy spent more time in quiet contemplation, and didn’t seem so easily riled. But the two appeared close, and Grace didn’t doubt they’d have each other’s back in any situation.

  “So, are ya fixin’ to stay a bit? Or head home?” Clare asked Eli.

  “We’re staying over,” Eli said as a grin spread across his face. “I figured we’d take a room in that fancy-dancy hotel of yours. That way I can keep you in my sights.”

  Clare’s eyebrows raised, and she gave Eli a mischievous smile. “You can draw a bead on me all ya like—until I lock my door for the night. Which is how it’ll be until that time comes when you get the key.” She dangled a pretend key in front of Eli’s face.

  He cocked an eyebrow and playfully snarled at her. “You don’t have to remind me, Clare. You just love to torture a man, don’t ya?”

  “I want a proper weddin’—and Grace is gonna make my dress.” She humphed and crossed her arms.

  LeRoy whistled and repositioned his hat on his head. He said, “Now who’s stuck in a box canyon, with no way out?” He shifted on his horse and added, “Not like you want out, Brother.” His face showed no sign of amusement other than the mirth in his eyes.

  “Ya already took me home to meet your ma, so what more are ya waiting for?” Clare sidled up close to Eli and caressed his cheek. “We gonna set a date or what?”

  Eli threw back his head and laughed. “I never met a girl so forward as you, Clare McKay.”

  “And that’s why ya love me so much,” she finished, giving him a firm nod.

  Eli offered his hands to her, palms up. “I reckon.” He laughed heartily. “Yep, I reckon.”

  “So . . . ?” Clare asked, back to her persistence. Grace sat and watched this banter between them, thinking how she and Monty used to joke in like manner. Although, Grace was never so pushy about getting married. But she hadn’t needed to be—Monty had proposed to her straight away after coming back from the Hayden Expedition.

  Her sadness once more assaulted her, like a giant wave crashing on her head and snuffing out her good mood. Clare chatted to Eli beside her, but Grace’s mind was miles away, back in Illinois, chasing after precious memories and clinging to them as if they were fragile soap bubbles that might pop if she squeezed them too hard.

  “Hey,” Eli said in a warning tone that shattered Grace’s reverie.

  She looked at him, and he jerked his head toward a horse and wagon rolling down the street.

  Grace stiffened, and the hair on the nape of her neck prickled.

  “I recognize her,” he said quietly, then looked over at LeRoy, whose eyes narrowed into a questioning scowl.

  LeRoy said, “That’s the woman we helped last spring—with the broken linchpin. Outside of Evans.”

  Eli turned and threw Grace a penetrating look. “That her? Stella?”

  LeRoy swiveled and studied Grace’s face. “You know her,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  Grace could only nod. A rock lodged in her throat, and she slunk down into the bench. She felt she might be sick.

  There Stella sat, up on the wagon bench, dressed in a bright burgundy velvet dress with a low bodice barely cinched with white laces, and an elegant matching sun bonnet atop her coifed hair. She held her head aloft and stared straight ahead, holding the reins in her hands that sported lace gloves that rode up past her elbows. She appeared more like a saloon dancer than a homesteader’s wife.

  Clare sucked in a breath beside her. “Well, I never . . .”

  “Dressed a bit . . . odd for the middle of the day,” LeRoy noted. “I don’t s’pose she’s fixin’ to go shoppin’.”

  “Not likely,” Eli said, craning his head to watch as the wagon rolled by.

  “I wonder what she’s doing here, in Fort Collins,” LeRoy mumbled.

  “She lives here,” Eli told him. LeRoy raised his eyebrows but said nothing more.

  Grace’s heart railed in her chest. Seeing Stella detonated a profusion of emotions, and Grace floundered in a morass of anger, hurt, pain, and misery. She longed to run back to the Franklins’ house, scoop Ben into her arms, and hurry to the coach station and board the next stage to Denver. At least Monty wasn’t with Stella. That was a bit of mercy. He was probably at the homestead, seeing that it was Saturday and wouldn’t be working.

  Clare swiveled closer to Grace and looked at her with compassion. She said in a whisper, “I understand why ya want to leave.” Her tone was conciliatory. “I guess I’d feel the same way, if I were in your shoes. If I saw Eli with another woman . . . why, I’d . . .” She scrunched up her face, and her cheeks turned apple red. “Well, I don’t think I’d show the manners and restraint you show. I’d go plumb crazy.” She took Grace’s hand and squeezed it.

  “You up for some lunch? I’m starvin’,” Eli said, then pointed at a restaurant down the way.

  Clare slugged him. “You’re always hungry.”

  He exaggerated offense. “We just rode somethin’ like a thousand miles this mornin’.”

  Clare chuckled and questioned Grace with her eyes.

  Grace shook h
er head and got to her feet, watching the wagon turn the corner a half mile north of town. “Thank you, but I need to get back to Ben. I have some chores to do around the house.” Like packing to leave, she thought with a sense of grim finality.

  “All right,” Clare said, fixing the strings of her ribbon-trimmed bonnet under her chin. “I’ll come by in the morning, and we can go to church together.”

  Grace nodded, feeling grateful for Clare’s friendship and already missing her. She hurried through her good-byes to the Banks brothers before the tears could leak out. With a tight throat and heavy heart, she watched the trio walk across the street, leading their horses, then turned and headed home, where she planned to rock Ben in her arms and cry herself to sleep.

  ***

  Before the wagon had even rolled to a stop alongside the stucco wall of the saloon, Lenora slid down from the bench and pulled the long reins over to a corner post and tied up the horse. She needed a drink something fierce to slake her thirst, and had turned the house on end looking for that bottle of whiskey she was sure she’d hidden somewhere. One look at Malcolm’s irate face told her he’d found the bottle and threw it out. That was last night—before he stormed out in the dark after the rain had stopped and the clouds moved east. She never heard him come back in, but he was asleep on the sofa when she stumbled out of the bedroom this morning. She’d given up trying to coax him to bed; he’d have none of it.

  Ever since that night she’d come home late, Malcolm’s words had haunted her. Like some evil witch’s curse, she couldn’t get them out of her head. How he’d said no man would ever love her, not truly. How she didn’t know what love was.

  She snorted, rage boiling inside like a whistling tea kettle. He was just like Hank—like most men she’d known. Two-faced, cruel. Treated her with contempt. Used her and lied to her. All she’d ever wanted her whole life was to be loved. Appreciated.

  When she met Hank, he’d showered her with affection, bought her expensive perfume and pretty dresses. He promised he’d rescue her from a deplorable and dreary life as a saloon girl. She’d been impressed by the silver coins he tossed her way, implying there was more, much more, where those had come from. But what had he offered her? Not the life of adventure and glamour he’d promised her—that was for certain. Instead, most of the time she’d spent holed up in dumps, in close quarters with men who hadn’t bathed in weeks or washed their clothes in months, places swarming with fleas and cockroaches and rats. Hideouts in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cactus and coyotes and tumbleweed, with little more than a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards to keep her entertained. Phooey!

  She’d stuck by him, despite his mistreatment and infidelity. No matter how hard she’d tried to make him love her, she knew deep in her heart he hadn’t.

  And now this new husband of hers declared it was all her fault. That she was lacking. Undeserving of a man’s love. How dare he? How dare he!

  All week she thought of how she could repay him for his cruel words. She thought of slitting his throat while he slept, but what kind of revenge was that? No, she meant for him to suffer—the way she’d suffered. Pay him back with equal misery, so he’d never find that love and happiness he spoke of.

  And then the answer had come to her, and it was a sweet taste in her mouth. She knew Montgomery Cunningham’s memories were coming back, and it was only a matter of time before he’d recall his dear little wife. Lenora also knew that Grace had every intention of trying to get her husband back, and had no doubt she’d tell Monty the truth of who he was, and whose baby that was. And then the happy little family would be reunited and live happily ever after, like some pat and sappy fairy tale. The thought turned rancid in her gut.

  So for the past few days she’d been toying with ways to get shed of Grace and her baby. She could just imagine that moment when Monty’s memories all returned—only to realize it was too late. He’d search for Grace and she’d be gone. He would lose her again—but this time for good.

  She hummed a little merry tune picturing Monty’s horrified face at the news of his wife’s death. So sad, so sad . . .

  Warm sun baked her shoulders, and she smiled. She’d thought the snow would never melt, but finally, it had. And that was all she cared about. That, and getting properly soused—one last time—before she packed her bags and skedaddled. And, she figured, after all she’d been through, she deserved a little manly attention, and knew just the place to get it in this seedy part of town. Then she needed to purchase a few supplies and sundry personal items—enough to get her to California. Once she dug up the gold, she’d have to buy some traveling trunks—nice ones—to stash the gold in and transport it on the train. She didn’t doubt she’d be able to find a buyer for all that gold in San Francisco—one who didn’t ask questions.

  She squirmed thinking of all the things she planned to buy with her money. She grunted as she looked down at her dress. This was about the nicest thing she could find in town—apart from those elegant dresses she’d had Grace Cunningham make for her. But they were too nice to suit her afternoon plans. She didn’t want to chance dirtying them with a man’s hands or a splash of liquor. Those dresses she would wear on the train and in San Francisco—to give the proper impression as she waltzed her way into high society.

  Lenora chuckled with glee thinking about her months living here in this joke of a town, playing wife to that chucklehead who had no idea who he was. Too bad she wouldn’t be here to see the sad story to its conclusion. But good riddance to Montgomery Cunningham and Fort Collins, Colorado.

  Lenora pulled her purse out from under the bench seat, chuckling to herself, her palms itchy and sweaty as she thought about a glass of whiskey in her hand and a man’s mouth trailing kisses down her neck. She had no doubt that Jacques—the French Canadian ranch hand with those broad shoulders and dreamy dark eyes—would be waiting for her at the bar.

  “Well, if it ain’t Lenora Dutton. Up to your ol’ wily ways, I see.”

  Lenora froze, the voice sending a knife through her heart. Blood hammered in her ears as her head reeled in terror. She flinched, every nerve screaming to her to run, but her shoes were glued to the street.

  Hands fell hard on her shoulders and spun her around. She gulped as her eyes looked up into the brooding, angry face of Clayton “the Blade” Wymore. He looked tickled pink at seeing her. How had he found her? Her mind raced, trying to figure how she’d been spotted, but it didn’t matter, did it. He was here, and she knew there was no escaping his clutches.

  She forced a smile up her face and dared raise a hand, thinking she’d run it through his hair and start working him, the way she used to those long, boring nights in one hideout or another, where the gang killed time between robberies. But Clayton stayed her hand, grasping it in a hurtful manner, which caused Lenora to yelp.

  She eked out the words, “I thought you were dead. Oh, I’m so relieved. Oh, Clayton—”

  “Quit with the act, Lenora.” He took a harsher tone than he’d ever had with her, his face surly and disagreeable, and Lenora wilted. She put on her best acting face and hoped he would not hurt her. “We figured you’d be hidin’ out someplace close to the gold.” He sneered and tightened his grip on her wrist. “And what with all that heavy snow, you wouldn’ta had time to fetch it yet.”

  “Why are you here, then? Why not just head up to the cabin and fetch it yerselves?” she asked, trying to look as surprised as possible. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Billy Cloyd come around the corner toward them. His eyes betrayed the nervousness he felt, even though he walked with purpose, his lanky, tall body even thinner than she remembered. Clayton looked as if he’d dropped some pounds as well. She imagined being on the lam didn’t afford many five-course meals.

  Billy hung back and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Lenora shuddered, guessing why. Once Clayton learned the location of the gold, he’d kill her. She had no doubt. Think, think! She had to come up with something.

  “You know why we’re here,”
he said, his voice hard and harsh. He grabbed her throat with one hand and squeezed, choking it closed. A sharp pain shot up her neck. Lenora slapped at him and tried to kick him, but he only laughed and backed up, dodging her pathetic attempts to break free.

  He released her neck with a push, and she sucked in air, her throat burning. “We’re takin’ you to the cabin—so you can show us where the gold is hid.”

  “Surely you can find it without me,” she offered, rubbing her throat and trying to put a few inches between her head and his hands.

  “We already looked—last fall. Tore up the place. It’s not in the house.”

  Lenora bristled as he grabbed the side of her head and pulled her close with a yank of her hair. He stared hard into her eyes and smirked. “You know where it is, and you’re gonna show me.”

  “I’ll just tell you—”

  “Nice try,” Clayton said. “And while we’re off on a goose chase, you’ll sic the sheriff on us. Nope, you’ll come with us. Now.”

  Lenora pushed the rising panic down. She knew if she didn’t cooperate, he’d use his knife on her. He’d escort her quietly out of town on his horse, the knife pressing against her back as she sat in front of him, through these back alleys and into the foothills, and if anyone saw them, they’d think nothing of it—except maybe wonder why a woman would be riding a horse in a dress like hers. Drat! If only she had left yesterday. She cursed at herself, but kept quiet while Clayton watched her, assessing her. He could read her every thought. Think, think!

  “Listen, Clayton,” she said, dropping the syrupy voice and trying to sound reasonable. “I have a good life here. I’m married to a fine man, and I’m happy—”

  “Yeah, so why you over on this side of town—wearing that?” He’d cut right through her lie. “I don’t reckon you’re meetin’ your fine husband for a drink, now? Not when he’s s’posedly out surveyin' ten miles south o’ here.”

  Drat! Clayton had been watching her—probably for days. He probably knew where she lived. Maybe even thought she had the gold. But he knew her well—knew she wouldn’t stand for living in a backwater town like this—when she had done her share of bellyaching about Denver City and how uncouth and dirty it was. She cringed thinking how she’d once told him of her dream to act on the stage in California. There was no fooling the likes of Clayton Wymore.