Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  And then it struck her—standing right before him was the answer to her pressing need. The perfect way to get shed of Grace Cunningham and her baby.

  “All right. Here’s the deal,” she said. “Because I want to have my life back, and stop running. Hank’s dead, and I deserve some happiness.” She could tell he was listening. “I just have one itty bitty problem that’s standing in my way to that road to happiness.”

  Clayton snorted and put his hands on his hips. Billy stood leaning against the side of the saloon, his wide-brimmed hat shading his face, keeping an eye out for anyone that might happen by. Lenora noted the way his fingers rested on the revolver at his hip. But no one was out this time of day in this neighborhood. The only folks around here were in the saloons, drinking and carousing—which is where she wished she was right now. She could sure use a drink, now more than ever.

  “I’m listenin’,” Clayton said, his expression wary but amused.

  “My husband’s prior wife is here in town—with her baby. And she wants him back. She’s a thorn in my side.” She paused and thought a moment. “I want you to kidnap ’em and take ’em up to the cabin, where I can watch you kill ’em. Then I’ll show you where the gold is.”

  Clayton laughed and shook his head. “Now, why would I agree to do that?”

  “Because I won’t show you where the gold is otherwise.” She hardened her face. He had to swallow her bait. Trying to flee to the cabin with a woman and baby would slow him down. Which would come to the attention of the sheriff, and he’d send a posse after them. Maybe she’d give a repeat performance and slip another little note under another sheriff’s door. Then, after the posse headed out, she’d take a more convoluted route—the one Hank had led her on to ensure no one was following them—and hide out near the cabin and wait for the posse to catch them. If they got shot dead or were captured and hauled off, she could take off with the gold as soon as it was safe. Then maybe ride on up to Cheyenne to catch a train west.

  She glanced over at Billy, who was still watching the street. He was a wild card. She knew he had a soft heart. He hated anyone killing anybody, and Lenora knew he wouldn’t stand for Clayton killing Grace—and surely not a baby. He’d try to talk Clayton out of it—but she knew Clayton wouldn’t listen to him. Not with the gold at stake. She wondered why the two were sticking together. But she supposed it was easier to rob banks if you had a sharpshooter to hold the gun while you stuffed money into sacks.

  “How do I know that if I let you go right now you won’t head straight to the sheriff?”

  Lenora made a face. “And risk you slicing my head off with your Bowie knife?”

  Clayton scowled. “Naw, I’m not fallin’ fer it. You’re comin’ with us—right now.”

  Lenora scoffed. “Dressed like this? You think that won’t attract some attention? ’Sides, I can’t just disappear. My husband will be alarmed if I don’t git home presently. And with the way he worries, he just might report my unexpected disappearance to the sheriff.” She flounced her head as if he were a fool not to have thought of this. “Best you sneak out of town in the dark of night with the woman and her baby—I’ll head out in the morning, after Malcolm’s ridden off to work. Slip unnoticed out of town.”

  He chewed his lip. “You say a peep, and you’re dead. You understand?”

  She nodded. Clayton spit on the ground. “All right. I’ll play it your way. But if you try one little thing, I’ll be watchin’. I’ve given the law the slip for more’n a year—”

  “I understand, Clay.” She softened her voice and soaked it with allure. “I just want to be happy—and left alone. I don’t need any gold. Look—I haven’t taken it yet—and I coulda. It’s only a half day’s ride away.” She noticed his tight face had loosened some. “It’s been sittin’ up there all this time, just waitin’ for someone to claim it. May as well be you. It’s the gang’s gold anyways. If I got caught with it, I’d be hung as an accessory to all your thievery. You think I want that?”

  Her words seemed to be making inroads. Clayton pondered awhile.

  “D’ya know where this woman and her brat live?” he asked.

  Lenora held back a grin and forced a straight face. He was falling right into her trap. He wanted that gold badly. She imagined all the cold, hungry nights he’d lain awake just thinking about getting his hands on that gold—his ticket to Mexico or South America. Freedom. Just like she’d been imagining for herself. She and Clayton—they weren’t all that dissimilar, when it came down to it. They were both greedy and selfish, and liked to indulge in life’s pleasures. She knew he’d keep his end of the bargain.

  She described the house on Maple Street where Grace lived. She’d pried that information from the shopkeeper where Grace worked. Without another word, Clayton shot her a warning look that Lenora knew all too well—a look that made her tremble from head to toe.

  “Do it tonight,” she told him. “And then I’ll meet you up at the cabin, as soon’s I can slip out of town unnoticed.”

  Clayton merely grunted and pushed a swath of his black hair from off his forehead. She watched the two walk a block down the street, then veer into a narrow alley sided with tall bushes.

  A long trembling sigh rattled her chest. Her hands shook as she steadied herself against the side of the building, willing her heart to stop thumping so hard. Her eye caught on the unmarked door at the end of the street—the side entrance to the saloon she liked to frequent. She knew she should head home and start packing to leave Fort Collins for good. But she couldn’t do it without some whiskey in her gut, nosiree. She have a quick one, then take her time—do her shopping, act for all the world like nothing was the matter. Drat—now she’d probably have to leave all those pretty dresses behind. Such a waste.

  Then, a tingle of excitement started in her toes and worked its way up to her head. She figured she was playing with fire, making this deal with Clayton—like dealing with the Devil. But come Monday, she’d have everything she wanted—the last of Hank Dutton’s gang out of her life, Grace Cunningham six feet under dirt, and a sackful of gold coins and bars to finance her new life in San Francisco. Who needed love?

  ***

  Alan H. Patterson stepped out into the street, exiting the rear door to Brett Hoskins’s office, where he’d delivered some legal papers to the sawmill owner that pertained to an upcoming legal inquiry. He didn’t like coming into this part of town, where drunks and loose women loitered, and who often called out to him and tried to part him from his money. He looked up and down the street before crossing to the other side, uneasy that not a body was outside in the middle of the day.

  He hitched up his trousers and unbuttoned his overcoat, glad for the sudden change in weather, but regretting how overdressed he was in his three-piece tweed suit. After the recent snow, the twister, and the onslaught of rain, though, he wouldn’t complain. It appeared summer had finally made a stop in Colorado, and the hot sun overhead was a welcome arrival.

  As he peeled off his long coat and slung it over his arm, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The next block over, a woman stood at the corner, next to a rigged wagon, and she was dressed like a saloon girl. She was looking his way, but then he realized she was watching something in the alley across from him. Intently watching, with a serious look on her face. He thought he’d seen her around town, but wasn’t sure who she was.

  Alan craned his neck as he stood next to the two-story brick building, shading his eyes with a hand, and pushing his curly hair and his felt hat back off his forehead to get a better look. Two men walked close together, then stopped and turned to face each other. Alan didn’t recognize the men, and from this distance, and due to the shadows of the buildings draping their features, he couldn’t make out much. The taller gangly man slouched, listening to the shorter man, whose comportment and gestures spoke of authority. Why these men intrigued him, he couldn’t say. But it seemed suspicious—their standing in an alley, sharing confidences in close proximity, as if up
to no good. He had a hunch about them, but couldn’t put his finger on why they seemed familiar to him.

  Alan started walking, taking a slow pace, as he passed the alley on the opposite side of the street. He dared a quick glance at the men, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. But they had.

  Flustered, Alan thumbed his hat, jerkily acknowledging them. The two men glared at him, and tendrils of fear trickled along his spine. He hastened his step, eyes ahead, and kept walking. He felt like someone had traipsed on his grave—as the saying went. Sweat poured down his face and neck, soaking the tightly buttoned collar of his starched white shirt. The men’s eyes bored holes into his back.

  Alan gulped. He realized now why they looked so familiar. He’d seen their faces all over town on posters throughout the last year. Wanted posters. His hands started shaking.

  He had no doubt he’d just seen Clayton Wymore and Billy Hill Cloyd—the outlaws that had broken out of the Denver City Jail and who’d robbed the bank in Laporte.

  He’d better hurry and find Sheriff Love and tell him.

  Chapter 19

  Grace awoke with a start, bolting upright in her bed in the dark. She’d been in a deep sleep, but a noise had jolted her—or so she’d thought. She threw the coverlet off of her and looked over at Ben, who was still asleep in his pine crib. A scant bit of moonlight seeped through the windowpane from outside, and then the sound of boots thumping floorboards gave her a start. She relaxed. It was probably just Jedidiah getting something out of the larder.

  But then she heard what sounded like a scuffle, and an angry voice filtered through her door—a man’s she didn’t recognize.

  Grace stiffened, and fear shot through her heart. She heard Charity cry out in alarm, then more heavy boots walking. Adding to her horror, Franklin yelled, his voice full of fear, and Grace heard something hard smack a wall, then fall to the ground.

  In the few seconds of silence that ensued, panic enveloped Grace. She jumped out of bed, tripping over her long cotton nightdress, and grabbed her gray woolen shawl. Whoever was in this house had not left, and they were opening doors, talking in hushed tones, speaking words Grace could not make out. She no longer heard Charity’s or Jedidiah’s voice.

  An icy coldness washed over her. She had to flee.

  Stuffing her bare feet into slippers, she tripped her way over to her baby and collected him and his blankets into her arms, sending fervent prayers up to heaven while she fumbled with her armload. Her pulsed raced so hard she could barely breathe. Ben whimpered, “Mama, Mama,” and Grace’s heart lurched in worry. The only way out was the window.

  She rushed over and worked the stubborn latch, trying to pry it up with trembling fingers. Just as she heard the click and pushed on the sash to raise the window, her bedroom door flew open. She screamed as a large man in dark clothes flew at her, and she clutched Ben to her chest.

  A hand slapped over her mouth, smothering her scream. She smelled liquor and tobacco smoke and soot as the man’s other hand wrapped around her waist and yanked her close to him. Rough leather scratched her face, and his fingers dug into her cheeks, hurting her.

  “Get the brat,” he said in a growl to a man who stood in the doorway, whose tall shape was a shadow cast into the unlit room. Grace squirmed and thrashed, screaming into her captor’s hand, but the man was strong. She strained to see his face, but the room was as dark as pitch. That intruder jerked Ben out of her arms.

  Horror coursed through her like blood. Why were they taking her baby? No, God, please no!

  She kicked at her abductor’s shins and fought him with all her strength, but he laughed, and the stark, cold sound of it tore her apart. Ben wailed into the night, and the man spit out, “Shut the brat up.”

  Graced lunged away from her captor, a futile effort, but she managed to pull from his hand enough to get the words out. “Please, don’t hurt my baby!”

  A backhanded slap knocked her half senseless, and she fell to the floor and moaned. Her throat choked close as tears gushed down her face and she reached her arms out blindly.

  Ben, Ben! Oh, my baby. Please, God, don’t let them hurt my baby.

  Then, a damp rag was thrust over her face, and a sickening sweet and pungent odor wafted up her nose, making her gag and assailing her with dizziness. Bile rose up her throat, and the contents of her stomach roiled. The man hoisted her up from the floor, and the last thing she felt was her body being thrown over his shoulder as her flickering hope of escape was snuffed out.

  ***

  Malcolm stood under a languishing weeping willow at the quiet residential corner as the Sunday dawn smeared rust all over the horizon. A cool wind tickled his neck, and he pulled his light leather coat tight, feeling conspicuous and as nervous as a youngster calling to court a girl. Despite his hammering guilt, his feet had slipped from the cool bedsheets while it was still dark, tired of agitating all night, Grace’s face haunting him, almost pestering him, to the point of despair. With Stella none the wiser, her face smothered into a pillow and emitting loud drunken snores, Malcolm had snuck out and saddled his horse under a sliver of a moon.

  How many nights had he lain alone in his bed, the moon tracing the curve of the sky and the stars shining without warmth on his predicament? Plenty. He’d sent a flood of prayers heavenward the previous weeks, but received back nothing but silence for his troubles. He kept telling himself it was wrong to think on another woman, and especially in the way Malcolm thought on Grace.

  He’d pleaded with the Lord, arguing his case. He wasn’t lusting for her, even though he would be lying like a blanket if he said he hadn’t envisioned her in his arms. Hadn’t imagined running his hands down her smooth skin, drawing her close and tasting her lips on his. How could he not relive the moments he’d held her, relishing how perfectly she fit into his arms? Into his heart? Why in all the world had he found Grace Cunningham now—when there wasn’t a chance in hell she could be his?

  And yet, he couldn’t still his longing. His implacable desire. His unabating need for her. And not just for the comfort of her touch but for her very presence. For when she was near him, his careening world tilted back straight, and he no longer felt unhinged, dangling over the precipice of his lost memory. She was the calm in the middle of the storm—the eye of the twister. The place of refuge and peace he could run to for rest and consolation.

  But she wasn’t his, and should he leave his wife—which he knew he would have to do sooner or later, regardless of the ruin of his good name and reputation—he could never bring the shame of adultery upon Grace. No, he could not expect her to put her eternal soul in jeopardy by loving a man who was, in the eyes of God, bound in matrimony to another woman.

  He stood quietly, listening to songbirds twittering in nearby trees and his horse snuffling softly at the post where he’d tied him. He smelled wet grass and wood smoke on the air, the scent of summer rich with the loam of the earth after the heavy rains. Like a hawk circling its prey in a far-off field, Malcolm eyed Grace’s front door, waiting. At some point she would venture out, for she’d mentioned she attended church on Sunday mornings.

  He thought about little Ben, and a smile creased his face. He had no memory of ever holding a baby in his arms before, but after holding Ben, he had no doubt he had. An instant affection and delight had bubbled up inside him as he looked into the eyes of that child and watched Ben’s expressive face take in all around him. His heart clenched as the overbearing sensation of loss filled him, followed by the ever-present guilt. What was he doing here, waiting for a woman he could never have? He was only adding torment to his already miserable life. And what if he someday learned he’d had a wife and child before coming to Fort Collins? What if that wife was worrying over him somewhere, praying for his return?

  Nothing you can do about that. It’s a possible past you may never recover. He fisted his hands. True, but you haven’t even begun to search. He answered back with anger stirring. And where in tarnation would you begin looking for a lost wife?
You don’t even know where you really came from, or what your real name is. Your only hope is to wait for your memories to return.

  And that hope rested on Grace Cunningham, Malcolm conceded. For only around her did the images spark in his head, as if she were a piece of flint his thoughts struck against and ignited in an explosion of fragments that he knew were puzzle pieces to his past.

  With a groan under the heavy weight of his heart, he once more faced the truth—regardless of the wife he now had and even the wife he may have had before Stella—he was falling in love with Grace Cunningham—as crazy as it seemed. Regardless of the fact he could never take her as a wife, he knew he could not deny the feelings he had for her. He could no sooner drown out the raging river of desire and need he felt coursing through his veins than turn the clock backward and erase all his regrettable decisions and careless actions that had led him to this dead-end canyon with no way out.

  Still, it was wrong to indulge his feelings, wrong to stand here waiting for her like the fool he was. He could never tell her how he felt, though he ached to profess his affections. To fall to his knees before her and pour out his heart, his need. It would be more than an unkindness to her. He imagined it would greatly distress her, and would put her in an uncomfortable position that might lead to her pitying him, and more than likely losing all respect for him. For he knew she was a godly woman with high moral regard. Did he expect that she’d throw her faith and her morality to the wayside—just to assuage his needs?

  There was nothing for him now but to leave. Not just leave the corner of this quiet street but leave Fort Collins. Where would he go? He had no idea, and no longing to be anywhere but here. If he left, would his memories return in time? Did it matter anymore? The question broke off and fell to the hard ground. No, nothing matters to me but Grace. I want only her. But I can’t have her. So I may as well close my eyes and head off in any random direction, start all over.