Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  The thought was akin to a death sentence, but it was the right decision. The only choice he could make, if he wanted to give Grace the chance at a happy life. In time, she’d no doubt meet a good man, someone who would love her and Ben, who would—

  Malcolm’s mind shut off as the door to Grace’s house flew open and an old man with a gray beard and coat rushed down the front steps, shaking his head and waving his arms about as if swatting flies. From where Malcolm stood, he could detect the man’s consternation as he hurried down Maple Street toward the center of town.

  Something’s happened. Something bad. Was Grace ill? Had she had an accident? What about Ben?

  Before he could lecture himself anew, his legs carried him with all speed to the front door to her house. He grabbed the latch but the door was locked.

  “Grace!” he yelled, running over to the window. He peered through the slit in the lace curtains, but the parlor was dark, and he saw no signs of movement inside.

  He pounded on the door, calling Grace’s name over and over. A strange panic churned in his gut. Something was very wrong—he just knew it. Then, he saw a shadow flit in the back of the house—someone moving about. He slapped the window to get the person’s attention, calling out, “Please, come to the door. I need to talk to Grace.” He supposed it was Mrs. Franklin, the woman Grace rented from, but why wasn’t she answering? And why had her husband rushed off in such a panic?

  Finally, after he resumed his pounding and pleadings for another few minutes, he heard a latch click on the door. He lowered his fist and stepped back, and the door swung open. A harried, distraught older woman with a Quaker head covering gaped at him through a small crack between the door and the frame. She trembled as she gripped the edge of the door and said, “Who . . . who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m Malcolm Connors, ma’am. I noticed your husband leaving in a huff. Is everything all right?” He pushed down his need to ask about Grace, but how would that look? No doubt the woman was already wondering why he’d been calling out Grace’s name.

  The flustered woman blurted out, “No, nothing’s right.” She moaned and clung to the barely open door, and Malcolm stepped back, not wanting to upset her further.

  “Please,” he implored, his heart about to burst out of his chest with worry, “tell me what happened.”

  Through her subsequent mutterings and fretting, Malcolm made out the gist of her words. They struck his gut with a sharp pain. His thoughts froze like ice in his head as he heard her say, “They took her. Took Grace. And the baby, the poor, poor baby. Oh, Ben . . .” She fell to weeping and collapsed to the floor.

  Malcolm rushed to aid her, his limbs numb with shock but his heart racing with terror. “Who?” he asked, pressing her to answer, ignoring her hysteria. “Who took her?” Disbelief assaulted him. How could someone have taken Grace—and why? It made no sense.

  “Robbers. Or brigands of a sort—two of them,” she wailed. “They broke in last night and . . . and just took her!”

  Malcolm stood, blinking back the terrifying pictures that played in his head of Grace being hauled off, screaming and kicking. Of Ben being stuffed under some ruffian’s arm, his little cry piercing the quiet of night. Of mean, vicious, heartless men doing unspeakable things to Grace—to the woman he loved.

  Fury filled him, and the rage seeped out his hot fingertips that yearned to strangle someone. He fought down the nausea and impotency and replaced it with determination. He had no clue who had Grace or where the men were taking her, but he would find her—come hell or high water—if it cost him his life.

  Without uttering a good-bye, Malcolm ran down the steps, crossed the street, and swung up onto his horse. He kicked the gelding into a hard gallop down Loomis Street toward the south end of town. It wouldn’t take him long to get to his homestead and grab his rifle. He figured by the time he got to the sheriff, Eph Love would have already heard the news. Malcolm hoped the sheriff would help him find Grace, but if he didn’t . . . well, Malcolm would just have to find her himself. Some way, somehow. He couldn’t bear the thought of her being violated. Or of Ben suffering abuse or neglect.

  Oh, Lord, he prayed as wind whipped his cheeks raw, while his horse pounded hooves on the soft road, sending clods of dirt and splashes of muddy water into his face and over his duster, protect Grace and keep her safe. And show me the way, Lord, so I can save her. Please, don’t let any harm come to her or Ben. Have mercy, oh, Lord. Have mercy.

  ***

  Before Eph Love even stepped one foot through the front door to the sheriff’s office, he heard someone calling his name. He spun around and saw, in the early morning glare, an old man with a ponderous gut and a long gray beard and black felt hat lumbering in an awkward run toward him, his dark-gray overcoat flapping against his sides. The man, in his haste, ignored the pervasive puddles that had made craters in the street and splashed through them as he came up to the boardwalk, breathless, his face paled in what Eph reckoned was pure fear. Before the man spoke a word, Eph knew the news the man brought to him had to do with Wymore and Cloyd.

  “Sheriff—there’s been a kidnapping!” The man clutched his stomach and practically doubled over from his exertion.

  “A kidnapping?” Eph pushed his hat back on his head and rubbed his chin. Didn’t sound like something the Dutton Gang would be mixed up in. “Who’s been kidnapped?” After Alan Patterson had come to him yesterday afternoon, reporting a sighting of the outlaws, Eph had put his deputies on alert. He’d made his rounds to the local banks and spoken to the presidents, who agreed to posting armed guards in the shadows, just in case. Although he’d cautioned secrecy, not wanting to tip off the men to his knowledge of their general whereabouts, there was no keeping a secret in this town.

  “A woman’s been taken from our home, Sheriff—she and her baby live with us.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed his forehead and groaned. “My wife—Charity. They hit her on the head, knocked her out for a spell. And they tied me to a chair—I sat there all night until my wife came to and untied me—”

  Eph held up a hand to slow the avalanche of words pouring out of the man’s mouth. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night, past midnight. I heard footsteps in the hallway, heavy ones. I knew they couldn’t be Grace’s—”

  Eph’s blood raced. A woman and her baby—kidnapped. Who would do such a thing, and why? The last thing he needed right now was something like this to distract him from his most pressing need—to protect this town by catching the outlaws. He blew out a frustrated breath as a pang gnawed at his insides.

  “Do you have a notion who’d do such a thing?” he asked.

  “No, Sheriff.” The old man hung his head, and kept up his ministrations to his forehead with his handkerchief. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. Gave my wife the most terrible scare. She’s locked herself in our bedroom and won’t come out. They pushed me against the wall. I-I couldn’t stop them—”

  “Did they rob you? Take anything of value?”

  The old man shook his head dolefully.

  Eph looked past the man and saw the street abuzz with people chattering, most of them church folks on their way to Sunday service. Their expressions showed the news had already spread like wildfire about the kidnapping. A block down the street, Eph made out Patterson skipping through the throng of citizens milling along the boardwalk and heading his way. His deputies, Colin O’Grady and Ezra Stapleton, were riding hard from the north end of town, and two other men on sturdy mustangs followed close behind them—one appeared to be an Indian. Within minutes, the street was a flurry of agitated voices clamoring to be heard.

  “What’s your name?” Eph asked the old man, who had taken off his hat and was kneading it in his hands.

  “Franklin. Jedidiah Franklin. I live over on Maple.”

  “And the name of the woman who’s been snatched?”

  “Grace Cunningham.” Franklin’s eyes filled with tears. “Her ba
by isn’t even a year old. Why, oh why, would someone do such a thing?”

  Eph’s forehead tightened as a face came to mind. Cunningham. That was the honey-haired woman who’d come on occasion into his office. Her husband had drowned, if he remembered rightly, in that terrible flood the prior spring. Patterson had once mentioned to him that the man had been offered a surveying job with the land office and that’s why they’d attempted to cross the Poudre. Why would anyone want to kidnap her?

  “Mr. Franklin, I need you to describe the kidnappers—”

  “There were two men, but it was dark. I couldn’t see a thing. Only one spoke, ordering the other to grab Grace’s baby. He sounded maybe in his thirties. Gruff, and smelling of horse and tobacco.”

  Could be Wymore and Cloyd. But it still made not a lick of sense. Not likely they’d break into a house in the middle of the night just to take a hostage for a bank robbery. He gritted his teeth, knowing the outlaws had to be mixed up in this somehow.

  Eph laid a hand on Franklin’s shoulder. “Go tend to your wife. Git Doc Smith to take a look at her, maybe give her a restorative.” Eph worried the man was so distraught, he might not find his way home.

  Eph heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Marcus Coon, the owner of the Agricultural Hotel, rushing to his side like a lumbering bear. “Sheriff, one of my employees saw two riders gallop through the west side of town late last night.” He raked a hand through his thick chestnut beard. “By the description, it sure sounds like them outlaws.”

  Eph stiffened. “I need to talk to your worker—”

  “They had a woman with them. She was sittin’ in front of one of the men on the horse. He couldn’t see much, but could tell what kind of horses they rode.”

  Eph nodded and strode down the boardwalk, following Coon as he pushed through the din of noisy people congregating in front of the office and headed toward his hotel.

  He trusted Coon—and the man was handy with a gun. Already Eph was forming a posse in his head. He had to act quickly and get on the scent of those outlaws. Thankfully, the storm front looked stuck on Longs Peak. And after the recent rains, those horses would leave clear tracks—at least so long as the renegades rode on soft ground. His deputies would be a help, but what he really could use was a good tracker. If those men rode west into the mountains and onto rock, he could lose their trail.

  “Sheriff, wait!” a voice called out. Eph and Coon stopped and spun about. A man ran to him, waving a hand, his tan duster blowing behind him. The set of his mouth showed his consternation, and as he neared Eph recognized the tall, strong fella. He was the new surveyor Wallace had hired.

  “Sheriff, a woman’s been kidnap—”

  “I know,” Eph told him as the man nearly collided into him, his expression streaked with anger and fear. “Malcolm Connors—that right?”

  The man clearly had no intention of wasting time to banter words. “Yes, Sheriff. Look, I’m going after those men who took her. They have her baby too—” Connors grabbed Eph’s coat sleeve, and Eph wondered at the man’s determination.

  “Do you know the woman?” Eph asked. Coon stood silent beside him, waiting, glaring at the crowd and clucking his tongue. Eph caught a glance of his deputies sliding off their horses and tying them off at the railing. The two young men on the mustangs followed suit, and the four strode toward him, threading through the crowd.

  “I do. Her name’s Grace Cunningham. Sheriff, there’s talk those outlaws may have taken her.”

  “Any reason you can figure?” Eph asked him. Connors fidgeted, his eyes darting through the throng of pressing people as if he was searching for someone.

  “No. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.” His face knotted as he said, “Are you going after the kidnappers?”

  “Soon’s I can get riders—”

  “I’m coming along.”

  “It’s gonna be dangerous—”

  “I don’t care,” Connors stated without hesitation.

  He wondered at Connors’s panicked manner. The man was married, from what he recalled. And this didn’t seem like a simple case of citizen duty calling. But it mattered not the man’s reasons—unless his feelings were to get in the way. He couldn’t have anyone riding with him that would go off half-cocked and not follow his lead.

  Coon said, “Lemme go git my gun and some supplies. Meet in front of your office?”

  Eph nodded, and Coon rushed off toward the hotel. O’Grady and Stapleton came up to him, wiping their sweaty foreheads and looking for all the world like they’d just ridden to Texas and back.

  “Where ya been?” he asked them.

  O’Grady doffed his hat and smoothed back his thick red hair. “We saw their trail—they headed into the hogbacks. They’re ridin’ hard.”

  “We gotta hurry if we’re gonna catch them,” old Stapleton said in his growl of a voice. “They’re three ways from Sunday by now.” The lanky man had some years on Eph, but he could ride like the dickens, and he’d spent a brief spell as a Texas Ranger back in San Antone back in the day.

  “We ran into these two boys,” Stapleton added, nodding at the two young men who’d come up behind the deputies and waited quietly, listening with keen attention. “They were out lookin’ for a herd of horses when they saw us. When we told ’em ’bout the Dutton Gang, they offered to help. They can track.”

  The boys stepped forward and introduced themselves as LeRoy and Eli Banks—brothers. Eph assessed them. It was clear they had Indian blood, and from what Eph noticed when they rode in, they were steady riders. Then he realized he knew who these boys were. These were John Banks’s sons—they ran the horse ranch outside Greeley with their mother, a Cheyenne woman. Theirs was an honest trade, and their horses were the finest on the Front Range. What a stroke of good fortune it was, them showing up right when Eph could use their riding and tracking skills.

  “We can find ’em for you, Sheriff,” Eli, the lighter-skinned one, said. He looked early twenties, a mite younger than his darker brother. “We were on the posse last year out of Bloomington—with the territorial marshal, Copeland Townsend—looking for those scalawags. But the weather wreaked havoc with their trail, and they vanished up near Estes Park.”

  “We know the woman they took,” LeRoy told him, his eyes seared with rage, but his face remained as calm as an undisturbed pool of water. “She’s a friend of ours, and she has a baby.”

  Eph nodded, fingering the brim of his hat. “All right, let’s git to it.” He cocked his head toward his deputies, and they rushed to their horses. He said to the Indians, noting their cartridge belts peeking out from under their soft deerskin coats, “What sidearms you carrying?”

  LeRoy replied with a level look that gave Eph pause—these young men were all business. “I have a Smith & Wesson, twelve inch, and a Henry strapped behind my saddle.”

  Eli pulled his coat back to reveal a nice pearl-handled Colt. “I got me a Winchester ’73 and a Sharps carbine—an old ’67 that I reworked. I keep a spare Peacemaker in my saddlebag.”

  Eph’s eyebrows rose, and he tugged on his thick mustache. “Well, that’ll do.” More than do, I reckon. Why’d they bring so many guns if they were just out chasin’ horses? He turned to Connors, who’d been listening to their discussion with a scowl on his face, clearly antsy to get a move on. “This is Malcolm Connors. He’ll be riding with us.”

  Connors nodded a hello, but an unspoken thought passed between the two boys like a lightning flash. Their faces were hospitable as they returned Connors’s greeting, but the surprise and recognition in their eyes were hard to miss. Eph said nothing though. They were burning daylight, and he was itching to catch Wymore and Cloyd.

  “Get mounted and meet me in front of the office in ten,” he instructed.

  The men turned and left, and Eph marched down the street, making for the livery, to saddle up his mare. He’d pack his guns and ammunition upon returning to the office, grab some rope, his warm coat. They’d be up in elevation, possibly in de
ep snow. He thought who he’d put in charge while he was gone. He frowned and stroked his mustache. Could be gone a long stretch. He’d get that new fella—Fowler—to sit the desk. Eph doubted much trouble would foment in town while they were gone—so long as the outlaws didn’t swing back around and snatch some other body.

  His heart went out to the woman and her baby, for he feared there was little hope the posse would find the two captives alive when they caught up with the outlaws. What they meant to do to her, Eph couldn’t fathom, and he didn’t want to even consider. Why take a baby? Hostages would only slow them down. But maybe they’d come to town for that very purpose—to find and snatch the woman. Maybe they knew her. She’d only recently moved to Fort Collins. Maybe she had a history with the gang. Didn’t seem the type, though. Too sweet and innocent-like. He shook his head and picked up his pace.

  Clayton Wymore, you’re in my sights now. And there’ll be no escaping this time.

  Chapter 20

  Well, that was certainly a surprise.

  Lenora stood on the front stoop of the cabin and stared off toward the mountains, thinking of Malcolm’s startling announcement. When he stormed into the house and demanded she tell him where his gun was, she’d sat up too quickly, her head pounding so hard she thought she’d upchuck her undigested dinner. It took her a moment to get a story out of him as he yanked open drawers and grabbed clothes, rushing around the house in a whirlwind.

  And then it hit her. He was going after sweet li’l Grace, who’d been kidnapped in the middle of the night. With a hand over her mouth to suppress her glee, she’d pointed at the top of the wardrobe, where his Remington sat, then buried her head under the covers, listening to his rage spread through the house. And then she heard his boots tromp out the door, and the house fell quiet once more.