Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  She couldn’t have planned it better. Malcolm would go hunting for Grace, along with the posse she assumed the sheriff would organize, and when he found her, he’d find Clayton as well. She could just imagine what Clayton would do to him. Malcolm had no idea what danger he was walking into, nosiree. She hoped Clayton would get the chance to use his long, sharp knife on her hurtful, heartless husband before the sheriff killed or arrested him. However it played out would suit her just fine, though. One way or another, Malcolm would suffer. And the outlaws would be shot or hung. And she’d mosey off with bags of gold. Just dandy.

  She turned from the door, reminding herself she had to get cracking, all the while wondering how Malcolm had learned about Grace’s kidnapping. But that wasn’t important. What mattered was that Clayton had done it—he’d taken the woman and her baby and was now riding to the cabin up in Coyote Gulch. The wheels of this locomotive were rolling full speed ahead, and would soon crush the last dregs of the Dutton Gang.

  Lenora held a hand to her woozy head, regretting that extra bottle of whiskey she’d drunk before leaving the saloon yesterday evening. She’d had her fun and frolics—she’d needed some release after seeing Clayton in town. Thinking about him shook her to her boots, but she had no doubt Malcolm had gone straight to the sheriff, who would put together a search party. She knew the sheriff had no clue Clayton was the culprit, and she hoped he had the smarts to recognize the outlaws once he caught up with them. How could he not? Clayton’s and Billy’s mugs were plastered all over town, and a five-thousand-dollar reward was being offered for their capture. But if he didn’t . . . well, she had to trust that the sheriff would presume the kidnappers were armed and dangerous, full of evil intent, and so would exercise caution. She’d heard this new sheriff was a deadly shot and had a hankering to round up outlaws. The gossip about town said his sights were set on catching the last members of the gang. Well, now he’d get his chance, yesiree.

  It was time to skedaddle. She stood in the middle of her small nothing of a cabin—her cage she’d been living in these last nine months. Good riddance! How had she borne it this long? But her waiting was paying off, finally. Thoughts of gold and all it could buy propelled her from room to room as she stuffed clothes and toiletries into the saddlebag she’d kept under the bed—just for this moment. When she’d gathered everything she needed—including her Colt .45 and her pouch of bullets—she headed for the back storeroom. She shouldered a stubborn closet door open, then tossed out the broom, cleaning rags, and mop bucket onto the floor.

  In the tight dark space, she worked with a pocketknife on the back center panel, prying it up enough for her to slip three fingers underneath. With a hard wiggle, she loosened the panel and popped it out, and the nails she’d hammered it with clattered to the floor. With shaky hands she tugged on the strap of the satchel and pulled it out. She was glad Malcolm had never found her hidden cache—for if he had, her cover would have been blown. But he’d never had cause to examine the back of the mop closet, and that’s why she’d stashed all the extra money and the things she’d found the day Montgomery Cunningham washed ashore. She’d hidden not just the bulk of his money but also his name and the keys to his past.

  Lenora sniggered. All this time, and the answers he so desperately sought had been only inches away. Then she thought of him chasing after Grace and wondered if some of his memories had come back. Or if he’d been seeing Grace without Lenora knowing about it. She imagined that the day he saved her and the brat maybe something had clicked. If he fell in love with Grace before, it was likely he’d do so again. Maybe that was fate? Who knew? Who cared?

  Lenora plopped down on the floor, and with legs spread under her calico skirts, she dumped the contents of the satchel in her lap. Five bundles of dollar bills tumbled out, followed by letters and sheets of paper that floated like feathers to lie on top of the money. She glanced briefly at the few bits and pieces of Montgomery Cunningham’s life: the letter from the land office offering him employment, his letters of recommendation from various men back in Illinois, some of Grace’s personal correspondence, the box with her wedding ring, and lastly, his marriage certificate to Grace Ann Wilcox, stamped by the Bloomington courthouse clerk.

  Lenora had a mind to tear all the pages into little bits and leave them on the floor, but she chided herself. She was wasting time, and what if someone came looking for her? What if Malcolm came back for something he forgot? She needed to make herself scarce and quickly.

  She jumped to her feet, spilling her treasures from her lap. After stuffing the bundles of cash into her saddlebag, she stuffed the papers and box back into the satchel, then worked the leather bag into the wall between the wood boards. Once she replaced the piece of paneling, she realized she had no way to keep it in place unless she dug out a hammer and nails from the tool shed out back. Drat. She didn’t have time for this. She could take the satchel with her, maybe dump it somewhere along the way in some bushes.

  But why bother? What did it matter anyway? She would be long gone, never to return to this backwash of a town. Using the mop bucket as a brace, she positioned the thin wood panel as best she could, then laid the mop and broom against it to hold it in place. One edge of the panel warped outward, but that was as good as it was going to get. The next time Malcolm took the bucket out, the panel would fall off the wall. But what did she care?

  She pictured her poor husband stumbling back into his little house after losing Grace and finding his wife gone for good. He’d mope and fret even more than before, then, one day, he’d discover the loose panel and pull out the satchel. She imagined his surprise as he read through the papers and learned the truth—that he’d been married to Grace . . . but now she was dead.

  Lenora did a happy little dance as she swung the saddlebag over one shoulder and skipped out the front door. The morning sun shone in all its beauty down on the spread of open prairie, causing the vegetation to glow like gold. To the west, the snow atop the Rockies sparkled like diamonds. But these treasures of the Front Range were worthless, like fool’s gold. The allure of the Wild West was a mirage, a fake. She thought of all the people in this petty little town, seeking their fortunes, hoping to usher in a safe and prosperous future for its citizens.

  Lenora snorted as she readied Nugget, her chestnut quarter horse, and threw the saddlebag behind the cantle. After tying the strings to secure it and adjusting the stirrups of her Mexican saddle, she took a last look at her homestead. One hundred and sixty acres of flat, boring land, with a pathetic little muddy creek wending through the acreage. Why anyone wanted to live on the Front Range befuddled her.

  She worked the headstall onto her horse and threw the reins over his neck. Without a drop of regret, she mounted and kicked her gelding into a canter, leaving a trail of dust and the identity of Stella Childs Connors behind her.

  ***

  Alan Patterson stood in front of Whedbee’s Mercantile and watched the group of riders gallop out of town, the horses’ hooves throwing mud and water into the air as they raced off to find the men who’d kidnapped Grace Cunningham. He pressed back against the store window alongside a dozen or so bystanders who watched, mouths open and hands clutching their hats as their sheriff led a posse west toward the foothills.

  Pains assailed his chest and throat as he thought about lovely Grace, the woman he was so sweet on. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure how or why anyone would have kidnapped her and her baby, and tried not to think of the horrible things that might happen to her. And he hated feeling so powerless! If only there was something he could do aside from praying.

  Alan shook his head, trying to calm his frayed nerves. Ever since he saw those outlaws in the alley yesterday, he’d been a wreck. He couldn’t stomach any food, and he hardly slept last night, picturing those killers sneaking into his bedroom to slit his throat. He was sure they saw his fear, sure they’d come after him. But when he woke this morning after finally falling into a hard, dreamless sleep, he realized he’d made i
t through the night without incident—only to come into town to attend church and learn that Grace had been kidnapped!

  He hadn’t had a chance to talk to the sheriff before Love rounded up able-bodied men for a posse and rode out of town. But what would Alan have told him anyway? It was clear the sheriff suspected the outlaws were involved. And he’d do everything he could to catch them and get Grace back, safe and sound. Alan knew of the sheriff’s fervent love for justice and his just-as-fervent hatred of outlaws like Wymore and Cloyd.

  Alan swallowed hard, forcing back tears. It irked him something fierce, thinking about evil men like that—men who’d steal an innocent, helpless baby.

  He ambled aimlessly down the street, wending through the crowd that lingered and spoke in excited voices, their words falling incoherently upon his ears. He couldn’t get Grace’s kind, pretty face out of his head. Of all the women he’d met since moving to Fort Collins, none had caught his fancy the way she had. He often watched her from his office window, when she walked to and from work, or set out on an errand, and he longed to tell her how he felt. But he hadn’t much to offer her. He’d always been weak and sickly, and he knew he cut less than a fine figure of a man. But he had a heart full of love, and he had been waiting a long time for just the right gal to walk into his life. He’d thought Grace Cunningham was that gal.

  Then, after he spoke with her that day in the park a few weeks back, he started putting some puzzling pieces together. It was after Malcolm Connors had confided in him about his memory loss. And when Connors said he’d had an accident the spring prior—the same time Grace had arrived in town after the big spring flood, claiming her husband had been swept away—well, an idea had wiggled its way into his thoughts, the way ideas often did. And that little idea had grown into a startling realization. Malcolm Connors had to be Grace’s husband. There was no dallying around the fact.

  Connors had come into Fort Collins with a new wife—Alan had seen her with Malcolm on occasion through the courthouse window. It made sense that if Grace’s husband had lost his memory, he’d think nothing of marrying another woman. But what Alan wondered more than anything was, had Grace seen him? For surely if she had, she would have run to him and claimed him . . . only to suffer the shock of his disregard.

  At that thought he concluded she had encountered him, for her deep-seated sadness seemed ever fresh, as if paining her daily. He couldn’t imagine the suffering it caused her. And now . . .

  Alan rubbed his eyes and wallowed in his own pool of wretchedness. His thoughts drifted to Malcolm’s anguished face, the day he came asking for help to find surveyors in St. Louis. Now Alan wondered why he said that’s where he’d come from—when Grace had told him she had hailed from Illinois. Odd. Maybe that new wife of his was from St. Louis. But why would she tell her husband that’s where he was from too—when he wasn’t?

  Alan stopped in the middle of the boardwalk, and his breath hitched. He tried to bring to mind Malcolm’s wife. He recalled her name was Stella. She had raven-black hair and beguiling eyes. She carried herself with an air of wealth and sophistication . . .

  He gulped past the rock in his throat and squinched his eyes in confusion. Another idea wiggled into his mind, but this one seemed preposterous. Yet, it had the undeniable smack of truth. That woman he had seen near the alley yesterday—that was Stella Connors. He was sure of it now. Same hair and face, same fancy clothing, same manner and comportment. Just what in the world would Malcolm’s wife be doing in that disreputable, seedy part of town—and dressed like a floozy saloon girl?

  He knew the answer but didn’t want to believe what his own eyes had bore witness to. Stella Connors had been talking to Clayton Wymore and Billy Cloyd. He’d caught her watching them with the eye of someone who knew exactly who they were and what they were up to. She wasn’t looking at two strangers in curiosity or wariness.

  Stella Connors was not who people thought she was. Alan was certain she had lied to Malcolm about St. Louis. Malcolm Connors had come into Alan’s office like a man at the end of his rope, desperate for the truth. What else had she lied about? He wondered.

  This all pointed back to Grace somehow. He just had a hunch. Something very suspicious was going on. Grace had been kidnapped, and for some reason Malcolm had ridden off with the posse, leaving his wife behind. Alan had seen him on his horse, his face morose and worried. Why would a surveyor join a posse to go after deadly outlaws? Had Malcolm met Grace, talked to her? Had he suddenly remembered who she was?

  None of Alan’s musings was getting him anywhere, and his stomach ached thinking about poor Grace. He just couldn’t spend his day walking in circles, worrying.

  Presently, another idea came to him, although he wasn’t sure how it would help Grace. He spun around and hurried back to the courthouse, which was closed today, but he had his key. It wouldn’t take but a moment to look up the land claim Malcolm had filed—showing where his quarter section homestead was located. Maybe Stella Connors was home, waiting for her husband to come back. He doubted the likes of her would be at church this late Sunday morning.

  Well, Alan would pay her a neighborly visit.

  Chapter 21

  Grace’s head jerked forward, and her eyelids flew open. Nausea and dizziness assailed her as she strained to see her surroundings. An awful sour stench met her nose. Every muscle in her body throbbed in agony, and as she made to move her arms, panic struck her chest. She was tied with a thick hemp rope, trussed up like a holiday goose.

  Instantly alert, her nerves jostled with fear as her hazy vision made out two arms in tawny leather coat sleeves encircling her waist and the pommel of a saddle in front of her lap. A horse’s reins lay gripped in a gloved fist. She was on a lathering horse, which was clomping in a steady gait up a slope—with a man sitting behind her! He stank to high heavens of sweat, bitter tobacco, and putrid breath, which made her gag.

  Ben! Where was her baby?

  A scream erupted out of her mouth, but her captor slapped a hot gloved hand over her face. The air sweltered with heat.

  “Hush, now. There’s no one around for miles, anyways. No point in wastin’ yer breath.” His gruff voice, icy cold and heartless, made Grace shudder in terror.

  With his smelly, dirty glove smashing her lips, she darted her head from side to side, taking in the steep mountain terrain, the pockmarked mounds of melting snow, the harsh glare of sunlight splintering through the boughs of pine trees and that stabbed her eyes. The scent of water saturated the air, and she heard a river tumbling over rocks to her right. She was in a narrow canyon with steep stony walls, and up ahead, half-hidden by the shade of thick branches, another man rode on a buckskin horse.

  “You gonna cooperate?” the man said, relaxing the pressure on her mouth. She couldn’t guess his age by his voice. Why in heaven he’d taken her and Ben? She nodded, frantic to know if her baby was safe.

  The second his hand fell away, she whimpered, “Where’s my baby? I swear if you hurt him—”

  “Now, don’t git your petticoats in a bunch,” he scolded her from behind, returning his hand back to her waist, where he now fingered her nightdress. Oh horrors, she was wearing only her sleeping gown, and she could feel his fingers through the leather of his gloves playing with her skin!

  “Please,” she moaned, “stop . . .”

  He laughed then—a cruel laugh that shot more panic through her heart.

  She gulped, imagining the evil the man intended to inflict upon her. The realization that she—and Ben—were doomed to suffer and die at the hands of this despicable villain made her stomach lurch and blood rush to her head.

  Underneath her terror, though, anger churned. She squirmed against her ropes and her captor’s arms. “Where is my son? What have you done with him?”

  “Stop caterwauling, for cryin’ out loud—he’s unharmed.” The man raised a hand and pointed to the rider ahead. “Billy’s got him.” He then pressed his scratchy cheek against the side of her face and blew rancid hot b
reath into her ear as he whispered harshly, “And he’ll stay that way so long’s you cooperate, you understand?”

  The man’s touch made her sick, and she gagged, pushing down the contents of last night’s dinner threatening to eject out of her mouth. Despair suffocated her, and all she could do was whimper in helplessness and give him a feeble nod. She swallowed as perspiration dripped down her back in the heat of the day. Memories of her abduction rushed to her thoughts—she’d heard the Franklins in the kitchen when the men invaded the house. Were they dead? She sorely hoped not. And hoped they’d run to the sheriff. Surely they would have. But would he do anything about it? Would anyone know where to look for her? Clearly they were miles from Fort Collins, somewhere to the west. Oh why had they taken her, and where were they headed? What did they want from her? She had nothing of value, if this vile man intended to demand some kind of ransom.

  She strained to listen for Ben’s cry, but she was too far away from the other rider to make out any sounds beyond the tromping of horse hooves and her captor’s heavy breathing. She had to remain calm, to cooperate. Ben’s life depended on it. She shuddered. She would do . . . anything. Whatever these men wanted—anything, she instructed herself—to ensure Ben’s safety. Even forfeit her life.

  Oh, Lord, please don’t let it come to that!

  Grace stiffened in agony as the man’s leather-encased fingers explored her waist and stroked her thighs. She heard him moan behind her as he pressed his chest tighter against her back and lifted a hand to caress her cheek. She held her breath and gritted her teeth, squelching the terror as best she could, trying not to move, trying desperately to think how she could escape his lewd advances, but there was nothing for it. She was at his mercy—and she doubted this man had an ounce of it.