Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  Oh, Monty, I need you. Where are you? She forced her mind to think of his kind, gentle face, his smile, his love for her that lay locked in his heart. Her captor said nothing more as the horse picked up a trot, the terrain canting more steeply now, and continued his violation of her body. He pulled off his gloves, and his rough, calloused hands prodded and squeezed her flesh in places no man but her husband should ever be free to touch.

  She whimpered harder, knowing if she resisted or fought or screamed, Ben might be punished in payment, so she bore the probing and quelled her disgust and horror by keenly noting her surroundings. If by some chance she could escape, she needed to find her way back to the Front Range. The white pines grew thick in the narrow cut they were now traversing, with dwarfed twisted scrubby spruce poking from the rock walls on both sides. They appeared to be following a deer track up to the top of a ridge. Maybe once they crested the mountain, she’d be afforded a good look at the layout of the land, and get her bearings.

  Her thoughts turned to Ben, knowing he must be hungry and wet. She was grateful he was so young. Although he might be unhappy, he didn’t understand the peril he was in. Her arms ached to hold him, to comfort him. Being this close but unable to mother him was another torture.

  The man put his lips on Grace’s neck, and she cried out, tears exploding from her eyes. “I need . . . I need to feed my baby. He must be hungry. Please . . .”

  “There’ll be time fer that later,” the man said as he slobbered her neck with his wet lips. “Much later . . . after we spend some time gittin’ to know each other . . .” His hands suddenly grabbed her breasts hard, and Grace squealed in pain and thrashed about. “Ah, I like a gal that puts up a fight. You’re a right purty gal, as fine as they come. And I have a burnin’ need, one you kin satisfy fer me . . .”

  Grace clenched her eyes and let hopelessness engulf her. So this was to be her fate. She’d suffered the loss of her husband and the ensuing grief, then the bitter agony of seeing Monty married to another woman . . . and now she would die, but not until after suffering violence at the hands of evil men. She had no doubt that once they were through with her, they would kill her and Ben.

  But why had they taken her baby, if all they wanted was a woman to ravage? Then, she understood. They meant to sell him off to someone. She’d heard of men doing that—for money. As awful as it sounded, she clung to that hope, for it would at least ensure her baby—her precious baby—would live. And maybe someone would love him, care for him . . .

  She could no longer hold back her flood of anguish. It broke through the dam of her weakened resolve and she wept in great sobbing heaves, barely aware of her captor’s amused laugh and frolicking fingers on her body.

  And then, after some time had elapsed—how much, she had no idea—the horse stopped. Grace lifted her weary, grief-laden head and saw they had arrived at a small clearing of sedge grass and melting snow mounds. The other rider was dismounting his horse—with a bundle in his arms. Ben!

  And then her eye caught a glimpse of a structure through a copse of aspens. A cabin sided with weathered hewn wood sat nestled back against a sheer wall of rock that towered high above the trees. The horses snuffled at their bits in the midday sun that beat down on Grace’s woozy head.

  The man—her captor had called him Billy, she now recalled—strode toward them, and now in the quiet of the secluded surroundings, she heard Ben’s pathetic mewling, and her heart raced. Still bound with rope—still held tightly by this vile man—she could do nothing about the yearning she had to run to her baby and yank him out of Billy’s arms.

  “He’s hungry and wet, Clay,” Billy said, a frown on his clean-shaven young face. Grace was startled—Billy looked younger than she, hardly a grown man. She caught what she hoped was a glimmer of compassion on his face.

  “Let me feed him—” she begged.

  A hand flew to her face. Her cheek erupted in heat as her captor backhanded her, knocking her head to the side. She screamed, uncaring if it angered the man. What did it matter? Her fate was sealed. He would have his way with her and kill her. Whether she cooperated and bore up under their torture or fought with all her might, she was dead. She may as well fight.

  With her limbs tied, she did the only thing she could—she leaned forward, then thrust her head back as hard as she could and smacked the man in his face.

  “Ow!” he yelled. His strong arms lifted her from the saddle and flung her to the hard dirt. He spat in her face. She groaned at the sudden stab of pain in her shoulder and rolled away from the horse’s legs that pranced and stomped, startled by her fall. The back of her head—where it had met with the man’s hard forehead—throbbed as well.

  “Why’d ya have to do that, Clayton?” Billy asked, his face twisted in a scowl of disapproval.

  Grace turned her head slowly, despite the shooting pain up her neck, and studied the young man that held her baby with tenderness. Thank you, Lord, for this singular kindness. At least Ben was uninjured. She was grateful Billy had been the one carrying her son—and not this . . . Clayton.

  Clayton . . . Billy . . .

  Her breath snagged in her throat. She dared glance up at the face that glowered at her from the horse’s back. Her eyes widened in recognition as he cocked his head and spit off to the side. A new stab of pain streaked through her gut, and she shook all over, despite the heat of the midday sun.

  Oh, Lord, no, please . . . But she knew now who her captives were. She’d seen their likenesses on the posters around town. Worse, she’d heard stories of Clayton Wymore’s cruelty and lust for blood. How he liked to cut his victims with a knife, relishing the slow torture he inflicted upon them.

  This was a fate worse than death, Grace now realized. She looked to Billy Cloyd, hoping against hope that maybe he’d help her. Have pity on her and her baby. By why would he? He’d helped kidnap her. He was a member of the notorious Dutton Gang. Yet, through her pain and terror, she sensed something awry. They were bank robbers—what were they doing kidnapping? Had they taken her just for a bit of entertainment? Diversion? Why travel this far up into the mountains for that? Surely if they wanted to have their way with a woman, they could have done so without so much arduous effort. No, there was something else, some other reason. But what?

  Grace beseeched Billy with her eyes.

  “Let her have her baby,” Billy scolded Clayton. “We decided we’d wait for Lenora to get here anyways—”

  Lenora? Who is Lenora?

  “Hobble yer lip, Billy,” Clayton warned him, then huffed. He dismounted and handed the reins to Billy, then set about untying the rough ropes chafing her wrists and ankles. She felt naked before these men as she stumbled to her feet and thrust out her arms for her baby, standing in the midst of the clearing in her thin, sheer nightdress.

  Her body went limp with relief when Billy handed Ben to her, and sobs erupted in her throat as she looked into her baby’s sad little face. She smoothed back his wisps of hair as her tears sprinkled his dirt-stained cheeks. His diaper was wet and heavy, and his sleeping gown was torn and damp from Billy’s sweat. She held Ben against her heart, wondering if this would be the last time she would ever feel him in her arms. She winced from the agony of that thought.

  “You gonna feed him?” Clayton asked, a twisted smile on his face as he leered at her. “Then go ahead.”

  Grace started to walk toward the cabin, but Clayton rough-handled her, grabbing her wrist and stopping her. “Do it here. So’s I kin watch.” His cruel laugh was a knife to her heart. “Nothin’ so sweet and tender as a sucklin’ babe at a breast.” He laughed harder, but Grace noticed Billy continued to scowl—although the young man said nothing, clearly not wanting to rouse Clayton’s ire. It was clear who was the boss.

  “Nope, nothing like sucklin’ on a creamy white breast.” Clayton licked his lips and pointed to the ground in front of him. “So sit there and suckle.” He added, “And I’ll watch.”

  Grace hesitated, but Ben’s renewed complaint
s won over her fury and embarrassment. Her son needed to nurse, and smothering her own misery and humiliation, she began unbuttoning the top of her nightdress, tears trickling down her cheeks and onto her baby’s soft fine hair. She closed her eyes as she dropped to the dirt and prayed fervent prayers while she nursed him, pretending for this brief moment that she was in her safe, happy home, Monty snuggled up beside her, stroking her hair and gazing with love and adoration at his son, and all was right with the world. Even though nothing could be further from the truth.

  ***

  “This way,” LeRoy said, getting up from his crouched position and pointing over the scramble of broken rock at the base of a narrow cut in the cliffs.

  Malcolm shifted his weight on his quarter horse, antsy to keep moving. The men had said little once they rode out of town, with the sheriff deferring to the two Indian trackers as to which direction to go. And so far the trail had been easy to spot with the soft ground. Malcolm worried the posse would be stymied upon reaching the base of the Rockies, but so far they’d made good progress, keeping up a breakneck speed.

  The day was heating up, though, and the horses were lathering. They now stood snorting hard and pawing the hardscrabble ground. The riders had crossed miles of dry open range without seeing any sign of water, but Malcolm sensed a river was near. How he knew, he couldn’t say. But it was as if he felt it in his blood.

  LeRoy swung up onto his paint—a smallish horse with a white blaze down its face. Malcolm was impressed with the way the young men rode, and he was grateful they’d joined this posse—and he could tell Sheriff Love felt likewise. Malcolm looked over at the deputies, who chatted quietly with Marcus Coon. The older deputy, Stapleton, Malcolm had learned, had once upon a time been a Texas Ranger. And Coon had been in law enforcement in Indiana before moving to the Front Range. Malcolm felt confident they had enough experienced men to handle the firepower they jointly wielded. For if the sheriff’s hunch was correct, and the men who’d kidnapped Grace were indeed the wanted outlaws, they’d need every advantage possible.

  Malcolm’s heart wrenched in worry over Grace and little Ben. While they rode across the flat land, he’d let the pounding of hooves and the wind scratching his face sweep away his thoughts of her—and his fierce need for her—for he knew indulging in his fear would only hinder his concentration. He couldn’t afford a misstep or accident, and although he knew his horse had sure footing, the Front Range was a mess of prairie dog holes and low, thick scrub brush and prickly pear cactus, which could trip up the most agile of mounts. Malcolm had forced himself to give close attendance to the buckle and swell of the terrain, and gave Rambler his head as they galloped as if the hounds of hell were nipping at their horses’ tails.

  “All right, let’s keep going,” Sheriff Love said with a stern expression, his jaw clenched, nodding at the trackers to start up the cut. His gaze shifted to the top of the mountain, and he narrowed his eyes.

  The going was slower and arduous now, with the horses slipping and righting as they sought purchase for their feet, which set loose tumbles of boulders that ricocheted down the steep cliff. Just how far up the mountain had those outlaws taken Grace and the baby? Anguish bubbled up again. Why? Why would they take her?

  He’d ask himself the same questions over and over, hoping an answer would come to him through sheer repetition. But, like the others riding alongside him, he could fathom no reason for two wanted bank robbers to kidnap a woman and her baby. It made not a lick of sense. It wasn’t like they’d snatched her off the street or from a country road. They’d broken into a house, with clear deliberation. Which meant they knew Grace had been inside. So they either knew her or knew about her. What was her connection to outlaws?

  Malcolm kept a loose rein on Rambler as he leaned forward on the ascent up the steep rocky escarpment. He couldn’t see any trail, not even a deer track, through this jumble of dirt and rock. But the two Banks boys urged their horses on without hesitation, and then, when Malcolm crested the tight pass above him, he heard water.

  They cantered across a fairly flat ledge that funneled into a dense forest. Close to the tree line, the spruce and pine had taken a beating from snow and wind, and they tangled together in squat bunches with down-hanging branches. Now Malcolm spotted the glint of a river to the north-northeast, a few hundred feet lower in elevation. Its murmur tickled his ears as it cascaded in wild abandon over boulders and waterfalled over cliffs. When they entered the woods, they slowed.

  Eli and LeRoy conferred, then Eli swung his mustang around to face them and yelled over to the rest of the posse, “These prints are hardly an hour old. The must’ve rested their horses a spell.” LeRoy had told them when they first set out that the outlaws had four to five hours on them.

  The sheriff grinned. “They either aren’t expecting to be followed or something’s slowing them down.” He smoothed his moustache and pushed his hat down on his head. “Keep alert. We might miss something. Or someone.”

  At his gesture, they pressed on, with Malcolm pulling up the rear, trotting where possible and walking their mounts when the trees and alpine sagebrush grew too thick. They stopped momentarily at a crawling creek to water their horses, but other than the brief reprieve, they worked their mounts hard in pursuit. Malcolm’s shirt stuck to his back, and the cooler rarified mountain air that slithered down the Rockies into their glen refreshed him and cleared his head. He was thankful for the warm, clear day that allowed them to make fast progress up the mountain. At some point the trail would end—somewhere. It was clear these outlaws had a destination in mind, for their tracks had led straight up the side of the mountain into this wood tucked between towering cliffs. They’d have to have known this trail was here.

  Suddenly the riders in front of him stopped. LeRoy raised his arm and waved them back. They fell quiet, not saying a word as the two brothers slipped soundlessly from their mounts and signaled the posse to wait. Malcolm caught Eli looking at him, hesitating, a strange expression on his face, as if he wanted to say something directly to him. Odd.

  He’d noticed back in town the way the two brothers had studied him. As if they knew him, or knew about him. Their weighty consideration of him unsettled him, but he sensed no malice. Rather, they seemed curious about him, and from time to time as they’d ridden west, one or the other had glanced over at him. He’d heard they lived over by Greeley, but the months he’d spent in the cabin with Stella, he’d never encountered them—not on the road or in town the few times he’d gone there. Maybe they’d met Stella and she had talked about him.

  LeRoy whispered something to his horse, and then he and Eli disappeared into the trees. Their mustangs stayed where they were left, not flinching a muscle, and the woods were thick with quiet, the only sounds the huffing of the horses and the squeak of leather as the riders shifted in their saddles. The men around him locked watchful, alert gazes in the direction the brothers had gone. Malcolm saw the sheriff fingering the gun at his side. Marcus Coon chewed his lip, and the two deputies sat as still as wolves eying a rabbit.

  Sitting there, unmoving, the thoughts of Grace that he’d swept clean from his mind galloped back in like a herd of wild horses. With sweet pain he envisioned her pretty smile and gentle laugh, and anger swelled to bursting thinking those men might harm her and in what horrible ways they’d inflict pain upon her and the baby.

  He seethed as he sat, his every nerve afire with the need to rescue her. It took all his resolve not to jump off his horse and rush through the trees yelling her name.

  Movement caught his eye, and he sucked in a breath. But it was only the Indian trackers. The two slipped through trees in silence and came up to the sheriff’s side. Malcolm couldn’t hear what LeRoy whispered to Eph Love, but he didn’t have to. He knew what the Indian was telling him. A shiver jolted across Malcolm’s neck as his pent-up anger sprang a leak and filled his heart with rage.

  They’d found the outlaws.

  ***

  Lenora yanked on the reins
, but Nugget refused to comply. Well, fine. She wasn’t far from the cabin—maybe a mile at most. She’d run her horse hard, and he was played out. There was nothing for it but for her to leave him and hoof it over this last steep ridge.

  After untying the saddlebag and stuffing the short-handled shovel inside it, she slid the headstall off her gelding. Without prompting, the frothing horse clambered back down the mountainside, toward the grassy gulch below. This high up snow still covered most of the ground, but it was melting fast, and rivulets of water poured in sluices down the rock wall of the canyon, emptying into the swollen noisy river below her. She’d ridden farther north than she’d done before, but she couldn’t take a chance of running into Clayton. She knew he’d have taken the shortest, easiest way to the cabin, and she hoped the sheriff was hot on his tail.

  When she raced off from the homestead, she’d given in to her burning curiosity and ridden to the center of town, only to discover the whole place aflurry with talk about the posse and the kidnapping. She didn’t stay long enough to hear the Dutton Gang mentioned, but it didn’t matter. If the posse was tracking her “pals,” they’d find them at the cabin—where they were waiting for her. Unless they caught the pair on their way, slowed by the woman and her baby. Either way was fine by her, yesiree.

  Taking care not to trip over the piles of rocks littering the trickling draw, she ambled her way up the outcropping, keeping her eyes fixed ahead, not daring to look down at the dizzying canyon a mile below. She breathed hard from exertion and elevation, and her hair matted to her head. Her stomach grumbled, and she chided herself for not eating something before she left. In her haste, she’d forgotten to pack any food, and her drinking bout the day prior had left her with an unabating headache. But she consoled herself. There’s only a half mile between you and that box of gold. What did a little hunger or hangover matter?