Chapter 22
“I don’t like this, Clay,” Billy said, stepping in front of Grace, his legs widespread in a protective stance. “Just think it through.”
Clayton’s face twisted in anger. “I’ve thought it through. We need Lenora to tell us where the gold is, and she ain’t gonna do it less’n we give her what she wants.”
Another mention of that woman, Lenora. Who was she? Grace stood in the dank log cabin with her back pressed against the wall. She now understood why these outlaws had come to this abandoned cabin—for gold. No doubt bounty from the gang’s many robberies over the years. She looked down at her baby sleeping in her arms. The ride up here, the thin air, and his stress from being wet and hungry had knocked him out. A mercy she was grateful for.
After she had fed Ben, Clayton had pushed her into the cabin with such roughness that she tripped and almost dropped her baby. He’d then made advances on her, grabbing the collar of her nightdress and ripping it open, while she tried to slap him, yelling at him to stop and shielding Ben from his clawing.
Just when she thought all hope was lost, Billy shouldered into the cabin and yelled at him to stop. An argument ensued, and Grace’s heart thumped as she looked for any way to escape while they bickered. But she knew if she made a move toward the door, she’d face Clayton’s wrath. She could do nothing but wait and watch as the tension built between the two men.
“You know as well as I do that she’s set a trap,” Clayton said, huffing, then reached over to the crate that served as a table and picked up a flint box and opened it. A scant stream of sunlight shone into the one-room shack, and Grace could barely make out the expression on his face. But she felt his rage.
“And I mean to set one fer her.” He pointed an accusing finger at Grace and added, “And she’ll only get in the way.”
Billy set his face, his hands on his hips. “So we tie her up. You don’t have to kill her.”
“Lenora wants her dead. And I’m of the same mind. Last thing we need is a witness that might testify against us someday.”
Dead? Grace swallowed hard. This must be a mistake. “I don’t know anyone named Lenor—”
“Quit yer yammerin’,” Clayton yelled at her.
Grace pressed her lips tight and shivered in fear even though the room was stiflingly warm. Why would some woman she didn’t know want her dead? Why her? Was this a case of mistaken identity? If only these men would listen to her.
Clayton deftly struck the flint and sparked the wick in a kerosene lamp on the crate that illuminated two ratty, threadbare armchairs. The cabin was practically empty, and with the soft glow from the lantern, it was apparent that no one had been here in a long while. A coating of dust lay over the wide-plank floorboards and sparse furnishings, which consisted of a small tick mattress on a low cot and a warped wood slab dining table and two rickety wood chairs.
Billy took a step toward Clayton with his arms outstretched. “I’m jus’ sayin’—”
Clayton spun around and stomped up to Billy’s face. Grace gasped and inched away, steering clear of his swinging arm. She laid Ben on the cot with care, hoping he’d stay asleep. That somehow he’d be safe there for the moment.
Grace trembled as Clayton struck Billy in the shoulder with his fist, throwing him back against the wall. Billy put up his hands in defense.
“I don’t want a fight,” Billy ground out.
“Well, I’m itchin’ fer one. Since you seem to wanna run this show.”
“I don’t. I . . . I just don’t want you to hurt her.”
Grace noted the determined look on the younger man’s face, but it gave her little hope. She was certain Billy would not risk his own life to protect hers. And even if he tried, no doubt Clayton would win the contest of wills.
Clayton wagged his head slowly from side to side. “What’s wrong with you? Here’s a nice piece, all for the takin’, and yer actin’ all high and mighty all o’ the sudden.” He grabbed Billy by the arm and yanked him toward the door. “So’s if you don’t want any of this, then git out and stand watch for Lenora. And don’t come in. I plan to take my sweet time with this purty thing . . .”
He handily threw Billy out the door, and turned his attention back to Grace. She gulped and shook anew as he marched over to her and grabbed her roughly. Before she could suck in a breath, his slobbery lips pressed against hers, and he thrust her tightly against his body. His rough trousers rubbed her legs raw through her thin gown as he twisted and clawed at her skin, his hands roaming freely, hurting her as he pinched and bit her mercilessly, like a man gone mad.
Grace screamed and thrashed, but he pinned her arms to her sides as he pushed her into a corner.
“Please, please . . .” she begged, knowing it was a futile attempt, and only seemed to flame the fire of his passion. He grabbed her by the throat to hold her in place, like a captive bird, and used his other hand to unbutton his trousers and drop his cartridge belt to the floor. Grace clenched her eyes shut as his pants slipped to the dust-choked floor, and let out a garbled scream as his hand crushed her windpipe.
A sharp creak made her open her eyes. The front door flew open. Billy strode in, and the flicker of the lamp’s wick glinted on the gun he wielded.
Clayton’s hand fell from Grace’s throat. She coughed and clutched at her neck, stumbling away as Clayton let loose a string of curses at Billy. Shoot him! she begged Billy in her head, as she watched Clayton reach down for his revolver that lay at his feet.
“Why you lunkhead . . .” Clayton said, mean spite in his eyes. Instead of grabbing his gun, he jerked suddenly and lunged for Billy. He tumbled to the floor on top of him. Billy’s gun flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor as he careened into the table, which splintered into pieces.
Now was her chance! Shaking hard, she fumbled along the floorboards and found Clayton’s holster. The heavy revolver was jammed in tight, and Grace yanked with all her strength to get it free. But just as she had the heel of the gun in hand, Clayton swung around and whacked her head with his arm and sent her crashing to the floor, a shock of pain erasing her vision.
She held her reeling head and scurried backward across the room, away from his reach. She cowered in a corner as Billy jumped to his feet and barreled into Clayton.
Ben wailed from the cot, then clambered down on his little wobbly legs, his arms out, searching for her. She hugged the wall and worked her way to her baby, then scooped him up and retreated to the farthest corner, away from the men’s swinging arms.
If only she could get a gun! She knew if she tried to escape, Clayton would shoot her.
She pulled Ben in tight and curled up in a ball, listening in horror to the blows the men landed on each other. With grunts and curses, they fought like two trapped wildcats, snarling and snapping, and tearing the cabin apart. She cried and ducked her head as a jagged piece of wood flew past her ear and ricocheted off the wall.
Ben cried in her arms, and Grace held her breath, hoping against hope that Billy would somehow best Clayton, or the two would just kill each other. But then, she heard Billy howl like a sick dog.
Clayton, snorting like a locomotive, stepped back from Billy as the younger man fell to the floor, clutching his gut and flailing about, trying to pull himself up alongside the crate in the center of the room. Grace’s mouth dropped open in horror as her eyes caught the knife in Clayton’s hand, which dripped blood in drops that looked like rubies in the lantern light.
“You had that comin’ fer a long time,” Clayton seethed, sheathing his knife down his boot, and spitting on the floor. “Good riddance.” As if for good measure, he slammed his booted foot into Billy’s bloody side.
Billy moaned and panted hard. The cabin fell quiet as Clayton turned and spotted Grace where she huddled. A smile twisted his face as he stared at her and wiped sweat from his forehead, the fire of lust rekindled in his eyes and his nostrils flaring.
Ben whimpered into Grace’s chest, and her last tiny thread of hop
e snapped. She’d had her chance and lost it. Now she would suffer, and no doubt Ben would too. If she had the courage, she would suffocate her son and spare him the horrible torture she knew was about to come upon him. Grace had no doubt this monster would use his knife on Ben as a way to make her cooperate. Or just to make her suffer even more. Oh, God. Give me the strength to do it. To end my precious baby’s life.
She hugged him tightly, her tears soaking his head, her heart broken beyond repair. With a moan of agony, she placed her shaky hands around Ben’s neck, feeling his soft, tender skin around his throat, looking to heaven, praying God would take him quickly. For that was the only safe place now, for her precious baby—in God’s loving arms. She did not doubt He would welcome Ben to heaven, although she knew she was doomed for eternity for what she was about to do. But she did not care about her immortal soul. She would not leave Ben’s fate to the cruelties of this murderous villain, regardless of her fate.
Then, Clayton stopped and stiffened. Outside, the horses whinnied. Anger and fright seared Clayton’s eyes for a brief second, and then he spun around and rushed to the door. With caution, he peeked out. Grace exhaled in reprieve and loosened her grip on Ben, who wriggled in her arms and protested by babbling at her. Her heart hammered in accusation, for what she had almost done. Thank you, Lord, for staying my hand.
“Shh,” she whispered to her baby with trembling lips, stroking his head, relishing him alive in her arms. But what was transpiring? Had this Lenora arrived? Or was someone else there—maybe someone come to rescue her? Dared she hope?
Billy groaned again, and Grace turned to see him clawing at the crate. In her fright she’d forgotten him, thinking he was dead. Blood pooled all around him. Surely there was nothing she could do to help him. She had to flee—she’d been given another chance. Yet, how could she leave this man to suffer? He’d tried to save her life. The least she could do was help him somehow. But, how? She couldn’t carry him. If the sheriff came, she could urge him to get Billy to a doctor.
If she managed to get away . . .
To her surprise, Clayton tore out of the cabin. Grace looked around, this time noting there was no other door leading outside. Her gaze strayed to the windows to her left. She looked at Billy, whose glassy pain-struck eyes encouraged her. With a barely perceptible nod toward the windows, he urged her to go, to leave him.
“Thank you,” she said, a new flood of tears flowing down her face. “For saving us.” She wanted to say so much more, but his head thumped to the floor and his eyes closed. He lay on his back with his hands trying to staunch his wound, but dark blood oozed out steadily between his fingers.
Then, to Grace’s shock, his fingers clawed toward the lantern, and with a weak swipe of his hand, he knocked it to the floor. The glass shattered, and fire spread like liquid across the wood floor, licking at the legs of the chairs, the dry wood crackling into flames before her shocked eyes.
She hesitated in horror, then heard a noise out front. She could dally no longer. With a surge of resolve, she ran to the nearest window and pushed on it, trying to slide it open with one hand while clinging to Ben, but it wouldn’t budge. A tin pail sat in the corner, with a broom alongside it. Grace set Ben on the floor away from the window, then grabbed the wooden handle and smashed it into the glass, which shattered in a thousand pieces.
Without waiting to see if Clayton heard the noise, she poked at the remaining shards still attached to the sash, then gingerly climbed out, shielding Ben with her arm and ducking her head as smoke and heat from the voracious flames swirled around her. Thankfully the window was fairly low to the ground, and when she tumbled out, neither was hurt.
She stared back into the cabin, aggrieved, overwhelmed with helplessness, but the thick smoke blocked out any view of Billy. How could she leave him to die like that?
Why had Billy started the fire? Surely he would burn to death. Then she guessed his reason—it might keep Clayton from coming back looking for her. With the cabin in flames, maybe Clayton would assume she had died, which was his intent. Her death for the gold. From someone named Lenora, who wanted her dead. What madness was this?
Her body ached from the hard, uncomfortable ride up the mountain and from Clayton’s mean handling, but she was alive, and she could run. She listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear Clayton on the other side of the cabin, or the horses. The day was draped in deathly silence, even as smoke billowed in great plumes out the open window. Any moment now the building would erupt in raging flames—and then the woods would be set afire. She dared not go back to the trail they’d followed—no doubt Clayton would spot her. Her only hope lay in finding another way down the steep ridge.
With a prayer of thanksgiving for her unexpected deliverance—and her heart heavy with grief and gratitude for the gift of salvation—she hurried downslope, clutching Ben—who seemed to get heavier by the minute—through thick brush that scratched and raked her skin, unmindful and uncaring where she was headed, so long as she put a distance between her and her captor. She knew he could find her, and that he would come after her once he noticed her gone. It was only a matter of time.
She chided herself for not taking Billy’s gun, which had slid across the floor. Spurred on by a renewed surge of fear, she quickened her pace as the slope grew steeper and the ground slippery and wet from the melting patches of snow.
Suddenly, her feet gave out from under her, and she found herself sliding down a mud-slick ravine into a gaping dark chasm.
She screamed and clutched Ben hard, unable to grab at a bush or branch for fear of losing grip of her son. Together they fell, until Grace’s back smacked hard ground. Pain shot through her back and legs, and her head was thrown back upon impact. Her neck spasmed, and she whimpered as Ben tumbled out of her arms onto a flat muddy ledge. A glance upward showed twenty feet of sheer cliff, with no vegetation clinging to the rock face. She crawled to the edge of the ledge, pushing Ben back with her feet and telling him, “No, Ben. Stay there. Stay.”
Her throat choked anew at the sight. Below her, hundreds of feet straight down, a river raged, water spilling over its banks as it cascaded down treacherous drops through a narrow canyon. There was no way down, to any safe place. And no way back up the mountain. And one look at the ledge they were on showed it eroding and cracking from the sluices of water gouging into the side of the cliff and pouring down around her feet.
They were trapped.
She may as well have been killed by Clayton Wymore. It was only a matter of time before they would fall to their deaths, to the river below. There was only one thing she could do—two things—but she doubted either would help. Yet, she had no other recourse, so she prayed with all her soul that God would deliver her—and then she started screaming.
Chapter 23
Malcolm ran in a crouch behind Stapleton to the next tree. He couldn’t see past the deputy, but knew to follow his lead. Soundlessly the posse rushed through the woods, darting from tree to tree, and then Malcolm froze. He smelled smoke from a fire.
He and the deputy caught up with the sheriff, who stood stiff and still behind a large sugar pine, conferring with Coon, O’Grady, and the two trackers.
“Look.” LeRoy pointed ahead. Malcolm now made out a dark structure set back against a sheer wall of rock. Smoke drifted from the side of what he guessed was a wood-sided cabin.
Eli ran toward the cabin, bent over, studying the ground.
Malcolm’s gut knotted. Fear raced like blood through his veins. Grace! Was she in there? His legs screamed to run, but LeRoy stayed him with his hand, startling him. Malcolm looked into the tracker’s eyes and saw a strange expression.
“Just wait,” LeRoy told him firmly but kindly. “We’ll find Grace. But no sense gettin’ shot up in the attempt.” He turned to his brother, who was now running back to them.
“One horse bolted.” Eli pointed north of the cabin. “But someone’s rode off, and they rode hard—thataway,” indicating a rise to the south that led i
nto a dark brushy thicket. He turned to the sheriff. “We’ll go git him. You better check out the cabin—see who’s inside—before it burns to the ground.”
“Go,” Sheriff Love instructed, gesturing to the two trackers and drawing his revolver from its holster. “We’ll catch up with you.” He added, “Be careful.”
The brothers nodded and jumped up on their horses, breaking into a run before Malcolm could blow out a breath.
Throwing caution to the wind, the sheriff stormed to the cabin, his deputies on his heels, Malcolm and Coon right behind them. Wood crackled and tongues of flame now licked through cracks in the corrugated tin roof as they made it to the door.
Malcolm spun around, searching for any sign of Grace, of the outlaws, but he saw nothing other than muddy chaotic hoof prints and soft indentations from boots in the damp dirt. He dropped down and studied the ground, noting small footprints—from someone’s bare feet. His heart caught in his throat. He had no doubt those were Grace’s footprints.
He jumped up and pushed past Coon to get into the cabin. Sheriff Love flung open the door, and out exploded a cloud of dark smoke mingled with fingers of fire through the opening.
“Grace!” Malcolm yelled, his fear for her strangling him. He pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose, and ducking low, ran under the ceiling of thick smoke that blanketed the rafters. Fire gobbled up furniture around them, crackling and snapping like a vicious dog.
Malcolm could barely make out the sheriff rushing ahead of him, then crouching close to the floor.
“Search the cabin,” Love yelled, gesturing about wildly. “See if anyone else is in here!”
Malcolm exhaled hard in relief as he saw the sheriff kneeling beside a prone man. His eyes took in the pool of blood the man lay in, and the man’s arms clutching his side. The man looked up at the sheriff and said, “Go . . . go . . . get . . . him . . .”
“O’Grady, help me.” The sheriff grabbed the wounded man’s arms, and the man cried out in pain. O’Grady took hold of the legs, and the two lawmen hefted him and hauled him clumsily toward the door. Malcolm’s head pounded from the smoke as he raced around the dark, smoky room, feeling with his hands along the floors and walls and calling Grace’s name.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 26