Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  Coon came rushing to his side just as Malcolm discovered glass all along the base of a large window. Smoke poured out the opening, where the window had been smashed.

  “There’s no one else in here,” Coon told him. “Better get out now.” He pointed out the window. Burning heat tickled Malcolm’s back, and he felt the hair on his neck singe.

  Without further hesitation, Malcolm dove out the window, with Coon right behind him.

  Malcolm coughed and choked as he rose from the rocky ground and balanced on his hands and knees, trying to suck in clean air as the wind canted smoke into his face.

  “Come on,” Coon urged, yanking on his arm. “We need to get clear of the fire.”

  Malcolm stumbled alongside Coon into a stand of aspens. He wiped his soot-filled eyes and looked back. The cabin was now consumed in fire, and heat washed him in waves as he stood agape.

  Where was Grace and the baby? He was sure they’d been here. Those had to have been her footprints. He fell to his knees and studied the ground. Had she escaped out that window? She had to be somewhere around. He thanked God he hadn’t found her and Ben dead in the cabin. But . . . He swallowed hard. Chances were, whoever had ridden off had taken Grace and Ben with him. She was still in grave danger—especially if the outlaw knew he was being pursued. Would he kill Grace if she slowed him down?

  “Let’s go,” Coon said, pointing at the wall of rock past the thick stand of trees, twenty feet south of the burning cabin. Malcolm made out the sheriff and O’Grady kneeling on the ground. He and Coon hurried over.

  “What’s he sayin’?” Coon asked Love, dropping to the ground alongside him.

  Malcolm looked in the pained face of a young man—one who seemed too young to be a wanted outlaw. He then cringed and spun around as the front side of the cabin buckled and broke to pieces in a roar of flame. Fire licked at the nearby tree branches, and sparks and spatters of soot landed on their faces and shoulders.

  “Can we move him?” Stapleton asked the sheriff, whose gaze upon the outlaw glared hard and merciless.

  Love shook his head. “He’s done for.” He looked at Coon. “Said Wymore took off. Looking for some stash o’ gold and someone named Lenora.” He turned his attention back to the bleeding man, who lay panting in shallow gasps on the ground. Love leaned close to him. “Son, where’s the woman you brought?”

  Malcolm held his breath, churning with worry as the man closed his eyes and seemed to stop breathing.

  “Son, tell us. Did Clayton take her?”

  The outlaw said nothing. His head lolled to the side. Malcolm knew without being told that the man was dead. Fear struck him anew as he wondered where Clayton Wymore was taking Grace. If she was still alive.

  He stood, recalling how her baby had felt in his arms. He pictured Ben’s wispy hair and bright shiny eyes, full of excitement and wonder at the world. He then saw Grace look with such adoration upon her child, her face beaming with love—the kind of love he ached for—from her. How he longed for her, now, in this moment, his longing a sweet pain that tormented him, smothered by the unbearable worry he felt for her and Ben.

  In a daze he watched the men around him hurry back to their horses, and heard the sheriff say something about coming back for Billy Cloyd’s body. The men yelled to one another, to him, with urgency, but he stood unblinking, looking at the charred, smoldering cabin, tongues of fire hungrily eating up the remains, ashes flitting into his stinging eyes filling with tears.

  He thought his heart would break—if it wasn’t already broken.

  But he couldn’t give up hope. If Grace was still alive, she needed him. She needed his love and his clear head. Whatever it took, whatever price he’d have to pay, he would do all in his power to save her. Even face Clayton Wymore—if it came to that. He would gladly stand in the gap between that evil outlaw and the woman he cherished and sacrifice his life defending her. Of this he had no doubt.

  His determination seemed to shake him out of his momentary stupor. The others in the posse had already mounted their horses, and Sheriff Love and his deputies galloped past him, weaving through brush and into the heavily timbered woods that sloped up the mountain toward what looked like a narrow pass between two towering walls of rock.

  Coon sat his horse, gesturing Malcolm to hurry. He then kicked his horse’s flanks and broke into a run, calling out to him as he approached. “Connors—rattle yer hooks—git a move on!”

  Malcolm quickened his pace and came up to his horse. But just as he put his foot into the stirrup, he hesitated. Something . . . something felt wrong.

  He stopped moving and listened. The sizzle and hiss of fire rent the air, but the woods around him were quiet in the heat of this early summer day except for the drowsy hum of insects. He didn’t understand what he was listening for, but his gut told him to wait. His senses prickled, alert.

  Then, he heard it. A faint noise coming from the east. He took a few steps toward the remains of the cabin, walking slowly, craning his neck and looking every which way. He paced eastward from where the broken window had been, which was now a pile of collapsed smoldering wood planks. The bunch grass had been trampled, but there was no telling what or who had run over it. His feet led him downslope, through patches of thick manzanita and aspen suckers. Without rhyme or reason, he kept walking, until his boots began to sink into mud.

  He stopped and looked down. His chest fluttered as his eyes locked on to the small footprints that ran underfoot, and that smeared into a skid before him as the hillside tilted into a sharp, sudden decline.

  Another sound drifted to his ears, this time closer. His blood froze.

  It was a scream—a woman’s scream. And it was coming from far below him.

  He took careful steps in the skiddy mud, grasping branches and working his way, a foot at a time, down the treacherous side of the mountain. Snowmelt ran rivulets around his boots in the ochre mud. His breath shallow, his heart smashing against his chest, Grace’s repeated cries of fear directed his footing.

  Finally he could go no further. He grabbed a twisted branch of manzanita and tugged it hard to make certain it was secure. Then he dared lean out over the edge of the cliff. Below him, a river cascaded through a narrow granite rock canyon, the gray rock laced with black basalt. Sweat streamed down the back of his neck, and his sweaty hands slipped along the slick bark of the branch.

  “Grace!” he yelled over the pounding of his heart and the murmur of the river’s rapids carrying upslope to his ears.

  “I’m here! Down here!”

  Malcolm’s great relief turned to horror as his eyes found Grace. She was at least thirty feet below him, pressed up against the side of the mountain, huddled on a narrow ledge above the river, Ben tight in her arms. She looked up at him, but from this distance he couldn’t make out the expression on her face. But he could tell by the fear in her voice that she knew the danger she was in.

  Malcolm gulped, his mind racing. How could he reach her? He had no rope . . . but maybe the sheriff had some. He thought he’d seen some coiled on the side of Love’s saddle. But did he dare race off to find the sheriff? Would he even be able to find him? How long could Grace last down there? Could she keep Ben from falling off the ledge? What could he do?

  He closed his eyes and prayed as sweat trickled down behind his ears. Lord, help me. Help me save Grace.

  “Hold on,” he yelled down to her. “I’ll be back.”

  He knew he didn’t have time to get help. He’d have to think of something. Carefully he worked himself back uphill, inching along the slippery slope. He swiped a hand across his brow as he scanned the area. Then his eyes caught on a small structure yards north of the remains of the cabin. Through the tendrils of smoke rising from the charred piles of wood, he made out what looked to be a shed, and ran to it. The stubborn swelled door released after a few hard pulls, revealing the dark insides of a toolshed. A spark of hope ignited as he spotted some sort of metal implement that had a saw attached to a flat sheet of t
in by a long length of thick rope.

  His shaky fingers worked at the knots as he urged himself to hurry. Finally he extricated the rope from its strangled grasp of metal and looped it around his arm. He had twenty, maybe thirty, feet. His hope sputtered. It wasn’t enough to reach Grace.

  But it would be enough for him to reach her—if he slid down it and jumped to the ledge. What he would do once he got to her, he didn’t know. But he’d tackle that when he made it to that ledge. He’d figure something out. What other choice did he have? None. No way would he abandon her—not now, when she needed him most.

  He thanked God she was alive and unharmed. He thanked God for leading him to her, and for the rope. He wished he had ten feet more to reach her. But he knew whatever he lacked, God would make up the rest. All he needed was faith to bridge the distance. Faith and a determined heart. He lacked neither.

  ***

  Monty . . .

  Grace stared up at the top of the ridge as ash and soot sprinkled her face. Shock and relief coursed through her body. She shook in disbelief. How had Monty found her? Had he come after her alone? Or were there others? Surely he couldn’t have followed the outlaws without help.

  More importantly, why had he come? She imagined he had somehow heard about her abduction—no doubt the news had spread quickly through town. And he had left Stella to come find her. Oh, this could only be an answer to her prayers!

  Hugging Ben tight as he wiggled to get free, she wondered if Monty was finally starting to remember her. His attraction to her was apparent, and despite the fact that he had married another woman, he was legally her husband. She had every right—under heaven and earth—to want him back, but she still feared telling him the truth. He had walked back into her life. She had to believe in time he would remember her. Remember everything.

  “Mama,” Ben cried, waving his arms around.

  “No, Ben. Hush. Wait. It’s not safe.” She smiled at him and kissed his dirty cheek, and a few of her tears landed on his face. “Your papa is coming back.” Ben looked at her, puzzled.

  “Yes, that’s your papa. And he loves you. He’ll take care of us.” She closed her eyes for a moment and soaked in the gratitude she felt. Every inch of her body hurt, but she knew no bones had been broken. Ben was unscathed, even from the long fall to the ledge. And of all people sent to rescue her, God had sent Monty. She believed in her heart of hearts that the great love Monty had for her and Ben was leading him to her, even without his knowing. Their hearts were entwined, like the strands of a tightly woven rope that could not easily unravel. And as her heart called out to his, he could do naught but respond.

  Clayton’s face, his bloody knife, Billy’s moans, the fire and smoke licking her back as she smashed the window—the last hour replayed in her mind and set her trembling anew. She was so tired and sick and weary. How she longed to sleep in a soft feather bed . . . with Monty in her arms.

  Grace sat on the wet ledge and shifted Ben in her arms so that he faced her. “Let’s sing a little song, all right?” She had no idea where Monty went or when he’d return. She hoped the sheriff was with him, or some other strong men who could help. She didn’t know how much strength she had left to corral her ever-curious son.

  As she sang a nursery rhyme to Ben and he settled, for the moment, into her arms, she thought how she’d almost left Fort Collins, never to see Monty again. And she would have boarded the coach to Denver—if she hadn’t been kidnapped.

  The thought struck her—how this horrific ordeal was somehow a blessing in disguise. This had to be heaven’s doing. And if that be truth, then she had to cling to the hope that Monty would someday be hers again. How, she had no idea. She just had to hold on tight and not let go. And trust that, as Monty always reminded her, “the Lord will make a way—He always does.”

  Chapter 24

  Lenora pulled out the short-handled shovel she’d tucked in her saddlebag. She walked to the middle of the clearing to the old twisted pine that stood as a lone sentinel in this high mountain canyon—a sentinel that had stood watch over the box of gold at its feet.

  As she tromped back through the ankle-high alpine grass that spread like ratty green carpeting, she looked up the canyon beset with narrow slots and crevices to the snow-topped mountain peaks of the Rockies. The only way out of this boxed-in meadow was back down the way she’d come, which led to the Poudre River. She wished now that she’d tied Nugget up, so she could fetch him later. Her stomach grumbled at her for forgetting to bring food along. In her haste she’d done a lot of fool things. But she was determined to get out of the mountains in one piece, even if she had to crawl on all fours lugging the sack of gold behind her. Nothing and nobody would stop her now.

  More than anything, she hoped Clayton had been captured by now. Or shot dead. There was no telling—not from here. She didn’t dare sneak close to the trail, where the posse could spot her. And she couldn’t take the chance of them seeing her footprints.

  As much as she wanted to watch his demise, she couldn’t take the chance.

  The snap of a branch startled her, and she swiveled around, stiffening. She pushed back her sunbonnet to scan the far woods and fisted her hands. Was someone coming?

  She pulled her pistol out and hefted it in her palm, eyeing her surroundings, keenly aware of her vulnerability in this exposed field. Hank had spent hours teaching her how to shoot—and shoot well. She could hit a bird between the eyes on a stump from fifty feet without a second’s hesitation. Clayton wasn’t all that great a shot, but she sure didn’t intend to put his skill to the test, nosiree. And if that posse discovered her—well, why would they take umbrage with a woman traveling alone in the mountains? She’d read stories about that Englishwoman Isabella Bird. The fool woman spent years traipsing alone around the Rockies, fording dangerous rivers and waiting out blizzards holed up in some stranger’s cabin.

  A scent of smoke wafted up her nose. She looked to the north, where Hank’s hideout was. A small dark cloud hovered above the tops of the pines, and flecks of ash rode on the soft breeze drifting down into the valley where she stood, wary, pondering.

  Was the cabin on fire? Why? She hadn’t heard any gunshots. Had the posse set it on fire to force Clayton to come outside and surrender? Wouldn’t that be nice.

  But she didn’t have time to postulate on what might or might not have transpired. She was wasting time. The longer she tarried, the bigger the chance someone would spot her.

  Lenora set her pistol beside her as she knelt at the base of the gnarled pine. With a grunt, she pushed aside the big stones she’d rolled onto the flat spot. Then she poked the shovel’s tip into the ground until she hit the big flat rock she had laid atop the strongbox. In less than a minute she had the foot-long rock uncovered. She set down the shovel and with her gloved hands worked the rock free and lifted it out.

  Her eyes widened as her pulse raced. The gray metal box sat undisturbed where she had left it the last time she’d been up here. A giggle burst out of her as she hurriedly wiped dirt clods off the top. It was hers! The gold—all of it. All she had to do was fill her saddlebag and—

  “Well, fancy runnin’ into you out here by yer lonesome.”

  Lenora gasped at the gruff voice and jumped up. Standing not ten feet from her was Clayton!

  How had he snuck up on her like that, without her noticing? She had to think fast. It took all her resolve not to glance at her gun that lay inches from her boot. She knew if Clayton saw where she was looking, he’d shoot her without hesitation. Drat!

  “Why, Clay,” she said, pouring on the sugar and delicately wiping the dirt from her hands. She straightened and smoothed out her skirts. “We were s’posed to meet at the cabin. I was just gettin’ your gold—”

  Clayton stood erect, scrutinizing her. His hand dropped to the gun at his hip. Lenora gulped.

  “Sure ya were,” he said, a cynical chuckle following. “And I was jes makin’ sure you were bringin’ it.”

  “Where’s Billy?�
�� she asked innocently. But the icy rage searing his eyes told her the answer before he spoke. Billy Hill Cloyd was dead. Lenora guessed why—Clayton wanted the gold all for himself. She struggled to paste on a look of calm reserve, but her insides twisted with fear.

  “He’s . . . indisposed.” He laughed. “An’ I indisposed ’im.”

  Lenora took a step toward Clayton with her arms out and a big smile on her face, hoping the terror crawling over every inch of her skin was not telltale. “Oh, Clay, we can—”

  “Jes hold it right there,” he warned, pulling out his gun and fingering it by his side.

  Lenora stopped, then took a step back, mindful of where her pistol lay. Fear filled every pore in her body. If Clayton had killed Billy for the gold, she was next. She had to think of something to distract him so she could shoot him first. Think, think! Where was her serendipity now, when she needed it most?

  Her palms sweaty, she wiped her hands on her dress. The afternoon sun baked her head, and perspiration dotted her forehead. The smell of smoke was thicker now.

  “What did’ya do? Set the cabin on fire?”

  He humphed. “I reckon more’n likely ’twas that posse o’ yours. Huh, don’t look at me like that. You think I didn’t figure on you alertin’ the law? How stupid d’ya think I am?”

  “I did no such thing,” she protested. Didn’t need to, you lunkhead. You think the sheriff wouldn’t’ve heard about the kidnapping?

  He pointed the gun at her. “Reach on down there and take that box out. Set it over there. Nice and easy and no funny stuff.” He moved a few feet to her left, to get a clear shot of her without the tree in the way. She sidestepped enough to block his view of the gun, which was now hidden under her petticoats.