With his pistol aimed at her head, he watched her with a keen glare, never taking his eyes off her hand.
“For goodness’ sake, Clay. Why are ya being like this? I’ll give you the gold. I told ya I would. I don’t need it.”
“Sure ya don’t,” he said, his mouth in a twisted smile.
Lenora made herself breathe, but her corset suddenly squeezed the air out of her lungs. She knew she had to move slowly. One quick misstep and she’d find a hole in her heart.
“Hurry up!” he ordered, waving his gun.
For a brief instant, Clayton looked across the field. His eyes narrowed. He must have seen something. Or someone. Now was her chance.
With her head bowed, she pried the box up with one hand, while her right hand slid under her skirts, feeling around until she touched the warm metal barrel of her Colt. She inched the gun forward until she could get a good grip on the handle. Her hands shook, but she grasped it tightly.
Sucking in a breath, she pulled the edge of the box up, aware of Clayton’s distracted eyes glancing at her hands as she peeked up at him from underneath her lashes. She pulled her other hand out from under her skirts, and as she got to her feet, she cocked the hammer back.
Clayton’s eyes widened as she yanked the gun up and pointed it, straight-armed, right at his chest. “What are you—?”
She fired, the kick of the gun throwing her off balance. Clayton rolled to the ground as the bullet whizzed by his arm. Before she could get off another shot, he ran behind her.
She spun around—only to face him and his pistol head-on.
She threw her hands up, and a whimper escaped from her throat. “Please,” she begged. “Don’t shoot. I . . . I was afraid. I thought if you killed Billy, you’d kill me—”
Clayton smiled, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. His hate and fury smoldered hotter than any fire. “Well, you thought rightly,” he said, cocking back the hammer of his gun.
“Clayton, please—”
“Sorry, Lenora. You tricked me one time too many. Adios.”
Clayton fired his gun. Lenora shrieked as the bullet sliced into her gut. A hot knife of pain seared her flesh and doubled her over. She heard the gun fire again. Another hot knife struck her shoulder. She screamed and toppled to the grass.
Her heart stuttered as her body convulsed. The hot sun burned her eyes, and she closed them. In her mind, she saw herself standing on a bright stage, in a fancy theatre house in San Francisco, spotlights baking her as she recited her lines—she was a star, and everyone applauded and threw bouquets of flowers at her as she took her many curtain calls.
She slipped along in her dreamy vision of her fame, gold coins raining down on her head and plunking on her shoulders. Gold, all that gold, all hers . . .
Tears welled up as her lifeblood seeped out, as the harsh pain careening through her body dulled to numbness. She tried to move her hands and her legs, but was unable to. She heard a voice. It sounded as if coming from miles away, the words drifting to her ears as inky blackness clouded her mind and she sucked in shallow breaths that couldn’t fill her lungs.
“Good-bye Lenora. And good riddance.”
***
Eph Love reined in his horse, skidding to a stop in the middle of the stand of aspens. Gunshots!
His deputies halted alongside him, alarm streaking their features. The shots were close—not even a mile away. He listened, then heard horses pounding soft earth. Eph drew his gun, then relaxed. Eli and LeRoy emerged from around a thicket on their mustangs. The two trackers trotted in quick step over to him.
“It’s Wymore. He’s in an open field over yonder,” Eli said, animated and pointing in the direction from whence he and his brother had come. “He just shot a woman—she’s got black hair. It’s not Grace.”
“Anyone else there with him?” Eph asked, smoothing his moustache, his pulse quickening. What in tarnation was a woman doing up here, dealing with the likes of Clayton Wymore?
The brothers shook their heads. Love looked behind him and took a head count.
“Where’s Connors?” he asked Marcus Coon. Last Eph had seen, the surveyor had been riding alongside the hotel owner.
“Don’t know. I told him to follow. Guess he had other intentions.”
Eph pursed his lips. Maybe the sight of Cloyd dying scared him off. But they didn’t have time to worry about Connors’s whereabouts. He probably headed back to town, thinking he wasn’t needed.
And he wasn’t. Six against one made the odds look pretty bad for Clayton Wymore. Six men who were all pretty good shots too.
“Well, let’s have at ’im,” he told his posse. “Ezra—take Colin and try to find another way around, so we can surround him.” He looked back at the trackers, questioning them with his eyes.
LeRoy nodded and said to Stapleton, “When we get beyond that narrow cut, where the trees thin out, you’ll see a wider deer trail to the right. Just follow that for about a quarter mile, then swing sharp toward the mountain. You’ll circle the meadow and come out on the north side of the ridge.”
“Okay,” Eph said. “Good.” He shifted in his saddle and sidestepped his horse to face the five men. “Men, I don’t have to tell you Clayton Wymore’s wily and dangerous. He’s a murderer. Don’t hesitate to kill him. He’ll hear us coming, and he’ll find some cover, no doubt. So keep your wits about you.”
Eph checked his pistols and nodded at his deputies to follow. He gestured at the brothers to lead the way. As they trotted across stony ground up through a narrowing pass, Eph smiled, the eager anticipation of this moment building like a ball of snow growing in size as it tumbled down a hill. Billy Cloyd was dead. There was one remaining member of the notorious Dutton Gang on the loose—but not for long.
Eph had no intention of capturing Clayton Wymore alive—knowing the outlaw’s propensity to escape every trap that had ever been set or sprung on him. Eph would not take that chance. He had not a lick of mercy in his heart for this thieving, murdering piece of work that had no resemblance to a man made in God’s image. No, Wymore would breathe his last upon God’s good earth at the top of this mountain, and then Eph and his men would haul the body back to Fort Collins, where his death would be welcomed and broadcast across the thirty-seven united states. Eph could hear it now—the applause, the praise, the acclaim. He would go down in history as the man that put an end to the trail of victims that suffered at this monster’s hands. His appointment to the office of state marshal was a done deal.
Suddenly, the Indian brothers reined to a quick stop in front of him. They had arrived at the top of the draw, and Eph noted it opened out onto an alpine meadow dotted with wildflowers, clover, and patches of snow. His gaze snagged on the woman’s body lying prone in the tuft grass.
“There’s the varmint,” LeRoy said, pointing across the wide expanse. “Gettin’ on his horse.”
Eli’s mustang pranced in place. He gazed off toward the mountain peaks. “LeRoy,” he said, his voice arresting.
“What?” LeRoy asked him.
Eli only stared hard, facing west, at the towering western wall of the Rockies.
“Well, I’ll be . . .” LeRoy said.
“What is it? What do you see?” Stapleton asked, riding up to them, craning his neck to look off in the distance.
Eph saw only something that looked like a haze of dust. Buffalo? Not this high up.
“Horses,” Eli told Stapleton, then looked over at Eph, his face shining with excitement. “That’s the herd we’ve been tracking.”
“For two years now,” LeRoy answered wryly. Eph noted a wistfulness in his gaze.
“You boys want to go after them, go ahead,” Eph told them. “We can handle Wymore.”
“No,” LeRoy said firmly. “We’ll see this through. Won’t be hard to pick up that herd’s trail from here.”
Eli nodded and looked to Eph for instructions.
“All right then. Let’s get Wymore . . . and then we have to find the woman and her baby
.”
O’Grady nodded. “She couldn’t have gone far. Maybe Connors found her.”
“One thing at a time,” Eph said. “Least it’s warm and sunny. Not a cloud in sight. She’ll fare all right until she’s found.”
He hoped Wymore hadn’t done anything to that woman before he fled. He couldn’t imagine the fright he’d have if someone stole away his Sally. He’d spit nails chasin’ down the scalawag, and he’d show no mercy. But this woman—she had no one. No one but him and his men. He’d find her and take her safely back to town. But not until Wymore got his comeuppance.
He wished Cloyd hadn’t died on him. He wanted the kid to explain why they’d taken Grace Cunningham and her baby. And tell him who this woman was. Although, now it appeared the woman was dead. If they killed Wymore, then all his unanswered questions would be buried six feet under. Would he ever uncover the truth behind this puzzling mystery?
He spurred Destiny into a run, his posse right behind him. Across the meadow, Wymore stopped and turned at their approach. In a flash, he mounted his horse and raced away to the southwest, as if the Devil were hot on his heels.
He is, Eph thought, giving his mare her head and galloping after the outlaw. And I’m right behind him.
Chapter 25
Malcolm slithered down the rope with care, one gloved hand over another, the roar of the river floating up to him like the rumble of an oncoming train. Sweat poured down the back of his shirt as he swiveled from side to side, keeping an eye on Grace, who stood pressed against the back of the mountain wall, hugging Ben and watching his progress.
When he reached the end of his rope, he smiled wryly. For, in a whole lot of ways he was at the end of his rope. Here he was, dangling over a river canyon, with no idea how to get Grace and Ben off this ledge to safety, but all he could think about was how relieved and happy he was. Grace was alive and unharmed. His heart ached for her, yet he was married to a woman he detested. He’d left Stella, knowing he would never return to her. Yet, Grace was a moral and upstanding Christian woman, with a child to rear and bring up in the faith. There were no two ways about it—he could not corrupt her morals or tempt her by proclaiming the feelings he held for her. He was not free to marry her, and no amount of rationalizing—with himself or God—would change the sad fact of the matter.
Malcolm flung his thoughts aside and gauged the distance to the ledge, then let loose his grip and tumbled the eight or so remaining feet onto the soft mud, rolling into the wall.
“Oh, thank God,” Grace said, rushing to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Malcolm did his best to brush off his clothes, but they were damp and smeared with dirt. More than anything, he wanted to throw his arms around her, longed to pull her to his chest and kiss her sweet, lush lips. Desire flared in a hot flash of need, but he squelched it as he looked her and the baby over. She was in a thin white nightdress, ripped at the collar and caked with muck He forced his eyes from her shapely curves that left little to his imagination, seeing that the fabric was sheer and clung to her damp body. He unbuttoned his long-sleeved chambray shirt, which left him bare-chested, but there was nothing for it. Better that Grace was modestly covered. How embarrassed and exposed she must have felt in such a state of undress around those two outlaws. He shuddered thinking of them taking advantage of her.
Malcolm wrapped his shirt around her shoulders. “Here. You can put this on over your nightgown.”
“Thank you,” she said, her cheeks reddening.
“Did . . . Wymore hurt you?” He hated to hear the answer, but he had to ask. Rage simmered under the heat of his desire, and he prayed that the sheriff had caught—and killed—Clayton Wymore.
Grace hesitated, and her face paled. “He meant to,” she finally said, “but Billy stopped him.” Her words choked in her throat. “He died saving me . . .”
Malcolm nodded, and gratitude surged for the young outlaw and his unexpected sacrifice. He felt sad for Billy Cloyd—for getting tangled with the likes of Wymore. Seemed a fool thing to do. “The sheriff got him out of the cabin, before the fire reached him. If that’s any consolation.”
Her light-green eyes searched his, as if looking way down into his soul, and his passion stirred anew.
“So . . . he’s dead then?” she asked.
He nodded again, then stroked the baby’s head. A quiet snore wheezed through Ben’s nose.
“Is Ben . . . ?”
“Just tuckered out.” And then she smiled, and he thought her smile was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen—even despite her filthy clothes and dirt-streaked cheeks.
He tore his gaze from her face before his hands got the better of him. This close, it took all his willpower not to kiss her and run his fingers and lips over every inch of her body. He had to get these lustful thoughts from his mind!
“Don’t move,” he told her, huffing out a breath that carried upon it all his fervent desire for her. He walked the perimeter of the ledge—fifteen or so feet—peering over the crumbling edge to the steep jumble of sagebrush and rock cascading to the river below. Water moved swiftly through the canyon, but a wide beach of sand and tufts of grass leveled out on a riverbank that ran for a hundred or so yards below them. If he could just get Grace and Ben to that flat spot, they could follow the river down the mountain until it came out to civilization.
He’d seen and studied maps of the Cache la Poudre River in the assessor’s office. It tumbled and turned from its headwaters high up in the Rockies, but emptied out on the Front Range, into the South Platte—the place where he’d woken without a memory to see Stella’s face. That was miles from here, but he knew that much at least—at some point they’d get down to the open range and eventually find a road.
After studying the slope leading to the riverbank, he devised a plan. He’d set Grace and Ben on his lap and slide down the mountain. If he dug his boot heels hard into the ground, he could control their speed. Little by little they could work their way to the bottom. His body might acquire some bruising along the way, but if that was the price he had to pay for a safe deliverance, so be it.
He didn’t dare waste daylight hoping the posse would come back looking for him or Grace. They probably figured he’d found her and took her back to town. Unless they found his horse wandering where he left it. He imagined Rambler was doing what he loved most—snuffling the brush for grass to eat. What would the sheriff think when he found the horse? Would he spend the time looking for him? Not likely—not if he had Wymore in tow. No, Malcolm didn’t dare take the chance of waiting. Who knew how far he and Grace would get before darkness—and a freezing cold night—descended upon them?
“I’m going to get you out of here, Grace Cunningham,” he told her. “Come’ere.” He gestured her to his side at the lip of the ledge. “I’m going put you and Ben on my lap, and we’re going to scootch our way down, nice and easy.”
She nodded, but her face was etched with fear. He couldn’t bear it a moment longer; he had to touch her, to reassure her. He walked to her and stroked her cheek and met her eyes. Tears filled hers, and she choked back a sob. To his surprise, she covered his hand with her own, holding his palm against her chin.
“You’ve been through a lot—more than a woman could possibly bear. You’re brave and strong. You did what you had to, to save Ben. Don’t for a minute think you’ve done anything wrong.”
She nodded as the tears spilled down her face. Her forlorn expression tugged his heartstrings so hard, he thought they would snap. He gently wiped her tears with the back of his hand, and she squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered, and the sound of it hurt his chest.
“Thank you . . . Malcolm. You didn’t have to come for me. With the posse. Why . . . why did you? You risked your life for me . . . again.” She lowered her eyes and bit her lip, and Malcolm saw her restraint. She meant to say more, but stopped herself.
Oh, how he ached to tell her he loved her. Tell her how much he needed her, admired her. She was
unlike any woman he’d ever met—at least, the ones he could recall meeting. She was not only kind and honorable. She was courageous and resourceful. She’d escaped from one of the most dangerous outlaws in the West. That took hard resolve, determination, a fierce desire to live. And yet, she was soft and tender and vulnerable. He wanted nothing more in this moment than to protect her and love her and make sure no one ever harmed her again.
“Here,” he said, sitting on the ground and dangling his legs over the ledge. He held out his arm, ushering her toward him.
He whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Grace. We’ll get through this. The Lord will make a way—he always does.”
She stopped suddenly. “You said that to me . . . before. When the tornado . . .”
“I know,” he said. “And we got through that ordeal—you and me, and Ben—without a hitch. I’ll have you back to town in no time.” He gave her a grin and patted his lap. She carefully sat down, and Malcolm wrapped his arms around her, reveling in her warmth and the feel of her skin against his bare chest. He forced his thoughts to the task at hand, away from his passionate stirrings for her.
“Ready?” he asked. She shifted Ben in her arms, then nodded. Malcolm inched his way off the ledge and onto the slippery slope. Mist from the river wafted into his face as he repositioned his feet, working his way down the cliff side. Thankfully, his boots dug into hard dirt and rock as he slid a few inches at a time, craning to see ahead of him and keeping Grace in his tight embrace.
He thanked God again for the sunny, clear day. He reminded himself that the danger was over. Grace was safe. She’d escaped unharmed. He might never know the reason Clayton Wymore kidnapped her, but it didn’t matter. Not now. He would get her and Ben safely back to town, and then . . . then . . . ? He had no idea. But he knew after today, he wouldn’t be able to push Grace from his heart. She had lodged tight in there, like a heavy rock stuck in a riverbed. No amount of prying would ever dislodge it. Was he destined to suffer the rest of his life, loving a woman he could never have?
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 28