Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  “Monty!” she yelled. He submerged once more, then bounced back up. He swiveled his head, frantic fear in his face as he searched the surface of the water for Ben.

  “There, there!” she screamed, pointing at the sluice her baby had been sucked through.

  Oh, God, please have mercy. I can’t bear this. Not again. Please . . .

  She kept up her litany as Monty catapulted his body through the narrow channel. Grace stumbled along a sandy bank thick with sedge, grateful for the tiny reprieve from the sharp rocks underfoot. She ran past a jumble of giant rocks, but when she came around the other side, she saw neither Monty nor Ben.

  Where were they? Her eyes roved across the river as her heart hammered her chest. She held her breath, about to swoon. Where, Lord, where? Seconds dragged like hours as her blood throbbed in her ears and she craned to see under the cloudy water, but to no avail. There was no sign of her husband or her baby. They were gone.

  A horrible dread gripped her. Her hope snapped. She’d lost them both. Ben. Monty.

  Drowned. Dead.

  She fell to the sand and rocked back and forth, wailing and sobbing, her heart shattered.

  ***

  After the first freezing shock of water hit him, Malcolm sucked in a breath and swam. The river carried him, lifting him and banging him into rocks, but, strangely, he wasn’t afraid. An unexpected calm washed over him as he scanned the roiling water and spotted Ben only a few feet downstream.

  He prayed with fervor, God, help me. Help me save Ben. Don’t let him die. He had to reach Ben before it was too late.

  He heard Grace yelling, but couldn’t take his eyes off Ben. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her running and tripping along the bank, following him downstream. Then a wave engulfed him and tumbled him underwater. He spun and twirled, unsure which way was up, snuffing water up his nose and choking. His teeth chattered from the snowmelt, and his chest felt like a block of ice. Cold needles pricked his fingers and toes. Then, a voice in his head told him to relax and lie back, to let his legs lead.

  He rolled onto his back and popped up to the surface. He looked around him as the current swept him along. Where was Ben? He couldn’t see him.

  “Monty!”

  Grace yelled at him. She called again. “Monty!” Then pointed.

  He didn’t understand why she called him by that name, but he looked to where she pointed—over at a narrow channel between two huge rocks.

  Malcolm turned on his side and kicked over to the channel, then let the water drag him through the passage that was barely wide enough for his body. The force of the suction swung him over. He smacked his forehead on a rock. Then the water tossed him as if he were a rag doll, smacking him into the opposite rocks. He hit his head again, and pain stabbed behind his eyes. Suddenly he lost his bearings and began to sink. Water filled his mouth as his mind numbed.

  All he could hear was the loud bubbling of water as he fought unconsciousness and thrashed his arms futilely.

  Ben! I have to save Ben!

  With a burst of panic, he jolted upward and broke the surface again, finding himself in a wide, calmer stretch of water. He swiveled around in fear. Grace was nowhere in sight. Neither was Ben.

  Malcolm’s heart thumped against his ribs. He gritted his teeth as blood trickled into his eyes. He swam hard, swinging his arms with broad strokes to first one bank, then the next, diving again and again underwater and straining through the hazy silt-laden river to spot any glimpse of clothing.

  Oh please, Lord, show me where he is! Let me save him.

  Nothing. Ben was gone.

  He paddled in circles, feeling around with his hands, diving under the water, his tears merging with the river. Black speckles dotted his vision, and his head throbbed as if knives were stabbing him. His mind began to drift downstream with the water. No, no . . .

  The river lifted him and sped him down more rapids. Malcolm fought the current with his exhausted heavy arms, checking the little inlets and eddies, hoping Ben had somehow been washed to the shore.

  And then—he saw a flash of blue.

  Malcolm craned his neck and narrowed his eyes. Downriver a dozen yards, a toppled tree lay partially submerged, creating a strainer in the river. In the wavering branches, a piece of clothing snagged.

  With his last ounce of strength, Malcolm dove underwater and swam with all his might, the current bulleting him straight to the strainer. In a quick flip, he lay back and bent his knees, instinctively positioning himself.

  His water-filled boots hit the thick branches with a jolt. Malcolm fought against tumbling forward, which would cause his head to get trapped in the strainer underwater. He would not drown!

  Sharp pricks of wood poked his arms and chest as he threaded one hand through the maze of branches and long brushes of pine needles bobbing in the surge. With his other hand he braced himself to keep from being swept away.

  He prodded around, unable to see anything but tree. Then, his fingers met wet cloth.

  But he couldn’t do a thing from his precarious position in the river. He had to get to the downriver side of the strainer.

  Grasping tightly to a sturdy branch, he slowly extricated his feet from their wooden perch. The moment he swung out away from the tree, the current snatched him up and tried to yank him away, tugging on his legs with all its might, but Malcolm held fast with his numb grip. He had lost all feeling in his hands but he held on, his fingers curled in a death grip, as his body flattened out across the top of the water and bobbed away from the tree.

  Now he could see Ben clearly. He gulped. The small bundle of clothing was snagged in the branches, but at least Ben was up out of the water. But could he still be alive? After minutes of submersion in the freezing water, if Ben hadn’t drowned, he’d likely be dead from hypothermia.

  He sent another desperate prayer to heaven as he fumbled with his useless hands to work his way over to Ben. It seemed to take forever, but eventually he pulled himself out of the current and over to the downriver side of the tree. Here the river eddied around him in slow swirls as the water behind him slapped and splashed in its race down the mountain.

  Suddenly, he heard a sound seep out under the cacophony of the river. A tiny little mewing sound, like that of a kitten.

  Ben! He was alive!

  Malcolm gulped back tears as he worked frantically at the tangled clothing. Carefully he wrapped his hands around Ben’s cold, lifeless body and jimmied him out an inch at a time. Malcolm, numb from the waist down, rocked in the water as he pried Ben’s little arms from bunches of pine needles.

  Finally, the baby’s little body slipped out of its sheath of wet clothes, and Malcolm delivered him, as naked as a newborn, into his own waiting cold arms. Ben’s wide eyes stared into his, and Malcolm shook with wonder as his legs trembled from exhaustion and relief.

  He wept as he stood there, clutching Ben to his chest, one icy body against another. But soon they both began to warm in the weak sunlight of the June afternoon, and Malcolm dared not pull him back to check him over. Not yet. He only needed to feel the tiny fluttering heart beating against his chest to know that Ben was alive. He prayed the baby would not die or suffer from exposure or bruising. But he couldn’t worry about that right now.

  Exhaustion crushed Malcolm’s shoulders as he salvaged the torn blue blanket from the thicket of branches, then trudged out of the water and collapsed with care onto the sandy riverbank, blood dripping into his eyes. He clutched Ben in a loving, tender embrace as he eased onto his back, the sun tingling his chest and face, warming the baby’s tiny body, bringing a pink color to his blue-tinged skin.

  Malcolm’s energy was spent. He knew he should yell for Grace, but he couldn’t form words in his numb throat. His head throbbed in an agonizing cadence. He was oh so tired . . .

  As he lay there, images of the river assaulted him. Waves tumbled and tossed him as he crashed against rocks, but all the while he heard Grace calling for him. He could see her, sitting on the mud
in the pouring rain, in a brown dress, a gray shawl over her shoulders. He sucked in a breath as he studied her fearful face close up, then glanced down to her mounded waist . . . and spotted a large wagon beside her, half sunk into the mud . . .

  What was he seeing? It was Grace, but she was pregnant and wet, and lightning ripped the sky. Thunder exploded, and two horses ran off, their reins trailing the ground. He was standing next to the wagon, watching them, a scowl of frustration on his face. He heard his own voice say, “Don’t be afraid, Grace. We’ll get through this. The Lord will make a way—He always does.”

  He must be losing his mind from the cold and trauma, Malcolm told himself as his thoughts shredded apart and a black cloud blocked out his sight and snuffed out the images.

  Grace . . . Grace . . . where are you?

  ***

  Grace lifted her heavy head and listened. She thought she heard something over the river’s din. It sounded like a voice, a cry. Her breath quickened.

  She leapt to her feet on the warm sand. Needles of pain shot up her heels, but she ignored them. Where had the sound come from? She searched the far shore, then upstream.

  Then she heard it again. A tiny sound. Her body shook all over. Could it be . . . ?

  She dared not hope—not again. Grief swallowed her up; she could barely walk, but she forced herself to take a step, then another. She ran pell-mell, looking behind rocks and in clumps of shiny thick grasses that grew along the riverbank.

  There—again! Her eyes grew wide. She blurted out a cry. Ben! It had to be Ben!

  She ran hard, stumbling and tripping as she followed the river along its bank, down one drop after another until she burst out onto a long sandy beach.

  Ten feet away, next to the river, lay Monty, stretched out on his back. And a naked Ben was in his arms, wiggling and crying. She threw a hand to her chest and uttered a strangled cry.

  Ben, oh, Ben!

  “You’re alive. Oh my God, thank you, thank you, Lord!” Her throat ached as she cried out her words and ran with renewed vigor.

  Grace sprinted to Monty and dropped to his side. She pulled Ben into her arms, surprised at how hot he was, and cradled him to her chest. Her poor baby was feverish! She rocked him and caressed him, splashing kisses all over his head and face, and he made little noises that kindled her joy. From what she could tell, he was unhurt. But the sudden fever sparked more worry in her heart.

  She leaned over and nudged Monty. He didn’t respond.

  Monty . . .

  Oh no!

  He lay unmoving, but Grace saw his chest rise and fall. A deep gash angled across his forehead, and his bare chest was abraded with raw welts and dozens of deep scratches that bled. Blood trickled down his chest and sides and face, and his trousers were ripped into shreds. His handsome, strong, beautiful body had been pummeled and pierced—all in an effort to save Ben. His son.

  Grace threw a hand over her mouth and cried, shaking her head in amazement at this man she loved so much. How could she ever have thought to leave him, to give him up? To let Ben grow up without knowing his brave, selfless father? She could not. She would not.

  She would tell Monty the truth and trust that he would believe her. And if he didn’t? Well, she would worry about that later.

  Right now, she needed to get him conscious. But what if she couldn’t? Her flame of joy sputtered out as she studied his impassive features.

  She glanced up at the sky. There were only a few hours of daylight left, if that. At this elevation, nightfall would drop below freezing. They would all die without warm shelter. No way would she leave Monty. Yet . . . could she risk Ben’s life by staying? Oh, what should she do?

  Grace’s head reeled thinking of all that had happened this day. She had been kidnapped, dragged up a mountain by outlaws, mishandled and terrified. She’d escape the outlaws and a fire, slid down a mountain, was nearly buried in an avalanche, and watched her husband and baby get swept down a raging river. How much more could she take?

  She leaned over, and with the torn hem of her filthy nightdress wiped the blood from Monty’s face, tenderly cleaning his eyes. Upon closer inspection, she determined that none of his wounds were very deep, and soon the trickle of blood stopped.

  “Monty. Monty, please, wake up. Open your eyes.” She fingered the gash on his head and felt the swelling. He’d hit his head hard. Just like before. He must have hit his head when I lost him the first time. Grace shivered. Would he forget her again? Would he wake up and not even remember her name? What a cruel turn of fate that would be.

  Noting Ben had fallen asleep in the warm sun, she laid him on his belly against Monty’s big, broad chest, and Ben’s little fingers tangled up in his father’s chest hair. Grace couldn’t help but smile at the peaceful, sweet sight of her son lying on his papa—a sight she had envisioned dozens of times. If only . . .

  She brushed the tears off her cheeks and went over to the river’s edge. After ripping off two long strips of cotton cloth from the bottom of her nightdress, she dipped them in the water and wrung them out. Then she spotted Ben’s torn blanket on the sand and picked it up. She hobbled back to the two people she loved most in the world, ignoring all the aches and pains that screamed for her attention, and sat down next to Monty. She slid his head into her lap and cradled it, gently wiping away the dirt and blood and sand that had caked in his cuts and crevices. His rugged, handsome face so close set her heart racing. With his eyes closed, he seemed in a peaceful sleep.

  Oh, he had to wake up—he just had to! But she didn’t know what else she could do.

  “Monty,” she said softly. “Monty . . .” She studied his face—his strong jaw and straight nose. His tender lips she had kissed so many times, so many nights while in his arms in their bed. A whimper seeped out of her mouth as tears rushed to her eyes.

  And then she could resist no longer. She leaned down and touched her lips to his. They rested there, and she reveled in the soft warmth of his skin.

  She closed her eyes and remembered.

  Chapter 28

  “Eli, see if you c’n figure out which way Grace went,” Eph told the tracker. Eli left his side and ambled, hunched over, around what used to be the east side of the cabin, studying the ground. LeRoy had ridden off to see if he could find any sign of Connors or his horse.

  Eph stood before the smoldering remains of the cabin, hands on his hips, listening to the quiet hissing of the timbers and siding, the coals crackling as the heat chewed at what was left of Clayton Wymore’s hideout. A sense of satisfaction simmered in Eph’s chest as he smoothed out his moustache and considered the day’s successes. Colorado Territory was now rid of the Dutton Gang. No longer would the banks and stages and trains be bothered by any of their ilk. He was proud of his posse—they’d done good. But they weren’t done just yet.

  Eph turned and saw Eli Banks pushing through the thick brush to the east, down a steadily dropping slope. Then Eph spun around at the sound of horses trotting through the pines pressed against the mountain wall. Coon, Stapleton, and O’Grady came out of the shadows on their horses, and ponying behind them were two other saddled mounts—quarter horses. A bay, and a chestnut with a blaze on his forehead. The dark horse sported a Texas-style saddle, upon which lay the bodily remains of Clayton Wymore.

  Stapleton trotted over to him, leading the bay gelding. “Here’s Wymore. We got the woman and her horse too.”

  Eph looked over at O’Grady, who held a lead rope in his hand that led to the chestnut horse’s halter.

  “Found this one wandering around a glade with no bridle. Just saddled,” O’Grady said. “I figure the woman cut him loose when coming up the rock fall.”

  Across the saddle lay the dead woman, her head buried in the gelding’s mane, and her raven-colored hair splayed out over the horse’s neck. Lenora somebody. Clearly she’d known Wymore. Maybe he’d had a wife Eph didn’t know about. Nothing he’d ever read in the papers mentioned anything about a woman tied to the gang. But he’d hav
e time later to figure out who she was.

  Eph walked over and looked at Wymore’s body draped sideways and facedown over the seat of the dark horse. His body was a bloody mess, the clothes drenched red in blood with bits of mutilated flesh clinging to fabric. Eph circled the horse, who didn’t look all that happy having the body roped to the saddle, and lifted what was left of Wymore’s crushed head. The face was barely recognizable, but Eph figured there wouldn’t be cause for doubt over who they’d brought back to town. Plenty of people would be able to attest to the identity of the outlaw once the undertaker cleaned it up some and got the body on ice. He knew Wymore had certain identifiable scars and birthmarks.

  He patted the horse’s neck and gave it soothing words of encouragement. The horse nickered in appreciation for the kind attention, and Eph got the impression the horse had not been kindly treated. Eph snorted. He’d find a new owner for this creature—someone who’d give him a good home. The horse deserved at least that much.

  Stapleton, still holding the reins of the bay horse, said with a gleaming smile, “Sheriff, take a look at what’s in them saddlebags.”

  Eph raised his eyebrows at Stapleton’s tone and expression. He glanced over at Coon, who nodded with a smile set to break his face. O’Grady chuckled.

  The gold! Had to be. Billy Cloyd had said something about Wymore going after the gold—and probably why he killed that woman. Nothing like a little gold to get people killing one another.

  Sure enough, his quick inspection into the darkness of the leather bag showed the glint of gold bars. He whistled. That was an unexpected piece of pudding. Who knew how much this was all worth. Or which banks it rightly belonged to. Well, the Pinkerton Detective Agency would know. And probably the territorial marshal.

  “We found a hole dug under that gnarled pine in the middle of the meadow. And an empty metal box,” O’Grady said, his bright-green Irish eyes dancing. He put a water skin up to his lips and drank.