“You know there’s a reward for the return of that gold,” Coon told Eph.
“And for the capture of the last two members of the Dutton Gang,” O’Grady added, chuckling.
Eph clicked his teeth. “I figure you men will be collecting that reward soon enough.”
His deputies laughed merrily, no doubt already spending their fortune in their head. But a reward was the last thing on Eph’s mind. The deaths of those outlaws was its own sweet reward—all that Eph had ever wanted. He’d dreamed of such a day as this all his life, from back when he was a boy reading Beadle’s Dime Novels of the Wild West. Long before the James’s brothers joined up with the Youngers.
“You want us to look around for Connors and the woman?” Coon called over from his horse.
“I think it best we let the Indians do the tracking. We might muddy up the tracks—”
“Sheriff!”
Eph spun about and saw Eli hauling toward him.
“Connors and Grace went this way.” He looked at the other men sitting their horses, then his eyes rested a moment on the two bodies draped across the saddles of their mounts. He turned his attention back to Eph.
“I need to show you somethin’,” Eli told him in all earnestness. Eph did not like the flare of worry he saw in the Indian’s eyes.
“Stay here,” he told the others, although he needn’t have said the words. They would wait for his instructions.
Eph fingered the collar of his shirt as the warm midday sun overhead caused sweat to dribble down his neck. He pushed aside the thick scratchy branches as he stepped carefully through the brush, following Eli’s lead. Soon the ground’s slope canted sharply, and he couldn’t help but notice the broken vegetation, indicating someone had run through this thicket, heedless of the danger. His boots slipped along the soggy ground, and Eli slowed, taking cautious steps until he came to a stop.
“Careful, Sheriff,” Eli told him, nodding for him to take a look-see ahead of him.
To Eph’s surprise, the Indian took hold of his left arm and steadied him. Eph inched forward and craned his neck. The slope broke off into a sharp vertical descent. His gaze followed the drop down to a small ledge perched above the swollen, noisy river hundreds of feet below. He swallowed back his fear that he’d see a body or two lying on the ledge, wondering why Eli had brought him here. Then he noticed the way the ground below him had crisscrossing indentations.
Footprints. Even from this high up, he could see both footprints and boot marks. Two sets of feet.
Connors. And the woman.
They’d fallen off the cliff? Eph whistled low. Well, if they had, they’d survived the fall. It was clear they’d walked around on the broken ledge. But then where’d they go? The precipitous mountainside was a jumble of mud and rock, indicating a recent avalanche. He shook his head and gulped. It wasn’t much of a leap to assume Connors and the woman—and her baby—were buried somewhere under the slide. His hope at finding them plummeted down the mountain.
“Here,” Eli said, fingering a line of thick old gray rope. He handed it to Eph. “It was tied off over yonder”—he tipped his head indicating the trunk of a small twisted spruce—“Connors used it to git down to Grace.”
Eli stared at the water. “There’s a lot of mud and rock on the riverbank. I can’t see prints from this far up.” He looked at Eph, his face stricken with worry. “There’s no way to tell if they made it down safely. And I don’t see any clear way down for us without riskin’ settin’ off another avalanche. This hillside is precarious.”
Eph nodded. “They either made it out or they didn’t.” He let the words hang between them. There was nothing for it; they had to get back to town before dark. He hoped Connors was taking the woman and her baby to safety. They would no doubt follow the river down to the Front Range. Eph pictured a map of the Poudre canyon in his head. From where the timber drivers worked the Poudre further up, where they sent thousands of saw logs downriver during winter—logs that floated the miles to the railroad in Greeley, where they were milled into boards. How far were they from the northern road? Ten miles, at most? They’d either come upon Whitcomb’s ranch at Boxelder Creek or bisect the northern road. But it wouldn’t be easy going—not with a barefooted woman and a baby. Assuming they were alive and unhurt.
“You don’t see anyone down there?” Eph asked Eli, trusting the Indian’s keen sight over his own weak eyes. Anything beyond fifty feet started looking blurry around the edges for him. From up here, all he could make out were sandy banks of the river splattered with shadows cast by the large rocks. Shadows that, for all he knew, could be bodies.
“Nope,” Eli replied. “But it’s hard to see past the bend in the river. Could be they’re there.” He paused. “Could be they’re under three foot of mud on the mountain.” His voice was low, quiet, thoughtful.
Eph turned away from the edge and looked at Eli. “You said you knew Grace.”
Eli nodded. “She’s my gal’s friend. A right nice woman.” He chewed his lip. “Sure makes no sense that those outlaws woulda taken her. I can’t figure it.”
“Neither can I. But I intend to get to the bottom of this mystery.”
Eli rubbed his jaw. “Well, s’pose we best head back. Nothin’ more we can do here.”
Eph nodded at him to lead the way. When they got back to the cabin site, O’Grady was tying Billy Cloyd’s body onto his own horse. LeRoy had returned and was sitting his little mustang, his eyes narrowed in expectation. The men all looked to Eph, questions on their faces.
Eph shook his head. “All we know’s they fell down the cliff to a ledge and survived that. Saw footprints, but there’s been a recent slide.”
He faced LeRoy. “No sign of Connors’s horse?”
“Looks like it hoofed it down the mountain. Might be because of the wild bunch.”
“I wonder why the horse’d take off,” Coon said. “Makes more sense he’d stay here, with these others.”
Eph nodded. But horses often had a sense about things. Maybe Connors’s horse knew his owner was gone. Maybe even knew he was in danger. Some horses picked up on such things.
“Well, if we’re done here, let’s get back to town.” Eph swung up on Destiny and clucked at her to get moving. His posse followed, with Coon walking alongside his red saddlebred burdened with Billy Cloyd’s body, lead in hand. They couldn’t go at too fast a pace, what with three bulky bodies tied to unhappy horses that had to navigate down tricky patches of rock fall. But once they got to the Front Range, he’d have Eli and LeRoy gallop ahead and grab a horse from the livery to take back to Coon so the hotel owner didn’t have to walk all the way to Fort Collins. Even at this slow gait, they’d all trot in before dark, now that summer was easing in and the daylight lingered longer in the evenings. What a surprise they’d give the folks in town.
As much as he wanted to soak in the anticipation of such a glorious and welcoming homecoming, he couldn’t help thinking about Grace Cunningham and her baby. He hoped Connors was getting them to safety. If there was no word of them once he got back to town, he’d have to round up a search party first thing in the morning. No chance anyone would be able to scour the river canyon in the dark of night, seeing that the new moon was already arcing across the sky, fixing to set. But he could send word to E. W. Whitcomb to be on the scout, to go send some of his ranch hands up into the canyon at first light.
Whitcomb was the fella that had that huge cattle ranch north of the Poudre. He was known for his wild parties and free-flowing whiskey, and although Eph had been invited on occasion to attend by some of the town’s friendly revelers, Eph always declined. He and Sally preferred quiets nights rocking on the porch and looking out at the stars as they twinkled over the open range. He and Sally were of a mind—they preferred the kind of solitude that allowed a man—or woman—to think over their life and dwell on all the things they were grateful for. And Eph had plenty to be grateful for—especially after today.
“Sheriff,” LeRoy yelled
over as they came to that steep last draw they’d climbed before coming upon the cabin. LeRoy had trotted over to a promontory that looked over the long dusty trail they’d crested up into the mountain.
Eph looked over at him, shaken from his weary musings, the warm afternoon sun making him drowsy and stirring the longing to lay on the soft grassy bank by the creek out behind his house. His stomach grumbled loud enough to make Destiny’s ears twitch back. It had been too many hours since he’d eaten a thing—last night, he now reckoned—and he was starving. He usually kept some dried fruit or hard tack in his saddlebags, but today they were filled with guns and cartridges.
“What is it?” Eph called back to him. Eli, at LeRoy’s signal, had joined his brother, and the two Indians stared down in the direction of the open range.
“The horses them boys want,” Stapleton said, chewing on a wad of tobacco.
Eph saw the brothers fist their reins, and their mustangs now danced in place, as if they’d spotted some of their distant relations in that herd below.
“Go on,” Eph told them, trotting over to them and seeing at least a hundred head of horses cantering across the wide open plain a half mile east and north. At the head was an appy stallion, kicking up his legs and snorting. Eph figured he had once been someone’s prized horse brought out to the Front Range and who’d gotten tired of a cramped stall and three squares of hay a day. Some stallions, however well trained, could not risk that call of the wild. Eph believed deep in every horse’s heart was the yearning to run free. Not unlike a whole lot of men he knew. That’s why so many came west, and left comfortable lives behind. It was a siren’s song, and one Eph knew well. Out here in the West, horse and man heeded the same song—one that stirred the blood and sent a body’s feet running for adventure.
“You sure, Sheriff?” Eli asked, his horse prancing in place, the rider’s mind already halfway down the mountain after the herd.
“I’m sure.”
LeRoy said, “Soon’s we’re done, we’ll meet you back in Fort Collins. If Grace and Connors ain’t back by then, we’ll need to go find them.” His expression was somber. Eph wondered if he and Eli thought there was much hope their missing persons were still alive. “We won’t be gone long,” he added. Then, without further ado, the Indians kicked their mustangs and trotted down the draw.
Eph smiled as he watched the pair break out into a run upon touching flat ground, thinking of how it would feel racing along the Front Range on the back of a wild mustang, chasing a herd of wild horses. There were plenty of pockets of herds all around the open range, but most were scraggly, runty specimens, hardly fit for ranch work or pulling a wagon. But Eph could see why these young men had set their sights on this bunch of horses. They were sure a fine brood of strong-legged creatures, running smooth, like water, over the land. Eph imagined the Indians could make a fortune from these horses—although after cashing in on the reward money for “capturing” Wymore and Cloyd, and returning the gold to the Pinkerton Detective Agency, that, under the auspices of the Department of Justice, doled out such rewards—it might cause that fortune to look pretty meager. But Eph reckoned they didn’t round up and break wild horses for the money. It was in their blood, and something they loved to do.
With a nod to Coon and his two deputies, Eph swung Destiny around and headed back to town, a few tiny bits of ash floating in the breeze and entangling in his mare’s mane.
Chapter 29
As if coming from a deep, dark well, a sweet voice tickled Malcolm’s ears. In the forlorn blackness he wallowed in, he grasped the sound, groping at it, as if for a lifeline, and let it bring him to the surface of his consciousness.
A woman’s voice. The soft tone soothed the searing pain in his head, and he forced heavy eyelids open. The glare of bright sunlight blinded him momentarily, but a shape hovering over him shifted and blotted out the light.
Where was he? He moved his fingers and touched warm sand. Then he brought a hand to his forehead and winced with a sharp intake of breath.
“Oh, thank God, you’re awake,” the voice said, filled with relief and agitation.
He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it, couldn’t think clearly . . .
“Shh,” she said, her face coming into focus in front of his.
“Grace . . .”
Images assaulted his mind, bringing back to him the past hours. He struggled to sit up. “Ben. Where’s Ben?” he asked, his throat hoarse and dry. He tried to swallow.
“He’s safe,” Grace said, resting a warm hand on his cheek. “You saved his life.”
Only now he could make her out clearly, her wheat-colored hair waterfalling down her shoulders in disarray, her nightdress torn and caked with sand. Her pale-green eyes glistened with tears, and her face bore scratches from their tumble down the mountain. Even so, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. Ben lay curled in her lap, sleeping in his ripped blue blanket. He touched the baby’s soft hair and smiled, grateful and amazed.
“Oh, Grace . . .” He searched deeply into her teary eyes, and grasped both her hands. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“An hour, maybe two.”
He fingered a bandage of cloth tied around his head.
She reached over and adjusted it. “The bleeding’s stopped. Monty, we have to—”
He straightened and stayed her hand. Her scent drifted to him—of river water and warm feminine skin. His heartbeat quickened. “You called me that before. I remember . . .”
Her face blanched. Malcolm studied her. She looked stricken with fear.
“What is it, Grace?” He stood and reached for her. She laid her baby down gently on a patch of short grass, then stood and faced him. “What’s wrong?” In his head, he heard her calling him by that name, and suddenly remembered what he had seen in his mind’s eye before he passed out.
“I have this strange memory,” he told her, placing his hands on her quivering shoulders. “At least it feels like a memory. Of you—pregnant.”
Grace choked back a sob. Malcolm kept talking. “You were sitting on the ground—in the rain. And . . . next to you was a wagon that was sinking in mud. There were two horses, but they ran off. I can see it so clearly now.” He winced and looked out over the river. “And a . . . bridge. A heavy wooden one. The river rose, engulfed it. Flipped it over, and it broke the bank . . .”
He stopped speaking. Grace stared at him, her jaw dropped. He looked at her lips, so tender, so inviting. Her eyes simmered with love. Love for him. He could not mistake what he saw there. For his heart pounded with the same passion. He swallowed and stared at her, unblinking.
A surge of need brought a moan to his own lips, and he could not hold back. He squelched the tiny voice of warning, uncaring of the consequences of his actions. There was only his need, and hers, and this moment—far from any watching eyes, except those of heaven. And if heaven wrought judgment upon him for the fervent love he felt for Grace Cunningham, then so be it. He would willingly be damned for eternity in exchange for this one kiss . . .
He pulled Grace into his arms, and with his love pouring out of his heart like an overflowing fountain, his mouth found hers, and they joined, her lips as eager and needy as his. As they stood on the sand, a soft wind blowing down the river canyon, Malcolm no longer heard the tumble of the rapids behind them. He blotted out the world and the broken pieces of his past. He blotted out everything and every thought and kissed Grace with such a passion, he thought he would collapse.
She pressed her warm, soft body against his bare chest, the swell of her breasts so voluptuous through her thin nightgown. His hands roamed her body, as if exploring an exciting unchartered wilderness, yet every place his fingers lit upon felt so familiar to his touch. As if they belonged there. As if she had always belonged to him.
A shudder ran through Grace as he pushed aside her hair and kissed her neck. His mouth moved hot against her skin, and he whispered her name in her ear.
Grace groan
ed with desire, and cradled his chin in her hands. She sought his mouth with fervent desire, and Malcolm’s head spun. Oh, how she made him feel. His every nerve tingled. His skin felt on fire. His heart melted in the warmth of her love. He longed to join his body with hers, here and now. It took inhuman strength to keep from pulling off her threadbare gown and losing himself inside her. He longed for nothing more in this moment than to immerse her in this river of love and together be swept away in the floodwaters.
Oh, sweet agony. He forced himself to pull back, and lifted her chin so she would look into his eyes. She stroked his cheek as she gulped and drew in a breath, as if she had been submerged underwater too long.
His gaze dropped to the necklace around her neck. He outlined the silver circle with his finger, and then froze. He saw his hands fastening the chain around her neck, heard her lighthearted laughter as he kissed her playfully, as she blushed demurely, a bright-blue bonnet on her head, her hair swept up in the latest style, tucked tightly to her head and adorned with beaded combs.
He took a step back and sucked in a breath. How could he have such a memory? Yet, it was a memory—he was sure of it.
“Monty, what is it?” Grace asked.
Monty. That was his name. Monty . . .
How did she know? This woman he had chanced upon in the streets of Fort Collins. He had so many questions, but they only seemed to lead to more questions. A shadow fell across his face. He looked up at the sky. The westering sun slipped behind the jagged ridge of the Rocky Mountains.
His questions would have to wait. There would be plenty of time for his questions—if they made it out of the canyon alive. Already, with the sun sinking behind the Rockies, the air had cooled. Grace shivered as she studied him pensively.
He drew her to him, and once more the warmth of her skin set him on fire. He kissed her and cupped her face in his hands.
Grace lingered in Monty’s muscular arms, feeling so safe, so right. How she had longed for this—for his kiss. She missed the taste of his mouth and the feel of his gentle lips. Every inch of her skin burned with pent-up desire for him. She didn’t care what he thought of her compliance. How wanton she must seem, giving in so readily to his amorous advances. But what did it matter? All that mattered was that Monty loved her. Even if he didn’t remember her, she knew he loved her with all his being.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 31