Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3)

by Charlene Whitman

  No one ever came to the cabin, tucked away as it was in the heavy timber. And the only time she’d left the ridge was when she went with him to Whitcomb’s ranch to barter for supplies, two, maybe three, times a year. In the early years Bill locked her in when he went down the mountain. But after a time he trusted her. And when he could hardly walk any longer, he depended on her to load the saddlebags on the mule and then carry all the supplies into the cabin. Those last months as he lay coughing up phlegm and blood, she’d done everything herself—all the hunting, skinning, smoking, and every other chore that needed doing. She was strong and healthy, and from what she could tell when looking at her reflection in the washbasin or in the beaver pond, was that she was somewhat pretty. She often saw her mother’s face staring back at her before she mussed up the water and turned away. But what would “pretty” get her? Old Bill had painted a plain picture for her. Nothing but men itching to get in her britches and throw her a coin or two.

  She didn’t need men or their money. She managed fine all by herself. You’ve made it this long on your own. Just keep going.

  Gennie played those words over and over in her head—words that, up till now, had given her the courage to keep living. But in this moment, they were hollow and weak. They mocked her and unsettled her.

  A wolf howled in the evening dusk. Gennie stiffened. This voice she knew, and it held an ominous warning. As if in response, her old mule in the barn brayed loudly, fear in his cries. She strode over to the dilapidated shack the animal slept in and checked on him. He pushed his head at her, and she stroked his muzzle, listening.

  Another wolf howl, this one closer.

  Her heart racing, she filled the water trough, pounding hard on the pump handle, and tossed another bundle of dried alpine grass onto the ground. She then latched tight the window and door. He’d be safe enough—she hoped. She now rued not replacing those two rotted boards. A bear could pull those off with little effort.

  Berating herself for her oversight, she strode into the cabin and looked around. The room spun. She closed her eyes and listened. From the mule’s persistent braying, Gennie knew danger was near. Hardly anything upset the creature. And from the way the wolf was howling . . .

  No way would she wait for danger to come to her. There was too much to lose—and not just her mule or her meat. Best to face whatever was out there head-on, on her terms.

  She grabbed her heavy coat off the peg by the door, then squashed the old beaver-trimmed hat onto her head. Old Bill had trapped beaver in the creek for decades until they were plum gone. Gennie remember the overpowering scent of the piles of pelts, and the beady, empty eyes peering out from the discarded heads of the silky creatures. For years those pelts were what fed and clothed them, kept the two of them alive. Bill’s hidden jar had once been stuffed to the brim with dollars.

  But now the jar was empty, and Gennie had nothing to barter with Whitcomb. She’d hoped to have killed and smoked more deer, to trade venison for the supplies she’d run out of. He was a nice enough man, and always bought whatever she offered for sale. But over the summer her will to hunt had slacked. And the thought of making the trek down the mountain alone, again, had distressed her. Here, she felt safe. In her small confines, she knew she could take care of herself. But out there, in the big world?

  Once more, tears dribbled out of her eyes unannounced. There were plenty of things out there that scared her, but she knew what was inside her scared her more. Loneliness had grown like a wild weed, entangling her heart and smothering the will to live. When was the last time anyone had held her in their arms and hugged her? Her arms ached for such human touch. For the tender warmth of a loving embrace. For someone to stroke her hair and sing to her the way her mother used to. She hungered for such a loving touch more than she hungered for food. To think that she would live the rest of her life denied that—denied any love ever again—was unbearable. She may as well die. If no man would have her—would ever love her—what was the point of living year after year, just surviving? She longed for love, for children to hold and kiss, for a man—a good man—to see her worth. Was she really utterly worthless?

  Without warning, a great sob burst from the depth of her soul. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground and wept into her hands. The great flood of pain gushed out as she wailed and sobbed, grieving for her mother, her father, her precious little brother. For her lost innocence, her ruin, her meaningless life.

  She berated herself for indulging in self-pity, but as the tears dried up, she managed to get to her feet. Her mind and heart felt emptied out, and a calm resolve washed over her. Perfunctorily, she pulled the bread from the stove, stoked the fire, and stirred the coals. She slid the stew over to the warming plate, then looked around the cabin. Her home. Her prison.

  Peluche trotted inside and stared at her with questioning eyes. Gennie mindlessly scratched her companion’s head. Then she grabbed the big ’73 Springfield and the pouch of bullets from off the old pine plank table. After loading the rifle, she put the pouch in her coat pocket. The old Army-issued revolver she stuffed into her holster and strapped that around her waist. She checked the other coat pocket for her gloves and took some hard tack from off the shelf.

  “Here,” she said, tossing a piece to Peluche, who gobbled it up and waited for more. She stuffed the rest in her pocket. “No,” she said. “You’ll get the rest later. After we see what’s out there.”

  Without another word, she stomped out of the cabin with Peluche at her heels, oil lantern in hand, then secured the cabin door behind her. The mule brayed again, his voice seeped with fear. Peluche let out an agitated whine. A few flurries of snow drifted down as if to taunt her with winter’s cruel intent. Darkness collapsed on the woods.

  Gennie spoke into the descending night, to no one.

  “Let’s go hunting.”

  The night answered with only silence.

  Chapter 3

  “Listen,” Whitcomb said above the din, “we can’t wait for that bear to come back. And it will. That grizzly’s a legend in these parts. A man killer.”

  Cries from volunteers rang out in the stuffy room. LeRoy snorted. Every cowboy wants to be a hero.

  LeRoy leaned against the back of the bunkhouse, arms folded across his chest, listening to the commotion. He’d already made up his mind to go after the bear, whether Whitcomb asked him or not. Folks had heard about his tracking skills, especially after the outlaws had been killed, so more’n a few would be expecting him to step up, and rightly so. Chances were that grizzly would kill a lot more than a few helpless horses, and LeRoy’s greatest worry was that some fool ranch hand would rush off half-cocked thinking to come back a hero. When more ’n likely he’d end up bear fodder. He knew a couple of men at the ranch had ambitions of the sort.

  “I’ll be a’goin’,” Andy Whitcomb announced in an authoritative voice. “I got a score ta settle with that bear.”

  “Which is why you’re not goin’,” his father bellowed with a scowl on his face. “Delvin, Parker—pack up. Andy’ll get you the guns you’ll need. Clem—git over to the kitchen and get some saddlebags ready for ’em.”

  LeRoy understood why Whitcomb felt he had to send somebody after that bear. And those two men, both a bit older than LeRoy, had some sense and steady trigger fingers. He’d seen them shoot at the hay bale targets, and they were accurate and fast on the draw. How they’d act with a grizzly bearing down on them with swinging claws was another matter altogether, though. He wondered if any of these cowboys had been face-to-face with a grizzly. Such an encounter was enough to make the blood drain right outta your body.

  He saw Whitcomb’s son scowling in the corner. LeRoy liked Andy well enough, but the boy was impetuous and emotional at times. Whitcomb knew his son didn’t appreciate getting shot down in front of the ranch hands, but Andy wouldn’t buck him. LeRoy watched Andy dutifully head out the door of the cabin, simmering but silent, his head down. LeRoy then turned to look at Parker—a cowboy who’
d been working for Whitcomb a long time, with a grizzled face and gray-streaked hair. Parker sometimes gave LeRoy sideways looks that LeRoy could only interpret as dislike, but he was used to such looks. He’d gotten them all his life, seeing as he looked more Indian than white. Eli didn’t seem to have that problem—although his mouth created plenty of other ones.

  LeRoy thought about the guests still in Whitcomb’s lodge, drinking, dancing, enjoying the wedding festivities. He knew he’d be expected to join Eli and Clare and stay up all night laughing and telling stories, celebrating their marriage. Eli would be mad at him but he’d understand. Mostly mad because he’d probably wish he could go too. Nothing like tracking a bear on a cold night under half a moon. The harder the challenge, the more likely Eli was to enjoy it.

  But LeRoy didn’t feel a stirring of excitement in hunting that bear. Not after that look in his ma’s eyes. Trepidation made him uneasy, wary. Something ugly was going to happen, and while his ma didn’t see fit to warn him to be careful—like she usually did—a whisper of danger niggled at him. He made a mental list of what he needed to pack. It would get cold, below freezing, at night. And if the snow came—LeRoy smelled it on the air—it might hinder his efforts, and maybe even delay his return.

  He walked over to his bunk and pulled out his satchel as the men kept talking about the killer bear, tossing stories out of when and where the creature had been seen last, and who it had mauled or killed. One glance at Whitcomb told LeRoy many of the stories were true. He slipped off his fancy black trousers and shimmied into his soft deerskin pants. They’d serve him best in the cold and protect him from the thorny brush.

  As he pulled his Winchester out from under his bunk, Whitcomb came up beside him. He looked at the rifle and nodded.

  “So what you thinkin’, son? You fixin’ to go after that bear too? You don’t have to.” Whitcomb pulled on the end of his moustache and studied LeRoy. Then he added, “But I’m obliged you’re going. Maybe it’s foolhardy to hunt after a bear in the middle of the night, but the sooner someone gets on his tail, the sooner he’ll be caught. Who knows how badly he’s hurt. He may not’ve gone far. And that poses a danger for my ranch and all these fine folks stayin’ here.”

  LeRoy nodded. “Best find that bear sooner rather than later. Did anyone get a good shot at him?” LeRoy stuffed warm clothes into the satchel, part of his mind ticking off the list in his head. He’d need food and water, a rope, his gloves, a couple of knives . . .

  Whitcomb grunted. “Seems like a few bullets hit their mark. But who’s to say? The monster just galloped off all never-you-mind as if bullets were pesky bees. But you and I both know an injured bear is more deadly’n ever.”

  Whitcomb laid a hand on LeRoy’s shoulder. “Let me know what else you need, son. Anything. Which horse you wanna take?”

  “No horse,” LeRoy answered, and Whitcomb’s face flashed surprise.

  “You gonna walk?”

  LeRoy nodded. Neither man had to mention how much ground a grizzly could cover when running full-out. No doubt Whitcomb was thinking this would be a quick venture. But tracking took time. As long as it takes. And that could mean days. LeRoy didn’t plan to quit until he caught up with that bear. He didn’t think it wise to take a horse. Horses were easily spooked at the scent of a such a beast. And more’n likely, the trail would lead into parts a horse couldn’t go. Which meant the rider would have to tie up and leave his horse, which might endanger it, or the horse would wander back to the herd, leaving the rider to carry his heavy saddlebags home.

  “All right, you’re the tracker, an’ an expert one, ta boot,” Whitcomb conceded, looking none too happy at the prospect of LeRoy tracking on foot. “I don’t s’pect I need ta tell you to be careful.”

  “No sir,” LeRoy said with a smirk. He figured it wouldn’t help matters if he told Whitcomb he didn’t plan to accompany his ranch hands.

  Whitcomb then left LeRoy, and the bunkhouse cleared out like water leaking out of a shot-up bucket, leaving a strange calm buzzing around him and in his head. He finished gathering all he needed, then slung the Winchester over his shoulder and the heavy wool coat over his arm. No doubt I’ll need this tonight. The idea of being out at night in the woods alone appealed to him after such a busy day, with the wedding and all. He needed to clear his head and brush away that lingering sorrow gnawing at his heart. Last thing he grabbed was his prized Bowie knife. He strapped it to his ankle and pulled his trouser leg down over it.

  As he marched over to the main lodge to get food and water for his pack, Eli came out and stood on the wide porch, backlit by the bright lights inside.

  “You weren’t thinkin’ of leavin’ without saying good-bye, were you?” Eli asked with a chuckle.

  LeRoy went up to him and lifted the brim of his hat to better study his brother’s face. “You’re not sore I’m going?”

  Eli shook his head. “Someone has to git that bear. May as well be you.” A warm laugh came out of his throat. LeRoy could tell Eli had been imbibing a bit of that fancy champagne Whitcomb had ordered for the occasion. LeRoy couldn’t abide the stuff hisself—all those tiny bubbles tickling his nose. Eli was more of a beer drinker, but LeRoy knew he wasn’t one to turn down any free offer of alcohol, depending on who was doing the offering.

  “I’d go myself,” Eli added, “but I’m . . . a bit busy. Plus, the missus would chew my head off.”

  “I reckon,” LeRoy said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “What else you takin’?” Eli said, nodding at the Winchester. “You know that one’s not near as good for bear hunting as my new .45-.75. You want to take it?”

  LeRoy shook his head, thinking about the medicine pouch his ma had given him. He knew it had strong medicine in there, which gave LeRoy pause and made him second-guess his choice of firearm. But maybe it didn’t matter what gun, if any, he took. Whatever was going to happen, well, would a few points difference in caliber size matter? Probably not. His ma surely sensed someone—or some creature—was going to get hurt and need whatever was in that pouch. LeRoy’s gut twisted. He sometimes wished his ma wouldn’t tell him things that only made him twitchy.

  “All right then,” Eli said, looking hard into LeRoy’s face. “Hurry up and make short work of that bear. Nice coat you can make out of that pelt too. Though, Ma will be quick to take it from you, I reckon.”

  “Yep.” LeRoy started to leave, then stopped. He took Eli’s hands in his. “Congratulations, Brother. You roped in a good one. I, uh, wish you all the happiness in the world.”

  Eli’s eyebrows rose. “You gettin’ sentimental on me?”

  LeRoy shrugged. “Isn’t that what you’re s’posed to say?”

  Eli gave LeRoy a friendly slap on the back. “I s’pose.” His words hung in the still night air. “Well, I guess I got a wife to get back to.” His eyes gleamed with happiness.

  “You do that,” LeRoy said, a big smile on his face. If nothing good came from the events of this night, he was glad he’d been there to see his brother get hitched.

  LeRoy watched Eli head back inside the lodge, and through the window saw Clare grab his arm and pull him over to a table. He could tell she’d had a bit to drink too, which didn’t surprise him with her being Irish. Clare’s mother and siblings talked noisily at a table, all smiles. LeRoy caught a glimpse of Lucas, his arm entwined with Emma’s, talking to some of the other guests. Monty and Grace came over to Eli and Clare, and it was clear Clare was talking nonstop about her wedding dress, thanking Grace and singing her praises as a seamstress.

  A warm feeling of joy filled him. Here were all the folks he cared about—together, happy, their futures bright. Weddings brought folks together—just as funerals did—but as much as he found weddings a mite discomforting, he preferred them over funerals by a long chalk.

  Walking away from the lodge felt like drifting downstream in a boat, getting further and further away from a safe shore. The night edged in around him, and quiet enveloped him.

&nb
sp; After he dropped by the kitchen and filled his satchel with the stores he needed, he headed over to the barn. Inside, the two ranch hands were saddling up. No one else was around. Seemed like Whitcomb was done being the boss and had returned to the party to be the host. Something he was famous for.

  The men turned when he came in. Delvin, the dark-haired cowboy with the thick moustache and side whiskers, looked him over. “You walkin’?”

  LeRoy nodded. He thought he heard Parker snort, but the man’s face was turned away from him as he adjusted the stirrups on his saddle.

  LeRoy walked to the horses and faced them. They were calm and sleepy, unaware of what might be in store for them. LeRoy knew they were plenty used to commotion, being ranch horses that drove cattle and rounded up strays. Next to the quarter horse stood one that had some mustang in him. The horse regarded LeRoy with little interest. It was past bedtime, and the animal wasn’t all that happy to be cinched up and bridled. LeRoy wondered how quickly they would spook and throw their riders upon closing in on that bear. Although, LeRoy doubted they’d be able to find the creature in the dark of night. These men knew horses and cattle, but they weren’t trackers. The best he could hope for them was that they’d get lost, and that their horses had enough sense to haul them back to the ranch. LeRoy would also bet they didn’t last the night, even dressed as warm as they were.

  “Which way you going?” LeRoy asked Delvin as Parker swung up on his gelding and glared at him.

  “Figure we’ll head up the deer track behind the pasture. Take some time checking around, look for signs of that grizzly.”

  LeRoy merely nodded, keeping his opinions to hisself—seeing as they weren’t asking for his advice, or his help. He was glad though. It meant he wouldn’t have to explain his actions or decisions to men who’d probably disagree with him just outta pride.