Colorado Hope(13)

Here’s a man that loves horses more than women, that’s for sure, Lenora realized. “Yes sir,” she told him, like a soldier to his commander. “I’m mighty thankful for your help,” she said, mostly to LeRoy, batting her lashes for good measure. She added with a bit of concern, “Those bad men you’re after—”

“The Dutton Gang,” Eli said. “Two of ’em were seen headin’ north out of Denver City.”

“They’re very dangerous,” LeRoy added in warning. “Best you stay on the main roads and travel only in daylight. I hope you don’t have much further to go.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, distracted by the thought of Clayton and Billy still at large. And already north of Denver. How in the world had they eluded the sheriff and all his men searching for them? Those slippery eels. She just might run into them after all. The thought sent a shiver up her back.

“Well, I do hope a lot of brave men such as yourselves join that posse and catch those bad men. But take care and don’t get shot at,” she said, scrunching her face in worry.

“We’ll do our best.” LeRoy tipped his hat and swung up on his horse. Eli followed suit. “Afternoon, miss,” they both said, then took off at a gallop down the wide dirt-packed road. A few sprinkles of rain lighted on Lenora’s hair, and she clucked at the horse, putting him in a slow trot.

She mulled over her choices. She needed grub, and as prudent as it was for her to spend the night in a hotel in Evans, the thought of Clayton riding into that town made her uneasy. She had lucked out with those two half-breeds helping fix her wagon, and no doubt the way LeRoy wired the wheel, it would make it well past Evans. But she didn’t want to push her serendipity nor her horse.

Wisest course would be to stop long enough to load up on supplies, maybe find a dry goods. Then keep heading north, to the river. She should make it well before nighttime, and once she got a good look at the water, she could decide whether to cross or wait it out somewhere—maybe find some abandoned shelter or cabin along the river. She just didn’t cotton the thought of being in a town where people would notice her arrival. People in small towns talked. And every new face was grist for the gossip mill. She’d rather get in and out quickly without much ado, though sitting at a bar and drinking whiskey all night was a sore temptation.

With that decided, she covered her head with her woolen shawl and headed into Evans with a tired horse and a functional wagon, feeling a bit adventurous but aware of a sense of foreboding behind her, like a shadow following her. As if Hank’s men were on her tail.



***



“Miss . . . miss?”

Grace tried to open her eyes, but they felt glued shut. Where was she? Who was speaking to her? She felt around with her fingers and grabbed mud, and the cold touch shot fear through her heart. Suddenly, memories rushed at her in a flood, as images of the raging water and Monty slipping into the river assailed her.

Her eyes opened and she cried out. “Monty!” She rubbed mud-encrusted fists across her face, and a stab of pain streaked her belly. My baby!

“Whoa, hold on there, miss.”

A weak sun throbbed overhead. She turned to find the voice and felt arms helping her sit upright. She looked down at her dress, her waist bulging below her, no longer a pretty brown calico. Her clothes and shoes were covered in mud, and she shivered from the cold. With chattering teeth, she fumbled with words.

“Monty—where is my husband?” She swiveled her head, looking for him, but only found the unfamiliar but concerned rheumy eyes of an older cowboy with a grizzled face. His bony, weather-roughened hands helped her to stand, and she took shallow breaths, assessing her condition. As if in response, her baby kicked, and tears coursed down her cheeks.

“You all right, miss?” He held her arms firmly, as if she’d fall in a sodden heap should he let go.

“I . . . I think so.” Panic raced through her cold limbs, setting her heart pounding in fear. “I don’t see him. Where . . . where is our wagon . . . ?”

She looked around in astonishment as she got her balance, grateful for the man’s assistance. Not far away the river squirmed in a tangled skein of muddied channels—the former raging waters now subsided. But where the wagon had floundered in the mud, she saw nothing. Nothing at all. Had everything she’d owned been washed away . . . along with her husband? She gulped back tears.

“Don’t see any wagon, miss. Nor any man.” His voice was quiet, apologetic. “But, don’t go gettin’ yerself upset, now. Best we get you somewhere warm and safe, where you can git a proper bath and into some dry clothes. You’ll catch yer death ’fore too long.”