Colorado Hope(14)

She stared at the river, her mouth hanging open. How could the wagon just . . . vanish? She’d seen it sink partway into the mud.

“Oh no . . . oh no . . . Monty . . .”

Her head spun with horror, and brown spots dotted her vision.

“Here, miss.” He gently tugged on her arm. “Can’t have you swoonin’. Let’s git you into my wagon. I just come from Fort Collins—crossed the river over yonder”—he pointed upstream a few dozen yards—“and it be best I take you back there.”

She flailed at him with her arms. “No, I need to find my husband—”

“I unnerstand. But one thing at a time.” He helped her take small steps, but her dress weighed her down, as did her petticoats, which were also caked with mud. The air was balmy, thick with moisture, but thankfully the wind had abated. Her whole body was racked with shivers, and her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached. She prayed her baby was all right and put her hands protectively over her belly.

Surely Monty was alive. He understood rivers better than any man. He’d regaled her with many a story telling how he’d been thrown into raging waters in expeditions. How he knew to float on the waves and become part of the river. She didn’t care about the loss of her belongings—those could be replaced, and although some held great sentimental value, they were just possessions, nothing more. All that mattered was finding Monty and making sure he was unhurt.

The thought of him lying along the riverbank, injured or dying, sent another rush of panic into her heart. She pulled away from the kindly cowboy who was trying to help her get to his small buckboard wagon situated on a soggy mound of grass.

“I have to look for him—”

“Please, miss. I promise I’ll round up some help—to find your husband--once we git you to town. Night’s a’comin’, so we shouldn’t dally. It’s not far.”

She stopped and looked at him, perplexed. “But . . . I have nothing. I’ve lost . . . everything. Lost . . . oh, Monty!”

Her knees buckled and she fell to the wet ground, shivering even harder, and sobbed in great heaves. She knew this couldn’t be good for her baby, but she couldn’t help it. How could she leave? What if he came back—stumbling and cold and hurt . . . ?

After a long moment, the man again reached for her arms. Like an invalid, she let him help her stumble to his wagon, then clumsily clambered up into the flat bed, where there lay a stack of buffalo pelts surrounded by filled burlap sacks. She smelled grain and dust and sneezed.

“Here,” he said, taking one of the buffalo pelts and wrapping it around her as she sat on the wonderfully dry fur. The pelt around her shoulders warmed the chill from her bones, but her heart lay encrusted in ice and mud.

“Thank you,” she muttered, willing her teeth to stop chattering. Finally, enough warmth permeated her skin to where she could draw in a deep shuddery breath without shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly she was tired, oh so tired. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Tears kept streaming down her face, and she moved a tentative hand to her neck and grasped the silver pendant tight in her fist.

I won’t give up hope.

She knew more than anything else, the love they shared would buoy her, sustain her above the raging waters of fear. Monty loved her with all his heart. He would never let a river best him, rip him from the arms of his wife. He would come back to her. He was safe, somewhere. He knew how to survive in the wilderness.

She repeated these reassurances over and over as the wagon lurched forward and they forded the now-placid river engorged with silt. Off to the west, the snow-frosted Rocky Mountains towered, like sentinels watching her ambivalently. As the rocking of the wagon lulled her, she clutched the pelt tightly around her baby, the warmth making her drowsy.

I won’t give up hope, Monty. I’ll find you . . . no matter how long it takes. Oh please, Lord, help me . . . help Monty . . .





Chapter 4



Evening streaked the sky a fiery pink as Lenora spotted the metal sheen of the river in the distance. She had made a quick stop in Evans, found a sap to fix her wagon, loaded up on some supplies, and headed north—all the while keeping an eye out for Clayton. No one in Evans seemed disturbed by the news of the jailbreak. But then again, she didn’t hang around long enough to hear any gossip.

The wide dirt road was rutted so deeply, she had to take care not to mire the wheels. The thought of crossing the river gave her pause, but if the wagon sank into the mud, why, she’d just unhitch the horse and load as much as she could in her saddlebags. She could hide the rest of her belongings and come back for them later. In fact, that wasn’t a bad idea—ditching the wagon and riding horseback the rest of the way to Fort Collins. She’d make better time that way. Maybe give her the advantage so that she’d disappear into that backwater town before Clayton could find her.