Colorado Hope(17)

She got to her feet, feeling stiff and sore and tired. She tossed the satchel into the river and watched it float away, leaving the pile of letters and papers on the wet sand, although she’d pocketed both rings. She would let the wind carry the useless papers away as it willed. None of them could benefit her, although she wondered if his surveying tools had value. With the tools and rings in hand, she turned to head back to the wagon, but then a noise startled her. She spun around.

The man groaned. He was alive! She hadn’t thought to check if he was breathing—he was so cold and lifeless—go figure.

Before she could decide whether to hurry away and leave the man to his fate or stick around to see how he fared, his eyes opened and caught on hers. Inching closer to him, she noticed one eye was a deep mud brown, and the other was speckled with green. How odd, but somehow fascinating. She studied him passively, then realized if the man came to, he might realize she’d robbed him, and might apprehend her. Well, not likely in his condition. But he’d be able to identify her, and that could pose a problem. Better to leave him. He wasn’t in danger of being dragged back into the water, and if he had any broken bones, no doubt someone would be along in the morning and would offer him assistance—if he survived the night. What if he had internal injuries?

He’s not your problem, she told herself. Although, upon looking at his angelic face and the pitiable look of confusion he displayed, she thought what a nice problem he might prove to be. Here was a man mourning a dead wife, about to start a job in the booming new town of Fort Collins . . .

Her mind started plotting. Then, the man moaned again and tried to move. He made to pull out his arm, then screamed in pain. Her heartstrings were tugged. And she longed to touch him and feel those big, strong shoulders under her fingers. Why not just play this out and see where it led?

The man—Montgomery, she told herself—mumbled something incoherent. She drew close to his face, smelling the river and silt and sweet scent of his sweat.

He found her face, and his eyes opened wide as he looked into hers. His penetrating gaze sent a shudder through her. She found herself grasping for something to say.

“Where . . . what . . . ?”

“Shh, shh,” she said in her best comforting voice. “You’ve been hurt. I think you may have broken your arm.”

He ignored her admonition and wiggled on the tree until he could extricate his arms. Wincing in pain, he gingerly rubbed his right shoulder, his eyes filling with panic. She offered him her hand, which he took, and hesitantly, wobbling, he got to his feet, pulling his snagged shirt free from the branch.

He was a mess, but he was one handsome mess. He stood a good foot over her petite frame, with shoulders like a horse. He licked his dry lips, and Lenora couldn’t pry her eyes from his delicious mouth.

“I have water,” she said. “In the wagon.”

When he dropped to the ground and sat with his head in his hands, moaning, she took the opportunity to scoop up the papers from the beach—just for leverage, if needed—then hurried to the wagon and hid them—along with the booty rattling around in her pocket—inside one of her boxes. She grabbed a bottle of water and a blanket and came alongside him, the darkening shroud of evening granting little light by which to see. Mountain air blew cold across the Front Range, and Montgomery shivered, cradling his arm.

She wrapped him in the blanket and watched as he guzzled the water down his throat. Her eyes lighted on his broad chest and slim waist. An explorer, indeed. How I would like to explore his terrain . . .

When he set the bottle down, he looked at her, a frantic expression searing his features. “I don’t remember . . .”

“You don’t remember what?” she urged gently.

He looked at her intensely, then scanned the river and the twilight-draped prairie. “I don’t remember anything.”

She stiffened, then her heart raced. Was this more good luck? “Your name?” she asked tentatively.

His brows furrowed as he thought, then he shook his head. “Where am I? And . . . who are you?”

She grabbed the opportunity for another challenging acting role. With a soft, worried look, she said, “Why . . . Malcolm—you don’t know who I am?” She thought it best not to tell him his real name—at least not yet. More wheels turned in her head. M.C. She needed to give him a last name. Chambers, Chisholm . . . Connors! That sounded nice. Malcolm Connors. She smiled, then frowned when he shook his head with that sad hangdog look on his face.

She forced tears to spill down her cheeks—she was always able to turn on the waterworks with just a thought. It was one of her greatest talents, and had come in handy on many occasion. Men melted before a woman in tears. They were so frightened by such shows of emotion, they would do anything to stop the crying.