Chapter 1
May 16, 1875
A fierce wind whipped Grace Ann Cunningham’s hair, yanking at the long strands and pulling them free from their pins. She squinted through the haze of the blustery day and stroked her bulging belly, trying to comfort her baby, who seemed just as agitated by the sudden storm. Her back ached from sitting on the hard buckboard bench all these miles—much less comfortable than the plush sleeper car they’d enjoyed last week on the train from Illinois to Cheyenne.
She frowned at the dark roiling clouds that had moved in and quickly blotted out the sun. What had been a pleasant uneventful morning was now turning into an ominous and unsettling afternoon on the open prairie.
Grace sucked in a breath as the baby again kicked her ribs in protest. Her sweet husband’s sun-browned face tightened in concern as he caught her gesture. He pulled on the reins of the two draft horses—sturdy ones they’d bought yesterday in Cheyenne. Surefooted, the seller had told them. And Monty knew his horses, so she trusted his purchase and assurance that they’d haul them without incident to Fort Collins. But looking at her husband’s face now, seeing the subtle telltale signs indicating that he hadn’t expected this squall nor felt at ease about it, gave her pause. And her normally talkative husband had been too quiet this last hour, eyeing the sky and listening to the roar of the nearby river, as if hearing their complaints and trying to suss out nature’s intentions.
“The baby all right, darlin’?” He scooted over on the buckboard seat to look her over, then took her hands in his.
Warmth from his gentle grip comforted her, but not as much as the love streaming from his adoring gaze.
“I think so,” she told him, then smiled as he laid his hand firmly on her belly.
Grace thanked the Lord in a silent prayer for this wonderful man who’d married her in a simple ceremony last September. All those years she’d lived with her doting aunt Eloisa in the boardinghouse back in Bloomington, she never imagined she’d be blessed with such happiness. When Montgomery Cunningham had first stepped into the parlor to take a room before starting college at Wesleyan University, she’d been a shy, giggling girl of ten. Neither of them foresaw the love that would spark six years later when he showed up again unexpectedly, about to head west to explore and survey lands unknown.
Monty closed his eyes, his hand still on the baby in her womb. She imagined him communing with their baby, speaking to it the way he spoke to rivers, to trees, to the land he traversed by boat and on horseback and on foot. Something had happened to him when he returned from the Hayden Yellowstone Expedition. He had changed from boy to man, yes—but it was more than that. He had fallen in love with the West, and with rivers in particular. Although he’d studied geology in college with John Powell, water captured his heart, and he sought out trips that had him navigating whitewater. Nothing made his eyes sparkle more than talking about the way water moved and sang as it cascaded and carved the face of mountains and spilled into waiting valleys. Well, except the way he looked at her.
Monty may have loved rivers, but Grace knew he loved her more. So much more, for he gladly gave up his exploring to settle down and marry and start a family. Although, Grace thought moving to the new town of Fort Collins, Colorado, was adventure enough. She hoped he’d come to see it that way as well and not be beset by a restless stirring to venture back out into the wild.
The West! Quite the change from her simple, comfortable life in Bloomington—if the lawless and untamed town of Cheyenne was any indication. She shuddered thinking of the seedy saloons and lecherous unwashed men they’d encountered as they sought purchase of their horses and wagon yesterday. If Monty hadn’t assured her she’d live in the manner she’d been accustomed to—with the same stars twinkling overhead—she would never have considered moving west. Not that she fancied some ostentatious lifestyle; she’d lived in a modest home under her aunt’s care. But she desired familiarity and the comfort of belonging to a community.
When he opened his eyes, she dared asked, “How much further?” They’d been traveling since dawn, making good time despite the roughness of the road and the boggy sections dotted with patches of melting snow. They’d been assured in Cheyenne that the fifty-mile road south through Colorado Territory was a bit rough but well traveled—but then, they’d also been given predictions of clear skies and gentle breezes the whole way to Fort Collins.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, glancing around as the unseasonably warm wind increased to a dull roar. “Not much further. The river is coming closer to the road now, and according to the map, that large bend in the road back there comes right before the northern ten-mile marker.”
A finger of wind lifted the brim of his felt hat, showing eyes as stormy as the day, his one hazel eye catching a glint as a fork of lightning snapped out of the brooding clouds overhead. A second later the ground rattled with thunder.
Grace cried out as the horses reared and whinnied—then thumped down hard on hooves that pounded the ground in agitation.
Monty jumped down from the buckboard and calmed them, speaking words that the wind snatched from his mouth as he held fast the hat on his head. He took the closest horse’s leather neck strap in hand and, cooing comforting sounds, got the frightened beast to take a step, then another. He shot Grace a look that set her heart racing. She could tell he was afraid, and that wasn’t a look she’d often seen on Monty’s face. He seemed to be searching for some shelter, but they were on wide-open land, with no trees in sight.
“We’d best turn back,” he yelled to her over the snarling storm, leaning close to make sure she heard him. Dirt and debris swirled in the air around their heads, and Grace squinted as it pelted her cheeks. “Maybe head to that ranch we passed a couple o’ hours ago.”
Grace wrapped her shawl tighter around her body as the balmy air suddenly turned chilly and icy fingers of wind tickled her neck. Monty grumbled something under his breath as fat raindrops assaulted them.
Monty rushed back to the wagon and pulled out a canvas tarp from underneath their boxes and crates filled with their possessions. Another flash of lightning streaked the angry sky, followed by an even louder thwack of thunder that sounded as if it had rent the earth.
Grace blurted out a cry and buried her face in her hands as she listened to Monty wrestle with the tarp. Presently, she felt it fling over her head, and the rain pelted the thick cloth sheltering her in dull thuds. Monty slipped in beside her and huffed, his body heat instantly warming the space.
He turned to her, and in the stuffy enclosure that ensconced them both, he planted a gentle kiss on her lips, then pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, as if to drink in every bit of her. As if the rain and the river were not moisture enough for his soul. Her heart thumped hard against his chest and the baby kicked again, making him chuckle as he reluctantly ended their intimate moment.
“He’s a strong one,” Monty said, his face gleaming. “And already making sure he’s not left out of the fun.”
“He?” Grace teased. For some reason Monty was sure she was carrying a son. But she knew he would just as gladly welcome a girl into his arms. He grinned and gave her a look that made her pulse race. That lopsided smile on his strong, square jaw never failed to stir her passion.
He lowered his voice and whispered hot words in her ears. “I’m looking forward to a bath and then a sweet night in your arms in a clean, warm bed—with a soft feather-tick mattress.” He rubbed her bulging belly mindlessly as he peeked out at the storm that now howled like a sick wolf. Grace ran a hand through his hair as thick and brown as molasses, which inclined to curl around his ears.
“Maybe we should just wait a bit?” she said, thinking how Colorado weather was known to change suddenly. Just as this squall had come upon them unawares, perhaps it would clear up just as quickly. Or so she hoped.
He chewed on that idea a moment, then shook his head. “We’re too exposed out here. The storm has stalled overhead, which means we’re a likely target for lightning to strike. We need to get moving, get somewhere safe . . .” He blew out a frustrated breath as rain seeped in under the tarp and soaked his hair. His eyes grew stormier with the weather, and water dribbled down his rough-shaved cheeks and under his shirt collar. Grace felt the weight of her soggy skirt hem pulling on her, and noticed her stockings were wet and leaking water into her shoes. Her teeth started to chatter.
“It’s bad and getting worse,” Monty mumbled as the horses began dancing in place, just as eager to get out of the rain and the open prairie, as if they sensed danger coming their way. He jiggled the reins and yelled out, “Haw!” to get the animals moving. With a lurch they trotted forward, throwing their heads in protest.
Grace now heard the river as the wind momentarily calmed. It was close, and raging. They’d been skirting the Cache la Poudre for miles now, admiring the wild waters bouncing over boulders in the narrow sluices carved in the canyon. Most of what they’d glimpsed showed a swollen wide river moving at a fast clip, but as they neared Fort Collins, the banks had risen more steeply, with evergreens growing clear to the water’s edge, and steep cliffs sweeping up into canyon walls that thundered with the echo of whitewater. Grace wondered if Monty would feel safer and more in control right now if he were at the bow of a canoe instead of holding the reins of two skittish horses he’d barely made the acquaintance of.
“The bridge can’t be that far off,” Monty said, pulling her attention back to the dirt road that was starting to resemble a pond before them. Grace shuddered. “Maybe we should try to cross, and seek shelter on the other side.” His voice sounded unsure, which unsettled Grace even more.
“Can you make out the road?” What she really wondered was if the horses would mire in all the mud. They were less upset though, now that Monty had them moving again. Moving was better than sitting still, out in the open, she reasoned. Although, from what she could make out up ahead through the sheets of rain obscuring the horizon, there was nothing but more open, flat land. She hadn’t been paying attention these last few miles. She’d been nodding off in the cool spring afternoon, the weak sun hardly warming her shoulders. How long would it take them to get to the bridge? Would it be safe to cross? A jolt of fear coursed up her back, and her baby kicked hard.
“Shh, little one,” she said, more to herself than to her baby, “it’ll be all right; just sleep . . .”
She fingered the silver chain around her neck and found the small round pendant, then gripped it tightly in her fist. Monty had given this trinket to her when he came back from his exploration of Yellowstone. An Indian guide had gifted it to him, after he helped rescue the man who had toppled overboard in some strong rapids. Etched into the flat silver disk was an eight-pointed star—an Indian symbol of hope, he was told.
She choked back tears as she huddled close to Monty, shivering and wet, listening to the rain beat on them, as if trying to drown out her dreams. She fussed with the tarp, trying to keep it draped overhead, as the wind grabbed at it, wrenching it from her grasp. Monty’s full attention was on the road and the horses reluctantly pulling the wagon.
Would they make it to Fort Collins? She pushed down her panic as the wind attacked anew. The horses now fought Monty’s attempt to urge them forward, and once more he jumped down and took hold of the long side strap and tried to coax them along the flooded road. Grace saw their hooves sink into mud with every step, which made them prance in agitation and throw their heads against the headstalls and blinders as if trying to get free.
Another crack of lightning exploded in the sky and set the horses into a near panic. Grace stiffened and clung to the side panel of the buckboard, shifting her feet but unable to get better purchase on the slippery wet wood.
Monty offered his hand. “You better come down, Gracie. I can’t predict how these horses will behave. They seem right ready to bolt.”
Grace nodded, and trying not to show her fear, gave him an encouraging smile, assuring him it was all right, that she’d brave this trial alongside him. She wanted him to see she was stalwart—despite her pregnancy—that she could handle the rugged West. They hadn’t much further to go, she consoled herself, and now, through the haze of mist and wind and rain she could make out what looked like a sturdy wood bridge—unlike like others they had crossed, which had been constructed from old metal railroad cars—spanning the Poudre River just a ways ahead. The roar of the river gave her more shivers, for it sounded altogether monstrous.
But if anyone could assess a river and its dangers, Monty could. She trusted him to get them safely across to the other side. Although, even from here she could see the dark water roiling and churning and overflowing its banks, splashing the underside of the bridge with fury.
She gulped, let out a tense breath, then eased carefully down from the seat, Monty holding tightly to her hand and wrapping his other strong arm securely around her back to help lift her down and onto the saturated ground. Her nice new leather traveling shoes sank into sticky mud, but she would clean them later. Once they made it to the hotel in Fort Collins.
She steeled her nerves and took a deep breath. A surveying job was awaiting Monty’s arrival—in their new western town. They’d head to the land office tomorrow and file a homestead claim. They had plenty of money from the sale of her aunt’s property, plus the savings Monty had accumulated from his jobs as surveyor, cartographer, and river guide on the various expeditions he’d gone on over the last few years. They would spend the summer building a cabin and planting a garden and getting ready for the birth of their child—the first of many to come. They would make a home in the West, in the small but growing town of Fort Collins, presently to double in size with the advent of the railroad, assuring plenty of surveying work for Monty for years to come. The Indians no longer a threat, the West was becoming tamed, and towns like Fort Collins promised church, community, and hope for a bright future to those who dared to dream. Next year the nation would celebrate its centennial, and Colorado was slated to be admitted as the thirty-eighth state in the union. Yes, the country embraced hopeful prospects.
Grace consoled herself with these positive visions of her future, a way of fanning the flames of her hope against the attempts of the Front Range storm to snuff it out. With Monty’s arm holding her close as he urged the horses forward, Grace settled into that hope and reminded herself she was safe. Monty would make sure they made it. He’d had many close calls on his wilderness expeditions, but he was careful and strong and knew how to keep calm and level-headed in danger—and he’d faced plenty of situations more dangerous than a little rain and lightning.
She managed a chuckle, thinking of how silly she was being. They weren’t out in the wilderness. They were on an well-traveled road, and they’d passed not a few people riding north only two hours prior. She owed it to Monty to encourage him and show her trust in him.
But just as she turned to say something to him, the ground slipped out from under her feet. She screamed as a loud explosion erupted around her, and her world turned upside down.
Although the antique mirror was cracked and silver flecks of paint curled and distorted her image, Lenora Dutton could still see enough of her reflection in the glass to assess she was ready for the big day—a day she’d been long awaiting, yesiree. A quick glance out the window of the second-story room in the Drop Dead Saloon told her a nasty storm was brewing, but it only brought a pleased smirk to her face. God’s judgment was about to descend upon the evil remnants of the Dutton Gang. Namely, her snake of a husband, Hank, and the last two beef-headed scalawags that had faithfully and blindly followed their boss everywhere he led them—which, much to her delight, included the last stop on their bank-robbing journey: the Denver City Jail.
The hanging had been scheduled for high noon, but due to the inclement weather—more likely the lazy men assigned to erect the gallows—it was now set for three p.m. Lenora figured it was approaching noon, but she had no timepiece. Her head was a little woozy after imbibing a bit too much whiskey last night. She craned her neck closer to the mirror and scrutinized the bags under her eyes, then reached for her powder puff and minimized the damage.
Last she remembered, she’d been sidling up to some such feisty card chisler whose name she couldn’t recall—and didn’t care to—and had no memory of being helped up the stairs and into her bed. Thankfully, when she awoke this morning, she still had her clothes on. Which made her wonder if the kindly but seedy saloon keeper had escorted her upstairs. The first thing she did upon waking was feel under the mattress for her leather satchel, then made sure all the contents were still there.
A little giggle bubbled up as she thought of Hank swinging on the end of that rope, his legs kicking frantically, a black hood over his ugly, squat face. Thank God she would never have to stare into that mug ever again or hear his grating laughter. Good riddance! She’d bided her time and paid enough dues all these miserable years, pasting her smiles on and playing sweet on his every word. But it had been worth it. Because after today, the gold would be hers. All hers for the taking. And then she could head to San Francisco and start her new life—buy herself a big fancy mansion in the heart of the city, overlooking the ocean. Far from the dirt and grime and all uncouth manner of folks on the Front Range. She’d be the lady she was meant to be.
Lenora grinned. Hank was as mean a rogue as ever was, but today he’d be dead. He’d rough-handled her plenty, and she’d had many a black eye and a few broken bones to show for her loyalty. But it was worth it, all worth it. Because she had watched him hide the gold in that cabin north of Fort Collins, up in the Poudre River Canyon. And it was a heap of gold.
As she dabbed at a bit of beeswax from the unlit candle on the dresser with a spent match, she puckered her lips and turned her head from side to side. She was still young and attractive. And she’d learned all the tricks to snagging a man’s attention and heart, getting him to do her bidding. With her money and looks, she could live that high society life waiting for her in California.
She tapped her foot as she thickened her long lashes with the wax, then adjusted the combs in her ebony hair. The traveling skirt and neat wool jacket she wore would keep her warm should that storm edge in. But she didn’t care if she arrived at the cabin soaked to the bone. She hadn’t been there in months—not since the time she’d finally had the opportunity to ride up there and move the gold before Hank got back from his latest escapade in Nebraska. She’d sweet-talked Clayton into letting her go “visit her poor, ailing mother” for a few hours. He never could say no to her, and he was sour at Hank anyways, since Hank chose to assign Clayton the task of babysitting her while the gang held up a stage heading to the armory.
After plying that dunderhead with enough whiskey to choke a buffalo, she took his horse and rode north, returning the next day, Clayton nursing a pounding headache and none the wiser that she’d been gone a lot longer than promised. It gave her a thrill to know she alone knew where the gold was hidden, and it wouldn’t be easy to find, nosiree.
But upon returning, she realized what would happen if Hank looked for his stash and found it gone. He’d question her, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to lie with enough convincing. Which made her go through with the plan she’d had all along. Her next opportunity, she used her feminine wiles—and another bottle of whiskey—to loosen Clayton’s tongue to learn where that week’s robbery would take place. And once the gang rode out of town, in the dark of night, Lenora slipped an itty-bitty note under the sheriff’s office door.
Imagine her surprise when news spread through town the next day that there had been a confrontation at a bank in Colorado Springs, with a goodly number of outlaws shot—none other than members of the notorious Dutton Gang. Sadly, Hank hadn’t been among the dead, but at least he’d been caught—along with Clayton “the Blade” Wymore and that simpering chucklehead Billy Hill Cloyd—who couldn’t bear to hurt a flea, even though he was a better shot than Clayton and Hank combined.
Lenora checked her reflection one last time, figuring her wagon would be ready by now. She’d paid the boy triple the usual to make sure all her bags and boxes were neatly packed and ready for her departure. She’d be able to get as far as the turnoff to Coyote Gulch up the Poudre canyon, but from there she’d have to unhitch the horse and ride the last few miles to the cabin, which was situated up against a wall of rock above some of the biggest rapids on the river.
After pulling her satchel out from beneath the mattress, she stuffed her makeup and handkerchief in, then strode out of the room, her nose assaulted with the stale odor of cheap cigars and even cheaper perfume. Wind brushed branches against the cobwebbed windows that lined the walls near the long mahogany bar below the red plush-carpeted landing she marched across. She stepped over one drunk, who was lying facedown and blubbering something incoherent. She heard a loud snoring from the door on her right and lightly flounced down the staircase, eyeing the few patrons holing up inside the saloon on this stormy day. Most were nursing drinks and shuffling cards. Probably waiting to watch the hanging—along with everyone else in Denver City.
The varnish on the banister railing had been worn down by the thousands of grimy, greasy hands that had drunkenly gripped it over the years, which made Lenora look forward to gracing the proper, upstanding hotels of San Francisco. There she would pursue her dream to act on a stage—a real stage, not some rickety, termite-infested saloon platform. She was meant for the stage, and had talent. Oh, no one had told her such, but she’d fooled plenty of folks with the roles she’d played throughout her life. She had more acting experience than anyone on Broadway in New York City, she figured. She’d even chosen a stage name: Stella Twilight. Wasn’t that just divine? It meant the stars in the sky—or something akin to that. She met a saloon gal once upon a time by that name and thought to use it someday. She would be that star on the stage, come hell or high water, yesiree.
A glance at the newspaper on a nearby poker table showed headlines announcing the hanging. Already a crowd was gathering outside, their excitement building just like the storm. She had chosen to stay the night in this saloon on Blake Street for its proximity to the square, the courthouse visible from the front door.
She positioned her shawl over her head, pulled on her long leather gloves, and ventured outside. Upon opening the saloon doors, she was hit with a blast of cold wind and a splatter of rain. Overhead, mean, thick black clouds hung, ready to dump their wrath upon the earth. A big smile lifted her cheeks. Soon, she told herself. California, here I come!
Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the street. Rocks and rubble flew into the air the next block down—where the jail was. Shouting ensued, and then gunshots. Lenora ducked under the saloon’s porch overhang, ready to bolt back inside, when she heard someone shouting and the rumble of horse hooves pounding down a nearby street.
“They’ve escaped!” a man yelled.
Lenora clutched her heart. Oh no! She prayed the man wasn’t talking about Hank. How could they escape? She gritted her teeth. Clayton’s brother . . . He wasn’t a member of the gang, but he lived in Denver City, and he was a locksmith. He’d been useful when they needed to jimmy a lock. He owned some fast horses too. She hoped she was wrong and it was some other prisoner that had gotten out. She pursed her lips and grunted. Well, there was plenty of law around. Even if Hank got out, he wouldn’t make it very far. He’d be caught before he hit the city limits.
At that moment, the boy from the livery rode up in her Schuttler & Studebaker spring wagon and jumped quickly down from the seat. He squatted alongside the wooden boardwalk, using the wagon for cover. More shots rang out in the air, and people screamed and ran as the bullets whined. Her horse reared up but didn’t break from his harness. If only she could see what was happening. But no doubt she’d find out soon enough.
Lenora slipped behind a few of the men who’d run out from the saloon to see the commotion.
“What’s happening?” one of them asked, his head darting from side to side, trying to make sense of the mayhem.
Lenora heard rather than saw more horses. This time they were racing down Blake Street, in front of the saloon. She counted the animals’ legs—what she could make out through the crowd now huddled around her. Five or six horses, she figured. Then she caught a glimpse of the men riding like the Devil was on their tail.
She gasped. Hank! Followed by Clayton and Billy. She cursed under her breath. With clenched fists, she watched as more horses galloped past, kicking up dirt and grit that mixed in with the pellets of rain whirling in the air. She wiped her face and covered her eyes until the sound of hooves petered out, and the crowd erupted in animated talk.
The boy came up to her. “Miss, here’s your wagon.” His eyes caught hers, and she shook her head to sort what he was saying.
“Oh, yes. Here’s somethin’ for your trouble.” She reached into her satchel and pressed a coin into his palm.
“Thank you, miss,” he said, wide-eyed and craning to see down the street, where the outlaws had made a run for it. “I wonder if the sheriff will catch ’em.”
She showed him a nervous smile. “I sure hope so. I’d hate to think of those horrid outlaws on the loose.”
A nicely dressed man that oozed money next to her gave her a look-see and gazed approvingly. She saw the longing in his eyes and smiled demurely, a smile full of innocence and tinged with the appropriate amount of fear. “Perhaps you could find out . . . if it’s safe for me to travel all alone . . . ?”
He gave a sweeping bow, removing his hat to reveal a large bald spot on the center of his head. Lenora hid a chuckle under her thick lashes. The moustache he sported must have borrowed all that hair from his scalp. “It would be my pleasure,” he told her, giving his facial hair a twirl before walking purposefully down the street. She really didn’t need his help, but she just couldn’t resist watching another slobbering fool rush off to do her bidding.
Lenora climbed up with as much ladylike grace as possible onto the seat of her wagon and picked up the reins. Before she’d even said “giddap,” she saw the sheriff and two deputies trotting back her way—with a man on horseback in tow.
She ducked her head under her shawl as Hank rode past, careful to not look up until they were long gone. She was glad she’d bought a new horse, for Hank would have surely recognized her piebald gelding. Not that he could do much about her being here.
She squelched the urge to ride over to the courthouse and watch the hanging—from the front row. Pictured giving Hank a sweet smile so he’d know just who put him in his predicament. But she didn’t want to take the chance that someone, somehow, would recognize her and connect her to the Dutton Gang. She’d never joined in on any of their robberies, but she knew she could be considered an accessory of some kind. She’d been treated like one—that was for sure—Hank’s accessory to wear on his arm and toss about when he lost interest. She knew he’d had other women on the side. He’d often come back to where they were laying low with his clothes reeking of another woman’s perfume.
Through the shouting, running crowd, she’d determined they’d only caught him. And from what she could tell from the loud exchanges around her, two of the Dutton Gang had somehow given the sheriff the slip. A group of concerned citizens was gathering on the steps of the courthouse, but Hank was being hauled over to the gallows.
“They’re not taking any more chances.” The man she’d sent to suss out news ran up breathlessly to her, his eyes shining with longing. She knew he was more interested in her and what she could offer him than what fate awaited Hank Dutton, bank robber.
Lenora gave him a coy smile and demurely fluttered her lashes. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.
He pointed. “Look, they’re hanging him now, without any delay or last words.”
“Oh my,” she said breathlessly, imagining herself in the role of a helpless woman lost on the prairie. Her heart pounded hard, and she suppressed a cry of glee as she watched from the seat of her wagon as her husband, the long-sought-after brigand, was led up the pine-planked ramp to the gibbet sporting the waiting noose.
“But what about the others?” she asked innocently. “Weren’t there more in the gang? Did they catch them?”
“They’re assembling a posse. The men just . . . vanished.” At her horrified look, he patted her hand reassuringly. “But don’t you worry your pretty head about that, miss. I’m sure they won’t get far. And then it’s the noose for them.”
A nervous tic attacked her gut, and she rubbed her gloved hands. She wouldn’t be so quick to agree. Clayton had smarts when it came to disappearing. And there were plenty of places to hide in the bowels of the city. But she knew just where they were headed—of that she had no doubt. They’d beeline it to the cabin and look for the gold. Then, when they failed to find it, she knew exactly what they’d do next—look for her.
Perspiration broke out on her brow even though the day was cool. She pulled out a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and dabbed her forehead. She dared not take the chance of heading to the cabin. Not just yet. What she needed to do was find some place near it, where she could lay low and wait until word of their capture. And somehow not be anywhere obvious where they could find her. Surely not in Denver City.
She realized the man was speaking to her.
“Miss? I said, would you join me for lunch? I’m sure the events of the day have flustered you greatly. Let me help you down from that wagon—”
“Why, that’s perfectly kind of you, sir,” she said in a syrupy voice, using a gloved hand to gently push him back from the wagon, which he was leaning over to get close to her bulging bodice. “But, I’m afraid I have other plans. And I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
More than a bit. If she didn’t get far from Denver City quickly, she stood the chance of running into Clayton and Billy. And even though she had a Winchester rifle and a Colt pistol under her seat in a locked wooden box, she did not want to face “the Blade” anytime soon. If he had any inkling she was the reason for his recent appointment with the undertaker, she’d be carved like a side of beef. She’d seen some of his handiwork, and it wasn’t pretty.
Without further ado, ignoring the rich suitor’s protests, she swung her horse and wagon around to head north and slapped the reins to get the gelding trotting up the street. A bolt of lightning arced the sky, bright white against dark clouds, followed by a loud cheer erupting behind her, over by the jail. She didn’t look to see her husband’s fate, but she could see him in her mind’s eye—swinging from the gallows. Relief washed through her as she smacked the reins harder and forced the horse into a run. The heavens opened up and dumped rain upon her, filling the streets with water and washing away her trail. There would be no trace of her now; she was leaving her loathsome life in Denver City—for good.
And one way or another, no matter how long it took, she would get the gold and head to San Francisco. The glamorous stage awaited her.