Chapter 13

Eph Love reined in his Palomino mare, Destiny, and pushed his hat back to take a look-see of the foothills. Snowflakes drifted down from heaven dusting the green oceans of wheat growing alongside the narrow rut leading down from Trail Creek northwest of town. The Rockies rose up in all their glory as a backdrop to this pristine and peaceful scene, their peaks capped with glistening snow.

But Eph felt anything but serene and peaceful, and he trained his eyes on the clumps of brush and thickets to the west, watching for movement. When he’d been appointed as sheriff four months prior, it had been his lifelong dream come true. His fervent passion for the law and justice had been stoked his whole life by his father, who’d been a judge serving on the bench in three counties in Missouri and who’d retired just as the James-Younger Gang began their eight-year spree of robbing banks and trains—a goodly number of those robberies having taken place in his home state of Missouri. Eph had followed the news of the gang with unabating interest, year after year, reading everything he could of their exploits and crimes, growing more incensed with each new headline declaring another bank they’d robbed or another man they’d shot and killed.

Eph loathed men like Jesse James, and it infuriated him to read the blatant lies the outlaw would write to the newspapers, denying his participation in the purported crimes and decrying the evil committed by such reprehensible men. If there was one thing Eph hated more than men who broke the law it was men who lied about doing so. He reckoned the James’s brothers’ time was running out. Those Confederate bushwackers would be caught one of these days, but Eph reckoned it wouldn’t be in Colorado Territory. How he’d love to bring those outlaws to justice, but it wasn’t a portion allotted to him.

However, Jesse and Frank and those Younger brothers weren’t the only outlaws needing to be rounded up. The Dutton Gang had robbed plenty, and killed many an innocent bystander as they rushed headlong to rob banks and stages. And this gang kept to Colorado Territory—Eph Love’s domain. He’d thrilled reading the news of Hank Dutton’s hanging last year, which had sent a shiver of satisfaction through his soul. All but the last two members of that gang were dead, but Eph would not rest easy until Billy Hill Cloyd and Clayton Wymore were dead as well. And Eph reckoned this was how he’d make his mark in law enforcement—maybe even earn him the job of state marshal someday, once Colorado became a state. Yes, he had high aspirations, always had. He saw his fierce determination for righteous justice a divine calling, and trusted the Good Lord to bless his efforts to catch the two outlaws and rid Colorado of their evil.

Which was why he was sitting his horse on the road down from Trail Creek. He’d gotten word early this morning from a wheat farmer who’d come into town to get parts for a broken plow that he’d spotted two men running through his field, crouched low and each pulling a horse along by the reins. Now, the old farmer had been quite a ways away and suffered from rheumy eyesight and couldn’t vouchsafe the certainty of a proper description, but Eph reckoned it had to be Wymore and Hill. He just had a gut sense about the notion.

He’d been sitting awhile, letting the flurries settle on the shoulders of his linen duster, thinking on the Dutton Gang’s past robberies and recollecting what he knew about the two wanted men. Ruthless and heartless is how Eph would describe Wymore—the meanest sort of outlaw. The older of the two wanted men kept a sharp nine-inch-long Bowie knife with a clip point tucked in a boot, and he’d used it in vicious ways on those who had stood atwixt him and his plunder. Billy Cloyd had a reputation as a sharpshooter but was known for having a weak stomach for violence, and from what Eph had gleaned from all the news reports had never killed a man. The youngest of the gang, he’d trailed along with Hank Dutton, who was some distant relation, because he had nowhere else to go—or so the Rocky Mountain News had stated in one of its editorials that ranted against the gang’s travesties.

A rustle in a thicket of brush made Eph stiffen and swivel his head southward. Laying a hand on his Remington rifle, he craned his head, tense and watchful, then relaxed as three head of longhorn cattle emerged from the shadows just outside the fenced field. Eph’s gaze traveled down into a draw, then up a far ravine where hundreds of cattle snuffled in the scraggly Junegrass and Buffalograss poking through the snow-crusted mounds.

A few birds trilled in the thickets, and the snow began to fall steady now, the air warming in the odd way it often did when it snowed. He’d already been halfway up the ridge and carefully explored the wheat fields, and located the spot where the men had trampled the vegetation. He’d followed their trail until it had come out to the road here, where he now sat. He’d knelt and studied the muddy ground but saw only fresh horse prints—some shooed and others not. No boot marks or anything to indicate anyone on foot—at least not here and not in the last few hours. Without knowing more about their horses, Eph couldn’t come to any conclusions as to whether Wymore and Cloyd had come this way.

But he knew they had. He felt it in his gut, and his gut was never wrong.

Eph swallowed and rubbed his smoothly shaved jaw. He had a nose for evil and could tell when someone nearby planned to commit an injustice. And what his nose was telling him now was that the last two members of the Dutton Gang were somewhere close by, and probably fixing to rob one of the banks in Fort Collins. And he planned to stop them—whatever it took. Yes sir, there’d be hell to pay when those rascals showed their ugly faces in his town.

With a last glance around, satisfied his quarry was not on this hill, Eph Love swung Destiny back east and trotted toward town, watchful and alert, his left hand resting on his rifle, his fingers tapping the smooth wooden forestock. He pulled his hat down tighter on his head as snow fell around him, lighting on his horse’s neck and melting faster than it could gather. Eph’s stomach growled, making him itchy to get back to town and eat the sandwich his Sally had fixed for him.

The day felt heavy, ominous. Something was about to happen in Fort Collins. He didn’t know when or exactly what. But he did know who. Of that he had no doubt.

 

 

“Guess we should pack it in,” Bradford Bevington said, pulling up the long Jacob’s staff and rolling in the chain. Bevington pulled his felt hat off, smacked the snow off it, and plopped it back on his thick head of russet hair. Snowflakes stuck to his beard and mustache, making it look as if he’d guzzled milk a little too hastily.

Malcolm nodded at the seasoned surveyor who had come to Colorado from England, wanting adventure, as the June snow fell around him and dusted his hat and coat. He thought Bevington perhaps had never seen snow until he came west. The man was like so many others Malcolm had met—tired of the rut their lives had fallen into and yearning for a change of scenery.

Malcolm raised his gaze to the imposing Rockies and whistled. He couldn’t imagine a more beautiful sight, a more peaceful place to live and settle down in. Then he thought of Stella and the dissension between them, and his gut clenched. How could he truly find the joy and peace he desired on the Front Range with such contention in his life?

Malcolm turned to Bevington. “Looks like it’s not going to let up. Maybe we can finish this quarter tomorrow.” He began unscrewing his circumferentor from the flat plate while a chill breeze played at his hair.

He and Bevington had been surveying the land adjacent to the southern college boundary these last few days, and Malcolm had been glad to be buried in work, for it distracted his troubled mind and kept him out of his house—and away from his wife.

His mouth soured thinking about Stella. The last few days she’d been restless, irritable, cantankerous. He did what he could to stay out of her way, poring over maps and diagrams at his small desk, but their cabin was small, and her mood unavoidable. He wished he understood her, could find a way to help alleviate her unhappiness. For, he knew something was troubling her. And since he was stuck with her, he’d vowed he’d try harder. Do what he had to in order to make this marriage work, to make her happy. Surely this was a trial the Good Lord had given him to not only endure but to fortify him, improve his character. The Good Book said that God never put you through a trial without giving you the strength and wisdom to endure it, or without making the way out. But what way out?

He’d thought Stella was just beset by cabin fever, and figured once spring came and she could get outside and shop and socialize—do those things women did with their free time—her countenance would lift. But much the opposite had occurred. The more winter gave way to spring, the more unhappy and unpleasant Stella had become. And Malcolm was at a loss as to what else he could do.

He gathered his equipment and knelt to put everything into his pack. Bevington waved good-bye and swung up on his horse. Malcolm’s bay gelding, Rambler, nickered at him from the tree where he was tied up, as if wondering what was taking him so long. The horse pawed the snow-encrusted ground, no doubt looking forward to a warm, dry stall and a flake of hay. Malcolm figured he’d head back to the office and neaten up his ledgers and notes, delaying his return home for a while.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling weary from the lack of sleep. All this week he’d been plagued by troublesome dreams—dreams filled with beautiful vistas and raging rivers. In his dreams he wrangled a canoe down wild cascades, aware of others in the boat with him. He stood on a promontory of flat rock overlooking an expansive valley in which steam and water geysers erupted from cracks in the hard rocky earth and shot high into the sky. He saw the faces of Indians, who were dressed in deerskin and had feathers in their braided black hair. And the most disturbing of all the images in his dreams were the ones of a woman—a faceless, nameless woman—with long golden locks and gentle hands. Hands that held his, and stroked his cheek, and rubbed the aching muscles in his back by the soft glow of candlelight.

In these dreams, he experienced an overwhelming desire to hold her, his love gushing from his heart like a mighty river tumbling down a canyon, seeking her, needing her. Often he bolted awake, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling. Overlaying the love was a smothering unnamable fear. Unable to drift back into sleep, most nights he would lie there in bed, wide awake, waiting for the pastel smear of dawn to creep in through his window.

He looked down at his surveying compass and ran a finger over the initials etched in the brass. He had a faint memory of pressing the point of a knife into the metal and making these marks. The images in his dreams felt like memories too, and the more he dreamed, the more real they seemed. But who was that woman?

Thinking of her brought a rush of sadness to his heart and a deep sense of loss. Was it his mother? His sister? No, he felt something deeper than familial love for this woman. The thought of her touch sent a shudder of need—strong, desirous need—through every pore in his body. He let loose a long sigh that sounded more like a groan of pain. Why couldn’t he remember? He needed to remember! Not knowing his past or who he was tormented him. He had the terrible feeling he was forgetting something important, something of great value.

And yet, if what Stella had told him was true—about their lives together and why they had come west—these tenacious feelings were only the byproduct of meaningless dreams.

But what if her stories weren’t true?

He stopped and straightened as the thought hit him as hard as a rock thrown in his face. He’d been skirting this possibility for weeks now, but had never fully faced his doubts—and fears. For, what if Stella had lied to him? About everything? What if he wasn’t who she said he was—and what if she wasn’t who she claimed to be? Was it possible?

His heart pained at the thought he’d been so deceived. He looked again at his initials staring back at him. M. C.

Malcolm Connors.

The name felt foreign to him, as if it was someone else’s name. Surely his own name would feel like it fit, like he owned it.

A thought wormed into his mind. There had to be some record of his birth somewhere. Some proof of his former life back in St. Louis. He realized with chagrin that he didn’t even know his age or what year he’d been born. Had he even been born in St. Louis? Without that information, he would not be able to get the proof he needed. Stella had told him he’d worked in St. Louis as a surveyor. Yet, when he’d asked her where, or suggested he contact former work associates in the hope that would help his memory return, she had dissuaded him from doing so. His jaw clenched as he thought of how she’d diverted him away from that idea on more than one occasion. She claimed it would only discourage him and keep him from getting on with his life.

Stella was hiding something. He now saw that. He’d noticed the tiny spark of alarm in her eyes when he made those suggestions, but had chalked it up to her worrying over him.

His gut twisted at the thought that he’d been lied to. He longed to know the truth, and he suspected Stella knew it—every bit of it. But she would not be forthcoming, no matter how Malcolm tried to wrest it from her. Why had she lied?

His mind jerked back to that afternoon when he’d opened his eyes on the bank of the Platte and saw her staring at him. How distressed and forlorn she’d been, gushing with love and relief that he was alive. How she’d helped him into the wagon and taken him to that ramshackle cabin, away from civilization, in order to nurse him back to health.

Why hadn’t she taken him into Greeley? Why not rented rooms in town? Why keep him isolated? She’d claimed it was for his health and recovery—the solitude essential and healing. He never thought to question anything she did or said, for why would he have? He couldn’t imagine any woman concocting such a detailed history of their lives, nor spending months nursing a stranger back to health without some personal recompense. If she had not been his fiancée, then who was she? And why the elaborate ruse? He was neither rich nor important—or so he assumed.

He shook his head in frustration and confusion. Maybe he was wrong—maybe she had told the truth. And maybe all his dreams were just dreams of no significance whatsoever.

He snorted and finished packing his things, then slung the pack onto his back and mounted Rambler. His horse’s steps sounded muffled in the snow, and the dark clouds cast a shadow across the prairie, mirroring the shadow draped across his mind. He headed north, toward the center of town, longing for a hot meal to warm his stomach, but knew it would not chase the chill from his heart. A strange coldness had grown inside him, as if he were slowly freezing to death in the middle of a blizzard, with no one nearby to usher him to safety.

His thoughts drifted with the snow, and he found himself thinking about the woman he’d helped the other day. How frightened and vulnerable she’d been, and how sweet and brave. How unlike Stella in her manner and comportment. He cringed thinking of the poor woman, almost crushed by that horse and wagon. And her baby—he would have been killed as well.

A shudder danced across his neck thinking about the near calamity. He thanked God that he had been there, walking down the street at the moment of her crisis. He’d had his head turned, but her cry of alarm had alerted him.

As he trotted his gelding along the snow-blanketed road, the town barely visible through the flurries a mile up ahead, her lovely face fixed in his mind. Her skin was flawless and her cheeks rosy from the cold. Her eyes were a pale green, and he saw more than fear and shock in them. Something else swam in those troubled eyes . . .

A twinge of pain struck his heart as he thought about her, but he didn’t know why. She seemed sad, lonely, as if bereft. He never thought to question if she was married. He’d assumed so, and that her husband was working that day. But now he wondered.

For some reason, his brief encounter with that woman unsettled him. Maybe it was because of the way Stella had attacked her, accusing her of trying to steal him away. Now he remembered—Stella said something about the woman not having a husband. And she had recognized her from the dress shop.

Malcolm flinched thinking of his wife’s insensitivity and rudeness. It made him angry and even more regretful that he’d married her. His mind returned to his previous ruminations, and it verified his conviction all the more that Stella had lied to him about his past and his identity.

He knew if he confronted her that she’d be incensed and horrified and would deny his suspicions. But he could no longer suppress the growing unrest in his soul—he had to suss out the truth. He’d recently caught her lying about her drinking, and her face gave her away when she prevaricated in such a manner. He’d learned that if a person lied about one thing, it usually meant they lied about other things. If she denied the accusations, maybe he’d be able to see it in her face—whether or not she was deceitful. But then what? He couldn’t force the truth out of her. Could he wheedle it out?

What if . . . no, that wouldn’t be honorable to do. He pushed the thought away—of waiting until she’d had a lot to drink, then getting her to talk. But why not? He wasn’t forcing her to get drunk. All he had to do was wait, and the opportunity would surely present itself. The thought, however encouraging, also greatly vexed him. How much more could he take? He didn’t think he could bear much more unhappiness and this feeling of being trapped—and now feeling duped.

He kicked Rambler’s flanks and got him trotting as he approached the outskirts of town. Wind blew snow in his face, and the world had gone white and silent around him. He’d thought spring was just around the corner, but now it looked as if winter had one last gasp to give. He knew how much Stella hated the snow and winter, and no doubt he’d find her back at the homestead, grumbling and miserable—and drinking.

Maybe before the day was over, he’d get the answers he needed. And as much as he wanted to learn the truth, the upshot was he feared it—feared what he’d lost. For something deep inside him told him that he’d lost something very precious to him.

No, not something. Someone.