Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Emily nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. “Well! Sit down, Richard, and have some coffee. It’s a cold day to be riding here from the Flaming B.”

  “That it is.” He hesitated, then sat down and accepted the steaming cup Idaho had poured for him. “I can’t stay long. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  The men settled back in their chairs, Silas and Barry smoking cigars as they exchanged news with Richard about the Angel Claire and the ranch. Emily listened closely, but what she saw told her more than what she heard. Crabtree wasn’t a man to sit still for long—and he rarely left the Flaming B, except in emergencies—so his clipped phrases and movements stood out like signal flags.

  “This isn’t just a social call, is it?” Emily asked quietly. “What’s wrong, Richard? Are the hands worried about their jobs, thinking I’ll die?”

  The ranch foreman cleared his throat. “No, ma’am. Nothing like that. Maybe I should talk to Mr. Hughes or the marshal here—”

  “The ranch isn’t their concern,” she replied firmly. “I’m strong enough to hear whatever you came to say. After all, what else can possibly happen to me?”

  Richard sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “The boys’ve been finding cuts in the fence, Emily. They figure we might’ve lost a hundred head this past week, if you count the ones we found shot out in the east ninety.”

  “Shot?” She sat straighter, gaping at the sandy-haired man across from her. “What kind of a rustler would kill cattle instead of stealing them?”

  He glanced nervously at Idaho. “The same kind as would castrate that prize Hereford bull Elliott bought last spring, and leave him to bleed to death,” he said in a somber voice. “Probably the same renegade who rode around your house shooting out windows in the dead of night. Shattered most of the ground floor glass and rode off before any of us realized what was going on.”

  Barry scooted forward on the loveseat, scowling. “Any idea who’d shoot the place up that way?”

  Emily didn’t have to hear Richard Crabtree’s reply—the rapid acceleration of her heartbeat was answer enough. “Clancy,” she whispered.

  The marshal’s face was stern. “Now don’t you get any ideas about—”

  “I’m here to warn you not to come home yet, Emily,” Crabtree said urgently. “You won’t be safe there.”

  “And where will I be safe? Nowhere, until that bastard’s dead!” Standing slowly, Emily clenched her fists and was irritated that she still couldn’t close her right one. “He thinks that with McClanahan gone, and with me laid up, he can ride footloose all over Papa’s properties. If he’d castrate a bull and shoot out our windows, what’s to stop him from—”

  “Emily, calm yourself,” Silas urged. “You can’t—”

  “I don’t reckon there’s much danger of him doing that much damage again,” Richard admitted in a quiet voice. “After all this commotion, the hands have taken it upon themselves to ride fence and guard the house full time. They’ll shoot an intruder on sight, practically.”

  “Well, they’d better save Donahue for me,” Emily muttered.

  Barry reached for her hand, his voice firm. “I’m going with you. You’re not fit to travel—”

  “I can’t let you come home—”

  “This is just what Clancy hopes you’ll do!” Emily silenced the men’s objections with her determined glare. “And while you’re deciding who’s going to protect me, he’ll pick you all off—just like he did Papa. He won’t stop killing until he has me for his wife.”

  Silas’s eyes widened. “You can’t be considering marriage to that—”

  “Of course I’m not. But that’s my ace in the hole—my only way of luring him out of the mountains so we can put him away, once and for all.”

  Idaho shook his head nervously. “It’s a trap, Miss Emily. The only reason Donahue’s shooting up the house is to lure you there.”

  She reached out to stroke his white-sprigged hair, her mind clearer than it had been since before Clancy took her hostage on Mount Pisgah. “But everybody’s wise to him now, so he doesn’t have a chance. Don’t you see? It’s the only way we’ll be able to live without looking over our shoulders, wondering who he’ll shoot next.”

  Standing tall, Emily gazed at each of the men with a determined smile. “Richard, I want you to go home and protect the ranch as best you can. Come back for me in a week.”

  “Emily, that’s preposterous!” Silas exclaimed. “Your arm’s still in a sling and—”

  “You couldn’t possibly ride that thirty miles,” Barry chimed in. “And if you did, you couldn’t walk when you

  got off your horse.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “All right, a week and a half, then,” she said impatiently. “But no longer! Come in a wagon, Richard, and I’ll ride home under a cover so Clancy won’t suspect that I’ve returned to the Flaming B. The only way to beat him is to surprise him”

  Silas and Barry exchanged wary glances as the ranch foreman picked up his hat. “I don’t like the sound of this, Emily,” Crabtree said with a shake of his head. “Not when Sheriff Fredricks and his men are trying to take care of it.”

  Emily felt her pulse pumping with anticipation as she returned Richard’s gaze. “Clancy doesn’t want the sheriff. He wants me.”

  For the next few days, Emily spent every waking moment preparing for the trip home. She walked incessantly through Silas’s house, challenging herself on the stairs until Idaho made her sit down.

  “You’re overworking yourself, Miss Emily,” he insisted as he set tea and cookies in front of her. “Rest and food are just as important as all this pacing.”

  She smiled sweetly—mainly so she wouldn’t grimace as she opened and closed her stiff right hand behind her while she pretended to listen to Idaho. Her eye was on the calendar, ticking off the days until Saturday, November nineteenth, when Richard was to come with the wagon. Her every activity was geared toward being physically and mentally ready for a dangerous homecoming, despite Barry and Silas’s efforts to dissuade her from making the trip.

  But in her mind, she followed a different schedule. Long after Silas and Idaho retired each evening, she was squatting beside her bed, flexing thighs and arms that had grown spindly from lying idle too long. Would she be strong enough to saddle Sundance, and then ride the snowy trail to the Flaming B? Could she gather up food and heavy clothing and a gun, without Silas and Idaho suspecting anything? It took all her concentration during Barry Thompson’s visits, but she thought she had him convinced that she was following the plan they’d set up with Richard Crabtree. In fact, it was the marshal who seemed preoccupied, as though he, too, was keeping a secret.

  The moon was nearly full Tuesday night, beaming into her room as she exercised. She stood by the window to catch her breath. The neighborhood was quiet; the lawns slept beneath blankets of moonlit snow that glistened serenely under the indigo sky. Emily scowled as a horse clopped slowly down the street. Its rider was heavy-set, shrouded in a dark winter coat and hat with a woolen scarf flapping around his neck as the wind picked up. When he turned to look toward her window, Emily’s hand went to her throat. “Clancy,” she whispered.

  The next evening she was so keyed up she went to bed early, so her nerves wouldn’t betray her. She undressed, and tugged a pair of Idaho’s longjohns over her own underwear. As Emily pulled on her heaviest pants and shirt, she gazed out to the street below, daring Donahue to ride by again. With shaking hands, she fastened the gold locket around her neck and let it drop under her shirts. Finally, she slipped a box of bullets into her coat pocket and tucked the revolver she’d taken from Silas’s desk drawer beneath her belt.

  She listened for two sets of footsteps to enter the bedrooms adjacent to hers…and then she pressed her ear to each wall, to hear the men’s quiet snores.

  Emily tiptoed down the stairs in her stocking feet, avoiding the creaky spots she’d memorized during her endless trips up and back. She placed a note on the dining
room table:

  I’ve gone to the ranch. I can’t see getting Richard or Barry shot, when I know Donahue won’t risk hurting me. Don’t worry—I’m Elliott Burnham’s daughter, remember? I love you both. Emily.

  Then she put on her boots and slipped out the kitchen door, into the frosty night air.

  The walk to the livery stable took longer than she remembered—or was it because she was in a hurry? Sundance nickered softly in his stall as she approached. Although he stood perfectly still, it took her twice the usual time to saddle him. How could she cover better than thirty miles of treacherous mountain trails tonight, when she was already suffering from nervous exhaustion? She swung onto the palomino’s back, praying that she had the strength to see this mission through—for Papa, and because McClanahan would expect nothing less of her.

  Except for the whistle of a distant train and the whisper of the wind, the night was quiet once she left Cripple Creek. The Gold Camp Road wound around the mountains before her, awash in moonlight and the silvery reflection of the snow. It was the same trail she’d ridden many times—the path she and McClanahan had followed—yet the turns and narrows were taking her by surprise. Perhaps it was best the ride required all her attention: thoughts of how she’d been utterly in love with Matt that week at the ranch, yet had ordered him out of her life, made her eyes sting with unshed tears.

  Emily stopped beside Beaver Creek to let Sundance drink and rest. Her hands were cold and numb from gripping the reins. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around her neck, with the eerie sense that she was being watched. Was Clancy out there, planning an ambush? As she swung back onto Sundance, she hoped he was. It was time to declare herself the winner—time to end the threat that hung over every property and employee she was responsible for, so Papa and Matt wouldn’t have died in vain.

  The miles crept by, because Sundance had to pick his way carefully through drifts and over dark, icy rocks that had slid down the hillsides onto the road. Emily scanned the mountain slopes as she rode. She caught herself checking the revolver in her belt every few minutes, although she saw or heard nothing that frightened her. Then Sundance slipped, and she clutched his neck wildly to keep from falling to the ground. “Easy, boy…take your time now,” she murmured as he righted himself. They stood in the middle of the trail for a moment, letting both their heartbeats return to normal.

  As they rounded the next curves, Emily recognized a rotting miner’s shack—the landmark that meant they were about ten miles from home. The building groaned when the wind wailed through it, and Sundance broke into a trot as though he, too, wanted the lonely shanty behind him. His breath came out in puffs of vapor as he dutifully clambered up yet another rise in the trail. Emily patted his back, murmuring encouragements until they reached the summit. Then she tugged on the reins, holding her breath.

  Across the valley, on a foothill slightly higher than the one they’d reached, a movement caught her eye. She gazed steadily at the azure, tree-studded horizon, scanning the rough ridges until her suspicions were confirmed. There, in a clearing on the hilltop, a horse and rider were silhouetted against the night sky. “Clancy,” she muttered. “I figured as much.”

  The rest of the ride seemed to take forever. Emily’s cheeks were badly chapped, and her fingers and toes ached with cold. She sensed that if she stepped down to stretch her legs, she might not be able to remount, so she rode doggedly on, staying alert by planning her strategy. Donahue could easily overtake her—she was certain he’d spotted her miles ago, and had shown himself only to taunt her. But he’d want to stretch it out, to let her fret over his phantom presence until she succumbed to exhaustion, and then he’d strike.

  But would he take her on the trail, or wait until she reached the ranch? The former choice seemed smarter, yet she knew better than to second-guess Donahue’s logic. Gripping the pistol in her gloved left hand, she searched the dusky mountainsides with cautious eyes as Sundance trotted on.

  The first glimmers of pink glowed in the sky as she approached the Flaming B’s front gate. Donahue hadn’t shown himself again. He’d wait her out—maybe create a diversion to keep the hands busy, so he could burst into the house when she was relatively defenseless. Emily smiled tiredly. She’d made it this far alone, and by God it would take more than a bullying Irish outlaw to scare her into any foolish moves.

  “Go back to sleep, Roscoe,” she called out to the cowboy she’d startled awake. He’d looked like an old Indian sitting against the gatepost, a bundle of blankets with a dusty hat perched on top—until he grabbed for his gun. “It’s me—Emily.”

  Roscoe waved her through the gate, staring as she headed toward the stables. Then he burrowed into his blankets again.

  She praised Sundance lavishly as she brushed, fed, and watered him. The walk to the dark-timbered house made her muscles ache for a hot soak, and she knew that once she was out of the tub, she’d probably collapse on the first bed she came to. Emily studied the ground-floor windows, pleased to see that the glass had been replaced—and that another ranch hand was watching her from his post on the porch. “Morning, B.J.”

  “Miss Burnham! We weren’t expecting—”

  “Don’t tell Richard I’m here just yet,” she said with a weary smile. “I’m going straight to bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a nod.

  The bottom of the door stuck for a moment, as it always did in frosty weather, and then she was inside. The parlor felt cozy, a welcome haven from the wind, and its early-morning shadows soothed her as she peeled off her gloves and coat. When she’d removed her hat and scarf, Emily shook her hair free and patted her cheeks to warm them. She glanced at Mama’s portrait above the fireplace, and then headed toward Papa’s study to rest in his musty old chair for a moment before she took her bath.

  When Emily reached the doorway, her knees buckled. A dark-haired man was gazing expectantly at her from behind Papa’s desk, his beard splitting in a grin as she stared at him. Surely her mind was playing tricks on her—she was exhausted from the ride, and spooked because Clancy was out there somewhere, just waiting to claim her again.

  But when the man stood and started toward her, his dazzling blue eyes sending her heart into a frenzied gallop, Emily knew this was no apparition. It was Matt McClanahan.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Emily! Rosebud, I knew you’d come before—”

  “You!” She backed away, still unable to believe what she was seeing. McClanahan was laughing as he rushed toward her, and except for a jagged row of stitches along one temple, he was as rugged and handsome as her fondest memories of him. “Silas told me you were dead, and I—”

  “He thought I was. It was part of the plan to—”

  “—moped in bed for weeks, thinking—what?” Emily grabbed his arms before he could wrap them around her. “You put Thompson up to this, didn’t you? Told him to—”

  “It’s the best way to catch Donahue off guard,” Matt protested. He gazed anxiously at her, noting the thinness her layers of clothing couldn’t hide, and the way her hands trembled as she held him off. “If Clancy thought I was alive, we’d be playing cat-and-mouse till—”

  “Matt McClanahan, you’re the honest-to-God damndest liar I ever saw!”

  He laughed until he thought he couldn’t quit, loving the topaz fury in Emily’s eyes. “Coming from you, Miss Burnham, I consider that the highest of compliments.”

  “If you think for a minute that I’m just going to kiss you as though nothing—”

  “I think you’ll kiss me as though you’ll never let me go,” he said hoarsely. “It’s the only way you know how.”

  As she gave in to his embrace, Emily’s head reeled. He was alive! He’d never stopped loving her, and he was setting himself up as bait for Clancy, just as she was. His lips brushed hers with a desire she wasn’t yet able to match. “Matt, you haven’t heard a thing I’ve been—”

  “Haven’t I told you not to argue with a man when he’s making love to yo
u?” He crushed her close, nuzzling her hair and gulping in the scent of her and running his hands over her slender body, unable to control himself. Thanks to Barry—and even to Donahue—she was in his arms again. He gazed into her wind burned face, his intense love wiping away the eloquent phrases he’d planned for this moment. He kissed her as gently as his passion would allow, aware that his woman was now as fragile as the flower she was named for.

  Emily felt her legs go rubbery, but it didn’t matter. McClanahan leaned her against the wall as he kissed her until she thought she’d pass out from the rapture of it. His lips were warm and insistent, flickering from her eyelids to her temples to her earlobes. And when his mouth moved over hers in a declaration of his passion—his possession of her—Emily responded with every ounce of energy she had left.

  He felt her strength ebbing, so Matt gave her a final kiss and let her relax against the wall. He stroked her golden hair away from her eyes, aware of a paleness that haunted the hollows of her face. “Do you have any idea what I went through, those weeks when you refused to get better?” he whispered. “Every time Barry came back and said you weren’t eating, or even getting out of bed, I almost abandoned my cover and came to see you.”

  “Why didn’t you?” she pleaded softly. “Do you think I liked believing my life was over? And thinking you’d died because of my foolishness?”

  McClanahan sighed. “I was laid up myself, for a while. When I came to after the cabin exploded, and Barry told me Silas was taking you to the hospital, I asked him to keep me at his place. I’d lost a lot of blood, and I was pretty banged up, so I figured nobody would question it if he told them I’d passed on.”

  “That’s no excuse. I would’ve kept your secret,” Emily whimpered.

  “And you would’ve been trying to flush Donahue out of the mountains and making a target of yourself, before I was strong enough to help you.” Matt felt a pang of remorse for prolonging her grief, yet it certainly proved her devotion to him. He smiled and tweaked Emily’s nose. “I figured Clancy would get tired of hiding, knowing neither of us was able to come after him, and that he’d return here, to the scene of the crime. And I was right —right?”