Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3)

by Charlene Whitman

  He wished the men well and jokingly told them to be careful they didn’t shoot him. They laughed, and LeRoy wondered about their easygoing confidence. They have no idea what they’re gettin’ into. LeRoy hoped—for their sakes—that he’d find that bear before they did. For, he suspected, if they found it first, they might not live to tell the tale.

  He stepped back outside, and already the temperature had dropped. A chill breeze tickled his neck, but he didn’t want to put on his coat until he was cold. As he walked out into the pasture, the muffled sounds of music drifting behind him, someone stepped out of the shadows.

  “Ma.” LeRoy stopped as his ma came up to him. He regarded her thoughtfully.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said, her eyes glinting with light from the crackling campfire behind them.

  “I’m not, Ma,” he said, wondering at her odd words. Usually she told him he’d do well to harbor some fear.

  “I’m not talkin’ ’bout that ol’ bear. You’ll best that critter—I’ve no doubt.”

  LeRoy fidgeted. The previous uneasiness rose in his throat. He swallowed. “Well, then, what am I not s’posed to be afraid of, Ma?”

  She grunted, but her eyes were warm and sparked with mystery. “The mountain holds wild secrets. The bear is not alone in hurt and in pain. Just remember what I told you about fear. How love throws fear aside.” She let her declaration hang between them. LeRoy was more puzzled than ever, but he knew better than to press her for an explanation.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Don’t just track with your eyes. Track with your heart.” She pulled him in for a big hug. He breathed in her scent of sage and the other plants she ground up to make her soaps. When she released him, she patted him on the shoulder and smiled.

  They swiveled their heads as the two riders trotted out of the barn and rushed past them not ten feet away, the horse’ legs swooshing through the tall grass and kicking up dirt clods. The ranch hands didn’t see them standing there.

  LeRoy’s ma shook her head. “Blind leadin’ the blind.” LeRoy chuckled, thinking their cowlicks were a bit too stiff under their hats. She turned and shot him a smile. “Well, best you git goin’.”

  “I reckon.”

  She laid a warm, rough hand on his cheek and let it rest there a moment. Then she dropped it with a smile, turned, and headed back to the lodge.

  LeRoy let out a long pent-up breath. “All right then,” he said to the night.

  The night answered back with silence.

  Setting the lantern on the ground, Gennie examined the tracks and fumed. It was that grizzly—the one Old Bill called Monster—and he’d been through here not an hour past. She could tell it was him and no other by the half-missing claw on the back right foot. Bill had shot at the thing more times than he could recount, though only once she’d caught a glimpse of the monster when out hunting with him. The sight, even from a long ridge away, had sent terror into her heart. The bear had stood and roared, and more than once throughout the years she had heard his voice rumble through the mountains, ricochet off rock, shaking the foundations of the world. She’d learned in school back in Ohio—back in days that seemed hardly more than a fanciful dream—that the lion was called the king of the beasts. Well, whoever came up with that had never faced a grizzly—that was the God’s truth.

  Peluche trotted off, her fur swelled up in alarm, then vanished into the trees. Gennie thought to whistle her back, but didn’t want to make a sound. For all she knew, the bear was close by.

  She gritted her teeth. Last thing she wanted was to confront a bear, but with her only meat in the smoker and hanging from the branches by the cabin, she couldn’t risk hoping he’d just mosey off to some other part of the Rockies. Was the scent of her meat drawing him up the ridge?

  She walked a few steps and touched a broken twig on a gooseberry bush. Upon closer inspection, she saw a small clump of fur snagged on the wood. She leaned over and smelled it, then rubbed it between her fingers. Bear, not wolf—or any other critter. Far off, up the mountain, she heard what sounded like thrashing, but the night swallowed up the sound before she could suss it out.

  She sighed and chewed her lip. Where had Peluche run off to? Usually she kept right by her side anytime Gennie ventured out. This wasn’t like her.

  The rifle hung heavy in her hand, and she grumbled one of Bill’s favorite curses under her breath. Maybe she would meet her death out here, fool that she was—chasing down a bear in the dark of night. But perhaps that would be a kindness, although she didn’t cotton to the idea of bleeding to death. Better’n starving though. Or facing another long, unbearable winter alone. Which was the lesser of evils? She was too weary to care.

  But then, she thought about that bear pelt and what Whitcomb might give her for it. A grizzly pelt like that—she figured it would be plenty. Maybe give her enough to live off for a long stretch. And then there were the bear steaks. Even if the monster was old and crotchety, she was sure it would taste plenty good. A whole lot better than some old raccoons or opossums.

  The thought of bear meat made her mouth water. Virgil had once come by the cabin to visit and had brought bear meat from a fresh kill. It wasn’t grizzly, but it was the most tender and flavorful meat she’d ever had.

  Just then she heard the crack of a branch. She froze. She knew it wasn’t Peluche. Taking slow, quiet steps, she followed the narrow trail that led to the beaver creek, listening hard to the night, her grip tight on her rifle. She thought a moment about leaving the lantern behind, but clouds were billowing overhead, and if she did run into that bear, she wanted to get a clear shot. So what if he could see her? He’d smell her first and either run tail or face her down.

  She pulled her hat down tight to her ears as cold wind nipped at her face. For the millionth time she pushed down the longing for a normal life, a town life. For a man to love and care for her, children’s laughter surrounding her, friends to talk to. To stop being afraid. But it wasn’t to be.

  Chapter 4

  After stepping into the shadows of the trees, LeRoy became engulfed in darkness until his eyes adjusted. It wasn’t long before the moon rose and spilled a soft light over the valley, and LeRoy caught glimpses of it through the pine boughs. He moved steadily, grateful the bear had taken the easy route up the mountain. The creature’s trail wasn’t hard to track, for as it lumbered along the deer trail, it had smashed through brush and broken branches. Huge hind paw prints settled into the soft earth, trampled over by horse hooves. LeRoy wondered what the two men planned to do once the bear veered off the trail and they could no longer take their mounts. Well, he figured he just might catch up with those two before the night was out, but he’d make hisself scarce. They’d probably just make camp, get a hot fire blazing, and plan on starting fresh in the morning. LeRoy had no such intentions.

  Every so often he stopped and listened to what the night would tell him. On one occasion he heard a horse snuffle afar off, the wisp of sound carried down the mountain on the night wind. But, for the most part, the only sounds were the boughs rustling and the aspen leaves jangling when the breeze picked up.

  Hours passed. Presently, cold wind fingered his neck and sent chills down his back. He stopped and climbed up to a small rock outcropping that afforded him a view of Whitcomb’s valley and spotted the flicker of the campfire miles below. He shrugged on his heavy coat, and the warmth of the wool dispelled the chill from his bones. After taking a long swallow from his water skin, he sat and thought about his family and friends below, and him here—as if at the top of the world, looking down on them—and a wash of loneliness came over him. But when he looked up to the star-splattered heavens and found the milky band the Cheyenne believed was the path that led to Seana, the camp of the dead, he imagined his pa looking down on him and smiling. From his perch Grandmother shone brightly, hanging in the sky surrounded by his brothers and sisters—the multitude of stars shimmering against the black bowl of night. He felt his omotome stir restlessly withi
n him—the spirit he’d been given at the beginning of his life and that guided him through his days in this world.

  Then he caught a whiff of something on the air. He turned and looked up the steep mountainside buried in forest. Smoke, carrying the aroma of meat. Probably the cowboys cooking a late meal by their campfire. LeRoy frowned. No. A hint of hickory laced the scent, and wet wood. This wasn’t smoke from a campfire. Someone lived close by.

  He squinted and scanned the dark patch of mountainside, wondering just how injured that grizzly was and where he’d head to. LeRoy had seen mere spatterings of blood on the trail and the brush, which made him think the grizzly was a lot less hurt than angry. Either way, he’d be dangerous—more so than normal, LeRoy figured.

  He scrambled down the rock and picked up the bear’s trail. He wasn’t surprised he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the cowboys. As he walked, he ate some hard tack and drank from his water skin. He thought about the medicine pouch sitting at the bottom of his pack, and it sent a tingle of worry through him.

  The day’s bustling and night’s trekking suddenly weighed on him, and although his legs still had strength in him, his eyes grew heavy and he longed for sleep. Then he came to a small level clearing of alpine grass and what looked like a spring box tucked against the vertical rise of hill.

  LeRoy paused. The hair on the nape of his neck prickled. His breath hitched.

  Without turning, his eyes studied the clearing, the brush-choked wall of trees rising to the west, the darkness snagged in the crevices of boulders. Nothing moved. The air was as still as death. His heart pounded steady, like a drum beat.

  A pair of yellow eyes shone from atop a rock in the shadows, followed by a guttural growl.

  Ho’nehe. Wolf.

  LeRoy met its eyes, hardly moving except to let his rifle slip inch by inch down off his shoulder along his arm. The wolf’s head craned forward as the creature lowered onto its haunches, preparing to attack. LeRoy figured it was no more than twenty feet away, and in a few short bounds could have its teeth sunk into LeRoy’s throat.

  With those teeth now bared in the scant moonlight, the wolf took a step toward LeRoy, then another. It was a huge creature—larger than any other wolf LeRoy had ever seen, dead or alive.

  Slowly, with every nerve afire, LeRoy slid his palm around the gun’s stock, not taking his eyes off the wolf. It was the color of charcoal and looked lean but not starving. Surely such a beast had plenty of game to hunt this time of year, so why was it threatening? LeRoy knew wolves never attacked unless protecting a den or young’uns. Or unless starving. He hated to kill any creature without real cause. He’d rather just fire off a warning shot, but it was clear that wasn’t an option. He would have to kill the wolf before it killed him. The thought saddened him.

  His hand on the forestock, he lifted the rifle and took aim. He sucked in a breath as the wolf snarled and prepared to lunge. LeRoy cocked the trigger.

  Gennie gulped as she heard a low growl coming from her left, downhill. Her heart slammed against her chest. No! Peluche! Would that fool pet of hers think to challenge a grizzly? Peluche was fiercely protective. She might just be fool enough.

  Gennie wanted to run, but she knew it wasn’t wise. It might startle both Peluche and the grizzly and cause a confrontation that was never intended. Tears pushed behind her eyes. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing her only friend. She would never be able to make it another day without her, let alone another winter.

  Sucking in a hard breath, she set her face to the dark copse of aspens and pines and hurried, moving silently, her gun hand slick with sweat. Upon reaching the edge of the meadow that fronted the beaver pond, she stopped abruptly as a large shadow moved out from the blackness of the woods. She held in a cry. In the space of a second, she knew what she had to do. Resolve hardened like mud under a hot sun, and she raised her rifle and inched out into the clearing.

  LeRoy steadied the rifle to shoot. The wolf came bounding at a lope toward him, the growl spitting from its mouth, teeth ready to tear into him. Gulping, LeRoy made to pull the trigger, when a rustle to his left startled him. But before he could even turn his head, something hard smacked him upside the head.

  Pain erupted behind his eyes, and he dropped his rifle and stifled the cry in his throat. The ground heaved and tumbled him sideways. As he fell, he wondered how in the world he hadn’t heard anyone approach. And why was the wolf was now sitting on its haunches, regarding him with nothing more than a curious look on its face? The thought sank like a rock as his head throbbed and his sight dimmed to black. Darkness swallowed him.

  LeRoy ran a hand over his eyes and moaned. He struggled to sit up, then his eyes shot open. What happened? Where was the wolf? He righted and saw a figure standing a few feet away in the shadows. A rifle sat loosely in the man’s hand. And, to LeRoy’s shock, the wolf stood beside the man, tongue lolling, an almost goofy look on its face.

  LeRoy cleared his throat and gingerly fingered the lump growing on his head behind his right ear. He figured the man had used the butt of his rifle on his skull, and none too lightly. Questions tumbled into his mind, but he reined them in. He waggled a hand at the wolf, wincing at the pain in his head.

  “That yours?”

  The man stepped out of the shadows, and LeRoy got a sketchy look at him in the faint moonlight. He could tell the fella was young, and that surprised him. What was he doing out in the night, with a wolf? He’d never heard of anyone taming a wolf. Lean and lanky, the man’s face was clean-shaven, and his hair short, but LeRoy could tell he was fair, and his hair light brown or red. Green eyes narrowed on him, and LeRoy didn’t miss the way the man fingered his rifle.

  “I couldn’t let you shoot,” the man said in a gruff voice.

  LeRoy smirked. “No, I reckon you couldn’t.”

  By the clothes the man wore and the hardness about him, LeRoy guessed him to be a mountain man. LeRoy had come across a few of them on occasion while tracking. But most were old and had stories to tell of days long gone, back before the Indian wars. They were often crazy braggarts who rarely stepped foot into a town and did their trading, priding themselves on their recklessness and profligracy. They claimed to have the best horse, endured the most narrow escapes, killed the most bears. This man, though, just seemed sullen and ornery.

  LeRoy chanced standing. The woods spun around him as he found his balance. The man continued to eye him warily. LeRoy decided it best not to pick up his gun just yet.

  “You’re an Injun,” the man said, not hiding the scorn in his voice. “What you doin’ up here in the middle of the night?”

  “Trackin’ a grizzly.”

  The man nodded, the wide brim of his hat shading his face. He seemed on edge, more like wary. LeRoy sensed fear. Of him?

  “Why?” His question was cool and biting.

  Huh, he’s full of questions, like he owns this mountain. Leroy figured that was his meat smoking somewhere nearby. The fella didn’t seem at all surprised at the mention of the grizzly.

  “You seen ’im?” LeRoy asked. “Is that why you’re out here with your . . . wolf?”

  The man studied LeRoy’s face, but LeRoy couldn’t see his all that well in the heavy shadows of trees and with the moon snagged behind the ridge. Plus, his world was spinning something fierce. He said nothing more. At very least, he should apologize for smackin’ me on the head so hard. But it was clear no apology would be forthcoming.

  Suddenly the wolf spun around and growled deep and menacingly toward something in the woods. LeRoy now heard the thrashing in the distance. He and the man stood unmoving, listening.

  “That’s him,” LeRoy said, gauging the bear was no further than a quarter mile at best.

  The man nodded and blew out a breath.

  LeRoy added, “I reckon we’ll have a better chance of killin’ him if we go after him together.”

  The man gave him a hardened look. “I don’t fancy any company when I hunt. And especially not no Injun.”

/>   His glare told LeRoy the whole story. This man was too young to have fought in any Indian wars, so the hatred LeRoy saw in his eyes must’ve come from something else. Clearly, this man would not trust LeRoy as far as he could spit, which meant LeRoy couldn’t trust him either. Hunting a bear in the dark—or any enemy—well, your partner had to be someone you could count on. But this situation added all kinds of danger. Last thing he needed was to be shot “accidently” by some Indian-hating mountain man while on the hunt for an injured grizzly.

  “There are a couple o’ inexperienced cowboys on the scout for this bear as well. Up from Whitcomb’s ranch,” LeRoy said, his eyes on the spot where the wolf had disappeared into the trees. He kept one ear listening for the bear, but heard nothing else from the ridge to the north. “The bear killed some horses, and got shot a few times for his trouble.”

  The man’s glare loosened on his face. “You from Whitcomb’s too?”

  LeRoy nodded. He didn’t want to get into any lengthy explanations. The longer his rifle sat on the ground, the more uneasy he grew. He still had his pack slung over his back, with the pistol in there. And there was the knife at his ankle. He grumbled at his stupidity. How had he let that fella sneak up on him like that? No one had ever been able to do that to him—not even Eli on a good day.

  “You work for Whitcomb?” the man asked, walking with measured steps toward LeRoy.

  LeRoy bristled as the man reached down, picked up the Winchester, and handed it to him. LeRoy loosed a breath and nodded his thanks. The man walked back to the shadows of the trees, keeping his distance. “Presently I do. I’m breaking in some mustangs on his ranch,” LeRoy said, hoping the effort at making friendly conversation might loosen the knots the man held on his distrust. “My brother and I chased a wild herd down this mountain a few months ago. I have a horse ranch over Greeley way—family run.” He added as an afterthought, “My great-grandpa was a beaver trapper up in these parts back in the forties and fifties.”