The Coming Storm (25 page)

There were very few people out and about in the town. Trenton felt a wave of nausea come upon him. He usually got weak in the stomach when the tension mounted. He was just about to search his pockets for a peppermint when shots rang out. Thoughts of more innocent lives being lost worsened his condition. He might have lost his breakfast right then had Jerry not come running from the bank.

Sam was holding the horses, as Jerry figured this job was small enough for one man. But Jerry had apparently underestimated the situation. Three gunmen emerged from the bank, raining lead as they came. Jerry fell first and then Sam. Their attackers fired on them without mercy. There was no doubt they were dead.

Mark turned his horse and headed back toward Trenton at an accelerating pace. “Get out of here, Chadwick!” he yelled.

By now, Trenton could see that the three gunmen were mounting horses and heading after them. It was all the encouragement he needed to heed Mark’s warning. Turning his horse, he put his heels into the animal’s side and flew from the scene in a rage of hooves, dust, and sheer terror.

He passed Mark without effort, knowing his mount was the better of the two. The last bit of shared money Jerry had given him had gone into improving his horse situation. Apparently it had been the best possible choice.

Mark cried out just as Trenton passed him. The hairs on the back of Trenton’s neck crawled as if infected with lice. He hunkered down against the horse’s neck but couldn’t avoid the bullet that grazed his arm. There was no time to react. Trenton knew his life depended on escape. He urged the horse to go faster and did his best to stay low.

He never had a chance to look back, so he never knew if Mark had been killed or taken prisoner. Trenton only knew the urgency to save his own life. He had no lost love for any of the Wilson gang.

The thought struck him as he ducked in and out of pine trees:
I’m free. I’m really free. Jerry and Sam are dead. I can change my name and move off to Montana with Dianne. If she’s still there. If I manage to stay alive
.

A bullet whizzed past his head, letting Trenton know that the men were still in pursuit. He knew the area well enough and figured his best chance might actually be to take cover in Denver. The city was growing every day with miners coming west to try their luck and railroad officials looking to prosper their lines with expansions to those hard-to-reach mining towns. It would be easy to lose himself in the bustle of that city—of this, Trenton was certain.

Working his way deeper into the trees, Trenton felt fairly confident that he could lose the posse. He knew of a cave where the gang had camped several weeks ago and thought maybe he could make his way back there momentarily, then change his course and head into Denver. If the gunmen thought his destination was the wilderness of the territory, rather than civilization, Trenton just might make his escape.

After ten minutes of silence, Trenton slowed his horse and tried to regain his bearings. He looked at his arm and saw that the wound wasn’t too bad. Once he found the trail to the old hideout, his confidence returned. A surge of excitement filled his heart. He could almost imagine coming face-to-face again with his family. Almost.

He maneuvered the horse down the side of a ravine, remembering that the trail would soon dead-end. The steepness didn’t seem to bother the horse. The gelding handled the transition with the same surefootedness that had brought them this far. Overhead, Trenton could hear voices. He wasn’t at all sure how far away the men were, but it motivated him to hurry the horse through the narrow canyon and across the icy waters of the small mountain river.

Trenton feared they might figure out what he’d done, but there was no choice but to keep moving. If they caught him, they’d kill him. Maybe not here, but surely on a gallows.

Portia read to her mother from the Denver newspaper. She knew her mother enjoyed being informed about the events of the world, and the reading helped Portia forget that her mother was growing weaker by the minute.

At least the doctor had agreed to increase her dose of laudanum. The pain seemed so much stronger now than it had a week ago, when Portia had arrived. The doctor said she might linger like this for weeks, although he’d assured Portia death was imminent.

“Well, it appears the Langford silver mine has pulled out a record load of silver,” Portia voiced as she scanned the story. “‘Ned Langford, son of the wealthy silver baron R. E. Langford, reported from his apartment at the Bradbury Hotel that the Little Maribelle mine shows no signs of slowing in production.’ ” There was a sketch of a smiling Mr. Langford, who looked to be somewhere around Portia’s own age of twenty-seven. He seemed very appealing, and Portia began to see possibilities for making the man’s acquaintance. After all, she was a woman of means and he was a wealthy man.

She put the paper aside and considered how she might just happen to run into the man. A smile crossed her face. His hotel, of course. She could move from her establishment on Tenth Street and make her residence the Bradbury Hotel. A plan began to formulate in her mind.

Her gaze traveled back to her mother. The woman’s eyes were closed, but her uneven breathing proved that she was still alive. It seemed cruel that anyone should have to linger and suffer so much pain. Portia looked toward the open door.
Why do they ignore her here?
Privacy was a wonderful thing, but her mother was all alone. No one cared if her mother continued in this sorry state. No one.

Except for me,
she thought.

Portia looked to the door again, then slowly got to her feet and walked over to close it. Leaning back against the frame, she closed her eyes. It simply couldn’t be allowed to go on.

As the sun lowered behind the Rockies, Trenton began to relax. Either the men had given up on him or they’d made camp. Either way, Trenton wasn’t waiting around to find out. Gingerly, he lifted the makeshift bandage on his arm. The bleeding had stopped and the wound looked clean. Two very good things. Taking a strip of cloth, Trenton bound his arm and changed clothes. No sense showing up in Denver in a bloody shirt.

Leading the horse out of the canyon, Trenton headed toward Denver. There wasn’t a single sound except the rush of the river. He pressed on, crossing the water once again and hurrying with a sense of urgency up the ravine and toward the back roads he knew so well. Jerry and his gang hadn’t limited themselves to pulling bank jobs—after all, folks were constantly bringing in ore from the silver and gold mines in the area. Highwaymen lurked in all parts of the mountains—eagerly waiting their chance to strike it rich.

That was how Trenton had met Ned Langford only a few months back—on this very road. Ned had been most unfortunate to be making his way from Central City to Denver. He wasn’t escorting a load of ore, but rather he was in a hurry to make a train to Kansas City. He hadn’t been paying attention to the road, and when Jerry and Sam assaulted him, the man was theirs for the picking. Jerry forced Ned from his horse and without even giving the man a chance, hit him over the head with the butt of his pistol and emptied his pockets.

Trenton had been posted to keep watch down the road, but seeing Jerry act in such a fashion distracted him from his duty. He rode back to the robbery, dismounted as the other mounted, and firmly told Jerry he was going to tend the man lest he die.

“You just go ahead and do that, Chadwick. Oh, and be sure and tell him who you are when he wakes up.” Jerry’s raucous laughter still rang in Trenton’s ears.

He took care of Ned long enough to rouse him from his unconscious state and get him back to his horse. Ned indeed asked for the name of his rescuer, but Trenton refused, reminding the man there wasn’t time for such things. Trenton led the wounded man back to Denver, leaving him with a doctor before disappearing into the less desirable parts of town.

Trenton thought himself free and clear of any other encounters with Mr. Langford, but without much ado at all, he ran into Ned on his way to a poker game. Ned instantly recognized him.

“My champion,” he declared enthusiastically. He took hold of Trenton’s hand and shook it so hard and long that Trenton felt as though they were experiencing an earthquake.

Thoughts of Ned gave birth to an idea. Trenton knew from the local newspapers that Ned was back in town with a record load of silver. He’d seen the article just that morning—just before they’d headed off to the bank.

“Ned would be happy to help me,” Trenton reasoned aloud. “After all, I’ll tell him the same thing happened to me.” The idea took wings. “I’ll tell him I was robbed and they shot me as I escaped.” He smiled. It was perfect. Ned would take him in and treat him to a fine meal and a good bed. And with any luck at all, maybe even a round of poker or two, which Ned, of course, would stake . . . and lose.

CHAPTER 19

“I’
M SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS,”
D
R.
W
ADSWORTH STATED AS
Mary Brady’s coffin was lowered into a plot on the sanitarium grounds.

Portia looked up, her eyes brimming with tears. The wispy black veil blew gently in the unseasonably warm breeze. “Thank you.”

“I know this is a most difficult time, but you might want to consider creating a memorial in your mother’s name. Perhaps a nice statue or a new garden for the grounds. Many of our patients leave endowments to the hospital.”

Portia hated the man for his greed. After all, her mother wasn’t even cold in the ground and here he was with his hand out for all he could get. “I’ll think about it,” she said, reaching under the veil to dab her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Sorry about your mother, Mrs. McGuire,” the pastor who’d been notified by Dr. Wadsworth said in mock sincerity. He was playing a part, nothing more. Portia had seen it a hundred times.

“Thank you, Reverend. Now if you’ll both excuse me, I’d like to go back to my hotel to rest. This day has been most trying.”

“You will come back for your mother’s things?” Dr. Wadsworth asked. The man’s beady eyes almost glowed in anticipation of having another chance to work Portia over for funds.

“Yes,” she replied, shifting her open umbrella to block the man from view. “I’ll come back tomorrow.” She told the lie without regret. She had no intention of ever laying eyes on the institution again—much less Dr. Wadsworth.

Stupid man,
she thought as she allowed her driver to assist her into the closed carriage. It would be unmercifully hot inside, she knew, but it was better than being viewed by those simpering ninnies who only wanted her money.

She’d worked hard for her fortune, and she wasn’t about to turn it over to the likes of greedy men like Wadsworth and Reverend What’s-His-Name. She strained for a moment to put a name with the rotund, hairy man, but her memory failed.

Settling back in her finely upholstered leather coach, Portia began to relax, allowing her tears to fall. The only person she had ever truly loved was dead. Her mother had been her confidante and friend—her only real friend. Portia could tell her mother anything without fear of judgment or condemnation. Her mother never criticized Portia’s choices—never called her unreasonable in her spending.

Thoughts of Angus McGuire’s ugly sentiments regarding Portia’s spending came to mind. The penny-pinching Scotsman had been ruthless in his disregard of her feelings. Never mind that Portia had to live in that awful dank, cold country. Scotland held no appeal for Portia, except that her husband owned a healthy portion of it, and because of this ownership, he was quite wealthy.

Was
wealthy.

Now she was the wealthy one.

Angus’s death in January had been unexpected by everyone. The man had been as healthy and robust as a man could be one day, and the next he was dead. Dead as dead could be. His passing had brought great wails of sorrow from the household staff, but surely those outcries didn’t begin to equal the caterwauling that took place when the widowed Mrs. McGuire announced that everything Angus owned was being sold at an auction.

The housekeeper, Odara Grant, had been particularly nasty about the entire matter. Odara had been with Angus since he was a lad, and she thought him sorely abused by his young wife. She didn’t care at all that Portia hated the country and its cold. She felt that Portia owed it to Angus to see that his estate continued to grow, especially since Portia was carrying Angus’s child.