Grace shook all over. The man who’d brought her here had told this couple the account of her misfortune, but clearly they didn’t give credence to her story. She couldn’t bear the thought that they might not help her find Monty.
She opened the door, and the man and woman turned to her. They were an older couple, with gray hair and dressed in drab gray clothing, and they sat at a simple table with their breakfast before them. The heavy-set woman wore a snowy crape cap, and her shoulders were draped in a hand-woven shawl. The barrel of a man wore a strange black hat, and then Grace realized they must be Quakers. The woman, upon seeing Grace’s face, leapt from the table and rushed over, waving her hands as if shooing her away.
“Dear, you’re up. But you’re feverish. You must get back to bed. I’ll bring you some broth—”
“No, please,” Grace begged. “You must help me find my husband. He was swept downriver—”
The woman laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder and steered her firmly back into the bedroom. Grace’s head felt about to explode. She made it to the bed and sank down into it. Before she could speak again, the woman held a finger to her narrow pale lips in admonition.
“The doctor will be by shortly to check on you and the wee one. You must rest—”
“Please, is there someone—a sheriff or a tracker . . . I need to talk to someone . . .” Her breath came out in shallow gasps, and she felt about to faint. The woman helped her lie back onto the goose-down-filled pillows.
As much as she tried to constrain herself, Grace let out a howl of grief, and tears exploded down her face. It hurt to cry, and her head pounded more fiercely than ever, but the pain of her loss was even greater. How she needed Monty and worried so over him! She didn’t think her heart could bear the strain.
She began muttering, praying, pleading with heaven for help.
Somewhere on the edge of her awareness, she heard the woman leave the room. Words drifted in and out of her ears as her face burned and her stomach roiled in nausea. She hated how weak and helpless she was, and she worried these people—however kind they were to take her in—would not help her at all. Time was of the essence! Every minute that passed was another minute Monty could be lying along the river, dying of injury or thirst or exposure.
“She’s delusional . . . thinks she had a husband . . . no ring on her finger . . .”
The woman’s heartless whispers were barbs that pierced her heart. Shivers overtook Grace, and she pulled the blankets up to her chin, but she couldn’t get warm. Would she die of fever? What about her baby? Oh, Monty, where are you?
She lay there, helpless, floundering in a sea of fever, drifting in and out of consciousness. She thought someone had come back in the room, heard more voices, felt a wonderfully cool hand on her forehead, then touching her belly. Someone put something to her lips and she drank. And then she fell into a slumber of death, unable to claw her way to the surface of her consciousness, where she searched futilely for Monty in her troubled dreams.
***
Three days later, Grace stood in front of the old scuffed desk in the sheriff’s office in Fort Collins, waiting for Sheriff Mason to attend to her. Once her fever had broken and she was well enough, she bathed and dressed in the clothes Charity Franklin had dug out of an old trunk for her. The clothes were Quaker style—all gray dresses with little black buttons and collars riding up her neck. They fit her awkwardly, as they were not made for an expecting woman but rather were sized for a much larger one. The petticoats practically swept the floor. Although, the last thing Grace cared about right now was clothing. Grace assumed these were some of Mrs. Franklin’s discards, set aside to donate to someone less fortunate.
Well, she couldn’t think of anyone less fortunate than herself. Even though her hosts had been kind and urged her to stay in bed longer, Grace could stand being shut inside not a moment longer. The Franklins had told her the sheriff didn’t make house calls—even though his office was a mere five blocks from their modest home on Maple Avenue.
Grace frowned, but the tears had all but dried up. Now she was left with a gaping hole in her heart, fearing the worst. Surely if Monty had survived his ordeal in the river, he would have come straightaway to Fort Collins, looking for her. But the deputy she spoke with upon entering the office this bright, cold spring morning told her he’d heard no word of a man named Montgomery Cunningham, nor had anyone made mention of finding anyone dead on the banks of the Cache la Poudre.
A middle-aged man in a long woolen coat and brown canvas trousers sporting a cartridge belt around his hips tromped into the office from an adjacent room. Grace wrung her hands and fidgeted as he pushed aside a messy stack of papers on his desk and motioned for her to sit in the rickety wooden chair opposite his. When they were seated, he leaned his large head forward and put his elbows on the desk. His eyes were stern and small, and he had a trim thick dark beard on his narrow face.
Grace gulped, uneasy in his presence and still feeling weak and drained empty from days of crying.
“I’m Sheriff Mason, Miss . . . ?” His gruff voice was barely congenial. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak.
“Mrs. Cunningham. Grace Cunningham.” He gestured for her to speak in a manner that said he’d heard it all and couldn’t be bothered by the insignificant concerns of a pregnant woman. She noticed his gaze drop to her ring finger.
“I lost my wedding ring,” she told him. “It was in my husband’s bag—for safekeeping.” Her hands had swelled with her pregnancy, and she’d hardly gotten the ring off after a long battle with a bar of hard soap. And now the ring was . . . where? Tumbling down the river? Lodged in mud at the bottom of the Poudre? Oh, her heart wouldn’t stop aching. How she longed for Monty. For his arms around her. She glanced at the door, hoping against hope that he’d stride in, a relieved smile on his face, calling her name, his arms wide, eager to gather her up.
The pain of her loss crippled her, and she doubled over. The sheriff jumped up and fetched her a cup of hot coffee.
“Here, take a few sips to warm you. I understand you’ve been through a mighty ordeal.”
She wondered what he’d heard. Had the Franklins spoken to him, after all? “My husband was swept away in the flood—just north of town. We . . . saw the bridge shake loose and fall into the river. And then the ground gave way . . .” Grace buried her hands in her head, reliving the moment she saw Monty slip from her sight, his stricken face looking at hers as she screamed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, straightening and trying to compose herself. She pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Her head still pounded—no doubt from all the weeping she’d done.
He waited until she sat still, then said, his voice brusque and all business, “Folks travel along the river and the roads north and east every day. If your husband”—he said the last word in a dubious tone, not unlike the one Mrs. Franklin had used—“or his . . . body washed ashore, we’d hear about it. I’ll notify the Greeley sheriff of your concern. The Cache la Poudre joins the South Platte north of Greeley, and the river there is shallow and wide—a veritable mud pit most of the year.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You have nothing on your person—no papers or money, personal belongings?”
“They were all in our wagon. The horses were spooked by the lightning, so Monty unhitched them, and they ran off—”
“I see,” he said with impatience, glancing over papers on his desk, drumming his fingers.
“I watched the wagon sink into the mud. Surely it must still be there . . . somewhere?”
She pleaded with her eyes for a response. He just studied her and said, “It just disappeared? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, not vanished, as in a magic trick. Perhaps it washed downriver?”
He grunted in what Grace assumed was disbelief. She supposed if an entire wagon made its way downriver, someone would find that as well. Her heart and hopes sank as she realized he did not believe her, and had no plans to help he
r. She would hire someone to help her—but she had no money. She was at the mercy of the Franklins and their kindness. However, she knew she could not milk that kindness too long. She thought how she would have to find a job while pregnant, to support herself and her baby without Monty, make a life in this town. No. She couldn’t do it. How could she?
Loneliness and fear assailed her as she numbly stood and politely took her leave of Sheriff Mason. On the way out of the office, she noticed a Wanted poster showing sketches of two men. The poster announced they were members of the Dutton Gang, at large and dangerous.
She huffed as she walked outside and into the spring morning. Standing on the wooden boardwalk, she took in the many stores with their false wooden fronts—the mercantile on the corner, a druggist’s, a butcher shop, a large brick two-story building with the name “Metropolitan Hotel” over its doors. Most of the buildings on this very wide street were two-storied. This was the booming Western town she and Monty had talked about long hours into the night as they packed and prepared to move west.
But as sparkling and promising this town seemed from the outside, Grace already felt regret over being here. This wasn’t her home—how could it ever be without Monty? But she had no home to return to, no one back in Illinois, now that her aunt was gone. And Monty had no family to speak of—he’d lost track of them years ago, and besides, they didn’t sound like people Grace would want to know—or ask for help. No, she had to stay here. This is where Monty would come to find her.
She was on her own. Abandoned, pregnant, broke. Mr. Franklin had assured her she could stay until after the baby was born. Their children were all grown and back in Ohio, and they had recently moved out here to start a Quaker church, heeding God’s calling to spread the gospel to “those unsaved in the unsavory West”—as Mrs. Franklin had worded it.
It didn’t sit well with Grace to take charity from others. She had worked hard helping her aunt with the boardinghouse, and she’d been taught a skill. Her aunt wanted to make sure Grace would be able to support herself once she was on her own, so she spent years instructing her in sewing, and Grace had become a proficient seamstress. Surely in a town this size there would be a need for such a vocation. If she couldn’t land a job in a shop, perhaps she could work piecemeal. But where would she get the money to buy a sewing machine? Her Wheeler & Wilson machine had been packed in a crate in the wagon . . .
Hopelessness threatened to engulf her as she stood gazing at the people walking through town, chatting merrily, wholly ignorant of her wretched plight. Carriages and wagons rolled down the wide dirt street, and neighbors shouted out greetings to one another.
She fingered the pendant around her neck. She would never forget the look in Monty’s eyes the day he unclasped the chain from his neck and fastened it around her own, then dropped to one knee, taking her hands in his, and declaring his love. He had asked her—no, begged her—to marry him. Her aunt, sick as she was, rallied long enough to witness their vows—uttered before Grace’s pastor at her aunt’s bedside, a beatific and satisfied smile on her aunt’s face as she listened, enrapt, to the pastor’s words and the repeating of their vows. By morning her beloved aunt had passed on, but Grace was grateful Aunt Eloisa had seen the niece she’d raised married to such a fine, honorable man.
How Grace missed her aunt, and her warm and comfortable home in the town she’d spent her entire life in. She would have been content to stay there, but she knew how Monty loved the wilderness, felt more at home in mountains and under trees than confined by walls and the softness of down-filled mattresses and padded sofas. Insisting that Monty settle into such a mundane and predictable lifestyle would have been like caging a bear. He thrived on wide-open spaces. Running her aunt’s boardinghouse would have smothered him.
Yet, as much as he liked the hard earth and toughness of the land, his heart had remained sensitive and tender. Grace had seen the way he was around children, and the kind way he treated all animals. She’d wanted nothing more than to see him hold his own child in his arms. To see all their children grow strong and brave and educated under his loving tutelage.
She stood unmoving, blinking back tears, wondering if one day her tears would dry up or if she would cry forever. The long winter was finally over, and only small patches of snow lay in the shadow of the newly built buildings. The young, new town was filled with people full of hope, looking forward to a bountiful summer, and next year would be the centennial for the nation. There was talk that Colorado would become the thirty-eighth state admitted to the union.
Hope rang out in the air all around her, but she was impervious to it. She felt nothing but loss. But for her baby’s sake, she would hold on to hope. Hold on to it as if it were a lifeline—and never let go.
Chapter 6
Five months later
October 22, 1875
Malcolm Connors extended his arm as a cool breeze riffled through his hair and he took in the town. She gave him a smile as he wrapped the thick woolen shawl around her shoulders and stepped carefully down to the hard-packed dirt street. Stella surveyed with delight the many brightly lit shops in the waning evening light. Their two draft horses pawed the snow-dusted street in front of the wide wooden boardwalk fronting the business district of Fort Collins on College Avenue. The scent of pine and snow filled his nose as he looked around with curiosity at this place that would now be their home. As glad as he was to finally arrive, an sense of trepidation rumbled in his gut.
They had finally made the trip over from Greeley, and he looked forward with anticipation to picking out a parcel to homestead. He was glad to leave that tiny dilapidated cabin behind, and the thought of building a house stirred his excitement. Although, his lack of memories dampened the elation, creating an unease that simmered without letup underneath his feelings.
He watched his wife look into the windows of a dry goods store and sighed. These last few months would have been unbearable had it not been for his sweet Stella. She had painstakingly nursed him back to health when he’d been at death’s door. With the patience of a saint, she had sat with him as week after week showed no sign of his memory returning. He hadn’t missed the great sadness in her eyes as she recounted their prior years together in St. Louis, how they’d met on a paddle steamer on the Mississippi and fell in love—two young adventurers with the past left far behind them. How he wished he could remember!
His heart wrenched when she told him the horrifying story of the fire, and how her family had all perished when she was but a child. He learned his parents had succumbed to a virulent influenza that had spread like wildfire through the northern hills of Missouri, where he’d been born and grew up, only a year after he’d left home to work as a surveying apprentice in the city. He’d soaked up every tale she told, wishing he could remember something, anything. But the only images that came to him were in his restless dreams at night, where he rode down roaring rivers in canoes, and water tossed and tumbled him. No doubt these nightmares were due to his falling into the river and getting tangled in that tree.
“Darling, look,” his wife said, pulling his attention to her. “There’s a sweet little dress shop yonder.”
She pointed down the long wooden boardwalk past a large white stucco building that looked like a mercantile, then turned to him and gave him that pouty look that made it hard for him to deny her. “I’m going to need a lot of dresses.”
She eyed the women walking along the boardwalk, no doubt assessing their fashion sense. Malcolm smiled, glad to see her so happy and wanting to give her everything she desired. She looked so comely in her green silk dress, and he reminded himself what a lucky man he was. Stella had given up much to spend her days and nights in that unfurnished mildewed cabin, as he moaned and tossed and suffered through his recovery. She’d brought an Indian woman over—a local medicine woman named Sarah—who gave them herbs and poultices, which aided greatly in his physical recovery. But nothing could be done for his head injury, which had healed on the outside, the scar
unnoticeable under his head of hair. He feared his memory would never return.
But he knew he shouldn’t be disgruntled. He should be grateful for his blessings. He had his health back, and was married to a beautiful, devoted woman who looked after his every need, although her cooking left much to be desired. Good thing he knew his way around a stove, and cooked most of their meals, despite Stella’s playful protestations. He often surprised himself with the tasty dishes he instinctively knew how to make. Must have been from living on his own those many years in St. Louis.
Malcolm gestured in the other direction. “The land office is over there. I’ll probably be a while, so take your time—picking out patterns and fabric, or whatever it is you need to do to get yourself a passel of beautiful dresses.”
She twirled around in her pretty green dress flouncing with petticoats, and tightened the bonnet strap under her chin. To his chagrin, she leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips and he blushed, aware of eyes upon them. Such a public display of intimacy unsettled him, and that was one thing about Stella that took getting used to.
“Now,” she said with her cute little pout, “remember what I said. I want something far out of town, on a creek, with some pretty trees by the water.” She put a finger on his lips. “I know you want to be close to town, but we spent years in a city—and although you don’t recall that, I do. I want some privacy.” She ran her other hand down from his chest to his belt buckle, then leaned close and whispered hotly in his ear. “And I don’t want anyone to hear us when we’re . . . well . . .”
Flustered, Malcolm pulled back, his face flushed. He dropped his gaze in embarrassment as a giggle carried to him on the air.
“Please,” he whispered, “we’ve just arrived. I don’t want to make a scene.”
Her pout deepened into a frown of chastisement, and Malcolm felt a stab of irritation. Why did she do such things in public? She knew it made him uneasy. Sometimes she seemed downright oblivious to her brash behavior. He blew out a breath and rubbed his neck.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 6