Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  He watched her sashay down the boardwalk, admiring her figure but concerned over the way she brought attention to her femininity. Men on both sides of the street swiveled heads and watched his wife with appraising gazes. He thought about how uneasy he’d felt with her living with him in the cabin. But he’d needed care, and she refused to move into Greeley and find them separate accommodations. Although she made up a bed for herself, saying she respected his decision to wait until they married before they were intimate, he’d often had to struggle painfully to restrain himself. Having her in such close quarters—with her dressing and bathing, and often paying little mind as to whether he was awake or watching her—caused him great distress. He’d wanted to take more time to get to know her all over again, hoping his memory would start returning, but the agony of being with her day after day and not touching her was more than he could bear.

  At times she’d lain next to him on the bed, stroked his chest, dropped tender kisses along his neck. Her passion simmered, but his boiled. Finally, he could stand it no longer. By the time he could walk without pain—three months after his injury—she ushered him to the Greeley Courthouse, where they were married without friends or fanfare. Finally, they could consummate their union without reserve, and oh, what a joyous feeling to be able to engage in such passionate embrace. But underneath all his joy lay an unsettling feeling. For every time he held Stella in his arms, something felt terribly wrong. He couldn’t explain it, and he dared not say anything to her, for fear it would greatly upset her. All he could do was chalk it up to his memory loss and trust that, in time, the feeling would dissipate.

  Truth was, he didn’t really feel any love for her. He must have at some point in his life—for why would he have proposed to her, and traveled with her to start their married life together in the West? Even though he couldn’t recall his own name, he knew he was a man of honor, and he had promised her he’d marry and provide for her. How could he renege on such a promise and break her heart? Still, he wished they had waited, and although he knew it was the proper thing to do, guilt and shame over his lack of self-control ate at him. But what man could resist such a woman?

  He breathed out a long sigh. He was only human. And maybe in time, that love he once had—that Stella had recounted to him with such passion—would reawaken.

  He walked over to the land office, nodding politely as curious townspeople greeted him with a smile or tip of their hat. With the railroad scheduled to come to Fort Collins inside of a year, the town was booming. He’d passed two large sawmills while riding into town, which sported lumberyards chockful of milled boards stacked in neat piles, and a two-story brick kiln and a flour mill. The population, now bursting out of the city boundaries, would require new streets and new homes—or so he’d read in the Greeley Tribune. He hoped he could get a job at the land office, or with the surveyor. He’d read that they were short staffed, and the town, recently platted, would be expanding in all directions. Already a college had been built that would presently open its doors to students. An up-and-coming town, and Malcolm was glad to be a part of its infancy. No doubt it would grow to be an impressive county seat.

  Although he had no memory telling him why he wanted to come to Fort Collins, of all towns in the West, his heart sang out in joy as he took in the sight of the majestic snow-packed Rockies, a picturesque backdrop to the town, with the vast open space of the Front Range spreading to the east. He drew in a deep breath, and a longing for mountains streamed through his veins like a river. His heart beat hard and powerful in his chest as he thought of climbing the peaks towering before him, exploring unchartered regions, and looking over vistas of flower-studded alpine valleys.

  The images felt like memories, but he couldn’t put names to the places he envisioned. Were they real? Had he been there? He couldn’t see how, if he’d been living in a city all his life. He once suggested to Stella he try to get in touch with people he knew back in St. Louis. Maybe seeing other faces from his past would jar his memory, but Stella had been insistent he refrain. It would only add to his frustration to try to recapture the past, she’d told him. They had their whole lives ahead of them—a brand-new life and one they’d planned for so long. And now—here they were.

  He frowned. Maybe she was right. Put the past in the past. With the money they had—money they’d both earned back in St. Louis and had been saving for their move—they could build a nice little house and maybe someday start a family.

  The thought of having a child erupted a sudden ache in his heart. He stopped and caught his breath. How odd. He fought a need, a strong need, to go somewhere, find someone. But who? Where?

  He clamped his eyes shut and willed the memories to come, but like a dream upon awakening, the urgency drifted out of reach, and he stood there, unblinking, feeling an uncanny sense of loss. For his parents? Had he lost a brother or sister? Stella said he was an only child. Then why did this feeling grip him so tenaciously?

  Frustration mixed with sadness as he resolutely made his way to the land office, his excitement now strangely dampened. As if something in this town were affecting him, stirring his unease and creating a disquiet in his soul.

  He shook his head to dispel the feeling, and turning his thoughts to acquiring his quarter section of land, he walked to the land office and opened the heavy oak door.

  ***

  Grace pulled a straight pin from her mouth and poked it through the thick worsted wool. She eyed the line of the hem and made a slight adjustment, then stepped back and studied the finished dress with satisfaction. It felt good to be working again, doing something creative and taking her mind off her constant heartache. As much as she loved her precious son—Benjamin Montgomery Cunningham—seeing Monty’s features in her baby’s face only made her loneliness flare. Oh, how he looked just like his father. At three months, he had a boisterous laugh that made his eyes twinkle—just like Monty’s. He looked at everything with riveted interest, his little head swiveling from side to side taking it all in. He loved it when Grace perched him next to the window, where he tried to stand on his wobbly legs and look out at his world. Grace would hold his chubby little hands while he balanced precariously on his tiptoes, his toothless smile showing his delight in life and his love for everyone. So like his father.

  She took the dress off the mannequin and sat in the big stuffed chair to hand-stitch the hem for Mrs. Stroud. A warm winter dress this would be, and of the latest fashion. The back room where she worked, in the spacious dress shop inside the Old Grout building, was drafty and a bit chilly. In the front room a fire blazed, enticing ladies to come inside and get warm. Tildie Hortman, the owner of the shop, was an astute businesswoman with impeccable fashion sense, and she tolerated neither slacking nor sloppy work. But Grace paid little attention to her employer’s complaints. She worked hard and produced quality work, and although Tildie doled out praise stingily as if it were diamonds, Grace knew she approved of her work.

  Grace recalled how at one time she’d loved creating patterns to showcase the latest styles from back east. Her customers in St. Louis had money and taste, which made dressmaking enjoyable, for they would tell her to spare no expense to make them look beautiful. She thought of her own dresses, her favorites that she had brought on the wagon with her, now lost forever. During the summer months, she had made a few functional outfits—using the money the Franklins had collected from members of their small church to buy fabric. But they were simple and nothing as beautiful as the ones she had painstakingly created. Which now sat on the muddy bottom of the Poudre River.

  But amid all the loss, she had Benjamin. Oh, how she loved him. Even working these few hours a day felt torturous, and when she finished her work, she’d hurry down the streets to gather him up in her arms. She loved cuddling him and smelling his wonderful baby smell. How grateful she was that he’d been born without incident, that her fever and grief had not harmed her little babe. The local doctor, out of kindness, delivered Benjamin without cost, and although t
he labor and birth had been horrific—made more so by Monty’s absence at this blessed occasion—she came through unscathed, and for that she was truly grateful.

  Charity, glad to have a baby in her house once more—after having raised six children—was more than happy to care for Benjamin while she worked. Hopefully, when winter came—and the air hinted its close arrival—she could do piecework at home for Tildie. For now, the woman needed her in the shop for fittings and measurements, but Grace was told that during the winter they mostly kept the shop closed. In the spring, the ladies of town would emerge from their homes like bears from hibernation and descend with their appetites to buy more custom-made clothing.

  She threaded her needle and got comfortable in the chair, with the bright kerosene lantern on the table beside her. Five months had passed since she lost Monty. She had spent those months inquiring of everyone she could think of—those in law enforcement, stage coach drivers, cattle ranchers, and any who may have traveled along the Poudre River in recent months. No one had seen sign of either Monty or their belongings. It was as if they had disappeared from the face of the world.

  No doubt someone, at some point, would find a piece of her clothing or a water-logged book she’d once read by the hearth at her aunt’s home washed up on some bank of weeds. How would she know? But surely, if her husband had washed up somewhere, there would be a notice in some paper—an obituary or news item. She had been checking the papers as often as she could, and although the sheriff deigned to listen to her unrelenting urgings to help her find Monty, he never had any news for her. Her most fearful thought was that Monty was at the bottom of the river, having been snagged by a submerged tree or pinned by a boulder.

  The thought of his body decomposing in the frigid water, fish nibbling his flesh, made her tremble. Yet, she knew there was no other place he would rather be in death. He once told her if he ever died, he wanted her to send him down Yosemite Falls. She smiled despite her sadness. As if she could manage such a feat. But her smile quickly turned sour as she thought about spending the rest of her life alone, waiting. For she would wait—until the end of time, if that was required of her. If it meant waiting until they were reunited in heaven, she would do so. For she could never foster the thought of another man in her arms. Never. Those arms were meant for Monty and him alone.

  Tildie’s voice from the front of the shop shattered her thoughts.

  “Grace,” she called to her in her eloquent voice, poking her perfectly coiffed head into the back room and ushering in a wonderful blast of heat. “I have some items for you to wrap for a customer.”

  Grace set down her stitching and came to the front of the store, where Tildie motioned to a stack of clothing on the counter with a waggling finger. Tildie was a spinster, in her forties, and known to be the worst gossip in Fort Collins—as the gossip went. Grace hardly listened to anything the customers chatted about as she wrapped their packages or helped them find fabrics and dress patterns. Although, she always kept one ear turned to hear any news about her husband, as unlikely as that was.

  Tildie, elegantly dressed, with every hair in place, was in animated discourse with Auntie Stone—an old but spry woman who was quite the entrepreneur. Auntie owned the brick house, which was a kiln that made bricks for the buildings in town, and she also owned the glamorous Metropolitan Hotel. Every time Auntie came in, she engaged Grace in friendly banter, and just spending a few minutes with the woman brightened Grace’s day.

  As Grace cut a long sheet of brown paper, the bell over the door jingled, and a woman in a very pretty forest-green silk dress came waltzing in, her lustrous black hair pinned up under a very stylish hat. Grace greeted her and asked, “May I help you with something?”

  The young woman—perhaps a few years older than Grace but quite lovely and youthful, with a smooth and unblemished complexion—tipped her head as if looking down over spectacles at Grace. “Well . . . what a lovely little shop you have here,” she drawled. “I’ve just arrived in town, and I’ll be wanting to have some dresses made.”

  “Of course,” Grace said, stepping back to let her peruse the bolts of fabric stacked on the shelves. The woman ran her finger along the rows of material, making little noises of approval or disapproval. She stopped at one section—the French laces—and pointed. “Nice. Imagine—a town in the middle of nowhere selling French lace. Isn’t that something.”

  Grace stood patiently, trying to be gracious despite the woman’s condescending tone. She glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost time to quit for the day. And she was more than ready to go home, where she’d soak in a hot bath—after feeding and playing with Benjamin. The thought of his happy smile greeting him made her warm inside.

  The woman stared at Grace, and with a brusque tone said, “I don’t have time today, but I would like to come in at a later date and pick out some patterns.”

  Grace nodded, and Tildie, having finished exchanging pleasantries with Auntie Stone, came bustling over, her skirts and crisp petticoats rustling against the counters as she came to greet their new customer.

  Grace said, “May I introduce Tildie Hortman, the owner of the dress shop.”

  Tildie smiled the way Grace imagined a shark would upon seeing a fat fish for the taking—if sharks could smile. She lifted her prominently pointy chin, exposing her long neck.

  “Welcome. Are you new in town?”

  “Yes,” the woman replied, pulling off a glove and displaying a beautiful gold band inset with diamonds. She showed Tildie the ring, proffering her hand to the shop owner for examination and, no doubt, approval. “I’ve just gotten married, and . . . I must be the happiest bride in the world. My husband is over at the land office, purchasing some land for us to homestead. This seems like such a friendly little town.”

  Grace noticed the emphasis she gave to the word little.

  “Oh, it is!” Tildie gushed. “All the modern conveniences and new stores popping up nearly every day. Why, an opera house is being built, and the railroad will be coming next year. Fort Collins is the gem of the West.”

  The woman gave a smile of approval, but Grace sensed coldness in her eyes. Arrogance seeped from her bearing.

  “And your name?” Tildie asked sweetly.

  “Stella. Stella Connors.” She turned her head toward the window. “Oh,” she breathed out in a kind of swooning ecstasy, “there’s my loving husband. Mustn’t keep him waiting. Ta-ta, I must be off.” With a tiny wave of her hand, the woman spun around and waltzed out the door, as if skating on ice.

  Grace heard Tildie sigh, and turned to look at her.

  “New love. Is there anything more wonderful? More . . . romantic?”

  A rock lodged in Grace’s throat as she returned to wrapping the parcel in brown paper, unable to provide even a simple answer in agreement.

  No, there was nothing more wonderful. She had experienced such love for too short a time, every minute precious and beautiful. But in a flash, she had lost it all, and now was left with a huge hole in her heart, as if someone had shot her but left her unable to die. Seeing that woman so radiant, with her whole life spread out before her—embracing her dream to homestead and raise a family and watch her children grow with her husband—made Grace’s heart throb with pain. That had been Grace’s dream, and it had been ripped from her.

  All the bitterness and anger she had pushed down deep into her heart now erupted like a volcano. It wasn’t fair. Why her? Why had she lost the man she loved so soon? He never got to hold his son, see his baby’s beautiful smile—

  Grace swallowed back the tears, not wanting Tildie to see her cry. She knew what Tildie thought of her story—what everyone in town thought—that she’d made it up. That she was a wanton woman who’d gotten herself pregnant, then took advantage of the kindness of strangers to take care of her and pay for her every need. She’d overheard Tildie whispering to customers about her, and Grace had seen the looks from many as she walked through the town, or pushed Benjamin in the
perambulator that Charity bought for her.

  Their cruel gossip hurt, but not as much as the truth of her loss. She’d hoped someday to find someone who believed her, someone who would be a friend, to be able to comfort her when she needed it. But so far she hadn’t met anyone who seemed to care or want to get to know her. Adjusting to small-town life and gossip was hard, but she had to stay in Fort Collins. This is where Monty would come looking for her. If she left, he would never find her, and she would have to abandon all hope—and it was that hope alone that kept her going day after day.

  She tied twine around the package and stared out the window at the front of the store. Without saying good-bye, Grace fetched her coat that was hanging in the back room and wrapped her scarf around her neck. Her head tucked down against the biting wind, she thought of what a long, lonely winter lay ahead of her. She wished she could hibernate like a bear, Benjamin sleeping soundly against her chest, the way he often did at night, his little breaths and sucking sounds a comfort to her soul. She could hide in the dark and dream sweet dreams of Monty, and lose herself in her memories. For that was all she had left of him, and it frightened her the way his features were starting to fade. Only when she looked in her son’s face could she remember, amid the pain and sorrow.

  Down the street a man was helping Stella Connors into a wagon. His back was to her, but he reminded her of Monty. Many men did. Anytime she saw someone of his stature and build she sucked in a breath, hoping against hope, knowing she was being foolish.

  Unmoving, she watched, her heart aching, thinking of how that should have been her. Coming into town on their wagon, going to the land office and getting a quarter section to homestead. She and Monty by now would have built a little cabin, their first real home, and as winter blew in, they would sit by the big stone hearth Monty built, playing with Ben, with a fire crackling and fat flakes of pristine snow falling in quiet drifts, enveloping them in their joy.