Yes, she told herself bitterly, it should have been her.
Chapter 7
Seven months later
May 13, 1876
Warm, soothing spring sunlight streamed through the large pane glass of the front windows of Matilda Hortman’s dress shop. Grace lifted her face to the radiating heat, so grateful the long, cold winter was over. Temperatures were now rising into the 70s midday, which afforded her jaunts outside with Ben in the afternoons, when she finished work. She had sewn dozens of dresses over the winter for Tilde, who had graciously allowed Grace to take the new Chadwick & Jones sewing machine home. The hours spent working—and sewing outfits for herself and her son—helped pass the endless days buried in snow and loneliness, as did little Ben and his antics.
As she reluctantly abandoned the warmth of the shop and returned to her chilly room in the back to cut fabric for her next order, she marveled at how much Ben had grown—and grown even more like his father. Every day saw a new skill Ben learned or a new tooth. He was now nine months old, and already trying to walk, grabbing on to furniture and toddling from room to room, eager to venture out into the world. He loved playing in the snow, and his face filled with wonder at all the new things he noticed as spring changed the landscape and flowers poked up from the drifts. So much like his father—having a zest for life and a cheerful countenance. He hardly ever fussed and loved to babble—although Grace could only guess what his long funny monologues meant.
She sighed and unrolled the bolt of chambray fabric, end over end, across the long wooden table. After evening out the edges, she began laying the pieces of paper patterns in a loose jigsaw puzzle arrangement, then pinned each piece in place.
She had to admit, she was happy enough. And Ben was the reason. Without him, she would have long ago dissolved in grief. She still held on to hope that Monty would one day walk into town. Throughout the winter she imagined every possible scenario that could reasonable explain his delay. Perhaps he’d been hurt, and was convalescing in a place where he was unable to get word to her. For, if he assumed she’d gone to Fort Collins, he would send her a letter by post, and the clerk in the post office in the Old Grout well knew she was awaiting correspondence, and had promised her that if a letter came, he would deliver it to her at the shop. So she concluded he was living in some remote place, and circumstances did not afford him the opportunity to either leave or contact her.
She knew how farfetched that seemed, but since his body had not been found, she had to hope he was still alive.
She had holed up in the Franklins’ house all winter, rarely venturing outside and often getting cabin fever, so now her body ached to stretch and move, and she longed to ride a horse across the open range. She hoped once summer eased in she’d be able to take Ben up into the mountains. She longed to explore the Rockies and see the vistas of the Front Range from its heights. Growing up in flat Illinois deprived her of such exploration, and she’d never had much of a hankering to venture beyond the wilds of the local parks. But here—a world of mountains beckoned.
The bell over the door jingled, and Grace stopped what she was doing and went into the front room. Tildie had left her in charge while she went to Mrs. Tedmon’s millinery and trimming store on Linden to pick up some notions. The front door opened and a woman came in, dressed in an elegant French toile jacket over a white silk button shirt with shirred cuffs and collar. Grace straightened, recognizing the woman who had walked through the door back in the fall—the one who had just married and was homesteading. A twinge of envy plucked her heart as she thought of this woman enjoying the warmth and comfort of her husband’s arms through the long cold winter.
Grace pushed down the unwanted despair and pasted a smile on her face.
“Good day, madam. I’m glad you’ve returned. I trust you are well, and have settled into your new home?”
The woman gave her a small smile—one that seemed to cost her some effort. “Why, how good of you to remember. Yes, I am quite well, and we were so fortunate to take over a claim that had been abandoned—a few miles south of town, on a creek. With a sweet little house already built.”
“Why, how nice,” Grace said, walking to stand behind the counter so as not to block the door. “And would you like to look through patterns? Perhaps choose some fabrics for dresses?”
“I would.” She loosed a sigh and patted her neatly pinned black hair that shone in the bright light filtering into the room. Grace admired the woman’s figure and tiny waist, and wondered when—or if—she might ever regain her youthful shape after having a baby. She expected this woman would have been with child by now, but clearly she was not.
As Grace pulled out the large heavy pattern books, Tildie breezed into the shop, all afluster. “My,” she said, breathless, “there’s been a bank robbery over in Laporte.” She cast a glance at the customer, who turned and looked at her curiously.
“Oh,” Tildie said, waving her hand at her face as if the room were too warm. “Mrs. Connors. Have I remembered correctly?”
The customer raised her eyebrows. “Why yes, Stella Connors.” She pushed a smile up her face. “Do tell,” she said, clearly hiding her interest. Grace noted the woman had laid her hands on the edge of the table, as if anticipating bad news. “Laporte isn’t all that far away, is it?” she asked.
“No,” Tildie said, leaning close, her expression oozing concern. “Only a few miles.”
“Did they catch the robbers?” Stella asked, her tone even, but her eyes betraying her. Grace could tell she was agitated. Why would a robbery in Laporte concern her?
“No, they didn’t,” Tildie said, her voice now a bit querulous. Then, in a whisper, she said with wide-open eyes, “They think it’s the Dutton Gang. Or, what’s left of the gang. The two men in the Wanted posters.”
Grace recalled seeing the poster in the sheriff’s office last fall. “So they haven’t yet been caught, after all this time?” Grace asked.
Tildie shook her head spasmodically. “What if they come here next? Someone thought they recognized those men as they galloped out of town—and they were heading east!”
“When?” Stella asked, clearly worried. Perhaps she was afraid of outlaws. Although, why would that be so?
“Just this morning. Word came through the telegraph. I overheard men talking in the post office as I walked by. Oh my!”
Tildie waved her hand again and busied herself at the register—perhaps thinking about hiding her money from the robbers. Surely the sheriff had been alerted, and the banks would be watched and protected. There were only the two in town. Fort Collins saw little crime, considering the town was situated in the wild and untamed West.
Grace thought how not even ten years ago there had been unending Indian wars and skirmishes, with settlers attacked and killed. And now, towns were spreading across the plains accompanied by the railroad, which brought civilization and civility to the wilderness. She imagined in another ten years these small towns would resemble the larger cities back east. Progress, they called it.
Grace busied herself neatening up the fabric bolts on the shelves while out of the corner of her eye she watched as Stella, who sat in the big padded armchair near the window, thumbing thoughtfully through a pattern book. But upon closer scrutiny, Grace noticed Stella’s hands trembling, and dots of perspiration covered her high forehead. Clearly something greatly disturbed the woman, but Grace said nothing, and left her to her perusals.
The front door opened, and the tinkling of the bell rang through the shop. A man, with his head down, stomped snow and mud off his boots, then wiped them on the mat just outside the door. He raised his head and stepped inside.
Grace gasped. All the blood drained from her face, and her knees buckled. Her breath snagged in her throat and she began to fall, grasping blindly for something to hold on to, unable to take her eyes off the man’s face.
No. It couldn’t be. But . . . there he was! Right in front of her . . .
She tried to say his name,
but nothing would come out of her mouth. Her head spun wildly as she found her balance on trembling legs.
Monty! Monty! She froze in place, waiting for him to turn his head and see her. She made a mewling noise, a cry that erupted from her broken heart, bursting with love and longing and painful relief. He’s alive, alive! Oh, gracious God, thank you, thank you!
Just as she found her feet and made to run to him with open arms, he saw her.
A puzzled look rose on his face, and he turned away.
He hadn’t recognized her . . .
Grace stiffened. Horrified. As if a thousand lightning bolts had hit her, she sizzled in fear and confusion, unable to take another step. She forced the word out of her mouth on a tiny wisp of breath.
“Monty . . .”
But he didn’t hear her. Grace watched in stunned agony as he walked over to Stella, a smile rising on his face.
Oh, that smile, his smile. Monty! Tears rushed to her eyes. She must be imagining this. It couldn’t be real. So many times she’d pictured him walking through this door, crying her name, throwing his arms around her. But never had she envisioned this . . . this torture.
What cruel twist of fate had taken her husband from her? This was worse than death.
She stood frozen in place, her stomach churning violently in protest as she watched, as if from afar, as Monty—her husband!—helped Stella to her feet and spoke quiet, tender words into her ear. Stella grinned and met his eyes, oblivious to the maelstrom of anguish strangling Grace.
She forced herself to breathe, grasping the edges of the table, and turning so that no one could see her distress. But a moment later she felt a hand on her shoulder, and Grace spun to find Tildie at her side, her visage showing worry and concern.
“What is it, Grace? Are you ill?” Her employer studied her, then glanced back at Stella and Monty, who were both standing at the door.
Nausea rose into Grace’s throat. “I think I’m going to be sick . . .”
She ran into the back room, hearing Tildie exchange polite good-byes with her customer as Grace threw open the heavy back door that led into the alley behind the building. There she heaved up the contents of her stomach as ripples of pain ran through her body and a sword pierced her heart.
No, no, no . . . she keep saying to herself. It couldn’t be Monty. But it was. He could be no other. A year’s absence—no, not even a hundred years’—could cause her to forget his face or his stature. He’d walked in with a bit of a limp, and a thin scar marred his right cheek, but she had not a speck of doubt this was her Monty.
She wiped her face and stumbled backward, finding the brick wall of the building and sliding down against it into a heap. She curled into a ball and wept, confused and hurting, as if someone had pummeled her with fists. How could he do this to her? Had he pretended he did not know her? Why would he have married another? It made no sense, none at all.
She poured out her heart in prayer, begging God to help her, to bring Monty back to her, into her arms. She lost track of time, and her legs grew numb. She lost all feeling in her fingers as she wept in the cold alley and clouds blew in to blot out the sun. What had promised to be a warm, hopeful day turned stormy and threatening.
She’d thought the long winter had ended, but now she realized it had truly just begun.
***
As Malcolm approached the door to the surveyor’s office, he looked over at Stella, whose thoughts seemed miles away.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, stopping on the boardwalk and disengaging his arm from hers.
“Why, no,” she said, surprised. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem bothered. Worried.” He could tell she was doing her best to hide her consternation, and that troubled him.
She wave a hand in dismissal. “Oh, it’s nothing. I was just . . . remembering how, a year ago, you had fallen into the river and I had to help pull you out.” She shuddered. “The river was so cold, and you were so hurt. I-I thought I’d lost you.”
A lone tear dribbled down her cheek, and Malcolm touched it with his finger. Once again, he was reminded of how indebted he was to her—not that she meant to make him feel that way. But he couldn’t help it. He just wished he felt more than indebtedness toward her. He wished he . . . loved her.
Was something wrong with him? Just about any man would give his best horse for a woman as beautiful and devoted as she. But then he thought about the recent months they’d spent together in their modest little cabin along the South Platte. She’d grown sullen and restless, and he thought it was due to her wanting a baby—her maternal instincts acting up—but when he suggested that, she laughed—a sort of bitter, mean laugh. As if he was foolish to suggest that. He realized then that they had never spoken about having children. It appeared she didn’t want any, although why she wasn’t with child yet puzzled him. But he wanted children, very much so, and yet, when he thought about having children with her, his mind went blank and his longing faded.
He shook his head to clear out the cobwebs. He studied her distraught face. “But that’s all in the past,” he said, trying to lighten her mood. A year. Had it been that long ago? He breathed in a deep breath. And still—no memories. He had finally accepted the fact that he would probably never remember his past. But his dreams plagued him, and he had not said a word to Stella about them. Were they only dreams? He hated to think so.
“I’ll be a while.” He pointed to the hotel on the corner. “Would you prefer to wait in there, get yourself a cup of coffee?”
She patted his arm and smiled, but he could tell her thoughts were still troubled. “Yes, I’ll wait for you there.” She planted a kiss somewhere on the vicinity of his cheek and crossed the street with care, avoiding the deep mud puddles and horse droppings that hadn’t been removed yet by the morning street cleaners.
He walked into the assessor’s office—a spacious room with large windows and paneled in rich dark wood and smelling like cigars—and headed to the long front counter, where three men stood speaking animatedly. He immediately recognized the new sheriff with his broad-rimmed slouch hat and a shiny tin star pinned to his brown woolen vest. Malcolm had attended the town hall meeting in which the sheriff had spoken to the crowd after his appointment. The man seemed decent and upstanding, fastidiously dressed, and he had a bushy brown moustache that cast a shadow over his mouth and side whiskers that ran down his wide face. His eyes were big and gray, shrouded by thick brows, and they rested on Malcolm as he came up to him.
The court clerk was in his thirties and short, with a lean face and bony body. He seemed a bit nervous or shy, and wore thick spectacles that made his eyes look like a bug’s. His light-brown hair was curly and unruly, and his clothing hung loosely on him, as if his mother had dressed him in a hurry and forgotten to comb his hair. But the man had a warm and friendly face, and Malcolm immediately liked him. Maybe he reminded of someone in Malcolm’s forgotten past.
Malcolm tipped his head and touched the brim of his bowler hat. “Good day, gentlemen. I’m Malcolm Connors.”
All three bid him a genial hello and introduced themselves.
“This here’s the sheriff, Eph Love,” an older silver-haired man with a clean-shaven face said. “I’m Fred Wallace, the city assessor, and this is Alan Patterson—the courthouse clerk.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Malcolm said. “I recently moved to Fort Collins, and I’m looking for gainful employment. I . . . have surveying experience. Back in St. Louis.” It felt odd to say that, seeing as how he had no memory of doing actual surveying work, but when he’d looked at the surveying instruments Stella had shown him, with his initials scratched into them, a strong recognition came over him. He knew those instruments. When he picked them up and felt them in his hands, he had no doubt he could survey a piece of land—measure its size, use chain poles, and record the proper notations. Why would he remember this but not anything else—except, perhaps, how to cook and ride a horse?
“Well,”
the assessor said, his face brightening, “we could sure use your help. I was supposed to have a new man in here last spring, but he never showed, and I’ve been on the scout for more surveyors. The railroad’s coming in later this year, and already folks are moving here in droves. I reckon I can give you as much work as you want, Mr. Connors.”
“That’s wonderful news, sir.” Relief coursed through him, and he nodded as the other men said kind words of welcome. Malcolm thought about his recent arguments with Stella over his seeking employment. For some reason she didn’t want him to take a job in town. Maybe she worried she’d be lonely being by herself out on the homestead, but he told her they were running out of money. She only huffed, but had no other suggestions for him. He was a surveyor. She had told him they’d planned to live in Fort Collins because that’s where he’d find work. And now she was complaining about him doing that very thing.
He pushed down his mounting exasperation and smiled at the three men, whom he’d found himself taking an immediate liking to.
“So, how d’ya like our town?” Wallace asked him.
“I like it just fine. It has a lot of promise, and the location is beautiful.”
“You been north of here yet—up on the Poudre River?” the sheriff asked. “There’s some good fishin’ up in the canyon.”
Malcolm shook his head. “No. After we came out from St. Louis, I . . . had a mishap. Spent a few months near Greeley recovering.”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Love said, fixing his eyes on Malcolm and studying him. “But you seem all in one piece.”
Malcolm joined the men in a friendly chuckle. “I’m ready and fit for work.” He gave the assessor a smile. “Got a little tired of being trapped in my small house.” He breathed in deeply. “I’m looking forward to getting outside and working in the fresh air.”
The sheriff nodded. “The winters can be somethin’ fierce out here on the Front Range—”
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 8