“And that’s why we have so many saloons,” Wallace added with a laugh. “Whiskey warms the ice out of the blood. It’s what’s kept me alive all these years.”
Malcolm forced a chuckle. He didn’t particularly like whiskey—or any spirits, from what he could tell. But he knew Stella did. He frowned thinking of the many times he watched her plow through half a bottle of whiskey in the cabin late at night. He’d told her he didn’t think it was good for her health to drink, but she only laughed as if the notion was silly and childish. She told him he used to drink all the time with her, and frequented many a saloon in St. Louis, but Malcolm couldn’t see how he could have liked such a taste before his injury and then disliked it afterward.
“We used to have an ordinance of prohibition here, like they do over in Greeley,” the sheriff told him. “But by popular demand, that law was rescinded last year—thanks to Marcus Coon, the fella that owns the Agricultural Hotel. Folks all seem a little happier these days.” He gave a big grin, and Wallace bellowed in agreement.
The court clerk was quiet, saying nothing, just nodding his head. Then, he announced, “I’d best get back to work. But I wanted to hear the news.” The clerk nodded a quick good-bye and hurried out the front door.
The sheriff turned to Malcolm. “Seems the Dutton Gang robbed a bank in Laporte.” He shook his head morosely. “Those men have been hunted for a year now—ever since they broke out of jail in Denver City. Copeland Townsend, the territorial marshal, has tendered quite a large reward for their capture. You heard of ’em?”
Malcolm shook his head, although he imagined they’d wonder why he was so uninformed. He wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t want to tell them about his loss of memory. It might hinder their trust in his work, and he wanted to have the best chance to show his skill and earn their respect.
“Well, folks figured they’d left the country or fled to some other state. Or maybe got themselves killed somehow—no one’s seen hide nor hair of them two hooligans. And now they pop up—like spring flowers—back at their crooked business.”
“Maybe they ran out of money,” Malcolm offered.
“More ’n likely,” Wallace said, nodding. “But seems stupid to go back to what you got caught at in the first place.” He looked at Love. “Well, I’m sure if they show their faces in Fort Collins, they’ll end up in your jail. Those posters of their mugs are all over the town. I know how keen you are to catch ’em.” He gave Malcolm a smirk. “So, if you see the likes of ’em, be sure to let Eph know.”
Malcolm smiled at their friendly banter. It felt good to stand around chatting with other men. A refreshing change from being stuck in the cabin with Stella.
A pang of guilt hit him as he berated his sour attitude toward his wife. What kind of man was he to so quickly forget what she’d done for him and how much he owed her? Yet, after he wished the men well, thanked the assessor for hiring him, and bounded out the front door of the building, he thought how being indebted to someone was another kind of jail. Maybe one without bars, but confining all the same.
He’d expected marriage to be freeing and joyous, but with each passing day he felt more and more trapped, and only now did he realize it—as feelings of regret bubbled up and his heart ached with a strange loneliness he could not understand.
Chapter 8
“Grace, Grace—whatever is the matter?”
Grace heard Charity calling after her, but she couldn’t bear to speak with her—with anyone. She hoisted Ben into her arms, hugging him tightly to her chest as she rushed out of the house, wishing she could run and run and keep running until she fell into some ocean at the edge of the continent.
Tears poured down her face, just as they had a year ago when she’d lost Monty. All this time she had waited for him or news of him—only to learn he was alive but married to another woman!
Her thoughts careened in her head, making no sense at all. What could she do? She had to do something.
She looked down at her precious son, whose little chubby arms held on to her shoulders, his cheek resting on the bodice of her dress. She pulled her coat around him to enclose him in her warmth, her shoal of safety for him. But was there any safe harbor for her? No. She had been cut loose, like a drifting boat on a wild river, and now she was crashing into rocks and tumbling down a treacherous waterfall to her demise.
There had to be some logical explanation. Monty would never do this. Something had happened, something horrible, but how could she find out? She didn’t dare try to find him to speak to him. Her heart couldn’t take that. And she certainly couldn’t talk to his wife.
She could hardly form the word in her mind. Married. He was married to . . . that pompous, shallow, beautiful woman. Where on earth had he met her?
She fumed. Monty would never marry someone like her. Stella was the kind of woman he used to tell disapproving stories about when he lived in the boardinghouse. Women who chased after men and only cared about fancy clothes and money and making impressions on others—making other women jealous. Monty had told Grace he loved her because she was exactly the opposite. He loved her kind heart and gratitude for the blessings she had. He admired the way she had cared for her aunt, and how industrious she was, learning a vocation and not expecting a man to grovel at her feet.
The only conclusion she could make was that somehow Monty had forgotten her. He had lost his memories—but how many memories, and which ones? Did he remember some things? He clearly didn’t remember his name, for he went by Connors, not Cunningham.
Breathless, she realized she had been running for blocks. She stopped at the corner of College and Maple, then hurried along Jefferson, finally ducking down the alley that ran behind the town livery stables. Ben squirmed, hot under the coat, and Grace realized her arms were aching from his weight. He was no longer the tiny baby she’d carried for hours during his first weeks of life, coaxing him back to sleep late in the night. He felt like a sack of potatoes in her sore arms.
The clouds overhead shredded into cotton wisps carried on an easterly wind, the cold mountain air pushing them out over the open range. The dry air made her skin feel raw, and her lips were chapped. That and the high altitude made Colorado so different from Illinois. Oh, if only she and Monty had stayed in Bloomington!
Grace smelled hay and heard horses snuffling and nickering. She’d never been to the livery in town, and Ben hadn’t been up close to any horses, although he always squirmed in excitement watching riders trot them down the streets.
She wiped her face and pushed loose hair from her eyes, then stood her son on the ground. He was dressed in cute denim pants and a thick cotton nightshirt. Charity had bought him adorable leather moccasins, which he now wore on his feet. Sunlight splintered through the clouds and warmed the air, even though Grace felt chilled through and through from the damp perspiration cooling on her skin. Her stomach clenched in pain from the sorrow coursing through her body.
“Hey, baby,” she cooed, “Mama’s going to show you some horses. What’s a horse say?”
Ben wiggled in place as she held his little hands and squatted in front of him. His eyes grew bright and he smiled—showing his four little teeth. “Naaaaaaaayyyyy,” he said happily.
“That’s right, sweetie. Let’s see if we can get a horse to neigh for you.”
She picked him up and carried him over to the open stable doors, pushing out every thought in her head so she wouldn’t think about Monty. Her son needed her attention, and she needed the distraction.
She took a step into the darkened corridor that ran between rows of stalls. Horses pawed at the ground and munched on flakes of hay. The last time Grace had ridden a horse was back in Illinois, before she and Monty had married. More hurt welled up, pushing tears out of the corners of her eyes. She willed herself to stop thinking about him, but it was so hard.
“Here,” she said, taking Ben’s little hand and stretching it out before a curious bay horse who pressed its muzzle against the wood slat. The horse snuffed a
nd Ben giggled. Grace couldn’t help but smile when Ben shrieked in delight as the horse butted against Ben’s hand, no doubt looking for a treat.
“I’ve a carrot he can give Apache,” someone said.
Grace turned around. A young woman with bright red hair and an avalanche of freckles across her nose came over with a fat carrot in her hand.
“Hello,” she said with a friendly smile, showing straight white teeth, although a tiny bit bucktoothed. She looked the same age as Grace, and was dressed like Calamity Jane—complete with a long Indian-style straight skirt—no petticoats underneath—and a fringed leather riding coat—the kind the cowboys here in the West wore. Grace hadn’t seen many women dressed like that, and not around Fort Collins, but the young woman was very pretty, with a light complexion and sparkling eyes the color of emeralds.
“I’m Clare Ferne McKay, and who’s this strappin’ lad?” She tickled Ben under his chin, which caused an eruption of giggles from her son. “My, he’s sociable.”
Grace now noticed the heavy Irish brogue. “My name’s Grace. Grace Cunningham. This is Benjamin.”
Clare gave an exaggerated curtsey. “Please to meet ya.” She handed Ben the carrot, and once he had it well in his grasp, Clare held his little hand and moved it to where the horse could reach it. Grace watched as Apache took four bites, and when the carrot was down to a stub, Clare took the piece of carrot from Ben and laid it in the palm of her hand. “Now watch,” she said to Ben, making sure he was paying attention. She put her hand under the horse’s muzzle, and the horse picked up the carrot tenderly with his lips and chomped on it with strong teeth. Ben wiggled in excitement.
“Ma! Ma!” he cried out.
“That means more,” Grace said to Clare.
Clare nodded. “I have six younger siblings—I’ve heard that plenty over the years.” She turned to Ben. “You’re a cute one. May I?” She looked to Grace, who understood she wanted to hold him. She handed Ben over.
Clare cooed and made funny faces and got Ben laughing riotously. Grace couldn’t help but laugh as well, and the laughter eased the pain in her heart for the moment.
“Do you work here?” Grace asked, not imagining anyone hiring a woman as a stable hand.
“I punch leather, in a room over there.”
“Punch leather?”
“Saddles, bridles, belts. Sometimes I do designs on saddlebags. I use leather punches. Come’ere, let me show ya.” She led Grace to the room she had pointed to, still carrying Ben in her arms. Grace could tell Clare had carried a lot of small children over the years. Ben seemed very relaxed in Clare’s arms, and she moved with ease, as if he were an appendage.
Across a long plywood table lay numerous leather goods. Closest to her was a Mexican saddle, and as she drew near, she saw intricate dark designs in the leather. Flowers cascaded over the cantle and skirt surrounding the seat, and the gullet in front had overlapping feathers. She was impressed by the fine detail and beautiful patterns. So much different from designing a dress.
“You do wonderful work. How did you learn this skill?” Grace asked.
Clare bounced Ben and answered, “I just moved here from Laporte. Next to my family’s ranch lives an old Mexican who taught me what he’d learned in Sonora. I used to go sit next to him on a stump, watching him punch bridles and saddles for the local cowboys. He’s well-known around these parts, and since I was such a curious lass, and would do anything to get out of the noisy house, he let me watch him. When I was about six, he gave me a strip of leather and showed me how to use the various punches.” She deposited Ben into Grace’s arms. She picked up a few tools that had wooden handles and different-sized metal tips. Then Clare reached for a bridle that sat nearby and demonstrated using a mallet to pound one of the tools into the leather.
Grace watched in fascination as Clare’s fingers moved adeptly and a design emerged. “I’m impressed,” she said. “Thank you for showing this to me.”
They went back out to the horse stalls. Clare said, “I love horses. I spent more time on the back of a horse as a child than I did walkin’, and although I’d rather be ridin’, this is the next best thing.” She walked down the corridor and stopped at a stall where a sturdy mustang nickered at her. She rubbed the horse’s forehead and said, “This is my horse—Keeezheekoni. That’s Cheyenne for burning fire.”
Ben reached out and petted the horse, and giggles erupted. Clare continued. “Well, I had named him Feisty, but Eli told me there’s no word in Cheyenne for that, so he gave him that name. But he’s Keezy for short.”
Grace enjoyed Clare’s exuberance, and her love for horses swam in her eyes as she rubbed the mustang’s ears. “Who is Eli?”
“He’s my sweetheart—over in Greeley. And we’re to be married—although he doesn’t know it yet.” She wiggled her brows as if in conspiracy with Grace.
Grace laughed at her brashness and confidence. Clare wasn’t all that unlike the way she herself had been, declaring a similar intention to an eighteen-year-old Monty when she’d been a mere ten. Recalling his humorous reaction to her innocent pronouncement sent another stab of grief to her heart, but she hid her feelings by looking away.
Clare tickled Ben under his chin. “I just turned eighteen, and couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.” She laughed. “Now it’s Shannon’s turn to be babysitter to the brood while our parents work the ranch. I took a room at the Agricultural Hotel, although I haven’t brought over my things yet.”
“I’ve recently moved here myself,” Grace said, and then she felt the pang once more of her loss—living alone in someone else’s spare room, instead of homesteading in a cabin with Monty.
“Is it just you and the wee one?” Clare asked kindly, not the way the prying gossipers might ask. She seemed to genuinely care.
Grace nodded, but before she could catch herself, she started crying. Oh, why couldn’t she control her tears? She buried her head into Ben’s soft hair and stood there, weeping and feeling foolish.
“Here.” Clare led her over to a bench and sat her down, then swept Ben from her arms and eased down beside her. She pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief. When Grace looked at it, Clare said, “It’s clean.”
Grace shook her head. “I know. I-I’m sorry. I’m all alone. I lost my husband—”
Unabashed, Clare wrapped her arm around Grace and held her while she cried. When was the last time anyone had held her, comforted her? Too long ago. She had spent this last year trying to be brave and hopeful, but now all her walls protecting her heart crumbled to dust, leaving her with a sick, empty feeling.
When her tears were spent, she wiped her face with the cloth and looked at Clare, whose eyes showed a deep compassion. Grace imagined Clare had a lot of experience comforting her crying siblings over the years.
“How about we go get a soda?” Clare didn’t wait for Grace to answer. She went into the back room and then returned with her straw hat—which was a cross between a sun bonnet and the kind of felt hat men wore—and walked toward the front entrance to the livery. Grace hardly noticed the men working with the carriages and wagons, hitching up horses and throwing saddles over horses’ backs, or the strong stench of horse sweat and manure and damp hay.
After exiting onto the street, Clare said, “Where do you live? Do you need help with your precious babe here?”
Grace snuffled, so grateful for Clare’s kindness. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry for crying. I don’t even know you—”
Clare waved her away. “My mum always says ‘Be kind to strangers and God will repay ya.’ And then there’s this proverb to cheer ya up”—Clare spouted something in another language—“It’s Gaelic. ‘There’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.’” She stopped and looked deep into Grace’s eyes. “Life is hard, there’s no denying, and surely you’ve been through hard times. But look.” She smoothed out Ben’s head as he nodded off in Grace’s arms. “You’ve been blessed with this precious babe—and he’s healthy and bright as a penny. He�
��s who ya have to live for. The healing will come.” She said something else in Gaelic, and then translated. “If God sends you down a stony path, may he give you strong shoes.”
Grace smiled. “Maybe I need to shop for some.”
Clare tipped her head toward the end of the street. “There’s a cobbler’s shop on the corner. Or maybe we can fit you with a set of iron horseshoes.”
That made Grace laugh.
When they stopped in front of the green grocers, which had a soda fountain in the back, Clare said solemnly, “Anytime you need a listening ear, you know where to find me. Just neigh, and I’ll come out of my stall.” Clare giggled.
“Thank you, Clare. I’ve wanted to make a friend in Fort Collins, and it hasn’t been easy. But I hope you’ll be my first.”
“I need a friend too. And as much as I’m glad to have peace and quiet away from my brothers and sisters, there’s nothing so wonderful as holding a bawbeen—a baby.”
Clare pulled open the door and ushered Grace inside. It felt good in the midst of her pain to talk to another woman close to her age, someone nice and nonjudgmental. Maybe Clare could help her unravel this mystery that had her husband entangled in another woman’s arms. She couldn’t bear thinking of Monty pouring out his love to someone else. Her heart had surely broken beyond mending. How could she go on, face tomorrow?
As they sat down at the fountain and waited to order, Grace looked down at Ben’s head resting against her chest. He was deep in a peaceful, contented sleep.
Clare was right. She would have to go on for Ben.
Lord, you are going to have to give me those strong shoes—shoes of stone—if I’m going to walk this rocky road.
Chapter 9
Lenora Dutton wasted no time easing up to the bar in the saloon next to the hotel and ordering a whiskey. Being that it was only ten in the morning, the barkeep eyed her strangely, but he said nothing. He slid her drink over to her and watched as she threw back her head and emptied the shot glass.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 9