Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  She hated to ask Clare’s help, for she didn’t want to appear to be asking yet another person for help. But she had a feeling Clare wouldn’t see it the same way as these insensitive women. If they only knew the truth! How would they act then? Would it shame them at all?

  She turned to Alan. “May I just have the certificate delivered here? I’m not altogether sure where I’ll be living in the near future. How long do these things usually take?”

  Alan shrugged again, and Grace thought the gesture innocent and a bit adorable. He did seem bashful, and it was endearing. “I’d guess about a month, maybe less.”

  “Well, I’m not in any hurry,” she told him. “How much do I need to pay?”

  “Oh, nothing, no charge,” he hurried to say. Grace wondered if there was a charge and he was just being kind to her because of her circumstances.

  “Thank you, Mr. Patterson—”

  “Please.” He faltered. “Call me Alan.”

  Grace nodded and stood, then handed him the empty glass. “I’m grateful for your help . . . Alan. I’ll check back with you in a few weeks.”

  She made to turn around, but he cleared his throat. She looked inquisitively at him.

  “If . . . if you need any assistance . . . with anything, Mrs. Cunningham, I . . . I, well, I’m here, Monday through Friday, all day. I know you work at the dress shop down the street . . .” His cheeks suddenly turned a bright shade of pink. “I don’t mean . . . I mean . . .” He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. “I walk past the shop every day, from my house. I’ve seen you there, through the window. You . . . um . . . make dresses?”

  “Yes, I’m a seamstress.”

  “Well . . .”

  He seemed to be at a loss as to what to say next, so Grace politely thanked him again and said good-bye. As she walked to the front doors of the courthouse, she caught a glimpse of the three elegantly dressed women who had been speaking about her. They glowered at her as she passed them. Grace gulped down her ire and stared straight ahead. She supposed they worked in the building somewhere, although at what, Grace had no idea. If gossips were paid for their efforts, these women would have a thriving business venture.

  Holding her head up as high as she could, she headed toward her home, fighting the urge to pack a bag and leave with Ben on the next stage out of town. But more than a lack of money prevented her from leaving. Monty’s presence was an anchor, an iron chain, fastening her to this town, and until she was certain there was no hope at all—hope that he’d remember her, for Ben’s sake, so he could know his father—she was stuck here in Fort Collins.

  Chapter 11

  The nerve of that woman. Grace huffed as she puttered around her tiny room propelled by annoyance, making her bed and gathering warm wraps for herself and Ben. Wind whipped the trees outside the window, portending a miserable, cold spring day, but she could not bear to remain in this house a minute longer.

  Charity’s duplicitous conversation had set Grace’s teeth on edge, with her forced smiles and words of endearment, all the while hardly masking her heartless and erroneous judgment of her houseguest. Grace could only conclude that Charity allowed her to live in her home to present the appearance to onlookers that she was the embodiment of her name’s meaning, all to gain favor and to be regarded highly by the members of her church. That, as well as coveting her time with Ben, for it was clear she missed her children and grandchildren, and did not well hide her resentment for having had to move to Fort Collins at the command of her husband.

  Well, as much as Grace greatly appreciated Charity watching Ben all these months while she worked at the dress shop, it was long past time to move out. If Clare couldn’t watch Ben, she trusted she would find someone dependable. What choice did she have?

  She had just returned from a lovely church service at the new Presbyterian church at the corner of Walnut and Linden, six blocks from the Franklins’ house, and for the first time in days she felt a stirring of encouragement and hope. The pastor, Charles Bixler, gave a heartfelt sermon that Grace sensed had been somehow written just for her. It had centered on the passage in Hebrews that spoke of hope as an anchor for the soul. How odd that he chose that verse, and that the Scripture referred to an anchor, when she’d been thinking of that image for days. But instead of one that dragged and entrapped, this anchor spoken of in the Good Book was one that held fast one’s faith to the secure rock, to God, who was the God of hope.

  She needed that reminder that she was not ever alone, no matter how lonely she felt. The Lord heard her cries and supplications, and he was a God of comfort in hard times.

  As she’d started to walk down the steps of the church to head home, with Ben in her arms, a sweet woman of middle age and austere comportment approached her and introduced herself as Elizabeth Stratton, the local schoolteacher. Grace was astonished to learn this woman had moved to Fort Collins a number of years back and, upon discovering the town had no school, she founded one, all on her own. And now the school was bursting its seams with all the children who now attended.

  Mrs. Stratton, while speaking with Grace, asked where she was living, and whether it was God’s intervention or the schoolteacher’s astute powers of observation, the woman inquired if Grace was looking for other accommodations. Grace, stunned and flustered, admitted she was, and subsequently learned the Strattons had a room to let and were looking to fill it. She invited Grace to stop by her home on Locust Street at her earliest convenience, and Grace said she’d be delighted to.

  She blew out an aggravated breath. She hoped Mrs. Stratton truly meant that, for Grace’s earliest convenience was now.

  She picked Ben up off the floor, where he was busily stacking wooden alphabet blocks, babbling in his usual serious manner, and dressed him warmly. She looked around the room and was struck by a pang of guilt. She did not want to be ungracious or unthankful for the kindness the Franklins had shown her—regardless of their reasons. They had given her much, and she would find some way to repay them. Later.

  With her heavy dark wool coat buttoned to her neck, she carried Ben down the narrow hall and out the back door, to avoid encountering Charity. Upon pushing open the door, the brisk wind nearly knocked her down. She righted herself and wondered if it was wise for her to venture out. Clouds blotted out the sun, and the air was cold, but the sky did not threaten to pelt snow. So she tucked her head and walked around the house to the front porch, to fetch the perambulator, and after snuggling a very sleepy Ben down under blankets, she pushed her baby along Maple Street toward the center of town.

  Few carriages and riders on horses traversed the road as wind whipped the remaining stubborn leaves off the big maples lining the street. Grace tightened her bonnet and held it with one hand for good measure as it tugged to fly from her head. The comforting smell of pine wood burning in a hearth swirled in the air with the leaves. Despite her inner protests, she let her thoughts drift to Monty, and her mind tormented her over and over with the expression on his face when he saw her in the shop—that look of utter puzzlement and lack of recognition.

  She pressed forward against the wind, against the memories, battling her hurt and grief with every step. Each deliberate, determined step forward was a small victory, she told herself. She had to trust that somehow, some way, Monty would come back to her. Oh, the thought was ludicrous, but it would not leave her. In some way, it was another anchor for her soul. A reckless, outrageous hope, but she clung to it with all her might.

  She pushed her baby along, passing no one on the streets as she walked briskly through the quaint neighborhood of pretty houses, whose formerly colorful flowerbeds were now barren and covered with clumps of snow. But soon, the sun would melt away the last vestiges of snow on the Front Range and summer would come—practically overnight—and the flowers would bloom and the trees would leaf out in vibrant green. Spring always symbolized hope to her, but what would this spring bring?

  When she’d traveled a few blocks, she looked up at the street signs, gett
ing her bearings. Locust was south along College five blocks down. She waited for a few wagons and carriages to pass before crossing. The block across the street displayed another small business district, but these buildings were one-story brick, without the false wooden fronts the downtown shops sported. She noted a small grocers, a tonsorial, and a harness shop on the corner. A few shoppers went in and out the doors and stepped lively along the sidewalk, buffeted by the relentless wind. Usually Sunday saw crowds of couples and families strolling the streets of town, but the inclement weather no doubt was keeping most people indoors by a warm cheering fire.

  Her hands and feet were cold and becoming numb, reminding her of that awful afternoon when she’d lost Monty and lay in the mud, soaked through and nearly incoherent from shock and grief.

  She shook off the memory and shivered. After peeking under the blankets to ensure Ben was sleeping, she checked the road and started across. The wind kicked up harder and blew dirt into her eyes and stung her face, the grit like pinpricks in her skin. She rubbed her eyes and hurried forward, trying to get across with the intention of popping into the grocers for a brief moment to thaw out before continuing the last blocks to the Strattons’ house.

  But in her rush, in the middle of the road, she tripped over a rock, and a pain shot through her ankle. The pram tilted, then threatened to fall over. She cried out in alarm.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a horse and wagon coming toward her at a fast clip. The horse pranced erratically, as if frightened by the assailing wind. The driver’s hat was pulled down low over his eyes. Grace realized with horror that he didn’t see her.

  She grasped the sides of the pram and pulled it back toward her, trying to right it, but a wheel was lodged under the rock she’d tripped over. With her ankle throbbing in pain, she jiggled the pram, trying to loosen it, but to her dismay, the back wheel broke off and fell to the ground, causing the carriage to tip even further, threatening to dump Ben into the street.

  Terror filled her and froze her in place. She couldn’t move. Her feet wouldn’t obey her silent commands. Ben started to wail. The sound of horse hooves grew louder, and she chanced glancing up. Her heart stuck in her throat.

  The wagon was bearing down on her a mere ten feet away. Quickly she scooped Ben up, her son tangled in blankets and mewling, and pressed him to her chest. Abandoning the pram, she turned to run, but upon putting pressure on her injured foot, she fell forward and with her free hand cushioned her fall, her face inches from the dirt. Her wrist smarted from smacking the hard ground.

  She had run out of time. The wagon would crush her and her son. She curled into a ball protectively, waiting in horrific anticipation for the impact, hoping her body could somehow shield Ben from being killed. She shook and clenched her teeth so hard, her jaw ached.

  And then, arms wrapped around her and swooped her up from the ground. Strong arms that carried both her and her son. Whoever had her was running, pulling her tightly to a warm chest.

  In a flurry of movement, Grace’s head spun and Ben cried, but before she could even fathom she’d been rescued, she felt herself released—deposited on firm ground, clutching Ben with shaking arms. She let out a long pent-up breath and hung her head in shocked relief. Ben stared up at her wide-eyed, as if asking what happened, and tears of joy streamed down her face.

  Oh, you’re safe, you’re safe, my precious baby. But who . . . ?

  She looked to the street, where the wagon continued rattling along at a fast pace, the driver oblivious to the crushed perambulator lying like a dead animal in the middle of the street. Grace sucked in a breath and trembled at her close brush with death. Tears forced their way out her grit-encrusted eyes.

  Then, she turned to see who had risked life and limb to save her. Her knees gave out when she looked in the man’s worried face and saw who it was.

  She cried out, but not from the stabbing pain in her ankle and wrist, then crumpled.

  Monty caught her in his arms. Grace closed her eyes and remembered . . . Those arms that had held her so many times. She luxuriated in the comforting familiarity of his warm, assuring embrace, wanting never to let him go. Oh, how cruel was fate that it should land her here, in arms that now weren’t hers, arms she could not linger in, not ever again . . .

  But how was it that he was here, at this moment? That he—of all the men in town—had been the one to save her? Her heart hammered in her chest as she hung her head, afraid to look at him, knowing she would burst into tears. For there was no pain sweeter or more agonizing than this—being in his arms and Monty not knowing who she was.

  “Miss, miss,” he said, his words like warm water pouring over her.

  That voice, his voice. A sigh shuddered in her chest. Please, oh please, Lord. I can’t bear this.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. And then, to Grace’s horror—yet in answer to her secret yearning—he cupped her chin with his hand tenderly and lifted her face to meet his.

  Her breath grew shallow, almost stilled completely. She looked into the eyes she had gazed so lovingly upon for so many years. Eyes that had brimmed with love for her, and that now only showed a stranger’s alarm.

  Her pulse racing at his touch, she allowed him to help her stand, but she could not put weight on her right foot. When she cried out in pain, he eased her over to the door of the harness shop, watching to see if she could manage the steps while holding Ben in her arms. His hands held tight her arm, as if he would never let her go, and Grace moaned, suffering his touch as if it burned her very soul. She cast a quick glance around for Stella but did not see her. She assumed Monty was alone, perhaps working, but where? Still, she could not believe he was here, holding her.

  Monty swung open the squeaky wood door, and a blast of heat swept over her. In the middle of the shop festooned with all manner of horse and carriage harnesses and agricultural implements, a fire stacked high with burning logs raged in a stone hearth. The aroma of warm leather and dust hung in the air. Grace melted in the heat, uncaring of her pain or the destroyed perambulator. Her anger at Charity, her desire to see the Strattons’ house—all her thoughts and intentions dissolved away in the heat of the room and from Monty’s body close to hers. It took inhuman self-control to keep from throwing herself into Monty’s arms and declaring her love. She prayed hard to resist, to hold back, even though her heart cried out to him in unbearable need.

  Monty led her to a wide wooden bench just inside the door and helped her sit. Her body shook in shock from the near accident, compounded with the shock of finding herself in Monty’s arms. She knew the right thing to do in this moment was to thank him and somehow get him to leave. She had to assure him she was fine even though she was utterly unhinged.

  He knelt in front of her and searched her eyes. She couldn’t help it then. Drowning in those eyes, the eyes of the man she loved so much, she started to cry.

  “There, there, you’ve been through a shock. But you’re safe. You’ll be fine,” he said.

  If only that were true. If only . . .

  She merely nodded in agreement. She caught him looking down at Ben, who was now squirming in her arms. He made whiny noises, indicating he was hungry, but this was no time or place to feed him. Could things get any worse? She thought of Clare’s smiling face as she said to her, “Things can always get worse.” Grace, in this moment, couldn’t see how.

  “I-I’m grateful to you . . . sir,” she forced out. “But surely, you have somewhere to go.”

  “Do you live close by? I have a wagon around the corner. I can take—”

  Grace willed her voice to sound calm, and with a forced smile said, “No, please, don’t trouble yourself. You’ve already done more than enough, and I thank you. I’ll . . . just rest a bit here and then head home. I only live a few blocks away.”

  His eyes showed he had no plans of leaving her. Monty, so honorable and helpful. This was one reason she loved him so much. He couldn’t bear seeing anyone or any animal in pain. His compassion was
boundless. She hoped that her nearness would make him remember her, but it was evident he did not—not at all. That look in his eyes radiated concern, not love—as unbearable as that was to admit to herself.

  “You can’t put any weight on that ankle; let me look at it.” His eyes asked permission, and she wondered at his willingness to touch a woman so freely in public—a woman he did not know was his wife. But Monty was never one to care what anyone thought of his actions. He answered only to himself and God, and acted from altruistic motives.

  Grace could only nod, bracing herself for his touch once more. She gritted her teeth as he tenderly moved her ankle in a small circle, then pressed his finger along her skin, assessing with the touch of a butterfly. Grace bit her lip and clenched her eyes shut, snuffing out the sudden passion that flared despite the pain. She looked with anguish upon the shiny gold ring on his finger. But it was not the ring she had put there when they wed. What had happened to that ring?

  Monty’s hand still rested on her ankle. “It’s not broken. Only strained, thank God. You’ll be all right, miss. You’ll want to put some ice on it, then heat. Stay off it as best you can—if that’s possible.” He nodded at Ben—his baby, his child—with a dispassionate air of checking if he was hurt.

  Oh how strange and awful this was, seeing Monty look over his son for the first time, wholly unaware that this was his child, the product of his love for her. This little boy with his father’s eyes and smile. Could Monty see this resemblance? How could he? Why would he?