“I’m sorry about your baby carriage.”
Grace struggled for words, not meeting his eyes. “You saved our lives. That’s all that matters.”
He smiled with genuine humility. “I’m just glad I was there to help.”
“You risked your life. Not many men would do that.”
He snorted. “I couldn’t respect any man who wouldn’t.”
He was still kneeling before her, with her foot in his hand. She wondered why he hadn’t moved. “Are you sure you don’t want a lift?”
She swallowed and nodded. If he stayed much longer, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
Grace startled. The door to the harness shop flung open, and a swirl of freezing air blew in. A woman stormed inside, her pale organdy skirts rustling. Stella!
Stella stopped in her tracks upon seeing Monty. Her gaze jerked to look at Grace. Cold, angry eyes assessed the situation as she stood, unmoving, her pretty face turning blotchy red—whether from the heat of the room or from anger, Grace didn’t know.
Grace’s throat tightened, and she pulled her ankle from Monty’s grasp. The chill wind of Stella’s scrutiny cut through Grace’s bones.
Yes, things could always get worse. They just had.
Malcolm stood—not in a rush, in the way a man might when caught in an indiscretion. Rather, he stood to face Stella the way someone might when sorely vexed, when his honor was questioned. For he could tell Stella had jumped to conclusions, and it irked him beyond tolerance. He waited for her to speak.
She hissed the words, “What do you think you are doing?” Her eyes darted around, aware others might be in the shop, listening.
Malcolm spoke quietly, evenly. “This woman fell and needed tending—”
Stella shook her head, clearly disapproving. “And why did you have to help?”
Before Malcolm could answer, aware of his anger rising to alarming levels, Stella straightened and eyed the woman and her baby.
“You . . . you’re the seamstress—from the dress shop.” Stella cocked her head, and Malcolm wondered what she was thinking. He so often saw her mind mulling things, but could never suss out what those things were. And she rarely revealed what was on her mind when Malcolm asked.
Her secretiveness was getting worse, he noted. And her drinking. After taking her home the other afternoon—after, to his horror, he’d found her drinking in that saloon—she went straight to bed, and Malcolm felt a bit bad about chastising her. But she had drunken whiskey in public, in the middle of the day. Didn’t she realize what a small town this was? How something like that could affect his good standing in the community? Affect his new job? The last thing he needed was for gossip to spread about his lush of a wife. And when he’d tried to mention this to her in a kindly way, she became incensed, threw the covers off, and strode out of the cabin—and didn’t return until long after dark, so soused he wondered how she’d managed to guide the horse and wagon back to the homestead.
Late that night, lying in bed unable to sleep, listening to Stella’s drunken snores, something snapped inside him. All the misgivings and uncertainty and confusion that had been gnawing his gut since the day he’d had that accident gelled into a lump of understanding: he had made a grave mistake in marrying Stella Childs. How he had loved her and longed to marry her before his near-drowning in the Platte River, he had no clue. She was as unappealing and offensive and unpleasant a woman as he’d ever met—despite her outward beauty. And a curious thought had wormed its way into his mind that night—the possibility that somehow she had honey-fuggled him.
He hated to mistrust anyone, and felt guilty suspecting deceit from his own wife, for she had lovingly and dutifully nursed him for weeks untold, without complaint. It wasn’t as if he was wealthy and she’d been after his money. He’d had nothing of value to offer her. So why would she fabricate such a ruse? Still, once the idea came to him, it caught hold, like a piece of dry tinder igniting from a tiny spark. And gradually that spark of suspicion was growing into a conflagration.
Malcolm struggled with what to do. He could hardly kick her out of the cabin, yet he couldn’t bear being in the same room with her now. And he knew Stella sensed his unease, for he was never good at hiding his feelings; he’d never had good cause to.
Stella said to the woman sitting on the bench, who seemed utterly undone by Stella’s harsh scrutiny, “That ‘helpless woman’ act won’t work on my husband—”
“Stella!” Malcolm couldn’t believe his ears. He grasped her arm tightly and pulled her away from the horrified woman, his jaw working. “We’re leaving.” As much as he wanted to stay and placate the woman on the bench, help her get home and make sure she and her baby were warm and safe, he had to do something before Stella made a scene. Already a few customers in the harness shop had turned and were gaping at them.
But Stella was unfazed by Malcolm’s admonishment. A mean scowl rose on her face as she continued her attack, a finger waggling in front of the young mother’s face. “Just because you don’t have a husband, or a father for your brat, it doesn’t mean you can steal one from another woman. Shame on you!”
The poor woman blanched and started crying anew, and her baby began wailing, as if in sympathy. Malcolm’s heart went out to her, but he had no time to comfort her—and no intention of making excuses for his wife’s vile behavior.
Malcolm yanked Stella toward the door, practically dragging her. He threw a glance in the woman’s direction, apologizing with his eyes, horrified by Stella’s deplorable behavior. He had never seen her like this. But then, most of his time spent with Stella had been in isolation, just the two of them—in the shack near Greeley and lately in their cabin outside of town. Malcolm realized he had rarely seen Stella in the company of other people.
Feeling the eyes of others upon him, boring into him like hot coals, Malcolm pushed Stella out the front door, and keeping the tight grip on her arm, marched her down the street and around the corner, to where their wagon was parked. Wind whipped around his head and lifted his hat.
“Get up there,” he ordered, none too softly. He didn’t reckon he could be more fed up or embarrassed. Stella, fuming and mumbling curses, climbed up and plopped on the bench seat. Malcolm reached down and picked his hat up from the dirt, brushed it off, and squashed it onto his head. Wind howled and moaned as its icy fingers raced down from the Rockies and poked through his clothes—the kind of wind that could blow the hair off a prairie dog. A chill rushed through him, but Malcolm knew it wasn’t just the wind that made him shiver. It was regret that ran through his veins. Regret that he’d ever met Stella Childs. Regret that he’d married her.
But what could be done for it? Nothing. For he was a man of honor, a man of his word. He’d made a vow, and he intended to do his best to keep it, before the eyes of man and God. He would have to buck up, figure out a way to reach Stella. To love her. For he knew if he failed to do so, the remaining years of his life would be intolerable.
With his heart feeling as heavy as an anchor in his chest, he jumped up on the bench beside his now sullen, brooding wife and smacked the reins to get the horse to move.
Chapter 12
June 22, 1876
Lenora composed herself and drew in a deep breath, then pushed open the door to the dress shop. The tinkling bell brought the store owner rushing from out behind the counter to greet her—Tildie Hortman, whose eyes swam with a lust for silver dollars. Stella was not surprised the old biddy was a spinster. Who would marry such an ugly crow? Her nose was a birdlike beak, and her head rested on too long a neck. And her choice of clothing—so unflattering to her spindly figure.
Lenora was grateful for the ample curves she’d been born with, but she worked hard to stay beautiful—with her powders and creams, and by resisting sweets. Although, she wondered why she bothered these days to primp. Her husband hardly paid her any mind, but Lenora didn’t care all that much. Once she got the gold and arrived in San Francisco, then . . .
Soon, she told
herself. Another week with this warm weather, the trails up to the cabin would be manageable. In the last two weeks there had been no word of Clayton and Billy. The newspapers weren’t even sure they’d been the ones to rob that bank in Laporte. So there was no way to know if they were around—or even alive. But one thing Lenora knew without a doubt—the longer she hung around in this poor excuse for a town, the more likely they’d find her. It was nearly time to skedaddle.
She considered slipping away without anyone the wiser, but where could she go? If she went to another nearby town, Monty could find her. Or he might put notices in the paper looking for her. Word—and her description—would get out. She’d hoped her “unladylike” behavior would push Monty to kick her out, but he was too honorable a man to do such a thing, she’d come to realize. No matter how much she grieved him, he always softened and tried to be forgiving and understanding, which made her want to gag. How’d she end up with such a sucker?
“Ah, Mrs. Connors, you’re here. Your dresses are finished and ready for fitting.” The woman’s eyes brightened in curiosity. “And how are things on your homestead? I hear tell you took over the Hoskins’s claim. Such a lovely spot on the creek, isn’t it?”
The shopkeeper led Lenora over to an upholstered chair in the back of the room and sat her down. Clearly she didn’t expect Lenora to answer her inquiries, for she continued rambling. “Now, just wait here, and I’ll bring your dresses to you to try on. We have a nice private room over there where you can change, and I’ll call Grace out here to help with the adjustments.” Tildie flitted off to a back room behind a curtain, and Lenora heard muffled conversation.
Grace. That must be the young woman Lenora had seen in the harness shop a few days ago. She grunted, feeling the irritation rise in her chest. One look at that woman, sitting there on that bench, with her eyes pinned longingly upon Monty, and she knew just what that woman—
Lenora sucked in a breath and her eyebrows rose. Her jaw dropped. Yes, the woman had a look of utter longing on her face. Lenora knew the look well—she was a keen observer. One had to be to become a great actress. And the look on that young mother’s face had been one of adoration. Lenora might even say the woman had the look of love on her features. The kind of love a woman felt only for a man she knew intimately . . .
Lenora’s thoughts jerked to a halt before the glaring brick wall of truth.
Grace . . . that was the name on Montgomery Cunningham’s marriage certificate—the name of his wife. Grace Wilcox. Lenora had memorized every little word of that little piece of paper.
She tapped her foot in a fast rhythm and fidgeted. Was this the same woman? Was this little mousy button-nosed nothing Monty’s real wife? If she was . . . that meant the brat was his too.
A baby! Grace must have been pregnant when Monty fell into the river. The poor dear. Lenora sniggered. Alone, raising a child, and now—she learns her beloved husband has no idea who she is. And he has no idea that he is a father. Aw, what a sad story, one perfect for the penny dreadfuls.
Lenora was struck with equal parts amusement and worry. For if this woman was truly Monty’s wife, her presence might jog his memories. And Lenora couldn’t take the chance that Monty would start remembering—not as long as Lenora had to keep up this ruse and remain in Fort Collins. Nosiree. She had to be certain of her hunch.
The shopkeeper returned, with Grace following behind her, her arms overflowing with dresses. When Grace saw her, she stiffened. Lenora pasted on a smile. No doubt Grace did not relish the idea of another encounter with her. But Lenora would be on her best behavior and pretend nothing had happened at the harness shop.
“Now, let’s have you try this one on,” Tildie said, lifting up a pretty high-collared burgundy silk and handing it to her. Lenora had to admit—the dress was gorgeous. She gushed in delight, saying to Grace, “My, this is stunning. You do beautiful work.” Tildie hovered, a wide smile creasing her severe face.
“Where did you learn to sew, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lenora said to Grace as sweetly as possible. She noticed Grace’s tight face loosen and her shoulders relax.
Grace spoke quietly as she pulled aside the curtain to the changing area and gestured Lenora inside. “I grew up in Bloomington, Illinois. My aunt was a seamstress, and she taught me all I know.”
Aha, Lenora thought. It’s her—has to be. The marriage certificate was stamped in that city. So, of all places, she had run into Monty’s wife. But, why should she be surprised? No doubt Monty had fallen into the river close to Fort Collins. And, she reminded herself, Monty had a job offer—the very job he now had, with the land office. Silly me. Of course she would be here. She would have come here in hopes her poor husband had somehow survived his ordeal. But what a surprise the poor thing had! Lenora almost squirmed in delight, thinking how upset Grace must be knowing Lenora was married to her husband. She let out a little titter as she flounced into the changing area and disrobed.
The silk dress felt divine as she slipped it over her head and smoothed it over her corset and taffeta petticoats. Such a beautiful dress—one that would make Monty’s heart beat a little fast. Knowing that Monty’s wife was living here in Fort Collins and had seen him married to another woman was titillating. She pictured poor little Grace watching in horror as Lenora ran her hand through Monty’s hair. How agonizing it must be for her to know Monty slept in another’s woman’s arms. But what could the pathetic woman do? Surely she couldn’t tell him the truth—he’d think she was mad. Would she dare tell him the brat was his? Had she told anyone else in this town?
Hmm, that could be a problem. Lenora stood there, thinking. What if Grace had told someone about seeing Monty in town? She wiggled her head and sniggered. Who would believe her? If she claimed she’d been married to him, but that he somehow forgot and married another, who would believe her? What proof did she have? None, nothing at all.
Lenora huffed and came out. The shopkeeper was busy at the counter. Grace had hung up the other dresses on a nearby rack and stood, waiting for Lenora.
Grace looked Lenora over, clearly avoiding meeting her eyes. “How does it fit? Does it need any adjustments?” Her voice was shaky and paper thin.
Lenora smiled. “You took careful measurements. It fits perfectly.” She couldn’t resist; she just had to stick a few barbs in. “So . . . what does your husband do?” she asked innocently.
Grace nearly choked. Her face turned red, and Lenora saw her swallow with difficulty. Lenora waited, her head cocked in polite curiosity.
“He . . . he . . .” Grace fumbled for words, much to Lenora’s secret amusement. After composing herself, she said, “He was swept away in a river last year.”
“Oh, I’m sooo sorry,” Lenora said, shaking her head in commiseration. “And the poor baby. How hard it must be to raise him without a father. Oh, you must miss him so much.” She turned and fastened her eyes on Grace, waiting to see her response.
Grace’s face collapsed in pain. She jerked her head back and moaned, then ran from the room. The shopkeeper rushed over.
Tildie questioned Lenora with an intense look. She whispered, “Whatever is the matter with Grace?”
Lenora pasted on a puzzled expression. “I have no idea. I just asked her about her husband, what he does . . .” She let her voice trail off and looked toward the back room with grave concern. “Did I misspeak?”
“Oh, please, don’t mind her,” Tildie said, then lowered her voice even more. “She is a marvelous seamstress, but has some . . . emotional imbalances. Why . . . I believe she has it in her mind that your husband . . . well, it’s not polite of me to make such assumptions—”
But that won’t stop you from gossiping, now, nosiree. Lenora knew well her kind of woman. A spinster like her had nothing to live for but gossip. With bated breath, Lenora whispered back, her eyes wide. “Pray, do tell!”
“That day your husband came into the shop? Grace looked as if she’d seen a ghost—a ghost of her recently departed husband. She
wants so very much for him to be alive, longing for him to walk in through the door . . . why, she just fixed it in her mind that he was her beloved. And she hasn’t been the same ever since.” The shopkeeper tittered like a chatty hen. “Can you imagine such a thing? I believe her misfortune has dismantled her mind, the poor dear. I’ve no doubt that soon she will think she sees her husband at every turn.” She shook her head with sadness. “And the poor infant, having such a befuddled woman as a mother. How will he fare, with all the talk about town?”
No doubt much of that talk spread by you, Lenora concluded, nodding and commiserating along with the shopkeeper.
The woman laid a gentle hand on Lenora’s shoulder. “I apologize for Grace’s . . . unstable constitution. Here, let me help you with the other dresses. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with them.”
Tildie lifted the next dress from the hook on the wall and held it out to her. A lovely pale-green organdy dress, in the latest French style with buttons up the cuffs and lace around the collar.
“Ah, how lovely. Grace truly is a marvelous seamstress. And it’s so kind of you to allow her to work for you . . . despite her . . . instability and . . . unpleasant circumstances.”
Tildie glanced to the back of the room, as if expecting Grace to return.
“Yes, well, I do have a business to run,” the woman told her.
“And you do a remarkable job. Not a finer dress shop have I ever seen—not even in Den—” She caught herself. “Not even in St. Louis, where I lived before I came here.” Lenora smiled widely. “I’ll try this on then.”
She ducked back behind the curtain and carefully removed the silk dress. Well, her suspicions were confirmed. People in this town knew about Grace’s unfortunate situation—and knew that she thought Monty was her husband. And even though Tildie imagined Grace saw her missing husband in the faces of other young men, Lenora did not rest easy. For Grace would not chase after any other man. In time, her belief that Monty—and he alone—was her missing husband would be voiced. And that meant Lenora would be in the limelight, which was the last place she wanted to be while in Fort Collins.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 12