Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  Something had to be done, and soon. Something drastic. For tongues wagged excitedly in this small town, and she didn’t think Grace would be able to resist Monty. She would try to talk to him, to get him to remember. No doubt she would do anything in her power to win back her husband.

  And Lenora couldn’t let that happen. Hopefully the weather would cooperate, and she could leave town within the week. But if not . . . maybe, she thought with a sudden smile, there would just have to be another unfortunate accident.

  ***

  Grace took her time walking down Jefferson Street, careful not to put too much pressure on her ankle. After soaking it in hot water and laying ice packs on it for a few days, it finally felt strong enough. How she’d managed to hobble home, carrying Ben after the accident with the wagon, was a blur in her mind. Seeing Monty so close, having him touch her, had been torturous. When she finally hobbled into the Franklins’ house, she went to her room, bolted the door, and slept through most of the day and night—despite Charity’s periodic knocking at her door—waking only to feed and change Ben, who seemed as exhausted by the traumatic ordeal as she.

  She jostled the packages in her arms in the brisk clear morning as she approached the livery, feeling strangely empty, as if all the blood had drained out of her. She hadn’t eaten much in days, and her small room had become so claustrophobic, she couldn’t bear remaining in it a moment longer. Upon telling Charity the unavoidable news that the perambulator had been crushed by a horse and wagon, the woman threw her hands up in horror and poured sappy words of consolation upon Grace, praising the Lord for her safe deliverance from death, all the while prying Grace for the details—which Grace refrained from indulging.

  Charity graciously offered to tell Tildie that her houseguest was feeling unwell and needed a few days to recover, but Grace had no doubt Charity’s feet rushed to spread more gossip about her. And then, the day she went back to work, that woman came into the shop, as if sent by the Devil himself to sorely vex her even more. She rushed back home and locked herself in her room, then cried all afternoon. She yearned to quit her job, but it was her only means of support. With her meager earnings, she paid the Franklins for room and board, and bought necessities for herself and Ben.

  Thankfully, as Grace entered the shop this morning, Tildie’s eyes took on a glint of curiosity, but she merely exchanged the usual pleasantries. No mention was made of Grace’s emotional outburst. Grace was grateful, when Tildie asked if she might deliver some dresses to an elderly customer and offer to check the fitting at the woman’s home. Grace couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough.

  “Good mornin’ to ya,” a voice called out.

  Grace looked up and saw Clare stepping out from the shadows of the livery. And with her stood an attractive young cowboy, dressed in brown wool pants with a pale shirt that had seen some years of wear. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat upon seeing Grace and gave a bright straight-toothed smile. Curly light-brown hair trickled down his ears and cascaded onto his shoulders. As Grace waved hello, she noticed his hand resting on Clare’s back. This had to be her beau—Eli.

  He stood a good foot taller than Grace and Clare, with a wide strong jaw, and prominent cheekbones that suggested he might have some Indian in him. Clare’s face was a bit flushed, and she touched a hand to her throat. Grace wondered what they’d been doing in that back room, where Clare punched saddles and bridles. Grace smiled, for it was clear the two were in love, and she was happy for Clare.

  “This here’s Eli Banks,” Clare said, nudging her beau. “Eli, meet Grace. She’s the gal I told ya about.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, miss,” Eli said, nodding. He seemed all sweet and no-nonsense to Grace, with a voice as smooth as honey mixed with a little grit.

  Grace replied, “Likewise, Mr. Banks.”

  Eli chortled and waved a hand. “Please, just call me Eli.”

  “All right . . . Eli,” Grace said, not used to young men being so informal with strangers—and especially not women.

  “How are ya farin’?” Clare asked sincerely.

  Grace wished she could tell her the truth—that she was more than miserable—but she held back. When she didn’t answer, Clare took the parcels from Grace’s hands before Grace could utter a word of protest. “Eli and I were just talking about the upcoming centennial celebration—and the horse races.” She led Grace to a bench inside the livery, out of the cold breeze. She sat down alongside Grace and set the parcels at her feet, but Eli stood facing Clare, his eyes swimming with love—which only made Grace’s heart ache even more for Monty.

  Clare continued. “We mean to take every ribbon this year.” She threw Eli a sly look. “And we’re going to enter as a team in the roping competition.”

  Grace was shocked. “You? You . . . rope . . . what? Horses? Cows?” Grace had never been to a rodeo or anything of the ilk. She had heard of such events, but had no idea women participated in them.

  Clare and Eli burst out in laughter. He said, “We rope calves. It’s a timed event. Two riders bolt out of a chute when the gun goes off and—”

  “One rider lassoes the calf’s head,” Clare interjected, “while the other snags a foot. Ya have to flip the calf on its back, tie up three legs, and let go.”

  Grace shook her head in amazement. “You know how to do this?” she asked Clare. She imagined Eli might have such skills if he worked on a ranch, but Clare?

  Her friend laughed again—a warm, nonjudgmental manner that set Grace’s heart at ease. “Sure, I’ve been on a ranch my whole life.” She nudged Eli harder, playfully. “And I’m better with the lasso than this green cowboy.”

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing her hands and pulling her close, his honey-brown eyes sparkling as he gazed into Clare’s. “Who you callin’ green—my little Irish lass from the Emerald Isle?”

  Clare whacked him lightly upside the head and knocked his hat to the ground. Eli chuckled and picked up his hat, brushed it off, and stuffed it back in place. He narrowed his eyes at Clare. “Don’t you be messin’ with a man’s hat. You should know better.”

  “Yessir,” she said with the look of a misbehaving schoolgirl who’d just been chastised by her teacher—and didn’t care a whit.

  Clare shook her head and patted her hair, as if making sure it was all in place. She was wearing a gingham skirt and white tailored shirt. Even in such simple clothes, she looked beautiful. Clare had a natural beauty—of the spirit—that shone through, and Grace imagined that was what appealed to Eli. For he appeared wholly at ease with her confident manner and lack of concern for wearing fashionable clothes or putting on airs. They seemed a perfect match.

  Again she realized how much she longed for a friend, someone to share her deepest joys and pains with—now that she no longer had Monty to confide in. His absence was an ache that hurt more than any illness, and she knew no way to heal it. Nothing but getting him back would cure her. But she had to stop thinking like that—it was only tormenting her.

  “Grace, are you all right?” Clare moved closer and forced Grace to meet her eyes. Grace tried to smile, but once more the tears filled the wells of her eyes. “Tell us what’s bothering you.”

  Grace looked at Clare, then Eli. These people were practically strangers, but she felt if she didn’t tell someone her troubles, she would utterly fall apart. And she had to keep a right mind for Ben. She needed to move out, and worried the Strattons had already let out their spare room. What would happen if she told them the truth—all of it? Would they belittle her? Scoff at her story? Was it really proper for her to speak so freely to a man she didn’t know?

  She chortled bitterly. What did she have to lose? She doubted she could stain her reputation further.

  “Do you really want to know?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on your saddles?”

  Clare reached over and smoothed Grace’s hair with the touch of a loving mother. Grace’s heart melted at the tender gesture. A few tears worked down her cheeks, and she trie
d to suck the rest down her throat. Clare said quietly, “I have all the time in the world.” She looked at Eli. “He’s come over from Greeley to help me get my things moved into the hotel.”

  “How ’bout we head over to the café on Prospect? I heard a body c’n scare up a real breakfast there,” Eli said, taking a look at the sky dotted with fat white clouds. “It’s fixin’ to snow this afternoon, but we have time for some vittles,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I’m starvin’.”

  Grace studied the sky overhead, but saw nothing to indicate that snow was imminent. She glanced at Clare, who shrugged and said, “He’s half Cheyenne. He can predict the weather.”

  Eli made a sour face. “Clare, that’s hogwash. I don’t predict the weather.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Any fool c’n see it’s fixin’ to snow.”

  “Well, I guess I’m a fool then, because I can never tell when the weather’s gonna change. And you always know. It’s a gift.” She looked at Grace. “And he has a flawless sense of direction—never gets lost. Unlike me.”

  “Sugar, so long’s you c’n find the right end of a lasso to throw and a gun to point, you’ll do right fine,” Eli said. “So, are we gonna stand around all day chattin’ about the weather—or go eat?”

  Grace’s stomach rumbled, reminding her how starving she truly was. Good thing she had a few coins in her coat pocket. “I have to drop these parcels off.” She supposed she could tell Mrs. St. Vrain she would return later in the day for a fitting.

  “Just tell me where,” Eli said, “and we’ll stop on our way.”

  Clare took Grace’s arm as they walked behind Eli to a wagon that had an empty flat bed in the back. A large chestnut draft horse stood hitched to it half asleep alongside the back wall of the livery. Clare lightly squeezed Grace’s arm, making Grace turn to look at her.

  “Ya like him?” she whispered to Grace.

  Grace smiled and tried to think of something kind to say. “You roped in a good one, Clare.”

  Clare snickered and whispered, “Still don’t have those legs tied . . . but I’m working on it.”

  “I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” Grace said. “He’s smitten.”

  Clare grunted. “And I aim to keep him that way.” Her tone grew serious. “Listen, Grace. I want to know what’s bothering ya. And you can trust Eli. He never talks to anyone about anythin’ private. He’s been raised right. And he has a smart sense for sussing out solutions to problems.” Her eyes lit up. “And Eli’s invited me to come to his ranch north of Greeley—to finally meet his mam! His da died when he was little, but she runs a horse ranch.”

  She gestured Grace to climb up to the bench. Eli held out his hand and took her parcels, then helped her up, and she was grateful because her ankle felt wobbly. She gathered in her skirts to make room for the others, then slid the parcels under the seat.

  “See,” Clare declared, “raised properly. Manners and all.” She shot Eli a big smile. “What do ya think about my bringin’ Grace over to your ranch this Sunday?” she asked him. Grace warmed at the invitation. It would do her good to get out of town a bit—away from Stella, and Monty. At least until she could get a grip on her feelings.

  Eli nodded as he helped Clare up to sit beside Grace. “A fine idea. I don’t want you ridin’ there and back alone, ’specially not at night.”

  “Eli Banks—you don’t think I can take care of myself? I’m a big girl.”

  “Yep—a big, beautiful girl that some rapscallions might be itchin’ to git their hands on. All that Irish fire and a good trigger finger won’t be enough to stop the likes of some.”

  “I don’t think I’d be much protection,” Grace said, now wondering just how dangerous the road to Greeley really was.

  “You c’n shoot a gun?” he asked Grace. She nodded, thinking of the times Monty had made her practice, the memory stinging her heart.

  Eli smirked and cocked his head. He said to Clare, “Well, then I reckon you’ll be safe. No one’ll mess with two armed women. They’d be a right fool to try.”

  Eli sat on the bench and wiggled close to Clare. He picked up the reins and got the horse trotting down the street.

  “Don’t you worry about travelin’ to my ranch, miss,” Eli said in a reassuring tone. “Folks travel it all the time. It’s perfectly safe.”

  Clare nodded. “He was just messin’ with us. That’s his way.” She elbowed him hard. He said “ouch” and pasted a fake scowl on his face.

  “So, where’s this place you need to stop?” he asked Grace.

  She gave him directions, and after she dropped off the dresses with Mrs. St. Vrain with a promise to return later, they rode over to the café.

  In a quiet corner of the eatery, with the morning light streaming in through mullioned windows, they ate a hearty breakfast. When they’d finished, Clare set her fork down and pushed her plate away. “All right, Grace, spill the beans. I can tell it’s makin’ you ill, keepin’ all this worry bottled up inside. It is Ben? Is he ailin’?”

  Grace drew in a long breath, then let it out, along with her reticence. She just had to tell someone before she burst apart. So, with her hands shaking, she told them everything—from the day she and Monty had set out from Cheyenne, to the flood that had swept Monty away, to being found by the old trader and taken to the Franklins, to the moment Monty walked into the dress shop. When she related how Monty had failed to recognize her, she choked up and shook her head, unable to say more.

  “Oh, Grace,” Clare said, her own eyes filling with tears. “How awful. How very awful!”

  Eli had listened to her recount the entire story without so much as a word. But clearly he now had something to say. “You’re a right brave woman, Grace. I woulda punched that woman’s lights out.”

  Clare held his arm, keeping Eli in his seat. For he seemed so angry, he was ready to chase down Stella with the fork he was waving in the air. The image was so ridiculous that Grace almost laughed. Yet, the pain from telling her tale kept a frown on her face. She was moved by Eli’s concern and Clare’s compassion.

  “I appreciate you listening to my woeful tale,” Grace said. “I have no one to talk to . . .” Her words clogged her throat again.

  Clare wrapped an arm around Grace’s shoulders. “But who is she—this Stella? Who really? Ya said she claims to have met and married your Monty back in St. Louis.”

  “She’s lyin’,” Eli said evenly. “The question is why.”

  Clare nodded vigorously. “Grace, there’s something very wrong here—”

  “That’s puttin’ it mildly,” Eli said. His face tightened, and he looked hard at Grace. “Stella . . . Stella . . . What’s she look like?”

  Grace described Stella, forcing words through her tight, aching throat. She drank some water, then added, “She goes by the name Connors. And he’s called Malcolm. Malcolm Connors.”

  “It makes no sense at all,” Clare said, shaking her head. “Why would she lie?”

  “Because she’s hidin’ somethin’,” Eli said with an emphatic tone. “I think I met this woman—last year, just south of Evans. The way you describe her makes me think it must be her. LeRoy and I fixed a wheel on her wagon.” He narrowed his eyes and looked right at Grace. “But she was alone, and had come up from Denver City. She weren’t with no man—if’n this is the same woman.”

  Grace grew quiet. Clare looked like a dog that had a tight grip on a bone and had no intention of parting with it. “So, this woman meets Monty somewhere. Grace—it’s clear he’s lost his memory. It must have happened when he was swept downriver. Hit his head on a rock or something.”

  Grace nodded, not caring that more tears were coursing down her cheeks. She looked across the table at Eli, who was chewing on his thoughts.

  Clare continued. “So, she meets Monty, who is . . . somewhere. Maybe in Greeley? And he doesn’t know who he is. Maybe someone found him near the river—like what happened to you—and they took him into town. Maybe he found some work,
got a place to stay, all the while trying to figure out who he was—”

  “And then Stella came along,” Eli added with a scowl. “But why? Why set her hooks in him. Not like he had any money—”

  “He’s handsome. And kind. Most women would find him hard to resist,” Grace mumbled, thinking of how handsome he’d looked the day he came back from his expeditions, intent on proposing to her. Her sorrow was a great big lake of tears that kept widening with each day. How could these friends help her? Was there any way to get Monty to remember her? Any way to get him back?

  “Looks ain’t enough,” Eli said, shaking his head. “A woman like that—she’d want money and comforts.”

  “She doesn’t love him,” Grace blurted out. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she knew. Eli and Clare were right. There had to be some other reason Stella married Monty. Did she know his real name? Or was that a name he thought up for himself, because he couldn’t remember who he was? Oh, none of this made sense.

  “What can I do? I can’t tell Monty the truth. But I want him to know his son. He deserves to know Ben—and Ben has a right to know he’s not illegitimate, that he has a father . . .” Grace buried her head in her hands.

  “Maybe I could talk to your fella. Feel out what he knows, what he remembers. Find out where he met Stella, and how they ended up gettin’ married,” Eli said.

  Grace looked at him, shaking her head. “Please, don’t say anything. At least, not now. I . . . I keep hoping maybe his memory will return. Maybe in time—”

  “But you might wait forever,” Clare said. “Maybe if someone told him the truth, he would remember.”

  “I’m afraid I’d lose all chance of getting him back. Something like that might frighten him, and he’d think I was mad to make such a claim.”

  Silence filled the quiet corner where they sat. A few other patrons ate their breakfasts, unaware of the serious discussion taking place at the far table. Grace looked out the window and saw fat flakes of snow falling from a steel-gray sheet of clouds blanketing the sky. She said to Clare, “Maybe you should go fetch your things and get moved in. The snow’s here.”