He knew if he confronted her that she’d be incensed and horrified and would deny his suspicions. But he could no longer suppress the growing unrest in his soul—he had to suss out the truth. He’d recently caught her lying about her drinking, and her face gave her away when she prevaricated in such a manner. He’d learned that if a person lied about one thing, it usually meant they lied about other things. If she denied the accusations, maybe he’d be able to see it in her face—whether or not she was deceitful. But then what? He couldn’t force the truth out of her. Could he wheedle it out?
What if . . . no, that wouldn’t be honorable to do. He pushed the thought away—of waiting until she’d had a lot to drink, then getting her to talk. But why not? He wasn’t forcing her to get drunk. All he had to do was wait, and the opportunity would surely present itself. The thought, however encouraging, also greatly vexed him. How much more could he take? He didn’t think he could bear much more unhappiness and this feeling of being trapped—and now feeling duped.
He kicked Rambler’s flanks and got him trotting as he approached the outskirts of town. Wind blew snow in his face, and the world had gone white and silent around him. He’d thought spring was just around the corner, but now it looked as if winter had one last gasp to give. He knew how much Stella hated the snow and winter, and no doubt he’d find her back at the homestead, grumbling and miserable—and drinking.
Maybe before the day was over, he’d get the answers he needed. And as much as he wanted to learn the truth, the upshot was he feared it—feared what he’d lost. For something deep inside him told him that he’d lost something very precious to him.
No, not something. Someone.
Chapter 14
Grace tucked her bonneted head down as far as she could into her thick wool coat, but somehow tendrils of cold seeped down her neck and sent a chill through her. The snow that had been sliding down into her boots had soaked her stockings and now gathered in small puddles in which her feet sloshed around as she hurried along the wooden boardwalk on College Avenue. She should have had Eli and Clare drop her off at home instead of at Mrs. St. Vrain’s. But Grace had promised to return and do the fitting for the old arthritic lady, and she’d had a nice visit by her crackling hearth, drinking hot tea and munching on delicious lemon cookies. Now, eight blocks from the Franklins’, Grace trudged along, hoping Ben was warm and well fed, wishing she was back in her room, holding him in her arms. She so needed the comfort of human touch.
As much as it had helped to spill her heart out to Clare and Eli, and to be encouraged by them, recounting her story to them had reopened the deep wound in her soul. Although, she’d be a fool to think this wound could ever heal. Keep hopeful, she reminded herself. She had to trust and pray and believe—even when she didn’t want to. She heard her aunt’s words in her head: “Faith cannot be your possession until it is truly and fully tested.”
Her aunt had raised her to believe in a just, loving God. And to be grateful for all the blessings bestowed upon her. Grace knew she had so much to be grateful for, and tried to think on those things rather than on all she had lost.
She warmed thinking of Clare and Eli, and looked forward to going with Clare on Sunday to Eli’s ranch, where she’d meet his brother and his Cheyenne mother. She’d never met a pureblooded Indian before, although there were many in Illinois who had some Indian blood of one kind or another. Eli had said his grandmother had been a medicine woman of her tribe, and that his mother was a gifted healer and seer. Grace wasn’t sure what a seer was, but maybe Sarah Banks could help her in some way. Help her see her way forward.
Grace heard the sound of horses and looked over at the street. An enclosed buggy pulled up to where she stood, and a small man got out and ran over to her, his head buried under a wide-brimmed hat. He wore a long dark woolen coat and nice leather shoes not meant for the snow. When he raised his face to hers, Grace recognized him—the clerk from the courthouse.
“Hello, Mrs. Cunningham,” the man said, tipping his hat at her and wiping snow from his glasses with his other hand. “Alan Patterson—from the courthouse.” He gave her a sweet smile that revealed a row of crooked teeth, and then quickly closed his mouth, as if embarrassed for her to see them.
“Yes, I remember you, Mr. Patterson.” She tucked back against the Whedbee Mercantile’s window, under the false front awning, hoping to get some relief from the deluge of snow, but the wind merely shifted and blew it into her face. She rubbed her arms with her gloved hands.
“This is no weather for you to be out in,” he said. “May I give you a ride home?” He held out his hand.
Grace allowed him to take hold of her arm. “Thank you. I am grateful. I only live six blocks up Maple, but in this weather it seems more like six miles. Does it often snow in June here?”
“Sometimes in July and even August, Mrs. Cunningham. That’s the Front Range for you.”
Without further word or ado, he led her carefully off the boardwalk and into the buggy’s interior, where she plopped down on the tan leather seat and gave a sigh. Although the buggy was cold, she was out of the snow and glad she did not have to walk the remaining blocks. The last thing she needed was to catch her death of cold from having wet feet.
“What address on Maple?” the clerk asked her, leaning in politely through the buggy’s door, trying not to let any snow blow in.
“At the corner of Loomis. Do you know the Franklins—Jedidiah and Charity?”
He nodded, then gently clicked the door shut. Grace imagined that with his job, he knew where every person in the town lived.
Presently they were underway, the snow muffling the sounds of the horses and breeching and hooves trotting down the street. In no time at all they had arrived, and Grace felt it only polite to invite Mr. Patterson in—if Charity would allow it.
When she opened the door, she heard a gleeful shriek from Ben. He squirmed out of Charity’s arms and crawled to her, and Grace gathered him up. She said to Charity, who stood eying her with what seemed disdain and judgment, “Mr. Patterson was kind to give me a ride home in this storm. I was at Mrs. St. Vrain’s house, doing a fitting, and the snow caught me unawares.”
Charity’s face softened—whether due to her finding this an acceptable excuse for being in a man’s company or because Mr. Patterson was standing in the doorway watching this exchange, Grace didn’t know. But Charity became all smiles and welcomed him in, saying, “Oh yes, Mr. Patterson, from the courthouse—do come in,” then hurried off to make tea and bring them something to eat.
With Ben in her arms, Grace gestured for the clerk to come inside, which he did a bit tentatively. Grace excused herself to get out of her wet shoes and stockings, and kissed and hugged Ben as she went to her room and changed into a dry skirt and sweater and soft fur-lined slippers. When she returned, feeling warm and flushed from the heated room, Charity breezed in with a tea service and biscuits. Mr. Patterson sat stiffly, a bit nervous, with his hat in his hand.
“Do make yourself at home, Mr. Patterson,” she said. “I’ll hang up your hat and coat by the door.”
She held out her arms, and only then did Mr. Patterson realize he was dripping water from his coat onto the parquet floor.
“Oh, please forgive my lack of manners,” he said, shrugging off his coat and handing it to her, along with his hat.
“Oh, do not concern yourself,” Charity said, all smiles.
Grace was glad for her kind and gracious demeanor, but then, Charity prided herself in her hospitality. Grace glanced out the window at the endlessly falling snow. Would she ever find time to pay a call on the Strattons? She supposed she would speak to them on Sunday at church. And maybe if they were agreeable, she could go home with them after the service and see the room they offered to let out to her. She hoped they hadn’t found another tenant.
Charity and Mr. Patterson exchanged pleasant conversation about this and that, but Grace did little other than smile and nod at times. She bounced Ben on her knee, but he cra
wled off to the pile of blocks in the corner and happily entertained himself. After they had drunk their tea and eaten the somewhat dry biscuits, Charity gathered the cups and plates and went into the kitchen.
Mr. Patterson watched her leave, and then leaned in and spoke in a subdued tone. “Mrs. Cunningham, I received a letter back from the courthouse in Bloomington.” He glanced toward the kitchen, and Grace heard Charity bustling about, humming a little tune Grace had heard before.
Grace appreciated the clerk’s discretion. She did not care for Charity to know any more of her personal business—which meant more for the woman to gossip about. Her pulse quickened as she waited for him to continue.
His face showed apology and kindness. “Apparently, there’d been a fire recently in the building in which all the records were kept. Firefighters had put out the fire in a timely manner, but many of the court documents had been burned. However, most were salvaged, but due to the water damage, it seems it will take some weeks to sort through the mess and put everything back in order. As it stands, no one has yet been able to find your marriage certificate.”
Grace’s heart sank at the news, but Mr. Patterson—seeing her dismay, no doubt—said reassuringly, “I’ll inquire again in a few weeks. Perhaps by then they’ll have all the papers back in order, and will locate your certificate.” He added with a nervous expression, “I know how much this means to you, Mrs. Cunningham. I can only imagine how difficult your circumstances are . . . and living in a small town . . . well, people tend to talk . . .”
Grace had the feeling that this clerk had heard rumors about her—hence the reason for his nervous fidgeting.
“I thank you for your help in this matter. And your concern.” He let out a long breath, and then rose to his feet. Grace stood as well, assuming he was ready to leave. She made to show him to the door, but he remained in place, his neat tweed suit rumpled and hanging loosely on his lean frame. His curly hair was a bit matted to his face, and he brushed it off his forehead and cleared his throat. He avoided meeting her eyes, and Grace wondered why he was nervous in her presence.
After another quick glance toward the kitchen, he said just above a whisper, “Would you . . . would you like to have dinner with me sometime? I know, I mean, I . . .” His words lodged in his throat, and he met her eyes. Grace startled at the unexpected invitation. Now she understood his unease. She was flattered by his interest, but the last thing she wanted right now was to fend off a man’s affections. Yet, she could tell he was kindhearted and sensitive, and did not want to hurt his feelings.
“You are too kind, Mr. Patterson—”
“Please, call me Alan.”
“I truly thank you for your generous offer, Alan. But . . . I am . . .” She paused, then continued. “I am not over the loss of my husband, and with a child to raise and my work responsibilities, I don’t think I am ready for much . . . of a social life. But,” she hurried to add, “it is good of you to care.” She hoped he sensed her sincerity.
He looked a bit crestfallen, but nodded in understanding. “It may be that in time you will want to find someone . . . who can help you carry the burden you bear. I hope you will . . . consider me.”
He said those words with such fear and trembling, Grace felt equal parts pity and humility. All she could say was, “Thank you, Alan. I will.”
She retrieved his coat and hat and handed them to him. As he put them on, Charity came into the room, a dishtowel in her hand.
“So good of you to bring Grace home, Mr. Patterson. I hope the roads aren’t too difficult for your horses to navigate.”
He touched the brim of his hat. “They’re plenty used to Colorado snow, although I’m certain they’re as tired of it as I am. Good day, Mrs. Franklin.” He nodded at Charity, then gave Grace a sweet but sad smile. His eyes burned with rejection, but Grace could think of nothing to say other than to thank him again and wish him well.
Charity mumbled something about needing to begin fixing dinner, and Grace offered to help. But, as usual, Charity declined Grace’s offer in a brusque manner and bustled off in her busy manner. The exhaustion of the day pressed like a heavy weight on Grace’s shoulders, and she longed for a hot bath. Seeing that Ben was still playing with his blocks, she headed to the bathing room to prepare a hot bath, hoping that when she went into the kitchen to heat water Charity would not ply her with questions or chastise her in any way.
She went into her room and stood by the window, watching the snow falling and piling in drifts in the yard. The white pickets of the short fence were nearly buried now, and the peaks of the houses down the street were capped in white as if wearing neat little caps. Clean white snow turned the town into a pristine winter marvel, reminding Grace of a snow globe her aunt had kept on the mantel in the boardinghouse sitting room. Inside the glass ball was an intricately crafted tiny European town, and when young, Grace had loved to shake the snow and watch it fall on the quaint cottages and shops.
Grace had longed to one day live in a small quaint town like that one, and when Monty had proposed to her, she envisioned the day when they’d move to Fort Collins and sit together by a warming fire, watching the snow blanket the world outside, enclosing them in their world of love—their own safe, pristine snow globe of wonder and joy.
But just as easily as glass shatters, her world had shattered. And now the snow fell upon the shards of her broken heart and broken life—cold, smothering, and stark. Somewhere, just a few miles away, her husband—the man she loved with all her heart—was in a house and in the arms of another woman, maybe sitting by a warm fire and looking out at the flakes swirling in the wind and feeling the joy and peace that she’d had stolen from her.
With a strangled cry, Grace fell to the floor and wept.
***
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Malcolm spun around, startled, then pressed his back against her opened dresser drawer, closing it. He hadn’t heard Stella come in, and there she stood, listing to one side, drunk, and waggling an accusing finger at him. But his surprise turned quickly to outrage.
“Just where have you been?” He gestured to the dark, foreboding evening sky out the window. “It’s almost eight. You didn’t leave a note.”
She only shrugged and shifted her weight to the other side of the door frame.
He looked his wife over. She stood in the threshold of their tiny bedroom, her hands on her hips and her eyes glazed. Her clothes were in disarray, but not in the way a woman’s might after riding a horse for miles on a cold day. Her blouse was missing two buttons at the collar, and her skirt looked as if it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo. A close look at her hair showed she’d stuffed her black tresses in sloppy fashion into their combs, implying she’d taken her hair down and then, without the aid of a mirror, attempted to neaten up. And her face showed smears of powder and rouge in the wrong places and in more quantity than she normally used.
He could almost feel his blood boil like a kettle on a hot iron stove. Was she so drunk that she thought he wouldn’t notice these telltale signs of her infidelity? Did she think him such a sap that he wouldn’t object to her outrageous conduct?
Bile rose up his throat in disgust. He slammed shut the other drawers he’d been rifling through—trying to find any clues that might tell him what he yearned to know about his past and his identity—and stormed out of the room, pushing past her and ignoring her whiny complaints.
He’d had it with her, and this latest humiliation—this betrayal—was unforgiveable.
He busied himself by washing his supper dishes, letting his rage propel him around the small kitchen. When he’d gotten home midday and found her and her horse gone, he figured she went to town for something. But when evening rolled in and she was still gone, Malcolm knew she was up to no good. He fixed a plate of cold hash and opened a jar of beans, then sat by the woodstove and fed it sticks of wood to rekindle the smoldering fire she’d left unstoked. After he’d gotten the chill out of the house, and
she still hadn’t returned, he went to task to find anything he could that might give him the answers he sought.
He knew now he shouldn’t waste his time questioning her, for no matter what she told him, he would be hard pressed to believe her.
As he stood at the basin drying the fancy ceramic plates she’d ordered from Boston, he heard her stumble into the room. She knocked a chair over and righted it, emitting a little giggle, then sidled up behind him and stroked the back of his neck, trying to cajole him.
He bristled and set down the plate he was holding.
“Don’t,” was all he said, not turning. He didn’t want to look in her face, see the mirth and inebriation on her features.
“Oh, my darlin’ is upset. What’s botherin’ you, honey?”
He noticed her drawl got more pronounced the more she drank, and didn’t know if it was an act or her actual voice coming out from underneath her disguise. She touched him again, and he swung around and pushed her hand away. She stepped back, incensed—although that too seemed an act. Was everything about her a falsehood?
His gut twisted as the truth sank in. She’d been with another man, and he knew that wasn’t part of an act. This close, he smelled men’s cheap cologne on her skin—wafting through the stench of whiskey on her breath. As much as he now detested her, he still felt hurt by her unfaithfulness. Why, after all this time of being loyal and devoted to him, had she abandoned him, uncaring of his feelings? Just what did she want? Someone to provide a roof over her head and food in the larder?
Stella dropped down into one of the kitchen chairs and propped her head up with her elbows on the table, pouting. “You haven’t answered my question,” she slurred.
“You haven’t answered mine,” he said tersely. “Who were you with?”
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