Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  But a greater weariness weighed on his heart. And it was not due to Stella and her infidelity and lies. Nor was it because of his desperate need to know who he was and where he’d come from. No, this weariness grew out of the deep loneliness and emptiness he felt, and the uncanny sense of loss that plagued him daily. Since the day he’d ridden into Fort Collins, he’d become aware of it. And although he’d been able to ignore its proddings over the months, he could no longer do so now. The weariness had grown into a compulsion, a great need—one he could find no relief for. One that never let up, gave him reprieve. It had stolen away all his peace, and Malcolm knew no way to get that peace back.

  He considered stopping and getting a bite to eat, but he had little appetite and instead chose to walk his horse along the streets of town in mindless abandon, hoping the brisk wind and new sights would distract his thoughts. Other than the main thoroughfares, Malcolm had seen little of the town, and as he took in the tidy, simple houses of the neighborhood, most of them small wood structures painted in subdued colors, he thought about all the sundry people that had come here from parts near and far, hoping to start a new life, like he had.

  Were they happy? He imagined many had come with dreams that were never realized and after a time headed back to where they’d come from. As thriving as Fort Collins was, offering just about every shop and service a body could want, it was still primitive in many ways. The West seemed rough, untamed, dusty, harsh around the edges. He couldn’t remember anything of where he’d lived prior—no images of St. Louis came to his mind or visited his dreams. But the way he felt about this Front Range town made Malcolm believe he’d lived in a big city at one point in his life. Maybe St. Louis. Or maybe not.

  There had to be a way to find out where he’d lived before, where he worked. He’d tried asking Stella, but even when she was thoroughly soused, she wouldn’t answer his questions, no matter how carefully or nicely he worded them. The more drunk she got, the less she said, and the more jumbled those words.

  He grunted in frustration, then had an idea. How many surveyors could there be in St. Louis? They’d have a land office there. Maybe someone would know him. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. If Malcolm Connors wasn’t his real name—then no one would have heard of him. But if it was his name—if Stella hadn’t lied about that—he might be able to learn something. And if he could find just one person, that’s all he’d need. It would be a start.

  With that encouraging thought, Malcolm urged Rambler around the next block and headed toward the courthouse, thinking the clerk there might be able to help him find a directory of surveyors in St. Louis. Malcolm could send a letter to the land office and inquire, although what would he tell them?

  As he pondered this, he noticed a young woman in a dark-green woolen coat walking along the street in his direction, and she carried a big bundle in her arms, a gray wool shawl pulled tightly over her head as the wind tugged on it. Her head was down, but at the sound of his approach, she raised it and stopped suddenly and stared at him.

  Malcolm recognized the woman as the one he’d rescued that day in front of the harness shop. A stricken expression lay across her face, which puzzled him. Her baby fussed in her arms, and he thought how heavy he must be, and that she no longer had a carriage to put him in.

  For some reason, his pulse quickened as he looked at her, then realized he was staring. Her face, tinged pink from the abrasive wind, was like an angel’s. Her pale-green eyes glistened as if filled with tears, and wayward strands of her golden hair tickled her cheeks. A rush of desire rose up his chest, and he chastised himself for the attraction he felt. He was married, he reminded himself, and no matter how lonely he was, he knew it was wrong to indulge in such feelings. But looking at her standing there with such a forlorn look on her face tugged every heartstring he had. He fought a powerful urge to pull her into his arms.

  What was he thinking? He shook his head, trying to fling away his impure thoughts, and slipped down from his horse. He had to know if she was all right.

  He walked up to her, holding his reins in one hand and tipping his hat with the other. The wind blew hard, pushing at them from the side. He reached for his hat before it flew off his head, and the woman pulled her coat tighter around her.

  “Hello, miss,” he said, “I hope you’re well, and that you’ve recovered from your scare. I take it your ankle’s mended?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, casting a quick glance at him from under her lashes. Her voice quavered when she spoke. He looked into her eyes and she met his gaze, then she turned her head and fussed with her baby. But in that brief moment, he saw a flare of pain or hurt streak those enticing eyes. An ache welled up in his heart, and he thought it strange.

  “I don’t believe we properly met,” he said. “My name’s Malcolm Connors.”

  She bit her lip and seemed to struggle with a reply. Maybe he was making her nervous. He stepped back.

  “I’m Grace. Grace Cunningham.” She said no more, but now regarded him steadily, as if waiting for him to speak. With the wind now whistling through the trees in a loud pitch, he had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Cunningham.”

  He thought she looked about to swoon. “Are you unwell?” he asked. “Can I help you somehow? Carry your baby for you? He looks heavy. How far are you going?” His questions gushed out before he could stop them. There was something about this pretty young woman that gave him pause. She seemed so familiar. Perhaps she reminded him of someone he’d known in his past. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, and knew it was rude of him to stare. But the compulsion to hold her grew overwhelming.

  “I’m just out for a walk,” she said tentatively, but then a hint of a smile came up her face—and that simple shift in her countenance slid over him like warm honey. “But the weather’s turned unpleasant. He’s been so fussy lately—new teeth coming in . . .” Her voice trailed off, as if she suddenly remembered she was speaking to a stranger.

  “May I . . . ?” He gestured at the baby. He had no recollection as to whether he’d ever held a child in his arms, but when she handed him over without reservation—the frowning, squirming bundle of blankets—a startling sensation struck him. He didn’t understand what he was feeling, but it was profound and sobering. He sucked in a breath, and the woman—Grace—stared at him, her mouth dropped open.

  The baby stopped fussing and stared into Malcolm’s eyes, and then a big smile burst out on his face, revealing four tiny front teeth. Something about this baby also looked and felt familiar, but what was it—a memory? The baby didn’t look much like its mother, from what Malcolm could tell, and now that he noticed, the baby had one eye that looked a little hazel, while the other was brown—just like his eyes. How unusual.

  Maybe that was what lent a sense of familiarity, Malcolm thought. He tickled the baby’s cheeks, and a little infectious giggle erupted. Malcolm laughed at his adorable antics.

  “He’s a sweet boy,” he told Grace. “You must love him so.”

  She nodded briskly but said nothing. Still, her eyes looked filled with tears, and Malcolm sensed some great pain smoldering in them. “Can I . . . would you allow me to walk with you a while?” he asked, wanting to delve more into these odd feelings stirring in him. Maybe in talking with her some flashes of memory would come to him. He hadn’t felt this before—this strong compulsion that had to be connected with his past.

  “I’d . . . like that, Mr. . . . Connors,” she said. “Are you all right holding him?”

  More than all right, he thought. He wished he could understand the emotion coursing through him as he held this baby in his arms. He felt more than delight or amusement. He felt . . . sublimely content. With alarm, he wondered if perhaps he’d had a child sometime in his past. The pervasive feeling of loss rippled under the surface of his thoughts, which made him think this more a certainty than a possibility.

  They walked side by side down the street, Malcolm le
ading his horse with one hand and holding the baby with the other. They lapsed into a silence that, to Malcolm, felt easy and relaxed, but his mind churned with thoughts. He turned his head to look at Grace. “What’s his name?” he asked her.

  She hesitated but kept walking, facing forward and watching her steps. “It’s Benjamin Montgomery Cunningham,” she said, sadness lodged in her words.

  The wind kept up, dancing around them, throwing leaves and fluff from the blooming cottonwoods into the air and swirling them around. The smell of rain and wood smoke filled the warm street, and a few fat raindrops splattered them. They ambled down a pretty residential lane lined on both sides by bigleaf maples, but no one else was out walking, riding, or in carriages. Malcolm breathed in the baby’s scent and nuzzled into his hair. Again, he felt that perplexing sensation of equal parts contentment and yearning.

  “That’s a good name,” he said. “A strong one. Did you name him after someone?”

  Grace hesitated a moment, then swallowed. “Benjamin was my brother’s name. He died when he was two, of cholera.” She paused, clutching her coat and not looking at him as they continued walking. “Montgomery . . . that was my husband’s name . . .” The words sounded caught in her throat.

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, “I didn’t mean to stir up any painful feelings.” From what Stella had said that day in the harness shop, Malcolm guessed Grace had lost her husband. It couldn’t have been all that long ago, seeing that her baby looked hardly a year old. Her grief would still be fresh. He chided himself for being too forward.

  Suddenly a loud rumble rolled over them, like a faraway train. Malcolm stopped short and swung around, looking to the southwest. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “What is it?” Grace asked.

  His horse neighed and pranced, then pulled on the reins. Malcolm calmed him with soothing words. Rain dumped suddenly on their heads, and Grace let out a small cry. Without thinking, Malcolm took her arm, then scrutinized the sky.

  The swollen tin-colored clouds bunched and shredded overhead, and the wind grew into a squall that had him pulling his coat up over his head and yanking Grace in close. He saw fear and shock in her face, but he had no time to ponder whether she was alarmed by his touch or by the sudden turn in weather—or both.

  He had to yell to be heard, even though she was inches away. The wind grabbed at his words, and it took all his strength to stand in place and keep Grace from blowing down the street.

  “We better find shelter.” He cast an anxious glance around, thinking they should run to the nearest house and get inside.

  His horse then reared up, and Malcolm jerked back, protecting Ben, whom he’d practically buried inside his coat. The baby squirmed in his hot enclosure, but Malcolm worried the flying debris might hit him, and clutched him tightly to his chest.

  Grace jumped at the sound of a large branch cracking overhead. Malcolm threw his head back and watched as a large maple limb snapped and lunged to the ground just feet from them.

  Grace screamed and gripped his arm tighter. Malcolm started to run, jerking Rambler to follow. The baby was getting heavy in his arms, and his horse fought his lead. Just as he turned to try to calm his horse again, he heard Grace gasp. She froze beside him, and he felt her tremble through her coat.

  He turned around and searched her face. She was looking across and up the street, her expression rigid in fright. He turned to see what she was staring at.

  Malcolm’s heart hammered in his chest. Not two blocks away, a massive funnel cloud opened like a drain, and a twister descended like God’s wrath from the angry heavens.

  For a moment, Malcolm’s feet stuck to the road. He stared, horrified, at the gyrating black funnel of wind heading their way, ripping boards and siding off the houses on the next block, the roar growing, sounding like a train now upon them. Trees buckled and were snatched up into the air, like frantic birds flung every which way. The noise crushed his ears.

  Grace screamed again, and Malcolm’s feet became unglued. He pitched the reins, allowing the panicky horse to flee in a gallop in the opposite direction, then pulled Grace along.

  “Run!” he yelled, hoping the twister would keep its straight course, but knowing how erratic they could be. He would just have to take a chance, and hope he’d make the right choice.

  Grace kept up with him as he ran hard, away from the twister that was gaining on them and throwing the flotsam of the neighborhood at them. He dodged flying sticks and glass and pieces of roof, tucking Grace’s head into his chest, ducking down and stumbling along. A boot skimmed his head, and a bucket clattered on the ground in front of them. From the corner of his eye he watched an entire row of fence pickets unzip from the ground and catapult through the air to spear a nearby house.

  Through the attacking maelstrom he caught sight of an alleyway to his right and raced around the corner, nearly dragging Grace along, feeling her feet catch and trip up, and lifting her at times to keep her upright as he rushed headlong down the alley.

  The wind clawed at him, pulling him backward the way water sucked down a drain. He fought the pull with all his strength, head craning forward, gaining one hard-won foot after another. His pulse thrashed in his ears, and his mouth and throat grew dry. His every thought centered on getting Grace and little Ben to safety, and he feared greatly for their lives, knowing he had to save them. He was their only hope.

  Spurred by this conviction, he pushed harder, but could tell Grace was slowing, floundering. He had to get her and her baby sheltered out of the path of the dangerous wind.

  He spotted a door fronting the alley. Without hesitation, he ran to it and with a furious blow smashed his foot into the wood, propelling all his strength forward. The door splintered, and the pieces smacked the floor. Malcolm hurled inside, pulling Grace with him. A second later what was left of the door was yanked out into the alley by the wind’s invisible hands, and Malcolm heard it smash and clatter as it hit the side of the house they were in. The windows of the room he ran through exploded in profusions of glass, sounding like rapid-fire gunshot, and Malcolm buried Grace further under his chin, his arms clutched tightly around her and her baby.

  He propelled them into a bedroom as a dark-stained armoire listed, then crashed to the floor. White bedsheets gyrated in the air like conjured ghosts. Malcolm took in the splattered glass littering the room and sparking like diamonds, searching for someplace safe as the wind bellowed in fury through the holes where the windows had once been.

  A groan erupted from the ceiling. Malcolm’s eyes locked on the stucco as it broke to bits, and holes appeared punched in the charcoal heavens beyond. The roof joists ripped from their nails and careened into the sky with a shriek.

  Malcolm spun in place, frantic to spy a shoal of refuge. A door in the hallway beckoned, unmarred by the violent assault on the house. He ushered Grace back into the hall, praying the door led to more than a service closet. He threw open the door and, to his great relief, discovered a small storage room with ceiling intact.

  With the twister screeching at his back, he lurched into the room and slammed the door shut behind them. He collapsed against the solid back wall and slid to the floor amid stacks of boxes, Grace still in his arms and clinging to him, whimpers coming from her throat.

  Blood pounded his ears as he sat poised to flee, keenly listening to wind that scratched and kicked at the door like a petulant dog. The baby in his arms wailed, and Grace pulled back from Malcolm’s tight embrace and took him. Malcolm’s arms ached from clutching his charge so fiercely. As he rallied to catch his breath, he felt as if they were the last humans on Earth.

  Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he noticed a sliver of light canting through the door, where something sharp must have pierced it. The room smelled of camphor and lilac, and dust danced thickly on the stream of light sliding in like a ray of hope. He blew out a long-held shaky breath and made out Grace’s traumatized features as she ministered to her baby in co
mforting sounds, smoothing the child’s hair and rocking him. The house continued to creak like a wagon barreling down a rutted road.

  A great urge to comfort her welled in his heart. “Don’t be afraid, Grace. We’ll get through this. The Lord will make a way—He always does.”

  The moments those words left his lips, he shivered.

  He had said those exact words before—sometime, somewhere.

  Grace jerked her head to look at him, her eyes wide and her face blanched with surprise. Malcolm shook his head as fractured images railed at him. With a trembling hand on her arm, he heard a roar of water behind him. Mud encased his boots, and his wet clothes stuck to his skin. Rain beat down on his head as he looked in a woman’s eyes—a woman like Grace.

  He looked deep into her eyes, searching for something—some understanding, some key to this memory—for a lifeline. His legs gave way, and mud sucked him down into roiling water. His arms flailed, and he let out a moan. Gray-brown water spun and tumbled him, and he sucked in a breath, remembering.

  Grace steadied him with her hands on his shoulders, and tears stung his eyes. A horrible fear overcame him. No, not fear. Worry. Something worried him terribly, but he couldn’t figure what. But he knew what he saw was a memory of something that had happened. He’d nearly drowned.

  Silence as thick as sorghum filled the room as Malcolm reeled with the images swatting him. The baby halted his mewling protestations, and Grace watched Malcolm without a word. He had another flash of memory—this one so different.

  A balmy spring day, in a park with manicured beds of pink and yellow flowers lining a bridle path. Sitting on a spread-out patchwork blanket on an ocean of sparkling green lawn, horses snuffling nearby as they grazed, and a woman’s light laughter tickling his ears. He saw a wicker basket and picnic fixings spread around him, and a woman in a lovely pale-yellow dress with ivory buttons, her skirts spread around her, the edges of her white crinoline petticoats peeking from underneath. His face cinched up as he worked the memory, coaxing the image clearer, but he still could not make out her features. He felt the warmth of her hand as she held his, and saw a gold band on her ring finger.