Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2)

by Charlene Whitman

  It had to be Stella he was remembering—but no. She wouldn’t have had a ring on, and that wasn’t her laugh. They’d only married just last summer. And the park—he’d been there many times throughout his life, he realized. St. Louis?

  The fury outside the door lessened, as if the twister had given up its quarry and sought other homes to ravage. Malcolm shifted to ease pressure off a leg that was numb. He looked Grace over.

  “Are you hurt? The baby?”

  Grace swiped hair from her face as she shook her head in the negative. Long tangled locks of golden tresses tumbled down her shoulders. The glint of light from the crack in the door illuminated her face and showed tear streaks etched with dirt and grit.

  Without thinking, he wiped her face with his sleeve, wondering why his heart was still thumping even though it was evident the danger had passed them by. More tears spilled down her face—tears of relief, he figured—and she sobbed quietly, rocking her baby in her arms.

  “You’ve saved me again,” she said. “I . . . I don’t know how to thank you—” Her body shook, and she buried her head into her child’s neck and wept.

  Pushing aside his chastising conscience that spewed out warnings against such improprieties, he gathered her into his arms and held her as the world fell away, leaving them unscathed and unnoticed. He sat there on the wood-plank floor in the near-dark, his skin tingling and every nerve jolted with electricity. He was surprised the woman didn’t pull away, but he imagined her need for comfort snuffed out her concern over proper behavior. They had barely escaped death, and Malcolm sent up a heartfelt prayer to heaven, knowing that the hand of God had shown them mercy and sheltered them in the storm.

  Grace felt so strangely wonderful in his arms. He allowed himself the indulgence of this moment, knowing it was wrong, so wrong, to revel being in another woman’s arms. He was married, he lectured himself. Unhappily, yes, but he’d made a vow, and entertaining feelings for another woman was wrong. Yet, he couldn’t let go of Grace. He didn’t understand why. He just needed to hold her—more for his own comfort than for hers. And not just to satisfy a need to touch. There was something about Grace that triggered memories, that made him sense now more strongly than ever that the past Stella had recounted to him wasn’t his. That he’d lived an entirely different life—full of picnics and geysers and raging rivers. A life of love and loss. Of a woman with golden hair . . .

  He looked at Grace’s face and studied her. She met his eyes, and he saw unmistakable yearning. Then he remembered what Stella had accused her of, and he grimaced at the thought. But Stella had been wrong. Malcolm saw only sweet sincerity and genuineness in Grace’s eyes, which were completely without guile. The love he saw radiating from her for her son seemed to flow over him in a wash of comfort and need, and Malcolm’s heart jittered.

  Now, sitting this close to her and smelling her lilac-shampooed hair made him aware of that gaping maw of loneliness he had in his gut. He couldn’t deny the intense attraction he felt for her, for she was beautiful and gracious, delicate yet strong of will and determination. He admired the way she cared for her son, and her voice oozed with kindness and intelligence and thoughtfulness. She was everything he respected and wanted in a woman. Even though he hardly knew her at all, he felt as if he’d known her for years. She felt right in his arms, as if she belonged there.

  His thoughts tangled with his emotions as he realized he’d been smitten by her the moment he’d first saw her floundering in the middle of the street with the wagon barreling toward her. He’d smothered his feelings at the time, knowing they were wrong. But now, they hit him full force. A sweet pain spread through his chest knowing he had to abandon such reckless thoughts. Not only was it wrong for him to look at Grace that way, it was impolite of him to entertain such thoughts. He was a married man, and she was a widow raising a child alone. His reprehensible behavior could taint her reputation. He hadn’t thought of her best interests or needs, and they mattered more than his own.

  With a heavy heart, he got to his feet and offered Grace a hand to help her up.

  As he pulled her to standing, she said, “Do you think it’s safe to go out?”

  Ben squirmed out of her arms and made impatient noises. Grace corralled him to her and shushed him. He imagined the distraught baby needed feeding and changing.

  “I’ll check. Stay put.” He turned the knob and pushed gently, and upon feeling no resistance, he ventured out.

  Breath hitched in his throat at the sight before him. The house was a jumble of rubbish—broken boards and huge chunks of stucco and bricks strewn over patches of jagged floor that exposed bare ground beneath. A glace upward showed a piece of precariously dangling roof that creaked and tottered in the backwash of breeze left in the wake of the twister—which was nowhere in sight. Clouds burdened with precipitation hung low in the sky, threatening to burst, but the air was eerily calm and portentous. Nary a sound could be heard from the street, and a weighty gloom blanketed the neighborhood as thick as the snow that had fallen the prior week.

  Malcolm stepped gingerly over the debris, studying the remnants of the roof and marveling how the section above their closet was wholly intact. A cursory glance showed no signs that anyone had been in the house at the time of their intrusion, and he hoped no one had been hurt or killed by the twister. From what he could tell, only a few houses on two blocks had been destroyed, although the streets were a hodgepodge of downed trees and the offerings of house siding and roofing. A crushed wagon lay in pieces out the window, and white pickets from a fence speared the large maple out front that seemed unscathed by the mayhem.

  As he surveyed the damage to the neighborhood, he whistled out in relief and gratitude for divine protection. People emerged from the more intact houses on the street and gathered on lawns and on the dirt. A siren wailed in the distance, and Malcolm smelled smoke.

  A gentle warm breeze played with his hair as he navigated around the ruins of the house and opened the closet door. Grace emerged with Ben on her hip, and her stricken face took in her surroundings. She stood next to him, wide-eyed and unblinking.

  “Mercy,” she said quietly. “I pray no one was killed. It’s a miracle we survived.” She shook her head, her gaze riveted on the aftermath of the twister.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he told her, reaching his arms out for Ben, who was now crying and gulping air. “Which way?”

  Grace handed Ben to him and pointed. “Just a few blocks, on Maple.”

  Malcolm juggled the child in his arms as they walked across the street and down another that had merited the good fortune of remaining unscathed from the maelstrom. Ben settled down to the soothing rhythm of Malcolm’s pace, and Grace walked at his side, no doubt in shock.

  He turned to her and said, “I’m sure you’ll want to feed and change him, and freshen up. I’d like to take you to coffee or lunch, but I need to find my horse. And I should go back and help, see if anyone’s hurt. Maybe a couple more strong arms will be needed.”

  She smiled at him—a grateful, approving smile that made his heart soar. How close they’d come to dying, and how glad he was that he’d been there to help her and Ben—again. He had been in the right place at the right time once more—that couldn’t have been a coincidence. He didn’t believe in fate, yet, it sure seemed as if the Good Lord was using him to watch out for Grace and her baby. The thought both unsettled and encouraged him.

  He realized, as Grace led him up the front steps to a simple white clapboard house, that he hadn’t once worried about Stella and if she’d been harmed in the storm. A twinge of guilt stabbed his gut, but he pushed it aside. Of course he didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, but he couldn’t muster any warm sentiment for his wife. Not one tiny shred.

  Grace stopped at the door and turned to him with outstretched arms. At first he thought she meant to embrace him. Then he realized he was holding her sleeping baby. Ben fit so naturally in his arms that Malcolm had forgotten he was carrying him. He almost
hated to give him up.

  Again, that disturbing feeling of loss swept over him as he settled the baby in Grace’s arms. He looked at her, and his eyes dropped down to a silver pendant around her neck—a round disk with an eight-pointed star etched upon it.

  Malcolm stiffened. “Where . . . where did you get that necklace?” he asked, then realized he was being forward to ask such a thing, since Grace seemed taken aback by his question.

  However, her face softened and she answered, “My husband gave it to me . . . after returning from a trip. It’s a symbol—”

  “Of hope,” he said, startling himself with his words. How had he known that?

  Grace seemed startled as well. Her hand drifted to her neck, and she touched the silver disk. Her face clouded up like the sky above.

  “I’m sorry,” Malcolm said, “I’ve brought up difficult memories . . .”

  She merely nodded, then said, “Does this . . . does this look familiar to you?” She unclasped the necklace with her free hand and presented it to him in the palm of her hand. He picked it up and dangled it in front of his face.

  He shook his head, then answered the questions flickering in her eyes. “I . . had an accident and lost most of my memory.” Frustration welled up as he rifled through his mind trying to pair the star with some moment in his past. He handed back the necklace.

  Grace’s face showed disappointment and compassion. “Maybe in time you’ll remember.” She added softly, “I hope you do . . . Mr. Connors—”

  “Please—call me Malcolm.” His words sounded like begging to his ears.

  She nodded and smiled again, and that sweet smile made his heart like to break through his ribs. “I’ll be home the rest of the day, should you still want to come by. I hope you find your horse.”

  “He’s probably at the livery, since he spends a goodly amount of time there most of the week. He knows there’s hay and a warm stall there for the taking.”

  Grace chuckled and Malcolm froze. Through a haze in his mind, he heard her say good day and saw her go into the house and close the door behind her. His feet remained glued to the boards.

  That was the first time he’d heard her laugh, and it had jolted him with another shock of memory. A woman’s laugh rang in his head, the faceless woman with the golden hair . . . He saw in his mind’s eye the woman throwing back her head in laughter, amused at an anecdote he’d just told her, the sprawling verdant lawn of the park enclosing them. Her laugh sounded like Grace’s. Could it be that she was the woman in his memory?

  He chided himself with a snort. How could she be? She would have said something, surely. And the woman in his dreams and memories was . . . what?

  He gulped. She was my wife. And I lost her . . .

  This understanding hit him like a slap to the face. He grabbed the porch railing and steadied himself. Then he dropped to the steps of the porch and hung his head in his hands, trembling.

  Chapter 17

  What was she thinking? How could she have let herself suffer so?

  Grace hurried down the street toward the center of town, grateful that Charity was home and willing to watch Ben while he napped. She had politely responded to Charity’s alarmed questions about the twister, but Grace skirted the truth and said only that she’d witnessed the devastation after the fact. Her mind had churned with such troubled thoughts that she had to leave the house and calm her tumultuous feelings. She gave the excuse of needing to purchase some personals at the drugstore, and hurried out after feeding and changing Ben.

  Her body shook as she relived the horror of the twister and how terrified she had been. But she trembled even harder at the thought of Monty’s arms around her. Was it cruel fate or divine mercy that had sent Monty to save her once again? Despite her steely resolve, she had buckled under his touch. She ached for those muscular arms to enwrap her, and she’d come undone when he’d pressed against her, his warm body against her chest, where she could feel his heart beating as one with hers.

  This was wrong, so wrong—but oh so right! He was hers, and he belonged with her, but he had no memory of her. He was married, and there was nothing she could do to make him remember or win his heart. After spending those agonizing moments with Monty in that small room, she knew she could not bear such torment ever again. Her heart had broken over and over as she held back her true feelings from him, longing to gush with the truth, tell him everything.

  And the sight of Ben in his arms! Her deepest desire was for Monty to feel the bottomless joy that came with holding his own child. Yet, he’d had no recognition in his eyes. And she had given him the necklace to examine, and he’d failed to recognize that as well. It was hopeless. If her face and voice could not shake loose his memories, nothing ever would. He was lost to her, forever, and she had to accept that, once and for all—or she would go mad with grief.

  She owed it to Ben to let go. Maybe one day, when he was grown, she would tell him the truth. How she’d fallen in love and married a kind, honorable man named Montgomery Cunningham, and had lost him. Maybe he would search and find his father and tell him the story he’d been told. Maybe Monty would believe him. Maybe not. She’d vowed she would tell her son the truth—someday. But for now, she had to put distance between her and Monty. She couldn’t bear seeing him again. Seeing him with . . . his wife.

  Tears flooded down her cheeks as the clouds broke apart overhead and the sun glared down on her in stark judgment. She longed to talk with Clare, but dared not chance going to the livery, where Monty might happen by. She could imagine what would happen when Monty came to the Franklins’ later to call on her. What would he say to Charity? Just his appearance at her door, asking about her, would set off a torrent of new gossip—gossip that could only hurt Monty in the long run.

  Grace darted down a side street and came out on College Avenue near the south end of town. She’d seen no evidence of the twister tearing up this part of Fort Collins, but debris littered the streets, and men were working to clean up the branches and boards, loading up wagons and sweeping with brooms. The wooden boardwalk fronting the street on both sides revealed broken boards and cracked hitching posts, and some of the wood from the false storefronts had blown off, revealing stucco and brick underlayment. The town seemed aflurry with activity as shopkeepers and citizens worked to clear the mess and restore order.

  Wanting to be alone, she rounded a corner and found a small corner park void of people. The park faced the back of the courthouse and other business offices, and no one was outside. She imagined many were busy at work, as of yet unaware of the twister that had torn up part of the town. Glad for a chance to catch her breath and collect her rampaging thoughts, she sat on one of the wooden benches, and knew she had to face her decision, as much as it pained her.

  She had to leave Fort Collins—that was her only recourse. Maybe she would go back to Bloomington, where at least the neighbors and neighborhood were familiar to her. She’d attended church there, and her aunt had had many close friends. With her meager savings, she could possibly purchase a one-way train ticket to Illinois. Perhaps catch a coach to Denver, for she would not consider journeying north to Cheyenne to board another train. She never wanted to see the Cache la Poudre River again as long as she lived, and just the thought of the river sorely vexed her with uninvited memories.

  As the tears dribbled down her face, her heart emptied out, the enormity of her decision like a coffin lid closing with a slap. She dried her eyes with a sleeve of her heavy woolen coat and thought about her months here in Fort Collins and how much she’d wished Monty would walk back into her life. Now she wished he hadn’t come to Fort Collins. She could have more easily lived with not knowing his fate. Maybe even with learning he had drowned. For then she could have grieved the loss fully and found a way to move on, with her heart healing over time, even though she knew she would never—could never—love anyone the way she had loved him. Yes, staying here was worse than death—knowing he was within arm’s reach, like the tempting fruit hangi
ng from the forbidden tree.

  She let her resolve build a thick stone wall around her heart—a fortress to keep out the pain and give her the courage to do what she must. It wouldn’t take her long to pack. She wouldn’t even tell the Franklins ahead of time, just leave a note with vague explanations and expressing her gratitude for their generosity. She needn’t speak to Tilde at the shop. Charity would see to it that the gossip spread far and wide, and no doubt for weeks after Grace’s departure, the rumors would pass from lip to lip. Well, at least she would be far away, where their hurtful words couldn’t touch her ears—not any longer.

  She tried to think of some other place she might want to raise Ben, but conceded it made the most sense to return to a place she was familiar with. She chortled bitterly thinking of how she’d resisted coming out west, and how much Monty longed to live on the Front Range, under the shadow of the majestic Rockies, close to the wild rivers and unspoiled wilderness he loved. And it wasn’t even a wild river or dangerous Indians on a faraway expedition that had taken Monty from her, which had been her greatest fear. Instead, a flood and an opportunistic woman had stolen him from her grasp.

  She could get a room—maybe in her former home, if it was still being used as a boardinghouse. And perhaps she could get a job as a seamstress at the same shop she’d worked at for years. And she could go to the courthouse directly and request a copy of her marriage certificate, so she could one day give it to Ben. Yes, returning to Bloomington was the wisest choice. It was a wonderful town, a good place to raise her son. She would find a way to be happy—for Ben. And maybe in time the pain would ease.