She sighed resignedly. That was all she could hope for now. All hope of getting Monty back had been snatched from her and tossed into the river and swept away. She had tried to hold on to hope, to make it the anchor for her soul, but it was a fool’s hope now.
As she sat there, with the warm sun baking her shoulders, she let her decision sink in. She needed to inquire about the coach to Denver, and look up the train schedules for Bloomington. There was no one else she needed to say good-bye to—except Clare.
She slumped, thinking how she’d promised Clare she’d make her wedding dress, and Grace would not go back on her word. Guilt prodded her to tell Clare she was leaving. But she could still make her dress. She only had to take Clare’s measurements and get the design from her. Once in Illinois, Grace could sew it and then ship it to Clare when it was finished. As much as she’d love to attend Clare’s wedding, Grace knew she could never risk returning to Colorado. Just being anywhere close to Monty would break her heart anew.
Against the warnings screaming in her mind, she pictured herself walking into town and seeing Monty holding another child in his arms, Stella at his side. The thought gnawed at her insides, and she squeezed her eyes shut. How could she even stay in touch with Clare now that her friend knew the truth about Monty and would no doubt write to tell her how he fared, even if Grace begged her not to?
Grace hung her head with this new predicament. She would just have to keep her destination a secret from Clare. That way Clare couldn’t write her, and Grace wouldn’t check the post each day hoping against hope for news. She would only continue to be tortured. Even though she suspected Clare would fume at Grace’s decision, Grace hoped she’d understand and respect her.
Tomorrow, she would find Clare and tell her the news, and make her promise to never speak to Monty, or tell anyone the truth. She hoped Eli would keep his word and forget all she’d told him. She could leave inside of three or four days, she figured.
Grace lifted her head when she heard a man’s voice.
“Mrs. Cunningham,” a man called out to her from behind the courthouse. She recognized Alan Patterson walking toward her, the kindly clerk who had offered to help her. She straightened and drew in a deep breath, not wanting to be impolite or show that she’d been crying. She knew, though, that her eyes must be red and puffy and would give her away.
She stood and greeted him, and she noted his nervous hands fidgeting at his sides.
“Did you hear about the twister?” he asked her, sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
“Thank you, Alan. I’m fine. I saw some of the damage from the storm. I trust the courthouse fared without incident?”
“Two windows blew out, but nothing irreparable.” He removed the hat from his head and nervously twisted it in his hands. “I wanted to let you know that I have someone at the Bloomington courthouse working diligently to find your certificate.” His face beamed with the look of a puppy seeking a pat on the head.
“That’s kind of you,” she said, feeling guilty that he was going to all that trouble for her. She almost told him she was leaving town, but caught herself.
An awkward silence ensured, and Grace was too exhausted to work at making polite conversation. “I need to get back to my son. He’s being cared for, but he’ll soon wake from his nap and want his mother.” She gave the clerk a smile and hoped to leave his company without insult.
“I’d be glad to accompany you to your house.”
“Thank you, but I cherish the time to think and walk without disruption. Being a mother of a toddler doesn’t afford many opportunities to do so.”
“I understand,” he said, a bit too cheerily. She could tell he was disappointed. But she couldn’t deal with one tiny bit more of any disappointment in her life at this moment—even if it wasn’t her own.
She said good-bye and walked back toward her home—which would not be her home much longer. Her heart ached thinking once again of being ensconced in Monty’s strong, warm arms, and the way he had spoken those words to her, telling her not to worry, that the Lord would make a way. She wished with all her soul that she could believe those words, but now they were only empty sentiments. There was only one way left to her—and that was to leave Monty behind.
***
Malcolm strode up to the desk and cleared his throat to get the clerk’s attention. Every nerve in his body rattled, and his thoughts wouldn’t give him rest. His miraculous survival in the path of a twister had left him humbled and shaky. He kept replaying the day’s events in his mind, seeing the houses ripped apart, the pieces flung with fury every which way, the wind attacking like a savage beast. But most of all, he kept reliving the way Grace had felt in his arms, how she’d sparked his memories into flames of visions, and how he knew without question that he’d been married before—to someone, somewhere—who looked and sounded like Grace Cunningham.
After he left her at her house, his restless, frustrated energy fueled him into a brisk walk to the livery, where he found his gelding tucking into a flake of hay that one of the stable hands had given him. Thankfully, Rambler had escaped from the twister with only a superficial gash on his rump that didn’t need suturing. Other animals hadn’t fared as well, he noted, as men tended to horses and mules that had been hurt and were making a racket in the stables.
Once he retrieved Rambler—who had managed to retain his saddle and headstall, despite the frantic run through town—Malcolm decided to stop wasting time and do what he could to recover his lost past. He’d been on his way to the courthouse when he’d seen Grace walking down the street before all hell had broken loose. He knew Grace was a key to his past, but maybe only because she reminded him of the lost wife he knew he’d left behind in the wake of those missing memories.
His gut clenched thinking he might be married to someone else—and maybe have a child—somewhere, and that he’d forgotten them. Maybe even Stella had no idea about his past. Had he fallen into the river and hit his head, and Stella had only happened to chance upon him? Over the last week that thought had drifted to him, but he’d discounted it. Now he wasn’t so sure. His memory of that day was hazy, as were the weeks to follow. He hardly remembered what she said to him when he came to and saw her leaning over him. She had told him all those stories about how they’d met in St. Louis, but he still recalled nothing about that town. Not even perusing books he’d found on the Old Grout’s public shelves could jiggle free a solitary image of the city.
He doubted he would be able to glean any helpful information by inquiring of surveyors in St. Louis, but he had to try. He hoped when he saw Grace later today more of his memories would come back. Although, he knew that wasn’t why he wanted to see her again.
Besides being concerned about her and Ben after the traumatic fright of the twister, he had to admit he was falling for her, like a huge boulder rolling into an abyss. He knew in his mind it was wrong to allow any place in his heart for such feelings, but he couldn’t stop them from seizing hold of his soul. His yearning for her was like a plant buried under snow that sensed the sun’s warmth. He wanted to burst through that drift and lift his face to the warmth of Grace’s presence. She was the sun in his otherwise gloomy, dark world. She gave him hope that he would recover those lost memories—no matter how painful they were. He needed her, and not just for help with his past.
Was he possibly falling in love with her? What else could these cantankerous feelings mean? But how could that be? He hardly knew her. Sometime in his past he had been in love—he was sure of it—if these twittery heart thumps were indication. His mind fixated on Grace’s alluring smile and sweet temperament, and he pictured his arms around her delicate shoulders, pushing her golden tresses aside so he could kiss her neck and nuzzle her ear . . .
He mentally slapped himself out of his musings and answered the clerk, who had said something and was waiting for an answer, politely drumming his fingers on the polished counter. Malcolm let out a shaky breath and composed
himself.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson. What was that you said?”
The clerk smiled politely and adjusted the round spectacles on his nose. “I’m glad to see you again, Mr. Connors. I hear tell you’ve been surveying for the land office. How’s that working out?”
“I’m pleased with it. It’s nice to be out on the open range, in the fresh air—most of the time. Weather’s been a bit erratic lately.”
“That’s the God’s truth,” Patterson said in firm declaration. “That twister made a mess of the east side of town. You heard about it?”
Malcolm merely nodded.
“I was working at a grocer’s back in ’64 when that big flood washed Fort Laramie away. They had to rebuild the fort on higher ground. That was when we still had Injun trouble.” He clicked his teeth with his tongue. “And already in recent years we’ve had record snowfall and bad drought. It hasn’t been an easy life out here, for most. Nature likes to have her way.”
When Malcolm failed to reply, the clerk put fingers under his suspender straps. “So, how can I assist you today, Mr. Connors?”
“Well, I’m not sure you can, but I’d like to get some addresses in St. Louis. Could you help me with that?”
“Certainly.” He picked up a lead pencil and slid a piece of paper in front of him. “Who d’ya need to find?”
“The address for the land office, for one. Then for all the surveyors, if you can find them. Would they work out of the city land office or the federal General Land Office?”
“Not sure.” He narrowed his eyes in curiosity. “May I ask why you need the information? I might have to inquire of some folks at those offices. It would help to know what to tell them.”
Malcolm swallowed, weighing what to say. He didn’t think anyone knew about his memory loss, and wasn’t sure it was a good idea to speak of it. But he reckoned Patterson could be taken into his confidence. He worked at the courthouse and had to keep certain records and knowledge confidential. It wouldn’t befit him to talk about matters he’d be sworn to keep private.
Malcolm looked around the large open room, and upon seeing they were alone, he leaned over the counter and said, “I’m in a bit of a predicament, Mr. Patterson. Can I trust you not to speak to anyone regarding what I’m about to tell you?”
Patterson nodded emphatically. “You have my word. I’m not a gossiper, by any stretch. Don’t believe I have the inclination to be such. I don’t cotton to people who gossip about me, so I wouldn’t do likewise to anyone else.”
“I appreciate that.” Malcolm rubbed his forehead as Grace’s lovely face intruded. “A year ago or thereabouts I had an accident. Hit my head and lost most of my memories. Now, I . . . I remember plenty—how to survey and ride a horse and the like. But I don’t recall people in my past. Or who I worked for back in St. Louis. I was hoping . . . if I could find some folks who’d known me, I could go see them and talk to them. Maybe help me get my memory back.” Malcolm let out a breath. Patterson whistled low, his face showing astonishment.
With an empathetic frown, the clerk said, “I’m sorry to hear about that. Must be right difficult. Your wife can’t help you? Doesn’t she recall where you used to work? Folks you knew back there?”
Malcolm stiffened. Just how much did he want to tell this stranger? He shook his head. “She says she didn’t know the men I worked with, never met them. She’s not good with names.” He shrugged.
Patterson thought for a moment. “’Member when we met, I told you we’d been expecting a fella to take the surveying job last spring—when did you come into Fort Collins?”
Malcolm considered what he was asking. “Last fall.”
“And when did you have that accident?”
“I’m not sure. Sometime the spring prior.”
The clerk pursed his lips, and Malcolm could tell he was chewing on something, but didn’t think he should pry. Patterson then said, “And that fella never showed up, so you got his job, more or less.”
“I recollect you telling me that.”
The clerk nodded, then exhaled and rubbed his chin. “Well, let me do some research for you and see what I can come up with. I’m sure I can get you a list of surveyors who’d been working in the last couple of years in and around St. Louis.” He lowered his voice as if someone might be listening. “Do you want me to mention your name, Mr. Connors? When I inquire?”
Malcolm wondered at the clerk’s question. “I don’t mind if you do.”
Patterson nodded. “All right, then. It’ll take some days, but check back with me, oh, end o’ next week, and I’ll let you know if I’ve learned anything.”
Malcolm thanked the clerk and headed out the front door, feeling the clerk’s eyes on him. What was the man poking about, asking questions about his accident and when had he come to town? Malcolm let the thought slip from his mind as the pretty face of Grace Cunningham intruded. It hadn’t been all that long since he left her at her front door, but he was antsy to get back to her. Just thinking about her sweet smile and the soothing way her laugh had rolled over him made his steps quicken to match the pace of his heartbeat.
As he stepped outside, a squall of warm rain clattered to the boardwalk and drenched the streets. Fat drops deluged in sheets, quickly turning the dirt street into a sluice of scrambled streams and islands of mud. Riders and pedestrians hurried for shelter, their coats and shawls pulled up over their heads. Water snaked along the wood planks around his boots as he tucked his head into his collar and yanked on his horse’s halter rope to unhitch him from the post. By the time he made the six blocks to Maple Street, he was soaked through, his clothes heavy and sticking to him like flypaper. The brim of his felt hat sagged, and a steady stream of water poured down his neck. One glance at his horse’s petulant expression told Malcolm the gelding was as miserable as he was.
It wouldn’t do to call on Grace now, looking like this. And he surely wouldn’t dare try to take her out in this weather. He’d postpone his visit till the morrow.
He slumped down in the saddle and urged Rambler into a slow trot in the direction of his homestead, careful to avoid the puddles that were quickly becoming small lakes in the middle of the avenue. For some reason the rain made him edgy, and seeing the swollen dark clouds overhead gave him pause. Not that he thought another twister would burst forth from the mass dangling overhead. This wasn’t twister weather. No, something else unsettled him, made him itching to push his horse into a run.
A finger of fear inched up his spine, and he gripped the reins tighter, having the inexplicable sense that he would be swept away somehow if he relaxed his guard even a mite.
He stared at his hands—they were shaking. He considered the nervousness might be just the aftermath of a close brush with death. But then the memory of an agitated river gripped him in its fist, and again he felt himself tumbled head over feet, sucking muddy water into his lungs and gasping for breath.
Malcolm heaved back in his saddle and brought the gelding to a sliding stop at the south end of town in front of The Forks Hotel. He worked to calm his breath and blew air out his nose like a winded racehorse. The horse pawed at the mud, digging a hole around his foot that filled with brown water. Rain kept pounding, as if trying to beat sense into Malcolm’s head. He wished it would, for these visions were exhausting him.
But there was nothing for it, he reasoned. He would have to wait it out. Just like waiting for the rain to let up and the dark clouds to blow off. At some point the light of day would break through.
He looked at the flooded street and then out over the wide open range to the south—the empty prairieland smeared gray and colorless as the squall dumped hard sheets of water across the terrain. Last week’s snow had disappeared as quickly as it had come. Still, it was hard to envision the warm summer days that lay ahead, even though Malcolm knew they were surely coming, just as the day followed the night. He only hoped his own bright day of understanding would dawn soon. His misery and desperate need was drowning him as surely
as any river could, and he knew if he didn’t find a way out soon, he’d end up going over the waiting falls and into a chasm, where all that awaited him at the bottom was a pile of jagged rocks.
Chapter 18
Clare plunked down on the bench in front of the Chinese laundry shop and frowned at Grace.
“You mean to tell me that you’re leavin’? Truly? After we just became friends?” Clare wrapped her arms around her waist and scowled, and Grace felt terrible. But nothing would soften her resolve, and this morning as she walked over to the livery, Grace had steeled herself for Clare’s protestations. She would not change her mind about leaving, and although she would miss Clare, she didn’t imagine she would miss living on the Front Range, and particularly in this small town, where her every movement was scrutinized, judged, and discussed.
Grace sighed and sat beside her friend, absentmindedly watching the wagons and riders splash through the puddles glistening in the street under the dazzling noonday sun. “I explained it to you—”
Clare waved her hand in the air and shook her head. “I know, I know. I just think it’s wrong. What if after ya leave, Monty’s memory comes back? Ya thought of that?”
Of course Grace had thought of that. And every other possible scenario. She felt a sudden weariness come over her. Clare had been trying to talk Grace out of leaving for the better part of an hour, and wouldn’t let up. Grace smirked. Eli was right about her wild mustang spirit. She was like a horse that would chew through her rope to break free of her tether.
“Why are we sitting here?” Grace asked, hoping to sway the subject onto another track. “You said you’d go with me to the dress shop, to look at patterns and fabrics for your wedding dress.”
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 20