And she was heartened by the evidence that his memory was truly returning. If he now recalled the day she’d lost him, maybe all those other lost days would come tumbling back into his mind and heart. Her hope had been sparked anew, and a hot flame of desire and passion raged inside her.
She had to tell him the truth. She’d forgotten and said his name, and now she knew it was time. No more pretending. No more holding back. Perhaps by confessing, the rest of his memories would flood back. Like breaking the wall of a dam. Or tossing one rock down a mountain and creating an avalanche.
Her body throbbed with need. The need to feel him close. To feel his body joined with hers again. These months of separation had been unbearable, but even more unbearable was the thought that she’d almost lost him again. That she still might lose him. She must tell him—everything. And then what? Would he leave Stella?
Oh, if only she had proof of their marriage. If she could get that copy of their marriage certificate, it would prove to Monty that he was married to her. That he’d been hers long before Stella sank her hooks in him. He was lawfully her husband, not Stella’s. She had to get that proof. And then they could be together again. Monty might never get all his memories back, but that didn’t matter so long as he loved her.
Monty pulled back, breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked tenderly in her eyes and caressed her cheek. Everything she had suffered this day blew apart in the sweet breeze playing in her hair. It seemed as if all the forces of the world had sought to tear them apart, but somehow their ordeal had finally brought them together.
***
Malcolm sighed, the taste of Grace’s lips lingering on his mouth. “Grace, I won’t apologize for my behavior. For I love you, with all my heart. I know it’s wrong. I’m married. But—”
“I love you too,” she said with firm conviction. “I . . . I . . .” A flustered look came over her, and he knew she had so much she wanted to say to him.
He stared at her in stunned silence. Her words were a balm to his soul. How had she come to love him? She hardly knew him. But maybe she’d felt the same uncanny attraction to him that he had for her the first day they’d met. He had no idea she felt this way about him. But he was glad. Oh so glad! He couldn’t bear to think otherwise. But she knew he was married, and surely she knew the sin they were indulging in. How could God think their love was wrong when it was so very right?
“We have to hurry, or we’ll never make it out of the river canyon,” he told her. His words sobered her, and her face grew instantly serious. She reached down and scooped Ben up into her arms. The baby protested in whiny cries, and Malcolm guessed he was hungry.
“Do you need to feed him?” he asked.
She nodded. “But if we start walking, I might be able to distract him awhile.” She shot him a look that froze him on the spot. “He’s got a fever.” She gulped, and Malcolm could tell she was fighting back tears.
“Mama, Mama,” Ben said, waving his little hands weakly in the air, his face flushed and twisted in discomfort.
Grace kissed the top of his head. “Come, sweetie. Let’s take a walk and look at all the pretty birds and flowers.”
Malcolm longed to take her hand. Even only three feet apart, he felt torn asunder. He ached to touch her. He needed to hold her. The urgency of his need astonished him. He’d never felt anything like this with Stella. His chest tightened, and he took shaky breaths as he led her at a fast pace along the riverbank. Cool air chilled his bare chest, and water squished in his boots. Every bone and muscle hurt. A tingle of panic ebbed at his mind. It was getting late, and he’d stalled too long. His indulgence just might cost them their lives.
But her kisses and proclamation of love gave him the strength and determination to keep going, despite his bruises and pains and cuts. And then he realized Grace was barefoot, noticed her feet cut up and swollen. How far could they get? He waited for her to catch up and saw her wince with every step. If only he had the strength to carry her and Ben. But he knew he couldn’t. They would go too slowly, and with his head injury, he was unsteady on his feet. No, their only hope was to hurry, despite their many pains.
“Can you manage?” he asked her as she hobbled to him. “Here, let me carry Ben.”
“No,” she said kindly. “You’ve suffered a terrible blow to your head. I’m used to carrying him.”
He leaned over and rested his lips on her forehead and stroked her tangled hair. “You’re a brave woman, Grace Cunningham. I’ll get you and Ben home, whatever it takes.”
At that, Grace chuckled. “I think we’ve been through hell and high water already. It’s all downhill from here.”
He shook his head in amazement at her. “All right,” he said, his heart soaring with love. He kissed her sweetly once more on her lips, then trudged through the rocks and bunchgrass, seeking out the easiest path for Grace’s tender feet.
Chapter 30
“Hello? Anybody home?” Alan swung down off his horse and stomped the dirt off his feet, looking around the homestead. He hadn’t ever been out here, south of town, where remote cabins dotted the range amid the mats of cactus and arid range. Malcolm Cunningham’s parcel, though, sported a friendly little creek out back, although he wondered at the lack of womanly touch on the property. No vegetable or flower garden skirted the house, as was the case with most of the homesteads. No cheery curtains bordered the windows. Alan had read in the files that a Matthew Hoskins had up and left this parcel three years in. Alan couldn’t place the man’s face, and had no idea why he left. But he’d build a sturdy little house with pine siding and a shake roof that seemed to handle the Front Range wind and snowstorms.
“Hello,” he called again, noting the front door cracked open. His breath caught in his throat, and he chided himself for not carrying a gun. He hated guns, and he kept a pistol out of necessity, but truth be told, he’d never fired it—not once in his life. He grimaced at the thought of that round bit of lead piercing flesh of any kind.
He threw Rattler’s reins over the post out front and climbed the two steps to the porch. He craned his neck and peeked through the crack. Afternoon light splashed across a dusty wood floor, and from what he could see, someone had ransacked the place—or had left in a hurry. He imagined Malcolm had rushed out upon learning Grace had been abducted, but where had Stella gone? Surely Malcolm wouldn’t have left his house in such disarray. Or maybe he had, in his hurry to go save Grace.
Steeling his nerve, he pushed the door open, guilt berating him for trespassing. But he reminded himself he was doing this for Grace, to find something that might help get her back. That might help lead to the truth about Stella Connors, Malcolm’s wife.
He walked to the center of the living room, noting the furniture at haphazard placement, cupboards all swung open, dishes littering the counter. He tiptoed around the room, although he knew it was silly to do so. He worried at any moment someone—particularly Stella—might walk in on him and question his presence in the house. And if Stella was somehow tied up with the Dutton Gang . . .
Alan gulped down the fear and quickened his step. Methodically he looked through closets and rifled through drawers, pulling out what scant papers he could find. After about twenty minutes of careful searching, the last being the most embarrassing for him—going through Stella’s closet and armoire full of clothing and ladies’ undergarments—he’d found nothing incriminating. His face still felt hot from blushing at the . . . personal attire his fingers had touched. He had no idea women wore such things.
He blew hair out of his eyes and wiped his sweaty forehead. He removed his spectacles and cleaned them on the sleeve of his starched white tailored shirt. As he walked toward the door, frustrated and defeated, scrubbing a speck of mud off his spectacles, he slammed into a low table he’d forgotten was there. A large vase of wilted daisies crashed to the floor, water and shattered glass splattering the wood planks.
Alan sighed and stared at the mess. He couldn’t leave without cleani
ng this up. As messy as the house was, Stella might return and know someone had trespassed. He tried to think up some excuse to give her should she walk in on him, but his mind went blank. No idea of any sort wiggled into his head.
He stood and fretted, then recalled seeing rags and a sweep broom in the back closet down the hall. As he hurried to fetch them, he thought about poor Grace, and fear once more bubbled up in his chest. Why had those men taken her? What did they want with her? Had they hurt her? Oh, he felt so helpless. How long would it be before the sheriff and posse returned? Every minute that passed felt like a week to him. He knew he’d never be able to sleep tonight. He would just plan to sit in his chair in his office and stare out the window for any sign of the sheriff’s return.
He swung open the utility closet door and reached for the broom and a rag from the bucket sitting against the back. The broom was wedged between the bucket and the wall, so Alan yanked hard and pulled it free, nearly tumbling backward from the effort. He straightened his crooked spectacles on his nose, then peered into the dimly illuminated closet.
Odd. The back panel hung out from the wall at the top. Upon closer inspection, he noted that the nails had been pulled from their holes and still clung to the thin wooden paneling.
“What’s this?” He tugged on the board and pried it free. He jostled it out of the cramped space and set it flat on the hall floor. Then he leaned into the closet and gaped at the dark space he’d uncovered.
A tan leather satchel lay on the floor, its flap open with a few papers spilling out of the top. What a peculiar place to store papers. Alan grinned. But exactly the type of place if you didn’t want anyone to find them. Alan just knew the satchel belonged to Stella, and his palms grew itchy thinking about what he’d find inside.
A noise made him spin around. He clutched a hand to his thumping chest at the sight of a mouse scurrying across the floor just outside the closet. His feet were itching to run. He dared not dally any longer.
He grabbed the satchel, fastened the top, then slung it over his shoulder. For good measure, he placed the length of paneling back in place, and secured it once more with the broom and bucket. On his way out of the house, he frowned at the mess he’d made, but he just had to leave it. Every minute he tarried, the more anxious he felt. He was all alone out here on this homestead, miles away from the next neighbor—away from anyone who might hear him cry or come to his rescue should Stella or those outlaws come to find him here.
He mounted Rattler and kicked him into a gallop. Only when he reached the southern outskirts of town did he slow to a walk. His eyes darting from side to side, scanning the streets and casting quick glances behind him, told him no one was watching or following him. Fear crawled along his spine, but he kept Rattler walking at an unhurried pace, and he pasted a look on his face that said he was merely out for a peaceful afternoon ride through town—although the satchel was burning a hole in his back.
When he arrived at the livery, he put Rattler in his stall, then hurried to the courthouse, hoping no one would recognize him and engage him in friendly discourse. Without further ado, he slipped his key in the lock, turned the bolt, then locked the door behind him.
He blew out a breath and rushed into his office, then locked that door as well. After calming his heart, he dumped out the contents of the satchel on his immaculately clean desk, and papers fell out before him in a cloud of dust and dirt.
He picked up the papers and studied them. His eyes widened at letters written by and to Grace Cunningham. What in the world were her letters doing in Stella Connors’s house? That pricked his curiosity. But not as sharply as did the next papers he perused: letters of recommendation for a position of surveyor from various educators and officials in Illinois . . . for Montgomery Cunningham. Not Malcolm Connors.
Alan jumped up from his chair. He was right! Malcolm was Montgomery Cunningham—Grace’s husband, whom she’d thought had drowned. He knew it! Which meant Stella Connors had hidden that satchel and its contents from her husband.
Alan quickly read through the offer of employment Fred Wallace had mailed to Cunningham more than a year ago—to an address in Bloomington, Illinois, where Grace was from. And from where, no doubt, Monty aka Malcolm hailed.
Then he picked up another sheet of paper. His breath hitched. He held it aloft and stared at it. A marriage certificate. This was what Grace had asked him to request a copy of. Recorded at the Bloomington, Illinois, courthouse on September 23, 1874, it named Grace Ann Wilcox and Montgomery Cunningham. Married.
He felt around inside the satchel. At the bottom his fingers chanced upon a small box. He pulled it out and opened it. A small, simple gold band sat on a bed of burgundy velvet. This had to be Grace’s wedding ring. But why would it be in here, instead of on her finger? Maybe Grace had kept it in the satchel for safekeeping while she and Monty traveled.
Although Alan’s hopes for a chance with Grace sank like lead, he was glad he’d found the proof she wanted. He truly wanted her to be happy, and even though he knew she would never be his, he’d be doing right by her and her baby—Montgomery’s son—to give her this very good news. Whether her husband would be happy to hear this news was another story. Which brought him back to why he’d gone out to pay Stella Connors a visit in the first place—to discover her secret.
There had to be something in the satchel that would give him a clue to her identity . . .
But after scouring every inch and seam of the satchel, he could find nothing more. Not one tiny clue that might shed some light on Stella Connors.
Alan sank down into his large padded leather chair and thought. First thing in the morning, he’d send a telegraph message to his pal who was a reporter at the Rocky Mountain News in Denver City. If anyone could find out Stella’s true identity, Chuck Smithers could. Chuck knew everything there was to know about the Dutton Gang. He’d once witnessed the gang robbing a bank—from right across the street. The last time Alan had visited Chuck, his pal had shown him the very spot he’d stood on while watching the robbery four years ago.
With that decided, Alan stuffed the papers back in the satchel and stared at it, his thoughts returning to Grace’s plight. It would be night soon. He may as well make himself a strong pot of coffee, seeing as he planned to stay up and worry. All this fretting and sneaking about had exhausted him. Maybe he’d allow himself a nap—just a little one, so he’d be fresh in the morning to set about his business bright and early.
As he lay back in his chair and closed his eyes, he let his thoughts drift to Grace’s gentle face. He said a prayer for her safe return, but his grief and worry rekindled in double measure. Would anyone come back alive after chasing down Wymore and Cloyd? He feared the worst. And what a sad tale it would be if Montgomery Cunningham lost his life at the hands of a killer without learning the truth about his real wife, and his baby. Yep, that would be the worst tragedy of all.
***
Their horses’ hooves sounded a somber knell on the hard-pack dirt as Eph Love shambled into town with his posse late that night. What with the Indian brothers off after their wild horse herd, Eph figured it a better plan if their small band stayed together—rather than have him or another run back to Fort Collins and fetch a mount for Coon. So, they’d alternated riding and walking, leading Coon’s saddlebred topped with Cloyd’s body, until, after long, uneventful hours navigating down the canyon and crossing the open range, they forded the Poudre at the intersection of the northern road to Cheyenne under a dusky sky and headed into town—hungry and weary but none the worse for wear. All they’d had to eat was dry tack and jerky that Coon had thought to bring, which rumbled like stones in Eph’s cavernous stomach.
After the sun dropped behind the peaks halfway to town, the temperature plummeted, which swayed Eph’s thoughts of accomplishment to ones of grave concern over Connors and the woman. He sure hoped they’d made it out alive, but he knew it was a fool’s hope. That rockslide looked something fierce. But he’d know more on the morrow.
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He wanted nothing more at this moment than to ride swiftly home to Sally and a hot meal, but first they had to get these bodies put in cool storage. Their horses, too, were hungry and weary, and they needed tending to. O’Grady’s roan, Firebrand, had thrown a shoe and hobbled the last couple of miles. Eph hated to bother the undertaker on a late Sunday night, but there was nothing for it.
They came to a halt in front of the shuttered windows of the sheriff’s office. The street was shrouded in darkness, and all the closed-up shops’ windows looked like gloomy lidless eyes watching them in silence. Not the exuberant reception Eph had hoped for—no triumphant procession trotting into town with their prizes. But there would be plenty of time for celebration. He smiled thinking of that telegram he’d send to the Denver City sheriff’s department first thing in the morning. And the one to the Pinkerton Agency—to claim that reward for his men.
“Help me lay out these bodies on the boardwalk,” Eph told the men. “Then you can all git home and eat supper, and git a good night’s sleep.”
Stapleton slid off his horse and began untying the woman’s body from the chestnut gelding. “You sure, Sheriff? You’ll need some help gettin’ these moved.”
Eph noted the old Ranger’s careworn face and shaky hands. “Nope. I’ll see to it. Come on round in the morning. There’ll be paperwork and statements to record.”
The men, laden with exhaustion, acquiesced, and Coon and O’Grady set to work loosening knots. Once the horses were unburdened of the bodies, Stapleton set off down the street, leading the weary mounts to the livery to rub them down and situate them in stalls. Eph would speak with Joe Mason tomorrow and see about finding proper homes for them.
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 32