Monty. That’s what Grace had called me. My name. This is mine . . .
Malcolm’s head reeled, and the room tilted. He put a hand to his forehead.
“This belongs to me,” he said, aware of the sheriff’s quiet, keen gaze resting upon him. Malcolm picked up another piece of paper. A letter written by the famous explorer John Wesley Powell, written on a letterhead indicating Wesleyan University, Bloomington, Illinois.
Suddenly a face came to mind. A big man with a large square head, sporting a huge moustache and beard, his face both stern and jovial. Powell. His instructor at college.
Malcolm gripped the edge of the desk. He saw the classrooms, the campus, the buildings. He heard Powell’s voice as he lectured about geology from the dais at the front of the wood-paneled classroom.
Malcolm picked up the next piece of paper and read another letter of recommendation, from a man named Albert Peale, a mineralogist. Then another, from a surveyor in Bloomington. Their faces were as sharp and clear in his mind’s eye as if the men were sitting in the sheriff’s office with him.
The sheriff waited while Malcolm’s thoughts whirled. I’m not Malcolm Connors. I’m Montgomery Cunningham. He sucked in a breath. Which means . . .
The sheriff slid another paper over to him—a small yellowed square sheet that sported an official stamp in the bottom corner. Malcolm lifted it with a shaky hand and read it.
He stared slack-jawed at the marriage certificate. His eyes caught on his name—Montgomery Cunningham—and the woman’s name: Grace Ann Wilcox.
Suddenly he saw Grace in her beautiful sweeping white wedding dress, her hair up in pearls and lace, her face shining with joy. And then he saw the room in the Bloomington Courthouse, where he’d married her that spring day, and heard him speaking his vow to her. I promise to love you and to cherish you, through sickness and in health, till death us do part . . .
A cry blurted from his mouth as he set down the certificate. He stared at the sheriff, but no words came out.
“So . . . I reckon I should be calling you Montgomery,” Love said matter-of-factly. “And I reckon this here’s her ring,” he added, sliding a small dark-wood box over to him. Malcolm opened the box and looked at the slender gold band sitting inside. That was the ring he’d put on her finger. Which she’d given to him before they left Illinois, to keep in his leather bag for safekeeping when her fingers swelled from her pregnancy.
I’m married to Grace. She’s my wife. My true wife. He looked at the date on the certificate. September 23, 1874. Nearly two years ago . . .
Monty. My name is Montgomery Cunningham . . .
Monty squeezed his eyes shut as the memories flooded into his mind like a raging river. Sweet memories of his life with Grace, back in Illinois, in her aunt’s boardinghouse. But unlike the wild river that had wrested his past from him, he welcomed this assault to his senses, and reveled in all the memories of the passionate nights he had lain with Grace and showered his love upon her. He could feel her in his arms, and recalled the softness of her skin in all her wonderful hidden places. Memories of their long shared kisses sparked his passion and stirred his body with a fire that made him leap to his feet.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he told the sheriff, eager to run to Grace, to take her in his arms, to shout to the world his great joy. Never in a hundred years would he have imagined such an answer to his desperate prayer. He no longer had to bear this horrible pain of loss, of confusion, of loneliness. He didn’t have to run off with Grace or tempt her to sin. She was already his.
His wife. They were married.
Monty grabbed the desk to steady himself as the truth slapped him. Grace knew. She’d known all this time. Of course. From the moment he walked into town, when he stepped foot in the dress shop where she worked . . . Oh, poor Grace. She had borne this terrible secret and never said a word to him. But how could she have said a thing? He’d married another woman. He’d forgotten her. What pain he’d caused her!
“I see this is quite the shock,” the sheriff said, his words startling him. Monty had forgotten the sheriff was in the room with him.
Monty looked at him. “I’m starting to remember.” He held his head and gulped. “This is . . . unbelievable. But it’s true—all of it. I am Montgomery Cunningham. I grew up in Chicago. Then I went to college to study geology in Illinois with John Powell. I was on the geological survey of Yellowstone with Ferdinand Hayden.”
Monty shook his head, the memories now washing over him, one after another, like rapids in a river, but these waves caressed and soothed him as each memory fell into its rightful place. “I need to go—” He couldn’t wait to tell Grace! And Ben . . .
Tears squeezed out of his eyes as he realized Ben was his precious son—the one he and Grace had made together in love and whose arrival into this world he had eagerly awaited. No wonder Ben had felt so wonderful in his arms. Ben was his baby! He had a son—a son! His heart soared with boundless elation. He made for the door.
The sheriff stood and stayed him with his hand. “I told you I had some bad news.”
Monty stopped and turned around. His stomach flip-flopped What could possibly be bad? Grace and Ben were safe, back in town. They were his, and no one could ever come between him and his family again.
In silence, the sheriff led him out of the room and in through another door off the hallway. The came out into the large anteroom of the courthouse, where a dozen or so people milled around talking in excited, hushed voices.
Sheriff Love yelled above the chatter. “Please, everyone leave the room.”
The townspeople looked at the sheriff, then exited out the double doors that fronted the street. As they filed out, Monty noticed three bodies laid out on tables—or more like coffins. Upon closer inspection he saw they were on blocks of ice. On the closest table lay the body of Billy Cloyd—the man the sheriff and O’Grady had dragged out of the burning cabin. The body next to Billy’s was a man’s, but the face was covered with a burlap sack. And then Monty’s eyes snagged on the last body, set a few feet away from the other two.
The afternoon sunlight streaked in through the bank of windows, casting a soft yellow glow on Stella’s face. Stella? Half a minute passed before Monty realized he was holding his breath. His mouth went dry. Stella—dead. He shook his head. She looked peaceful, as if sleeping.
“What . . . what happened? Why is she here—with these outlaws?” Maybe she’d had an accident while he was gone. But if that were the case, she wouldn’t be here, on public display.
Quiet enveloped the room as the shock of seeing her here sank in. He tried to muster some sadness for her demise, but he felt nothing. “I don’t understand . . .”
“Her real name’s Lenora.”
The sheriff let that hang in the air a few moments before he continued. “Lenora Dutton. She was Hank Dutton’s wife.”
Lenora. Lenora Dutton? This was . . . Stella? His Stella? Monty shook his head. How was this possible? He sifted through what he knew about her, the days and nights he’d spent with her in that ramshackle cabin near Greeley. All those lies she’d told him—about their past life in St. Louis, how they’d been engaged . . .
Anger rose up his chest and slung a noose around his neck. Why? Why had she done this to him? He knew she’d lied to him and kept his true past hidden from him.
He wrenched his gaze from her body and turned to the sheriff. “Did she have that pouch on her—when you found her?”
Love shook his head. “The clerk, Patterson, went over to your house after we’d headed up into the mountains. He’d had a hunch. Said he saw your . . . Lenora talkin’ to Wymore in town jus’ before they snatched Grace. He recognized her as your wife and so decided to go talk to her, see what she knew about the outlaws. He found that pouch at your homestead.”
Monty stared, unblinking, as this bit of information sank in. All this time—the key to his past had been under his very nose. Hidden by his lying cheat of a wife. Stella—Lenora—had b
een responsible for Grace’s kidnapping. Now he understood. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. How had he been so gullible? So stupid?
Yet, if he hadn’t married Stella, he’d never have come to Fort Collins and found Grace. He might even have died along the banks of the Platte.
He closed his eyes and prayed. Lord, you sure work in mysterious ways. But you answered my prayers—every last one of them. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.
“What we figure is that Dutton’s widow left Denver City last year—May sixteenth is when Hank Dutton was hanged. She headed north, to fetch that gold her husband had stashed up in the mountains, at that cabin. And on her way, she chanced upon you—”
“I had an accident.”
“That’s what Patterson told me. Grace had told him you’d been swept down the Poudre. You probably hit yer head on somethin’.”
Monty nodded. “When I awoke, Stella was at my side. She told me I slipped and fell. That we were engaged to be married. I was badly hurt, and she nursed me back to health. She told me we’d come from St. Louis and intended to marry and settle in Fort Collins.”
“No doubt she planned to bide her time, hidin’ out, waitin’ for Wymore and Cloyd to git caught or killed, then figured she’d get the gold and take off somewhere. She was jus’ usin’ you for a cover.” The sheriff then went on to detail everything that happened at the cabin after Monty had left to rescue Grace on the mountain, including how Wymore had shot Stella—Lenora—when she was digging up the gold. When Eli and LeRoy had told their tale at the breakfast table this morning, they’d left out a lot.
“She told me my name was Malcolm Connors.” His gaze drifted back to her body as he thought about his initials etched on his surveying instruments. She’d used those to give weight to her lies. He shook his head, dizzy from the realizations that assailed him.
He blew out a long shaky breath. “Well, Sheriff, this all comes as quite a shock. An outlaw’s wife . . .”
“There’s no way you’d have known. I didn’t even know Dutton had been married until this morning.” He nodded at the body. “But I s’pose this takes care of one big problem—you now only have one wife, not two. I imagine Grace will be happy to get you back.” He gave Monty a big grin. “That’s a lot of secret for a woman to keep. She never told you?”
Monty shook his head, suddenly remembering all the times Grace had seemed about to confess something important to him. “No, she never did. But I know why.”
Sheriff Love merely nodded. “My wife told me some of the gossip going around about Grace. Folks claimed she’d made up the story about a husband who’d been carried off in a flood, hoping to inspire pity from charitable folks. Meant to cover the shame of her bein’ pregnant with an illegitimate child—”
“He’s not illegitimate,” Monty retorted. “He’s mine. My son.”
Monty froze. Ben was his son, his baby. Grace had given birth to him while her husband lay in the arms of an outlaw’s wife. He groaned at the thought of Grace going through her difficult ordeal all by herself, without him there by her side to help her through it. To be there to welcome Ben into the world.
More tears filled his eyes. He recalled asking her the baby’s name the day of the tornado. She’d told him she’d named him after her brother, Benjamin. Back at the boardinghouse, Grace had told him the story of how her parents and her little two-year-old brother had died of cholera, and how her aunt had then raised her—oh, how the sad story had rent his heart. Monty remembered assuring her the day her aunt Eloisa lay dying, when he’d returned from his latest expedition intent on marrying her, that she’d never be alone again. How he’d take care of her from now on, forever. And then he’d broken that promise—granted, by no fault of his own. Yet guilt still chewed at his gut for having abandoned her. And she had come here, to Fort Collins, and waited for him to walk into town. She had never given up hope. Even when she saw he’d forgotten her . . .
He let the tears fall down his face, not bothering to swipe them away. The sheriff stood in respectful silence a moment, then patted him twice on the shoulder, gave him an understanding smile, then left the room, allowing Monty time to sort through his warring emotions.
When his tears were spent and those emotions settled into their places of rest, a calm also settled in—like fog spilling down over the Rockies onto the wide-open Front Range. It coated his heart with a warm blanket of peace, for it was time.
Time to reclaim both his past and his loving, ever-hopeful wife.
He strode to the double doors of the courthouse and pushed them open, the warmth of a genial summer breeze brushing his face. Rarified mountain air fragranced with wildflowers and cut grass filled his nostrils. He stopped for a moment on the planked boardwalk and searched the elated crowd for Grace, then spotted her sitting on a bench, Ben—his son—standing and bouncing on her lap as she talked animatedly to her friend Clare.
With a smile so wide he thought it might crack his face, he bounded down to the street, eager to fill his aching, empty arms.
Chapter 33
“I’m so relieved you’re all right,” Clare said, taking Ben from Grace and cradling him in her arms. Ben sang and blabbered in her ear, and Grace laughed. Oh, how freeing it felt to laugh when she’d thought she never would again.
Ben pushed back with his hands and with a serious look on his cute round face said to Clare, “Mama, mama, mama.”
Clare chuckled and tickled his cheeks. “I’m not your mama. I’m Clare. Say ‘Clare.’”
“Mama, mama, mama!”
Clare ruffled Ben’s hair. “I guess that’s the only word he’s learned so far.”
Grace shrugged. “I can’t get him to say anything else.” She kissed Ben’s cheek, and he squirmed in delight.
“Someday he won’t like those kisses,” Clare said, tickling Ben under the arms.
Grace sighed and took in the sight of her precious healthy baby boy. “I’ll rue that day. I hope he’ll always want kisses from his mama.”
Clare’s expression turned serious. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about what happened. When I heard you’d been kidnapped—” She paused and pinched her lips together. “I’m just glad they found you in time.”
Grace nodded. She would tell Clare the whole dreadful tale someday. But right now, she just wanted to feel the warm sun on her shoulders and revel in her freedom. But where was Monty? She’d caught a glimpse of him entering the sheriff’s office. Maybe the sheriff needed him to make a statement.
She kept trying to think of how she would tell him all the things she wanted to say to him. And everything she came up with led her back to the same questions: What would he do? Would he believe her?
What if she could never prove they’d been married? Then Monty would never leave Stella, for he was an honorable, God-fearing man. Even though he’d kissed her, she could never expect him to sin against God. And it would be wrong for her to press him. What would happen if she told him about their marriage—and that Ben was his baby—and he thought she was lying?
Yet, anyone could see Ben’s resemblance to his father. He had his father’s chin and jaw. Even the one hazel eye. How could Monty look at his son and not see she was telling the truth?
Grace’s gut soured with worry. Had he only declared his love to her up in the mountains in a moment of passion and relief in the aftermath of his near-death ordeal? Or did he truly love her? Did he love Stella more? If he did, why had he risked his life and joined the posse?
She should just go home, back to the Franklins’. She wondered if they were all right; she didn’t spot them here in the crowd. If Monty wanted to see her, she supposed he knew where to find her. Maybe after he’d had some time to recover from his new head injury, she would find the nerve to talk to him. If she could get him away from Stella. Oh, this was all so complicated and disheartening.
She stood and reached for Ben.
“Where are ya goin’?” Clare asked, still cuddling Ben. “You’re not still th
inkin’ of leavin’ town now, are ya?” Clare narrowed her eyes at Grace in a playful way. “Ya still have to make my weddin’ dress—or have ya forgotten?”
Grace smiled, but her heart felt heavy and her limbs weak. “I’ve not forgotten,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow we can—”
Her words stuck in her throat as she caught sight of Monty hurrying down the street toward her, his face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“Monty!” Grace called out. Clare looked at her in surprise when she said his name.
He descended upon her in a whirlwind of joy, causing the breath to whoosh from her lungs. He swung her up into the air with his strong arms, then pulled her into his chest. She sucked in a shocked breath as he searched her eyes, as if looking long and hard for something he had lost.
“Grace, oh, Grace,” he murmured, drinking her in. Grace’s blood ignited with desire as he stroked her cheeks, which had flushed in embarrassment at all the eyes turned toward them.
“Monty, I . . . I . . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, he smothered her words with his mouth, and kissed her deeply and passionately, pressing her close and wrapping his arms around her. Grace heard shocked gasps and whispers erupt around her, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to feel Monty’s lips on hers, the heat of his skin, his hands claiming her as his own.
After his long amorous kiss, he pulled back and smiled at her—with the same smile that had won her heart so many years ago. It was a smile full of unbridled love, running free and wild, like an untamed river. Like a herd of wild horses running roughshod over her heart.
“Grace,” he said breathless, in a whisper, his eyes wide with astonishment. “I remember.”
She stepped back, trembling. “What? Monty, what do you remember?” The question hung pregnant in the air between them, and her pulse throbbed in her throat.
He laid a hand on her cheek and said, “Everything, Grace. I remember everything . . .”
Colorado Hope (The Front Range Series Book 2) Page 35