Chapter 12

 

June 22, 1876

Lenora composed herself and drew in a deep breath, then pushed open the door to the dress shop. The tinkling bell brought the store owner rushing from out behind the counter to greet her—Tildie Hortman, whose eyes swam with a lust for silver dollars. Lenora was not surprised the old biddy was a spinster. Who would marry such an ugly crow? Her nose was a birdlike beak, and her head rested on too long a neck. And her choice of clothing—so unflattering to her spindly figure.

Lenora was grateful for the ample curves she’d been born with, but she worked hard to stay beautiful—with her powders and creams, and by resisting sweets. Although, she wondered why she bothered these days to primp. Her husband hardly paid her any mind, but Lenora didn’t care all that much. Once she got the gold and arrived in San Francisco, then . . .

Soon, she told herself. Another week with this warm weather, the trails up to the cabin would be manageable. In the last two weeks there had been no word of Clayton and Billy. The newspapers weren’t even sure they’d been the ones to rob that bank in Laporte. So there was no way to know if they were around—or even alive. But one thing Lenora knew without a doubt—the longer she hung around in this poor excuse for a town, the more likely they’d find her. It was nearly time to skedaddle.

She considered slipping away without anyone the wiser, but where could she go? If she went to another nearby town, Monty could find her. Or he might put notices in the paper looking for her. Word—and her description—would get out. She’d hoped her “unladylike” behavior would push Monty to kick her out, but he was too honorable a man to do such a thing, she’d come to realize. No matter how much she grieved him, he always softened and tried to be forgiving and understanding, which made her want to gag. How’d she end up with such a sucker?

“Ah, Mrs. Connors, you’re here. Your dresses are finished and ready for fitting.” The woman’s eyes brightened in curiosity. “And how are things on your homestead? I hear tell you took over the Hoskins’s claim. Such a lovely spot on the creek, isn’t it?”

The shopkeeper led Lenora over to an upholstered chair in the back of the room and sat her down. Clearly she didn’t expect Lenora to answer her inquiries, for she continued rambling. “Now, just wait here, and I’ll bring your dresses to you to try on. We have a nice private room over there where you can change, and I’ll call Grace out here to help with the adjustments.” Tildie flitted off to a back room behind a curtain, and Lenora heard muffled conversation.

Grace. That must be the young woman Lenora had seen in the harness shop a few days ago. She grunted, feeling the irritation rise in her chest. One look at that woman, sitting there on that bench, with her eyes pinned longingly upon Monty, and she knew just what that woman—

Lenora sucked in a breath and her eyebrows rose. Her jaw dropped. Yes, the woman had a look of utter longing on her face. Lenora knew the look well—she was a keen observer. One had to be to become a great actress. And the look on that young mother’s face had been one of adoration. Lenora might even say the woman had the look of love on her features. The kind of love a woman felt only for a man she knew intimately . . .

Lenora’s thoughts jerked to a halt before the glaring brick wall of truth.

Grace . . . that was the name on Montgomery Cunningham’s marriage certificate—the name of his wife. Grace Wilcox. Lenora had memorized every little word of that little piece of paper.

She tapped her foot in a fast rhythm and fidgeted. Was this the same woman? Was this little mousy button-nosed nothing Monty’s real wife? If she was . . . that meant the brat was his too.

A baby! Grace must have been pregnant when Monty fell into the river. The poor dear. Lenora sniggered. Alone, raising a child, and now—she learns her beloved husband has no idea who she is. And he has no idea that he is a father. Aw, what a sad story, one perfect for the penny dreadfuls.

Lenora was struck with equal parts amusement and worry. For if this woman was truly Monty’s wife, her presence might jog his memories. And Lenora couldn’t take the chance that Monty would start remembering—not as long as Lenora had to keep up this ruse and remain in Fort Collins. Nosiree. She had to be certain of her hunch.

The shopkeeper returned, with Grace following behind her, her arms overflowing with dresses. When Grace saw her, she stiffened. Lenora pasted on a smile. No doubt Grace did not relish the idea of another encounter with her. But Lenora would be on her best behavior and pretend nothing had happened at the harness shop.

“Now, let’s have you try this one on,” Tildie said, lifting up a pretty high-collared burgundy silk and handing it to her. Lenora had to admit—the dress was gorgeous. She gushed in delight, saying to Grace, “My, this is stunning. You do beautiful work.” Tildie hovered, a wide smile creasing her severe face.

“Where did you learn to sew, if you don’t mind my asking?” Lenora said to Grace as sweetly as possible. She noticed Grace’s tight face loosen and her shoulders relax.

Grace spoke quietly as she pulled aside the curtain to the changing area and gestured Lenora inside. “I grew up in Bloomington, Illinois. My aunt was a seamstress, and she taught me all I know.”

Aha, Lenora thought. It’s her—has to be. The marriage certificate was stamped in that city. So, of all places, she had run into Monty’s wife. But, why should she be surprised? No doubt Monty had fallen into the river close to Fort Collins. And, she reminded herself, Monty had a job offer—the very job he now had, with the land office. Silly me. Of course she would be here. She would have come here in hopes her poor husband had somehow survived his ordeal. But what a surprise the poor thing had! Lenora almost squirmed in delight, thinking how upset Grace must be knowing Lenora was married to her husband. She let out a little titter as she flounced into the changing area and disrobed.

The silk dress felt divine as she slipped it over her head and smoothed it over her corset and taffeta petticoats. Such a beautiful dress—one that would make Monty’s heart beat a little fast. Knowing that Monty’s wife was living here in Fort Collins and had seen him married to another woman was titillating. She pictured poor little Grace watching in horror as Lenora ran her hand through Monty’s hair. How agonizing it must be for her to know Monty slept in another’s woman’s arms. But what could the pathetic woman do? Surely she couldn’t tell him the truth—he’d think she was mad. Would she dare tell him the brat was his? Had she told anyone else in this town?

Hmm, that could be a problem. Lenora stood there, thinking. What if Grace had told someone about seeing Monty in town? She wiggled her head and sniggered. Who would believe her? If she claimed she’d been married to him, but that he somehow forgot and married another, who would believe her? What proof did she have? None, nothing at all.

Lenora huffed and came out. The shopkeeper was busy at the counter. Grace had hung up the other dresses on a nearby rack and stood, waiting for Lenora.

Grace looked Lenora over, clearly avoiding meeting her eyes. “How does it fit? Does it need any adjustments?” Her voice was shaky and paper thin.

Lenora smiled. “You took careful measurements. It fits perfectly.” She couldn’t resist; she just had to stick a few barbs in. “So . . . what does your husband do?” she asked innocently.

Grace nearly choked. Her face turned red, and Lenora saw her swallow with difficulty. Lenora waited, her head cocked in polite curiosity.

“He . . . he . . .” Grace fumbled for words, much to Lenora’s secret amusement. After composing herself, she said, “He was swept away in a river last year.”

“Oh, I’m sooo sorry,” Lenora said, shaking her head in commiseration. “And the poor baby. How hard it must be to raise him without a father. Oh, you must miss him so much.” She turned and fastened her eyes on Grace, waiting to see her response.

Grace’s face collapsed in pain. She jerked her head back and moaned, then ran from the room. The shopkeeper rushed over.

Tildie questioned Lenora with an intense look. She whispered, “Whatever is the matter with Grace?”

Lenora pasted on a puzzled expression. “I have no idea. I just asked her about her husband, what he does . . .” She let her voice trail off and looked toward the back room with grave concern. “Did I misspeak?”

“Oh, please, don’t mind her,” Tildie said, then lowered her voice even more. “She is a marvelous seamstress, but has some . . . emotional imbalances. Why . . . I believe she has it in her mind that your husband . . . well, it’s not polite of me to make such assumptions—”

But that won’t stop you from gossiping, now, nosiree. Lenora knew well her kind of woman. A spinster like her had nothing to live for but gossip. With bated breath, Lenora whispered back, her eyes wide. “Pray, do tell!”

“That day your husband came into the shop? Grace looked as if she’d seen a ghost—a ghost of her recently departed husband. She wants so very much for him to be alive, longing for him to walk in through the door . . . why, she just fixed it in her mind that he was her beloved. And she hasn’t been the same ever since.” The shopkeeper tittered like a chatty hen. “Can you imagine such a thing? I believe her misfortune has dismantled her mind, the poor dear. I’ve no doubt that soon she will think she sees her husband at every turn.” She shook her head with sadness. “And the poor infant, having such a befuddled woman as a mother. How will he fare, with all the talk about town?”

No doubt much of that talk spread by you, Lenora concluded, nodding and commiserating along with the shopkeeper.

The woman laid a gentle hand on Lenora’s shoulder. “I apologize for Grace’s . . . unstable constitution. Here, let me help you with the other dresses. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with them.”

Tildie lifted the next dress from the hook on the wall and held it out to her. A lovely pale-green organdy dress, in the latest French style with buttons up the cuffs and lace around the collar.

“Ah, how lovely. Grace truly is a marvelous seamstress. And it’s so kind of you to allow her to work for you . . . despite her . . . instability and . . . unpleasant circumstances.”

Tildie glanced to the back of the room, as if expecting Grace to return.

“Yes, well, I do have a business to run,” the woman told her.

“And you do a remarkable job. Not a finer dress shop have I ever seen—not even in Den—” She caught herself. “Not even in St. Louis, where I lived before I came here.” Lenora smiled widely. “I’ll try this on then.”

She ducked back behind the curtain and carefully removed the silk dress. Well, her suspicions were confirmed. People in this town knew about Grace’s unfortunate situation—and knew that she thought Monty was her husband. And even though Tildie imagined Grace saw her missing husband in the faces of other young men, Lenora did not rest easy. For Grace would not chase after any other man. In time, her belief that Monty—and he alone—was her missing husband would be voiced. And that meant Lenora would be in the limelight, which was the last place she wanted to be while in Fort Collins.

Something had to be done, and soon. Something drastic. For tongues wagged excitedly in this small town, and she didn’t think Grace would be able to resist Monty. She would try to talk to him, to get him to remember. No doubt she would do anything in her power to win back her husband.

And Lenora couldn’t let that happen. Hopefully the weather would cooperate, and she could leave town within the week. But if not . . . maybe, she thought with a sudden smile, there would just have to be another unfortunate accident.

 

 

Grace took her time walking down Jefferson Street, careful not to put too much pressure on her ankle. After soaking it in hot water and laying ice packs on it for a few days, it finally felt strong enough. How she’d managed to hobble home, carrying Ben after the accident with the wagon, was a blur in her mind. Seeing Monty so close, having him touch her, had been torturous. When she finally hobbled into the Franklins’ house, she went to her room, bolted the door, and slept through most of the day and night—despite Charity’s periodic knocking at her door—waking only to feed and change Ben, who seemed as exhausted by the traumatic ordeal as she.

She jostled the packages in her arms in the brisk clear morning as she approached the livery, feeling strangely empty, as if all the blood had drained out of her. She hadn’t eaten much in days, and her small room had become so claustrophobic, she couldn’t bear remaining in it a moment longer. Upon telling Charity the unavoidable news that the perambulator had been crushed by a horse and wagon, the woman threw her hands up in horror and poured sappy words of consolation upon Grace, praising the Lord for her safe deliverance from death, all the while prying Grace for the details—which Grace refrained from indulging.

Charity graciously offered to tell Tildie that her houseguest was feeling unwell and needed a few days to recover, but Grace had no doubt Charity’s feet rushed to spread more gossip about her. And then, the day she went back to work, that woman came into the shop, as if sent by the Devil himself to sorely vex her even more. She rushed back home and locked herself in her room, then cried all afternoon. She yearned to quit her job, but it was her only means of support. With her meager earnings, she paid the Franklins for room and board, and bought necessities for herself and Ben.

Thankfully, as Grace entered the shop this morning, Tildie’s eyes took on a glint of curiosity, but she merely exchanged the usual pleasantries. No mention was made of Grace’s emotional outburst. Grace was grateful, when Tildie asked if she might deliver some dresses to an elderly customer and offer to check the fitting at the woman’s home. Grace couldn’t get out of the shop fast enough.

“Good mornin’ to ya,” a voice called out.

Grace looked up and saw Clare stepping out from the shadows of the livery. And with her stood an attractive young cowboy, dressed in brown wool pants with a pale shirt that had seen some years of wear. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat upon seeing Grace and gave a bright straight-toothed smile. Curly light-brown hair trickled down his ears and cascaded onto his shoulders. As Grace waved hello, she noticed his hand resting on Clare’s back. This had to be her beau—Eli.

He stood a good foot taller than Grace and Clare, with a wide strong jaw, and prominent cheekbones that suggested he might have some Indian in him. Clare’s face was a bit flushed, and she touched a hand to her throat. Grace wondered what they’d been doing in that back room, where Clare punched saddles and bridles. Grace smiled, for it was clear the two were in love, and she was happy for Clare.

“This is Eli Banks,” Clare said, nudging her beau. “Eli, meet Grace. She’s the gal I told ya about.”

“Pleasure to meet you, miss,” Eli said, nodding. He seemed all sweet and no-nonsense to Grace, with a voice as smooth as honey mixed with a little grit.

Grace replied, “Likewise, Mr. Banks.”

Eli chortled and waved a hand. “Please, just call me Eli.”

“All right . . . Eli,” Grace said, not used to young men being so informal with strangers—and especially not women.

“How are ya farin’?” Clare asked sincerely.

Grace wished she could tell her the truth—that she was more than miserable—but she held back. When she didn’t answer, Clare took the parcels from Grace’s hands before Grace could utter a word of protest. “Eli and I were just talking about the upcoming centennial celebration—and the horse races.” She led Grace to a bench inside the livery, out of the cold breeze. She sat down alongside Grace and set the parcels at her feet, but Eli stood facing Clare, his eyes swimming with love—which only made Grace’s heart ache even more for Monty.

Clare continued. “We mean to take every ribbon this year.” She threw Eli a sly look. “And we’re going to enter as a team in the roping competition.”

Grace was shocked. “You? You . . . rope . . . what? Horses? Cows?” Grace had never been to a rodeo or anything of the ilk. She had heard of such events, but had no idea women participated in them.

Clare and Eli burst out in laughter. He said, “We rope calves. It’s a timed event. Two riders bolt out of the shoot when the gun goes off and—”

“One rider lassoes the calf’s head,” Clare interjected, “while the other snags a foot. Ya have to flip the calf on its back, tie up three legs, and let go.”

Grace shook her head in amazement. “You know how to do this?” she asked Clare. She imagined Eli might have such skills if he worked on a ranch, but Clare?

Her friend laughed again—a warm, nonjudgmental manner that set Grace’s heart at ease. “Sure, I’ve been on a ranch my whole life.” She nudged Eli harder, playfully. “And I’m better with the lasso than this green cowboy.”

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her hands and pulling her close, his honey-brown eyes sparkling as he gazed into Clare’s. “Who you callin’ green—my little Irish lass from the Emerald Isle?”

Clare whacked him lightly upside the head and knocked his hat to the ground. Eli chuckled and picked up his hat, brushed it off, and stuffed it back in place. He narrowed his eyes at Clare. “Don’t you be messin’ with a man’s hat. You should know better.”

“Yessir,” she said with the look of a misbehaving schoolgirl who’d just been chastised by her teacher—and didn’t care a whit.

Clare shook her head and patted her hair, as if making sure it was all in place. She was wearing a gingham skirt and white tailored shirt. Even in such simple clothes, she looked beautiful. Clare had a natural beauty—of the spirit—that shone through, and Grace imagined that was what appealed to Eli. For he appeared wholly at ease with her confident manner and lack of concern for wearing fashionable clothes or putting on airs. They seemed a perfect match.

Again she realized how much she longed for a friend, someone to share her deepest joys and pains with—now that she no longer had Monty to confide in. His absence was an ache that hurt more than any illness, and she knew no way to heal it. Nothing but getting him back would cure her. But she had to stop thinking like that—it was only tormenting her.

“Grace, are you all right?” Clare moved closer and forced Grace to meet her eyes. Grace tried to smile, but once more the tears filled the wells of her eyes. “Tell us what’s bothering you.”

Grace looked at Clare, then Eli. These people were practically strangers, but she felt if she didn’t tell someone her troubles, she would utterly fall apart. And she had to keep a right mind for Ben. She needed to move out, and worried the Strattons had already let out their spare room. What would happen if she told them the truth—all of it? Would they belittle her? Scoff at her story? Was it really proper for her to speak so freely to a man she didn’t know?

She chortled bitterly. What did she have to lose? She doubted she could stain her reputation further.

“Do you really want to know?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be working on your saddles?”

Clare reached over and smoothed Grace’s hair with the touch of a loving mother. Grace’s heart melted at the tender gesture. A few tears worked down her cheeks, and she tried to suck the rest down her throat. Clare said quietly, “I have all the time in the world.” She looked at Eli. “He’s come over from Greeley to help me get my things moved into the hotel.”

“How ’bout we head over to the café on Prospect? I heard a body c’n scare up a real breakfast there,” Eli said, taking a look at the sky dotted with fat white clouds. “It’s fixin’ to snow this afternoon, but we have time for some vittles,” he said matter-of-factly. “And I’m starvin’.”

Grace studied the sky overhead, but saw nothing to indicate that snow was imminent. She glanced at Clare, who shrugged and said, “He’s half Cheyenne. He can predict the weather.”

Eli made a sour face. “Clare, that’s hogwash. I don’t predict the weather.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Any fool c’n see it’s fixin’ to snow.”

“Well, I guess I’m a fool then, because I can never tell when the weather’s gonna change. And you always know. It’s a gift.” She looked at Grace. “And he has a flawless sense of direction—never gets lost. Unlike me.”

“Sugar, so long’s you c’n find the right end of a lasso to throw and a gun to point, you’ll do right fine,” Eli said. “So, are we gonna stand around all day chattin’ about the weather—or go eat?”

Grace’s stomach rumbled, reminding her how starving she truly was. Good thing she had a few coins in her coat pocket. “I have to drop these parcels off.” She supposed she could tell Mrs. St. Vrain she would return later in the day for a fitting.

“Just tell me where,” Eli said, “and we’ll stop on our way.”

Clare took Grace’s arm as they walked behind Eli to a wagon that had an empty flat bed in the back. A large chestnut draft horse stood hitched to it half asleep alongside the back wall of the livery. Clare lightly squeezed Grace’s arm, making Grace turn to look at her.

“Ya like him?” she whispered to Grace.

Grace smiled and tried to think of something kind to say. “You roped in a good one, Clare.”

Clare snickered and whispered, “Still don’t have those legs tied . . . but I’m working on it.”

“I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” Grace said. “He’s smitten.”

Clare grunted. “And I aim to keep him that way.” Her tone grew serious. “Listen, Grace. I want to know what’s bothering ya. And you can trust Eli. He never talks to anyone about anythin’ private. He’s been raised right. And he has a smart sense for sussing out solutions to problems.” Her eyes lit up. “And Eli’s invited me to come to his ranch north of Greeley—to finally meet his mam! His da died when he was little, but she runs a horse ranch.”

She gestured Grace to climb up to the bench. Eli held out his hand and took her parcels, then helped her up, and she was grateful because her ankle felt wobbly. She gathered in her skirts to make room for the others, then slid the parcels under the seat.

“See,” Clare declared, “raised properly. Manners and all.” She shot Eli a big smile. “What do ya think about my bringin’ Grace over to your ranch this Sunday?” she asked him. Grace warmed at the invitation. It would do her good to get out of town a bit—away from Stella, and Monty. At least until she could get a grip on her feelings.

Eli nodded as he helped Clare up to sit beside Grace. “A fine idea. I don’t want you ridin’ there and back alone, ’specially not at night.”

“Eli Banks—you don’t think I can take care of myself? I’m a big girl.”

“Yep—a big, beautiful girl that some rapscallions might be itchin’ to git their hands on. All that Irish fire and a good trigger finger won’t be enough to stop the likes of some.”

“I don’t think I’d be much protection,” Grace said, now wondering just how dangerous the road to Greeley really was.

“You c’n shoot a gun?” he asked Grace. She nodded, thinking of the times Monty had made her practice, the memory stinging her heart.

Eli smirked and cocked his head. He said to Clare, “Well, then I reckon you’ll be safe. No one’ll mess with two armed women. They’d be a right fool to try.”

Eli sat on the bench and wiggled close to Clare. He picked up the reins and got the horse trotting down the street.

“Don’t you worry about travelin’ to my ranch, miss,” Eli said in a reassuring tone. “Folks travel it all the time. It’s perfectly safe.”

Clare nodded. “He was just messin’ with us. That’s his way.” She elbowed him hard. He said “ouch” and pasted a fake scowl on his face.

“So, where’s this place you need to stop?” he asked Grace.

She gave him directions, and after she dropped off the dresses with Mrs. St. Vrain with a promise to return later, they rode over to the café.

In a quiet corner of the eatery, with the morning light streaming in through mullioned windows, they ate a hearty breakfast. When they’d finished, Clare set her fork down and pushed her plate away. “All right, Grace, spill the beans. I can tell it’s makin’ you ill, keepin’ all this worry bottled up inside. It is Ben? Is he ailin’?”

Grace drew in a long breath, then let it out, along with her reticence. She just had to tell someone before she burst apart. So, with her hands shaking, she told them everything—from the day she and Monty had set out from Cheyenne, to the flood that had swept Monty away, to being found by the old trader and taken to the Franklins, to the moment Monty walked into the dress shop. When she related how Monty had failed to recognize her, she choked up and shook her head, unable to say more.

“Oh, Grace,” Clare said, her own eyes filling with tears. “How awful. How very awful!”

Eli had listened to her recount the entire story without so much as a word. But clearly he now had something to say. “You’re a right brave woman, Grace. I woulda punched that woman’s lights out.”

Clare held his arm, keeping Eli in his seat. For he seemed so angry, he was ready to chase down Stella with the fork he was waving in the air. The image was so ridiculous that Grace almost laughed. Yet, the pain from telling her tale kept a frown on her face. She was moved by Eli’s concern and Clare’s compassion.

“I appreciate you listening to my woeful tale,” Grace said. “I have no one to talk to . . .” Her words clogged her throat again.

Clare wrapped an arm around Grace’s shoulders. “But who is she—this Stella? Who really? Ya said she claims to have met and married your Monty back in St. Louis.”

“She’s lyin’,” Eli said evenly. “The question is why.”

Clare nodded vigorously. “Grace, there’s something very wrong here—”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly,” Eli said. His face tightened, and he looked hard at Grace. “Stella . . . Stella . . . What’s she look like?”

Grace described Stella, forcing words through her tight, aching throat. She drank some water, then added, “She goes by the name Connors. And he’s called Malcolm. Malcolm Connors.”

“It makes no sense at all,” Clare said, shaking her head. “Why would she lie?”

“Because she’s hidin’ somethin’,” Eli said with an emphatic tone. “I think I met this woman—last year, just south of Evans. The way you describe her makes me think it must be her. LeRoy and I fixed a wheel on her wagon.” He narrowed his eyes and looked right at Grace. “But she was alone, and had come up from Denver City. She weren’t with no man—if’n this is the same woman.”

Grace grew quiet. Clare looked like a dog that had a tight grip on a bone and had no intention of parting with it. “So, this woman meets Monty somewhere. Grace—it’s clear he’s lost his memory. It must have happened when he was swept downriver. Hit his head on a rock or something.”

Grace nodded, not caring that more tears were coursing down her cheeks. She looked across the table at Eli, who was chewing on his thoughts.

Clare continued. “So, she meets Monty, who is . . . somewhere. Maybe in Greeley? And he doesn’t know who he is. Maybe someone found him near the river—like what happened to you—and they took him into town. Maybe he found some work, got a place to stay, all the while trying to figure out who he was—”

“And then Stella came along,” Eli added with a scowl. “But why? Why set her hooks in him. Not like he had any money—”

“He’s handsome. And kind. Most women would find him hard to resist,” Grace mumbled, thinking of how handsome he’d looked the day he came back from his expeditions, intent on proposing to her. Her sorrow was a great big lake of tears that kept widening with each day. How could these friends help her? Was there any way to get Monty to remember her? Any way to get him back?

“Looks ain’t enough,” Eli said, shaking his head. “A woman like that—she’d want money and comforts.”

“She doesn’t love him,” Grace blurted out. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she knew. Eli and Clare were right. There had to be some other reason Stella married Monty. Did she know his real name? Or was that a name he thought up for himself, because he couldn’t remember who he was? Oh, none of this made sense.

“What can I do? I can’t tell Monty the truth. But I want him to know his son. He deserves to know Ben—and Ben has a right to know he’s not illegitimate, that he has a father . . .” Grace buried her head in her hands.

“Maybe I could talk to your fella. Feel out what he knows, what he remembers. Find out where he met Stella, and how they ended up gettin’ married,” Eli said.

Grace looked at him, shaking her head. “Please, don’t say anything. At least, not now. I . . . I keep hoping maybe his memory will return. Maybe in time—”

“But you might wait forever,” Clare said. “Maybe if someone told him the truth, he would remember.”

“I’m afraid I’d lose all chance of getting him back. Something like that might frighten him, and he’d think I was mad to make such a claim.”

Silence filled the quiet corner where they sat. A few other patrons ate their breakfasts, unaware of the serious discussion taking place at the far table. Grace looked out the window and saw fat flakes of snow falling from a steel-gray sheet of clouds blanketing the sky. She said to Clare, “Maybe you should go fetch your things and get moved in. The snow’s here.”

Clare eyed Eli. “You said this afternoon.”

He shrugged. “I was only off by a few hours. So shoot me.”

She made a gun with her fingers and said, “Bang!”

Eli clutched his chest and groaned, his eyes swimming with mirth. “Ya got me.”

“You bet, Cowboy. You’re all mine.” Clare smiled sweetly at Eli and took his arm. “Grace is right. Time to get packin’.”

Eli palmed some coins on the table. When Grace pulled her money from her coat pocket, he stayed her hand. “My treat, Miss Cunningham.”

She saw a deep compassion and kindness in those green eyes. “Thank you, Eli. I’m grateful.” She looked at Clare. “For both of you. Thank you for listening, and for trying to help, but I fear there isn’t—”

“Don’t you fret, Grace,” Clare said in a strong tone. “We’ll get to the bottom of this . . . woman and her designs. And somehow, some way, Monty will be yours again. I just know it. I believe that with all my heart.” She laid her hand on Grace’s wrist. “What the Lord hath joined together, let no man—or scheming, lying woman—put apart. Keep praying, keep hopeful. God will champion your cause—you’ll see.”

Grace wiped her face and tucked a few loose strands back in their pins. “I do hope you’re right. I truly do.”

Eli stood and looked at her thoughtfully. “Nothin’s hidden from the sight of the Lord. He brings all wickedness into the light of day sooner or later. Whatever this Stella is hidin’, it won’t be hid for long.”

Grace nodded and followed Eli and Clare out of the café. But that won’t bring Monty back into my arms. And that’s all I want, more than anything. Dear Lord, please, help Monty remember. Whatever it takes. I’ll trust you and hold on to hope. Just give me the strength to face each day until my prayer is answered.