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 hanging 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.

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.