Chapter 29

 

As if coming from a deep, dark well, a sweet voice tickled Malcolm’s ears. In the forlorn blackness he wallowed in, he grasped the sound, groping at it, as if for a lifeline, and let it bring him to the surface of his consciousness.

A woman’s voice. The soft tone soothed the searing pain in his head, and he forced heavy eyelids open. The glare of bright sunlight blinded him momentarily, but a shape hovering over him shifted and blotted out the light.

Where was he? He moved his fingers and touched warm sand. Then he brought a hand to his forehead and winced with a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, thank God, you’re awake,” the voice said, filled with relief and agitation.

He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it, couldn’t think clearly . . .

“Shh,” she said, her face coming into focus in front of his.

“Grace . . .”

Images assaulted his mind, bringing back to him the past hours. He struggled to sit up. “Ben. Where’s Ben?” he asked, his throat hoarse and dry. He tried to swallow.

“He’s safe,” Grace said, resting a warm hand on his cheek. “You saved his life.”

Only now he could make her out clearly, her wheat-colored hair waterfalling down her shoulders in disarray, her nightdress torn and caked with sand. Her pale-green eyes glistened with tears, and her face bore scratches from their tumble down the mountain. Even so, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. Ben lay curled in her lap, sleeping in his ripped blue blanket. He touched the baby’s soft hair and smiled, grateful and amazed.

“Oh, Grace . . .” He searched deeply into her teary eyes, and grasped both her hands. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“An hour, maybe two.”

He fingered a bandage of cloth tied around his head.

She reached over and adjusted it. “The bleeding’s stopped. Monty, we have to—”

He straightened and stayed her hand. Her scent drifted to him—of river water and warm feminine skin. His heartbeat quickened. “You called me that before. I remember . . .”

Her face blanched. Malcolm studied her. She looked stricken with fear.

“What is it, Grace?” He stood and reached for her. She laid her baby down gently on a patch of short grass, then stood and faced him. “What’s wrong?” In his head, he heard her calling him by that name, and suddenly remembered what he had seen in his mind’s eye before he passed out.

“I have this strange memory,” he told her, placing his hands on her quivering shoulders. “At least it feels like a memory. Of you—pregnant.”

Grace choked back a sob. Malcolm kept talking. “You were sitting on the ground—in the rain. And . . . next to you was a wagon that was sinking in mud. There were two horses, but they ran off. I can see it so clearly now.” He winced and looked out over the river. “And a . . . bridge. A heavy wooden one. The river rose, engulfed it. Flipped it over, and it broke the bank . . .”

He stopped speaking. Grace stared at him, her jaw dropped. He looked at her lips, so tender, so inviting. Her eyes simmered with love. Love for him. He could not mistake what he saw there. For his heart pounded with the same passion. He swallowed and stared at her, unblinking.

A surge of need brought a moan to his own lips, and he could not hold back. He squelched the tiny voice of warning, uncaring of the consequences of his actions. There was only his need, and hers, and this moment—far from any watching eyes, except those of heaven. And if heaven wrought judgment upon him for the fervent love he felt for Grace Cunningham, then so be it. He would willingly be damned for eternity in exchange for this one kiss . . .

He pulled Grace into his arms, and with his love pouring out of his heart like an overflowing fountain, his mouth found hers, and they joined, her lips as eager and needy as his. As they stood on the sand, a soft wind blowing down the river canyon, Malcolm no longer heard the tumble of the rapids behind them. He blotted out the world and the broken pieces of his past. He blotted out everything and every thought and kissed Grace with such a passion, he thought he would collapse.

She pressed her warm, soft body against his bare chest, the swell of her breasts so voluptuous through her thin nightgown. His hands roamed her body, as if exploring an exciting unchartered wilderness, yet every place his fingers lit upon felt so familiar to his touch. As if they belonged there. As if she had always belonged to him.

A shudder ran through Grace as he pushed aside her hair and kissed her neck. His mouth moved hot against her skin, and he whispered her name in her ear.

Grace groaned with desire, and cradled his chin in her hands. She sought his mouth with fervent desire, and Malcolm’s head spun. Oh, how she made him feel. His every nerve tingled. His skin felt on fire. His heart melted in the warmth of her love. He longed to join his body with hers, here and now. It took inhuman strength to keep from pulling off her threadbare gown and losing himself inside her. He longed for nothing more in this moment than to immerse her in this river of love and together be swept away in the floodwaters.

Oh, sweet agony. He forced himself to pull back, and lifted her chin so she would look into his eyes. She stroked his cheek as she gulped and drew in a breath, as if she had been submerged underwater too long.

His gaze dropped to the necklace around her neck. He outlined the silver circle with his finger, and then froze. He saw his hands fastening the chain around her neck, heard her lighthearted laughter as he kissed her playfully, as she blushed demurely, a bright-blue bonnet on her head, her hair swept up in the latest style, tucked tightly to her head and adorned with beaded combs.

He took a step back and sucked in a breath. How could he have such a memory? Yet, it was a memory—he was sure of it.

“Monty, what is it?” Grace asked.

Monty. That was his name. Monty . . .

How did she know? This woman he had chanced upon in the streets of Fort Collins. He had so many questions, but they only seemed to lead to more questions. A shadow fell across his face. He looked up at the sky. The westering sun slipped behind the jagged ridge of the Rocky Mountains.

His questions would have to wait. There would be plenty of time for his questions—if they made it out of the canyon alive. Already, with the sun sinking behind the Rockies, the air had cooled. Grace shivered as she studied him pensively.

He drew her to him, and once more the warmth of her skin set him on fire. He kissed her and cupped her face in his hands.

 

 

Grace lingered in Monty’s muscular arms, feeling so safe, so right. How she had longed for this—for his kiss. She missed the taste of his mouth and the feel of his gentle lips. Every inch of her skin burned with pent-up desire for him. She didn’t care what he thought of her compliance. How wanton she must seem, giving in so readily to his amorous advances. But what did it matter? All that mattered was that Monty loved her. Even if he didn’t remember her, she knew he loved her with all his being.

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.