Chapter 32

 

Malcolm was astonished at the crowds filling the streets of town, cheering as they rode down College Avenue and stopping in front of the courthouse as they arrived midmorning. Everyone in Fort Collins seemed to have heard about the posse killing the outlaws, and about Grace’s kidnapping and rescue. The attention was a little unsettling, for all Malcolm wanted right now was to be alone with Grace, to hold and kiss her, to wrap her in his arms and never let her go.

His heart ached as he got out of the wagon, feeling confused and flustered now that they were back. His head throbbed with a pain that speared his eyes. He scanned the street, looking for Stella and hoping she wasn’t there. The last thing he wanted at this moment was to see or talk to her. Maybe she was at the homestead. He pictured her pacing and cursing, furious that he’d joined the posse and gone after Grace. But he didn’t care what she thought. Yet, he was stymied over what to do now. He had confessed his love to Grace. Would she leave town with him? Would she give up her life here? He couldn’t imagine she’d sin against God and take up with a married man. And even if he divorced Stella, her joining him would still be a sin in God’s eyes.

He’d been over and over this in his mind, and he couldn’t see a way out. He couldn’t bear the thought of walking away from her—especially after what they’d been through. And she loved him; she told him so. And he believed it with all of his heart. Were they destined to keep at arm’s length, never be free to love? Would he never be able to consummate the fiery passion he felt for her?

Oh, Lord, what do I do? How could I bear such torment?

“Grace! Eli!”

Malcolm turned at the cry. A pretty young woman with red hair was waving, pushing through the crowd, her face exuberant. Malcolm guessed this was Clare, Eli’s sweetheart. Malcolm’s heart sank at the sight of Eli leaping from the wagon and sweeping her up into his arms and kissing her. And here he was, inches from Grace, and he couldn’t touch her. The closeness was agonizing.

“Clare!” Grace yelled, climbing down from the wagon and running to her. Malcolm jumped to the ground and stood and watched, an outsider, a bystander. He felt suddenly alone and terribly lonely. His arms ached for Grace, for Ben. For a family with them. Nothing would make him happier.

“Mr. Connors,” a man said behind him.

Startled out of his musings, he spun around and faced Sheriff Love.

“We thought we’d lost you,” the sheriff said, a big smile lifting the corners of his thick peppered moustache. “We knew you’d gone down that hill . . .” He glanced over at the wagon, where LeRoy still sat up on the seat. Marcus Coon, who had met them halfway to town, sat his horse next to the wagon and was engaged in discussion with LeRoy. The sheriff gave a puzzled smirk. “The Indians brought you back?”

Malcolm nodded. “They drove that herd into Whitcomb’s ranch. We managed to get down to his place around dark. Eli and LeRoy had alerted Whitcomb that we were missing, so he sent his men into the hills looking for us. The found us—just in time too.”

The sheriff looked him over. “Well, I’m pleased to see you’re in one piece.” He looked over at Grace. “And the woman and the baby. They seem unharmed. You did a good job.”

Malcolm let out a long breath, feeling the ordeal of the last couple of days weighing heavily on him. “Thank you, Sheriff, for getting a posse after her so fast. If you hadn’t . . .” He let the words trail off, his throat cinching tight at the thought of Clayton Wymore’s hands on Grace.

“Come into my office for a minute, will ya, Connors? I’ve got somethin’ I want to show ya.”

Malcolm chewed his lip as he studied the sheriff’s face. The man’s visage was calm and unruffled, but his eyes danced mischievously. What could he possibly want to show him?

He followed the sheriff through the front door and down the hall. When they got to the sheriff’s large desk, Love motioned for him to sit. The office was empty and quiet, a contrast to the ruckus outside.

“I s’pose I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Sheriff Love said as doffed his slouch hat and set it on the desk. He motioned to Malcolm to take a seat, then he sat in the one behind the desk. “Though, the bad might not be so bad. Hard to say.” The sheriff played with his moustache and leaned back in his chair.

Malcolm wondered at the sheriff’s cryptic explanation. His palms got sweaty, and he swallowed. The last thing he wanted was more bad news. He’d had more than enough in the last two days.

“It’s like this,” Love continued, reaching down to the floor and coming back up with a tan leather pouch. “I’ve come into possession of some interesting documents.”

He pushed the pouch across the desk to Malcolm, then rocked back in his wooden chair.

Malcolm hesitated and stared at the offering. He’d never seen it before. Was there something inside that would shed light on his past? Had to be. Malcolm’s pulse quickened.

“What is it?” he asked, stalling. For some reason, a prickle of fear poked at his nerve.

Love indicated the bag with his head. “Just take a look-see.”

The ticking of a grandfather clock sounded loud in his ears as he pulled a handful of papers out of the bag. He noticed letters addressed to Grace Cunningham and froze. Letters to Grace? Why was the sheriff showing these to him? He turned and looked at Love, who nodded at him to go on.

Malcolm set the dozen or so envelopes aside and opened a folded piece of paper. He perused the creased and wrinkled sheaf—a letter stating an offer of employment . . . to Montgomery Cunningham.

Malcolm’s head throbbed anew. “I don’t understand . . .” he mumbled, mostly to himself. Letters to Grace. A job offering to Montgomery—

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 been 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.