He wouldn’t now, though, would he? No, of course not. But what would Stella do when she discovered Monty had learned the truth about her deceit? When she learned his memory had returned? Would she retaliate? Grace wouldn’t put it past Stella to do something awful.
Then, Grace stopped suddenly her heart pounding. She looked at Monty. “It’s about Stella, isn’t it? She had something to do with my kidnapping.” Grace’s mind raced. Was it possible? Did Stella hire the outlaws to kidnap her—just to get rid of her and Ben? But why would she do that? Then she remembered Billy and Clayton arguing about a woman named Lenora, and how Lenora wanted Grace dead.
“Lenora is Stella . . .” Grace muttered, more to herself than to Monty.
She looked into his face, and his eyebrows raised. “Yes, she is. Or . . . was.”
Grace’s hand flew to her throat. “Was?”
Monty’s face clouded over. “She’s dead. She came to the cabin to get the gold, hoping the posse would kill Wymore and Cloyd first, getting them out of her way. But Wymore shot her—after he ran out of the cabin. After he stabbed Cloyd.” He fell silent, letting her think on his words.
Grace was speechless. Stella was dead.
“Lenora’s surname was Dutton. She was married to Hank Dutton, the leader of the gang. He was hanged last year in Denver City. Then she rode north and found me unconscious on the bank of the river. She told me she was my fiancée and that we’d come from St. Louis.” Monty looked apologetic. “She told me my name was Malcolm Connors.”
Grace nodded and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “And you had no reason to disbelieve her.”
He took her hands in his and faced her. “If she hadn’t found me, Grace, I never would have found you,” he said, then stroked her cheek. “Likely I would have died, or else ended up wandering off somewhere, picking a name for myself, settling into a town and working at some odd job or other.”
When she didn’t say anything, he touched the pendant hanging from her neck and looked at it. “I remember telling you not to lose hope, when I left you by the river that day—when you lost me. And you held on to hope and didn’t let go. I’m grateful for that, Grace.” He leaned in and kissed her long and passionately, then Ben grabbed her hair and pulled.
“Papa! Papa! Papa!”
Monty laughed as Grace untethered Ben’s little hand from her hair. “He sure is a happy baby,” he said.
“He’s just glad to finally have his pa.” She put a finger on Monty’s lips, and he kissed it. “And I am too.”
“And I also told you not to worry—that the Lord would make a way. And even though it seems an odd sort of way of bringing us back together, well, here we are,” he said, the love burning like a hot fire in his eyes.
Grace looked up the street at the house she’d been living in for more than a year. It had never felt like home—no place ever would without Monty. She then recalled what Sarah Banks had told her—about how she’d have to go over the falls to get to the calm, quiet pool, where everything would be restored to her. And where all her pain and suffering would flow out to the sea. Grace luxuriated in the calm place of restoration, feeling renewed, reborn. Washed clean of her pain and grief.
“Let’s go talk to the Franklins—tell them the news,” Monty suggested. He pulled her in close again, and she wondered at the sparkle in his eyes. “You know that man Marcus Coon—who rode partway into town with us—the one who rode with the posse to save you? He has a fine hotel in Fort Collins. How ’bout we have dinner in his restaurant and stay in his finest suite? Leave Ben with Clare for the night. Have ourselves something like a second honeymoon—since our first got a bit waylaid.” He gently cupped her cheek, then let his hand wander down her neck. Grace shuddered at his sensual feathery touch, so full of promise.
“Whatcha think about that, Mrs. Cunningham?”
Grace’s pulse raced, imagining the long-awaited night of passion ahead of her. The love inside her swelled and overflowed the banks of her heart, and she joyfully let it sweep her away.
“I like it just fine, Mr. Cunningham,” she said. “It’s all I could ever hope for.”
Chapter 34
Two months later
August 2, 1876
The grandstands at Prospect Park were packed with gaily dressed townsfolk and visitors from parts far and wide—a jubilant crowd whose loud discourse made it hard for Grace to hear what Clare was saying to her.
“Let’s get closer,” Clare said, tugging on Grace’s arm and jostling her parasol that blocked out the hot summer sun. “I want to hear the mayor’s speech.”