But, to Lenora’s surprise, Montgom—Malcolm—took her hands in his and said, “How could I have forgotten you, your lovely face? I . . . I’m sorry.” He bit his lip and used his good arm to wipe away her tears. “I . . . just don’t remember.”
My oh my! With that she fell into all-out weeping, while concocting a wonderful history in her head. “I’m . . . Stella.” She looked back at the wagon and spotted the Childs & Co. name painted on its side, now softly illuminated by the rising moon’s glow. She looked pleadingly at his face. “Stella Childs. Your fiancée. We were on our way to be married. We’d come . . . all this way from St. Louis. You’d hoped to find a surveying job in Fort Collins.” She waited for any signs of recognition, but he only stared at her with grief and misgivings in his face. Oh, he was so endearing. And that deep, gravelly voice of his sent shivers up her back.
“And when we got to the river, you stopped our wagon and walked to the river’s edge to see if we could cross. And then . . . then you slipped and hit your head on that tree coming downriver . . .” She sobbed anew, and, to her surprise, the man draped his arm across her shoulders and held her close.
He muttered into her hair. “Oh, Stella. I’m sorry, so sorry . . .”
Then, he let out another pained cry and doubled over. She tried to hold him up. He gritted his teeth.
“I’m sorely hurt,” he said. “My arm’s broken, but I think I . . . I . . . my stomach . . .”
He nearly passed out in her arms, but she did not have the strength to hold up so heavy a man. She felt his head—it was hot.
“Come, you must get in the wagon. I have to get you inside somewhere. Find a doctor.”
He could barely nod, and stumbled along, trying to walk as she led him in the moonlight. She didn’t dare ride into Greeley with him. What if Clayton was there? He could be anywhere. No, she had to lay low, someplace out of sight. That old abandoned cabin she’d passed would do the trick.
She could set his arm—she’d set bones enough with all the rough tumbling and fights the men in the Dutton Gang engaged in. But if he was bleeding internally, well then, there was nothing for him. Still, she was willing to help him. Who knew? He might just recover, and she’d have the perfect disguise. So long as his memory didn’t return, she could nurse him back to health, help him “regain his memories” by weaving the stories of their romance and engagement. And then, once he was well enough, they’d marry and head to Fort Collins. What better way to hide out in plain sight than to be a married woman—a respectable member of the community. No chance Clayton would be able to find her then.
Mrs. Stella Connors. She smiled, liking the ring of the name. And—she looked over at Malcolm’s handsome face—she liked the idea of holing up with this hunk, tending to his wounds, and getting him back on his feet through her loving ministrations.
With effort, she helped hoist him up into the wagon. He bravely stifled his cries of agony and nuzzled up to her, half incoherent, on the bench. Maybe he wouldn’t even last the night. Though, she hoped he would. Regardless, she would do everything she could to make him comfortable, sidling her warm body next to his under woolen blankets. And maybe, in time, he would realize he was in love with her. Wouldn’t that be dandy?
Chapter 5
Grace woke up in a strange bed, with an urgent need to use the chamber pot. As she made to sit up, every muscle ached, and she was feverish all over. She laid a hand on her belly, but the baby was quiet, probably sleeping as it usually did in the morning. She could tell it was morning, for cool sunlight splintered through the frosted glass panes of this small, simply appointed bedroom. A patchwork counterpane lay over the bed, and gingham curtains adorned the two transom windows. The room reminded her of the neat little rooms her aunt used to rent out in her boardinghouse.
She jerked to her feet. Monty! The memory of arriving at this place in the dark was hazy. The man who had found her by the river woke her gently after she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, saying they’d arrived in Fort Collins. All she remembered were hushed words exchanged between the man and an older couple—whose house she must now be in.
She looked down and saw she was wearing a long cotton dressing gown, a bit faded and threadbare, but clean. She could tell someone had made an attempt to clean her face and hands, but mud still left its smears along her legs and arms. Her head spun dizzily as she found her balance and wobbled to the door. She smelled bacon and perhaps hotcakes. Her stomach grumbled in hunger. When was the last time she’d eaten?