Colorado Hope(19)

But how could she think about food when Monty was . . . somewhere out there, alone, hurt? Had he found his way to Fort Collins late in the night? Was he looking for her?

She found a thick white robe lying on the settee by the door and put it on. Fortunately it was large, and she could wrap it fully around her belly. She had to get help, to find Monty. Oh, how could she help him in this condition? She steadied her head with her hand. Every step she took sent shooting waves of pain through her limbs and back.

Hushed voices drifted toward her. She caught snatches of words as she leaned against the coolness of the bedroom door.

“. . . said she had a wagon and a husband . . . no sign of it . . . no doubt traveling alone . . . lost her horse . . . foolish to travel pregnant . . . running away in shame, that’s plain as day.” The voices were a man’s and a woman’s, with the woman sounding irate and disbelieving. She heard the man say in a deep, calm voice, “For pity’s sake, Charity, the Good Lord admonishes . . .” and then “the poor girl got herself in trouble, is what happened . . . must show mercy to those who need it . . .”

Grace shook all over. The man who’d brought her here had told this couple the account of her misfortune, but clearly they didn’t give credence to her story. She couldn’t bear the thought that they might not help her find Monty.

She opened the door, and the man and woman turned to her. They were an older couple, with gray hair and dressed in drab gray clothing, and they sat at a simple table with their breakfast before them. The heavy-set woman wore a snowy crape cap, and her shoulders were draped in a hand-woven shawl. The barrel of a man wore a strange black hat, and then Grace realized they must be Quakers. The woman, upon seeing Grace’s face, leapt from the table and rushed over, waving her hands as if shooing her away.

“Dear, you’re up. But you’re feverish. You must get back to bed. I’ll bring you some broth—”

“No, please,” Grace begged. “You must help me find my husband. He was swept downriver—”

The woman laid a hand on Grace’s shoulder and steered her firmly back into the bedroom. Grace’s head felt about to explode. She made it to the bed and sank down into it. Before she could speak again, the woman held a finger to her narrow pale lips in admonition.

“The doctor will be by shortly to check on you and the wee one. You must rest—”

“Please, is there someone—a sheriff or a tracker . . . I need to talk to someone . . .” Her breath came out in shallow gasps, and she felt about to faint. The woman helped her lie back onto the goose-down-filled pillows.

As much as she tried to constrain herself, Grace let out a howl of grief, and tears exploded down her face. It hurt to cry, and her head pounded more fiercely than ever, but the pain of her loss was even greater. How she needed Monty and worried so over him! She didn’t think her heart could bear the strain.

She began muttering, praying, pleading with heaven for help.

Somewhere on the edge of her awareness, she heard the woman leave the room. Words drifted in and out of her ears as her face burned and her stomach roiled in nausea. She hated how weak and helpless she was, and she worried these people—however kind they were to take her in—would not help her at all. Time was of the essence! Every minute that passed was another minute Monty could be lying along the river, dying of injury or thirst or exposure.

“She’s delusional . . . thinks she had a husband . . . no ring on her finger . . .”

The woman’s heartless whispers were barbs that pierced her heart. Shivers overtook Grace, and she pulled the blankets up to her chin, but she couldn’t get warm. Would she die of fever? What about her baby? Oh, Monty, where are you?

She lay there, helpless, floundering in a sea of fever, drifting in and out of consciousness. She thought someone had come back in the room, heard more voices, felt a wonderfully cool hand on her forehead, then touching her belly. Someone put something to her lips and she drank. And then she fell into a slumber of death, unable to claw her way to the surface of her consciousness, where she searched futilely for Monty in her troubled dreams.



***



Three days later, Grace stood in front of the old scuffed desk in the sheriff’s office in Fort Collins, waiting for Sheriff Mason to attend to her. Once her fever had broken and she was well enough, she bathed and dressed in the clothes Charity Franklin had dug out of an old trunk for her. The clothes were Quaker style—all gray dresses with little black buttons and collars riding up her neck. They fit her awkwardly, as they were not made for an expecting woman but rather were sized for a much larger one. The petticoats practically swept the floor. Although, the last thing Grace cared about right now was clothing. Grace assumed these were some of Mrs. Franklin’s discards, set aside to donate to someone less fortunate.