Colorado Hope(20)

Well, she couldn’t think of anyone less fortunate than herself. Even though her hosts had been kind and urged her to stay in bed longer, Grace could stand being shut inside not a moment longer. The Franklins had told her the sheriff didn’t make house calls—even though his office was a mere five blocks from their modest home on Maple Avenue.

Grace frowned, but the tears had all but dried up. Now she was left with a gaping hole in her heart, fearing the worst. Surely if Monty had survived his ordeal in the river, he would have come straightaway to Fort Collins, looking for her. But the deputy she spoke with upon entering the office this bright, cold spring morning told her he’d heard no word of a man named Montgomery Cunningham, nor had anyone made mention of finding anyone dead on the banks of the Cache la Poudre.

A middle-aged man in a long woolen coat and brown canvas trousers sporting a cartridge belt around his hips tromped into the office from an adjacent room. Grace wrung her hands and fidgeted as he pushed aside a messy stack of papers on his desk and motioned for her to sit in the rickety wooden chair opposite his. When they were seated, he leaned his large head forward and put his elbows on the desk. His eyes were stern and small, and he had a trim thick dark beard on his narrow face.

Grace gulped, uneasy in his presence and still feeling weak and drained empty from days of crying.

“I’m Sheriff Mason, Miss . . . ?” His gruff voice was barely congenial. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to speak.

“Mrs. Cunningham. Grace Cunningham.” He gestured for her to speak in a manner that said he’d heard it all and couldn’t be bothered by the insignificant concerns of a pregnant woman. She noticed his gaze drop to her ring finger.

“I lost my wedding ring,” she told him. “It was in my husband’s bag—for safekeeping.” Her hands had swelled with her pregnancy, and she’d hardly gotten the ring off after a long battle with a bar of hard soap. And now the ring was . . . where? Tumbling down the river? Lodged in mud at the bottom of the Poudre? Oh, her heart wouldn’t stop aching. How she longed for Monty. For his arms around her. She glanced at the door, hoping against hope that he’d stride in, a relieved smile on his face, calling her name, his arms wide, eager to gather her up.

The pain of her loss crippled her, and she doubled over. The sheriff jumped up and fetched her a cup of hot coffee.

“Here, take a few sips to warm you. I understand you’ve been through a mighty ordeal.”

She wondered what he’d heard. Had the Franklins spoken to him, after all? “My husband was swept away in the flood—just north of town. We . . . saw the bridge shake loose and fall into the river. And then the ground gave way . . .” Grace buried her hands in her head, reliving the moment she saw Monty slip from her sight, his stricken face looking at hers as she screamed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, straightening and trying to compose herself. She pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Her head still pounded—no doubt from all the weeping she’d done.

He waited until she sat still, then said, his voice brusque and all business, “Folks travel along the river and the roads north and east every day. If your husband”—he said the last word in a dubious tone, not unlike the one Mrs. Franklin had used—“or his . . . body washed ashore, we’d hear about it. I’ll notify the Greeley sheriff of your concern. The Cache la Poudre joins the South Platte north of Greeley, and the river there is shallow and wide—a veritable mud pit most of the year.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You have nothing on your person—no papers or money, personal belongings?”

“They were all in our wagon. The horses were spooked by the lightning, so Monty unhitched them, and they ran off—”

“I see,” he said with impatience, glancing over papers on his desk, drumming his fingers.

“I watched the wagon sink into the mud. Surely it must still be there . . . somewhere?”

She pleaded with her eyes for a response. He just studied her and said, “It just disappeared? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, not vanished, as in a magic trick. Perhaps it washed downriver?”

He grunted in what Grace assumed was disbelief. She supposed if an entire wagon made its way downriver, someone would find that as well. Her heart and hopes sank as she realized he did not believe her, and had no plans to help her. She would hire someone to help her—but she had no money. She was at the mercy of the Franklins and their kindness. However, she knew she could not milk that kindness too long. She thought how she would have to find a job while pregnant, to support herself and her baby without Monty, make a life in this town. No. She couldn’t do it. How could she?