Loneliness and fear assailed her as she numbly stood and politely took her leave of Sheriff Mason. On the way out of the office, she noticed a Wanted poster showing sketches of two men. The poster announced they were members of the Dutton Gang, at large and dangerous.
She huffed as she walked outside and into the spring morning. Standing on the wooden boardwalk, she took in the many stores with their false wooden fronts—the mercantile on the corner, a druggist’s, a butcher shop, a large brick two-story building with the name “Metropolitan Hotel” over its doors. Most of the buildings on this very wide street were two-storied. This was the booming Western town she and Monty had talked about long hours into the night as they packed and prepared to move west.
But as sparkling and promising this town seemed from the outside, Grace already felt regret over being here. This wasn’t her home—how could it ever be without Monty? But she had no home to return to, no one back in Illinois, now that her aunt was gone. And Monty had no family to speak of—he’d lost track of them years ago, and besides, they didn’t sound like people Grace would want to know—or ask for help. No, she had to stay here. This is where Monty would come to find her.
She was on her own. Abandoned, pregnant, broke. Mr. Franklin had assured her she could stay until after the baby was born. Their children were all grown and back in Ohio, and they had recently moved out here to start a Quaker church, heeding God’s calling to spread the gospel to “those unsaved in the unsavory West”—as Mrs. Franklin had worded it.
It didn’t sit well with Grace to take charity from others. She had worked hard helping her aunt with the boardinghouse, and she’d been taught a skill. Her aunt wanted to make sure Grace would be able to support herself once she was on her own, so she spent years instructing her in sewing, and Grace had become a proficient seamstress. Surely in a town this size there would be a need for such a vocation. If she couldn’t land a job in a shop, perhaps she could work piecemeal. But where would she get the money to buy a sewing machine? Her Wheeler & Wilson machine had been packed in a crate in the wagon . . .
Hopelessness threatened to engulf her as she stood gazing at the people walking through town, chatting merrily, wholly ignorant of her wretched plight. Carriages and wagons rolled down the wide dirt street, and neighbors shouted out greetings to one another.
She fingered the pendant around her neck. She would never forget the look in Monty’s eyes the day he unclasped the chain from his neck and fastened it around her own, then dropped to one knee, taking her hands in his, and declaring his love. He had asked her—no, begged her—to marry him. Her aunt, sick as she was, rallied long enough to witness their vows—uttered before Grace’s pastor at her aunt’s bedside, a beatific and satisfied smile on her aunt’s face as she listened, enrapt, to the pastor’s words and the repeating of their vows. By morning her beloved aunt had passed on, but Grace was grateful Aunt Eloisa had seen the niece she’d raised married to such a fine, honorable man.
How Grace missed her aunt, and her warm and comfortable home in the town she’d spent her entire life in. She would have been content to stay there, but she knew how Monty loved the wilderness, felt more at home in mountains and under trees than confined by walls and the softness of down-filled mattresses and padded sofas. Insisting that Monty settle into such a mundane and predictable lifestyle would have been like caging a bear. He thrived on wide-open spaces. Running her aunt’s boardinghouse would have smothered him.
Yet, as much as he liked the hard earth and toughness of the land, his heart had remained sensitive and tender. Grace had seen the way he was around children, and the kind way he treated all animals. She’d wanted nothing more than to see him hold his own child in his arms. To see all their children grow strong and brave and educated under his loving tutelage.
She stood unmoving, blinking back tears, wondering if one day her tears would dry up or if she would cry forever. The long winter was finally over, and only small patches of snow lay in the shadow of the newly built buildings. The young, new town was filled with people full of hope, looking forward to a bountiful summer, and next year would be the centennial for the nation. There was talk that Colorado would become the thirty-eighth state admitted to the union .
Hope rang out in the air all around her, but she was impervious to it. She felt nothing but loss. But for her baby’s sake, she would hold on to hope. Hold on to it as if it were a lifeline—and never let go.
Chapter 6
Five months later
October 22, 1875