No doubt someone, at some point, would find a piece of her clothing or a water-logged book she’d once read by the hearth at her aunt’s home washed up on some bank of weeds. How would she know? But surely, if her husband had washed up somewhere, there would be a notice in some paper—an obituary or news item. She had been checking the papers as often as she could, and although the sheriff deigned to listen to her unrelenting urgings to help her find Monty, he never had any news for her. Her most fearful thought was that Monty was at the bottom of the river, having been snagged by a submerged tree or pinned by a boulder.
The thought of his body decomposing in the frigid water, fish nibbling his flesh, made her tremble. Yet, she knew there was no other place he would rather be in death. He once told her if he ever died, he wanted her to send him down Yosemite Falls. She smiled despite her sadness. As if she could manage such a feat. But her smile quickly turned sour as she thought about spending the rest of her life alone, waiting. For she would wait—until the end of time, if that was required of her. If it meant waiting until they were reunited in heaven, she would do so. For she could never foster the thought of another man in her arms. Never. Those arms were meant for Monty and him alone.
Tildie’s voice from the front of the shop shattered her thoughts.
“Grace,” she called to her in her eloquent voice, poking her perfectly coiffed head into the back room and ushering in a wonderful blast of heat. “I have some items for you to wrap for a customer.”
Grace set down her stitching and came to the front of the store, where Tildie motioned to a stack of clothing on the counter with a waggling finger. Tildie was a spinster, in her forties, and known to be the worst gossip in Fort Collins—as the gossip went. Grace hardly listened to anything the customers chatted about as she wrapped their packages or helped them find fabrics and dress patterns. Although, she always kept one ear turned to hear any news about her husband, as unlikely as that was.
Tildie, elegantly dressed, with every hair in place, was in animated discourse with Auntie Stone—an old but spry woman who was quite the entrepreneur. Auntie owned the brick house, which was a kiln that made bricks for the buildings in town, and she also owned the glamorous Metropolitan Hotel. Every time Auntie came in, she engaged Grace in friendly banter, and just spending a few minutes with the woman brightened Grace’s day.
As Grace cut a long sheet of brown paper, the bell over the door jingled, and a woman in a very pretty forest-green silk dress came waltzing in, her lustrous black hair pinned up under a very stylish hat. Grace greeted her and asked, “May I help you with something?”
The young woman—perhaps a few years older than Grace but quite lovely and youthful, with a smooth and unblemished complexion—tipped her head as if looking down over spectacles at Grace. “Well . . . what a lovely little shop you have here,” she drawled. “I’ve just arrived in town, and I’ll be wanting to have some dresses made.”
“Of course,” Grace said, stepping back to let her peruse the bolts of fabric stacked on the shelves. The woman ran her finger along the rows of material, making little noises of approval or disapproval. She stopped at one section—the French laces—and pointed. “Nice. Imagine—a town in the middle of nowhere selling French lace. Isn’t that something.”
Grace stood patiently, trying to be gracious despite the woman’s condescending tone. She glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost time to quit for the day. And she was more than ready to go home, where she’d soak in a hot bath—after feeding and playing with Benjamin. The thought of his happy smile greeting him made her warm inside.
The woman stared at Grace, and with a brusque tone said, “I don’t have time today, but I would like to come in at a later date and pick out some patterns.”
Grace nodded, and Tildie, having finished exchanging pleasantries with Auntie Stone, came bustling over, her skirts and crisp petticoats rustling against the counters as she came to greet their new customer.
Grace said, “May I introduce Tildie Hortman, the owner of the dress shop.”
Tildie smiled the way Grace imagined a shark would upon seeing a fat fish for the taking—if sharks could smile. She lifted her prominently pointy chin, exposing her long neck.
“Welcome. Are you new in town?”
“Yes,” the woman replied, pulling off a glove and displaying a beautiful gold band inset with diamonds. She showed Tildie the ring, proffering her hand to the shop owner for examination and, no doubt, approval. “I’ve just gotten married, and . . . I must be the happiest bride in the world. My husband is over at the land office, purchasing some land for us to homestead. This seems like such a friendly little town.”