Grace noticed the emphasis she gave to the word little.
“Oh, it is!” Tildie gushed. “All the modern conveniences and new stores popping up nearly every day. Why, an opera house is being built, and the railroad will be coming next year. Fort Collins is the gem of the West.”
The woman gave a smile of approval, but Grace sensed coldness in her eyes. Arrogance seeped from her bearing.
“And your name?” Tildie asked sweetly.
“Stella. Stella Connors.” She turned her head toward the window. “Oh,” she breathed out in a kind of swooning ecstasy, “there’s my loving husband. Mustn’t keep him waiting. Ta-ta, I must be off.” With a tiny wave of her hand, the woman spun around and waltzed out the door, as if skating on ice.
Grace heard Tildie sigh, and turned to look at her.
“New love. Is there anything more wonderful? More . . . romantic?”
A rock lodged in Grace’s throat as she returned to wrapping the parcel in brown paper, unable to provide even a simple answer in agreement.
No, there was nothing more wonderful. She had experienced such love for too short a time, every minute precious and beautiful. But in a flash, she had lost it all, and now was left with a huge hole in her heart, as if someone had shot her but left her unable to die. Seeing that woman so radiant, with her whole life spread out before her—embracing her dream to homestead and raise a family and watch her children grow with her husband—made Grace’s heart throb with pain. That had been Grace’s dream, and it had been ripped from her.
All the bitterness and anger she had pushed down deep into her heart now erupted like a volcano. It wasn’t fair. Why her? Why had she lost the man she loved so soon? He never got to hold his son, see his baby’s beautiful smile—
Grace swallowed back the tears, not wanting Tildie to see her cry. She knew what Tildie thought of her story—what everyone in town thought—that she’d made it up. That she was a wanton woman who’d gotten herself pregnant, then took advantage of the kindness of strangers to take care of her and pay for her every need. She’d overheard Tildie whispering to customers about her, and Grace had seen the looks from many as she walked through the town, or pushed Benjamin in the perambulator that Charity bought for her.
Their cruel gossip hurt, but not as much as the truth of her loss. She’d hoped someday to find someone who believed her, someone who would be a friend, to be able to comfort her when she needed it. But so far she hadn’t met anyone who seemed to care or want to get to know her. Adjusting to small-town life and gossip was hard, but she had to stay in Fort Collins. This is where Monty would come looking for her. If she left, he would never find her, and she would have to abandon all hope—and it was that hope alone that kept her going day after day.
She tied twine around the package and stared out the window at the front of the store. Without saying good-bye, Grace fetched her coat that was hanging in the back room and wrapped her scarf around her neck. Her head tucked down against the biting wind, she thought of what a long, lonely winter lay ahead of her. She wished she could hibernate like a bear, Benjamin sleeping soundly against her chest, the way he often did at night, his little breaths and sucking sounds a comfort to her soul. She could hide in the dark and dream sweet dreams of Monty, and lose herself in her memories. For that was all she had left of him, and it frightened her the way his features were starting to fade. Only when she looked in her son’s face could she remember, amid the pain and sorrow.
Down the street a man was helping Stella Connors into a wagon. His back was to her, but he reminded her of Monty. Many men did. Anytime she saw someone of his stature and build she sucked in a breath, hoping against hope, knowing she was being foolish.
Unmoving, she watched, her heart aching, thinking of how that should have been her. Coming into town on their wagon, going to the land office and getting a quarter section to homestead. She and Monty by now would have built a little cabin, their first real home, and as winter blew in, they would sit by the big stone hearth Monty built, playing with Ben, with a fire crackling and fat flakes of pristine snow falling in quiet drifts, enveloping them in their joy.
Yes, she told herself bitterly, it should have been her.
Chapter 7
Seven months later
May 13, 1876
Warm, soothing spring sunlight streamed through the large pane glass of the front windows of Matilda Hortman’s dress shop. Grace lifted her face to the radiating heat, so grateful the long, cold winter was over. Temperatures were now rising into the 70s midday, which afforded her jaunts outside with Ben in the afternoons, when she finished work. She had sewn dozens of dresses over the winter for Tilde, who had graciously allowed Grace to take the new Chadwick & Jones sewing machine home. The hours spent working—and sewing outfits for herself and her son—helped pass the endless days buried in snow and loneliness, as did little Ben and his antics.