As she reluctantly abandoned the warmth of the shop and returned to her chilly room in the back to cut fabric for her next order, she marveled at how much Ben had grown—and grown even more like his father. Every day saw a new skill Ben learned or a new tooth. He was now nine months old, and already trying to walk, grabbing on to furniture and toddling from room to room, eager to venture out into the world. He loved playing in the snow, and his face filled with wonder at all the new things he noticed as spring changed the landscape and flowers poked up from the drifts. So much like his father—having a zest for life and a cheerful countenance. He hardly ever fussed and loved to babble—although Grace could only guess what his long funny monologues meant.
She sighed and unrolled the bolt of chambray fabric, end over end, across the long wooden table. After evening out the edges, she began laying the pieces of paper patterns in a loose jigsaw puzzle arrangement, then pinned each piece in place.
She had to admit, she was happy enough. And Ben was the reason. Without him, she would have long ago dissolved in grief. She still held on to hope that Monty would one day walk into town. Throughout the winter she imagined every possible scenario that could reasonable explain his delay. Perhaps he’d been hurt, and was convalescing in a place where he was unable to get word to her. For, if he assumed she’d gone to Fort Collins, he would send her a letter by post, and the clerk in the post office in the Old Grout well knew she was awaiting correspondence, and had promised her that if a letter came, he would deliver it to her at the shop. So she concluded he was living in some remote place, and circumstances did not afford him the opportunity to either leave or contact her.
She knew how farfetched that seemed, but since his body had not been found, she had to hope he was still alive.
She had holed up in the Franklins’ house all winter, rarely venturing outside and often getting cabin fever, so now her body ached to stretch and move, and she longed to ride a horse across the open range. She hoped once summer eased in she’d be able to take Ben up into the mountains. She longed to explore the Rockies and see the vistas of the Front Range from its heights. Growing up in flat Illinois deprived her of such exploration, and she’d never had much of a hankering to venture beyond the wilds of the local parks. But here—a world of mountains beckoned.
The bell over the door jingled, and Grace stopped what she was doing and went into the front room. Tildie had left her in charge while she went to Mrs. Tedmon’s millinery and trimming store on Linden to pick up some notions. The front door opened and a woman came in, dressed in an elegant French toile jacket over a white silk button shirt with shirred cuffs and collar. Grace straightened, recognizing the woman who had walked through the door back in the fall—the one who had just married and was homesteading. A twinge of envy plucked her heart as she thought of this woman enjoying the warmth and comfort of her husband’s arms through the long cold winter.
Grace pushed down the unwanted despair and pasted a smile on her face.
“Good day, madam. I’m glad you’ve returned. I trust you are well, and have settled into your new home?”
The woman gave her a small smile—one that seemed to cost her some effort. “Why, how good of you to remember. Yes, I am quite well, and we were so fortunate to take over a claim that had been abandoned—a few miles south of town, on a creek. With a sweet little house already built.”
“Why, how nice,” Grace said, walking to stand behind the counter so as not to block the door. “And would you like to look through patterns? Perhaps choose some fabrics for dresses?”
“I would.” She loosed a sigh and patted her neatly pinned black hair that shone in the bright light filtering into the room. Grace admired the woman’s figure and tiny waist, and wondered when—or if—she might ever regain her youthful shape after having a baby. She expected this woman would have been with child by now, but clearly she was not.
As Grace pulled out the large heavy pattern books, Tildie breezed into the shop, all afluster. “My,” she said, breathless, “there’s been a bank robbery over in Laporte.” She cast a glance at the customer, who turned and looked at her curiously.
“Oh,” Tildie said, waving her hand at her face as if the room were too warm. “Mrs. Connors. Have I remembered correctly?”
The customer raised her eyebrows. “Why yes, Stella Connors.” She pushed a smile up her face. “Do tell,” she said, clearly hiding her interest. Grace noted the woman had laid her hands on the edge of the table, as if anticipating bad news. “Laporte isn’t all that far away, is it?” she asked.