Colorado Hope(28)

“No,” Tildie said, leaning close, her expression oozing concern. “Only a few miles.”

“Did they catch the robbers?” Stella asked, her tone even, but her eyes betraying her. Grace could tell she was agitated. Why would a robbery in Laporte concern her?

“No, they didn’t,” Tildie said, her voice now a bit querulous. Then, in a whisper, she said with wide-open eyes, “They think it’s the Dutton Gang. Or, what’s left of the gang. The two men in the Wanted posters.”

Grace recalled seeing the poster in the sheriff’s office last fall. “So they haven’t yet been caught, after all this time?” Grace asked.

Tildie shook her head spasmodically. “What if they come here next? Someone thought they recognized those men as they galloped out of town—and they were heading east!”

“When?” Stella asked, clearly worried. Perhaps she was afraid of outlaws. Although, why would that be so?

“Just this morning. Word came through the telegraph. I overheard men talking in the post office as I walked by. Oh my!”

Tildie waved her hand again and busied herself at the register—perhaps thinking about hiding her money from the robbers. Surely the sheriff had been alerted, and the banks would be watched and protected. There were only the two in town. Fort Collins saw little crime, considering the town was situated in the wild and untamed West.

Grace thought how not even ten years ago there had been unending Indian wars and skirmishes, with settlers attacked and killed. And now, towns were spreading across the plains accompanied by the railroad, which brought civilization and civility to the wilderness. She imagined in another ten years these small towns would resemble the larger cities back east. Progress, they called it.

Grace busied herself neatening up the fabric bolts on the shelves while out of the corner of her eye she watched as Stella, who sat in the big padded armchair near the window, thumbing thoughtfully through a pattern book. But upon closer scrutiny, Grace noticed Stella’s hands trembling, and dots of perspiration covered her high forehead. Clearly something greatly disturbed the woman, but Grace said nothing, and left her to her perusals.

The front door opened, and the tinkling of the bell rang through the shop. A man, with his head down, stomped snow and mud off his boots, then wiped them on the mat just outside the door. He raised his head and stepped inside.

Grace gasped. All the blood drained from her face, and her knees buckled. Her breath snagged in her throat and she began to fall, grasping blindly for something to hold on to, unable to take her eyes off the man’s face.

No. It couldn’t be. But . . . there he was! Right in front of her . . .

She tried to say his name, but nothing would come out of her mouth. Her head spun wildly as she found her balance on trembling legs.

Monty! Monty! She froze in place, waiting for him to turn his head and see her. She made a mewling noise, a cry that erupted from her broken heart, bursting with love and longing and painful relief. He’s alive, alive! Oh, gracious God, thank you, thank you!

Just as she found her feet and made to run to him with open arms, he saw her.

A puzzled look rose on his face, and he turned away.

He hadn’t recognized her . . .

Grace stiffened. Horrified. As if a thousand lightning bolts had hit her, she sizzled in fear and confusion, unable to take another step. She forced the word out of her mouth on a tiny wisp of breath.

“Monty . . .”

But he didn’t hear her. Grace watched in stunned agony as he walked over to Stella, a smile rising on his face.

Oh, that smile, his smile. Monty! Tears rushed to her eyes. She must be imagining this. It couldn’t be real. So many times she’d pictured him walking through this door, crying her name, throwing his arms around her. But never had she envisioned this . . . this torture.

What cruel twist of fate had taken her husband from her? This was worse than death.

She stood frozen in place, her stomach churning violently in protest as she watched, as if from afar, as Monty—her husband!—helped Stella to her feet and spoke quiet, tender words into her ear. Stella grinned and met his eyes, oblivious to the maelstrom of anguish strangling Grace.

She forced herself to breathe, grasping the edges of the table, and turning so that no one could see her distress. But a moment later she felt a hand on her shoulder, and Grace spun to find Tildie at her side, her visage showing worry and concern.

“What is it, Grace? Are you ill?” Her employer studied her, then glanced back at Stella and Monty, who were both standing at the door.

Nausea rose into Grace’s throat. “I think I’m going to be sick . . .”

She ran into the back room, hearing Tildie exchange polite good-byes with her customer as Grace threw open the heavy back door that led into the alley behind the building. There she heaved up the contents of her stomach as ripples of pain ran through her body and a sword pierced her heart.