“The bridge can’t be that far off,” Monty said, pulling her attention back to the dirt road that was starting to resemble a pond before them. Grace shuddered. “Maybe we should try to cross, and seek shelter on the other side.” His voice sounded unsure, which unsettled Grace even more.
“Can you make out the road?” What she really wondered was if the horses would mire in all the mud. They were less upset though, now that Monty had them moving again. Moving was better than sitting still, out in the open, she reasoned. Although, from what she could make out up ahead through the sheets of rain obscuring the horizon, there was nothing but more open, flat land. She hadn’t been paying attention these last few miles. She’d been nodding off in the cool spring afternoon, the weak sun hardly warming her shoulders. How long would it take them to get to the bridge? Would it be safe to cross? A jolt of fear coursed up her back, and her baby kicked hard.
“Shh, little one,” she said, more to herself than to her baby, “it’ll be all right; just sleep . . .”
She fingered the silver chain around her neck and found the small round pendant, then gripped it tightly in her fist. Monty had given this trinket to her when he came back from his exploration of Yellowstone. An Indian guide had gifted it to him, after he helped rescue the man who had toppled overboard in some strong rapids. Etched into the flat silver disk was an eight-pointed star—an Indian symbol of hope, he was told.
She choked back tears as she huddled close to Monty, shivering and wet, listening to the rain beat on them, as if trying to drown out her dreams. She fussed with the tarp, trying to keep it draped overhead, as the wind grabbed at it, wrenching it from her grasp. Monty’s full attention was on the road and the horses reluctantly pulling the wagon.
Would they make it to Fort Collins? She pushed down her panic as the wind attacked anew. The horses now fought Monty’s attempt to urge them forward, and once more he jumped down and took hold of the long side strap and tried to coax them along the flooded road. Grace saw their hooves sink into mud with every step, which made them prance in agitation and throw their heads against the headstalls and blinders as if trying to get free.
Another crack of lightning exploded in the sky and set the horses into a near panic. Grace stiffened and clung to the side panel of the buckboard, shifting her feet but unable to get better purchase on the slippery wet wood.
Monty offered his hand. “You better come down, Gracie. I can’t predict how these horses will behave. They seem right ready to bolt.”
Grace nodded, and trying not to show her fear, gave him an encouraging smile, assuring him it was all right, that she’d brave this trial alongside him. She wanted him to see she was stalwart—despite her pregnancy—that she could handle the rugged West. They hadn’t much further to go, she consoled herself, and now, through the haze of mist and wind and rain she could make out what looked like a sturdy wood bridge—unlike like others they had crossed, which had been constructed from old metal railroad cars—spanning the Poudre River just a ways ahead. The roar of the river gave her more shivers, for it sounded altogether monstrous.
But if anyone could assess a river and its dangers, Monty could. She trusted him to get them safely across to the other side. Although, even from here she could see the dark water roiling and churning and overflowing its banks, splashing the underside of the bridge with fury.
She gulped, let out a tense breath, then eased carefully down from the seat, Monty holding tightly to her hand and wrapping his other strong arm securely around her back to help lift her down and onto the saturated ground. Her nice new leather traveling shoes sank into sticky mud, but she would clean them later. Once they made it to the hotel in Fort Collins.
She steeled her nerves and took a deep breath. A surveying job was awaiting Monty’s arrival—in their new western town. They’d head to the land office tomorrow and file a homestead claim. They had plenty of money from the sale of her aunt’s property, plus the savings Monty had accumulated from his jobs as surveyor, cartographer, and river guide on the various expeditions he’d gone on over the last few years. They would spend the summer building a cabin and planting a garden and getting ready for the birth of their child—the first of many to come. They would make a home in the West, in the small but growing town of Fort Collins, presently to double in size with the advent of the railroad, assuring plenty of surveying work for Monty for years to come. The Indians no longer a threat, the West was becoming tamed, and towns like Fort Collins promised church, community, and hope for a bright future to those who dared to dream. Next year the nation would celebrate its centennial, and Colorado was slated to be admitted as the thirty-eighth state in the union . Yes, the country embraced hopeful prospects.