Colorado Hope(30)

Malcolm tipped his head and touched the brim of his bowler hat. “Good day, gentlemen. I’m Malcolm Connors.”

All three bid him a genial hello and introduced themselves.

“This here’s the sheriff, Eph Love,” an older silver-haired man with a clean-shaven face said. “I’m Fred Wallace, the city assessor, and this is Alan Patterson—the courthouse clerk.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Malcolm said. “I recently moved to Fort Collins, and I’m looking for gainful employment. I . . . have surveying experience. Back in St. Louis.” It felt odd to say that, seeing as how he had no memory of doing actual surveying work, but when he’d looked at the surveying instruments Stella had shown him, with his initials scratched into them, a strong recognition came over him. He knew those instruments. When he picked them up and felt them in his hands, he had no doubt he could survey a piece of land—measure its size, use chain poles, and record the proper notations. Why would he remember this but not anything else—except, perhaps, how to cook and ride a horse?

“Well,” the assessor said, his face brightening, “we could sure use your help. I was supposed to have a new man in here last spring, but he never showed, and I’ve been on the scout for more surveyors. The railroad’s coming in later this year, and already folks are moving here in droves. I reckon I can give you as much work as you want, Mr. Connors.”

“That’s wonderful news, sir.” Relief coursed through him, and he nodded as the other men said kind words of welcome. Malcolm thought about his recent arguments with Stella over his seeking employment. For some reason she didn’t want him to take a job in town. Maybe she worried she’d be lonely being by herself out on the homestead, but he told her they were running out of money. She only huffed, but had no other suggestions for him. He was a surveyor. She had told him they’d planned to live in Fort Collins because that’s where he’d find work. And now she was complaining about him doing that very thing.

He pushed down his mounting exasperation and smiled at the three men, whom he’d found himself taking an immediate liking to.

“So, how d’ya like our town?” Wallace asked him.

“I like it just fine. It has a lot of promise, and the location is beautiful.”

“You been north of here yet—up on the Poudre River?” the sheriff asked. “There’s some good fishin’ up in the canyon.”

Malcolm shook his head. “No. After we came out from St. Louis, I . . . had a mishap. Spent a few months near Greeley recovering.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Love said, fixing his eyes on Malcolm and studying him. “But you seem all in one piece.”

Malcolm joined the men in a friendly chuckle. “I’m ready and fit for work.” He gave the assessor a smile. “Got a little tired of being trapped in my small house.” He breathed in deeply. “I’m looking forward to getting outside and working in the fresh air.”

The sheriff nodded. “The winters can be somethin’ fierce out here on the Front Range—”

“And that’s why we have so many saloons,” Wallace added with a laugh. “Whiskey warms the ice out of the blood. It’s what’s kept me alive all these years.”

Malcolm forced a chuckle. He didn’t particularly like whiskey—or any spirits, from what he could tell. But he knew Stella did. He frowned thinking of the many times he watched her plow through half a bottle of whiskey in the cabin late at night. He’d told her he didn’t think it was good for her health to drink, but she only laughed as if the notion was silly and childish. She told him he used to drink all the time with her, and frequented many a saloon in St. Louis, but Malcolm couldn’t see how he could have liked such a taste before his injury and then disliked it afterward.

“We used to have an ordinance of prohibition here, like they do over in Greeley,” the sheriff told him. “But by popular demand, that law was rescinded last year—thanks to Marcus Coon, the fella that owns the Agricultural Hotel. Folks all seem a little happier these days.” He gave a big grin, and Wallace bellowed in agreement.

The court clerk was quiet, saying nothing, just nodding his head. Then, he announced, “I’d best get back to work. But I wanted to hear the news.” The clerk nodded a quick good-bye and hurried out the front door.

The sheriff turned to Malcolm. “Seems the Dutton Gang robbed a bank in Laporte.” He shook his head morosely. “Those men have been hunted for a year now—ever since they broke out of jail in Denver City. Copeland Townsend, the territorial marshal, has tendered quite a large reward for their capture. You heard of ’em?”