Colorado Hope(31)

Malcolm shook his head, although he imagined they’d wonder why he was so uninformed. He wouldn’t lie, but he didn’t want to tell them about his loss of memory. It might hinder their trust in his work, and he wanted to have the best chance to show his skill and earn their respect.

“Well, folks figured they’d left the country or fled to some other state. Or maybe got themselves killed somehow—no one’s seen hide nor hair of them two hooligans. And now they pop up—like spring flowers—back at their crooked business.”

“Maybe they ran out of money,” Malcolm offered.

“More ’n likely,” Wallace said, nodding. “But seems stupid to go back to what you got caught at in the first place.” He looked at Love. “Well, I’m sure if they show their faces in Fort Collins, they’ll end up in your jail. Those posters of their mugs are all over the town. I know how keen you are to catch ’em.” He gave Malcolm a smirk. “So, if you see the likes of ’em, be sure to let Eph know.”

Malcolm smiled at their friendly banter. It felt good to stand around chatting with other men. A refreshing change from being stuck in the cabin with Stella.

A pang of guilt hit him as he berated his sour attitude toward his wife. What kind of man was he to so quickly forget what she’d done for him and how much he owed her? Yet, after he wished the men well, thanked the assessor for hiring him, and bounded out the front door of the building, he thought how being indebted to someone was another kind of jail. Maybe one without bars, but confining all the same.

He’d expected marriage to be freeing and joyous, but with each passing day he felt more and more trapped, and only now did he realize it—as feelings of regret bubbled up and his heart ached with a strange loneliness he could not understand.





Chapter 8



“Grace, Grace—whatever is the matter?”

Grace heard Charity calling after her, but she couldn’t bear to speak with her—with anyone. She hoisted Ben into her arms, hugging him tightly to her chest as she rushed out of the house, wishing she could run and run and keep running until she fell into some ocean at the edge of the continent.

Tears poured down her face, just as they had a year ago when she’d lost Monty. All this time she had waited for him or news of him—only to learn he was alive but married to another woman!

Her thoughts careened in her head, making no sense at all. What could she do? She had to do something.

She looked down at her precious son, whose little chubby arms held on to her shoulders, his cheek resting on the bodice of her dress. She pulled her coat around him to enclose him in her warmth, her shoal of safety for him. But was there any safe harbor for her? No. She had been cut loose, like a drifting boat on a wild river, and now she was crashing into rocks and tumbling down a treacherous waterfall to her demise.

There had to be some logical explanation. Monty would never do this. Something had happened, something horrible, but how could she find out? She didn’t dare try to find him to speak to him. Her heart couldn’t take that. And she certainly couldn’t talk to his wife.

She could hardly form the word in her mind. Married. He was married to . . . that pompous, shallow, beautiful woman. Where on earth had he met her?

She fumed. Monty would never marry someone like her. Stella was the kind of woman he used to tell disapproving stories about when he lived in the boardinghouse. Women who chased after men and only cared about fancy clothes and money and making impressions on others—making other women jealous. Monty had told Grace he loved her because she was exactly the opposite. He loved her kind heart and gratitude for the blessings she had. He admired the way she had cared for her aunt, and how industrious she was, learning a vocation and not expecting a man to grovel at her feet.

The only conclusion she could make was that somehow Monty had forgotten her. He had lost his memories—but how many memories, and which ones? Did he remember some things? He clearly didn’t remember his name, for he went by Connors, not Cunningham.

Breathless, she realized she had been running for blocks. She stopped at the corner of College and Maple, then hurried along Jefferson, finally ducking down the alley that ran behind the town livery stables. Ben squirmed, hot under the coat, and Grace realized her arms were aching from his weight. He was no longer the tiny baby she’d carried for hours during his first weeks of life, coaxing him back to sleep late in the night. He felt like a sack of potatoes in her sore arms.

The clouds overhead shredded into cotton wisps carried on an easterly wind, the cold mountain air pushing them out over the open range. The dry air made her skin feel raw, and her lips were chapped. That and the high altitude made Colorado so different from Illinois. Oh, if only she and Monty had stayed in Bloomington!