Grace smelled hay and heard horses snuffling and nickering. She’d never been to the livery in town, and Ben hadn’t been up close to any horses, although he always squirmed in excitement watching riders trot them down the streets.
She wiped her face and pushed loose hair from her eyes, then stood her son on the ground. He was dressed in cute denim pants and a thick cotton nightshirt. Charity had bought him adorable leather moccasins, which he now wore on his feet. Sunlight splintered through the clouds and warmed the air, even though Grace felt chilled through and through from the damp perspiration cooling on her skin. Her stomach clenched in pain from the sorrow coursing through her body.
“Hey, baby,” she cooed, “Mama’s going to show you some horses. What’s a horse say?”
Ben wiggled in place as she held his little hands and squatted in front of him. His eyes grew bright and he smiled—showing his four little teeth. “Naaaaaaaayyyyy,” he said happily.
“That’s right, sweetie. Let’s see if we can get a horse to neigh for you.”
She picked him up and carried him over to the open stable doors, pushing out every thought in her head so she wouldn’t think about Monty. Her son needed her attention, and she needed the distraction.
She took a step into the darkened corridor that ran between rows of stalls. Horses pawed at the ground and munched on flakes of hay. The last time Grace had ridden a horse was back in Illinois, before she and Monty had married. More hurt welled up, pushing tears out of the corners of her eyes. She willed herself to stop thinking about him, but it was so hard.
“Here,” she said, taking Ben’s little hand and stretching it out before a curious bay horse who pressed its muzzle against the wood slat. The horse snuffed and Ben giggled. Grace couldn’t help but smile when Ben shrieked in delight as the horse butted against Ben’s hand, no doubt looking for a treat.
“I’ve a carrot he can give Apache,” someone said.
Grace turned around. A young woman with bright red hair and an avalanche of freckles across her nose came over with a fat carrot in her hand.
“Hello,” she said with a friendly smile, showing straight white teeth, although a tiny bit bucktoothed. She looked the same age as Grace, and was dressed like Calamity Jane—complete with a long Indian-style straight skirt—no petticoats underneath—and a fringed leather riding coat—the kind the cowboys here in the West wore. Grace hadn’t seen many women dressed like that, and not around Fort Collins, but the young woman was very pretty, with a light complexion and sparkling eyes the color of emeralds.
“I’m Clare Ferne McKay, and who’s this strappin’ lad?” She tickled Ben under his chin, which caused an eruption of giggles from her son. “My, he’s sociable.”
Grace now noticed the heavy Irish brogue. “My name’s Grace. Grace Cunningham. This is Benjamin.”
Clare gave an exaggerated curtsey. “Please to meet ya.” She handed Ben the carrot, and once he had it well in his grasp, Clare held his little hand and moved it to where the horse could reach it. Grace watched as Apache took four bites, and when the carrot was down to a stub, Clare took the piece of carrot from Ben and laid it in the palm of her hand. “Now watch,” she said to Ben, making sure he was paying attention. She put her hand under the horse’s muzzle, and the horse picked up the carrot tenderly with his lips and chomped on it with strong teeth. Ben wiggled in excitement.
“Ma! Ma!” he cried out.
“That means more,” Grace said to Clare.
Clare nodded. “I have six younger siblings—I’ve heard that plenty over the years.” She turned to Ben. “You’re a cute one. May I?” She looked to Grace, who understood she wanted to hold him. She handed Ben over.
Clare cooed and made funny faces and got Ben laughing riotously. Grace couldn’t help but laugh as well, and the laughter eased the pain in her heart for the moment.
“Do you work here?” Grace asked, not imagining anyone hiring a woman as a stable hand.
“I punch leather, in a room over there.”
“Punch leather?”
“Saddles, bridles, belts. Sometimes I do designs on saddlebags. I use leather punches. Come’ere, let me show ya.” She led Grace to the room she had pointed to, still carrying Ben in her arms. Grace could tell Clare had carried a lot of small children over the years. Ben seemed very relaxed in Clare’s arms, and she moved with ease, as if he were an appendage.
Across a long plywood table lay numerous leather goods. Closest to her was a Mexican saddle, and as she drew near, she saw intricate dark designs in the leather. Flowers cascaded over the cantle and skirt surrounding the seat, and the gullet in front had overlapping feathers. She was impressed by the fine detail and beautiful patterns. So much different from designing a dress.