Clare waved her away. “My mum always says ‘Be kind to strangers and God will repay ya.’ And then there’s this proverb to cheer ya up”—Clare spouted something in another language—“It’s Gaelic. ‘There’s nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse.’” She stopped and looked deep into Grace’s eyes. “Life is hard, there’s no denying, and surely you’ve been through hard times. But look.” She smoothed out Ben’s head as he nodded off in Grace’s arms. “You’ve been blessed with this precious babe—and he’s healthy and bright as a penny. He’s who ya have to live for. The healing will come.” She said something else in Gaelic, and then translated. “If God sends you down a stony path, may he give you strong shoes.”
Grace smiled. “Maybe I need to shop for some.”
Clare tipped her head toward the end of the street. “There’s a cobbler’s shop on the corner. Or maybe we can fit you with a set of iron horseshoes.”
That made Grace laugh.
When they stopped in front of the green grocers, which had a soda fountain in the back, Clare said solemnly, “Anytime you need a listening ear, you know where to find me. Just neigh, and I’ll come out of my stall.” Clare giggled.
“Thank you, Clare. I’ve wanted to make a friend in Fort Collins, and it hasn’t been easy. But I hope you’ll be my first.”
“I need a friend too. And as much as I’m glad to have peace and quiet away from my brothers and sisters, there’s nothing so wonderful as holding a bawbeen—a baby.”
Clare pulled open the door and ushered Grace inside. It felt good in the midst of her pain to talk to another woman close to her age, someone nice and nonjudgmental. Maybe Clare could help her unravel this mystery that had her husband entangled in another woman’s arms. She couldn’t bear thinking of Monty pouring out his love to someone else. Her heart had surely broken beyond mending. How could she go on, face tomorrow?
As they sat down at the fountain and waited to order, Grace looked down at Ben’s head resting against her chest. He was deep in a peaceful, contented sleep.
Clare was right. She would have to go on for Ben.
Lord, you are going to have to give me those strong shoes—shoes of stone—if I’m going to walk this rocky road.
Chapter 9
Lenora Dutton wasted no time easing up to the bar in the saloon next to the hotel and ordering a whiskey. Being that it was only ten in the morning, the barkeep eyed her strangely, but he said nothing. He slid her drink over to her and watched as she threw back her head and emptied the shot glass.
The whiskey went down smooth and she sighed, but although it warmed her innards and slaked her thirst, it did little to soothe her agitation. The idea that Clayton Wymore and Billy Hill Cloyd were still alive and maybe just a few miles away made her gut sour and her palms sweaty. If the news was true, it meant two things—two bad things. One, that those two men were still alive and hadn’t gotten caught yet, and two, they hadn’t found the gold. For if they had, they wouldn’t very well be robbing banks, now, would they? Nosiree.
Lenora blew out a hard breath and ordered another whiskey. When the barkeep hesitated, Lenora said, “You deaf? I want another.” She fidgeted on her stool, her corset pinching her waist. She never did abide by those dang things, but she had to keep up the appearance of a somewhat refined woman. Once she was in San Francisco, she’d be wearing them all the time, so she lectured herself to buck up.
The barkeep jerked slightly and gazed around, as if looking for someone, then slid over another shot. No one else was in the dim bar with its dark wood paneling and shiny waxed counter. The large mirror behind the bar showed guests milling about in the foyer, near the registration desk. But Lenora didn’t care who saw her drinking. She hardly knew anyone in this backwater excuse for a town—which was little more than an ill-arranged set of frame houses and shanties. So pretentious and shallow, all these women thinking they were something out here in the Wild West. Every one of them seemed so biggity and preoccupied with their silly little activities, so proper. And the men were so polite. Didn’t anyone want to have a bit of fun in this town? Granted, at least there were saloons here. Lenora had ventured into Greeley weekly for food and supplies while she’d nursed Malcolm back to health, and it sorely vexed her that nary a pint of liquor could be procured in that “holy” town. For crying out loud, how in tarnation did those people get through the trials of living on the Front Range without a stiff drink or two?