The ground shook again, and this time Monty felt his feet shift noticeably. He sought purchase and spread his legs for balance. The river roared at him like a vicious lion. He watched logs and railroad ties tumble in the raging waters, then felt a hard yank as one of the horses reared again, this time breaking away from the wagon. With straps flying and reins dragging, the horse ran pell-mell in frantic circles, causing the other horse to buck against its restraints.
Monty cursed again and lurched back, out of the mad animal’s striking range. He thought quickly what he needed to salvage from the wagon. They would have to leave it, and the horses, and walk back along what was left of the road. How far behind them was that ranch? He’d seen the sign—Whitcomb—in an arch over a long, wide road west that wended into the hills. They’d passed it maybe two hours ago. But now, on foot, how long would it take them to get there? Three, maybe four hours, with Grace wobbling slow steps. Without being able to see the sun, he knew there were maybe two hours of daylight left.
He’d need a lantern, then. Fuel, matches. Rope, blankets. Everything warm he could wrap around them. He didn’t have arms enough to carry all that they needed to make it to a safe shoal—one he hoped was out there. There just had to be someone at that ranch, and if not, surely they’d find shelter. He could make a fire anytime out of just about anything, so he wasn’t concerned about getting Grace warm and dry once they got there—or even to a thick stand of trees. He doubted anyone would be coming down the road, not now, not anytime soon. They were on their own, but he’d survived worse. Yeah, but not with a pregnant wife.
Monty gritted his teeth and rubbed his stubbled jaw, watching the horses gallop back north along the road together, finally free, unconcerned about the fate of the two humans they’d been accompanying. The wagon sat listing in mud, the rain coming down in canted sheets from a black churning sky. The whole world was tumbling in turmoil around them. He slapped his fist into his palm. He was wasting precious time.
He checked on Grace; she was huddled where he’d left her. Good. First thing—his pack. That was the only thing that really mattered. In it were their important papers. Their marriage license. His letter offering employment with the Larimer County Land Improvement company in Fort Collins. Their personal letters and papers. His college diploma from Wesleyan University. And then, there were his surveying tools—the ones small enough to bring along and that he’d carried with him through all the hell and high water he’d encountered on his expeditions. His transit theodolite, his brass plane surveying compass that Hayden himself had given Monty, his circumferentor.
He looked over at the wet crates and thought about his reflecting telescope, and his books—especially Wollaston’s Catalogue of the Stars and Mackelyne’s Observations and Tables. They’d have to be left behind. He’d have to hope their things would still be here tomorrow—or whenever they’d be able to get back and fetch their wagon. He hoped no one would rob them, but he knew that was a lot to hope for. For now, all he really hoped was that he could get Grace and the baby to safety soon, unharmed. Please, Lord, with your help.
He grabbed the bulky leather pack from beneath the seat of the buckboard and slung it over one shoulder and across his chest. It also contained Grace’s jewelry, and all their money, every last bit. They’d decided not to leave any in the bank in Bloomington, seeing as they had no plans to return—no one to return to, no family left, for either of them.
A quick sting of bitterness sliced his gut as he thought about his hateful father and drunk of a mother. He’d last seen them outside of ten years, surprised they were both still alive, living in that squalor and filth they called home. He’d run away when he was fifteen, as far from Chicago as he could get on the few dollars he had in his pocket. That’s when he got jobs working the rivers, where he met the crusty but kindly Joseph Bartlett on the docks, who taught him about rivers and urged him to go to college and make something of himself. In those short months, Joseph had watched out for him and taught him what decency and honor were—something Monty had known in his heart but surely never learned in his home. And then the old man had died when a stack of logs broke their chains and crushed him.
No, he and Grace had left nothing behind that mattered. Their future was all they had. And each other. But that was all Monty needed. All he cared about in this world.
As the wind clawed in fury, Monty strained to grasp the edges of the thick tarp. He wrestled the tangled mess out of the metal struts of the bench and worked to lay it over some of the crates—the ones containing Grace’s clothes and her keepsakes. Some had only sentimental value, but Grace treasured the items her aunt had left her, and Monty didn’t want to see them ruined, especially the needlepoint that Grace loved. And her special dresses that she’d designed and sewn. Grace, taught by her aunt, was an expert seamstress and dressmaker, and hoped to one day open her own shop in Fort Collins. Monty was determined to make that dream a reality for Grace.