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  GRACE

  The Widows of Wildcat Ridge Series

  Book 10

  By Tracy Garrett

  Copyright © 2019 by Teresa Garrett

  Cover © Charlene Raddon, https://silversagebookcovers.com

  Edited by: Jo Davis of Jo Davis Editing

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, digitized, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  GRACE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products reference in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Tracy Garrett

  https://tracygarrett.com

  Grace/ Tracy Garrett – Version 2019.01

  52,355 words.

  DEDICATION

  To Alice, Franny and Jan—

  On this journey called writing I’ve met many wonderful people, but you three are the best. You pick me up when it’s no longer fun, you help me get from the beginning to the end, every time, and you give me encouragement when I need it the most. You keep me anchored and you fluff the feathers of my wings so I can fly. I love you!

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Most people think writers sit alone and make up stories. While that is true to an extent, we don’t write in a vacuum—so many people help us along the way. My sincere thanks to Charlene Raddon for conceiving this series and inviting me to join the fun; to Jo Davis, the best editor—and friend, anywhere; to every author in this series—you ladies challenged me to be my best; to my readers, whose “are you writing something new” keeps my fingers on the keyboard; and to Pam Crooks, friend and teacher on this journey called self-publishing.

  To those on the home front whose support and love never wavers, I couldn’t do it without you. And to the love of my life—it’s always for you.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About Tracy

  Chapter 1

  April 15, 1884

  Grace Hill stared in horror at the article in the several-weeks-old Denver newspaper. “No. This isn’t possible.”

  “What’s that, Grace? Speak up. I’ve asked you not to mumble in my presence.”

  “I apologize, Mother Hill. There was a mine collapse in—”

  “There’s always a disaster, Grace. A mine today, an earthquake tomorrow. God will have his vengeance one day soon, mark my words. Close that drape. I swear the sun is hotter this April than ever before.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Grace rose to do as she was told. “but this collapse was in Wildcat Ridge, Utah Territory, where my sister, Eleanora lives.”

  “Scandalous place for a woman of breeding to live. Why ever did she settle there?”

  “Her husband is a miner, ma’am. He moved his wife there soon after their wedding.”

  “Is he dead?”

  The emotionless question shocked Grace and sent a shaft of sorrow through her. Could Eleanora actually be the widow of Darvin Cavender? “I don’t know. A list of th-the deceased isn’t included.”

  “If it’s God’s will, he lived. If not, she’ll find another husband to provide for her and give her children. It is the task for which woman was created.”

  Grace clamped her teeth around her tongue to keep the retort inside. God created women with minds and dreams, just like men. Woman was created for more than marriage and procreation, not that she’d say that to Mrs. Hill.

  “She has a child. A daughter.”

  She read further in the article, her brain stuttering to a halt as she realized men weren’t the only victims. “It says townspeople were killed in a second explosion while trying to rescue the miners.” Townspeople? Women? Children? “I have to go.”

  “Go where, young lady?”

  “To this place. Wildcat Ridge.” She waved the newspaper. “My sister might be…” She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. Her employer thought tears a useless luxury and Grace didn’t want another lecture. She’d had her fill of her mother-in-law’s opinions. “This article was published in the Salt Lake City paper nearly a month ago. The Denver Rocky Mountain News released the story three weeks ago. I haven’t had a letter from my sister since before the accident. She would have written if she could. I have to go to her.”

  “You will not. I forbid it.”

  Grace rose, clutching the newspaper in her fist. “My sister could be injured, even de—” She forced air into her lungs. She refused to even give voice to the possibility. “My sister and niece might need me. I have to go, Mother Hill.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s probably still winter at that elevation. Some of the passes may not even be open. How will you get there? Who will go with you? A decent woman may not travel alone all that way.”

  Grace stared over the woman’s head into an ornate, gilded mirror. She hardly recognized the image staring back. Her dark eyes seemed lifeless. Her long, dark hair tamed into a simple chignon at her nape was dull, as dull as her life had become. She wore an unflattering high-necked black gown and her only jewelry was her wedding ring and a mourning pin, woven of Theo’s blond hair, at her throat. Little remained of the happy girl she’d once been.

  If she didn’t get away from this house soon, she would become as dead inside as her husband was in truth.

  “I don’t know how I’ll get there, Mother Hill, but I’ll find out. I have to try.”

  “Your father will not approve.”

  Mention of her father heaped a bit more guilt on her shoulders. “I know that, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Maryetta Banks Hill, matriarch of the Denver Hills, one of the oldest banking families in the city, motioned for Grace to sit. “You aren’t thinking clearly. Your sister may be on her way home to Denver at this very moment. Once you determine how to get there, you’ll need money, proper clothing, a companion.” She picked up the silver bell never far from her and rang a sweet peal loud enough to be heard in the next block. “I need a cup of tea. We will discuss this foolishness no longer.” She glanced over as a young woman stepped into the parlor. “A tea tray, Madeleine.”

  As the maid who’d worked for Mrs. Hill since soon after the older woman’s marriage scurried off again, Grace sat down again. She didn’t want a blessed cup of tea. She wanted to argue. A great, rousing row to give a place to vent the terror she was feeling. Going off now, riding on emotion rather than logic, might only ensure she failed to reach Eleanora, but at least she would finally be doing something she chose to do, instead of meekly going along where someone else pointed.

  All her life, she’d done as she was told. She’d worn the dresses her mother chose, studied languages and comportment because her father
insisted they were important. She even married the gentleman they’d arranged for her to marry.

  And what had that gotten her? She was a barely tolerated daughter-in-law, the unpaid companion to her dead husband’s mother, living in a house that wasn’t hers, living a life that wasn’t hers. Nothing was hers. She hated her life.

  And she was getting out.

  Grace kept telling herself for nearly a week, as she kept to her duties and prayed without ceasing for a letter from her sister, that Ellie was all right. She would have been contacted by somebody had something happened.

  She’d spent much of her time hiding in her room, pleading illness, just to avoid Mother Hill. After another morning of reading to her mother-in-law, she sat staring out the window and making plans, though, in truth, she had only a vague idea of how to get to Ellie. It consisted of packing her trunks and buying a railway ticket.

  “A letter, Miss Grace!” The door burst open after a single knock. Madeleine’s wide smile told Grace who it was from.

  “Finally.” She tore open the envelope and scanned the letter quickly. “The fourth of April? She wrote this nearly a month ago.”

  “Is she all right then?”

  April 4, 1884

  My Dear Grace,

  Have you heard of the horrible disaster that struck our little town? Mr. Bridges, our telegraph operator, sent word out on the wire just as soon as Mr. Crane allowed him to share the information. Perhaps it has already reached the Denver newspapers. If not, then I must inform you the Gold King Mine suffered two explosions and collapsed.

  It was terrible, Grace. The first was so monstrous the windows of our little cabin cracked and its foundation was shaken, though we are most of three miles away. I prayed for days that Darvin had somehow escaped from the instant tomb the mine became. He would have been nearly ready to come home, finished for another day. Surely he’d been close enough to the surface to make it out. Oh, how I prayed that he was merely lying somewhere, injured, confused, and if I and everyone else would just keep looking we would find him, but I no longer have hope. Dr. Spense has frankly declared to all of us it wasn’t possible. One hundred and seventy-five souls, Grace. Innocent men, women and children gone. If not for Tessa, I would surely be numbered among the dead, too, for I would have gone to help when that first explosion erupted through the mine. Those who did go were caught in the second one and any still alive below were lost to us forever.

  So many widows, Grace, most with children and no visible means of support. We will share with each other what we can, trying to keep body and soul together. A funeral will be conducted for all the victims on the twelfth of April. Few remains were found, and those that were I regret to say were not identifiable. Oh, to not even see his body one final time, which makes it so much harder to accept that he is gone. He wasn’t the best of husbands, but he was mine. I feel disloyal writing those words, but you already know my true feelings. I still don’t know how to explain to my little Tessa that her papa isn’t ever coming home again, that he won't see her grow up.

  Those who survived are managing, though the children are running a bit wild in the streets as their mothers continue to search for any sign of their loved ones.

  Now you are going to ask why I don't just leave? Come home to Denver, to Mama and Papa, to you? In truth, this is still my home. The reason I came here is gone, but I don’t want to leave yet. Only time will tell if I can remain.

  Beloved Grace, tell Mama and Papa not to worry, and please don’t worry either. We are managing for the time being. I continue to hang onto hope that life here in Wildcat Ridge will improve. I will write again soon.

  Your devoted sister,

  Ellie

  Grace wiped the tears from her cheeks, worried about her baby sister in spite of Ellie’s reassurances.

  “Miss Grace? Is she all right?”

  Grace startled at the voice. She’d forgotten Madeleine was in the room. “Ellie says she is well enough, though still reeling from the loss. The unbelievable loss,” she whispered, hardly able to comprehend what Ellie was suffering. To lose her husband, friends, even the confidence in the earth on which she stood?

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Grace.” Madeleine patted her on the shoulder. “If your sister is half as strong as you, she’ll be just fine.”

  The demanding peal of a silver bell cracked through the silence, saving Grace the effort of a reply. As the door closed behind the maid, Grace crossed to the windows of her private sitting room and sank into the rocker she kept there.

  Spring sunlight glinted off gleaming chestnut floors where the Persian rug didn’t cover them. The pink damask furniture gave the room a sunset glow Grace had never appreciated. She preferred yellow, sunrise, new possibilities. But, as with most everything in her life, her mother-in-law had not approved and had changed the color to suit herself. It was her house, after all, as she reminded Grace frequently.

  A fresh wave of frustration with her dead husband welled within Grace. He’d been dead for two years, longer than they’d been married. She’d agreed to his proposal of marriage because it was an advantageous match, one everyone—meaning her mother, father and pastor—said she’d be foolish to refuse. Theodore Hill was a handsome, spoiled little boy in an adult body. And he’d never disagreed with his mother, except about Grace.

  Maryetta Hill refused to approve the match, but Theo defied her and married Grace anyway. At the time she’d thought him a strong man for it. Now she knew he just hadn’t wanted to be denied something beautiful that he wanted for himself.

  Her next shock came after their wedding journey when Theo brought her to his mother’s home and announced they’d live there. There’s more than enough room. I don’t see why I should buy a house and leave Mother alone to racket around in this place. Much more practical. Grace was almost certain it was the only practical thing he’d ever done, and he’d made the choice because it saved him money.

  Once they were settled, and gotten through a week of obligatory evening meals at home, Theo began staying out through dinner, sending notes that he’d been detained by business. At first, they were love notes, or the nearest thing Grace had ever received. Gradually, they became shorter, then terse, then they stopped coming at all. Grace was left to make shift with a woman who barely tolerated her, in a home that wasn’t her own.

  Every morning for nearly a year, she spoke with Theo, begged, really, trying to make him see that the situation was intolerable for her. And for a year he’d brushed off her concerns and questions about finding a home of their own. Then he was gone.

  A year of mourning followed, and Maryetta Hill knew how to mourn. Everyone and everything in black, never leaving the house except for Sunday morning services, and only in a closed carriage. It was fortunate the horses were already black, or they’d probably have been dyed to match Mrs. Hill’s outlook on the future. Though the woman had a daughter and three grandchildren living in Denver, she acted as if the entire world died with Theo.

  For Grace, it had. Theo hadn’t made a will or at least seen to it that his wife would at least have some independence. There was money, but very little. A visit to Theo’s banker following his death had revealed how careless her husband had been with his finances. He’d received an allowance from his mother, something else he’d failed to mention to Grace’s father when asking for her hand in marriage.

  If she was going to reach Ellie, she would have to withdraw all that remained in the bank and sell some of the gifts Theo had given her. The allowance Mrs. Hill had bestowed on her son she hadn’t seen fit to continue to give to his son’s widow. You have room and board and your every need met, Mrs. Hill had informed her a month after Theo’s death. You have no need of more.

  With that, Grace had become her mother-in-law’s unpaid companion. Even the maid and cook received a salary and a half day off every week. Damn Theo, anyway.

  Grace carefully folded Ellie’s letter and returned it to the envelope. Wildcat Ridge. It wasn’t all that far away and t
he trains would take her there. Ellie had written of the journey when Darvin had moved his family there.

  She was certain Ellie had mentioned in one of her letters that the trains now made their town a regular stop. Crossing to lock the door, she went to the ornate desk Mrs. Hill had purchased for the room, but before she could retrieve the trunk key she kept hidden, Madeleine knocked on her door. Closing the drawer again, Grace hurried to unlock her door and found, not the overworked maid, but Mrs. Hill standing in the hallway.

  “Why ever was the door locked, girl? Are you hiding something in here?”

  “No, Mother Hill. I was reading my sister’s letter and wanted privacy. Please come in.”

  Grace made a mental note to begin carrying the key with her in case Mrs. Hill doubted her explanation and had the rooms searched. “Is there something you need, Mother Hill?”

  “You need to attend to your luncheon immediately. I plan to have you accompany me to the milliner this afternoon.”

  This was what her life was, come here, go there, eat now. Still, it wouldn’t do for her to give any hint to the woman that Grace wasn’t interested in going out today.

  “Well?”

  “Of course, I’m happy to accompany you, but I’m not really hungry.” Since I just ate breakfast an hour ago.

  “That’s probably for the best. You’ve been looking a bit fond of your meals lately. As soon as I’ve had my luncheon, we will go. Be sure you’re ready.”

  With that last nasty bit of ill will tossed into the conversation, Mrs. Hill left. Grace counted to twenty before closing the door and quietly locking it again. She knew from hundreds of luncheons with her mother-in-law, that in exactly one hour, she would expect Grace to be dressed, hatted and veiled, and standing at the carriage entrance waiting for her.

  Hurrying to the desk, Grace fished in the drawer for the small key to her trunk then went into her dressing room. She had to leave the door open for light. Practically every garment in the space had been died black for mourning. Mrs. Hill thought purchasing new garments in black were an extravagance, though she herself had three new gowns with matching hats and parasols.