Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (14 page)

Grace glanced at him. “What do you want to build in this section?”

“Think of a row of small, well-built homes—a uniformity of style, although not completely alike. I imagine with the lot sizes of the homes I build, most of the land will go to a garden, privy, and stables if they have livestock. I’d like space for a park, which isn’t really needed yet, but will be someday when the town has grown. Of course, some would say the whole outdoors is available, so there’s no need for a park.”

Grace shook her head. “Hard-working people won’t have the time or energy to go far afield,” she spoke from experience. “So a nearby park will be much needed
and
appreciated.”

He gave her an admiring glance. “My thoughts exactly.”

“They are all wonderful ideas, Frey. You are a very forward-thinking man,” she said with a proud smile. “I’m impressed. I believe you could make any of these choices successful.”

“Your encouragement means a lot to me, Mrs. Foster.” He smiled and folded up the map. “Since I’m first building the houses next to us, the other decisions are far in the future, but something for us to think and talk about.”

“Thank you for including me.”

He nodded. “Now for the last order of business. Is there anything you need for yourself?”

Frey must have learned his lesson from the previous evening, because he didn’t mention how much he knew she lacked.

Grace placed a hand on his arm. This time she was prepared for the feel of hard muscle. “Let me think for a minute.” Mentally, she tried to list her possessions, but her mind was too full from this conversation, from Frey’s insistence upon treating her as his partner, and her emotions were fluctuating.

For all that Victor had been so insistent on them saving money—a ruse she now knew was intended to delay her when she pressed for marriage—he’d never actually gone over accounts with her. And deception or not, she wondered if he was the type of man to even do such a thing, or would he just hand over a housekeeping allowance that she was expected to stick to?

Too bad I can’t ask his wife.
Grace choked back a bitter laugh.

Now wouldn’t that be a comfortable visit, chatting about Victor over tea.

I suppose….
She suppressed a sigh.
I’ll have to find the answers I need within myself.

That thought provided a response for her husband. “I have material to make a dress, and Trudy said I could use her sewing machine. I purchased the things I was truly in need of before I left Lawrence. But there is something…although perhaps you’ll think it’s an extravagance…”

“What,” he prompted. “Diamond earrings? A pet elephant? A—”

Grace pushed against his chest, as if the pressure would stop his silly suggestions.
Might as well move a mountain.
“I’d like a leather-bound journal. I want to record this grand adventure I’m on.”

“As someone who’s part of your grand adventure, I like that idea. Will you also compose poetry like your distant cousin?”

“I’m not so talented.” As she gazed at her husband, Grace struggled to put her thoughts into words. “I find myself turned upside down and sideways right now. Things have changed so, and my mind hasn’t caught up with my new life circumstances.” She gestured to indicate the ledgers and map on the table. “For example, including me in our plans for the future is different, I mean in a
welcomed
way, from my expectations.”

He brushed a loose tendril from her forehead. “I understand—at least a bit. Yesterday and today have been somewhat of an upheaval for me, too.”

“Yes, and there’s more. I feel as if part of me was sleeping, and I’ve only recently awakened—” she gave him a sideways look “—or maybe not yet awakened completely. I find that I don’t know myself or discern others as well as I thought. So I’d also like to use the writing as a private way to sort through my thoughts.”

“Sounds like an excellent plan. Why don’t you go to the mercantile today? You can put the journal on my account. I pay for everything on the last day of the month or thereabouts….”

“The brick building near to the train station?”

“Yes.” He paused, stroked his chin, and twisted his mouth. “Just as a warning, the Cobbs—owners of the mercantile are
not
amiable people. They’ll probably try to claim that since they don’t know you are my wife, they’ll need cold, hard coin. Just stand your ground and assure them you have it on good account that they have indeed been told the news of our marriage.”

“But that would be lying.”

“Did I not just tell you they’ll have heard the news? Gossip flies around this place like a flock of crows. So you won’t be lying.”

Grace gave his arm a playful smack. “Murder, you reprobate,” she teased.

He captured her hand. “Murder me, or the Cobbs?” Frey tilted his head and winked. “But I’m sure you won’t be the first to want to kill off that couple or the last.”

Grace liked how quick he was to take her hand, as if touch was another way to communicate. “Neither, silly. A flock of crows is called a
murder
of crows.”

“So the schoolmaster’s daughter corrects me. I’m more educated already, and it isn’t yet noon. I’ll be a regular scholar before long. A bonus to having married my mail-order bride.”

“Will you be serious?” she scolded, trying not to laugh.

“You were the one who mentioned murder,” he pointed out in a mock-logical tone, rubbing the top of the hand he’d captured.

His touch sent sparks through her blood. She rolled her eyes. “And I am well punished for doing so.”

He kissed her hand. “Now, my dear Grace, since you want me to be serious…. Do you need me to come with you to the mercantile?”

How wonderful to have a man who was
present
and
attentive
. “No, although I appreciate the offer. I’ve dealt with unpleasant shopkeepers before. I’ve found that treating incivility with politeness usually works.”

“
Nothing
works with the Cobbs, especially the wife, but as long as you’re prepared….” Holding eye contact, he kissed her fingertips.

Her stomach dipped, and she wanted to throw her arms around his neck.
Nothing has prepared me for you!
But she held back, not quite ready.

Grace couldn’t imagine what would come next in this marriage, and she was eager to find out.
But first, I need a period of reflection
.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Two weeks later, Frey stared at Grace across the breakfast table now covered with a paisley-patterned tablecloth. She was composed, polite, dishing out savory food as good as the delectables prepared by Trudy Flanigan. The smell of bacon lingered in the air. She’d learned to make the strips crisp, just the way he liked them; the toast a perfect golden brown; the fried eggs with the yoke broken, spread over the rest of the egg and flipped again.

Most men would feel well-contented, believing they had all they required of a wife. But Frey sensed he was receiving only her outer shell—that somehow Grace was withholding the innermost part of herself. Things were good between them, including shared smiles and laughter and a gradual unfolding of their life stories. Through long conversations, as well as their interactions, they were learning of each other’s likes, dislikes, and habits.

Ah, yes, all is progressing as planned.
His mental tone was intentionally ironic. She’d spoken of awakening, of not knowing herself. Frey suspected the reason for her inner withdrawal was she might be on that exploration. He’d been patiently waiting for Grace to fully return, to talk about that inner journey, to tell him of the man she thought she’d once loved.

For the thought of that man was what disturbed his peace. Frey couldn’t help wondering, sometimes with an ache in his gut, about what had happened and of her feelings and of what Grace’s past might mean for their present.

Frey liked his wife and loved her—yet he doubted himself. He’d gotten stuck on that tumble down the stairs because he didn’t think he could
truly
love Grace if he didn’t know who she really was.
If I bed her, will I know her then?

But what if that closeness he was searching for didn’t occur? Frey didn’t think he could bear having a complacent wife instead of one who joined him in passion.
Maybe rather than playing at being married, with me quietly wooing her, we should pretend we are still courting?

Yes, that sounds right.

Grace picked up her tin cup of tea, her eyes downcast.

Frey pushed away his empty plate. “Today, I’d like to take you exploring,” he announced. “The stable is built. You’ve made your new dress and altered Trudy’s. You’ve canned and pickled the fruits and vegetables she brought us. And sewed the curtains and tablecloth for the kitchen. I think we deserve a day of rest during the week.”

Her eyebrows drew together. “But today is laundry day.”

Frey held back the hurt that his bride hadn’t enthusiastically taken to his idea. “Does it really matter if the laundry is done tomorrow or the next day?”

“I suppose not,” she said slowly, her brow wrinkling. “Although it will look odd to the neighbors to see everything hanging on the line tomorrow and not today.”

“Do you think the neighbors care when our laundry is done?” he asked in disbelief.

His wife looked at him as if he was insane. “Of course they care. They are judging what kind of housekeeper I am…what kind of wife I am to you.”

With a shake of his head he stood, walked around the table, and extended a hand.

She hesitated, and then slipped her hand into his.

Frey pulled Grace to her feet and dropped a kiss on her lips, something he did several times a day in hopes of accustoming her to his touch—in hopes of seeing her respond with more passion. He sensed that she wanted to but was holding herself back.

Still holding his hand, she tilted her head in askance.

“We’re having this lovely Indian summer that we should take advantage of. The weather is fine—a perfect autumn day. Soon winter will keep us homebound. We need to enjoy this time while we can. Say you’ll come with me. I’ll take you to the most beautiful autumn scenery….”

“I’m from New England.” Raising an eyebrow, she crossed her arms. “We have spectacular scenery in the fall.”

“Not like this, I promise. Pack a lunch for us, and we’ll have a picnic.”

Her smile bloomed. “I’ve never been on a picnic.”

“Well then, Mrs. Foster, it’s time you had the pleasure.”

* * *

They made the first part of their journey into the wilderness in silence, driving through a lushly wooded forest of many hues—russet, amber, gold, and brown. The green of the pines and firs contrasted with the fall hues of the aspen and maple and perhaps others Grace didn’t know.

She perched on the wagon bench as far from Frey as possible without falling off. In the last two weeks, she’d purposely kept a physical distance from him, enjoying his affectionate nature but being afraid to respond—no matter how much she’d wanted to.

Gertie rode in the back, sometimes lying down until something caught her attention. The dog would stand and look over the sides of the wagon, tongue hanging out.

Soon, as she’d often done since the wedding, Grace became lost in her thoughts, barely aware of the beauty of the autumn foliage. Her mind circled around an inner debate, consisting of all that had happened, her feelings, and her responses to Frey.

Frey was her husband, so what did it matter
why
she responded to him? Grace only wanted to be sure her growing love for the man truly was about
him
, and not her desire…or worse
need
for stability, love, and a family. Moreover, she wanted to be sure the man Frey appeared to portray—the man she
sensed
he was—actually existed and wasn’t, like Victor, a romantic image created through his own lies and her vulnerability.

Not for the first time, Grace wondered if she was probing too hard and too long at a wound she should allow to heal. Yes, Victor’s betrayal, combined with the fire in the factory, had completely upended her life and exposed her own susceptibility. But slowly, as she established herself in this new community—making new friends, worshiping in church, holding her own with the shopkeepers, and, most importantly, building a new life with her husband, she’d begun to find her balance again.
Maybe the time has come to forgive myself for falling in love—or what I thought was love—with Victor.

She glanced at Frey and found him looking at her. The concern in her husband’s eyes made Grace realize her introspection might have reached a point of self-indulgence and was damaging the very relationship that concerned her the most.

By this time, they’d passed through the forest into more open and hilly land covered with dry grass and swaths of trees. They followed the faint grooves of wagon tracks.

As far as Grace could see, pale amber sunlight coated rolling hills, and stands of evergreens, colorful birch, aspen, and maple trees, and snow-capped mountains loomed under harvest-blue skies. She let out a sigh of appreciation.

“Enjoying the view? You’ve been awfully silent over there.”

“There’s so much to see. Seems like no people are around for miles.”

“Oh, there are—isolated homesteads, small farms. But in some places, you can go for miles without being near a human.”