Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (5 page)

After he’d finished and his home looked as presentable as possible, he and Gertie hurried to the bathhouse. The Woods, the owners of the business, were fond of dogs and didn’t mind her tagging along. In fact, Gertie was welcome in most places in Sweetwater Springs, including Hardy’s Saloon. Frey had never tried to bring her inside the mercantile, though. He could only imagine how the owners would react. Mrs. Cobb would probably take after Gertie with a broom—take after
both
of them with her broom, which is why he’d left the dog behind yesterday when he’d gone to the store to buy Grace a simple gold band.

Just as he was wandering home, his hair loose and damp and his beard and mustache closely trimmed, he saw the Flanigan’s wagon, with Seth driving, pull into his driveway. Three-year-old Anna was perched between her parents, clutching a rag doll. Baby George sat on his mother’s lap.

With a happy bark, Gertie raced to meet them.

Frey moved toward Mrs. Flanigan’s side, noting the crates and baskets packed in the back, and glanced from her to the laden wagon. “Don’t tell me you folks are thinking of moving in? I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to build you a nice house, and my own would be finished by now.”

She shook a finger at him. “I’m very familiar with the state of a bachelor’s home. I thought to spare your bride the shock, although we’ll have to tell her right away what we’ve lent you, so Grace doesn’t think everything belongs to this household.”

“I know I’m missing some furniture and all, but those boxes don’t look big enough….”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Furnishings are up to you to provide. We brought dinner. A lace tablecloth. China settings and silverware, some pots and pans, and serving pieces.”

Frey leaned over the side of the wagon and peered into a slatted crate.

A beady black eye glared back.

“Are you lending me
chickens
?”

Mrs. Flanigan laughed. “No. That’s our wedding gift to you both. There are five—a rooster so you have dinner for next Sunday and four hens. And, I have a bag in there somewhere with seed packets for your garden.”

“Generous gifts.” Frey was touched by her thoughtfulness. “I’m sure Grace will appreciate them.”

Seth, carrying Anna, came around the front of the horses. “Don’t forget all that extra food you brought along,” he said to his wife before leaning toward Frey. “Just as well,” he pretended to whisper. “The cellar in the old place
and
the new home are overflowing with food. We couldn’t eat it all if we tried. I had to add extra reinforcement to the shelves for fear they’d collapse under the weight of all those jars.”

Mrs. Flanigan lifted her chin. “If we are blessed by nature’s bounty, I aim to take advantage of every bit. I’ll never forget the long winter of ’86, the year of our marriage.”

Frey doubted anyone who’d lived through that horrific winter would forget.

“Thank goodness that year I’d arrived here early enough to plant a garden and went berry picking with Lina and Darcy,” she said, referencing her two friends from the Mail-Order Brides of the West Agency. “We had enough food for ourselves through the winter as well as plenty to spare for Gid and Darcy after their house burned down, with some extra for Lina and Jonah, as well as the church food pantry.” She gave a decisive nod. “Yes, far better to be prepared
and
be able to share God’s abundance.”

Frey sent Mrs. Flanigan a look of admiration. “If my bride is half as fine a housewife as you are, then I’ll be a lucky man.”

“Oh, you.” She held out the baby for Frey to take.

Frey hefted George into the air, giving him a jiggle that made the baby let out a belly laugh and drew an answering chuckle out of him, before tucking the boy against his chest with one arm and extending a hand to help Mrs. Flanigan climb from the wagon.

She wore a blue silk dress with peach-colored lace.

“Now, don’t you look as pretty as a picture?”

A blush tinted her cheeks. “I think,
Mr.
Foster, we are good enough friends for you to drop the formalities and call me Trudy.”

“Then no more
Mr.
Foster.”

“Hey, don’t go getting fresh with my wife.” Seth set Anna on the ground.

“Gertie!” The little girl let out a shriek of glee.

The dog wagged her tail and greeted Anna with a swipe of her tongue.

With his free hand, Frey grabbed a basket from the back of the wagon and moved toward the house. He couldn’t resist needling his friend. “And why not? Did
you
tell your wife today how pretty she looks?”

Seth scowled. “We were busy getting ready. She had me going hither and yon, hauling this and that.” He threw up his hands and sent Trudy a beseeching glance. “Darlin’, you
know
how pretty I think you are.”

Trudy tilted her head, giving Seth a coquettish glance from under lowered eyelashes. “Seems to me…I haven’t heard that much lately. Certainly not since George was born.”

Seth threw Frey a
you
troublemaker
look.

Frey widened his eyes and lifted his eyebrows, professing innocence, and kept on going.

“Bah.” George tapped Frey’s chest with a chubby fist.

He hurried into the kitchen and set the basket on the table, turned and walked out just in time to see Seth slide his arms around his wife and draw her close. He halted, giving them some privacy, but couldn’t help overhearing.

Seth touched Trudy’s cheek. “You are the most beautiful woman in the whole world to me, and I love you with all of my heart.”

The glow in Trudy’s eyes as she looked up at her husband made Frey turn away in sudden fear, unable to bear seeing the intimacy between the couple.
What if Grace never looks at me like that?
He jiggled the baby, hoping George’s laughter would drown out his father, but to no avail.

“Since the birth of our children—” Seth said in a tender tone “—you are even more precious to me as their mama. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how pretty you looked today. I noticed but didn’t get the words from my brain to my mouth. I’ll be more careful about that in the future.”

Part of Frey wanted to cringe but the other was so darn envious, not just for the love between the two, but Seth’s ability to put his feelings into words. Frey could get off a jest or a jab better than the average man, but he wasn’t so good with the flowery words a woman needed to hear—one of Ingrid’s complaints about him.
Please, God, may I grow to feel that way about Grace and be able to tell her so.

The two must have come up for air because Seth said, “You can turn around now.”

But Frey wasn’t ready, still feeling off balance. He lifted the baby until they were nose-to-nose. “What do you say, George? Are you up to helping us unload the wagon?” He stepped off the porch and walked over. There was still so much to do.

Trudy stepped over to take her son into her arms.

Seth moved to Frey’s side and tilted his head at several flower arrangements tucked into one of the baskets. “Of everything we brought you, that’s the most important part. Flowers for your bride.”

Frey grinned at Seth. “Guess I should be grateful you two already went through this mail-order bride business so I can just follow in your footsteps.”

“Yes, siree,” Seth drawled. “If I left everything to you—” he gave a mournful shake of his head “—you’d land in the doghouse in no time.” He stooped to run a hand over the dog’s back and fondle her ears. “No disrespect meant to you, Miss Gertie.”

“I would not,” Frey protested. “Besides, I’d never fit in Gertie’s doghouse. If she had one, that is, which she doesn’t.”

“Oh—” Seth cocked an eyebrow “—then you remembered flowers on your own, and we didn’t need to bring any along?”

Frey glowered at his friend. “I just hadn’t gotten them yet,” he said with stiff dignity, ignoring Seth’s so-you-say nod.

His friend’s expression turned serious, and Seth met Frey’s gaze. “Hope everything works out as well for you as it has for us.”

“Just be patient,” Trudy warned. “If you are kind to each other, love will come in time.” She glanced beyond him to the foursquare. “Amazing how two houses can have a similar design but still be different—ours is wood, and yours is brick. The window is beautiful.” She turned hopeful eyes in her husband’s direction.

Shaking his head, Seth held up his free hand. “Oh, no you don’t, Mrs. Flanigan. We’ve just sunk a heap of money into that house of yours. We have to save some things for the future.”

Trudy’s dimpled smile at her husband told Frey she’d be getting her stained-glass window before too long.
I wonder if Grace will have me wound around her finger like that?

Somehow, he didn’t mind the idea one single bit.

* * *

As the train neared Sweetwater Springs, Grace stirred from her melancholy thoughts. The first part of the trip had been made tolerable by a chance meeting with Libbie Van Eycken, a South African girl who was acquainted with one of the other seamstresses who’d worked for the Brown Textile Mill. The two women had seats together on the route from Boston to Chicago. Libbie, too, was in dire financial straights and when she’d learned about the
Grooms’ Gazette
had decided to become a mail-order bride to a rancher in Arizona.

The pair had talked their way through two days of travel before parting in Chicago, promising to write. When Grace was with Libbie, she’d felt almost optimistic at times, for if she could set aside her reserve and form close bonds of friendship with someone she’d just met on a train, then maybe she could make friends in this new town and come to care for the stranger who’d be her husband.

But without Libbie to distract her, Grace had fallen into low spirits, staring out the window without really seeing the passing countryside, her thoughts on Victor. Each time her heart ached with missing him, she told herself,
He’s not the man I love. That man doesn’t exist.

Cold comfort.
But the idea that she’d loved an illusion, rather than the real man seemed to help.

A few stops before Sweetwater Springs, after washing her hands and face, Grace thought about taking the advice she’d given to Libbie and changing clothes before her arrival. But Libbie had been wearing poorly dyed mourning attire that didn’t become her and had been so hopeful for her forthcoming marriage.

Grace couldn’t muster up any hope, much less the energy to leave her train seat.
I lack Libbie’s optimism.
Plus the washroom was so tiny, she couldn’t imagine changing out of her traveling dress—the one she always wore to work—in the small space.

Frey Foster will just have to take me as I am.

After riding past poky frontier towns, when the train slowed, Grace didn’t hold out much hope for Sweetwater Springs. But she was pleasantly surprised by the town, which seemed somewhat larger than most—with spaces between buildings that flanked a wide dirt street, rather than being crammed together like most she’d seen. She caught a glimpse of people waiting on the platform. Then the train jerked to a stop in front of a brown wooden depot.

Grace let out a long breath and pulled off the outer muslin duster covering her new coat—a stylish blue wool with black velvet trim. She couldn’t afford to purchase a duster for the journey, so she’d fashioned her own to protect the coat from the dust and ash of travel. After folding the dirty muslin, she stuffed the material into her satchel, sewn from sturdy burlap sacks.

She rose, shook out her skirt, even though the wrinkles remained, and donned her coat rather than carry it. After straightening her hat, she slid the long strap of the satchel over one shoulder and gathered the hatbox containing her two other hats.

Checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, Grace squared her shoulders and moved down the corridor toward the door. She stepped out, keeping an eye on her footing on the stairs, for her legs felt shaky from inactivity. The air smelled of smoke from the train, and images of the burning factory flickered in front of her eyes. She halted.

The heavy sound of boots on the wooden platform echoed the thumping of her heart. The distraction banished the fiery memory.

Black polished boots stopped in front of her.

Grace forced herself to look up and up and up, guessing Frey Foster must be something like six feet five or six, maybe even seven inches, with broad shoulders that made him look like a knight of old. She could imagine him in shining chainmail, sword in hand. But instead he wore a three-piece suit and bowler hat. Underneath, thick brown hair waved to his shoulders.

She supposed he could be considered a handsome man, with blue eyes, rugged features in a narrow face, and a close-cut beard and mustache.
An imposing man, to be sure….

But not the type I’m attracted to. He’s as unlike dapper Victor as can be.
Even as Grace’s heart sank, she forced herself to smile, although she thought her cheeks might crack with the effort. “If you’re Mr. Foster, I’m Grace Dickinson.” She held out a hand.

He tipped his hat to her. “I am, indeed.” He engulfed hers with a hand that must be as big as a bear’s paw but closed gently around her fingers. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Miss Dickinson.”

“I’m delighted to be here,” Grace lied, keeping the smile pinned to her face. But dread of marrying this man made her stomach clench.