Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (6 page)

A smile lit up his face, and a deep rumbling laugh escaped. “Far be it from me to call a beautiful lady a liar, but somehow, I doubt you’re feeling
de-light
, Miss Grace Dickinson,” he drawled. “However if you can muster up a thimbleful of enthusiasm, I’ll settle for that.”

How can he tell?
Although amazed that the Westerner would
laughingly
point out the truth of her feelings instead of politely accepting the fiction, hearing his unexpected rejoinder caught her interest. Grace decided to play along. She glanced down at his hand, still holding hers and wiggled a finger free to tap one of his. “Are we talking about a thimble
your
size or mine?”

He laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m an optimist, Miss Dickinson.
My
size, of course.”

Their exchange put her at ease far quicker than she could have imagined, and this time Grace’s smile felt genuine. “I doubt thimbles that big are even made, Mr. Foster,” she said in a playful tone. “But, I’ll go along with that.”

He squeezed her hand.

The contact discomforted her, and she was grateful for her gloves.

“Come meet my friends.” With a boyish enthusiasm, he tugged her toward a nearby couple.

The pretty blonde wore an attractive blue dress and the same color hat with a curving brim. She carried a baby boy with feathery blonde curls, and the dark-haired man held a young girl who looked just like him. The man was handsome, with compelling gray eyes. He stood tall, but Frey Foster towered over him.

The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Frey Foster, you are acting like a barbarian. Don’t reel the poor woman around like she’s a fish hooked on the your line.”

Mr. Foster stopped and sent Grace an apparent look of mock guilt, which made him look like an errant schoolboy. “And here I was hoping you wouldn’t find out about the barbarian part for a
few
more minutes.” He retained possession of her hand.

Beyond giving him a polite shake of greeting, Grace had planned to avoid physical contact with the man, hoping after a few weeks his touch wouldn’t repulse her. Yet, to her surprise, Frey Foster had already upset her careful design.
We’ve been holding hands the whole time.

The other man laughed. “Given you’ve only met Miss Dickinson for about four minutes and didn’t reveal your barbarian self until
three
minutes passed, I think you’re doing pretty well. I was betting on
one
.”

The woman elbowed the man who was obviously her husband, for both children had the same dark gray eyes. “Don’t mind these jokesters, Miss Dickinson. They really do have a sense of decorum at times. I’m Trudy Flanigan, and this is my husband, Seth. He’s holding Anna who just turned three, and this one is George.” With a proud air, she raised the baby for Grace to inspect. “He’s six months.”

George’s fat-cheeked grin made his eyes go squinty, and his mouth showed three budding teeth.

Grace couldn’t help smiling back at him, wishing she could pinch the baby’s chubby cheeks.
This is the oddest welcome to my new life, but I like all of them.

Mrs. Flanigan smoothed back her son’s curls and said to Grace, “We’ll take you to the parsonage so you can prepare for the wedding. Then comes the ceremony, and afterwards, we’ll repair to Frey’s house for a meal.”

Mr. Foster held up a hand to stop the flow of plans and gazed at Grace. “Unless, Miss Dickinson, you are
repulsed
by me….” He emphasized her words from the letter. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to figure out a new plan.”

“Why, no, Mr. Foster. I’m not
repulsed
.” Although Grace said the word in a light tone, she spoke the truth.
He will do as well as any personable man.

And he made me smile
—something she hadn’t done since learning of Victor’s treachery.
That’s definitely in his favor.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Then you’ll marry me?”

“I will.” Grace’s solemn promise felt just as real as the one she would soon vow before God.

His smile held relief. He shot a triumphant look at Mr. Flanigan. “Guess I haven’t run her off right away after all. On the way here, if his wife hadn’t stopped us, Seth would have placed good money on a bet.” He winked at Grace. “Only to end up losing it.”

“Frey Foster! I declare.” Mrs. Flanigan glared at him. “Are you trying to frighten off your bride? Some people think betting is evil. What if Miss Dickinson believes that way?” With a shake of her head, she looked at Grace. “Really, he was only joking. We did
no
such thing.”

Grace suppressed a smile. Only now did she realize how lonely she’d been for a very long time. The bonds of obvious friendship between the three warmed her heart. She let out a theatrical sigh. “I suppose Mr. Foster’s sense of humor will take some getting used to,” she said with modestly lowered eyelashes and a demure, almost longsuffering, tone.

The three stared at her in dismayed silence.

A bubble of glee threatened to ruin the moment, but Grace held her pose until her face heated and flushed, and the quivering of her mouth betrayed her.

Frey gave a shout of laughter and slapped his leg. “You had us, there, Grace, uh, Miss Dickinson.”

She couldn’t resist a grin of triumph. “Frey—” she emphasized his given name. “We are to wed. Please call me Grace.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Flanigan gave a slow nod of approval, and Mrs. Flanigan beamed at both of them.

Grace became aware of feeling hot. Her coat really was too heavy for the sunny day. She held out her hatbox to Frey. “If you could hold this, please, while I remove my coat.”

He grasped the cord handle of her hatbox, and then reached for the strap of her satchel to transfer it from her shoulder to his. As he eased the coat off her shoulders, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck.

Shivers feathered down her back, and not wanting to feel anything from his touch, she raised her chin, which resulted in the low braided bun of hair dipping to cover her neck.

Mr. Flanigan tilted his head toward her portmanteau, placed near the edge of the platform by the train tracks. “I take it that’s your luggage?”

She nodded.

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Thank you.” Grace took her coat from Frey and folded the garment over one arm.

Mr. Flanigan returned with her portmanteau, and Frey reached out to take the luggage from him.

“Do you want me to take the satchel and hatbox?” she asked.

“No need,” Frey said in a cheerful tone. “I can manage all three. I make a great pack mule.”

Once again his response startled her—as opposite as could be from her former betrothed, whom she now could see always painted himself in the best possible light. Victor never would have described himself as a mule.

Mrs. Flanigan touched her arm, indicating they should start walking. “The parsonage is on the other side of the church, toward the back, near the graveyard.”

The two walked across the platform and descended the stairs to the dirt street, the men following. Mrs. Flanigan kept up a running commentary of the buildings they passed.

Grace half-listened and nodded, but her mind was on the man walking behind her and on her uncharacteristic teasing. Beyond an occasional quip, she couldn’t recall ever having exhibited a joking kind of humor with a male before—not even with her father, and certainly not with Victor.

As the only child of solemn intellectuals, loving, yet reserved people, Grace had expected to finish her education and become a schoolteacher before eventually marrying. But the early death of her mother and the subsequent stroke and lingering deterioration of her father—which meant she had to stay home from school and care for him—had wiped out the family finances, leaving her penniless at his death.

I suppose my life has always been so serious up to this point.
With an unexpected sense of excitement, Grace wondered what else she’d discover about herself.

CHAPTER FIVE

A nudge and a tilt of Trudy’s head to the opposite side of the street brought Grace’s wandering attention back to the present.

“Hardy’s Saloon.” Trudy tossed a teasing smile over her shoulder at her husband. “Before we married, Seth spent a lot of time in there.”

Seth groaned. “I haven’t set foot in the place for four and a half years.”

Grace eyed the weather-beaten, false-fronted building before stopping to look at Frey, wondering if she needed to worry about him having a problem with drunkenness. “What about you?”

“Yep,” he said cheerfully. “But like Seth, here, my days in Hardy’s have just passed, although they were quite memorable at the time. One of these days, I’ll regale you with tales, at least the tales that are fit for a lady’s ears.”

Grace chuckled and exchanged a knowing glance with Mrs. Flanigan, who lifted her chin, indicating to continue walking.

They reached the white wooden church. Sunlight illuminated the bell tower with a cross on top.

Two horses hitched to a wagon were tied up at a post. Mrs. Flanigan tipped her head in that direction. “That’s ours. After the wedding, we’ll bring your things to Frey’s house. He lives in town. His place is not far from here. Not like our out-of-the-way farm.”

The group walked toward the small parsonage situated behind the church.

An older couple sat close together in rocking chairs on the small porch. She darned a sock, while he read a book. They looked engrossed in their tasks, an air of quiet serenity between them.

Seeing the group, the man dressed in a worn black suit, closed the book, set it on a narrow table, and stood. His full head of hair and his beard were almost entirely white, his features austere, and his eyes—clear blue and penetrating—surveyed Grace.

If not for the kind smile, she’d feel judged and found wanting.

“Miss Dickinson, I’m Reverend Norton, and this is my wife Mary.”

Mrs. Norton had a sweet, wrinkled face, and her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She threaded her sewing needle into the sock, tucked it into a basket near her feet, rose, and stepped off the porch, holding out a hand to Grace. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Miss Dickinson. You’ve found Reverend Norton and me in a rare moment of companionable quiet.” She smiled lovingly at her husband, who’d joined her. “At least until the wintertime.”

Reverend Norton nodded. “The sermon is written, and no one has dropped by in need of counsel or aid. So we have spent some time in thought and prayer on the institution of marriage, especially yours.”

Grace was touched by his words and the obvious concern for her and Frey’s well-being. In an unconscious gesture, her hand crept to her chest to touch her necklace. When she didn’t feel the bump of the gold heart under her fingertips—she had buried it at the bottom of her portmanteau—pain stabbed her. She hastily lowered her arm.
I must break that habit.

Mrs. Norton clasped her hands in front of her. “Miss Dickinson, I’ve been curious ever since I heard you are from Massachusetts. Are you by any chance related to the poetess Emily Dickinson? One of our parishioners—” she glanced at Mrs. Flanigan “—Mrs. Walker, another former mail-order bride, lent me her book of poetry.”

“A distant cousin. But I never met Emily. She was very reclusive but corresponded with my parents. But I have that book, too. The volume wasn’t published until after her death. We have some of her letters.” Victor had scolded Grace for being so extravagant as to spend money on a book of poetry by an unknown author, even if she was a relation. With a stab of bitterness, she wondered why he’d perpetuated the charade to such a degree.
If he never planned to marry me, what difference did it make what I did with my own money?
She brought her attention back to Mrs. Norton.

“How marvelous to be connected to her, Miss Dickinson. I’ll confess, I didn’t understand some of the poems, but others were lovely.” She placed a hand over her heart. “So touching.”

“Perhaps at another time we can compare which ones we like best,” Grace offered.

“That would be lovely. Now, we must get you ready for your wedding.” Mrs. Norton made a shooing motion at Frey. “You put that in the bedroom, the second door down the hall. You men run along to the church, while Mrs. Flanigan and I see to Miss Dickinson.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Frey hurried into the house.

Grace held in her amusement at the sight of the small woman bossing around the big man.

As soon as Frey returned, Mrs. Flanigan handed the baby to him.

Grace watched wide-eyed as he lifted George high in the air, and the baby bellowed with laughter. Her husband-to-be obviously appeared comfortable with the boy, which boded well for when they had children.

Emotion caught in Grace’s throat. She’d never seen Victor interact with children, or even appear interested in them. Nor could she imagine the man playing with a babe like Frey just had. Yet, he had a son of his own.
Is Victor an attentive husband and father?
She doubted it.

Frey lowered the child. The chubby boy who looked so big in his mother’s arms seemed tiny when held against Mr. Foster’s broad chest.

She wanted to look away, but the sight of the big man carrying George mesmerized her and made her heart squeeze.