Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) (9 page)

Before Grace had time to wonder why the minister paused—if someone was, indeed, objecting to their union—the rapid click of toenails on the wooden floor made both of them look back over their shoulders.

Frey groaned and made a face. “Gertie!” He released Grace’s hand.

Who?

A brown and black dog trotted up the aisle to them, tail held high. She had soft brown eyes and a thin, dark line down the middle of her forehead that gave her a worried look. She stopped in front of Frey and looked at him, her head cocked as if in expectation. The tips of her ears flopped forward.

Seth burst into laughter. “Do you think Gertie’s objecting to your marriage?”

Obviously aghast at his breach of decorum, Trudy gave Seth an owlish glare.

Frey shrugged in apparent chagrin. “I’m sorry. I left her tied up on my porch.”

She looked from the man to his dog.

Gertie eyed her, as if assessing Grace for the candidacy of mate to her master.

She’d never had a dog, but as a child she’d longed for a puppy and had begged her parents for one, to no avail.

“Could be worse,” Seth said in an aside to Trudy. “Gertie could have brought the chickens.”

Trudy let out a long-suffering sigh, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth.

The image of the dog herding chickens into church proved too much for Grace. She chuckled and sank into what she hoped was a graceful crouch, a difficult feat when laced into a tight corset. Her skirt pooled around her. She held out a hand to the dog. “Hello, Gertie.”

The dog sniffed her fingers. Seeming to approve, she edged closer.

Grace rubbed Gertie’s head. “If Reverend Norton doesn’t mind,” she said to the dog, “I’m fine with you remaining for the rest of the ceremony.” She glanced up at the minister, relieved to see a benign smile softening his countenance.

“‘And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind,’” Reverend Norton quoted from Genesis. “And God saw that it was
good
. I believe Miss Gertie is giving her blessing to this union rather than objecting. She may remain as an attendant of the ceremony.”

Grace stared at the minister, struck by his tolerance and goodness. He was nothing like the men of the cloth she’d previously known. With one last pat for Gertie, she raised a hand to Frey in a signal for his aid.

He took her hand and lifted her to her feet, making the process effortless.

With his strength, it probably is.
The thought sent an unexpected thrill down her spine.

Standing in the church in the presence of six people and one dog, all of whom she’d known less than two hours, Grace experienced a humble sense of gratitude toward the Divine. She’d selected this man, practically at random and mostly for where he lived, but now she wondered if a greater purpose had been involved in her choice of husband. She breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.

With her free hand, she smoothed down the front of her dress, thinking of the brides who’d worn the gown. Perhaps they, too, had a hand in bringing her here. She had a vision of the women standing in a half circle around the throne of God, giving him their opinions.

Grace suppressed a gurgle of laughter. Suddenly she was anxious to begin the journey of her new life and see what would unfold next.

* * *

Frey had thought he knew what love was—after all, he’d once been betrothed to a girl he’d grown up with. Then she’d gotten tired of waiting for him to return to Minnesota and broke off their engagement, hurting him in the process. In retrospect, the feelings he had for his former betrothed Ingrid were as flat as the land they’d lived in.

After marrying Grace, he wondered if falling in love was something like tumbling down the cellar stairs, one step at a time, and not knowing what lay in store at the bottom. He’d taken the first downward tread when his mail-order bride stepped off the train, her chin-up, shoulders-back stance at odds with the vulnerability in her striking blue eyes. The next came when she’d quipped about the thimble and size of his hand, and then another when she’d joshed with him and the Flanigans—all within ten minutes of meeting them.

The first sight of her at the church entry had poleaxed him right in his midsection, doubling him up. The forward momentum of her serene response to Gertie tossed him head over heels into love, cemented by the sweet brush of his lips against hers when Reverend Norton had given him permission to kiss the bride. His stomach churning with something between butterflies and nausea, Frey wondered how long this staircase might be or if he’d ever reach the end.

When he and Grace emerged from the church as Mr. and Mrs. Foster, the day had changed from when he’d entered the building…what, twenty, thirty minutes ago. The air he inhaled into his lungs was fresher. The sunshine gleamed brighter, gilding his surroundings—even the dirt of the street and the shabby false-fronted wooden buildings.

Overhead, the stark blue sky provided a perfect backdrop for his bride in her blue dress. He looked down at Grace, who was gathering the yards and yards of skirts.

What does she think of this town?
“This probably seems humble compared to Lawrence,” Frey commented, gesturing to the buildings.

“Thank goodness.” After a glance around the area, she smiled up at him. “Lawrence is too full of people and buildings. There’s no space to breathe.”

“Yes, the streets of Sweetwater Springs are laid out with plenty of space, and the individual lots are big.” He gestured in the direction with his chin. “We go thataway.”

Grace couldn’t hold onto Frey’s arm, for both hands were full with keeping the hem of her skirt off the dusty street—at the same time, she obviously tried not to expose too much ankle.

With a quick downward glance, Frey took in the situation, settling one large hand in the center of her back, the gesture protective and also demonstrative, saying to the world—or at least anyone who happened to be out on the streets or looking through a window—that this woman now belonged to him. With a gentle touch, he signaled for her to start walking.

They strolled down the street, alone for the first time, after having parted with the Flanigans, who’d taken Grace’s bouquet and returned to the parsonage for her belongings. Alone, that is except for Gertie.

The dog trotted on Frey’s other side, black tail high. She sniffed at a pile of horse manure, then raced to join them.

Realizing he had no Seth or Trudy to carry the conversation, Frey cleared his throat. “I…um…” His collar felt too tight. “Was the wedding ceremony what you wanted?” Really, perhaps what he wished to know was,
Am I what you want?

Grace started to speak, paused, and smiled. She shook her head. “Different…and perhaps better.”

“You made, er
make
,” Frey hastily amended. “You make a mighty fine bride, Grace.” He mentally kicked himself for the inane compliment.
Fine doesn’t begin to describe her.
“A
beautiful
bride. I count myself a lucky man.”

She glanced up at him and smiled, her cheeks pink.

He was glad to see the sadness had vanished from her eyes.

“Well, not to sound puffed up in my own conceit…. I think
we
make a mighty
fine
couple,” she teasingly echoed.

He lifted his head and stood straight, chest pushed out, making himself appear larger. “You don’t think that I’m a mite on the tall side?”

She eyed him, her eyes sparkling. “A
mite
?”

“My mother’s family is descended from Vikings, and she chose a husband to match her six-foot height. We grow them big in my family—strappin’ Minnesota men and women,” he said with pride.

Grace choked out a chuckle.

Frey found he liked making her laugh. “I’m the youngest of three boys, and I have two sisters. Bergdis is older and Trya is younger. He tipped his hat to a woman walking by, who gave them a curious look.

“Are your sisters as tall as your mother?

“Both of them match my ma in height, and Bergdis’s daughter looks to be growing up just as tall. Trya married a little Italian guy, a runty fella, so I don’t know what their daughters will be like. Antonio looks up to her—both literally and figuratively—and has done so from the time they were knee high—
his
knee high, not hers.” Grace’s interest in his family warmed his heart.

“Such unusual names?”

“We all have good Norse names. My brothers are Sigurd and Ole John. Foster wasn’t the original family name. It was changed from Fosshaug when my grandparents arrived in America.”

“Someday, I’d like to meet them.” Her tone sounded wistful.

Frey wondered about her family, but figured he should wait until she volunteered the information. “Then you shall. I’ll take you for a visit in the late spring, when the land is at its best.”

“What brought the Minnesota man out to Montana?”

Frey swept his free hand wide, at the same time turning her to face the Livingston mansion. “Helping build
that
. Commissioned by a man who intends to open a bank in town. He’ll move in when the interior is finished.” He watched Grace’s face to see her reaction.

The brick mansion stood three stories tall and had plenty of windows, including several stained-glass ones. The large dirt lot was surrounded by a brick wall, which was tall in the back, and only a few feet high in front—the base for decorative iron fencing sprouting along the top, the work of Bethesda Janes of Morgan’s Crossing.

“Do you like that ironwork?”

“Very much.” She nodded.

“When money permits, I wanted a fence like that around our place.”

“I love the brick as well. Your work?”

“I didn’t do all of it; there was another mason as well. But I managed more than half. And I recently laid the walkways.”

“Oh, my,” Grace said on an admiring breath. “Such a magnificent home.” She glanced up at him. “You are quite the craftsman.” Sincerity rang in her words.

The back of his neck heated, and Frey had to resist the urge to shuffle his feet. “I hope this doesn’t mislead you. My own house…
our
own house is nothing so big and fancy.”

A smile blazed across her face. “I don’t care,” she said in a fierce tone. “For the last three years, I’ve shared a one-room row house with an elderly woman, which was
her
home, not mine. You’ve promised me
two
bedrooms, which will seem like a wealth of space.”

“That’s a relief.”
Wait until she learns we have three bedrooms.
With a press of his hand on her back, Frey started them walking forward. “Sweetwater Springs is laid out in a grid, with the first settlers establishing homes and businesses along here.” He waved up and down the hard-packed dirt street. “Goes by a very original name, surely unique among all the towns and cities in America,” he said, his tone heavy with irony.

“Let me guess. Main Street?”

“Right you are.” Frey cocked his wrist to flick two fingers indicating the south. “Now there is a second row. Bet you can guess the name of that street.”

Grace arched an eyebrow. “Second?”

“As I said, nothing if not original. And then there’s Third Street, where you’ll find the home of Mr. and Mrs. Frey Foster.”

Grace gave a little skip, as if in girlish delight.

“To answer your question about why I stayed in Sweetwater Springs…. While building the Livingston place, I got to know the people around here and liked them very much, with a couple of exceptions, as happens in every other town.” He lifted his chin toward the distant blue-gray mountains, already showing snow on their caps. “I’m a flatlander, and I fell in love with the beauty of this area—not at all like where I’m from. I figured this place was growing, and opportunities would be plentiful for a man who’d be willing to take some risks to start his own home-building business.”

“And have you begun that business?”

“The very first house I built was the Flanigans’,” he said with pride, the novelty of his first creation not having worn off. “Although, to my dismay, they didn’t want brick. That’s how we became such good friends. They couldn’t help but take to me, seeing as I was underfoot all the time.”

She laughed and looked up to meet his gaze. “I’ll bet you took up a lot of space, and Trudy was continually shooing you out of the way.”

“You bet right.” He stopped. “We’re almost there. Close your eyes.”

Grace obeyed.

“Do you trust me to lead you?”

Her quick nod sent her curls bouncing.

“Then keep hold of your dress, and I’ll take your arms to guide you. Won’t be far, and the street is flat.”

Frey stepped in front of her, circling his hands around her thin wrists.

With her face turned up to his, her eyes closed, Grace appeared ready for a kiss.

Frey had to rein in the impulse. To put himself out of temptation’s reach, he slowly stepped back, leading Grace about ten paces before maneuvering her around a leafy lilac bush planted by his across-the-street neighbor, who owned a respectable two-story home. He positioned her opposite their house. He stopped, released her, and moved aside.