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

by Debra Holland

  Frey barked a laugh and took a seat next to her. He pulled the blue ledger close and rested a hand on top. “This is for my personal expenses, which includes this house. You are welcome to peruse the pages at your leisure.” He flipped open to a page marked by a ragged embroidered bookmark with FREY in crooked black letters running down the middle.

  Grace reached over and touched one letter in a silent question.

  “A Christmas gift from my little sister. I think she was eight or nine.”

  “I remember as a child making them for my parents the Christmas before Mama died. She was delighted.” Grace let out a sigh. “Mama never had a chance to wear hers out, but Papa used his bookmark until it fell completely apart.”

  Frey reached for her hand. “What happened to your mother’s?”

  The gesture touched her, making Grace feel safe to share with him. “After Papa had a stroke, he could no longer turn the pages. A considerable hardship for a man who spent most of his free time with his nose in a book, even more so after Mama’s death. I would read aloud and used her bookmark to mark our place. The ritual brought us comfort, as if she were with us.”

  Frey squeezed her hand. “Maybe she was.”

  Appreciating his sentiments, Grace gave him a quick upward glance and a smile. “I’ve never talked about my mother before.”

  “Why is that?”

  She lowered her gaze. “I didn’t think anyone wanted to hear about her.”

  “I do.” His voice was low and husky.

  Grace looked up.

  “In fact, I want to know all about you. You are my wife and already precious to me.” He cupped her cheek and dropped a brief kiss on her mouth. Soft and gentle, as tender as his words.

  In that moment, Grace felt precious…cherished…and held the feeling tight to herself, marking the memory. So far, her experience of marriage was different than she’d expected, even from what she’d imagined with Victor…and in many ways, much better.

  Yet, she couldn’t contain a shiver of apprehension. She’d heard too many stories of how the solicitous behavior a man displayed during courtship often didn’t last. And even though they’d already wed, Grace sensed her husband was wooing her.

  She wanted to trust her sense of Frey, but her experience with Victor had shaken her belief in her own instincts. “I want to know about you, too,” she finally replied. “That takes time, though.”

  “We’re in no rush.” He released her and leaned back.

  Grace suppressed a sigh, already missing his touch. But then she’d often felt the same way with Victor, so she couldn’t be sure if her feelings were for the man or her own longing for physical closeness. The thought made her feel ashamed, as if she were weak and needy.

  Frey reached for one of the loose papers and also drew the inkwell closer. “The first order of business is to plan my work schedule for the next few weeks. The thing is…I need to build a stable for the horses before winter starts. In Montana that could happen any day now. But…would you rather I finished your kitchen before building the stables?”

  Why would he even ask me that? Grace drew herself up. “I’m not a spoiled and selfish woman to demand such a thing. If the horses need shelter, then building the stable needs to be your priority.”

  Frey shifted to face her. He possessed himself of her hands, gently prying her fingers loose and holding them in his. “Grace…” He drew out her name. “That’s not at all what I meant. We’re a team now, yoked in marital harness, and as much as possible, we should make decisions together.”

  Dumfounded, Grace stared at Frey. Such a thought had never occurred to her. She’d assumed that for the most part her husband would make decisions, and she would have to go along with them. That was what most marriages were like—certainly her parents’ had been. Victor had the same expectation, and the only times she’d stood up to him was on the topic of intimacy before marriage.

  “Oh, well, then. Seems to me the kitchen is something you can work on during the winter, but the horses will need shelter before the cold weather comes.”

  He lifted her hands a few inches. “A sensible decision from my sensible wife. But today, I think building a solid chicken coop is in order, as opposed to the one Seth and I cobbled together from extra crates. I need to buy lengths of wood and fencing. I’d prefer those birds don’t nest on the porch.”

  “Trudy gave me a lot of advice about those chickens, but not how to keep them off the porch if they are loose.”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  Frey released her hands and pushed the blue ledger toward her, tapping the latest entries. “This is from the brickwork I did for Banker Livingston on his walkways.” He laid a broad hand on the top of the brown ledger. “I’ve split the records of my income. This one is for the home-building business. The transactions for the Flanigan house are in here.” His eyebrows drew together. “Does the difference make sense to you?”

  Grace nodded. “And from here on? Will you continue doing both kinds of work?”

  Frey straightened and gave her a pleased smile. “Yes, the small jobs will tide us over between income from building houses. I’m not saying there won’t be times when I’ll have to rob Peter to pay Paul if I run short in one account.”

  She remembered when circumstances had forced her to dip into her small savings. “I imagine so.”

  “As things stand now, I have about three hundred dollars in the personal account to spend on our house, which includes furniture.”

  Three hundred dollars! A fortune! But, still, this is a big house, and much needs to be done.

  “So if you could set your mind to what you feel is important and make a list—” he tapped a sheet of paper “—we can compare our lists in say…three days.”

  Grace had already done a lot of thinking about the subject. “I don’t think I need three. How about the day after tomorrow?”

  “Deal.”

  She lifted her chin to indicate the map. “And that?”

  With a boyish grin of obvious excitement, Frey reached for the large paper, pushing aside the ledgers. “See if you can tell me what this is.” He spread out the map in front of her.

  Grace studied the paper for a few minutes, seeing a grid of buildings represented by boxes with a triangle on top for a roof. She suspected the size of the box indicated the size of the house. Railroad tracks ran along the left side, and the word forest was printed on the bottom.

  Once she spotted the church, Grace knew. “Sweetwater Springs.” With her finger she traced the streets. “Why, here’s our house.”

  “Of course,” Frey said in a matter-of fact-tone. “I drew the map.” He positioned the paper between them. “Now, my dear, let me show you what this is for.” With a fingertip, he brushed the paper on both sides of their house. “I own these lots. I figured I want control of the houses next to mine. I don’t want to risk someone throwing up a shack that would take away from the value of our home.”

  “Oh, good thinking. Are you building more foursquares?”

  “Yes. The designs will be similar to ours, but I’ll make sure there are differences. And these were four lots originally. I split them into three, giving each more space, thus adding more value. Land here is cheap.” He ran his finger along their street toward the left of the map. This is the Adlers’ stone house. Then we have Main Street. Banker Livingston’s mansion is the largest and most ornate in town. I imagine it will keep that position, for to my knowledge, no one else has the money to surpass what he built.”

  “I imagine not,” she murmured.

  Frey indicated another spot. “Doctor Cameron’s place is nice. He sees his patients there, too. And here’s the…” He tapped the drawing of the house a few times before shaking his head. “I can’t remember the owner. Only met the father-in-law, Abe something or other. But it’s a gray and white Victorian.”

  Grace followed his finger. “I’ll have to explore the town and see all this for myself.”

  He laid his
hand flat on the map, fingers splayed. “This will be my next decision point. I could buy up more land on our street, giving me control of the neighborhood’s appearance. I envision solid family-type homes. The ones tradesmen will buy.”

  “Uh huh,” Grace said, enjoying the discussion and encouraging Frey to go on.

  “Or, I could put up one near Livingston’s on a large lot, which would be sinking money into a bigger investment in one big house.”

  “Do you have any other choices?”

  “Here.” Frey pointed at a street with small boxes. “A poorer section, compact lots. Right now, the area consists of one-, two-, or three-room cabins of clapboard or log. Some shanties behind Hardy’s Saloon.”

  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. S
he’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.”