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

by Debra Holland

  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.”

  They passed under a tall aspen. A golden leaf drifted down.

  Grace reached and caught it, studying the perfect edges and a beautiful shade of yellow. She grasped the burlap satchel resting near her feet that contained items for their picnic and pulled out her poetry book, tucking the leaf between the pages. “I’m pressing various leaves for a collection.”

  “My sisters did that.”

  She returned the book to the satchel. “I’ve always preferred summer and spring to autumn. This season has undeniable beauty, but a short burst of glorious color is inevitably followed by—” she reached up her arms, fingers spread “—the trees shedding all their leaves until they are only thrusting skeletal branches into a gray sky.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t a poet or maybe an actress?”

  “I sound pessimistic, not poetic.”

  He chuckled. “I’m the opposite. Early autumn is my favorite season, perhaps because of being raised in farmland. The earth is rich and ripe with the harvest, bursting with intense beauty, as if nature is putting on a grand show.”

  “Before the finale,” Grace added in a wry tone. She thought for a moment of how she’d come to believe the dark side of the season. “I suppose…my viewpoint is formed from working in a garment factory…. The days are all the same, and it doesn’t matter what’s happening outside the building because I won’t see it anyway. Although we can definitely feel uncomfortably hot or cold inside.”

  “Sounds unpleasant.”

  “Very. I’m not glad the place burned down and put so many people out of work—definitely a hardship for the other seamstresses—but that fire did set me free to come here.” She gave him a sideways glance, followed by a smile. “I hope the other women who became mail-order brides also are experiencing pleasant situations.”

  “Pleasant situations.” Eyebrows lifted, he drew out the two words. “I think that’s damning with faint praise.”

  She sucked in a breath. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that.”

  He winked. “Just teasing you.”

  She leaned over, lightly smacked Frey’s leg, and in the process, ended up sitting closer to him. They drove a long time, chatting amiably or falling silent in sheer appreciation of their surroundings.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you one of my favorite places at this time of the year. We’ll drive as far as we can, and then we’ll hike the rest of the way, which is why I told you to wear old clothes and sensible shoes and…to tie your corset loosely.” He flicked her an amused glance, apparently remembering how she blushed at his original order.

  This time Grace managed to keep her equilibrium. “My preferred way to dress—at least while at home.”

  “Fine by me.”

  Once again, Grace fell silent. This time she focused on her surroundings, allowing herself to enjoy the treat of an outing with Frey, as well as to absorb the natural beauty of Montana. She’d always lived in a city, although, as a child, her parents had occasionally taken her to visit relatives in other parts of Massachusetts. However, after her father’s stroke, she’d never set foot out of Lawrence.

  Finally, Frey drove off the track and towards the bottom of a hill, reining in the horses under a copse of trees. He set the brake and turned to her. “We’ll go on alone from here. I’m taking you the long way around.” He stabbed his finger in the direction of the hill. “The harder way because it’s all uphill.”

  Grace eyed the hill, which seemed to grow bigger as she looked at it. “You do remember I’ve been working in a factory that was less than a mile from where I lived. As a seamstress, I sat all day. So, I’m not used to climbing steep terrain.”

  “We aren’t in a hurry. We can stop and rest whenever you need.” A grin flashed. “Trust me that what you see will be worth the effort.”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” She gave him an exaggerated frown.

  Frey just laughed. “I’ll unhitch the team.” He lifted his chin, pointing straight ahead. “A tiny spring is over there. I’ll water the horses and stake them out. You fill those jam jars I had you bring along. There’s a stream where
we’re going, but you might need a drink along the way.”

  He tied off the reins, stepped down, and walked around to help her. Instead of offering a hand, he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her down, holding her for a moment with a heated gaze, and then released her.

  Her cheeks warm, she stepped away.

  He reached in for the satchel and handed it to her.

  Even through her corset, Grace could still feel the press of his hands on her waist—a reminder of Frey’s strength…and his gentleness. She carried the satchel to the tree-shaded spring that proved to be two feet wide and surrounded by long waving grass.

  Kneeling, she picked out several leaves floating on the surface, wondering if a water nymph dwelt within the depths or if she saw her own wavy features reflected back. She filled the jars screwed on the lids, and placed them in the satchel.

  Gertie joined Grace and lapped at the water.

  Frey walked close, leading the horses. “All ready?” He tilted his head toward the wagon. “We’ll start the climb back there.”

  Grace carried the laden satchel back to the wagon and set it on the ground. While she waited, she opened the book at random to read a poem.

  Frey joined her, reached under the wagon seat, and pulled out a rifle.

  Nervously, she eyed the gun and glanced at him with an arched eyebrow.

  “Just a precaution.” Frey gestured to the hill. “See the game trail? Let me have the satchel to carry, and you go on first. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The climb made Grace breathless, and she often had to stop to rest. But each time, her husband gave her a patient smile and waited until she was ready to continue. Finally, they reached the top, and she gazed out on the scenic vista below.

  A forest of aspens surrounded an oval meadow of thick yellowing grass. The straight, white-bark trunks looked like giant candlesticks flamed with bronze and gold leaves. Some leaves had begun to fall, scattered over the ground like gold pieces.

  Grace caught her breath at the magical sight, too awed to even speak. Without turning her head, she reached for Frey, clasping his hand to keep herself rooted to the earth, lest the buoyancy filling her soul float her into the brilliant blue sky.

  Beyond the meadow, the land undulated in waves until it met the rocky blue-gray mountains, shadowed in purple. Even the white tips had a golden cast.

  She tore her gaze away from the view to look at her husband.

  Instead of staring ahead, Frey watched her, as if her reaction was more important than the beauty of their surroundings.

  Her cheeks heated. “My parents took me to a performance of “Peer Gynt,” by the Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg. You probably know of him?”

  Smiling, Frey nodded.

  “There’s a section of the music called, “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” Grace gazed for a moment at the scene. She glanced at Frey and indicated the vista. The lifting eyebrows and widening eyes told her he understood her point.

  He raised his chin, pointing to the mountains across the valley from them. “The Mountain King certainly lives there. We must take care not to be captured by his trolls.”

  “Isn’t that why you brought the rifle? Even without the gun, I think you’re more than a match for a troll.”

  He threw back his head in a rumbling laugh and then pulled her to his side in a single-armed hug. He kissed the top of her head. “Thank you for your faith in me. I promise to keep you safe from the Mountain King’s trolls.”

  “I know you will.” She smiled up at him.

  “We will picnic right there in that meadow,” he promised. “Come on, my wife, I’m hungry.” They began the descent, which was much easier and faster than the climb. Soon they entered the aspen grove. Single file, they followed the game trail, leaves crunching under their feet and the ripe scent of the earth rising up to meet them. To reach the meadow, they crossed a slender brook winding through the trees.

  Gertie stopped to drink, and they waited for her to catch up.

  Once in the open, Frey took Grace’s hand and led her to the middle of the meadow. “As promised, Mrs. Foster.”

  “This is perfect!” Grace released his hand, took two steps away, spread her arms, and twirled until she was dizzy. She laughed up at him. “I’m breathing in nature, trying to fill myself with warm colors. Maybe if I can store enough of this beauty inside, the endless dreary winter, and the perpetually gray sky will be easier to bear.”

  Frey’s mouth curved to show his teeth, and his eyes danced with merriment, as if he knew a secret,

  “What?” she demanded.

  “This is Montana, Grace.” He pointed upward. “The sky is blue all year long.”

  She frowned in disbelief.

  “I’m not saying we don’t have long winters—long ones—and dreary days and gray skies, because we do. But our winters have their own beauty. You’ll see soon enough.” He made a twirling motion with a finger. “Do some more breathing in nature. I like to watch.”

  Grace chuckled. Instead of obeying, she crouched to open the satchel, pulling out an old wool blanket and flapping it open.

  With his free hand, Frey helped her straighten the blanket, and then he laid the rifle across one end. “This will make an anchor to keep everything from blowing away.”

  “Good thinking.” Grace set the book on the other end of the blanket.

  “Wait.” He reached for the book.

  With a puzzled look, she gave him the poems.

  Frey lowered himself to sit, his long legs stretched out. “Come here, my wife,” he ordered, patting the blanket by his side.

  Gertie trotted over and parked her behind on the spot.

  “Not you,” he said.

  Grace giggled and moved to Frey’s other side, taking a seat and snuggling close.

  He held up the book. “I’ve been perusing this.”

  She gasped, not believing her ears. “You have?”

  “Well, you’ve been leaving it out on the sofa or kitchen table, and I was curious. I haven’t read all the poems yet, but so far, this is my favorite.” Frey paged through the book until he found the place he wanted and began to read.

  “‘If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain…”

  Greatly daring, Grace laid her head on his shoulder.

  “‘If I can ease one life the aching,

  Or cool one pain,

  Or help one fainting robin

  Unto his nest again,

  I shall not live in vain.’”

  Amidst the glory of nature, she listened to Frey’s deep voice reading, and a wellspring of love opened inside her.

  Relief filled Grace. Now I know.

  Maybe, all her questions weren’t answered—about Frey’s character or how he felt about her. But she already knew a great deal about him and sensed more would come in time. I can no longer hold myself back from him.

  When Frey finished, he looked at her. “I guess that poem goes along with my need to protect.”

  “It suits you.” Grace slid an arm around his neck to pull him forward. She trailed a finger along his eyebrow, pushing aside a lock of hair that the breeze had blown into his eye. “This is a perfect gift, Frey. The beautiful setting, the poem…. Thank you.” She leaned toward him for a lingering kiss. At last, she pulled away and gazed into his eyes.

  Frey cupped her cheek. “There’s more to come, elskede, if you but trust me.”

  She nodded, too moved to speak.

  “And woman, if you would but feed me.”

  Breathless with delight, Grace pulled out the jam jars, napkins, and two waxed paper packets tied with string. One held sandwiches and the other sugar cookies. She set them on the blanket and stood. “I’m going to wash my hands in the stream. Don’t let Gertie get into the food.”

  “Gertie!” He tapped his chest with both hands. “What about me getting into the food?”

  “You two behave.”

  “Then you’d better hurry.”

  Sm
iling, Grace walked back to the creek, feeling lighter than she could ever recall. Reaching the trees along the edge of the stream, she halted. A crackle above made her look upward.

  A huge golden cat crouched on a branch. The creature bared yellowed canines and growled.

  Her heart hit her ribs. Panther!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Happy about Grace’s open response to him, Frey obeyed her command to protect the picnic. To keep the dog’s attention off the food, Frey played chase with her, one of their favorite games. The open meadow made the perfect space to play. They took turns trying to catch each other, running in circles and ending up near the tree line, about forty feet away from where his wife had gone.

  In the middle of a stalk toward him, Gertie stopped. Her ears flattened. The dog growled, turned abruptly, and barked, throaty and deep.

  A scream split the air.

  The sound almost stopped his heart. Grace!

  Gertie took off like a bullet.

  Frey cursed his distance from the rifle. No time to get it. He ran toward his wife, faster than he’d ever moved in his life, praying he hadn’t just made the wrong decision. He could see Grace from the side, standing frozen, looking up.

  Gertie circled around to the other side of Grace, baying at something in the tree.

  His wife took slow backwards steps, but not far enough.

  A panther on the tree branch was coiled, ready to spring. Distracted by the dog, the big cat swung its head from Grace to Gertie, as if deciding between the two, and then looked back toward Grace again.

  I’m not going to reach her!

  The cat sprang.

  Frey roared and dove through the air, fists driving into the panther’s ribs, knocking the cat aside.

  His momentum carried him headlong into two trees. He grabbed the trunks to stop his fall. Staggering upright, he heard Gertie’s barks and the snarls from the cat. Where is Grace?

  He whirled, his blood pounding, fists raised to fight, as if a thrown punch could halt a panther. But his bare hands were all he had to protect her.