Grace_Bride of Montana

by Debra Holland

  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 o
pportunities 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.

  What if she doesn’t like the house? The foursquare design was still new and unusual, and Grace might prefer something more traditional. Only one way to find out. “Open your eyes.” His stomach tightened.

  Her eyes flew open, then widened in amazement. “Is that it?” she whispered, as if afraid to ask, to believe.

  “Your new home, Grace Foster.”

  “Oh!” She dropped her skirts, and both hands flew to cover her mouth. Over the tops of her fingers, her eyes were bright with wonder.

  Such a perfect reaction for my creation! His chest swelled with happiness.

  Then, Grace’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Grace.” Worried, Frey scooped her up in his arms, bunching up what seemed to be yards of skirt.

  She gasped and slipped an arm around his neck.

  He carried her to the house, careful not to step on any of the chickens pecking in the yard, lunged up onto the porch, and crossed the threshold of their home. Once inside, he strode over to the new sofa and sat, keeping her secure in his lap.

  Gertie followed, sitting nearby and staring at them with an anxious expression.

  With her face angled down and the wisps of blonde curls around her temples, she looked so vulnerable.

  “Grace,” Frey said, expressing his concern in a gentle tone. “Ah, don’t cry, elskede,” he said, borrowing an endearment his father used with his mother. “If you don’t like the place, then we’ll sell it. I’ll build you another.” He cupped her cheeks and brushed away the tears with his thumb. “Please don’t cry.”

  She stared up at him, blue eyes drenched, and her nose reddening. She shook her head. “No.”

  Mystified, Frey stared at her. “Kjære—” the Norwegian word for dear slipped out. “—I’ll need a few more words, here because I surely don’t understand why you are crying.” He fished his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

  Grace sniffed. “These are happy tears. The house is so big, so beautiful! Far beyond what I ever dreamed, dared to dream, even.” She took the handkerchief from his hand and blew her nose.

  A great wave of relief rolled over Frey, and he babbled, “You mean it? You like the place? I know it’s different. You may not have seen the design before.”

  She balled up the handkerchief. “I’m sorry, I’m being so ridiculously emotional today.”

  “Silly,” Frey teased. “Elskede, uh, darling, are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes, Frey.” Dropping the handkerchief, Grace threw her arms around his neck.

  Ecstatic, he grabbed her tight and rose, twirling her until her dress fanned out, and she let out a scream of laughter.

  Slowly he stopped their spin and lowered Grace to her feet. He stared into her eyes and watched her lips part.

  Frey leaned forward until his mouth was a few inches from hers, forcing himself to wait for a sign that she’d welcome his kiss. The last thing he wanted was to rush her.

  Just as her chin began to lift and her lips drew closer to meet his, the sound of voices and hoof beats, the jingle of harness, told him the Flanigans had arrived with Grace’s possessions. Rotten timing!

  Grace pulled away, obviously flustered. She pressed her fingers under her eyes. “I don’t look like I’ve been crying, do I?”

  Frey couldn’t resist. “Your nose is a bit red.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on the tip. “There, all fixed.”

  “Oh, you.” Grace playfully swatted his arm. Stepping away, she fingered her curls as if checking to see they weren’t mussed.

  “You look fine.”

  She exhaled. “Goodness me, I haven’t even had a chance to look around.”

  “There isn’t much to see,” he downplayed.

  “I want to examine every inch!” She pivoted. Her gaze seemed to take in everything, but her expression showed no sign of disapproval about the room’s lack of furniture or molding. She looked through the arched opening into the entryway.

  He shadowed her every step, eager to see every one of her reactions.

  Her gaze lingered on the stained glass window over the door, and she went closer, staring at the transom, her hands clasped to her chest.

  Body tense with anxiety, he waited.

  Grace turned to glance at him. “Frey,” she said in a glad tone. “This is so beautiful.” She held out a hand to him, her eyes filling, her smile wide and tremulous.

  Frey crossed the floor to take her hand and squeezed. This time he knew her tears came from happiness. Oddly enough, this pleased image of her was the most gratifying sight he’d ever witnessed, beyond even viewing any of the houses he’d worked on, including his own.

  * * *

  While Trudy nursed George and Seth took care of the horses, Grace received a tour of her new home. In each room, she took her time inspecting the size and layout, and then Frey pointed out what still needed to be done, such as moldings and built-in cabinets. Sometimes, he showed her something of which he was obviously proud, such as the view of the mountains from her bedroom window.

  Grace marveled at every detail, unable to believe this foursquare was her home. She was most impressed with the bathroom on the second floor, which had an indoor toilet, bathtub, and sink. She also loved the cast-iron radiators that made the rooms comfortably warm.

  In the third-floor attic with only rough boards laid out on the floor, Frey waved his arms, describing how the four dormers, as opposed to one, gave the room so much light and useable space—or would, that is, when he installed the hardwood floors.

  She couldn’t wait to help Frey finish the house. In her imagination, Grace washed the windows and polished the woodwork, taking pride in her housekeeping. She could see the rooms filled with furniture…and children.

  I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Startled by the thought—her happiness deflated. She wanted children, of course, but had imagined having them with Victor. While the memory didn’t hold the same sharp stab of pain as before, enough remained to shadow the excitement she felt about her new life. Keeping her back to Frey so she could hide her expression, Grace walked to a dormer window, holding up her wedding dress to keep the hem from catching on the rough floor, and pretended to admire the view.

  What she saw out the window did help, mostly because she noted the empty dirt yard and imagined a lawn and a garden—perhaps even a few fruit trees. After finishing her mental planting and feeling more composed, she rejoined her husband.

  On the way down from the third floor, Grace noticed another door on the second floor. “Oh, I didn’t see that,” she murmured, point
ing. Playfully, she tapped him on the shoulder. “These shoulders of yours are so wide, they blocked my view.” She smiled and started toward the door.

  Frey caught her hand. “That’s Bluebeard’s room,” he said, in a deep ominous tone.

  Grace needed a few seconds to figure out he meant Bluebeard from Grimms’s Fairy Tales. She reached up to touch his jaw, feeling the rasp of his beard under her fingertip. “This isn’t blue.”

  “You know what I mean.” Frey grasped her wrist, unfastening her fingers, and dropping a kiss on her palm.

  The feel of his lips feathered across her the cup of her hand and up her arm.

  “The door is locked,” he said in a normal voice, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “You aren’t to go inside.”

  “Will I see the remains of your previous wives?” she asked archly.

  “Actually, there’s something pleasant in there. I’m just not ready to show you yet.”

  “I never liked the story of Bluebeard, anyway, so I’ll stay away. But for how long?”

  Frey shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’ve hidden the key.” He tugged on her hand to lead her down the stairs.

  In the kitchen, a rectangular white table with six chairs, obviously new, or freshly painted, filled the center of the room. Before the ceremony, Trudy had set the table with her dishes. Now the bridal bouquet sat in a Mason jar of water as the table’s centerpiece.

  The kitchen needed the most work of the whole house, for the room lacked cupboards or counters, as well as not having an icebox and pie safe. Only a few wooden crates held supplies, dishes, and pots and pans.

  But the black four-burner stove stood pristine, as if Frey had cleaned and blackened the surface. Grace could hardly wait to cook her first meals.

  Frey bent and stirred the coals in the stove, then he added wood.

  Trudy joined her, having handed George over to his father and put the men in charge of the children. She carried a heavy black iron skillet with a lid. “I stored this in the cellar. I just need to warm it for a bit.” She set the skillet on the stove.