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

by Debra Holland

  GRACE

  Bride of Montana

  by

  Debra Holland

  Grace: Bride of Montana

  1890

  Four years after Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha

  Two and a half years before Wild Montana Sky

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 1890

  Sweetwater Springs, Montana

  After Frey Foster nailed a piece of trim around the porch column, he carelessly pulled back the hammer, catching the claw in the front of his shirt. He heard the rip of severing threads and the click of a button hitting the wooden floor of the Flanigan’s porch. Biting off a curse, he watched the tiny brown disk roll off the porch and bounce down the stairs to land in the dirt churned up by the construction.

  He glanced down at his shirt, now minus three buttons, the other two residing in a small bowl on the chest of drawers next to his bed. The shirt gapped, exposing his long johns, the summer weather having taken a cold turn in the last couple of days.

  He huffed in exasperation.

  His dog Gertie, a Rottweiler mix, lifted her head and gazed at him with a curious expression.

  Frey started down the steps. He was about to scoop up his errant button when the back door opened.

  Trudy Flanigan stepped outside, holding a glass of cold tea. She wore an apron over a navy print work dress that brightened her blue eyes. “Here you go, Mr. Foster. I’ve added a touch of sugar and a sprig of mint, just the way you like it.”

  Frey grabbed the tiny disk and straightened. Standing two steps below the woman put him just about at her eye level. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Flanigan eyed his gaping shirt, then her gaze traveled to the button in his hand, back up to the others that were missing, from there to the patch on his right shoulder, affixed with awkward stitches, and finally to the unmended tear along the side. She extended a hand for the button. “Why don’t you give me that? I’ll find a safety pin for you.”

  Sheepishly, Frey handed it over.

  “Wear a different shirt tomorrow and bring back this one. I’ll mend it and attach the buttons.” She raised one blond brow. “You do have the others?”

  Relief washed over him. Between finishing the mansion for Banker Livingston, overlapping with building the new home for the Flanigans, plus trying to work on his own house at odd hours, he didn’t have time to think of his clothes. Frey figured if he could remember to bring the wash to Widow Murphy from time to time, he was managing just fine. But he could hardly walk around with his shirt open. Wasn’t seemly. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring them.”

  She fisted her hands on her hips. “You need a wife, Mr. Foster.”

  Frey couldn’t deny the truth of her words, not that he had time to find one. “That I do. But I have a house to build first.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve seen your house. There are walls and a roof. Therefore, your home is far enough along that you can start courting.”

  From inside the house, the cry of a baby made her whirl and disappear through the door.

  If only I had someone to court, Frey thought as he gazed at her retreating back. None of the few available women in Sweetwater Springs had caught his eye, and the batch of girls approaching marriageable age were still too young for him. Course, I haven’t done much lookin’. One might be tucked away on a farm or ranch somewhere.

  Frey took a long draught of his tea, the cool liquid quenching his thirst. He’d worked hard all day, struggling with installing the trim on the porch. He was a mason, not a carpenter. But with the house all but finished, he’d given his team of two brothers a holiday so they could travel home to visit their ailing mother. At least the custom cutting was done, and all he had to do was fit everything together.

  Frey took another drink, enjoying the taste of the tea and the scent of mint. With a shake of his head, he started back up the stairs, envying Seth Flanigan. His accomplished wife was pretty, friendly, and one heck of a cook. A good mother, too. Most important of all, she seemed like the sticking kind, not one to run off and leave aching hearts behind.

  He suspected Seth realized his good fortune, for the man obviously adored his wife—the first mail-order bride to come to Sweetwater Springs. He shrugged off the thought and returned to work. The sooner I finish, the sooner I’ll have the time and the money to work on my own place.

  Engrossed in finishing the third column, Trey didn’t notice the passage of time, until he heard the dinner bell ring. His stomach rumbled in response. The best part of this job was partaking of Mrs. Flanigan’s cooking every day he was here.

  Frey set down the hammer and walked around the front of the house to the horse trough. He could wash up in the kitchen because the house had indoor plumbing, but he didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Flanigan.

  As always, Gertie trotted after him.

  He picked up the chipped enamel dog bowl and filled it for her.

  Gertie drank eagerly.

  Frey worked the pump, washed his hands, and splashed water on his face, using a cloth kept there for drying off.

  Untying the strip of leather holding back his shoulder-length hair, he smoothed the strands into a tail and looped the leather, knotting the ends. As presentable as he could make himself, given his missing buttons, Frey stood and took in the view of the first house he’d been commissioned to build—not like Banker Livingston’s where he was only one of the bricklayers.

  Set on a knoll, the clapboard house was situated as the point of a triangle, with the barn and the old cabin as the bottom corners. An open area and a vegetable garden lay between the three buildings. The brick home was constructed in the latest foursquare design. Two and a half stories tall, the house had a four-columned porch that spanned the front. A dormer was centered on each of the four sides of the roof—a change the Flanigans had requested from the usual single one in the front and a feature he’d added to his own home.

  From the porch to the left, they could view the fields beyond the barn, to their right lay the garden, old cabin, and forest. The couple had also wanted a back porch that matched the front one, for Mrs. Flanigan loved the view of the mountains.

  The front door stood in the center of the columns, and the white-trimmed windows of both stories were symmetrical. To Frey, the whole house had a simple, pleasing balance, and he was so grateful to the couple for following his suggested architectural style, even though old Chappie Henderson—the nearest neighbor and the only one besides the Flanigans and their hired man who’d seen the place—had teased Seth about the newfangled design, saying four solid walls was good enough for him.

  You are the key, Frey said to the house. When people see you, they’ll want homes like you, and I’ll have the lots ready and waiting. Better still, I’ll have the houses already built, and the owners can buy them and move on in.

  Of course, with the foursquare in this out-of-the-way spot, not many people would see the place unless they called upon the Flanigans or came specifically to view his creation. He pivoted, wishing the forest between the farm and the town had receded. But the woods looked as thick as ever with the breeze blowing through the green pine trees that blended with the maples, aspen, and beech.

  Grandiose dreams, perhaps. But Frey was far closer to achieving them than he’d been a year ago when he was only a laborer—a skilled one—working on the Livingston mansion and saving every penny to buy his own land. A chance encounter with Seth Flanigan and a conversation about architecture led to the offer for him to build the foursquare.

  He shot a glance at the barn and at the fields beyond, ready for the harvest, but he didn’t catch sight of Seth. So
he walked to the front, skipping the stairs and lunging to the porch. “Stay,” he commanded Gertie, pointing at a corner.

  With that signal, the dog curled into a ball and lay down.

  After making sure to wipe his boots on the straw mat, he let himself in. Once again, he stopped, this time surveying the interior, which still smelled of new wood and varnish.

  To his right lay the living room and to the left he would come into the large entryway and staircase. Arches joined the rooms, and the plaster walls were still without wallpaper. As he walked across the floors, no squeaks sounded on the oak planks, and he took satisfaction in the quality of their construction.

  Frey moved past a row of photographs hanging on the wall and stopped before a framed newspaper ad. He’d glanced at the words before, but after the button incident today, they took on new meaning.

  MAIL-ORDER BRIDES OF THE WEST AGENCY

  SEEKS BACHELORS OF GOOD REPUTATION

  FOR QUALITY BRIDES PROFICIENT IN

  COOKING AND HOUSEKEEPING

  Must own a house and be able to provide for a wife.

  References required, preferably from your minister

  or other reputable person who is familiar with your character.

  In your response, state details about your appearance,

  location, level of education, vocation, and home,

  as well as what you require in a wife.

  $50.00 includes agency fee and train ticket.

  Send information to Mrs. Seymour,

  10 Manor Lane, St. Louis

  Over the past four years, the paper of the ad had yellowed. Frey had heard stories of the mail-order brides, both through town gossip and because the Flanigans had regaled him with tales of their early days. He’d also met two of the other couples brought together by the Mail-Order Brides of the West Agency, and as far as he could tell, and as well as what he’d heard, they, too, were happily married.

  An idea took hold, and Frey wondered if he should consider a mail-order bride. The thought of a wife like Trudy Flanigan held great appeal, but the qualities he wanted in a bride weren’t so easy to determine.

  While he could ask for and immediately see if a woman was tall or short, fat or thin, blonde or redheaded, how could he measure her dependability and commitment to marriage—especially a marriage with a stranger? Loyalty wasn’t a visible trait, and certainly took years—sometimes ones full of hardship—to discern. Too bad I didn’t know that about Ingrid right off.

  At least I’ve gotten over her breaking our engagement.

  Frey exhaled a sharp sigh and turned, only to see Seth Flanigan standing between him and the kitchen, his arms crossed, a knowing look in his gray eyes. By ordinary standards, he was a tall, well-formed man, but Frey not only topped Seth’s height, but also the breath of his shoulders. Seth was about five years older, and a hint of gray smudged his sideburns and the corners of his forehead.

  The homeowner had pitched right in with the construction, and the two men had become friends. “Time for a bride, eh?”

  “So your wife says.”

  Seth threw back his head and laughed. “Trudy fancies herself a matchmaker.”

  The sound of quick footsteps came from the kitchen heading to them. “I heard that, Seth Flanigan.” She moved around her husband, nudging him with her shoulder, and handed Frey a safety pin. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting on this. The children kept me so busy that I forgot to bring the pin out to you. Nothing like a dirty diaper to jog my memory.”

  The men chuckled.

  Seth reached over to the wall and tapped the glass covering the ad. “Caught the Viking looking at this. He’s wife hunting.” He winked at Frey before glancing down at Trudy. “Better than trying to capture one.”

  Frey sent Seth a mock scowl. “I left my battle axe at home.”

  Frey pinned his shirt closed. Sporting a big ole safety pin is only marginally better than no buttons, but at least I’m decently covered. He took a breath. “Think there might be a woman at that bridal agency for me?”

  Mrs. Flanigan pursed her lips. “Mrs. Seymour isn’t running the agency anymore, or at least she hasn’t been for the last few years.”

  Frey must have allowed himself to hope, for now he felt disappointed.

  Mrs. Flanigan tilted her head, obviously thinking. “How about this? I’ll write Mrs. Seymour and ask her advice. Perhaps she still is in contact with women who want mail-order marriages.”

  Frey’s interest perked up.

  “You’ll need to write a letter that I can include with mine, mentioning your qualifications.” Mrs. Flanigan’s mouth turned up in a teasing smile. “I can vouch for the fact that you are a hard worker and a big eater.”

  Now that the notion of a wife had taken hold in his mind, Frey rather liked the idea. But the gamble. He shook his head.

  “Gettin’ cold feet already?” Seth drawled. He slipped an arm around Trudy’s waist. “I know what that’s like. Mine were like ice. ’Fact, my whole darn body was. Glad it didn’t stop me, though.”

  Mrs. Flanigan gave her husband a challenging grin. “That’s because of that ridiculous bet you made with Slim. Your need to win was greater than your fear of turning into an icicle.”

  “Good thing I didn’t bet that my wife was a brunette,” Seth jested.

  The quip earned him another elbow in the ribs.

  “Hey!” Seth pretended to cringe. “Get those pointy things away from me.” He grabbed her in a bear hug.

  “Seth Flanigan!” Trudy’s voice was muffled against his chest. “We have company!”

  “Na. Just ole Viking, here. He’s been around us so much he’s family by now. He must be used to us sparkin’.”

  Trudy pushed away from Seth, emerging from his hug with her hair mussed, cheeks red, and blue eyes shining. “Gentlemen, the food is getting cold,” she said, drawing dignity around her. “The children will wake up any time now. If you want a hot, peaceful meal, you need to get moving.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the men chorused and started toward the kitchen, where the everyday dishes were placed on an oilcloth-covered table. He knew of a fancier set because those dishes came out on Sundays when they ate in the dining room, sometimes with other visitors. That got him to wondering if a new wife might object to his mismatched tableware.

  The new kitchen was redolent with the smell of yeasty bread and stew. Butter and jam, pickles—both sweet and sour—and applesauce were set out in small glass dishes. Frey knew Mrs. Flanigan cooked with the hearty appetites of the two men in mind, and she always seemed pleased with the amount of food they stowed away; Frey more than Seth, of course, for his was the bigger frame to fill.

  Mrs. Flanigan had finished the curtains she had been making yesterday—a cheerful yellow and white check—and had hung them at the side and back windows. The cabinets were painted white and topped with butcher-block counters. White mosaic tile covered the floors. Frey had never laid tile before, and the process had been a learning experience, employing more finesse than bricklaying skills.

  Last month, the Flanigans had moved from their crowded cabin to the “big house.” Seth was overjoyed to finally have a place for the furniture and crates of household goods his bride had brought from St. Louis. Ever since their marriage, most of her possessions had cluttered up the barn. Early on, they’d added a back room and porch to the cabin, but baby Anna had arrived, and they’d postponed further building to focus on their child.

  Frey had stayed with the Flanigans plenty of times, sleeping on a pallet in the main room, not wanting to make the long drive to town and back. His men had bunked with the family’s hired man in the barn. He’d continued using the cabin when the family moved, enjoying the peace and quiet after a long day, but also missing the family’s warmth and camaraderie.

  Frey compared the Flanigans’ kitchen to the one in his half-finished house. While the place was far enough along for a bachelor camping out, his home definitely wasn’t fit for a wife, and the lack wouldn’t make
for a good start to a marriage, especially one with a stranger.

  Nothing like the possibility of a bride to spur a man on to finish building his house.

  * * *

  After a fine meal where the discussion of Frey’s marriage continued, Mrs. Flanigan shooed him into the corner of the parlor that she’d determined was the place for a study, with a desk and several bookcases—one on each wall. She provided him with paper, pen, and ink, and left him alone to struggle with the most important correspondence of his life.

  Frey sat at the desk, which faced into the room. Although tempted to drag his heels on composing the letter and instead spend more time admiring the house, he resolutely picked up the pen, dipped it into the inkwell, and began to write.

  Dear Mrs. Seymour,

  My name is Frey Foster, and I’m friends with Trudy and Seth Flanigan. Even though you no longer have the matchmaking business, I am writing to you in hopes that you will be able to aid in my search for a wife.

  Frey paused, wondering if he was doing the right thing. He took a breath and plowed on.

  I am 29 years of age and grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I attended school. I am a bricklayer by trade and currently reside in Sweetwater Springs, having first come to this town as part of a construction crew building the mansion of the local banker, which is the finest home in the whole area. From there I have branched out with my own home-building business, starting with the brick foursquare house I have recently completed for the Flanigans.

  Frey wished he had a photograph of the house to send and made a mental note to commission several the next time a traveling photographer came through town.

  My own home is only three-quarters of the way finished due to my focus on building the Flanigans’ house. But I will put my efforts to the task so the house is livable by the time my intended bride arrives. Thus she will be the one to choose the final touches (such as wallpaper) and select most of the furnishings (as our budget allows).