“Generous gifts.” Frey was touched by her thoughtfulness. “I’m sure Grace will appreciate them.”
Seth, carrying Anna, came around the front of the horses. “Don’t forget all that extra food you brought along,” he said to his wife before leaning toward Frey. “Just as well,” he pretended to whisper. “The cellar in the old place and the new home are overflowing with food. We couldn’t eat it all if we tried. I had to add extra reinforcement to the shelves for fear they’d collapse under the weight of all those jars.”
Mrs. Flanigan lifted her chin. “If we are blessed by nature’s bounty, I aim to take advantage of every bit. I’ll never forget the long winter of ’86, the year of our marriage.”
Frey doubted anyone who’d lived through that horrific winter would forget.
“Thank goodness that year I’d arrived here early enough to plant a garden and went berry picking with Lina and Darcy,” she said, referencing her two friends from the Mail-Order Brides of the West Agency. “We had enough food for ourselves through the winter as well as plenty to spare for Gid and Darcy after their house burned down, with some extra for Lina and Jonah, as well as the church food pantry.” She gave a decisive nod. “Yes, far better to be prepared and be able to share God’s abundance.”
Frey sent Mrs. Flanigan a look of admiration. “If my bride is half as fine a housewife as you are, then I’ll be a lucky man.”
“Oh, you.” She held out the baby for Frey to take.
Frey hefted George into the air, giving him a jiggle that made the baby let out a belly laugh and drew an answering chuckle out of him, before tucking the boy against his chest with one arm and extending a hand to help Mrs. Flanigan climb from the wagon.
She wore a blue silk dress with peach-colored lace.
“Now, don’t you look as pretty as a picture?”
A blush tinted her cheeks. “I think, Mr. Foster, we are good enough friends for you to drop the formalities and call me Trudy.”
“Then no more Mr. Foster.”
“Hey, don’t go getting fresh with my wife.” Seth set Anna on the ground.
“Gertie!” The little girl let out a shriek of glee.
The dog wagged her tail and greeted Anna with a swipe of her tongue.
With his free hand, Frey grabbed a basket from the back of the wagon and moved toward the house. He couldn’t resist needling his friend. “And why not? Did you tell your wife today how pretty she looks?”
Seth scowled. “We were busy getting ready. She had me going hither and yon, hauling this and that.” He threw up his hands and sent Trudy a beseeching glance. “Darlin’, you know how pretty I think you are.”
Trudy tilted her head, giving Seth a coquettish glance from under lowered eyelashes. “Seems to me…I haven’t heard that much lately. Certainly not since George was born.”
Seth threw Frey a you troublemaker look.
Frey widened his eyes and lifted his eyebrows, professing innocence, and kept on going.
“Bah.” George tapped Frey’s chest with a chubby fist.
He hurried into the kitchen and set the basket on the table, turned and walked out just in time to see Seth slide his arms around his wife and draw her close. He halted, giving them some privacy, but couldn’t help overhearing.
Seth touched Trudy’s cheek. “You are the most beautiful woman in the whole world to me, and I love you with all of my heart.”
The glow in Trudy’s eyes as she looked up at her husband made Frey turn away in sudden fear, unable to bear seeing the intimacy between the couple. What if Grace never looks at me like that? He jiggled the baby, hoping George’s laughter would drown out his father, but to no avail.
“Since the birth of our children—” Seth said in a tender tone “—you are even more precious to me as their mama. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how pretty you looked today. I noticed but didn’t get the words from my brain to my mouth. I’ll be more careful about that in the future.”
Part of Frey wanted to cringe but the other was so darn envious, not just for the love between the two, but Seth’s ability to put his feelings into words. Frey could get off a jest or a jab better than the average man, but he wasn’t so good with the flowery words a woman needed to hear—one of Ingrid’s complaints about him. Please, God, may I grow to feel that way about Grace and be able to tell her so.
The two must have come up for air because Seth said, “You can turn around now.”
But Frey wasn’t ready, still feeling off balance. He lifted the baby until they were nose-to-nose. “What do you say, George? Are you up to helping us unload the wagon?” He stepped off the porch and walked over. There was still so much to do.
Trudy stepped over to take her son into her arms.
Seth moved to Frey’s side and tilted his head at several flower arrangements tucked into one of the baskets. “Of everything we brought you, that’s the most important part. Flowers for your bride.”
Frey grinned at Seth. “Guess I should be grateful you two already went through this mail-order bride business so I can just follow in your footsteps.”
“Yes, siree,” Seth drawled. “If I left everything to you—” he gave a mournful shake of his head “—you’d land in the doghouse in no time.” He stooped to run a hand over the dog’s back and fondle her ears. “No disrespect meant to you, Miss Gertie.”
“I would not,” Frey protested. “Besides, I’d never fit in Gertie’s doghouse. If she had one, that is, which she doesn’t.”
“Oh—” Seth cocked an eyebrow “—then you remembered flowers on your own, and we didn’t need to bring any along?”
Frey glowered at his friend. “I just hadn’t gotten them yet,” he said with stiff dignity, ignoring Seth’s so-you-say nod.
His friend’s expression turned serious, and Seth met Frey’s gaze. “Hope everything works out as well for you as it has for us.”
“Just be patient,” Trudy warned. “If you are kind to each other, love will come in time.” She glanced beyond him to the foursquare. “Amazing how two houses can have a similar design but still be different—ours is wood, and yours is brick. The window is beautiful.” She turned hopeful eyes in her husband’s direction.
Shaking his head, Seth held up his free hand. “Oh, no you don’t, Mrs. Flanigan. We’ve just sunk a heap of money into that house of yours. We have to save some things for the future.”
Trudy’s dimpled smile at her husband told Frey she’d be getting her stained-glass window before too long. I wonder if Grace will have me wound around her finger like that?
Somehow, he didn’t mind the idea one single bit.
* * *
As the train neared Sweetwater Springs, Grace stirred from her melancholy thoughts. The first part of the trip had been made tolerable by a chance meeting with Libbie Van Eycken, a South African girl who was acquainted with one of the other seamstresses who’d worked for the Brown Textile Mill. The two women had seats together on the route from Boston to Chicago. Libbie, too, was in dire financial straights and when she’d learned about the Grooms’ Gazette had decided to become a mail-order bride to a rancher in Arizona.
The pair had talked their way through two days of travel before parting in Chicago, promising to write. When Grace was with Libbie, she’d felt almost optimistic at times, for if she could set aside her reserve and form close bonds of friendship with someone she’d just met on a train, then maybe she could make friends in this new town and come to care for the stranger who’d be her husband.
But without Libbie to distract her, Grace had fallen into low spirits, staring out the window without really seeing the passing countryside, her thoughts on Victor. Each time her heart ached with missing him, she told herself, He’s not the man I love. That man doesn’t exist.
Cold comfort. But the idea that she’d loved an illusion, rather than the real man seemed to help.
A few stops before Sweetwater Springs, after washing her hands and face, Grace thought about taking the advice she’d given to
Libbie and changing clothes before her arrival. But Libbie had been wearing poorly dyed mourning attire that didn’t become her and had been so hopeful for her forthcoming marriage.
Grace couldn’t muster up any hope, much less the energy to leave her train seat. I lack Libbie’s optimism. Plus the washroom was so tiny, she couldn’t imagine changing out of her traveling dress—the one she always wore to work—in the small space.
Frey Foster will just have to take me as I am.
After riding past poky frontier towns, when the train slowed, Grace didn’t hold out much hope for Sweetwater Springs. But she was pleasantly surprised by the town, which seemed somewhat larger than most—with spaces between buildings that flanked a wide dirt street, rather than being crammed together like most she’d seen. She caught a glimpse of people waiting on the platform. Then the train jerked to a stop in front of a brown wooden depot.
Grace let out a long breath and pulled off the outer muslin duster covering her new coat—a stylish blue wool with black velvet trim. She couldn’t afford to purchase a duster for the journey, so she’d fashioned her own to protect the coat from the dust and ash of travel. After folding the dirty muslin, she stuffed the material into her satchel, sewn from sturdy burlap sacks.
She rose, shook out her skirt, even though the wrinkles remained, and donned her coat rather than carry it. After straightening her hat, she slid the long strap of the satchel over one shoulder and gathered the hatbox containing her two other hats.
Checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, Grace squared her shoulders and moved down the corridor toward the door. She stepped out, keeping an eye on her footing on the stairs, for her legs felt shaky from inactivity. The air smelled of smoke from the train, and images of the burning factory flickered in front of her eyes. She halted.
The heavy sound of boots on the wooden platform echoed the thumping of her heart. The distraction banished the fiery memory.
Black polished boots stopped in front of her.
Grace forced herself to look up and up and up, guessing Frey Foster must be something like six feet five or six, maybe even seven inches, with broad shoulders that made him look like a knight of old. She could imagine him in shining chainmail, sword in hand. But instead he wore a three-piece suit and bowler hat. Underneath, thick brown hair waved to his shoulders.
She supposed he could be considered a handsome man, with blue eyes, rugged features in a narrow face, and a close-cut beard and mustache. An imposing man, to be sure….
But not the type I’m attracted to. He’s as unlike dapper Victor as can be. Even as Grace’s heart sank, she forced herself to smile, although she thought her cheeks might crack with the effort. “If you’re Mr. Foster, I’m Grace Dickinson.” She held out a hand.
He tipped his hat to her. “I am, indeed.” He engulfed hers with a hand that must be as big as a bear’s paw but closed gently around her fingers. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Miss Dickinson.”
“I’m delighted to be here,” Grace lied, keeping the smile pinned to her face. But dread of marrying this man made her stomach clench.
A smile lit up his face, and a deep rumbling laugh escaped. “Far be it from me to call a beautiful lady a liar, but somehow, I doubt you’re feeling de-light, Miss Grace Dickinson,” he drawled. “However if you can muster up a thimbleful of enthusiasm, I’ll settle for that.”
How can he tell? Although amazed that the Westerner would laughingly point out the truth of her feelings instead of politely accepting the fiction, hearing his unexpected rejoinder caught her interest. Grace decided to play along. She glanced down at his hand, still holding hers and wiggled a finger free to tap one of his. “Are we talking about a thimble your size or mine?”
He laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m an optimist, Miss Dickinson. My size, of course.”
Their exchange put her at ease far quicker than she could have imagined, and this time Grace’s smile felt genuine. “I doubt thimbles that big are even made, Mr. Foster,” she said in a playful tone. “But, I’ll go along with that.”
He squeezed her hand.
The contact discomforted her, and she was grateful for her gloves.
“Come meet my friends.” With a boyish enthusiasm, he tugged her toward a nearby couple.
The pretty blonde wore an attractive blue dress and the same color hat with a curving brim. She carried a baby boy with feathery blonde curls, and the dark-haired man held a young girl who looked just like him. The man was handsome, with compelling gray eyes. He stood tall, but Frey Foster towered over him.
The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Frey Foster, you are acting like a barbarian. Don’t reel the poor woman around like she’s a fish hooked on the your line.”
Mr. Foster stopped and sent Grace an apparent look of mock guilt, which made him look like an errant schoolboy. “And here I was hoping you wouldn’t find out about the barbarian part for a few more minutes.” He retained possession of her hand.
Beyond giving him a polite shake of greeting, Grace had planned to avoid physical contact with the man, hoping after a few weeks his touch wouldn’t repulse her. Yet, to her surprise, Frey Foster had already upset her careful design. We’ve been holding hands the whole time.
The other man laughed. “Given you’ve only met Miss Dickinson for about four minutes and didn’t reveal your barbarian self until three minutes passed, I think you’re doing pretty well. I was betting on one.”
The woman elbowed the man who was obviously her husband, for both children had the same dark gray eyes. “Don’t mind these jokesters, Miss Dickinson. They really do have a sense of decorum at times. I’m Trudy Flanigan, and this is my husband, Seth. He’s holding Anna who just turned three, and this one is George.” With a proud air, she raised the baby for Grace to inspect. “He’s six months.”
George’s fat-cheeked grin made his eyes go squinty, and his mouth showed three budding teeth.
Grace couldn’t help smiling back at him, wishing she could pinch the baby’s chubby cheeks. This is the oddest welcome to my new life, but I like all of them.
Mrs. Flanigan smoothed back her son’s curls and said to Grace, “We’ll take you to the parsonage so you can prepare for the wedding. Then comes the ceremony, and afterwards, we’ll repair to Frey’s house for a meal.”
Mr. Foster held up a hand to stop the flow of plans and gazed at Grace. “Unless, Miss Dickinson, you are repulsed by me….” He emphasized her words from the letter. “If that’s the case, we’ll have to figure out a new plan.”
“Why, no, Mr. Foster. I’m not repulsed.” Although Grace said the word in a light tone, she spoke the truth. He will do as well as any personable man.
And he made me smile—something she hadn’t done since learning of Victor’s treachery. That’s definitely in his favor.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Then you’ll marry me?”
“I will.” Grace’s solemn promise felt just as real as the one she would soon vow before God.
His smile held relief. He shot a triumphant look at Mr. Flanigan. “Guess I haven’t run her off right away after all. On the way here, if his wife hadn’t stopped us, Seth would have placed good money on a bet.” He winked at Grace. “Only to end up losing it.”
“Frey Foster! I declare.” Mrs. Flanigan glared at him. “Are you trying to frighten off your bride? Some people think betting is evil. What if Miss Dickinson believes that way?” With a shake of her head, she looked at Grace. “Really, he was only joking. We did no such thing.”
Grace suppressed a smile. Only now did she realize how lonely she’d been for a very long time. The bonds of obvious friendship between the three warmed her heart. She let out a theatrical sigh. “I suppose Mr. Foster’s sense of humor will take some getting used to,” she said with modestly lowered eyelashes and a demure, almost longsuffering, tone.
The three stared at her in dismayed silence.
A bubble of glee threatened to ruin the moment, but Grace he
ld her pose until her face heated and flushed, and the quivering of her mouth betrayed her.
Frey gave a shout of laughter and slapped his leg. “You had us, there, Grace, uh, Miss Dickinson.”
She couldn’t resist a grin of triumph. “Frey—” she emphasized his given name. “We are to wed. Please call me Grace.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Flanigan gave a slow nod of approval, and Mrs. Flanigan beamed at both of them.
Grace became aware of feeling hot. Her coat really was too heavy for the sunny day. She held out her hatbox to Frey. “If you could hold this, please, while I remove my coat.”
He grasped the cord handle of her hatbox, and then reached for the strap of her satchel to transfer it from her shoulder to his. As he eased the coat off her shoulders, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck.
Shivers feathered down her back, and not wanting to feel anything from his touch, she raised her chin, which resulted in the low braided bun of hair dipping to cover her neck.
Mr. Flanigan tilted his head toward her portmanteau, placed near the edge of the platform by the train tracks. “I take it that’s your luggage?”
She nodded.
“I’ll get it for you.”
“Thank you.” Grace took her coat from Frey and folded the garment over one arm.
Mr. Flanigan returned with her portmanteau, and Frey reached out to take the luggage from him.
“Do you want me to take the satchel and hatbox?” she asked.
“No need,” Frey said in a cheerful tone. “I can manage all three. I make a great pack mule.”
Once again his response startled her—as opposite as could be from her former betrothed, whom she now could see always painted himself in the best possible light. Victor never would have described himself as a mule.
Mrs. Flanigan touched her arm, indicating they should start walking. “The parsonage is on the other side of the church, toward the back, near the graveyard.”
The two walked across the platform and descended the stairs to the dirt street, the men following. Mrs. Flanigan kept up a running commentary of the buildings they passed.
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