Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) by Debra Holland Read Free Book Online

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