Free Grace: Bride of Montana (American Mail-Order Bride 41) by Debra Holland Page B

child she’d longed for a puppy and had begged her parents for one, to no avail.
    “Could be worse,” Seth said in an aside to Trudy. “Gertie could have brought the chickens.”
    Trudy let out a long-suffering sigh, but a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
    The image of the dog herding chickens into church proved too much for Grace. She chuckled and sank into what she hoped was a graceful crouch, a difficult feat when laced into a tight corset. Her skirt pooled around her. She held out a hand to the dog. “Hello, Gertie.”
    The dog sniffed her fingers. Seeming to approve, she edged closer.
    Grace rubbed Gertie’s head. “If Reverend Norton doesn’t mind,” she said to the dog, “I’m fine with you remaining for the rest of the ceremony.” She glanced up at the minister, relieved to see a benign smile softening his countenance.
    “‘And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind,’” Reverend Norton quoted from Genesis. “And God saw that it was good . I believe Miss Gertie is giving her blessing to this union rather than objecting. She may remain as an attendant of the ceremony.”
    Grace stared at the minister, struck by his tolerance and goodness. He was nothing like the men of the cloth she’d previously known. With one last pat for Gertie, she raised a hand to Frey in a signal for his aid.
    He took her hand and lifted her to her feet, making the process effortless.
    With his strength, it probably is. The thought sent an unexpected thrill down her spine.
    Standing in the church in the presence of six people and one dog, all of whom she’d known less than two hours, Grace experienced a humble sense of gratitude toward the Divine. She’d selected this man, practically at random and mostly for where he lived, but now she wondered if a greater purpose had been involved in her choice of husband. She breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.
    With her free hand, she smoothed down the front of her dress, thinking of the brides who’d worn the gown. Perhaps they, too, had a hand in bringing her here. She had a vision of the women standing in a half circle around the throne of God, giving him their opinions.
    Grace suppressed a gurgle of laughter. Suddenly she was anxious to begin the journey of her new life and see what would unfold next.
    * * *
    Frey had thought he knew what love was—after all, he’d once been betrothed to a girl he’d grown up with. Then she’d gotten tired of waiting for him to return to Minnesota and broke off their engagement, hurting him in the process. In retrospect, the feelings he had for his former betrothed Ingrid were as flat as the land they’d lived in.
    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