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

the group, the man dressed in a worn black suit, closed the book, set it on a narrow table, and stood. His full head of hair and his beard were almost entirely white, his features austere, and his eyes—clear blue and penetrating—surveyed Grace.
    If not for the kind smile, she’d feel judged and found wanting.
    “Miss Dickinson, I’m Reverend Norton, and this is my wife Mary.”
    Mrs. Norton had a sweet, wrinkled face, and her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun. She threaded her sewing needle into the sock, tucked it into a basket near her feet, rose, and stepped off the porch, holding out a hand to Grace. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs, Miss Dickinson. You’ve found Reverend Norton and me in a rare moment of companionable quiet.” She smiled lovingly at her husband, who’d joined her. “At least until the wintertime.”
    Reverend Norton nodded. “The sermon is written, and no one has dropped by in need of counsel or aid. So we have spent some time in thought and prayer on the institution of marriage, especially yours.”
    Grace was touched by his words and the obvious concern for her and Frey’s well-being. In an unconscious gesture, her hand crept to her chest to touch her necklace. When she didn’t feel the bump of the gold heart under her fingertips—she had buried it at the bottom of her portmanteau—pain stabbed her. She hastily lowered her arm. I must break that habit.
    Mrs. Norton clasped her hands in front of her. “Miss Dickinson, I’ve been curious ever since I heard you are from Massachusetts. Are you by any chance related to the poetess Emily Dickinson? One of our parishioners—” she glanced at Mrs. Flanigan “—Mrs. Walker, another former mail-order bride, lent me her book of poetry.”
    “A distant cousin. But I never met Emily. She was very reclusive but corresponded with my parents. But I have that book, too. The volume wasn’t published until after her death. We have some of her letters.” Victor had scolded Grace for being so extravagant as to spend money on a book of poetry by an unknown author, even if she was a relation. With a stab of bitterness, she wondered why he’d perpetuated the charade to such a degree. If he never planned to marry me, what difference did it make what I did with my own money? She brought her attention back to Mrs. Norton.
    “How marvelous to be connected to her, Miss Dickinson. I’ll confess, I didn’t understand some of the poems, but others were lovely.” She placed a hand over her heart. “So touching.”
    “Perhaps at another time we can compare which ones we like best,” Grace offered.
    “That would be lovely. Now, we must get you ready for your wedding.” Mrs. Norton made a shooing motion at Frey. “You put that in the bedroom, the second door down the hall. You men run along to the church, while Mrs. Flanigan and I see to Miss Dickinson.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Frey hurried into the house.
    Grace held in her amusement at the sight of the small woman bossing around the big man.
    As soon as Frey returned, Mrs. Flanigan handed the baby to him.
    Grace watched wide-eyed as he lifted George high in the air, and the baby bellowed with laughter. Her husband-to-be obviously appeared comfortable with the boy, which boded well for when they had children.
    Emotion caught in Grace’s throat. She’d never seen Victor interact with children, or even appear interested in them. Nor could she imagine the man playing with a babe like Frey just had. Yet, he had a son of his own. Is Victor an attentive husband and father? She doubted it.
    Frey lowered the child. The chubby boy who looked so big in his mother’s arms seemed tiny when held against Mr. Foster’s broad chest.
    She wanted to look away, but the sight of the big man carrying George mesmerized her and made her heart squeeze.
    “Come along, dears.” Mrs. Norton motioned the two women to follow her. Once inside, they walked down a narrow hallway, past a closed door, and into the opening