An Unlikely Love (9 page)

Grant's voice sent a shiver down her spine. He was angry. Very angry. She braced herself as he turned from the sobered driver and walked toward their line.

“I'm surprised to see you here, ladies. I've never known any of you to turn on a neighbor before.” He flicked a look in her direction.

Her heart sank. Clearly, he blamed her.

Ina Jefferson gasped and lowered her sign. “That's not what we're doing!”

“It's not personal against you or your father, Grant. It's the grapes.”

Marissa glanced at Sarah Swan. The older woman looked uncomfortable but determined.

“These grapes provide our livelihood, Mrs. Swan. That's personal. The same as it would be if I tried to shut down your husband's store.” Grant's gaze traveled from woman to woman. “Or Noah's farm...or Carl's tanning business...Albert's barbershop...or John's office.” His gaze skipped over her, settled again on Sarah Swan. “I'll ask you to step aside now and let the wagons pass.”

The older woman drew a deep breath and shook her head. “I can't do it, Grant. I'm just too tired of the abuse.”

“Mind your tongue, woman!”

Sarah Swan stiffened.

Marissa spun around.

A group of men strode from the road toward them. None of them looked pleased, save the one in the middle.

“John!”

“Carl!”

“Albert!”

The women dropped their signs, gaped at the men. Their husbands, no doubt. She glanced at Grant. He didn't look surprised. Had he sent for the men? How had he known—

“Where's your pride, woman?” A portly man with a red beard strode up to Sarah Swan, snatched the sign from her hand and tossed it aside. “Heaping up shame—”

“My only shame is in hiding the bruises from your hand all these years, Tobin.” Sarah looked over at her. “Thank you for your help, Miss Bradley. Our protest to stop the grapes from reaching the winery may have failed. But I will no longer have to sacrifice my self-respect to hide the truth. And in that there is victory.”

The older woman's words strengthened her resolve. She tightened her hold on her sign and watched the women walk off with their husbands.

“Out of the way, young lady.” The man who had led the husbands climbed into the first wagon. “I have grapes to get to my winery before dark.”

She moved in front of the horses, raised her sign and her voice. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as...”

“What the—” The man jerked to his feet, his face as purple as the grapes overflowing the baskets behind him. “Get her out of the way, Winston!”

“—royal Master—”

Grant stepped close, his face a closed mask. “It's over, Miss Bradley. The other women have gone home. Please step aside.”

“—into battle—”

He stooped. His arms closed around her knees, lifted. She dropped her sign and grabbed for his shoulders. They felt like rocks. She pushed, glared down at him. “Put me down!”

“Will you stay out of the path and let the wagons pass?”

“Never!”

He heaved.

She flopped over his shoulder, gasped and kicked her feet, pushing against his back, but she couldn't get enough purchase to push herself erect. His hard shoulder pressed into her abdomen, drove her breath from her with his every stride across a stretch of grass. She tried to crane her head around to see where he was taking her but couldn't manage.

“Grant Winston! Whatever are you doing? Put that young woman down and mind your manners!”

“Ooof!” She bounced against him as he stepped onto a stone walk then trotted up a set of steps. He released the death wrap he had around her knees, gripped her waist and lifted her off his shoulder. She shoved against his chest and almost toppled backward when he let go of her.

“Grant!”

“I'm sorry, Mother. I had to get her out of the way of the wagons. It'll be dark soon.”

“Well, I'm sure you could have done so in a more gentlemanly fashion. Now, if you know her name, introduce me to this young woman.”

He looked chagrined. It did her heart good. She wanted to stick her tongue out at him the way she had at Lincoln when they were children, but she straightened her hat that had been knocked askew and turned to face Grant's mother instead. The serene look on the older woman's face made her feel completely undone. She jabbed at the curls falling free around her face.

“Mother, this is Miss Bradley. Miss Bradley, my mother, Mrs. Winston.” The anger in Grant's deep voice didn't help matters. She drew in a calming breath and made an effort to regain her composure.

“How do you do, Miss Bradley? I'm certain you must be warm after your...exertions. May I interest you in a glass of lemonade?”

The winery wagons rolled by out on the main road. Heat climbed into her cheeks at the woman's graciousness in the face of her recent activity. “How kind of you, Mrs. Winston. But I must take the
Colonel Phillips
back to Chautauqua tonight, and I don't care to make the long walk back to the lake in the dark.” She turned toward the steps.

“There's time enough.” Grant shot her a look and leaned against the post at the top of the porch steps.

Obviously, he didn't trust her. Did he think she would run after the wagons?

“Oh, good. I'll be right back with our drinks.” Mrs. Winston disappeared inside.

“I'll walk you to the dock and see you safe back to Chautauqua.”

Grant's tone said it was only good manners that prompted the offer. She swallowed the hurt of his lost friendship and shook her head, which promptly undid all the good her poking and jabbing at her hair had done. “Please don't bother. I remember the way.” She lifted her chin and started by him. He shot out his arm and blocked her access to the steps.

“I
said
I'll see you safe to Chautauqua. My mother will be upset if I don't. I won't bother you after that. You have my word.”

“Very well.” She stared at his tight mouth and set jaw, turned away and shoved the hair that had fallen forward away from her eyes.

The door opened and Mrs. Winston stepped onto the porch. “Grant, would you please come and get the lemonade for our guest? Your father is a little tired and needs me to help him retire.”

Grant gave her a warning look and stepped to his mother's side.

“I was going to see Miss Bradley safe back to Chautauqua, Mother. But I'll see her onto the steamer and then return.” A frown creased his brow. “Do you want me to stop on our way to the dock and send the doctor back?”

“No, that's not necessary, Grant. Your father's only tired. And he would be ashamed of you if you didn't see Miss Bradley safely home.” Mrs. Winston looked her way and smiled. “Please come again, Miss Bradley. I was looking forward to getting to know you. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Winston.”

“Wait here.” Grant growled the words and disappeared into the house.

She looked out at the fading light then glanced back at the door. Grant didn't want to be with her, and her emotions were too...unsettled to be with him. It would be better, less hurtful if she simply left. But she couldn't go looking so disheveled. She reached up to tuck more of the escaped curls into her still-confined hair.

The door opened and Grant came onto the porch, a shawl dangling from his hand. He glanced at her, sucked in a breath and held out the wool wrap. “I thought you might need this for the ride back on the steamer. There's most always a breeze on the lake at night.”

He was so nice, even in his anger. She stared at the shawl, swallowed hard and shook her head. “That's very thoughtful of you, Grant, but I think it best if—”

“Just take it.” His jaw twitched. “You can give it back when we say goodbye.”

His tone left no doubt that he would accompany her to Fair Point whether she agreed or not. And that the goodbye they said then would be final. She blinked away a sting of tears and nodded. It was for the best.

Chapter Seven

G
rant leaned his shoulder against a post and stared out over the lake, irritated beyond reason by Marissa's attempts to keep her hairdo tidy. Why didn't she just allow the unruly curls to blow free? What did a few curls around her face hurt? Except they made him want to— He broke off the thought and jammed his hands into his pockets. That was over. Along with all he'd been considering and planning since the night of her first lecture.

“I'm sorry your father is feeling unwell, Grant. I hope he's better tomorrow.”

The sympathy in her voice rankled. Where was her concern when she'd decided to try and destroy their livelihood? Had she even considered that before she'd hatched her protest scheme against them?

“He's burdened with worry. He'll be better when the harvest is over and he can settle his debts and set aside money enough to keep us through the next harvest.” He glanced at her then looked back out over the water. “That's what was in those baskets in the wagons you tried to stop, Marissa. Our living for the coming year, and my father's peace of mind.”
And my chance to have a business of my own.
Which had seemed more pressing of late. He held back a snort of disgust for his idiocy in thinking she'd felt the same depth of attraction as he.

Nothing but silence. Evidently, she felt no need to answer. Or had none. He watched the red rays of the setting sun being swallowed by the encroaching night and listened to the rush of the water along the steamer as the reflected red glow was erased from the lake. The trip to Fair Point had never seemed so long.

“I only saw the grapes in those baskets, Grant. And what the grapes represented.”

Did she not see the flaw in her justification? He turned and fastened his gaze on hers. “No, you saw
one
side of what they represented, Marissa. I'm sorry for all you've suffered—truly sorry—but I grow grapes for a living, not wine.”

“They make wine.”

He pulled in a breath. “Dillon Douglas uses them to make wine, yes. That's how he makes the living that takes care of his family. And John Hirsch sells the wine at his tavern. That's how he makes his living and cares for his wife and seven children. And I grow grapes for my family, to make our living. There are
two
sides to this temperance issue, Marissa. You've opened my eyes to yours—to the pain overindulgence in wine or liquor can cause. I was unaware of that. I guess because women like Sarah Swan and the others with her today keep it hidden.”

“What else can they do?” She lifted her chin. “It's shaming and painful for others to know that your husband or father—” Her voice broke. She faced out over the water and blinked hard.

Her pain tore at him, but he pressed his point. “They can do what you are doing, Marissa. They can stop hiding. I think what you are doing in bringing the truth out into the open as you do with your lectures will help to get rid of that shame. And, also, as you point out in your lectures, strengthen and help those who are suffering by learning that they are not alone in their despair. I hope that it does. No woman should have to endure what you and your mother suffer, Marissa. What Sarah Swan bears. But causing others pain and suffering by taking away their means of livelihood will not help you and your mother, or Sarah Swan and the others.”

She turned back and looked up at him.

“I don't want to cause anyone pain or suffering, Grant. Certainly not your family. I didn't even know—” She stopped, drew in a long breath. “Mrs. Swan wrote me a letter asking me to come and lead a small group of women in protest against the local wineries and vineyards. And it seemed an excellent way to spread the temperance message. I met Sarah Swan after my first lecture then held a meeting with her and the others yesterday to plan our march. That's when Judith Moore said the Oakwood Winery would be harvesting grapes at the Twin Eagle Vineyard today and wouldn't it be a good idea if we could stop the wagons? I didn't know you owned— But then I thought maybe— And I hoped and prayed you didn't— And— Oh, I'm so confused!” She choked on a sob, hid her face with her hands. “I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to help— Oh, I just
hate
wine!”

She hadn't known it was his vineyard.
His pulse raced. “Marissa, we—”

The whistle blew. If he could have reached it, he would have ripped it off and thrown it in the lake. The steamer lurched, slowed. He grabbed Marissa's hand and tugged her toward the gangway. “We have to hurry. I only have time to walk you to your tent and run back before the steamer starts its return trip. I'll tell you what I want to say on the way.”

“No.” She pulled her hand out of his and stepped back. “You haven't enough time, Grant. And...and you were right. It's best we say goodbye right now. I— It's our...situation.” Her shoulders drew back. Her chin lifted. “I listened to what you said, and I agree now that it's harmful for me to try and destroy someone's means of making a living, no matter how much harm I think it might do. But I can't stop protesting strong drink. And you— It's hopeless.”

He might have believed her but for the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “No, it's not.” He glanced at the people boarding for the return trip to Mayville, took hold of her elbow and led her to a secluded spot by the side wheel. “I want to continue to see you, Marissa. And I think you feel the same about me.”

“Yes, but—”

Yes.
His pulse leaped. The “but” didn't matter in the face of that yes. He pulled her closer. “There's no time for argument. I realize my running the vineyard goes against all that you believe, Marissa. But I told you running the vineyard was not my choice. If not for my father's accident, I would be a scientist or have a business of my own. And now, with the concords growing well and the money from the harvest, I'll be able to hire someone to care for the vineyard in my place.”

“Oh, Grant...truly?” Hope flickered in her eyes.

“Truly. That way my parents will keep their home and livelihood, and I'll be free to find another way to make a living. It's too late to pursue a science career, but I've thought of buying a steamer. I've money set aside, and I know a captain that's moving away and wants to sell his boat and his house.” His throat thickened. He closed his hands around her narrow waist, took a breath and plunged ahead into uncharted waters. “With my share of this year's profits I should have enough to make an offer to the captain. Do you think you could get used to riding on a steamer?”

Her smile took his breath. “Would you be beside me to keep me safe when the deck is slick?”

“I would. And one more thing, Marissa...”

“Yes?”

The word was little more than a whisper. His heart thundered at the look in her eyes. “I read your sign. And...I don't drink wine.” He leaned down and brushed her soft lips with his, then stepped back, took her hand and led her to the gangplank before he gave in to the temptation to capture her lips in a real kiss.

* * *

The torches sputtered flickering light onto the path. Small twigs and the few early fallen leaves crackled beneath her feet.

I'll be free to find another way to make a living...
Do you think you could get used to riding on a steamer?
Her heart was singing the words over and over again. How strange that no one walking on the path heard it. She smiled at the whimsical thought and pulled the wool shawl more closely around her shoulders against the evening chill that had settled among the trees.

I read your sign. And...I don't drink wine.

A tingle ran down her spine, spread out in a delicious warmth. Her steps faltered at the memory of the moment when Grant had brushed her lips with his. Only the presence of the others walking on the path kept her from spreading her arms and whirling about in happiness. Nothing she had ever known came even close to the emotion that had rushed through her when he'd pulled her close.

She sighed and stepped into the large clearing at the top of the hill, walked toward her tent and stopped. Clarice was home. Observant, inquisitive Clarice. Her tent mate's shadowy form showed clearly between the canvas wall of the tent and the oil lamp on the desk where she sat working—no doubt adding substance to the notes she'd taken today for her “Chautauqua Experience” article.

Reticence moved her forward to the wooden bench beneath the trees at the end of the clearing. She was too honest to lie, too happy to dissemble and too shy to want to share this new, confusing but wonderful emotion with anyone. A smile touched her lips. She raised her hand to smooth back a curl tickling her temple, and her wrist brushed against something cold and hard. She winced and stared down at her mother's enameled watch—her father's apology. Reality burst upon her euphoria. People changed over time. Her father hadn't drunk wine until they moved to town. How could she be sure that Grant—

No. She would not doubt. She would not let the hurtful memories intrude on the joy of the moment. It might be all she would ever have. She would keep the memory unsullied by the ugliness in her life. She lifted the side of Grant's mother's shawl that had slipped from her shoulder and covered the watch.

* * *

Grant whistled his way up the porch steps and into the house. “Mother...” He stepped into the sitting room. Empty. A chair scraped on the upstairs floor. Ah, she was in the bedroom with his father. Good! He could tell them both he'd finally found a woman he was interested in courting in a serious way—a temperance advocate. Well, maybe he'd withhold that bit of information from his father until after he'd met Marissa.

He grinned, ignored the banister and took the stairs two at a time, halted at the top. A strange sort of heaviness weighted the air. Silence pressed upon him. He fastened his gaze on his parents' partially open bedroom door and started forward.

Light spilled into the hallway. A lanky man in a dark suit stepped out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed behind him. “I thought I heard you, Grant.”

“Good evening, Dr. Richards.” He shot another glance toward the bedroom. “Is Father having another spell?”

The doctor shook his head and placed a consoling hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, son. Your father's heart finally gave out.”

Denial stiffened his back. “But that can't be. He always—” He stared into the doctor's eyes and the truth slammed into his heart. He fisted his hands, swallowed back the useless protest. “He wasn't feeling well when I left for Fair Point. I should have stopped then and asked you to come to see him.”

“It wouldn't have changed anything, Grant. There's nothing more I could have done. This has been coming for some time. It's only your father's determination that kept him alive this long.”

Stubborn isn't strong, Grant. It's merely...stubborn...

His chest tightened. He cleared his throat. “Is Mother all right?”

“Yes. She's with him.”

He nodded and reached for the bedroom door.

The doctor put out his hand and stopped him. “I'm on my way to get Porter.”

The funeral director.
He took a breath, stared down at the floor.

“It was your father's request. He said it would be easier on your mother. And he told me to tell you the best thing you could do for him and your mother now was to get the harvest in and tend the vines.”

That was his father.
Was.
The word left him breathless. He nodded and grabbed the doorknob, fought for control as the doctor patted his shoulder, then walked down the stairs.

The front door opened and closed. Silence settled—pressed in on him. “I need Your help, Lord. I need You to give me strength and wisdom that I might be all that my mother needs me to be for her now.” The whispered prayer rose from his heart, rasped from his constricted throat. He pulled in another breath, squared his shoulders and turned the knob.

* * *

Marissa dumped her wash water into the bucket, rubbed cream on her face and hands and glanced around the tent. It had seemed spacious before. Now it seemed much too confining. The happiness bubbling inside her demanded expression. But there was no place she could be alone to release it. She glanced at Clarice, sleeping soundly in spite of the snores and occasional snorts coming from the surrounding tents. Perhaps, if she were quiet...

She lifted her plum dress from her cot, hummed softly while she shook it out and draped it across her trunk, then folded Grant's mother's scarf.

I want to continue to see you, Marissa...

She placed the scarf on top of her dress, her fingers lingering on the softness. They had been so focused on each other when they said good-night that they had forgotten about the scarf. At least she had. A thrill ran through her. Grant had told her he would be too busy overseeing the harvest to come to Chautauqua for the next few days. Had he left the scarf on purpose? So she would have to return it? Good manners dictated that.

She laughed softly, draped the scarf around her shoulders and dipped and whirled about in the small space.

“Oft in the twilight I'm dreaming... Dreaming of joys that may be...”

The long skirt of her nightgown billowed, fluttered down around her legs and billowed out again.

“Longing for eyes that are beaming... Patiently watching for me...”

Clarice's cot creaked.

She froze, choked off the song.

Clarice yawned, opened her eyes and rolled up onto her elbow. “Is something wrong, Marissa? Are you ill?”

“No. I couldn't sleep is all.”

“Are you dreaming, too?” Her tent mate's lips curved in a tired smile and she rolled down onto her back. “I dreamed I...heard...singing...”

She watched Clarice's eyelids drift closed and breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she wanted was a barrage of questions about her unusual behavior. These new feelings Grant brought forth in her were not to be fodder for Clarice's article. She could see it now— “Miss Practical finds love at Chautauqua!”
What if her mother— Oh, no! She hadn't kept her promise to write!