An Unlikely Love (8 page)

“There's some paint left from when Carl painted the barn we can use. I'll help you, Sarah.”

“And me.”

Marissa frowned and stepped in with a warning. “You must keep the protest a secret, ladies. So we catch our target unaware.”

Sarah Swan nodded, then glanced at her friends. “Come to my house tomorrow night. And bring your sewing so we're not discovered.”

“Well, it seems most of the details of the march are taken care of, save one important one.” Marissa smiled to hide her trepidation at the thought of getting on the steamer for the trip to Mayville. “When and where shall we gather to begin our march, ladies?”

* * *

The heated temperance debate had stopped. The crowd was thinning fast, drawn away by the singing group that was the night's entertainment if the bits of conversation swirling around him were any indication. Grant fastened his gaze on Marissa and moved forward against the flow, holding his stride in check, lest his eagerness cause him to bump into someone. He'd missed being with her. Ridiculous after knowing her for so short a time, but there it was.

The women she was talking with nodded and walked away. “Marissa...”

Her body stiffened. He braced himself and prepared to apologize for his faux pas the last time they'd been together, unwilling to accept rejection. She turned and looked up at him. His pulse kicked. He drank in the warmth in her eyes, puzzled over her tentative smile.

“Good evening, Grant. Was there something you wanted?”

Her posture was stiff, almost...defensive, her tone polite. But the warmth, the gladness in her eyes when she'd turned and seen him gave the lie to it all. “Yes. To apologize again for my lack of manners the other night—”

She shook her head. “My fault entirely. I should not have—”

“Marissa—” He reached for her arm, stopped, dropped his hand to his side and rushed to get out his apology before she interrupted him again. “I have never thought of you as anything but a proper young lady who was kind enough to bend the rules of propriety a little because of the special circumstances of the Chautauqua Assembly in order to accommodate the wishes of this young man who thoroughly enjoys your company and hopes you will not deny him that pleasure. Which brings me to my second purpose.” He stretched his right leg out behind him and made her a deep, sweeping bow, ending with his hand over his heart.
Please let the humor work, Lord.
He raised his voice to a normal level again. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll along the shore?”

“Get up before someone sees you!” Her cheeks flamed.

“Not until you agree, my lady.” He faked a wobble, flailed his arms.

“Stop! I'll walk with you.” She huffed the words, but her lips were twitching.

He grinned, straightened and offered her his arm. She caught at her lower lip with her teeth, worried it a moment then took her place beside him.

“Do you always resort to blackmail to win your way, Grant?”

“Never before, Marissa.” He guided her onto the main path and headed down the hill. “You test my ingenuity.”

“Is that what you call it?”

He chuckled, sucked in air when she gave him a sidewise glance. “I came to your lecture the other night.” Her hand stiffened on his arm.

“I know. I saw you standing by the post.”

Something was wrong. She'd gone all distant and defensive on him again. Had she not liked his being there? “You made a strong argument.”

“It's not an argument to me. It's my life.”

The quiet words carried bitterness, a burden of grief and sorrow. Her hand twitched. He tightened his arm against his side lest she try and pull her hand away. “You mentioned your brother again tonight during your lecture. I'm sorry for your loss, Marissa. Is your brother the reason you joined the Temperance Movement? I know it's hard when—”

“A man's death is unnecessary? When you learn your brother has been drinking and you run to the tavern to get him, to beg him to stop, and—” Her voice broke. She pressed her lips together, shook her head.

He pulled her off the crowded path into a small cleared area with a bench, halted and looked down at her. “What happened, Marissa? I'm not merely being curious. I'd like to understand—if it's not too painful for you to talk about.”

She stared up at him for a moment, then nodded, stepped to the bench and took hold of the back rail. “I didn't know Lincoln had taken to drink. When I was told, I ran to the inn to stop him, to remind him of our father. I was too late. Lincoln came staggering out of the inn, fell off the walkway in front of a passing carriage and the life was crushed from him by the horse's hoofs.” She blinked, gulped in air. “He was my brother. And I couldn't save him.”

The pain in her voice was like a live thing he could feel. “And so you joined the Temperance Movement to try and save others like him.”

“Yes. But not for Lincoln alone. For my father and my mother and all those like them, as well.” She glanced up, met his gaze and looked back down at the bench. “The innkeeper took me home, and I went to my parents' room to tell them about Lincoln. My father was...asleep from the wine he'd been drinking all evening, and my mother was huddled in her rocker crying from the black eye he'd given her.” Her grip on the bench tightened. He stepped close and placed his hand over hers, longing to take her in his arms and hold her until her sorrow and grief eased.

“Mother's eye was still swollen and discolored when she stood by Lincoln's grave. But she wore a mourning hat with a black veil that hid it. She's clever at doing that. Wearing clothes to hide her bruises and pretending there's nothing wrong, I mean. So was I. But I don't do that any longer.”

Her father beat her?
Anger soared. “Marissa...”

She jerked her hand away, grabbed a handful of her long black skirt then thrust it from her. “I hate wine, and I hate this gown. Every time I wear it I remember Lincoln, and my father and mother and all that wine has cost me.”

Wine.
That niggling unease he'd experienced since her lecture returned. How would she feel about his family owning a vineyard?

“But I'm not hiding the truth any longer. It's worth the discomfort if I can save someone else from—from what my family has endured.” She drew a breath, looked up at him. “And now you know about me. But I know little about you—what you do apart from attending science classes here at Chautauqua, and swimming in your pond.” She smiled, smoothed back a curl the way his mother patted at her hair when she was nervous, or wanted to change the topic of conversation. “Have you a family, Grant?”

“My parents. I'm an only child.” She winced, and he could have bit off his tongue for reminding her that she no longer had a sibling. He glanced down at the lovely enamel watch pinned to her bodice. Time was growing short; the
Colonel Phillips
would be blasting its whistle soon and there was so much he needed to tell her.
Lord, please make her understand my situation.
“That's the reason I'm only able to come to Chautauqua in the evenings. You see, when I was fifteen, my father had an accident that left him crippled and unable to run the...family business.” Interest flickered in her eyes. “The responsibility fell on me, so I gave up my plan to study to become a scientist and took over the physical work. Father, though he suffers from spells of ill health, still manages the business.”

“You wanted to be a scientist?” Curiosity shone in her beautiful blue eyes.

He nodded, slanted his lips into a grin. “I'm a man who likes to find answers to problems.”

“Your parents must be very proud and thankful to have a son willing to forgo his dream to provide for their needs. I hope your father doesn't suffer unduly.”

“The spells are coming more frequently of late.” A frisson of concern drew his eyebrows down into a frown. “That's why I was unable to come to Chautauqua yesterday. My father had one of his spells and I had to keep his business appointment.”

She nodded understanding. “Your fascination with science must come second to your responsibilities.”

The steamer blew its first warning.

He was beginning to hate that whistle.

“It's time for you to go.” She looked disappointed.

His pulse quickened. “Marissa, I need to—”

She shook her head. A smile played at the corners of her lips. “I shall find my own way to my tent. It's not far.”

“That's not what I was going to say.” He pulled in a breath, held her gaze with his. “Marissa, I'm the caretaker of my father's vineyard.”

She went perfectly still, stared at him. “A
vineyard
...” She took a step back.

He followed, took hold of her upper arms. “Marissa, please...my time is fleeting and I've so much more I want to say. But I can't come to see you for the next few days. The pickers are coming to start tomorrow and I have to be there to oversee the harvesting of the grapes. Father is unwell, and it's my responsibility.” He looked down at her pale face, the shock in her eyes, and pressed his case. “I hope you will allow me to call on you when I am able, to give me a chance to explain—”

The steamer blew its second warning. He had no more time to convince her with words. He pulled her close, slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands, hoping she would believe him sincere. “I'll be back in a few days, Marissa. And we'll talk more.”

He ran for the path, glanced back. Marissa was staring after him, her face stiff with shock, one hand pressed to her chest and the other gripping the rail of the bench. “I'll be back!” He turned and charged downhill.

Chapter Six

T
oday's lecture had gone well. And she hadn't felt nearly as uneasy riding the steamer this time. Now, if the protest march would go as well...

Marissa gripped the rail and watched the people making their way toward the dock, summoned by the blast of the
Colonel Phillips
's
whistle. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but its warmth was waning and it would be dusk when she made her return trip to Chautauqua. She should have thought to bring a wrap. The steamer lurched, slowed and slipped alongside the Mayville dock, lake water slapping at its sides.

I'm the caretaker of my father's vineyard.

She caught her breath and glanced at the road that passed between the railroad station and a hotel, followed its wide curve into a sloping climb to the top of the low hill.
I live in Mayville and our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it.
Her stomach churned. She took a firmer grip on the rail and searched the shoreline for grapevines. Grant was a
vineyard
owner. And he'd had to stay home today to oversee the harvest of his grapes. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, hoped for the hundredth time that Grant's vineyard wasn't the one Judith Moore had been talking about yesterday. It was a selfish wish. Grapes were grapes no matter who grew them. And grapes made wine. She'd reminded herself of that fact every time she relived Grant's words through her long, sleepless night.

“All ashore for Mayville!”

The call settled like a rock in her stomach. How could someone be reluctant and eager at the same time? She frowned and pushed back her windblown curls, ran her hand down the front of the skirt of her plum-colored day dress and joined the passengers gathering into a loose cluster at the head of the gangway. A young gentleman doffed his hat and smiled. “After you, miss.”

She stepped cautiously, kept her gaze fastened on the plank at her feet and released her breath when she stepped onto the dock. The short, ruffle-trimmed train of her gown slipped off the white-painted gangplank and whispered over the weathered wood as she made her way forward. A dozen or so canoes and rowboats tied to the long dock bobbed gently on the waves splashing against the pilings and rolling under the dock on their way to the shore. She moved closer to the center and wished the two women in front of her would walk faster.

“Miss Bradley!”

Ina Jefferson stood apart from the people waiting to board the steamer. Marissa hurried to her side and smiled. “Thank you for coming to meet me. Is everything ready?”

“Yes, indeed. Lily and Judith were already at the store shopping and visiting with Sarah when I passed by on my way here. Susan will be there when we arrive. It's a bit of a walk...all uphill once we reach the curve in the road.”

“Yes, I noticed that.” She shoved all thought of Grant from her mind and focused on the coming protest. “I'm ready. Shall we be on our way?”

* * *

“The harvest is going well.” Grant took a swallow of lemonade, eyed his father over the top of his glass. He looked...frail. Not a word associated with Andrew Winston. “The wagons should be on their way to the winery in less than an hour. I figure the concords should all be picked in another two days.”

“The catawbas be ready by then?”

Something was wrong. His father was trying to hide it, but there was worry in his eyes. He glanced over at his mother and swallowed back the questions he wanted to ask. There was no sense in adding to her concern for his father. He drained his glass and set it on the table. Perhaps his news would ease his father's mind. “No. The vines on the east slope will be ready in about a week, perhaps a day or two earlier if the weather holds. They'll have a decent yield. But the other vines—those that survived but were damaged by the killing cold—have a limited yield. Mr. Douglas looked at the catawbas again after your meeting this morning. He'll buy them, but for a lower price because of the difficulty in picking.”

“I expected that. Dillon Douglas likes to squeeze a nickel tight as the next man.” His father looked down, swirled the lemonade in his glass. “Best we can do, I guess. It'll help.”

Help? With what?
He needed to have a private talk with his father. “Well, I only came in to let you know the harvest is going well. And to tell you Douglas will stop by with another contract for the catawbas. I've got to get back to work. It'll be dusk soon and they'll start loading the wagons.” He stepped out onto the back porch, shrugged off his unease and trotted down the steps. He'd confront his father about what was wrong tonight, after the pickers had gone.

The lowering sun warmed his shoulders, threw his shadow before him as he strode down the stone walk to the bottom of the hill where the pickers were working.

“Winston!”

He pivoted, stared at the vintner striding down the path between the concords and the old vines. The man was scowling. Grant started up the slope to meet him. “I didn't expect to see you again until tomorrow, Mr. Douglas. Is there a problem?”

“Not yet. But it looks as if one is on the way.” Dillon Douglas shifted his gaze toward the access road. “Those wagons loaded?”

“No. The filled baskets are sitting in the rows waiting to be carried to the wagons when there's enough for a full load—the same as always. They should have enough baskets filled by dusk. It's been a good day.” He glanced at the sky. There wasn't a rain cloud in sight. “What's the problem, Mr. Douglas?”

“Them women!” Dillon Douglas snorted. “Hardon's wife was right. There's six of them marching through town on their way here. All carrying signs and singing hymns! Riling up the whole town! Everybody's going out on the street to watch them.”

“Here? Why would the women come here? Your winery is—”

“Useless without
grapes
.” The vintner narrowed his eyes and leaned toward him. “Your grapes, at the moment, Winston. Sitting in those baskets—” Dillon Douglas shot out his hand and pointed “—waiting to be hauled to my winery. It seems it's not only the wineries they're after. They're marching against vineyards, too. And they're on their way.”

Suspicion reared. “You said six women, Douglas. Is Sarah Swan among them?”

“She's marching in the lead beside some young woman I don't know. And you can be sure Toby doesn't know it! Why, he'd—” Dillon Douglas chopped his hand through the air and started back up the hill. “You build a fire under those pickers and get those wagons loaded, Winston. I want them out of here! There's no telling what those women have in mind.” The vintner pulled the contract for the concords from his pocket and waved it in the air. “And remember, no grapes, no payment!”

He clenched his hands to keep from grabbing hold and shaking Douglas. That money had to keep them through the next year. And his father was already worried about something. Likely that demand note he'd taken out last year. He pivoted on his heel and started toward the pickers. He had to think of something. And quick.

She's marching in the lead beside some young woman I don't know.

The memory of Sarah Swan at the temperance lecture turned his suspicion to certainty. It was Marissa. It had to be. But what could—

“Douglas!” The vintner halted, turned toward him. He closed the distance between them at a run. “I've an idea. You said Toby wouldn't know about Sarah marching. And I agree. He'd never stand for it. It would be bad for business.”

“What of it? You're wasting time, Winston. Get those pickers—”

“Hear me out! I doubt the other husbands would know or approve, either. Why don't you go tell them and arrange a little march of your own...” He nodded as understanding broke across Dillon Douglas's face.

“It just might work, Winston. Good thinking!” The vintner grinned and thumped him on his shoulder. “You get those wagons loaded and I'll get the husbands. But there's one woman I don't know.”

I do.
“You leave her to me.”

“Fair enough. I'll be back as soon as I gather up all the husbands!”

He nodded and ran toward the pickers, anger spurring him on. He hoped he was wrong, but his gut told him he wasn't. Marissa had to have had this march planned last night when he'd told her about his family owning a vineyard. And she'd never said a word...Yes, she had.

I hate wine.
Her soft, choked voice echoed in his head.

And, evidently, vineyard owners, too. Including him. How could he have been so wrong about her? His face tightened. “You men!” The pickers straightened, their heads and shoulders appearing above the lush green vines. He raised his voice so the men in the far rows would hear him. “Start loading the wagons! Mr. Douglas wants them out of here now!”

* * *

“Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Marissa glanced at Sarah Swan singing and marching beside her. The woman's hands were white with strain from holding the sign she carried so tightly. It was the perfect slogan for their purpose. Grapes Make Wine and Wine Makes Trouble and Sorrow. But it was obvious from the older woman's grim expression that it was more than a slogan to her.

She glanced up at her placard and wished again that she'd been given a different one to carry. Lips That Touch Wine Shall Never Touch Mine. She winced inwardly. She understood the sentiment, but it was too...personal. Especially after last night. Grant owned a vineyard; he would surely drink wine. And he— No! No more dwelling on foolish romantic dreams about Grant Winston. She had to forget him.

A house stood on their right, square and solid and somehow proud. She focused her attention on the home to drive out the unwelcome thoughts. It had a vine-draped front porch, ocher-painted clapboard siding and a deep overhang on the tin-covered hip roof that shaded the second-story windows. No one came out of the house to watch them as they passed. Were they standing back out of sight and watching them march by with tight-pressed lips or smiles?

“We're almost there. That is the access road to the vineyard just ahead.”

Sarah Swan's grim tone drew her back to their purpose. She looked forward. A dirt path led off to the right, guarded by a carved wooden sign declaring the land belonged to the Twin Eagle Vineyard. She stiffened her back and squared her shoulders, sang with more fervor.

The path parted fields of trellised grapevines, laden with bunches of light pink fruit that flowed over the brink of a hill. Over top of the abundant vines she could see the sparkling water of Chautauqua Lake at a short distance.

Our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it.

Her stomach knotted. Did these vines go all the way to the lake? She tightened her grip on her sign and walked toward the crest of the hill. Dust swirled up from the path, settled like powder on the bottom of her long plum-colored skirt. She looked down, came to an abrupt stop.

“Oh, look! We're right on time! There are the Oakwood Winery wagons. Over there—at the bottom of the hill.” Lily Edmunds dipped her sign in that direction.

The sign bearing the words Help Us Save Our Children. Stop Making Wine flashed in front of her, blocking her view. It didn't matter. She'd already seen the loaded wagons—and the tall, broad-shouldered man waving them forward. She closed her eyes, hoped...prayed.
Let me be wrong, Lord. Please let me be wrong.

“They're starting up the hill!”

“What shall we do?”

There was panic in the women's voices. She clamped a firm hold on her emotions and faced them. “We shall do what we came to do, ladies. Come with me to where we can't be seen.” She led them to a spot a short distance from the road entrance. “This is where we will make our stand. We are going to place ourselves in a line across this road and keep those wagons from leaving. Those grapes will not make wine!”

Wagons creaked. Horses' hoofs thudded against dirt. The wagons were getting close.

“Sarah, you stand with me in the middle.” She grabbed the older woman's hand and pulled her into place, took two steps to her right. “Lily and Ina, you take up places on the other side of Sarah.” She waved her hand to the left. “Judith and Susan, you do the same on my right.”

She watched the women hurry into place, then swept her gaze over each of them. “Perfect, ladies. Now, remember—don't move!”

“But the horses!”

Lily Edmunds gave a most unladylike snort. “You'd do better to worry about the driver, Ina. The horses won't hurt you.”

Hoofs thudded. The bobbing heads of a team of horses showed over the crown of the hill.

“Ready, ladies?” Marissa drew herself to her full height, squared her shoulders and lifted her sign high as the horses came plodding over the crest dragging the loaded wagon behind them. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Her voice rang out clear. The other women followed her lead and burst into song.

“Whoa!” The wagon driver hauled back on the reins, gaped down at them.

Grant came striding over the crest looking different than she'd ever seen him. He was wearing a blue work shirt, brown twill pants, boots and a frown. Her heart lurched. She forgot to sing. The other women fell silent.

“Good day, ladies.” Grant dipped his head in their direction. He swept his gaze over them, met hers for a second then looked up at the signs they held. His face went taut.

Hers flamed. It took all of her discipline and determination not to thrust her sign behind her back.

Grant stepped to the horse's head, grabbed the cheek strap and walked forward to within a few feet of them. “Get that other wagon up here, Joe!”

“Hup! Hup!” The team of horses came into view, followed by the wagon. The driver halted the horses and looked their way. “What's all this?” He scanned their signs and grinned.

“You find this amusing, Joe?”