Книга - An Unlikely Love

An Unlikely Love
Dorothy Clark


Irresistible AdversaryWith her focus firmly on spreading her message of temperance, Marissa Bradley is taken by surprise when she meets Grant Winston. Still in mourning for her brother, whose tragic death due to strong drink drives her to speak out on the subject, Marissa cannot think of romance. Yet Grant's charm draws her in.Intrigued by the pensive young woman, Grant determines he must learn more about her. But he never expected to find her protesting his family's vineyard! When he learns her reasons, he's sympathetic, but Grant can't walk away from the business that supports his family and provides his mother a home. How can he choose between his and Marissa's growing love and his family's very livelihood?







Irresistible Adversary

With her focus firmly on spreading her message of temperance, Marissa Bradley is taken by surprise when she meets Grant Winston. Still in mourning for her brother, whose tragic death due to strong drink drives her to speak out on the subject, Marissa cannot think of romance. Yet Grant’s charm draws her in.

Intrigued by the pensive young woman, Grant determines he must learn more about her. But he never expected to find her protesting his family’s vineyard! When he learns her reasons, he’s sympathetic, but Grant can’t walk away from the business that supports his family and provides his mother a home. How can he choose between his and Marissa’s growing love and his family’s very livelihood?


“I—I think it’s best if we say goodbye, Grant.”

The words took him like a punch to the gut. He stiffened, stared at her rigid back. “You mean, for us to go our separate ways?”

She flinched, nodded.

“Then turn around and look at me and tell me that’s what you want.”

She shook her head. Her hand, pale against her dark gown, fisted. “I can’t.”

His heart jolted. He sucked in air. “Why not? It should be easy enough if it’s what you want.”

“But it’s not!” She whipped around, her eyes anguished, wet tracks of tears glistening on her cheeks. “It’s what has to be. And I’m not—not strong enough to do what I must, when you—when I’m— I have to go.” She spun back around toward the dock.

He caught her hand, took her into his arms. She pushed against him, then grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, buried her face against his chest and burst into tears.


Award-winning author DOROTHY CLARK lives in rural New York. Dorothy enjoys traveling with her husband throughout the United States doing research and gaining inspiration for future books. Dorothy believes in God, love, family and happy endings, which explains why she feels so at home writing stories for Love Inspired Books. Dorothy enjoys hearing from her readers and may be contacted at dorothyjclark@hotmail.com.


An Unlikely Love

Dorothy Clark






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Let us not therefore judge one another any more: but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother’s way.

—Romans 14:13


This book is dedicated with affection and deep appreciation to all of the talented Love Inspired Historical authors who graciously, unfailingly rush to cheer for, help, commiserate with or pray for each other as the occasion demands. You ladies are the best!

And Sam.

This is the tenth book since we joined forces as critique partners and you’ve stuck with me through them all. Ten books, Sam! How do I thank you for that?

“Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established.”

Your Word is truth. Thank You, Jesus.

To God be the glory


Contents

Cover (#u9e81513e-3e5b-5558-a41e-ecd96a294cd6)

Back Cover Text (#u1eab3364-6a91-5503-b910-9c0686c0a392)

Introduction (#ue15ff79a-1e3a-5d1f-a127-5531a7cd0491)

About the Author (#ub9c3bb47-0de0-5fed-8ff1-97b025b4721d)

Title Page (#ue55c8e8a-d977-52f6-b7d6-96c378c7300d)

Bible Verse (#u8828b193-6728-5aef-8133-fa420f540a87)

Dedication (#ue1f41a99-513a-5407-ad6a-e821d84985a5)

Chapter One (#ulink_c5941592-0021-5059-907c-6e726b7c24fd)

Chapter Two (#ulink_7e2aa90d-1c75-5f0e-9833-e5f083f95272)

Chapter Three (#ulink_49b715f2-03df-505c-971e-54ce56f8c9cd)

Chapter Four (#ulink_e6b57e86-30bf-50f9-97c4-95f7288d3104)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_cbb3d7d6-4278-521f-acbe-3c8dac298280)

August 1874 Chautauqua Lake, New York

The steamer lurched, vibrated. The whistle blew. They were under way. It wouldn’t be long now. Marissa caught her balance and pressed her hand hard over her stomach. Laughter and excited chatter rose around her. It seemed as if everyone on the boat was talking about the Chautauqua Assembly program. Snippets of conversations about the Bible studies, teacher training classes, musical entertainments, recreational activities and lectures the assembly offered swelled to an uncomfortable din.

The lectures. She squeezed the small velvet purse dangling from her wrist, felt the stiffness of the two letters inside and took another breath against the roiling in her stomach. The hum of voices drowned out the patter of the rain against the window at her back. She swept her gaze over the people crowded onto benches or standing shoulder to shoulder in the large cabin and gauged her chances of making it to the door.

“Excuse me.” She turned sideways, edged through the crowd and slipped outside. The hubbub of the other passengers aboard the Colonel Phillips faded to a low murmur. A cool mist from the falling rain swept under the floor of the upper deck and peppered her face. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked around. Lantern light from the windows spread a golden gleam across the wet deck, glistened on the railing. She pulled the hood of her waterproof coat forward, took a cautious step toward the front of the ship, another, then stopped.

“Are you all right, miss?”

A man strode toward her out of the darkness. Obviously, he had no problem walking aboard a moving vessel. She nodded, wiped the moisture from her face. “I’m fine. It’s only that I’m unaccustomed to walking on a floor that quivers beneath my feet. It’s a little unnerving.”

The light from behind her washed over the man’s strong, well-defined features, flashed on his white teeth when he smiled. My, but he’s handsome. Warmth climbed into her cheeks. She turned her face away from a lantern hanging from the upper deck that would, no doubt, reveal her blush.

“It’s the thrust of the steamer’s engine you feel. The occasional lurch is caused by the paddle wheels when there is a steering correction.” The man stopped a few steps away from her. “The deck is a bit slick. May I assist you to your destination?”

He was younger than she’d thought. Perhaps in his midtwenties. A few years older than herself. She glanced across the distance to the railing and weighed her unease against propriety.

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man removed his hat and dipped his head in a small polite bow that revealed a mass of short brown hair with deep waves crested by sun streaks. “Grant Winston, at your service.” He replaced his hat and flashed his smile again. “At least I am if you will permit me to be, Miss...”

“Bradley.” She drew her gaze from his disarming grin, nibbled at the corner of her lip. “I am going to the railing at the front of the ship. If you wouldn’t mind walking beside me...”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Then, thank you, Mr. Winston. I accept your kindness.” She offered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t slip on the wet deck and stepped forward. Grant Winston moved beside her, matching his steps to her uncertain ones. She let out a sigh and took a tight hold when they reached the railing.

“Feel safer now?”

“I will as long as I don’t look down.”

He chuckled. A deep, pleasant sort of rolling sound that had a smile tugging at her lips.

“I take it you’re not a veteran steamer passenger?”

“I’m strictly a landlubber.” She laughed to cover the nervous tremor in her voice and peeked over the railing. Dark water flowed beneath the ship, brushed along the side in a sinister-sounding whisper. Her stomach flopped. “I didn’t know how intimidating water could be. I should have made Lincoln teach me to swim.” The name slipped from her lips without thought. Pain rose, squeezed the air from her lungs. She blinked, thankful for the rain that would hide any betraying shimmer of tears.

“Lincoln?”

The band of pain squeezed tighter. “My brother.” Bitterness tainted her voice. She drew a shallow, ragged breath, lifted her gaze and watched the lights on the shore morph to yellow blurs as the ship steamed toward the middle of the long lake. Don’t let him ask about Lincoln, Lord. Please, don’t let him ask. The ship lurched. Her kid gloves slipped against the wet rail. She gasped and tightened her grip.

“It might help if you look at the land ahead, instead of behind. See how it curves around? That’s why the captain changed course. The ship will steady now.”

His deep voice was calm, reassuring. The tension left her shoulders. Thank You, Lord. She gingerly shifted her position and searched for the spot he described.

He gestured ahead toward the right. “When we pass that outcropping, you’ll see lights among the trees on the hills at the Chautauqua campgrounds at Fair Point, though it’s still quite some distance away.”

The wind gusted. He swiped the water from the collar of his mackintosh and tugged it up around his neck. “I understand there are already a great number of people in attendance, though the assembly does not officially begin until tomorrow. And, of course, there are still people coming by steamers both from here in Mayville and from Jamestown at the other end of the lake. Two or three hundred on every ship. A friend here in Mayville told me the captains are leaving port at full capacity.”

If he was trying to distract her, it worked admirably. “So many?”

“Yes. It’s quite amazing really.” He turned toward her, leaned his hip against the railing. “The Chautauqua Assembly program seems to have caught the interest of people from all over. I’ve spoken with a family from Canada. And people from Ohio and Virginia. And, of course, New York and Pennsylvania.”

Oh, my! What had she gotten herself into? She swallowed hard and stared toward the outcropping he’d pointed out. The more people who attended her lectures, the better, of course. But she was no orator, only—

“Am I right?”

She started out of her thoughts, glanced up at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you are attending the assembly.”

Her stomach clenched. “Yes, I am.” Because of you, Lincoln. And Father.

“I thought as much.”

She took a steadying breath, thrust her dark thoughts away. “And why is that?”

“Because I believe everyone aboard this ship, save the captain and crew, is headed for the Chautauqua campgrounds. And—” his gaze dropped to her hands gripping the railing “—I figure it had to be something like this advertised assembly to entice you to step foot on the Colonel Phillips.”

“You are correct, Mr. Winston.” Though not because I’m afraid of the water. The conversation had gone far enough. She wanted no questions about her reason for attendance—not with tears threatening. Nor did she want him to find her lacking in proper manners and judge her to be a woman of low behavior. She gave him a polite smile. “Thank you for your kind reassurance and assistance, sir. I’m most appreciative.”

He took a step back and made her a polite bow. “My pleasure, Miss Bradley.”

The steamer gave another lurch, headed into the wind and started around the outcropping. The rain slanted in between the decks. She clung to the railing and stared out over the water until Grant Winston’s footsteps faded away and there was only the patter of the rain against the hood and shoulder cape of her waterproof coat, and the whisper of the water against the ship. A well-brought-up young woman did not look after a young man—not even a kind, helpful one.

She let out a long breath and turned her thoughts to the two letters in her purse. Who had prompted those in charge of the Chautauqua Assembly to send her an invitation to lecture on temperance? Could it be the Mrs. Tobin Swan who had written asking her to lead a group of women in protest against the local vineyards and wineries? Her lips lifted in a grim smile. Wine had destroyed her family. It would be a pleasure to stop its production at its very source.

“Grant me success, Lord, I pray.” Her determination firmed. The solitude of the rainy deck was the perfect place to rehearse her lectures. The more she practiced them, the less chance that she would make an error or miss including an important point when she was speaking.

* * *

Grant leaned on the rail and watched the foaming water churned up by the side wheel. It was hard to imagine having a fear of the water. Going for a swim was his favorite way to end a summer workday. But then, he’d learned to swim when he was four years old. Of necessity. Of course, he’d been plenty afraid that day.

He stared down at the lake water and thought back to the moment when he’d stepped on the wet mud at the edge of their pond and slid into the cold water. Fortunately, he’d instinctively pushed hard when his feet hit the stony bottom. A grin slanted his lips. That push combined with the frantic flailing of his arms and legs had brought him back up to the top of the water where he could gasp in air. He’d stretched his arm out in an effort to reach the bank, kicked his feet and stretched out his other arm trying to get closer, and suddenly he was swimming on top of the water instead of sinking to the bottom. Of course, the pond was shallow at that end. Not more than five feet deep even during a spring runoff. Things would have ended differently had he fallen in the deep end.

His grin faded. He’d not thought about that before. He’d best fence that pond if he ever married and had children of his own. He straightened and moved down the railing, leaned against a post and watched the lights of Mayville disappear as the steamer rounded the outcropping. His mother and father were eager for him to marry and produce an heir. Being an only child had its responsibilities—a fact that they pointed out to him more and more frequently of late. It wasn’t that he had any objections to being married. He wanted a wife and family the same as any man. He just hadn’t met a woman he’d found interesting enough to hold his attention. Although Miss Bradley was definitely intriguing. And she was a “miss.” She hadn’t corrected him when he addressed her as such. And she hadn’t simpered about it, either. He hated that coy behavior.

Muted laughter and voices drifted his way from the crowded passenger lounge at his back. He wiped the rain from his face, stepped over into the silence by the side railing and slid his gaze toward the front of the steamer. She was still there. A dark silhouette against the flickering, rain-streaked light of one of the ship’s lanterns.

Miss Bradley was different all right. He wasn’t accustomed to a young woman dismissing him from her presence. And he’d never known any woman who shunned society for solitude. Or one who didn’t hurry inside as quickly as possible when it rained. So why was she standing out in the chilly, rainy night alone? And what had caused the sadness he’d seen in her eyes? Her lovely blue eyes.

The steamer cleared the outcropping. Pinpricks of light flickered against the darkness ahead. He pushed back the edges of his mackintosh, shoved his hands in his trousers pockets and leaned back against a post studying the shifting pattern of lights. He’d intended to find out the schedule and attend only the science classes at the Chautauqua Assembly in the hope of finding a way to increase yield at the vineyard. But that was before his chance encounter with the intriguing Miss Bradley. Now he would come to Fair Point as often as he could get away from the vineyard. Foolishness perhaps; the assembly would last for only two weeks. But that would give him time enough to find out the answers to those questions.

A ship’s whistle floated through the dark, rainy night. Bells pealed. Tiny lights danced on the water, approached the docking area miles ahead at Fair Point. A frown tugged his brow down. Another steamer was bringing a couple hundred or more attendees to the Chautauqua campgrounds from the other end of the lake. The swarm of people would make finding Miss Bradley difficult. But he liked a challenge...

* * *

Marissa stared at the lights gleaming along the shore and peeking through the trees on the hill. The assembly was much larger than she’d imagined. “Oh, my! There are so many lights they look like a swarm of fireflies.”

“And I should think most of those who will be attending the assembly have not yet arrived.” The young woman crowding against the railing on her left smiled and tilted the umbrella she held against the changing direction of the wind. “I know some are staying at the hotels in Mayville. They don’t care to live at the camp. And I’m certain there are many others who will live in their accustomed comfort and only attend daily—when they so choose. My aunt is numbered among them. As for me, the next two weeks should be very exciting. I’ve never spent time in the woods. And with all the meetings and entertainments—”

The steamer’s whistle drowned out the young woman’s voice. Bells ashore pealed out an answer to the ship’s signal. The steamer lurched, slowed. Water slapped against the side then rolled off to wash up onshore. They came to a full stop.

“We’ve arrived! I must find my cousin.” The young woman spun about and joined the other passengers.

The deck seethed with people clutching their bags and umbrellas and jockeying for position in the line to disembark. She pulled her small dangling purse into her hand and pressed back against the side railing to wait for the crush of people to thin.

Shouts came from all directions. Crew members jumped to the dock, caught ropes that were thrown to them from aboard the ship and wrapped them around thick posts. The disembarking plank hit the dock with a thud.

“All ashore for Fair Point and for the Chautauqua Assembly!”

The hum of conversation aboard ship died. People pressed forward, umbrellas bumping. Farther down the deck, crew members hefted trunks onto their shoulders and carried them ashore. Hers was riding on the beefy shoulder of a man twice as broad as the plank they trod. She held her breath when the plank sagged beneath the man’s weight and hoped her trunk didn’t leak.

“Come along, miss.”

A deckhand motioned her forward. She tugged her hood farther down over her forehead and stepped into the line at the top of the wide gangway. Lantern light from posts at the end of the dock shone on the water between the steamer and the shore. It looked deep. Rain pocked the dark surface, danced on the plank and the dock. Was the plank slippery? An image of her sliding off the side into that dark water flashed into her head. She frowned and moved forward with the line, grateful she’d worn her boots instead of packing them. The couple in front of her stepped onto the gangway. She was next. She clenched her fingers about her purse and wished for a railing to hold on to.

“We meet again, Miss Bradley.”

Grant Winston smiled and moved away from the steamer’s railing, stepped into line beside her. Had he been waiting there for her? Such forwardness was unacceptable. But she was too grateful for his strong, solid presence to demur. She nodded and moved onto the wide gangway, her steps steadier and less timid because he walked beside her.

“Those with admittance passes go to the line on my right please. Those without passes go to the line on my left.”

She lifted her gaze beyond the man standing in the center of the dock a short distance ahead directing passengers. A small shingled building stood at the far end of the weathered boards, the lanterns hanging from hooks on the small structure illuminating the two lines flowing toward open gates at each side. The dark tree-covered hill sprinkled with lights rose a short way beyond. Her stomach flopped. How was she to find her way? Unless...She drew her gaze back, hoping. “I’m to be on the right, Mr. Winston.”

“And I on the left. I’ve decided to purchase a pass for the full two weeks.” He smiled and bowed her across in front of him, stepped into the other line.

Her hope flickered then steadied. Perhaps Mr. Winston would find her again when they had both cleared the gates. She swallowed her trepidation, extracted her speaking invitation with its attached pass of admittance from her purse and followed those ahead of her to the gatehouse.

“Next, please.”

A quick glance to her left showed Grant Winston’s line was moving much slower. The prospect of receiving any help from him vanished. She stepped up to the side window and handed her invitation to the man inside the small house.

“Ah, you are one of our speakers. It’s good to have you with us, Miss Bradley.” The bearded man smiled and motioned behind him. “Mr. Johnson will show you to the accommodations for teachers and speakers. Tell him about your baggage.”

“Thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief as he waved her through the gate, then paused as a man garbed in a black waterproof with a piece of blanket draped over his shoulder stepped forward.

“Mr. Johnson at your service, Miss Bradley. Have you any baggage?”

She nodded, scanned the piles of trunks. “That alligator, camelback Saratoga sitting on top of the near pile is mine.”

“Very good, miss. If you will follow me please.” The man hefted her trunk to his blanket-draped shoulder and started across the narrow strip of flat land to a beaten path that disappeared into the trees on the hill. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. Mr. Winston was standing by the gatehouse looking her way. Her cheeks warmed as their gazes met. She averted hers lest he think her bold and stepped onto the path.

“Watch your step, Miss Bradley. The rain makes the fallen leaves slippery.”

It was an understatement. Everything was slippery. And dark. Torches sitting in boxes of what looked like sand atop posts spaced along the way sputtered out light useful only for guidance. She stopped trying to hold her skirt hems up to keep them from becoming soiled and simply tried to maintain her balance and not become separated from her guide among the throng of people on the path.

* * *

“Thank you for your help, Mr. Johnson.” The flap door of the tent fell into place behind the departing guide. Rain pelted the sloped canvas roof, dripped off the overhanging eaves outside. Marissa shivered and cast a wary glance up at the sagging pockets where the edges of the four roof sections met the tent walls.

“Don’t touch those! It makes them leak.”

She shifted her gaze to the slender, dark-haired woman with whom she would live for the next two weeks. Light from a lantern sitting on a small writing desk revealed a glint of amusement in the young woman’s gray eyes.

“I don’t mean to sound bossy, but I learned that lesson the hard way. That’s why I’m working here in the center of the floor.” The young woman laughed and gestured toward a large wet spot on the rough board floor beside the far tent wall. A drop of water hit the wood, splattered.

Marissa glanced up at the sagging canvas above the wet spot. Another drop formed, fell. Oh, dear...

“I thought it would be smart to push up on that sagging part of the roof and shove the pooled water over the side. I was wrong. When I let go, it started dripping where my hands had touched the canvas.” The woman pulled a face and waved her hand toward the juncture of roof and wall. “As you can see, it’s still dripping. But only there—nowhere else, though it looks as if it will. Anyway, I’ll move the desk back as soon as the rain stops and the canvas dries.”

“Thank you for the warning.” She looked at the woman and laughed. “I thought, perhaps, I would have to sleep in my waterproof.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Indeed.” She swept her gaze over the furnishings in the surprisingly spacious tent. There were two cots, two chairs, a desk and, thankfully, a washstand equipped with a pitcher and washbowl. A bucket of water holding a tin dipper sat on the floor beside it.

“There’s a pump and a stone fire pit with a huge iron pot two tents down that way.” The woman swept her hand to the right. “We’re to get our water there. Someone from the camp tends the fire that keeps the water in the pot warm. It’s a luxury I didn’t expect.”

“I’m not familiar with tent living, so any further bits of wisdom you care to share will be appreciated.” She shoved the hood of her waterproof back off her head and shot a wary look at the unmade cot. The guide had placed her trunk beside it. Both sat beneath one of those sagging pockets of rain. “It will also be to your advantage as we are to be housemates—or perhaps I should say tent mates.” She looked back at the young woman and smiled. “Thank you for sharing your quarters with me. I’m Marissa Bradley.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Temperance?”

“Yes.” She braced herself, resisted the temptation to ask how the woman knew. Temperance was not a favored subject with many women. They preferred to hide from the truth. She had done so for five years. And her mother.

“You’re very young and pretty to be a crusader. I admire your courage. And I’ll be writing about you and your lectures. Make them good, for if they’re not, I’ll not hesitate to say so.” The young woman came forward, peered straight into her eyes. “I’m Clarice Gordon. I write articles for the Sunday School Journal. And for other papers on occasion, so you must take my warning seriously.”

“I shall, Miss Gordon.”

“And, as we’ll be sharing living quarters for two weeks, I suggest we dispense with formality and call each other by our given names. Would you agree, Marissa?”

How forward! Still, it made sense. “I would indeed, Clarice.”

“Good. Then the air is clear between us. Now—” Clarice Gordon gestured toward a tall, clean section of tree root standing upright beside the flap. A blue waterproof dangled from one of the high roots. “Behold our coatrack. Why don’t you hang up your waterproof and I’ll help you make up your bed? You did bring bed linens with you?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. They were on the list.” She shrugged out of her coat and hung it up to drip-dry, shivered in the damp air and hurried to her trunk to get her quilted cotton jacket. “What do we do for meals, Clarice?”

“We go to the hotel.”

She jerked erect, her bed linens in her hands. “A hotel!”

Clarice laughed and shook her head. “It’s only called that. It’s a rather poor excuse for a building, but it is made of wood.”

“I see.” She shook out a sheet and spread it over the mattress tick, placed her hand on the surface and felt for the stuffing material. Cornhusks. “And the food?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of dining at the hotel. I only caught a glimpse of it when my guide showed me where it was located. It’s downhill a short way from here.”

“Everything is downhill from here.” She shot Clarice a wry look, spread the top sheet and reached for a blanket.

“That’s true.” Her tent mate grasped the edge of the blanket, looked up and grinned. “But there is one advantage. Your prayers will have a head start over those offered from below.”

As if that mattered. She smoothed the blanket over her side of the cot then pulled out the pillow she’d jammed into the trunk lid and fluffed the feathers. It was too late for prayers—Lincoln was dead.

* * *

“What do you mean you’re going to this Chautauqua Sunday School Assembly thing? Isn’t going to church on Sunday good enough for you?”

Grant placed his wet shoes on the hearth, looked at his father’s set face and braced himself for a long discussion. “The assembly is not only about church. I went to Fair Point tonight and bought a pass for the entire two weeks.”

“Besides, more church teaching is always a good thing, Andrew.” His mother looked at his father and smiled. “And I’m sure there are a lot of lovely young Christian woman attending the Chautauqua classes.”

Oh-ho. He tugged off his damp socks and glanced over at the settee. His mother always had such a lovely, serene look about her, but there was a she-bear inside her that reared up and charged to his defense whenever his father was displeased about something he said or did. He was her only child and could do no wrong in her sight—with the exception of his not getting married.

He dropped his socks beside his shoes and rushed to defuse her implications. “That’s true, Mother. But it’s the science classes being offered at Chautauqua that interest me. I’m hoping by attending I will learn something that will help me better care for the vines and increase their yield and thus our profits.” A pair of beautiful but sad blue eyes flashed before him. And to satisfy my curiosity about Miss Bradley.

“We’re doing all right.”

His father’s gruff words pulled his thoughts away from the intriguing young woman and focused them on their situation. He shot a glance toward the settee and tempered his response. His mother did not know about the demand note his father had taken against the coming harvest to meet expenses after the killing cold last winter had destroyed so many of the old vines.

“We can always do better.” As the concords prove. He stopped himself from uttering the words aloud and stepped close to the fire to dry his pants legs. “Scientists discover all sorts of new ways to make crops healthier and increase yield.”

His mother rested her needlepoint on her lap and smiled up at him. “I’m sure that’s true, son.”

His father snorted, shook his head. “You’re sure whatever comes out of the boy’s mouth is true, Ruth. If these scientists are so smart, let them figure out a way to control the weather. Now, that would help.”

“Perhaps one day they will.”

His mother’s support of him was automatic. He aimed a smile her way.

His father leaned sideways in his wheelchair, picked up a piece of wood and placed it on his lap, then turned and wheeled himself along the hearth and added the wood to the fire. “This damp gets into a man’s bones and makes them ache. And it’s not good for the grapes, either.” A piercing look accompanied the words. “You need to see to the vineyard, Grant, not go gallivanting off to some science classes that are nothing but a waste of time.”

He let the criticism go. It was his father’s frustration with his own inability to go out into the fields talking. A change of subject was in order before his father became overheated and jeopardized his health. “The stems of the concords are turning woody, but the seeds are still a little green. The full-bodied flavor and sweetness hasn’t quite developed yet, either. I figure to let them hang another three or four days. It’ll be time to start harvesting the south slope then.”

“Sounds about right.” His father nodded, rubbed his knees with his palms then looked up at him. “I’ll send word out to the wineries. The vintners will want to come take a look at the grapes so they can make their bids. We need to give the winner enough warning so he can get his schedule together and hire pickers to harvest the grapes.”

He nodded and glanced toward the window, thought about a solitary figure standing on the steamer’s deck in the rain. Perhaps, if he found Miss Bradley as intriguing as she seemed, he would invite her to join him for a picnic and watch the pickers. “I’ll bring in a few clusters before I go to Fair Point tomorrow and we’ll make our final decision. And you’ve no need to worry. The science classes are scheduled late in the day. I’ll be here to oversee the harvest. And there’s something else...” He reached into his pocket, withdrew the list of lectures being offered and held it out to his father. “This is another reason for my going to the assembly. They are holding a series of lectures on temperance. I plan to attend them.”

“Temperance!” His father snorted, shoved the list away. “A waste of time. Men drink. Always have, always will. You need to spend your time here, tending the vines.”

“There’s nothing to do for the next few days except watch for the grapes to ripen to maturity. I’ll check them every morning.” He turned to dry the front of his pants, frowned down at the fire. “There are a lot of taverns and inns in the surrounding towns and villages, and I’ve no doubt a good many of the owners will attend those lectures. Mix them in with those people in favor of temperance, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there are fireworks that will rival those I’ve heard they’re planning to shoot off on one of the boats in the middle of the lake.” He wiggled his toes against the warm stone beneath them and glanced down at his father. “What’s that old saying... ‘A wise man knows his enemy’? I don’t intend to miss those lectures.”


Chapter Two (#ulink_0fdb1f9e-a17c-561c-9dde-2a1eaed6a63b)

Grant whistled his way along the path at the top of the low, rolling incline of the vineyard’s south slope. The sun warmed his shoulders, glinted on the knife in his hand and gleamed on the grapes in his basket. It was perfect weather for finishing the ripening of the grapes. And for the opening of the Chautauqua Assembly.

He glanced up, checked the sun’s position in the blue sky and smiled. He had plenty of time to meet with his father, clean up and eat, then ride into town and catch the steamer. The science class was scheduled last in the afternoon. A vision of lovely blue eyes above a pert nose wiped off his smile and furrowed his brow. Where would he find Miss Bradley? It was too much to hope that she was interested in science.

He quickened his steps then turned onto a path between two of the rows of vines that flowed down the gently sloping incline in long, regimented courses. Healthy, hardy vines clung with tenacious tendrils to the strung wire trellises at his sides. He looked left and right, scanning the new vines he was starting between each of the ones he’d planted over the past five years. The new ones would be ready to be replanted in the spring. And there were enough of them that they would finish the rows in the new field he’d started. And that would double the size the vineyard had been when he took over its care after his father’s crippling accident.

Satisfaction surged. He cast a proprietary gaze over the clusters of purple fruit peeking through the lush growth of leaves and puckered his lips to blow out another tuneless melody. Of the different vines he’d introduced into the vineyard to prove to his father that scientific methods of experimentation could be applied to growing crops, these concords had proved the best. They had survived last year’s harsh winter that had killed the canes of most of the other new varieties and also a large portion of the vineyard’s old, original vines. None of their neighbors’ vines had fared as well. And the concords yielded a crop that ripened earlier than the others he’d tried. They’d have no worries about an early killing frost this year.

A grin slanted his lips. His father was getting excited about the concords. Being the first to market put him in position to negotiate a good price from the competing vintners. Perhaps they could make profit enough to pay off the demand note and have money left to carry them through next year. And with his percentage of the profit that was his year’s wages, his plans for buying a business of his own would take a leap forward.

He reached under the canopy of leaves on his right, cut off a heavy cluster and placed it in the basket with the others. One more bunch from farther down the row and he’d have the sampling they needed to make up a harvesting plan to present to the winning bidder. He hurried down the path, his mind already jumping ahead to the late afternoon science class. Perhaps today he’d learn other ways to improve the vineyard. And he would for certain meet the intriguing Miss Bradley again.

* * *

Marissa frowned, shot an uneasy look in the direction of the rumble of male voices and tugged her dressing gown closer around her shoulders. It was a little unnerving to prepare for the day when you could hear strange men talking and walking about.

She finished fastening her skirt, moved back to her bed for her bodice, slipped in one arm, shrugged off the dressing gown and slipped her arm in the other sleeve in the same movement. A few quick twists of her fingers buttoned the bodice down the front. She craned her head to look over her shoulder, reached her hands around to the back of her skirt and shook out the gathered folds of fabric that fell from the center of the waistband into a short train at the hem.

“These bustles are so impracticable! How am I supposed to keep my hem from dragging in the mud left by last night’s rain as I go from tent to tent? It’s impossible!” She muttered the complaint into the empty air, snatched up her dressing gown and folded it. “At least the dirt won’t be so noticeable on the dark colors of my mourning clothes.”

She looked down at her dark gray day dress and blinked away a rush of tears. I miss you, Lincoln. She pulled her thoughts away from her deceased brother, picked up her brush, swept her hair to the crown of her head and gathered it into her hand. A glance into her small mirror showed her hair had formed its usual soft waves with curls dangling around her forehead and temples. It made her look less serious. She sighed, secured the hair in her hand with a gray silk ribbon, let the thick mass fall free then caught it up again into a loose bunch at her crown. Two quick wraps of the ribbon about the hair held it in place while she tied the bow. When she lowered her hands the freed curls frothed over the back of her head. They always did, no matter how she tried to secure them. She’d given up the battle and ceded them victory years ago.

The hem of her gown swished softly across the rough boards as she set to work using the housekeeping activity to hold at bay the sadness that still overwhelmed her at times. She folded her nightclothes, placed them under her pillow and straightened the covers on the cot, forcing her thoughts to the day ahead. What would this morning’s meeting for the teachers and speakers hold in store for her? Perhaps she would learn why the leaders had invited her here to Chautauqua. She had written them that she was not a professional speaker but had only addressed a few small women’s meetings at various towns around her home. Still they sent her a second invitation. And she couldn’t refuse. Not when it meant a chance to spare others the pain of—

She broke off the thought, opened her trunk and withdrew the enameled pendant watch she’d borrowed from her mother. An expensive Cartier watch. The symbol of her father’s remorse for abusing her mother while in a drunken state. She had only to look at the watch to remember her father’s uncontrolled anger, the sounds of her mother’s pleading voice, the cries she tried to muffle. Her face tightened. She pinned the watch on her bodice, pricked her trembling fingers on the clasp. How many times had she and Lincoln heard or seen...? And then Lincoln—

Tears welled into her eyes. “Dear Lord, I pray You will give me the words to speak to convey the dangers inherent in the use of strong drink. And that You will use those words to bring comfort or conviction to the hearts of those who hear that they may be spared the suffering my family has known. Amen.”

A sense of purpose swept away her concern over speaking before such large numbers. It was the message that was important, not how eloquently it was presented. She settled her small unadorned black hat forward of her clustered curls, picked up her purse, pushed aside the tent flap and stepped out into the sunshine.

* * *

The rustle of people taking seats filled the tent. A hushed murmur floated on the air. Marissa clutched her purse and walked midway down the aisle between rows of benches to an empty spot at the end of a pew on her left. “Excuse me. Are you waiting for someone to join you, or is this seat available?”

An older woman looked up and smiled. “I’m not expecting anyone. You’re welcome to the seat. I’m Mrs. Austin...from Cleveland, Ohio.”

She smiled her thanks, eased the folds of her bustle beneath her and slipped onto the bench. “I’m Miss Bradley. I’m from Fredonia—a small town not far from here. Are you—”

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

She shrugged an apology for her unfinished question and turned her attention to the platform at the front of the tent.

“For those of you whom I’ve not yet met, I am Dr. John Austin.”

Austin! She slid her gaze toward the woman seated beside her, received a smile and a whispered “My brother-in-law,” nodded and again faced the speaker.

“I want to welcome you to Fair Point, and thank you for coming. You teachers, speakers and entertainers are the heart of this Chautauqua Assembly. It could not take place without you. And now for an explanation of our purpose and some rules about your classes or lectures.” Dr. Austin clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward, his bearded face sober. “It is our belief that every facet of a person—spirit, soul and body—should be ministered to in order to promote an abundant life. Therefore, this assembly will devote itself to Bible study, teacher training classes, musical entertainment, lectures on important issues of the day and how they relate to the church, recreational activity, praise meetings and devotional exercises.”

Important issues of the day. That would include her subject of temperance.

Dr. Austin cleared his throat, stepped to the edge of the platform. “It is also our belief that education should be available to every man, woman and child for the enrichment of their lives and the betterment of mankind. Therefore, reading and the discussion of books shall be an ongoing class. Also, the advances in the sciences will be demonstrated and taught.”

She took a breath and glanced around.All of the people looked so competent and accomplished. And she felt so inept and uncertain. As if she were still walking on the Colonel Phillips’s quivering deck.

Grant Winston. A vision of him walking toward her out of the darkness slipped into her mind. It was strange how safe she had felt with him beside her. And how reluctant she was to see him go when they’d been separated onto their different paths after disembarking. Would she ever see him again? She frowned and fingered the cord on her purse. That was highly unlikely. There were so many people attending the assembly it would be impossible to— The assembly. She jerked her thoughts back to the speaker.

“—in addition to the Bible readings.” Dr. Austin glanced down at the paper he held. “Today’s topic for the late afternoon featured lecture will be moral ideas. Tomorrow, it will be on drawing caricatures. And the day following will feature the first of the lectures on temperance.”

There was an audible intake of breath among those listening, a general stirring as people glanced at one another. She caught her breath at the reaction, looked down at her lap. Two more days to prepare.

“And, of course, every day there will be nature walks in the woods and promenades along the shore, boats for rowing and all manner of entertainments—music, steamer rides, fireworks...”

Steamer rides? Not for her. Unless... She closed her eyes, pictured Grant Winston standing beside her at the rail of a steamer with sunshine warm on their faces and a soft breeze riffling their hair. A smile touched her lips. He had sun streaks in his hair, the way her father did before he moved them into town. Was Grant a farmer? Or perhaps a logger? Or—

She started at movement beside her and opened her eyes. People were standing. She hastened to her feet, stepped out into the aisle and joined the flow of people exiting the tent. She had missed the rules for speakers Dr. Austin had spoken of! How could she—

“Marissa!”

She stopped and turned at the soft call. Her tent mate was hurrying up the aisle toward her. She released a soft sigh and waited for Clarice to catch up to her. Clarice would have notes.

“Well, that was interesting! What a crowd!” Clarice paused, motioned her into the line of people in the aisle and headed for the tent opening. “Are you ready to eat something, Marissa? I wasn’t able to get a seat at a table earlier and I’m starving!”

Marissa smiled and dipped her head to a man who stepped aside to let them precede him through the tent’s entrance. “I am a bit hungry.” No doubt because she had two more days before she spoke. She paused, looked around. People were entering the woods in all different directions. “Which way do we go for the ‘hotel’?”

“Up.” Clarice laughed and stepped into the trees.

* * *

Grant strode along the dock, showed his admittance pass to the gatekeeper and hurried across the flat shore area, his empty stomach rumbling. Discussing the grape samples with his father had taken longer than he expected. Not that it surprised him. His father was set against his coming to this assembly. How could the man still be so against science when he had proven to him with the concords that experimentation worked?

He frowned down at the line map on the back of his pass, tucked it in his pocket and started up a wooded path at a fast pace taking his frustration out on the hillside. He was a grown man with his own ideas, but the doctor had warned against any heated confrontations because of his father’s ill health. One fit of anger could overstress his weak heart. It made his obstinance doubly hard to deal with. If it hadn’t been for his father’s crippling accident, he would be a scientist by now, not a vineyard manager trying to cope with old-fashioned ideas.

He halted. People were clustered at a crossing of paths ahead. He glanced at the sign nailed to a long building made of rough boards. The Hotel. This was the dining hall? Hopefully, the food was better than the building.

He glanced inside and looked for a young woman with blond curls dangling at her forehead and temples. It wasn’t much to go on, but he’d find Miss Bradley. He had time. The science class wasn’t scheduled until later. And she had to eat. He stepped back outside, took up a place by the door and scanned the people entering the clearing. His pulse jumped at the sight of blond curls and a pair of lovely but sad blue eyes. She was with another lady. Well, he’d met the challenge of finding her. That was enough...for now. He smiled and stepped forward, dipped his head. “I see you survived the steamer ride, Miss Bradley.”

She glanced up at him, surprise in her blue eyes. “I did. Thank you again for your assistance on that slippery deck, Mr. Winston.” She smiled, glanced at her companion. “May I present Miss Gordon?”

There was a shyness in Marissa’s smile that tugged at him. He bowed an acknowledgment and shifted his gaze to Miss Gordon. A pair of gray eyes with a speculative gleam in their depths studied him.

“It’s unpleasant dining alone. Perhaps your friend would like to take his meal with us, Marissa.” Miss Gordon ignored Miss Bradley’s soft gasp and continued to gaze at him. “Unless you were waiting for someone, Mr. Winston?” There was a challenge in her tone.

Marissa. He tucked the name into his memory and slid his gaze to its owner. Her cheeks were pink. She was obviously embarrassed by her friend’s boldness. He hurried to smooth over the social misstep. “I would be honored to escort you both to dinner, if you have no objection, Miss Bradley.”

She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I should be pleased at the sight of another familiar face at the table, Mr. Winston. The crowds of strangers are a bit overwhelming.”

“Then I am happy to serve.” He stepped to the door, motioned them into line before him.

Sunshine streamed through the cracks between the boards of the walls to stripe the dried mud on the floor. The crude benches alongside long tables covered with oilcloth were filling with people. He ushered them to one with three empty places, helped them onto the bench, then took his place and looked around.

“I’m glad it’s not raining today.”

“Me, too.”

He glanced at the women across the table.

The younger of the group smiled and pointed toward the ceiling. “Last night we had to eat while holding umbrellas.”

“Which was no easy feat!”

He looked from the laughing women to the roof. There were streaks of blue sky showing between many of the boards. It didn’t take much imagination to picture rain pouring through those wide cracks to drown the plates of food on the tables below. “I see what you mean. Thank you for the warning, ladies.”

Marissa slanted a look up at the ceiling and laughed. “It looks as if they would be wise to plan soup for the daily meal when there is inclement weather.”

She had a quick wit. He chuckled, admiring the sparkle of bright flecks in her blue eyes.

A man walking in the aisle behind them stopped, cleared his throat. “What’s that you say, young lady?” The women across the table lifted their heads, and their eyes widened.

Marissa gasped. “Dr. Austin!” Pink flowed into her cheeks. “Please forgive me, sir. I meant no—”

“Do not apologize, young lady. I am in your debt.” The leader of the Chautauqua Assembly smiled. “Good strong soup that will not be harmed by the addition of a bit of rainwater is an excellent idea. I shall pass it on to the cooks.” He gave a polite bow and walked off.

The women stared after him.

Miss Gordon burst into laughter. “You should see your face, Marissa!”

In his opinion she looked beautiful—if a bit chagrined.

Marissa lifted her hands to cover her cheeks, glanced down at the table. “What are you doing, Clarice?”

He shifted his gaze to the box Miss Gordon had opened. It held all manner of writing supplies.

“I’m making a note to include this story in my article. It’s the sort of personal touch that will make my report on this assembly lively and entertaining as well as factual. I shall title it ‘The Chautauqua Experience.’” Miss Gordon pulled out pencil and paper, dashed down words. “This is exactly what I was looking for. Something that will make my article stand out from all the other dull, factual reports and gain the editor’s and publisher’s attention.”

His eyebrows rose. “Publisher?”

Marissa Bradley glanced at him, something akin to apprehension in her eyes. “Clarice is a reporter for the Sunday School Journal.” She turned back to Miss Gordon. “You’ll not mention me by name?”

“Not if you don’t wish me to. Let me think...” Miss Gordon stopped writing, looked up and grinned. “Ah! I’ve thought of the perfect name! I’ll call you ‘Miss Practical.’ Do you agree, Mr. Winston?”

“With your choice of the name ‘Miss Practical’ for the article? Yes, indeed. But as the perfect name for Miss Bradley...” He drew his gaze slowly over her face, his pulse leaping as pink again stole across her delicate cheekbones. “It is too early in my acquaintance with Miss Bradley for me to have an opinion as to that.”

A pudgy hand holding a plate of food inserted itself between them. He nodded his thanks as a woman placed tin plates holding boiled potatoes, green beans and two-tined steel forks in front of them, then looked back at Marissa Bradley trying to judge her reaction to his intimation that he would like their budding acquaintance to continue. She had her gaze fixed on her plate. No encouragement there.

He frowned down at his food, stabbed a bite of potato. There was something about Marissa Bradley that drew him in a way no other woman had done. Perhaps it was the mystery of the sadness in her eyes. Whatever it was, he intended to see her again—though instinct warned him she was a very proper young lady and would refuse a direct invitation. Propriety!

He jabbed a forkful of green beans, lifted them to his mouth as he pondered the problem. How could he overcome the social conventions of propriety? Another “chance” meeting? He worried the idea around a bit, smiled and impaled another potato. With all of its activities, the assembly should offer ample opportunity. He would find a way.

* * *

Marissa rose from the bench and slipped out of the tent to avoid the crush of people when the lecture was over. What a wonderful speaker! The woman had been so concise in making her points about each moral idea she presented. Envy struck, brought forth a long sigh. If only she could be that succinct when she was speaking. Unfortunately, memories always came swarming into her head and her heart got involved. Her subject was not an academic one. It was personal. She lived it.

Grief rose in a sickening wave. Tears stung her eyes. She lifted her hems and ran down the short, narrow path to the larger main one. It was crowded with people. The hum of their voices, chatting and laughing, caused her tears to overflow. She looked around, but there was no place to go where she could be alone. Dusk was falling, and it was too dark to go into the woods, even if she dared.

She drew a long steadying breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks and joined the flow of people going downhill.

“...saw them putting up the canopy on the shore.”

“...the concert...”

“...perfect end to the day.”

Bits of conversations about the evening entertainment flowed around her. She eavesdropped shamelessly, using the distraction of learning more about the concert to get her emotions under control. Sorting the pieces of information from the general hum of conversation was challenging, like putting a jigsaw puzzle together, and it kept her from remembering. The tightness in her chest eased.

Light flared against the dark trees beside the path ahead. She looked up at the man who had lit the torch in its box of sand, watched as he closed his lantern and climbed down the ladder of short cross boards nailed to the post. A young dark-haired woman stood in the flickering light writing something on a piece of paper that rested on top of a slender wooden box.

“Clarice!”

Her tent mate turned and looked up the path.

She waved her hand and hurried forward. “I see you are taking notes for your ‘Chautauqua Experience’ article.” She peered down at the paper. “What did you call the man—Mr. Lamplighter?”

“No. I named him Mr. Torch Man. It’s more accurate and colorful.” Clarice slipped the paper into the box, latched it and held it against her chest. “Are you going to the concert? If so, we can walk together.”

It would be better than sitting alone in the tent remembering. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “Yes, I am.” She started back down the path, glanced over at Clarice. “Would you like me to carry that box for a bit? You must get tired of carrying it around.”

“No, thank you—though you are kind to offer.” Clarice looked down and patted the box. “I always keep these writing supplies with me. I never know when something will happen that will fit into an article, or even become one.”

“Such as when I embarrassed myself in front of Dr. Austin?” And Grant Winston. Her stomach sank at the thought, though he’d been most kind and treated her faux pas with humor.

“Exactly! That incident inspired me to go an entirely different direction with my article for the Sunday School Journal. And it will make it ever so much better. Thank you.”

Marissa dipped her head. “You’re very welcome—as long as I remain anonymous.”

“You shall.” Clarice stepped out from the cover of the trees along the path. “Oh, my! Only look at that crowd! How am I ever to make my way to a place by the musicians?”

“How are you ever going to find the musicians?” She stepped close to the trees, out of the way of the people coming off the path, and stared in amazement at the land on their right. People surrounded the striped canopy that had been erected at the edge of the lake, and from the canopy to the trees at the base of the hill there was no land visible, only people. Most of them were seated on the ground. Those coming were milling about, looking for a place to sit. The blend of their voices as they chatted with one another put her in mind of a swarm of bees.

“Well, I’d best hurry. Dusk is falling and the concert will be starting soon.” Clarice looked at her. “Are you coming?”

“Not I!” She smiled and gave a fake shudder. “You shall have to brave that crowd by yourself. I will listen to the music from over there—” she gestured to the empty shore on the other side of the path “—in solitude.”

“Coward.” Clarice clutched her box tight to her chest. “I’ll see you at the tent if I survive!”

* * *

Grant glanced over his shoulder again. People were still streaming by on the path outside. Something was drawing them. Perhaps this was the opportunity for the “chance” meeting with Marissa he’d been thinking about. He slipped off the bench and stepped out from under the canopy making as little disturbance as possible. He’d already lost track of the experiment, but it didn’t pertain to farming anyway. There was nothing in today’s session that would help him with the vineyard, and it was getting dark. He frowned at the dusky light and pulled his watch from his pocket. The steamer would be leaving soon. The “chance” meeting with Marissa would have to wait until tomorrow. With all the people crowding the path, he’d be fortunate to reach the shore in time to catch the steamer for home. Unless there was another way.

A narrow trail on his left parted the woods. Light filtering through the branches of the trees lit its downward slope. He glanced back at the crowd on the main path, entered the woods and followed the winding way. The sound of voices faded, gave way to birds twittering their night songs. He stepped cautiously through a cluster of pines where it was too dark to see clearly and entered a clearing. Tents formed rows laid out like streets to his left and right. Children laughed and played games, chased one another in and out of the trees. Adults talked over cooking fires. The smell of coffee tantalized his nose. He took a deep sniff, looked around. The path had disappeared.

A woman wearing a long apron straightened from a cooking fire, rubbed her back and looked his way. “You took the wrong path if you’re going to the concert. Or else you don’t care if you get there late.” She motioned to her left. “The main path is a short piece that way.”

He smiled his gratitude. “Thank you. I thought this trail might be a faster way to the shore. Obviously, I was wrong.” He gave her another smile. “Did you say there was a concert tonight?”

The woman nodded and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Down on the shore. Isn’t that where you was headed? It seems like everybody is going—except those of us with young’uns to watch over. You’d best hurry if you hope to attend. It started at dusk.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Perhaps I will attend.” He smiled and dipped his head. “Have a good evening.”

“And you. Mind your step, there’s pines along that path and their roots will trip the unwary.”

The woman’s words followed him into the darkness beneath the pines. He picked his way to the wider path and started down, joined with others coming out of narrow side paths and clearings to merge with the crowd ahead of him. He wasn’t the only one late for the concert. There had to be a hundred or more people within his limited scope of vision.

He scanned the crowd for Marissa’s blond curls as he walked, though he knew it for a fruitless effort. The dusky light made all of the ladies’ hair seem dark. He snorted at his own foolishness and glanced up at the darkening sky. It wouldn’t be long now until the Colonel Phillips made its last run of the day. He’d sit on the dock and listen to the music until they ran out the gangplank and he could go aboard.

Music sounded in the distance. He followed those ahead of him out of the trees onto the shore, stopped and stared. The failing light made it difficult to see, but he was almost certain... He smiled and started forward.

* * *

Marissa lifted her hems and moved closer to the lake. A warm, gentle breeze carrying soft music from the concert down the lakefront caressed her face and fluttered the curls at her forehead and temples. She stopped and brushed back the curls, gazed at the Colonel Phillips floating on the silvered water at the end of the dock, its lanterns golden orbs against the evening sky.

May I assist you to your destination? Sun-streaked hair above a handsome face with a disarming smile rushed back from the oblivion to which she’d assigned them. Seeing Grant Winston at the dining hall this afternoon had brought back the memories of him on the boat. She sighed and shook her head. It was foolishness to entertain romantic thoughts about a man she would likely never see again. But he was so nice. And it was such a perfect night for dreaming...

“Miss Bradley?”

She froze. It couldn’t be. She turned, stared at the object of her dreaming. “Mr. Winston!” Heat rushed across her cheeks.

“At your service.” He smiled and dipped his head.

She nodded a greeting, pressed her hand over her pounding heart and struggled to order her scattered thoughts.

A frown pulled his straight dark eyebrows together. “I’m sorry if I startled you, Miss Bradley. But you were so lost in thought you didn’t notice me.”

Thoughts about him! The heat in her cheeks increased. She fussed with a fold in her skirt for an excuse to put her head down. “I was admiring the sight of the Colonel Phillips against the night sky.” Don’t mention the steamer! “And the lake, of course. Even the silvered water is lovely—from a safe distance.” She pressed her lips together to stop her babbling. There was no point in letting the man see that the unfortunate timing of his appearance had her completely undone. It served her right for dreaming about him.

A smile curved his lips. “There is no quivering deck under your feet here.”

It wasn’t her feet that were quivering. It was her stomach. She lifted her head, gave him a polite, if somewhat forced, smile and groped for a change of subject. “How did you find me?” Oh, dear. She’d made it sound as if he were on a quest of some sort! “I mean, what do you want?” And that was worse! She stared at him, aghast at her lack of manners.

His gaze traveled slowly over her face, came to rest on her eyes.

The apology she was about to offer died on her lips.

“You have a penchant for standing alone away from the crowd, Miss Bradley. And you are the only person on this part of the shore. I took a chance that it was you.”

His gaze held hers. He had warm brown eyes. So...warm... The quivering spread to her knees. She broke the eye contact, clenched her hands to keep from pressing them against her stomach and wished he’d stop talking long enough that she could gather her wits together.

“Would you care to stroll with me along the shoreline until it is time for my steamer to leave, Miss Bradley?”

Did he think her bold like Clarice? She pushed at her curls, pretended to adjust her hat to stall for time. His request was innocent enough to be acceptable. What could she say? I’m sorry, Mr. Winston, but you make me nervous? It wasn’t his fault that she’d been dreaming.She looked down at his offered arm, nodded and slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow. It felt natural and secure, as if it belonged there. She thrust the thought from her, lifted her hems with her free hand and strolled beside him.

“Did you come to the shore for the concert, Miss Bradley? Or only to admire the view of the lake by night?”

“I came for the concert—along with everyone else here at Chautauqua, it seems. I’ve never seen so many people in one place. Which is why I am on this side of the dock.” She gave a small laugh, focused her thoughts on answering his question to keep from thinking about his closeness. “The loveliness of the lake view was a pleasant surprise.” She looked at the water slipping along the shore at his side. “Although I cannot say I find it so at the moment. Now that I’m close, the water simply looks dark and dangerous.”

“It’s not that way once you know how to swim. It’s really quite refreshing to dive into the water on a hot summer’s day.”

His smile was too charming. “Ah...” She gave him a sidelong look and shook her head. “I shall no longer be ashamed of my cowardice concerning water, Mr. Winston. I see now why you were so comfortable on the steamer. You live on the lake. Though I still cannot see how that can make diving into its water enjoyable.” She gave a mock shudder.

He chuckled and turned so that they headed back toward the dock. “I have misled you, Miss Bradley. I live in Mayville and our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it. I learned to swim in a small pond on our property when I was four years old.”

“So young?” She halted and looked up at him. “Weren’t your mother and father concerned for your safety?”

That deep chuckle rolled from his chest. “They no doubt would have been, had they known about it.” A grin slanted across his mouth. “I fell in the pond.”

She gasped, pressed her hand to the base of her throat. “Who saved you?”

“No one. My wild flailing and kicking eventually got me to the bank. After that I dove in the pond on purpose.” He laughed, tucked her hand back through his arm and started walking again. “I can tell by your horrified expression you’ve not had any similar experience.”

“I should hope not, Mr. Winston!”

“There are no lakes or ponds for swimming where you live?”

Not after we moved from the farm. The thought sobered her. She closed her mind to the memories. “No. I live in Fredonia.”

“Ah. Then it is more likely that you are surrounded by vineyards than lakes or ponds.”

“Our home is in the town.” The answer was curt, bordering on the impolite, but she wanted no questions about her home. And no conversation about vineyards!

He stopped, looked down at her. “I hope you won’t think me overly forward, Miss Bradley, but I sense that these two weeks at the Chautauqua Assembly are different. People have come from all over the country, and we must make friends quickly. Thus, strict rules of etiquette have to be relaxed. Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name—in private, only if you choose?”

“Why, I—”

“I would not ask such freedom of you, but for the special circumstance of Chautauqua. My name is Grant.”

There was sincerity in his voice and in his eyes. Dare she defy propriety?She caught her breath and nodded. “Very well. Because of Chautauqua...Grant.” Her cheeks warmed. She looked away.

“Thank you, Miss—”

“Marissa.” Forgive me, Mother. She made herself look up at him, to read what was in his eyes at her boldness.

“Marissa...”

The Colonel Phillips blasted its horn.

She jumped.

He looked at the steamer at the end of the dock, frowned and looked back at her. “The gangplank’s being set in place. I have to go.” He released her arm, stepped toward the dock, then returned to her. “I will be back for the science class tomorrow evening. May I see you when it’s over, Marissa? If you will tell me where you’re living—”

The steamer’s horn gave its last warning.

“There’s no time for directions.” He trotted backward toward the dock. “Will you meet me at the hotel? At dusk tomorrow?”

She swallowed the last of her inhibition and nodded. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Until then!” He smiled, turned and ran up the dock and onto the steamer.

She stood rooted to the spot, shocked by what she’d done. But when he’d looked at her...

“There you are, Marissa.”

She started, glanced over her shoulder.

Clarice walked up beside her and looked toward the steamer. “Was that Mr. Winston?

“Mr. Boat Man.” She laughed and hastened to change the subject, lest Clarice start taking notes for her story. She’d embarrassed herself enough. Her plunge from the rules of society would remain her guilty secret. “Are you through working for the day?”

“I am. Until I get back to the tent and put my notes in order.” Clarice waved her hand back toward the hill. “Shall we leave the throng?”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced back at the lake. The Colonel Phillips was rounding the point. Grant was gone. Until tomorrow night. Her pulse skipped. Her guilt swelled. She composed herself, lifted her hems and followed Clarice up the hill.


Chapter Three (#ulink_79bb2a61-5bda-5db2-8373-682eb9e35304)

He’d done it. He’d found Marissa Bradley. Well, truth be told, it wasn’t his efforts that had brought them together tonight. Grant threw his tie over the back of the Windsor chair, sat and yanked off his shoes. His mother would say the Lord had taken a hand. He frowned, shook his head. He was a man of faith, but he was also a man of science, and that was difficult to swallow. Still...

He had given up. The lateness of the hour and the multiple hundreds of people sitting on the grass or milling around listening to the concert had him admitting defeat. But seeing her standing on a deserted portion of the shore was serendipitous, to say the least. His mother would, of a certainty, say it was God.

He crossed to his bed and flopped down onto his back. Marissa was beautiful. His pulse quickened. He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the plastered ceiling, remembered the way she’d looked with the soft evening light falling on her upturned face, glowing in her blue eyes. Truly beautiful. The delicate cast of her features, the cleanly arched eyebrows over her long-lashed blue eyes, her finely molded nose and cheekbones, soft, full mouth and small, rounded chin were perfection.

He jerked to his feet and walked over to his window, opened it to the warm August night and looked toward the lake. He’d met beautiful young women before. Paid court to a few until he’d lost interest. That was what he had intended to do with Marissa Bradley—see her a few times, satisfy his curiosity about the sadness in her eyes and then say goodbye. But tonight, when he’d looked into her eyes in that first, unguarded moment, something had happened—something beyond the jolt of his heart. There’d been a knowing in him that was irrefutable. A sort of...connection he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. Whatever it was, it was foolish in the light of reason and knowledge. It was also undeniable. It was still there.

He frowned, looked down at the grapevines silvered by the moonlight, turned and headed for his dressing room. He was a young, healthy man. Miss Bradley was a beautiful young woman. His was a simple physical reaction, easily explained by science. He had no reason, time or inclination to examine his response to her more fully than that. He had a busy day tomorrow with the coming harvest to prepare for. The matter of Miss Marissa Bradley would straighten itself out. The odd feeling was, no doubt, because of the circumstances of their meeting—a chance encounter in highly unlikely circumstances was intriguing. That’s all it was. The attraction of mystery. He was a man who liked to find answers. The feeling would go away after his planned meeting with Marissa tomorrow night.

“Marissa...” He turned on the tap, shrugged out of his shirt and splashed water on his face. The name suited her. It was soft and beautiful and...haunting. He toweled off, tugged on his nightshirt, turned down the wick in the oil lamp and headed for bed, Marissa Bradley’s name and beautiful face lingering in his mind.

* * *

Marissa tugged the quilt up closer around her chin and stared at the sloping canvas roof over her cot.

I took a chance that it was you.

A tingle ran up her spine. Grant had come to walk with her. The other meetings might have been accidental, but tonight, he’d chosen to come and spend time with her. And he wanted to see her tomorrow night. Her pulse quickened, shot energy through her. She turned onto her side, winced at the crackle of the corn husks in the mattress and glanced over at Clarice. Her tent mate was sound asleep in spite of the snores and snorts issuing from the tents around them. Nothing seemed to disturb her.

She edged closer to the side of her cot and slipped her legs out from under the covers, froze at the sound of footsteps outside their tent. She drew her legs back under the covers and waited. Moonlight threw a misshapen shadow on the canvas. She watched it float across the wall and disappear, then quickly climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown and slippers. A quick flick of her wrist freed the mass of long curls she’d secured with a ribbon at the nape of her neck from beneath the collar so she could close and button the quilted gown.

Six steps took her from one side of the tent to the other. She turned, careful not to bump against the small writing desk, and walked back again. It was not very satisfactory pacing, but she couldn’t stay in bed. She had to move. At least with the moonlight shining on the canvas she could see well enough.

Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name?

She frowned, fiddled with the top button on her dressing gown. Had she done the right thing when she agreed to Grant’s request? And to meet him at the hotel at dusk tomorrow? Oh, what had she been thinking! She did not want to demean herself in Grant Winston’s eyes. She wanted him to respect her. To hold her in high regard. To—her breath caught—to be attracted to her as she was to him.

She stopped, clasped her face in her hands and blew out a breath. Had she lost all common sense? She knew nothing about Grant Winston except that he was handsome and charming, polite and thoughtful and kind...And that he lived in Mayville and knew how to swim.

What if he indulged in wine or other strong drink?

The thought wouldn’t be denied. It hung there in her mind. She closed her eyes, wrapped her arms about herself and endured the pain of the memories that swarmed in silence. There was no room in the tent for tears.

The sadness and grief drove her back to her cot. She curled up under the covers and stared at the canvas wall. How could she have allowed herself to become so besotted by the beauty of the warm August night and her foolish, romantic dream—so enraptured by Grant’s sudden appearance and charm that she forgot the promise she’d made herself—that she’d never fall in love, never marry? She knew what could happen. Her father was charming, too. Until he drank wine. And Lincoln—

She curled tighter, pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back the sobs pushing up her throat. She would meet Grant Winston at the hotel tomorrow night as she promised. And she would tell him that her lectures were to begin the following day and she would not have time to see him again. It was better...safer for her that way. And nothing, not even Grant Winston, must be allowed to interfere with her work, to dilute her concentration on her message.

* * *

“Good afternoon, Miss...Bradley, is it?”

Marissa looked up from the paper she held and gave the older woman coming into the small, shaded clearing a polite smile. How did the woman know her name? Her memory clicked. Ah, the teachers meeting. “Yes, Bradley is correct. How may I help you, Mrs. Austin?”

“If you wouldn’t mind sharing your bench for a brief spell, my dear? The woman smiled and leaned on an ebony walking stick. “I’m afraid this hill is a little too much for me to manage in one try. I find I must pause and let my breath catch up to me every so often.”

“It is a bit steep in places. I’m sure that’s the reason for these strategically placed benches.” She moved toward the end of the wood bench and pulled her skirt close. “Please sit down and rest yourself.”

Mrs. Austin sat, leaned back and sighed. “My weary body and sore feet thank you.” She gestured toward the paper with the knob of her walking stick. “I’m sorry to disturb your reading, Miss Bradley. Do go on with it. I shall remain silent.”

“No please, that’s not necessary, Mrs. Austin. I will be glad of your company.” She folded the paper, looked up and smiled. “I have been studying these lecture notes all day. A break from them will be very welcome, I assure you.”

The woman nodded, leaned her walking stick against her knees and reached up to adjust the pin in her flower-bedecked hat. “There is keen interest in your lecture tomorrow afternoon, Miss Bradley. Temperance is an issue that touches us all. And people have strong opinions about it—both for and against.”

And have no trouble expressing them. “That’s certainly true.” She straightened, stared at the woman. “If I may ask, how did you know I am lecturing on temperance, Mrs. Austin? The lecturers’ names are not printed on the schedules.”

“I recognized your name when you introduced yourself to me yesterday. My daughter attended a lecture you gave in Dunkirk. She wrote me all about you. She’s here with me.” Mrs. Austin’s blue-gray eyes focused a kindly gaze on her. “As we learned during the teachers’ meeting, debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded. Are you prepared for that, my dear? Your speaking engagements thus far have been to small welcoming women’s church groups. That will not be the case here. These lectures are open to all, men and women. And temperance is such a volatile subject.”

“Yes...” What if the debate got out of hand?What if she couldn’t handle it? She drew a breath, opened the drawstring on her purse and slipped her notes inside.

Mrs. Austin reached over and rested her gloved hand on hers. “It was not my intent to discomfort you when I proposed your name to John as a worthy speaker on temperance, my dear. But now, since I’ve met you, well...you look so young, close to my daughter’s age. Please forgive this meddlesome old woman for putting you in a position that may be...upsetting.”

So it was Mrs. Austin who had recommended her. “There’s no need, Mrs. Austin.” She tamped down her nerves and pulled up a smile. “I thank you for telling Dr. Austin about me—for gaining me the opportunity to spread the temperance message to so many people. And I appreciate your thoughtfulness in warning me of possible unpleasantness during a debate. But I have faced irate saloon owners and their equally angry patrons and survived. I am sure I will survive the lectures and debates here at Chautauqua, as well.” And the protest she was to lead?

“Here you are, Mother. I despaired of finding you. It’s time you returned to our tent for supper.”

Marissa turned her head, looked at a young woman who stood at the edge of the clearing, her back to the people walking on the path behind her. She took in the young woman’s cowed posture, the shawl draped around her thin shoulders though the day was warm, the downward cast of her eyes. She looked closer, gripped her hands together.

Mrs. Austin stirred beside her. “I’m coming, Rose. I’ve been resting here with Miss Bradley. You remember her from—”

“Yes, of course I do, Mother.”

The young woman gave her a polite nod and a shy smile but made no effort to come closer. It wouldn’t have mattered. She could see the fading bruise beneath Rose’s blue-gray eyes so like Mrs. Austin’s—except for the shadow of fear in them. Her heart squeezed. She smiled and nodded a return greeting, remained seated despite her desire to go and put her arms about the young woman. It was obvious Rose was uncomfortable and only wanted to leave. How well she understood Rose’s need to hide. She reached up and touched her mother’s pendant watch, closed her fingers around it.

“I will be praying for you, Miss Bradley.” Mrs. Austin gripped her walking stick, rose and looked down at her. The older woman’s face was taut, her eyes overbright. “May the Lord bless you for what you are doing on behalf of women everywhere, Miss Bradley. And may He give you courage and strength as you carry on.”

Her throat swelled. Her chest tightened. “Thank you, Mrs. Austin.” She smiled and rose to her feet. “I hope we meet again before the Chautauqua classes are over and we all go our separate ways.”

“Oh, you may rely on that, Miss Bradley.” The older woman’s eyes flashed, her mouth firmed. “Rose and I will both be attending your lectures. And taking part in the after debates. A woman can stay silent only so long! Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Austin.” She resumed her seat on the bench and waited while Mrs. Austin and her daughter joined the flow of people going up the hill.

Debate is to be encouraged after a lecture is concluded...temperance is such a volatile subject...

Her stomach knotted. She took a breath and straightened, ran her fingers over the smooth enamel of her mother’s watch. Her mother had eyes like Rose’s—except they were green. Once they had sparkled with laughter; now they were shadowed with grief and fear.

Don’t go to Chautauqua, Marissa. Please don’t go. Stop this insane traveling around to strange towns to speak about temperance. You cannot bring Lincoln back, and you may be hurt!

The memory of her mother’s plea brought the answer she hadn’t given bursting forth in a furious whisper. “What does it matter if I am made uncomfortable, or even injured, Mother? It is far less than you and other women like you suffer! And if it helps to stop young men like Lincoln from wasting or losing their lives—” Her voice broke on a sob. She spun about so those walking on the path couldn’t see, covered her face with her hands and waited for the pain to ease.

Muted chatter and laughter came from the people on the path. Birds twittered. A chipmunk rustled through the dry fallen leaves looking for provender. She drank in the peace, absorbed the strength of it into her heart. The tears on her cheeks dried. She clasped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes.

“Lord, please help me when I speak tomorrow evening and the days following. Please don’t let me disappoint Mrs. Austin and Rose and all of the other women who are ashamed or afraid and need someone to speak for them. Please let these lectures bring them comfort and strength in the knowledge that they are not alone. And please let them steer young men like Lincoln away from paths of destruction. Amen.”

Fresh dedication to the temperance cause erased her fears and strengthened her determination. She opened her eyes and glanced up at the sky. The light was beginning to fade. But there was still time to go to the tent and freshen up before going to the hotel to meet Grant Winston.

She rose and shook out the skirt of her plum gown, closing her mind to the question of why freshening her appearance should matter when she was only going to tell Grant goodbye.

* * *

Grant’s strides ate up the distance to the hotel. The science class had been interesting, but disappointing as far as information about improving crops was concerned. So far he had learned nothing with which to counter his father’s continued assertions that he was wasting his time coming to the Chautauqua classes.

A crowd blocked the intersection of paths ahead. People milled about waiting to get into The Hotel. Others came out and walked across the clearing to the path.

He swept his gaze over the moving lines, frowned and looked to the side of the building. Marissa was talking with an older woman. She glanced around and their gazes met. His heart slammed against his rib cage. He yanked his hat from his head and started toward her, an eagerness to be with her driving his steps.

She said something to the woman, lifted her hems and came toward him, a picture of shyness and dignity that stole into his thudding heart.

“Good evening. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting, Marissa.” Pink flowed into her cheeks when he spoke her name. His fingers crunched the brim of his homburg. He put it back on his head out of danger.

“Not at all. I only arrived a few minutes ago.” She looked down, brushed at the front of her long skirt.

He pulled his gaze from the mass of blond curls that fell to her shoulders from under the small excuse for a hat she wore, and looked toward the building. “I didn’t have time last night to make proper plans. Would you like to get something to eat?” She looked up, and his mouth went so dry he’d have choked on a bite of food.

“Thank you, but I was uncertain about our...plans, also, so I dined earlier with my tent mate.” She took a breath. “Mr. Winston, I—”

“Grant.” The pink spread across her cheeks again. He made a manly effort to ignore her blush. It was either that or give up breathing. “We seem to be blocking the exit route standing here.” He smiled and offered her his arm.

She looked up at him, started to say something, then glanced at the people coming out of the hotel and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

He had the distinct impression she’d been about to refuse his company. He started across the clearing toward the downhill path before she could change her mind. “I’m afraid our choice of entertainment is sparse. We can go to the drawing class being offered by Mr. Paul Frank. Or perhaps go for a walk.” He looked down at her and grinned. “I’m doubtful you would like to go rowing on the lake.”

“You are correct, sir.” She tugged him to a halt, a small frown creasing her brow. “Grant, I need to—” Her frown deepened. He watched fascinated as she nibbled at her lower lip with her teeth. “Did you say the artist conducting the drawing class is Mr. Paul Frank, the famous caricaturist?”

“That is my understanding.” He’d never known God made eyelashes so long...

She sighed, seemed to come to a decision. “Then I should very much like to attend his class. Do you know where it is being held?”

“I do. But that knowledge is not necessary. All we need do is to follow the largest crowd. And that would be this way.” He guided her off the downhill path and they followed a long line of people to an enormous canopy ringed with posts capped by blazing torches.

A large blackboard, a small table covered with crocks and boxes and a wooden chair were on a platform in front of long rows of benches. Posts with lanterns atop them lit the platform and shone on a small, portly gentleman standing in front of the blackboard and speaking.

“—call out as soon as you recognize what or who I am drawing.”

Grant looked over the filled benches and frowned. “I’m afraid we’re too late to find a seat under the canopy. But I see something that might serve. Be careful of the uneven ground.” He took her elbow and led her to a small rise off to the side of the structure.

“It’s a chicken!” A man in the audience shouted out the guess.

They paused, looked toward the platform.

“A chicken?” The artist stepped back from his work, raised his hands into the air and gave an exaggerated shrug. “Is my drawing that bad?” Laughter erupted.

Grant glanced at the disconnected lines on the blackboard, shrugged and started forward again. “It looks like a chicken to me.”

She shook her head. “If it’s a chicken, what is that wavy line at the bottom?”

He stopped himself from taking a deep sniff of the lavender scent that rose from her hair, glanced at the blackboard again and grinned. “A broken branch?”

“A branch? Is that the best you can do, O ye of little imagination?”

He pulled his eyebrows down in a mock scowl. “You cast aspersions on my artistic sensibilities?”

“Not at all. There’s no need. Your lack thereof is evident.” She grinned and nodded toward the blackboard. “Mr. Frank is drawing a woman’s hat. That wavy line is the brim.”

He stopped, gave a soft cackle and flapped his elbows. “Chicken!”

Her laughter was like music. She patted her head. “Hat!”

“We shall see.”

“Indeed, we shall.” She looked back toward the canopy. “This is much better than if we had stayed in the back. I can see over the heads of everyone.”

“Good.” He removed his coat, spread it over the leaf-strewn ground at their feet and made her an exaggerated bow. “Your seat awaits—if you don’t mind sitting on the ground, that is.” He held his hand out to her. She looked at it, caught at her lower lip with her teeth. The impression came again that she was about to refuse. He braced himself.

“As long as the ground doesn’t quiver.” She gave a little laugh and placed her hand on his.

It was trembling. The slight tremors traveled all the way to his toes. Blushes. Trembling. Miss Marissa Bradley was not as calm and detached as she acted. So why was she feigning disinterest? He curled his fingers around her soft, delicate hand, helped her seat herself on his coat, then lowered himself to the ground as close to her as he dared.

“It’s my hat!”

A woman on a front bench shrieked out the words.

“You’re right, madam. And this...is you.” The artist connected two lines, and the face of a woman appeared beneath a hat trimmed with feathers. The audience burst into applause.

Marissa shot him a smug look from the corners of her eyes and grinned.

His pulse leaped. He returned her grin and shrugged. “I’ll get this next one.” He pulled his face into a mock frown, stared at the new lines on the blackboard and stroked his chin. “I’ve got it!” He leaned forward and placed his lips close to her ear. “It’s a chicken.”

She burst into laughter.

He sat and drank in the sight of her. He could look at her all night.

“It’s amazing how Mr. Frank does that.” She tilted her head, studied the blackboard, then looked at him and shook her head. “I believe, this time, your ‘chicken’ is a man.”

He narrowed his eyes at the blackboard. “And I believe you may be right.” He pulled his eyebrows into another mock scowl. “It’s beginning to look like President George Washington—with a chicken feather in his hat.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes twinkling. “A plume straight from his plantation no—”

Two quick blasts from a steamer’s whistle rent the air. A few people rose from their seats and made their way into the aisles between the rows of benches.

“Alas, we shall never know. That’s the warning from the Colonel Phillips.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. “The lanterns make the canopy area so bright I lost track of the time.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. His pulse raced at the feel of her hands in his. He locked his gaze on hers and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to make you miss the rest of the entertainment, Marissa, but I’ve only time enough to walk you to your tent before I leave.”

“That’s not necessary.” She lowered her gaze and gave a little tug. He relaxed his grip, and she slipped her hands from his, stepped back and shook out her long skirts. “You’d best hurry.”

It sounded like a dismissal. He nodded, leaned down and picked up his coat. He’d never had to beg to court a woman and he wouldn’t start now. But right was right. “A gentleman doesn’t leave a lady to find her own way home, Marissa. So, unless you have made plans for another escort, I’ll see you to your tent on my way down the hill.”

“Plans for another escort? You think—” She stiffened and tugged at the waist of her gown. “Good evening, and goodbye, Mr. Winston.”

He stared at her rigid posture, hastened to apologize. “I didn’t mean to offend, Marissa. I only thought—”

She lifted her hand. “It’s not your fault, Mr. Winston. I gave you the wrong impression when I broke the rules of propriety. But...so you will know.” Her chin lifted. “I do not live down the hill. If I did, I would have been pleased to have you see me home.”

The past tense was not lost on him. Nor was the fact that she would have accepted his escort. “Marissa—”

“I live up the hill—at the very top. And I do have another escort, of a sort. My tent mate. You remember Miss Gordon. She is there—”

He winced as she waved a hand toward the bench in front of the platform.

“—taking notes for her article in the Sunday School Journal. I will walk home with her when the class is over and her work is done. Now, I suggest you hurry, lest you miss your steamer. Thank you for a pleasant evening.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. She was the cutest thing he’d ever seen standing there with her chin jutted, her eyes flashing blue sparks and her cheeks so flushed they matched the color of that gown she was wearing.

“You find me amusing, Mr. Winston?”

Whoo! An ice-cold voice and a red-hot anger. Quite a combination. He shook his head, held her gaze with his. “No. I find you intriguing, Miss Bradley. And I, also, find you a lovely, very proper young lady I look forward to seeing again. You mistook—”

“I mistook nothing, Mr. Winston. Your meaning was quite clear!” Her chin raised another notch. “As for you seeing me again—I’m afraid that will not be possible. I shall be too busy. I begin lecturing tomorrow and—”

“You’re a speaker?” That information drove his explanation from his thoughts. “Then I shall attend your lecture. What subject—” A long single blast of the steamer’s whistle sounded a final warning of imminent departure. His time was gone. “No matter. I shall find you. Until tomorrow afternoon, Marissa!” He spun on his heel and sprinted for the path that led to the lake.


Chapter Four (#ulink_c87849a6-9f55-50ff-912f-fb7f7c821130)

“Winston!”

Grant looked over his shoulder to find the person who had called out to him. A man waved his hand above the heads of those crowded on the trail. He stepped aside and nodded as John Hirsch, owner of the Stone Tavern in Mayville, strode up to him.

“You going to this temperance thing, Winston?”

“I plan on attending, yes.” Hopefully, he’d find Marissa there. He had to try to repair his faux pas of last night and he’d already missed his chance of attending her afternoon lecture, thanks to his father.He fell into step and headed up the hill beside the tavern keeper. “I’ve read the temperance people are growing in numbers, and I’m curious to hear one of them speak.”

“So am I. I’ve heard they close down taverns and men’s clubs, wherever liquor is sold. I’m here to find out if that’s true—and if this speaker has any plans to cause trouble around here.” John Hirsch’s face darkened. “There’ll be plenty of trouble if she riles up local women to try and shut down my place. And the other bar owners in the area feel the same. There’s a group of us going to be here. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Sorry, I’m meeting someone.” I hope. He shot the tavern owner a questioning look. “How do you know the speaker is a woman?”

“Stands to reason, don’t it? Men are the ones that do the drinking. No women come to my place.”

“That’s true.” He acknowledged the hand John Hirsch raised in farewell, looked at the people overflowing the canopy into the clearing and frowned. Hopefully, he could work his way to a spot where he’d be able to hear the speaker while he searched the attendees for Marissa. Would the subject even interest her? He veered to the right, spotted a space beside an outside support post and edged into it. People crowded in behind him, muttering about being late, about not being able to get closer to the speaker.

He scanned the profiles of those seated under the canopy looking toward the platform at the front. There was no beautiful face with a pert nose and a small determined chin in sight. A grin tugged his lips into a slanted line. She’d jutted that chin at him like a weapon last night. Marissa Bradley had spunk to spare. He liked that. He’d never cared for coy, simpering women.

The desire to see her strengthened. He glanced over the crowd again. If she wasn’t here, he didn’t know where to look for her, beyond the vague “top of the hill” direction she’d thrown at him in her anger. Ah! She could be sitting up by the platform with Miss Gordon. He frowned and glanced over his shoulder. If he could get through those who were vying for position behind him, he could make his way to where he could see the faces of the people seated on the front benches. He inched around the post, glanced toward the front and froze, stared at the slender, black-garbed woman on the stage. Marissa? Shock held him rooted in place. He fastened his gaze on her face, strained to hear what she was saying over the rustle and bustle of the other latecomers seeking a place to stand.

“I am not telling you anything you do not already know. We are gathered here from many different cities and towns in many different states. Think of your hometown. How many churches are there? How many taverns where strong drink is sold? In most towns, for every minister there are three or four or more barkeepers, and while churches meet, at most, a few days a week, the taverns and bars and men’s clubs sell their products of destruction all the days of the week.”

There was a murmur of agreement from many around him. But it had always been so. He scanned the nearby faces. If Marissa’s aim as a temperance speaker was to plant seeds of discontent among those listening, she was doing a good job.

“And what happens inside those shops? The proprietor tucks the coins offered into his till and gives the patrons drinks that numb their brains and dull their senses. When the patrons go home to those who love them above all others, their drunken state causes them to inflict pain with their words and their hands. The same is true of those who drink only in their homes. And though I am aware that not all who drink to excess turn mean or abusive, they still inflict pain and shame upon their family by their very state.”





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