An Unlikely Love (19 page)

A blue-and-white woven coverlet was spread over the mattress. She stepped to the side of the four-poster, placed her palm on the coverlet and pushed. No crackles. She would sleep on feathers tonight. After her hair dried. She moved to the fireplace and bent forward to fluff her wet curls in front of the small fire that had been started to chase the chill from the room.

What was Grant doing? An ache spread through her at the thought of him. Was he sitting on the back porch with his mother drinking coffee and talking? Was he thinking of her? Worrying about her? What if he came to find her, to see if she was all right?

She jerked erect, horrified by the thought. Grant would go to her home and she wouldn't be there! She would miss seeing him, unless— Unless...

The notion floated at the edge of her mind, drifted closer. A perfectly lovely notion. A tempting...beguiling...absolutely wonderful idea.

She would stay at the hotel in Mayville.

A smile touched her lips. Not next year...tomorrow!
Oh, Grant...I'll be with you again tomorrow!
Energy spurted through her. She whirled around the room, then returned to her task, fluffed her damp hair in front of the fire and thought about the details. She would select the dress she would wear, then repack and have the hotel deliver this trunk to the train station the first thing in the morning. But what of her parents? The thought put a damper on her excitement. How would she get her parents' letter telling her where they had settled? She had no idea of when to expect it. She frowned, nibbled at the corner of her lip.
There has to be a way...

She walked to the window and looked out at the street, watched a carriage pass and thought of her parents starting a new life together.
Oh, Lord, grant them happiness, I pray. Let my father's promise to my mother be true. Help him, Lord, to never indulge in strong drink again.

A whistle blew. Light split the darkness, then swept out of sight.

The train.

Yes, that might work. Excitement bubbled up, made her stomach flutter. She would leave notice at the desk downstairs that she was expecting a letter from her parents and ask them to take it to the train station. Then she would ask the stationmaster to please give it to the porter and have him give it to the stationmaster in Mayville. The hotel there was only a few steps from the train station. She could check every day to see if the letter had arrived.

It would work. It
had
to work. Now to choose the gown she would wear tomorrow so she could hang it over a chair to let the packing wrinkles fall out of it. She hurried to the trunk and went to her knees to begin her search. She knew the very gown she wanted to wear, if her mother had packed it. The blue one, with the two-tiered, blue-and-cream-checked underskirt. The blue matched her eyes, and Grant had said he loved the color of her eyes...

Chapter Seventeen

G
rant swept his gaze over the lush vines. The gray splotches of powdery mildew that dusted the leaves were scattered throughout the canopy but not yet prevalent. And it was only the vines on the lower end of the trellises in this portion of the vineyard that were infected. He needed to get those infected leaves cut off before it rained.

He cast a jaundiced look at the dark clouds gathering overhead. If they opened up and raindrops started splashing against the diseased leaves, they would scatter the spores everywhere. But at least it was something he could fight.

He slipped his hand beneath an infected leaf, folded the two sides against each other to contain the flyaway spores and severed the stem from the vine with a slash of his knife. A quick thrust of his hand deposited the leaf into the canvas bag hanging from his belt. He moved on to the next gray-splotched leaf.

Was Marissa all right?
The idea that her father might have struck her was driving him crazy! His face went taut. He slashed the knife through the leaf stem, jammed the leaf in the bag and moved on. The slow, careful work was annoying. He wanted to lay about him with the knife like some crazed pirate with a sword!

Women and children who are abused need a place where they can shelter and be safe until the imbiber sobers and the danger passes.

What if Marissa was hurt? He cut away a cluster of infected leaves and plunged them into the bag. If her mother was also injured and her father was drunk, who would help her? He crossed to the other side of the path and started on the second trellis of vines. What if she needed a doctor?

His stomach clenched like an unseen fist had punched him.

I want to continue to see you. With all my heart I want to. But I cannot. Not as long as you have a part in making the wine that has destroyed my family and killed my brother. Every time I see those vines, I see Lincoln and my mother and father.

What if she was right? He paused his work and stared at the trellised vines, seeing them through her experience. Had any of the grapes he grew and sold to the vintners made their way into the bottles of wine Marissa's father consumed?

Every time I think of those wagonloads of grapes you raised I wonder how much suffering and misery they will cause.

He'd never thought of it that way. Never considered that the end product of the grapes he grew might be misery and suffering. A Bible verse slipped into his head. He looked at the vines and spoke the verse aloud, hearing the words not only with his ears, but with his heart. “‘But judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother's way.'”

The words were unsettling. He'd never thought about that verse in conjunction with growing grapes, but it could surely apply. He frowned and turned back to his work disturbed by his new insight. He didn't want to make another man “stumble” or cause anyone harm by contributing to the making of wine. But what was he to do? He had a debt hanging over his head and acres of grapevines. Caring for them was what he knew how to do. He had no other skill, no other way to clear off that debt and provide a living for himself and his mother. He was trapped into managing the vineyard.

He cut away more of the powdery mildew-infected leaves and put them in the burlap bag, being careful to keep the light, easily airborne spores contained when he folded the leaves. He finished the second row and crossed over to the next working steadily, methodically. The idea that he could be unintentionally bringing suffering into someone's life stayed with him. It troubled him as he worked.

He went over all the financial facts again. But it was an exercise in futility. There simply wasn't any way out of his present situation unless he could make the land more valuable so its sale would bring in money enough to pay off the mortgage and purchase another business. He gave that some thought but could come up with nothing. He was tied to the vineyard for at least two more years. But then, if he could convince his mother to move from the house she loved, he would not have to be connected to the vineyard in any way. But how could he ask that sacrifice of his mother?

“Lord, I have never intended harm to anyone by growing these grapes. And I don't want to contribute to anyone's suffering by doing so now or in the future. But I can find no way out of this situation. So unless I can convince my mother to move or You show me another way, Lord, I am bound to this vineyard.”

He shook his head at the futility of the prayer and moved on to the next row. His mother kept insisting God would work this out, and he held his tongue. But there wasn't any other way. His life was shackled to the vineyard. Completely so for two more years.

Two more years.

Marissa.

That unseen fist punched him in the gut again. “Keep Marissa safe, Lord. Please keep Marissa safe.”

* * *

Oh, my,
flowers.
Should she? Wasn't she defying convention enough by wearing the blue dress? Marissa turned the hat in her hands, tugged at the corner of her lower lip with her teeth. The blue ribbon
did
match the dress. And the cream-colored roses were—

I like it, Sissa. The flowers make me think of summer.

The memory of Lincoln,
his head tipped to the side as he admired her new outfit, flashed into her head. Pain stabbed her heart. She missed her brother.

“If you were here, I'd give you a good shaking, Lincoln Bartholomew Bradley!” The empty threat she'd always made him popped out of her mouth.

Dare you to try.

His standard, laughing answer echoed in her mind. Tears smarted her eyes. “I would if I could reach you. And then I would hug you so hard...”

She firmed her trembling mouth, lifted the hat in pure defiance of the pain and settled it forward of the mass of curls that started at her crown and tumbled down the back of her head and neck. Nothing was going to make her sad today.

She pinned the hat in place, slipped the carry cords of the cream-colored reticule over her wrist and made a last survey of the hotel room. There was nothing left. Her trunk had already been carried downstairs. She ran to the window and looked out, caught a glimpse of the large trunk being loaded onto a handcart for transport to the train station. Flutters tickled her stomach.

Grant was going to be so surprised! She hurried to the pier glass, checked to be sure the cascading fabric of her bustle was in place and stepped out into the hallway. The blue-and-cream-checked pleated ruffle that formed the short train of her gown's underskirt whispered from tread to tread as she descended the stairs to the lobby.

The clerk looked up from his work at her approach. His eyes widened. He snapped his gaping mouth shut and dipped his head in a small polite bow. “Good morning, Miss Bradley. We are saddened by your leaving.” He glanced at his watch. “It is still early for the train.”

“Yes, I know.” She smiled and stepped closer to the counter. “I have a request, sir. I am expecting a letter directed to me from my parents to come to this establishment, though I can't say when. And I wondered if you would be so kind as to make a note to carry the letter to the stationmaster for me? I will be happy to pay any fee for such a service.”

“It will be our pleasure, Miss Bradley. There is no fee for such a small item.” The clerk looked up from his note taking and smiled. “Are there any instructions for the stationmaster to accompany the letter?”

“He is to pass the letter along, by porter, to the stationmaster at Mayville.”

“Very good.” The clerk finished writing, stepped around the counter, pulled the door open and bowed her through. “Have a lovely day, Miss Bradley.”

Grant. She would soon see Grant. Be in his arms...

She smiled. “And you, sir.”

How different was this walk
to
the station, from the one she'd made
from
it to the hotel last night. She smiled at the people she passed, dipped her head to the gentlemen who paused to doff their hats.

Her trunks were sitting beside each other against the station building...waiting. She nodded her thanks to the gentleman who held the door for her and glided over to the desk. “If I may speak with you for a moment, sir?”

The stationmaster looked up, blinked dark eyes residing under thick, bushy, gray eyebrows, then blinked again. “How may I help you, miss?”

“I'd like to purchase a ticket for Mayville, please.” She handed him the fare and received her ticket. “And I have what I believe may be a somewhat unusual request.” She smiled and hurried on with her explanation before he could say no to her asking. “I will be happy to pay any fee charged for the delivery of the letter. Oh, and I have two trunks outside to be loaded on the Mayville train. Will this be enough?” She laid two coins on the counter.

One of the bushy gray eyebrows rose. “More than enough, Miss Bradley.”

“I wish to include a gratuity for your kindness. And another for the porter who carries my letter to Mayville.”

“That's most kind. Thank you, miss.”

She nodded and turned to go, looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “You'll not forget about the letter?”

“That's not likely, Miss Bradley—” he gave her a gap-toothed grin “—not with your smile.”

A whistle split the air.

She jumped, pressed her hand to the base of her throat.

“That's your train, Miss Bradley. I'll see to your trunks.”

She nodded then hurried out the door as the train's bell clanged. The engine chugged by, rolled to a stop. Steam hissed. The doors on the passenger and baggage cars opened and men hopped down to the ground, carried trunks and bags to the station, hefted hers and stowed them aboard.

She climbed the steps the porter set into place, entered the car and took a seat next to the window, her stomach fluttering.
Soon. She would see Grant soon.
She smiled and looked out the window at the beautiful, wonderful, overcast day.

* * *

“Is the mildew bad?”

“No.” Grant glanced at his mother, and his heart lightened a little. She was wearing her dark red dress his father had liked. “It's only on the vines growing on that bit of land that flattens out at the bottom of the slope where there's not enough airflow. With the cool nights, the vines haven't dried out sufficiently since the storm. I cut off all of the infected leaves I could find. And I'll be keeping a watch.”

“It looks like it might rain. Will that make the problem worse? It seems like I've heard you and your father mentioning that.”

He fixed her with a look. “Mother, you used to help Father in the vineyard. You know as much about powdery mildew as I do.”

She looked right back. “Things change.”

He nodded, leaned his shoulder against the porch post and looked out over their land. “Yes. And in two years, my situation will change. Meanwhile, she's gone. I'm worried about her and want her back here where I can take care of her—and pretending you don't know about powdery mildew won't change that.”

“You need some coffee.”

He burst out laughing.

“Ah, proof your mother still knows what's good for you.” She smiled and touched his arm. “There's some still hot from dinner. I'll get it.” The hem of her red dress swished across the porch floor.

He shook his head and looked up at the darkening sky. It wouldn't be long now until the rain started. It was almost as dark as dusk. He blew out a breath and faced yet another trap. He'd have to continue managing the vineyard's business after he hired someone else to care for the vines. He couldn't ask his mother to move from her home.

The kitchen door squeaked open, banged shut. His mother had her hands full or
that
would never happen.

“Here you are.”

His father's stoneware cup came into view. He slipped his two middle fingers through the handle and curled his hand around it. Hot! He grabbed it by the top with his other hand then changed his grip to the thick handle. “I was thinking about what Marissa said about women and children being abused by men overindulging in wine while I was working with the vines this morning.”

“She's a convincing young woman.” She blew on her coffee then looked up at him. “Marissa is the reason I started the Twin Eagle Vineyard Shelter for the Abused. Well, Marissa and God. I definitely felt Him nudging me to do that.”

He'd forgotten about the shelter being formed.
Yet another tie to the vineyard.

“But I never realized the problem existed until Marissa led Sarah and the others in that protest march against the vineyard. That march shows the strength of character and level of commitment to the values Marissa possesses.” Another look was slanted up at him. “She was already falling in love with you that day, but she didn't let that stop her from keeping her promise to Sarah. I admire her for that. Oh, I guess I'll have to forget about my coffee.” She put her cup on the table and smoothed her hands down over her long skirt. “Somebody's at the door. And me in my red dress.”

* * *

Marissa checked the cream-colored lace that edged the high collar of her blue dress, shook out the long double-tier peplum that fell from the small waist of her bodice then touched her hat. She frowned, nibbled at her bottom lip. Perhaps she should have taken the time to change into her mourning clothes at the hotel. Her gown was too stylish, and her hat was too...frivolous. Would Mrs. Winston think her lacking in decorum, or—

The door opened.

She caught her breath, stared. A
red
dress. A smile started.

“Yes? May I—” Mrs. Winston gasped, stared. “Marissa?” She grasped her hand, pulled her inside and into a fierce hug. “Oh, my dear! Why are you here? Were you in danger? Are you all right?”

She couldn't answer. Mrs. Winston was hugging the breath from her. She hugged her back then straightened. “I'm fine, Mrs. Winston. Is—”