An Unlikely Love

by Dorothy Clark

  “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—”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Where’s my head! He’s on the porch. Go—” Mrs. Winston stopped, shook her head. “No, let me go first.”

  She followed Mrs. Winston through the sitting room, her heart pounding so hard she was breathless. She paused when Mrs. Winston held up a restraining hand, stood silent and watched her pull open the door and hurry across the porch.

  Grant! Her heart leaped at the sight of him.

  Mrs. Winston snatched the cup from Grant’s hand, stepped back and nodded at her.

  She ran forward.

  Grant turned, frowned. Shock spread across his face. He lunged forward and scooped her into his arms. Her silly, frivolous hat didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but that she was with him again.

  His lips claimed hers, translated all of his yearning, his concern, into a kiss that left her weak-kneed and clinging for support. She wanted him to hold her forever, to never let her go. The tremor in his arms crushing her against him said he felt the same.

  “Your coffee is getting cold.”

  Mrs. Winston! How could she have forgotten about Grant’s mother? Her cheeks burned. Grant lifted his head and they turned as one and looked at his mother. She grinned and lifted the cup in her hand.

  “I saved the coffee this time.”

  Laughter burst forth. Grant’s deep guffaw, Mrs. Winston’s merry trill and her own bubbl
ing ripple of happiness blended into one glorious sound. And then it stopped. Grant’s hand clasped her chin, gently titled her face up. His gaze swept over her. “Did your father hurt you? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. Oh, no. Father didn’t strike me, Grant. I’m here because I have no home.”

  “He threw you out!”

  It was an outraged roar. She lifted her hand and placed her fingertips over his lips. “No, Grant. Father sold his business and our house. Let me explain.”

  She turned in his arms to face his mother. “You were right, Mrs. Winston. With God, all things are possible.” Happy tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, wiggled her arms free of Grant’s embrace, opened her purse and pulled out her mother’s letter. “Please read this aloud so Grant will hear, Mrs. Winston. It will explain everything.” She handed her the letter and smiled. “Father has stopped drinking wine!”

  “What?”

  She laughed at Grant’s shocked response. “It’s true, Grant. Only listen...”

  The letter sounded even better this time. Or, perhaps, it was hearing it read aloud in Mrs. Winston’s soft, calm voice while she was held close in Grant’s arms that made it seem more believable.

  “Marissa, this is wonderful news.” Mrs. Winston folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope.

  “I’m happy for you, Marissa.” Grant’s arms squeezed her tight then released her enough that she could breathe. “I know how worried you were about your mother’s safety. But she sounds confident and happy in the letter. And your father seems truly repentant.”

  Grant’s voice changed. She could feel the tension come into him. She stepped out of his arms and looked up at him.

  “The letter mentions a bank draft to provide for your stay at the hotel until your parents send for you.” He frowned, sat on the railing and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t mean to pry, Marissa, but is it enough? I mean, the letter doesn’t say how long it will be until you hear from your parents, and I want you to know that I—that is, we—Mother and I will be happy to provide what you need, should the draft run out.”

  “We certainly will.”

  She looked from Grant to his mother and back again, her heart swelling at their love and concern for her. “Thank you, both. But you needn’t worry about me. Truly. Father’s provision for me is abundant.”

  “Still, I want you to promise that you will come to me—us—should you find you need more than has been provided.”

  She looked into Grant’s eyes and drank in the depth of his feelings for her. “I promise.”

  “Well, all of this good news has whet my appetite.” Mrs. Winston rose and handed her back her letter. “Have you time to share our supper before you must catch your train back to Fredonia, Marissa?”

  A delicious little thrill ran up her spine. This was the moment she had been waiting for. “Fredonia?” She looked at Mrs. Winston and widened her eyes a bit as if in surprise. “Why, I’m not going back to Fredonia, Mrs. Winston.” She shifted her gaze to Grant, saw the smile starting in his eyes and let her own break free. “I’ve made arrangements to have Mother’s and Father’s letter forwarded to me here, in care of the stationmaster. I’m staying at the hotel by the station here in Mayville.”

  Grant’s grin was everything she had hoped it would be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ve always liked the rain.”

  Grant grinned and pushed his toes against the porch floor to set the swing in motion. “I can’t think of anything you don’t like, Mother—” He winked at Marissa, who was sitting beside him “—other than coffee spilled on your porch.”

  “Cheeky children.”

  He burst into laughter. “Besides that—er, me.”

  “Well, there’s snakes and spiders and dandelion greens...too bitter.” His mother gave a little shudder. “And lightning...if I’m caught outside.”

  He looked down at Marissa, drank in the way the lantern light played over her delicate features and made dark smudges of her long lashes. “What about you, Marissa? What don’t you—”

  “Someone’s at the door.” Mrs. Winston glanced toward the sitting room. “Who would be out in the rain?” She started to rise.

  “I’ll go, Mother.” He squeezed Marissa’s hand and rose from the swing.

  The knock on the front door came again. He hurried to the entrance and opened the door. “Mrs. Swan!” He gaped at the woman’s wet, bedraggled appearance.

  “I-is Ruth home? Tobin has b-been at the w-wine.”

  “Come in...” He stepped back and pulled the door wide.

  Sarah Swan stepped over the threshold and stopped. “I—I’m d-dripping. If you h-have a towel...”

  He spun around and pulled his mother’s cape from its hook. “This will help get you warm.”

  He wrapped the cape around the woman’s shoulders, guided her to the kitchen and seated her in a chair. Three long strides took him to the porch door. He glanced back at Sarah Swan sitting and rocking back and forth and clutching the cape close. The coil of hair at the back of her head had slipped askew, and long wet tresses dripped water onto her shoulders. There was a lump rising at the side of her face a little below her left eye.

  He yanked open the door and leaned out. “Mother...Marissa...”

  They rose and hurried toward him, a question in their eyes. “It’s Sarah Swan...”

  He took hold of Marissa’s arm as she passed by, looked down into her knowing eyes and swallowed back a surge of anger. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” She touched his arm and went inside. The door latch clicked.

  He jammed his hands into his pockets and stood staring out into the darkness, then turned and paced the length of the porch, anger driving his steps.

  Tobin has been at the wine.

  Sarah Swan was so...quiet.

  Rain pattered against the cedar shingles on the porch roof, spattered against the leaves of the vines. Low murmurs came from the kitchen. The ladle clanked against the hot water reservoir on the stove. He leaned a shoulder against a post at the top of the steps and waited.

  A golden light leaked out into the night, glimmered on the falling rain. He glanced up and traced the spill of light to the bedroom on his left. The one across the hall from his mother’s bedroom. Sarah Swan was spending the night. The first victim of abuse to come for safety to the shelter she had helped to create.

  The kitchen door creaked open. He made a mental note to oil the hinges, turned and took Marissa in his arms. He held her until she stopped trembling and stepped back. The sadness had returned to her beautiful blue eyes.

  “It’s time for me to go. Your mother said I’m to wear her waterproof.”

  “I’ll get it and meet you by the front door.”

  He stepped into the small back entry, shrugged into his mackintosh and hat, then carried his mother’s waterproof to Marissa and held it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves. He settled it onto her shoulders and opened the door, wanting to drive the quietness, the sadness away from her and make her smile and laugh again.

  Chilly, damp air rushed at them. He tucked her arm in his and left the protective cover of the porch, hurried out to the street. Raindrops tapped against their coats and splashed and danced on the walkway. “The hem of your gown is going to be sodden.”

  She looked up at him and gave a little shrug. “There’s no help for it. These short trains are foolishness. The dress will probably be ruined.”

  The idea of it outraged him. He halted and looked down at her. “That doesn’t have to happen. I like that gown. It matches your eyes. I’ll carry you.”

  “All the way down the hill to the hotel!” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She broke into soft laughter and shook her head. “I think not.”<
br />
  The laughter was like a healing balm. Her face lost the sad, closed look it had worn when he first met her. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “I’m willing.”

  This time her laughter was lighter, easier. His heart lifted.

  “So you think my gown matches my eyes?”

  She was actually flirting with him! This was the sunny, full-of-fun Marissa who had come to the house earlier. Thank You, Lord, she’s better. “I do. I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but you look beautiful tonight, Marissa. But then, you always look beautiful to me.”

  She slanted a look up at him from under her long lashes. “That’s good to know.”

  He laughed and tightened his arm she held on to, pulled her closer. “Look at me like that when we’re not under these streetlamps.”

  She batted her eyelashes.

  He growled and led her into the wide-sweeping turn that led to the hotel and railroad station and dock, stopped between streetlamps and pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “And one for good night.” He kissed her again. “In case you can’t tell, I’m very glad you’re here. I didn’t know how I was going to live through that separation.”

  “I felt the same.”

  Two years or more. The image of Sarah Swan sitting on the kitchen chair returned to him. “Thankfully—because of your father’s...change of heart, we don’t have to be concerned about that separation now. I can’t believe you will be right here at the hotel.” He started walking again, reluctant to bring up the subject of abuse again, but needing answers. He had a decision to make.

  “Marissa...”

  “Yes?”

  “I have to ask you something about Sarah Swan.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why was she so...quiet?”

  Her hand tensed on his arm, then relaxed again. “You learn to be that way. If you yell, or beg, or cry, it sometimes makes them more angry...meaner.”

  His back stiffened. What had she suffered at her father’s hand? He pulled her into the darkness at the side of the road and again took her in his arms. “You’ll never have to worry about that again, Marissa. Not with me.” His throat was so taut he could hardly get the words out. He held her close, listened to the rain patter against their coats and wished he could take away all of her bad memories.