North of Lansing, Michigan, 1889
Across the narrow train aisle from Sarah, a matron examined her Friday newspaper, the bold print headline proclaiming ANOTHER BALLOONIST SUCCUMBS IN KALAMAZOO.
The woman’s companion, a silver-haired man with a drooping mustache, tapped the paper. “Why do those foolish young men engage in such folly?”
Indeed, why did they? Neither Sarah Richmond nor the lady had an answer.
“Mama, won’t there be a balloon show at the fair?” asked a boy in the row diagonal and forward from Sarah.
“Not after last year’s … mishap.” She patted the boy’s hand.
Mishap? The death of a balloonist before thousands of state fair attendees in Detroit? Sarah wouldn’t call that a mere mishap. She chewed her lower lip. Her fiancé’s death, now that could be referred to as such. A niggling began in her conscience. She had to stop blaming Arnold for his death. But new determination rose up against the hospital staff who might have been able to save him had they been more diligent. If her quilt won the blue ribbon, she’d tell any journalist who’d listen that Battle Creek wasn’t the only place in the state that needed to provide excellent health care to its citizens. And if a wealthy fairgoer wished to purchase her quilt, she’d contribute the money to the small hospital in her community.
Beside her, a schoolteacher from Ohio patted Sarah’s arm. “You might not want to keep tugging on that beautiful quilt, dear. Not if you hope to win a prize at the fair.”
She hadn’t realized she’d been pulling at the fabric’s scalloped edges. “Oh … yes.” Her fingers traced the red-and-yellow tulips she’d worked to cover her first wedding quilt’s design. Patting the folded quilt, Sarah smiled at the lady, who’d been visiting family up north near the Straits of Mackinac, where Sarah resided. “Thanks.”
Her seatmate resumed her knitting, aided by the light streaming through the window.
Fatigue washed over Sarah. Before long, her head nodded.
When she awakened, the little family had departed, as well as the older couple.
The conductor angled through the narrow passenger aisle. “This is your stop, miss.”
“Thank you.” Sarah rose and stretched. She smiled at the schoolteacher. “I pray your trip will be pleasant and you get home safely.”
“Thanks. I hope all goes well at the fair.”
They exchanged good-byes, and Sarah departed the train, the sounds of happy greetings carrying back from the platform. There’d be no one there to meet her here at the fairgrounds. Her aunt would be picking her up later, after Sarah had registered.
The railway man took her satchel. “I imagine we’ll get pretty busy at this stop once the fair begins.” He held out a hand for her, and she accepted it.
“Thank you.” Sarah stepped down onto the landing. “Do you think someone could direct me to Home Arts Pavilion?”
“Certainly.” The conductor waved at a dark-haired man attired in a jumpsuit. “I need some help for this young lady.”
“Me?” The man’s deep voice expressed confusion.
“Yeah, you. Ain’t ya wearin’ one of them state fair getups for a reason, young man?”
Michigan State Fair was emblazoned on his upper left pocket. The man looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He stood a head taller than the conductor and shot him a look that would’ve quailed even her rowdiest brother. Deep-set, dark blue eyes dominated his face. High cheekbones turned the faintest shade of rose, as did the full lips beneath his Roman nose. Sarah suddenly felt dizzy and closed her eyes.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” The worker’s baritone voice made her knees weaker.
The railway man jerked a thumb toward her. “That quilt she’s got bundled round her is goin’ in the contest. And she’s got that satchel.”
The stranger bent his head closer to hers, and she caught a whiff of sandalwood and something else she couldn’t quite identify. “Any other luggage?”
She carried her most cherished possession, her quilt, which had become an albatross since Arnold had died. Sarah shook her head.
“That’s it?” His handsome features crumpled in confusion. “No trunk?”
“No.”
“All right.” A faint smile tugged at his lips, sending a quiver through her.
“I can manage if you’ll point me to the Home Arts Pavilion. I need to register.”
“No, ma’am. I’ll carry this for you.”
“It’s miss.” Not that he needed to know her marital status. “Miss Sarah Richmond.”
“Grant Bentley. Pleased to meet you, Miss Richmond.” His eyelids lowered halfway. But instead of the usual slow, salacious appraisal of her buxom figure as he scanned her appearance, his features tugged in sadness. Then a faint smile flew past before he once again settled into a mask of … what? She was unaccustomed to such a reaction. Now his features fixed, as though he’d schooled himself in indifference.
“Thank you for your help, but I don’t want to trouble you.” The discomfort this man stirred in her wasn’t something she could name. Suddenly she didn’t feel safe around him. Not that he’d harm her. More that he could crack something in her heart that had hardened to stone.
“No trouble at all.” He set off, and Sarah struggled to keep up with the handsome man’s long strides.
“Can you slow a bit?”
“Sorry.” He grinned down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
They continued on, but Grant stopped for no one, instead giving a brief greeting in reply to the women or a half grunt to the men, one of whom called him “Professor.” A strange greeting, but perhaps young gents in the city used different nicknames than they did up north, where often one was called by his nationality.
As they passed by each section of the front of the fairground, Mr. Bentley pointed out the attractions. “The bicycle race is held over there.” He pointed to a long, elliptical track.
As they passed rows of small buildings, all labeled for different fair submissions and events, someone belted out the tune “Slide, Kelly, Slide.” Sarah hummed in time with the lyrics.
“Do you know this ditty?”
“I do.”
He stopped, and they found the source of the music. A piano had been set up on a platform near a beer wagon, surrounded by fair workers. “Let’s sing it.”
Sarah laughed but then joined her mezzo soprano with his mellifluous baritone. She hoped he didn’t want to partake of the beer offered there, not that it was any of her business.
When done, he crossed his massive arms, his armbands dark against the crisp white of the jumpsuit sleeves. “You possess a beautiful voice.”
“As do you.”
They exchanged a long glance, and her heart skipped a beat.
“I used to sing in our church choir.”
“Me, too.”
A dapper gentleman in a gray-checked suit strode toward them, pulling a gold watch from his vest pocket. His eyes skimmed Sarah’s figure before focusing on Mr. Bentley. “You just need to hook that balloon up to the city’s gas valve on Main Street to fill it.”
A muscle in the handsome worker’s jaw jumped.
With a curt nod, the suited gent snapped his watch shut and rushed off toward the beer wagon.
“Who’s that?” Sarah watched the man push through the crowd to the front of the line.
“He’s one of the fair managers.”
“And what did he mean about the balloon? I heard they’d canceled that dangerous ridiculousness because of the death last year in Detroit.”
Mr. Bentley’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
Of course, he had no control over such things and merely had to do as directed. Sarah frowned. “Another of those aeronauts died just yesterday in Kalamazoo.”
He ran his hand over his lips and chin.
Sometimes she spoke out of turn. How many times had she had to do as directed by her father at their farm, without questioning him?
They walked on in silence. She deliberately avoided his sapphire gaze. Soon he stopped at the pavilion and set her bag down by the registrar’s desk.
“Here you go, Miss Richmond.”
She grabbed his arm, sensing the firm muscles beneath his gabardine uniform. “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.”
Grant tipped his head and sighed. “I’ll come back to check on you when my work is through.”
Absolutely nothing in the man’s tone indicated he harbored anything more than altruistic motives. And for some reason, that annoyed her. Wasn’t she pretty enough, dainty enough that he’d like to see her again? And why was she thinking such things? After losing two fiancés, she would never risk her heart on a man again.
Grant surveyed the newly built dining hall. Everything here, at what would be the permanent home for the Michigan State Fair, was newly built. Although he and his business partner weren’t technically state fair employees, anyone displaying or engaged in commerce at the event could eat in the cavernous building. Rows of windows punctuated every wall, save for that where the kitchen workers served up hearty food.
His friend and partner, Lee Hudgins, joined him in line. “This is some mess hall, isn’t it?”
“Top notch.” As was the young woman he’d directed to the pavilion earlier.
Long tables, set up picnic-table style, were flanked by benches. The few ladies in the room sat primarily at the end of the benches. Several tried futilely to manage their bustles, sitting cockeyed to do so. Silly contraptions.
“Humph,” Grant snorted. “We’ve been tethered.”
“What?”
“The fair manager told me just now.” Grant ground his back teeth together.
“Like hucksters?” Lee grimaced. “Showmen?”
“But we’re not circus performers. We’re engineers.” One day soon, massive balloons, unlike anything ever seen, would carry crowds of people into the air. With an engine there would be more control, too.
“Tethered. How will we make any money?” The son of a prominent Virginia congressman, Hudgins, like Grant, was bullheaded enough to think he had to prove himself on his own. Hence their need of capital.
When they reached the counter, Grant inhaled the scent of poultry, potatoes, and a sharp odor that prickled his nose. He pointed to a huge bowl of yellowish vegetables. The server, a woman with wisps of silver curls framing a pleasant round face, beamed up at him. “Turnips?”
Turnips? The Bentley household had never deigned to serve turnips before Grant had been turned out, after college, for refusing to follow his father into the banking business his ancestors had built up in New York. If he’d been willing to tuck tail and crawl home, though, he’d likely be welcomed.
“Yes, madam, I’d like to try them.”
Hudgins cast a sideways glance at him.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Try them? Have ye not et ’em before?” Her thick Irish accent recalled that of Cook’s at home, and for a moment, Grant could picture her scolding him for not at least trying the oyster soufflé she’d prepared.
“He has, ma’am.” An elbow jutted into Grant’s side as Hudgins laid on his Southern drawl, thicker than the gravy being poured over his potatoes. “I believe he’s meanin’ he’s nevah had them with fried chicken before.”
She glanced between the two of them then finished filling Grant’s plate.
Hudgins leaned in. “Any okra, ma’am?”
“Don’t be askin’ fer none of that up here. Too many former Union men ain’t too happy to even hear a Rebel drawl, much less et their food.”
With that caution, Grant headed toward the closest table holding space for two men. Working men attired in either the uniform of a state fair worker or in laborer’s clothing occupied most tables. The newly constructed buildings still required work before attendees arrived several days hence.
When a lady hastily removed her half-eaten tray of food from a table and departed, they slid into the vacancy. Across from them, two men with dirty blond hair stared hard, one wiping his greasy fingers across the front of his streaked tan coveralls. They looked to be brothers, with matching squashed noses. One had a bandanna around his neck that might have once been red. The other’s neck sported a nasty faded pink scar, perhaps from a failed garrote attempt. The back of Grant’s neck tightened.
Hudgins bit into the chicken and sighed. “Almost like Mama made.”
“You South—” the stranger across from Hudgins began but then suddenly his chin jutted upward, his eyes fixed on someone in the front.
The other brother whistled. “That’s some kind of woman.”
“Just my type.”
“Yup.” After setting his chicken on his plate, the scarred man motioned his hands into a pronounced hourglass shape and winked at Grant.
Heat crept up his neck. A gentleman didn’t make such lewd gestures nor respond to them. He dipped his spoon into the diced turnips and raised them to his mouth. Foul smelling. He took a bite. Nasty. Like the brothers across from him. Grabbing his tin cup of ginger ale, Grant took a swig.
“You two, take a hike.” The one with the neckerchief jerked his thumb to the end of the table. “We need room.”
“Not a chance,” Lee mumbled around a mouthful of potatoes.
The click of a knife opening got Grant’s attention. Even in this room full of people conversing and the scraping of chairs and tables as they came and went, he’d discerned that warning sound he knew all too well. A man on his own in the world better recognize danger, immediately, if he wished to maintain his life and his wallet.
“My friend can take you.” Hudgins grinned at the brothers, a dimple deep in his right cheek making him look far younger than he was—and deceptively innocent.
The two strangers laughed. “Kin he now, ya heah?” Mocking Lee wasn’t a good idea. The “friend” Lee spoke of meant a combination of fists and his pistol, always strapped somewhere on his person.
Both men ceased guffawing and stared just behind Grant, dual jaws dropping open and then clamping tight.
Someone’s skirt brushed against Grant’s arm. He looked up into the dark eyes of the young lady he’d rescued earlier.
Lee shot to his feet. “Ma’am?”
Exhaling, Grant stood, too. “Miss Richmond.”
Lee poked Grant’s side. “You two met?”
Her face flushed pink. “Earlier.”
When the pretty brunette glanced down at them, the brother with the open knife closed it shut. His leer revealed several blackened teeth. “They’s just leavin’.”
“Weren’t ya, fellas?” The brother narrowed his eyes.
“Indeed we were.” Grant focused his attention on Sarah. “Might you wish to take your meal outside with us, miss?”
She glanced first at the laborers and then back at Lee. “Lovely notion.”
Over the brothers’ protests, Grant and Lee rose.
Outside, Lee located a bench beneath a large maple tree, whose leaves were beginning to change. “Let’s sit yonder.”
“The cafeteria crowd seems a rough sort. They may cause you extreme discomfiture.” Or worse. Grant wouldn’t allow himself to contemplate what devilry these men were capable of.
Sarah was discomfited. “Those men …” She shivered. The way they looked at her, like she was a whole plateful of fried chicken they’d like to consume, had made her skin crawl.
“Not fit company for a flea-infested hound, much less a lovely young lady.”
Mr. Bentley cleared his throat. “Miss Sarah Richmond, this is my friend Lee Hudgins.”
“Nice to meet you. What do you do at the fair?”
“We help.” The way Mr. Bentley’s lips tightened, he appeared embarrassed of their job. No shame in being a groundskeeper.
Dressed in button-up jumpsuits, the two men made a handsome matched set. And far more gentlemanly than she’d have imagined the fair employees would be. Sarah nibbled her lower lip. God was good. She’d been through the loss of two men she’d expected to marry. She’d never fall in love again, not even if the man’s wavy dark hair begged to be pushed off his forehead, not even if his full lips invited her to …
“Miss Richmond?”
“Oh!” She blinked, trying to re-collect herself. She balanced her tray on her lap. “I should say grace.”
Right before she closed her eyes, Mr. Hudgins grinned like her brothers did when they had a secret. Was it he or Grant who had something to hide?
Dear Father, please bless this food, and keep me safe. Thank You for helping me earlier.
“Yoo-hoo!” Striding up sawdust-strewn walkway, Aunt Bonnie waved.
Mr. Bentley leapt to his feet. He turned to Sarah. “Do you know this woman?”
Mr. Hudgins languidly rose and waved.
“There stands the bane of my existence.” Mr. Bentley muttered so low, Sarah almost didn’t hear him.