Today’s lecture had gone well. And she hadn’t felt nearly as uneasy riding the steamer this time. Now, if the protest march would go as well...
Marissa gripped the rail and watched the people making their way toward the dock, summoned by the blast of the Colonel Phillips’s whistle. Sunlight sparkled on the water, but its warmth was waning and it would be dusk when she made her return trip to Chautauqua. She should have thought to bring a wrap. The steamer lurched, slowed and slipped alongside the Mayville dock, lake water slapping at its sides.
I’m the caretaker of my father’s vineyard.
She caught her breath and glanced at the road that passed between the railroad station and a hotel, followed its wide curve into a sloping climb to the top of the low hill. I live in Mayville and our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it. Her stomach churned. She took a firmer grip on the rail and searched the shoreline for grapevines. Grant was a vineyard owner. And he’d had to stay home today to oversee the harvest of his grapes. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, hoped for the hundredth time that Grant’s vineyard wasn’t the one Judith Moore had been talking about yesterday. It was a selfish wish. Grapes were grapes no matter who grew them. And grapes made wine. She’d reminded herself of that fact every time she relived Grant’s words through her long, sleepless night.
“All ashore for Mayville!”
The call settled like a rock in her stomach. How could someone be reluctant and eager at the same time? She frowned and pushed back her windblown curls, ran her hand down the front of the skirt of her plum-colored day dress and joined the passengers gathering into a loose cluster at the head of the gangway. A young gentleman doffed his hat and smiled. “After you, miss.”
She stepped cautiously, kept her gaze fastened on the plank at her feet and released her breath when she stepped onto the dock. The short, ruffle-trimmed train of her gown slipped off the white-painted gangplank and whispered over the weathered wood as she made her way forward. A dozen or so canoes and rowboats tied to the long dock bobbed gently on the waves splashing against the pilings and rolling under the dock on their way to the shore. She moved closer to the center and wished the two women in front of her would walk faster.
“Miss Bradley!”
Ina Jefferson stood apart from the people waiting to board the steamer. Marissa hurried to her side and smiled. “Thank you for coming to meet me. Is everything ready?”
“Yes, indeed. Lily and Judith were already at the store shopping and visiting with Sarah when I passed by on my way here. Susan will be there when we arrive. It’s a bit of a walk...all uphill once we reach the curve in the road.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” She shoved all thought of Grant from her mind and focused on the coming protest. “I’m ready. Shall we be on our way?”
* * *
“The harvest is going well.” Grant took a swallow of lemonade, eyed his father over the top of his glass. He looked...frail. Not a word associated with Andrew Winston. “The wagons should be on their way to the winery in less than an hour. I figure the concords should all be picked in another two days.”
“The catawbas be ready by then?”
Something was wrong. His father was trying to hide it, but there was worry in his eyes. He glanced over at his mother and swallowed back the questions he wanted to ask. There was no sense in adding to her concern for his father. He drained his glass and set it on the table. Perhaps his news would ease his father’s mind. “No. The vines on the east slope will be ready in about a week, perhaps a day or two earlier if the weather holds. They’ll have a decent yield. But the other vines—those that survived but were damaged by the killing cold—have a limited yield. Mr. Douglas looked at the catawbas again after your meeting this morning. He’ll buy them, but for a lower price because of the difficulty in picking.”
“I expected that. Dillon Douglas likes to squeeze a nickel tight as the next man.” His father looked down, swirled the lemonade in his glass. “Best we can do, I guess. It’ll help.”
Help? With what? He needed to have a private talk with his father. “Well, I only came in to let you know the harvest is going well. And to tell you Douglas will stop by with another contract for the catawbas. I’ve got to get back to work. It’ll be dusk soon and they’ll start loading the wagons.” He stepped out onto the back porch, shrugged off his unease and trotted down the steps. He’d confront his father about what was wrong tonight, after the pickers had gone.
The lowering sun warmed his shoulders, threw his shadow before him as he strode down the stone walk to the bottom of the hill where the pickers were working.
“Winston!”
He pivoted, stared at the vintner striding down the path between the concords and the old vines. The man was scowling. Grant started up the slope to meet him. “I didn’t expect to see you again until tomorrow, Mr. Douglas. Is there a problem?”
“Not yet. But it looks as if one is on the way.” Dillon Douglas shifted his gaze toward the access road. “Those wagons loaded?”
“No. The filled baskets are sitting in the rows waiting to be carried to the wagons when there’s enough for a full load—the same as always. They should have enough baskets filled by dusk. It’s been a good day.” He glanced at the sky. There wasn’t a rain cloud in sight. “What’s the problem, Mr. Douglas?”
“Them women!” Dillon Douglas snorted. “Hardon’s wife was right. There’s six of them marching through town on their way here. All carrying signs and singing hymns! Riling up the whole town! Everybody’s going out on the street to watch them.”
“Here? Why would the women come here? Your winery is—”
“Useless without grapes.” The vintner narrowed his eyes and leaned toward him. “Your grapes, at the moment, Winston. Sitting in those baskets—” Dillon Douglas shot out his hand and pointed “—waiting to be hauled to my winery. It seems it’s not only the wineries they’re after. They’re marching against vineyards, too. And they’re on their way.”
Suspicion reared. “You said six women, Douglas. Is Sarah Swan among them?”
“She’s marching in the lead beside some young woman I don’t know. And you can be sure Toby doesn’t know it! Why, he’d—” Dillon Douglas chopped his hand through the air and started back up the hill. “You build a fire under those pickers and get those wagons loaded, Winston. I want them out of here! There’s no telling what those women have in mind.” The vintner pulled the contract for the concords from his pocket and waved it in the air. “And remember, no grapes, no payment!”
He clenched his hands to keep from grabbing hold and shaking Douglas. That money had to keep them through the next year. And his father was already worried about something. Likely that demand note he’d taken out last year. He pivoted on his heel and started toward the pickers. He had to think of something. And quick.
She’s marching in the lead beside some young woman I don’t know.
The memory of Sarah Swan at the temperance lecture turned his suspicion to certainty. It was Marissa. It had to be. But what could—
“Douglas!” The vintner halted, turned toward him. He closed the distance between them at a run. “I’ve an idea. You said Toby wouldn’t know about Sarah marching. And I agree. He’d never stand for it. It would be bad for business.”
“What of it? You’re wasting time, Winston. Get those pickers—”
“Hear me out! I doubt the other husbands would know or approve, either. Why don’t you go tell them and arrange a little march of your own...” He nodded as understanding broke across Dillon Douglas’s face.
“It just might work, Winston. Good thinking!” The vintner grinned and thumped him on his shoulder. “You get those wagons loaded and I’ll get the husbands. But there’s one woman I don’t know.”
I do. “You leave her to me.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be back as soon as I gather up all the husbands!”
He nodded and ran toward the pickers, anger spurring him on. He hoped he was wrong, but his gut told him he wasn’t. Marissa had to have had this march planned last night when he’d told her about his family owning a vineyard. And she’d never said a word...Yes, she had.
I hate wine. Her soft, choked voice echoed in his head.
And, evidently, vineyard owners, too. Including him. How could he have been so wrong about her? His face tightened. “You men!” The pickers straightened, their heads and shoulders appearing above the lush green vines. He raised his voice so the men in the far rows would hear him. “Start loading the wagons! Mr. Douglas wants them out of here now!”
* * *
“Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Marissa glanced at Sarah Swan singing and marching beside her. The woman’s hands were white with strain from holding the sign she carried so tightly. It was the perfect slogan for their purpose. Grapes Make Wine and Wine Makes Trouble and Sorrow. But it was obvious from the older woman’s grim expression that it was more than a slogan to her.
She glanced up at her placard and wished again that she’d been given a different one to carry. Lips That Touch Wine Shall Never Touch Mine. She winced inwardly. She understood the sentiment, but it was too...personal. Especially after last night. Grant owned a vineyard; he would surely drink wine. And he— No! No more dwelling on foolish romantic dreams about Grant Winston. She had to forget him.
A house stood on their right, square and solid and somehow proud. She focused her attention on the home to drive out the unwelcome thoughts. It had a vine-draped front porch, ocher-painted clapboard siding and a deep overhang on the tin-covered hip roof that shaded the second-story windows. No one came out of the house to watch them as they passed. Were they standing back out of sight and watching them march by with tight-pressed lips or smiles?
“We’re almost there. That is the access road to the vineyard just ahead.”
Sarah Swan’s grim tone drew her back to their purpose. She looked forward. A dirt path led off to the right, guarded by a carved wooden sign declaring the land belonged to the Twin Eagle Vineyard. She stiffened her back and squared her shoulders, sang with more fervor.
The path parted fields of trellised grapevines, laden with bunches of light pink fruit that flowed over the brink of a hill. Over top of the abundant vines she could see the sparkling water of Chautauqua Lake at a short distance.
Our home is not on Chautauqua Lake, though our land borders it.
Her stomach knotted. Did these vines go all the way to the lake? She tightened her grip on her sign and walked toward the crest of the hill. Dust swirled up from the path, settled like powder on the bottom of her long plum-colored skirt. She looked down, came to an abrupt stop.
“Oh, look! We’re right on time! There are the Oakwood Winery wagons. Over there—at the bottom of the hill.” Lily Edmunds dipped her sign in that direction.
The sign bearing the words Help Us Save Our Children. Stop Making Wine flashed in front of her, blocking her view. It didn’t matter. She’d already seen the loaded wagons—and the tall, broad-shouldered man waving them forward. She closed her eyes, hoped...prayed. Let me be wrong, Lord. Please let me be wrong.
“They’re starting up the hill!”
“What shall we do?”
There was panic in the women’s voices. She clamped a firm hold on her emotions and faced them. “We shall do what we came to do, ladies. Come with me to where we can’t be seen.” She led them to a spot a short distance from the road entrance. “This is where we will make our stand. We are going to place ourselves in a line across this road and keep those wagons from leaving. Those grapes will not make wine!”
Wagons creaked. Horses’ hoofs thudded against dirt. The wagons were getting close.
“Sarah, you stand with me in the middle.” She grabbed the older woman’s hand and pulled her into place, took two steps to her right. “Lily and Ina, you take up places on the other side of Sarah.” She waved her hand to the left. “Judith and Susan, you do the same on my right.”
She watched the women hurry into place, then swept her gaze over each of them. “Perfect, ladies. Now, remember—don’t move!”
“But the horses!”
Lily Edmunds gave a most unladylike snort. “You’d do better to worry about the driver, Ina. The horses won’t hurt you.”
Hoofs thudded. The bobbing heads of a team of horses showed over the crown of the hill.
“Ready, ladies?” Marissa drew herself to her full height, squared her shoulders and lifted her sign high as the horses came plodding over the crest dragging the loaded wagon behind them. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as to war...” Her voice rang out clear. The other women followed her lead and burst into song.
“Whoa!” The wagon driver hauled back on the reins, gaped down at them.
Grant came striding over the crest looking different than she’d ever seen him. He was wearing a blue work shirt, brown twill pants, boots and a frown. Her heart lurched. She forgot to sing. The other women fell silent.
“Good day, ladies.” Grant dipped his head in their direction. He swept his gaze over them, met hers for a second then looked up at the signs they held. His face went taut.
Hers flamed. It took all of her discipline and determination not to thrust her sign behind her back.
Grant stepped to the horse’s head, grabbed the cheek strap and walked forward to within a few feet of them. “Get that other wagon up here, Joe!”
“Hup! Hup!” The team of horses came into view, followed by the wagon. The driver halted the horses and looked their way. “What’s all this?” He scanned their signs and grinned.
“You find this amusing, Joe?”
Grant’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. He was angry. Very angry. She braced herself as he turned from the sobered driver and walked toward their line.
“I’m surprised to see you here, ladies. I’ve never known any of you to turn on a neighbor before.” He flicked a look in her direction.
Her heart sank. Clearly, he blamed her.
Ina Jefferson gasped and lowered her sign. “That’s not what we’re doing!”
“It’s not personal against you or your father, Grant. It’s the grapes.”
Marissa glanced at Sarah Swan. The older woman looked uncomfortable but determined.
“These grapes provide our livelihood, Mrs. Swan. That’s personal. The same as it would be if I tried to shut down your husband’s store.” Grant’s gaze traveled from woman to woman. “Or Noah’s farm...or Carl’s tanning business...Albert’s barbershop...or John’s office.” His gaze skipped over her, settled again on Sarah Swan. “I’ll ask you to step aside now and let the wagons pass.”
The older woman drew a deep breath and shook her head. “I can’t do it, Grant. I’m just too tired of the abuse.”
“Mind your tongue, woman!”
Sarah Swan stiffened.
Marissa spun around.
A group of men strode from the road toward them. None of them looked pleased, save the one in the middle.
“John!”
“Carl!”
“Albert!”
The women dropped their signs, gaped at the men. Their husbands, no doubt. She glanced at Grant. He didn’t look surprised. Had he sent for the men? How had he known—
“Where’s your pride, woman?” A portly man with a red beard strode up to Sarah Swan, snatched the sign from her hand and tossed it aside. “Heaping up shame—”
“My only shame is in hiding the bruises from your hand all these years, Tobin.” Sarah looked over at her. “Thank you for your help, Miss Bradley. Our protest to stop the grapes from reaching the winery may have failed. But I will no longer have to sacrifice my self-respect to hide the truth. And in that there is victory.”
The older woman’s words strengthened her resolve. She tightened her hold on her sign and watched the women walk off with their husbands.
“Out of the way, young lady.” The man who had led the husbands climbed into the first wagon. “I have grapes to get to my winery before dark.”
She moved in front of the horses, raised her sign and her voice. “Onward, Christian Soldiers, marching as...”
“What the—” The man jerked to his feet, his face as purple as the grapes overflowing the baskets behind him. “Get her out of the way, Winston!”
“—royal Master—”
Grant stepped close, his face a closed mask. “It’s over, Miss Bradley. The other women have gone home. Please step aside.”
“—into battle—”
He stooped. His arms closed around her knees, lifted. She dropped her sign and grabbed for his shoulders. They felt like rocks. She pushed, glared down at him. “Put me down!”
“Will you stay out of the path and let the wagons pass?”
“Never!”
He heaved.
She flopped over his shoulder, gasped and kicked her feet, pushing against his back, but she couldn’t get enough purchase to push herself erect. His hard shoulder pressed into her abdomen, drove her breath from her with his every stride across a stretch of grass. She tried to crane her head around to see where he was taking her but couldn’t manage.
“Grant Winston! Whatever are you doing? Put that young woman down and mind your manners!”
“Ooof!” She bounced against him as he stepped onto a stone walk then trotted up a set of steps. He released the death wrap he had around her knees, gripped her waist and lifted her off his shoulder. She shoved against his chest and almost toppled backward when he let go of her.
“Grant!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I had to get her out of the way of the wagons. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Well, I’m sure you could have done so in a more gentlemanly fashion. Now, if you know her name, introduce me to this young woman.”
He looked chagrined. It did her heart good. She wanted to stick her tongue out at him the way she had at Lincoln when they were children, but she straightened her hat that had been knocked askew and turned to face Grant’s mother instead. The serene look on the older woman’s face made her feel completely undone. She jabbed at the curls falling free around her face.
“Mother, this is Miss Bradley. Miss Bradley, my mother, Mrs. Winston.” The anger in Grant’s deep voice didn’t help matters. She drew in a calming breath and made an effort to regain her composure.
“How do you do, Miss Bradley? I’m certain you must be warm after your...exertions. May I interest you in a glass of lemonade?”
The winery wagons rolled by out on the main road. Heat climbed into her cheeks at the woman’s graciousness in the face of her recent activity. “How kind of you, Mrs. Winston. But I must take the Colonel Phillips back to Chautauqua tonight, and I don’t care to make the long walk back to the lake in the dark.” She turned toward the steps.
“There’s time enough.” Grant shot her a look and leaned against the post at the top of the porch steps.
Obviously, he didn’t trust her. Did he think she would run after the wagons?
“Oh, good. I’ll be right back with our drinks.” Mrs. Winston disappeared inside.
“I’ll walk you to the dock and see you safe back to Chautauqua.”
Grant’s tone said it was only good manners that prompted the offer. She swallowed the hurt of his lost friendship and shook her head, which promptly undid all the good her poking and jabbing at her hair had done. “Please don’t bother. I remember the way.” She lifted her chin and started by him. He shot out his arm and blocked her access to the steps.
“I said I’ll see you safe to Chautauqua. My mother will be upset if I don’t. I won’t bother you after that. You have my word.”
“Very well.” She stared at his tight mouth and set jaw, turned away and shoved the hair that had fallen forward away from her eyes.
The door opened and Mrs. Winston stepped onto the porch. “Grant, would you please come and get the lemonade for our guest? Your father is a little tired and needs me to help him retire.”
Grant gave her a warning look and stepped to his mother’s side.
“I was going to see Miss Bradley safe back to Chautauqua, Mother. But I’ll see her onto the steamer and then return.” A frown creased his brow. “Do you want me to stop on our way to the dock and send the doctor back?”
“No, that’s not necessary, Grant. Your father’s only tired. And he would be ashamed of you if you didn’t see Miss Bradley safely home.” Mrs. Winston looked her way and smiled. “Please come again, Miss Bradley. I was looking forward to getting to know you. Good evening.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Winston.”
“Wait here.” Grant growled the words and disappeared into the house.
She looked out at the fading light then glanced back at the door. Grant didn’t want to be with her, and her emotions were too...unsettled to be with him. It would be better, less hurtful if she simply left. But she couldn’t go looking so disheveled. She reached up to tuck more of the escaped curls into her still-confined hair.
The door opened and Grant came onto the porch, a shawl dangling from his hand. He glanced at her, sucked in a breath and held out the wool wrap. “I thought you might need this for the ride back on the steamer. There’s most always a breeze on the lake at night.”
He was so nice, even in his anger. She stared at the shawl, swallowed hard and shook her head. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Grant, but I think it best if—”
“Just take it.” His jaw twitched. “You can give it back when we say goodbye.”
His tone left no doubt that he would accompany her to Fair Point whether she agreed or not. And that the goodbye they said then would be final. She blinked away a sting of tears and nodded. It was for the best.