LITMIR.BIZ

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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

      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

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