An Unlikely Love. Dorothy Clark

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      “So young?” She halted and looked up at him. “Weren’t your mother and father concerned for your safety?”

      That deep chuckle rolled from his chest. “They no doubt would have been, had they known about it.” A grin slanted across his mouth. “I fell in the pond.”

      She gasped, pressed her hand to the base of her throat. “Who saved you?”

      “No one. My wild flailing and kicking eventually got me to the bank. After that I dove in the pond on purpose.” He laughed, tucked her hand back through his arm and started walking again. “I can tell by your horrified expression you’ve not had any similar experience.”

      “I should hope not, Mr. Winston!”

      “There are no lakes or ponds for swimming where you live?”

      Not after we moved from the farm. The thought sobered her. She closed her mind to the memories. “No. I live in Fredonia.”

      “Ah. Then it is more likely that you are surrounded by vineyards than lakes or ponds.”

      “Our home is in the town.” The answer was curt, bordering on the impolite, but she wanted no questions about her home. And no conversation about vineyards!

      He stopped, looked down at her. “I hope you won’t think me overly forward, Miss Bradley, but I sense that these two weeks at the Chautauqua Assembly are different. People have come from all over the country, and we must make friends quickly. Thus, strict rules of etiquette have to be relaxed. Would you do me the honor of addressing me by my given name—in private, only if you choose?”

      “Why, I—”

      “I would not ask such freedom of you, but for the special circumstance of Chautauqua. My name is Grant.”

      There was sincerity in his voice and in his eyes. Dare she defy propriety? She caught her breath and nodded. “Very well. Because of Chautauqua...Grant.” Her cheeks warmed. She looked away.

      “Thank you, Miss—”

      “Marissa.” Forgive me, Mother. She made herself look up at him, to read what was in his eyes at her boldness.

      “Marissa...”

      The Colonel Phillips blasted its horn.

      She jumped.

      He looked at the steamer at the end of the dock, frowned and looked back at her. “The gangplank’s being set in place. I have to go.” He released her arm, stepped toward the dock, then returned to her. “I will be back for the science class tomorrow evening. May I see you when it’s over, Marissa? If you will tell me where you’re living—”

      The steamer’s horn gave its last warning.

      “There’s no time for directions.” He trotted backward toward the dock. “Will you meet me at the hotel? At dusk tomorrow?”

      She swallowed the last of her inhibition and nodded. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

      “Until then!” He smiled, turned and ran up the dock and onto the steamer.

      She stood rooted to the spot, shocked by what she’d done. But when he’d looked at her...

      “There you are, Marissa.”

      She started, glanced over her shoulder.

      Clarice walked up beside her and looked toward the steamer. “Was that Mr. Winston?

      “Mr. Boat Man.” She laughed and hastened to change the subject, lest Clarice start taking notes for her story. She’d embarrassed herself enough. Her plunge from the rules of society would remain her guilty secret. “Are you through working for the day?”

      “I am. Until I get back to the tent and put my notes in order.” Clarice waved her hand back toward the hill. “Shall we leave the throng?”

      “Yes, of course.” She glanced back at the lake. The Colonel Phillips was rounding the point. Grant was gone. Until tomorrow night. Her pulse skipped. Her guilt swelled. She composed herself, lifted her hems and followed Clarice up the hill.

Chapter Three

      He’d done it. He’d found Marissa Bradley. Well, truth be told, it wasn’t his efforts that had brought them together tonight. Grant threw his tie over the back of the Windsor chair, sat and yanked off his shoes. His mother would say the Lord had taken a hand. He frowned, shook his head. He was a man of faith, but he was also a man of science, and that was difficult to swallow. Still...

      He had given up. The lateness of the hour and the multiple hundreds of people sitting on the grass or milling around listening to the concert had him admitting defeat. But seeing her standing on a deserted portion of the shore was serendipitous, to say the least. His mother would, of a certainty, say it was God.

      He crossed to his bed and flopped down onto his back. Marissa was beautiful. His pulse quickened. He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the plastered ceiling, remembered the way she’d looked with the soft evening light falling on her upturned face, glowing in her blue eyes. Truly beautiful. The delicate cast of her features, the cleanly arched eyebrows over her long-lashed blue eyes, her finely molded nose and cheekbones, soft, full mouth and small, rounded chin were perfection.

      He jerked to his feet and walked over to his window, opened it to the warm August night and looked toward the lake. He’d met beautiful young women before. Paid court to a few until he’d lost interest. That was what he had intended to do with Marissa Bradley—see her a few times, satisfy his curiosity about the sadness in her eyes and then say goodbye. But tonight, when he’d looked into her eyes in that first, unguarded moment, something had happened—something beyond the jolt of his heart. There’d been a knowing in him that was irrefutable. A sort of...connection he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain. Whatever it was, it was foolish in the light of reason and knowledge. It was also undeniable. It was still there.

      He frowned, looked down at the grapevines silvered by the moonlight, turned and headed for his dressing room. He was a young, healthy man. Miss Bradley was a beautiful young woman. His was a simple physical reaction, easily explained by science. He had no reason, time or inclination to examine his response to her more fully than that. He had a busy day tomorrow with the coming harvest to prepare for. The matter of Miss Marissa Bradley would straighten itself out. The odd feeling was, no doubt, because of the circumstances of their meeting—a chance encounter in highly unlikely circumstances was intriguing. That’s all it was. The attraction of mystery. He was a man who liked to find answers. The feeling would go away after his planned meeting with Marissa tomorrow night.

      “Marissa...” He turned on the tap, shrugged out of his shirt and splashed water on his face. The name suited her. It was soft and beautiful and...haunting. He toweled off, tugged on his nightshirt, turned down the wick in the oil lamp and headed for bed, Marissa Bradley’s name and beautiful face lingering in his mind.

      * * *

      Marissa tugged the quilt up closer around her chin and stared at the sloping canvas roof over her cot.

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