The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene

  “Let me see that.” Her rescuer knelt down next to her, and something about him looked familiar. But she couldn’t place the face.

  “I take it you’re not highly allergic to bees.” He held her throbbing hand in his, strong and calloused from hard work.

  Her laugh came out as a groan. “This is bad enough.” She wanted to scream.

  “If you were allergic, you’d be dead.” The man spoke in clipped tones.

  “That doesn’t help when you feel like your hand is a pincushion. Ow!” Her voice raised to a howl.

  “That’s one out.” He held the short stinger where she could see it. “You are hurting, but this represents the life of a bee. They were living happy lives until you threatened their home, and they gave their lives defending it.”

  A second dig in her hand, another yelp, and he held up the second stinger.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of tweezers?” She squeezed the words out of her throat as he slid a thin blade under her skin for the third stinger.

  “That would only release more venom into your system. If you’re going to play with bees, you should know that.”

  Who was this stranger who happened to know so much about bees? Apiarists weren’t all that common.

  He lifted her hand close to her face. “I believe that’s all. Now I’m going to unbutton your sleeve. Your wrist is swelling as well.” He put his threat to work.

  How dare he? Edith jerked her arm, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he held it over her head like a child wanting to answer a question in school.

  Grant Oscar’s quick trip to the field his father left fallow hadn’t turned out as expected. First he had discovered a woman harvesting honey from log gums on his family’s land and then the nasty exchange she’d had with the bees. He hardly recognized the tomboy he’d left behind in this amazing beauty.

  She didn’t seem to recognize him at all. She struggled to free her arm as if from a stranger. He loosened his grip. “Do you think you can stand up?”

  She jumped to her feet. “I’d appreciate it if you would see if there is any honey left in my jug and bring it to my house when you have time.” She held her injured hand gingerly. “I’ll have to return to get more once I’ve healed.” She took a couple of steps and stopped. “I should tell you who I am and where I live.” She cradled her hand. “And thank you for getting me away from those bees. I’m—”

  “You’re Edie Grace, and your parents’ farm is about two miles west of here.” So she hadn’t recognized him. “My home is closer, so you’re coming with me. You need to get ice on that hand.” He watched as his words sank in.

  “Grant Oscar?”

  “That’s me.”

  She took a step and wobbled, and he wrapped his arm around her. “Let’s get going. I’d go for my horse, but that would just jostle your hand further.”

  She nodded in agreement, her lips compressed in a straight line from pain, her hand looking angrier than a crying baby. He almost wished he had been around to watch her grow up.

  When he had left Spruce Hill nine years ago to enlist in the navy, he had enjoyed visiting new ports and distant lands. Over the years it had grown tiring. His desire to see something besides the ocean on a daily basis combined with his father’s failing health brought him back to the farm that had belonged to his family for more than a century. He hadn’t known the herculean task ahead of him—bringing it back from the brink of bankruptcy.

  He kept them under the trees, following the fringes of the meadow. Edie winced every time she brushed a branch, but she didn’t complain. When at last they reached the cultivated fields, corn and bean stalks marked the pathway to the barn. The sun beat on their heads; her forehead glistened and her body trembled. “Do you want to rest?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “At least drink some water.” He handed her his canteen.

  As she shook her head, she stumbled, and he grabbed her arms to keep her from falling. Unfortunately, his hand clamped on her right wrist. Tears squeezed from her closed eyes.

  He uncapped the canteen and handed it to her. “Please, drink. I don’t want you to faint before we reach the house.”

  She took a sip and then a deep swallow. “Thank you, Mr. Oscar.”

  “Grant, please.”

  The water helped, and a few minutes later they arrived at the house.

  She stared at the porch stairs and then at her hand. She drew in a deep breath and stepped up without holding on. The three steps to the front door took an eternity, but at last they crossed the threshold.

  Edie walked gingerly to the closest seat, the sofa. She made it, too, with only a single wince. She attempted to straighten her skirts with her left hand. “Why, hello, Mr. Oscar.”

  His chair faced the front window, looking over the farm. The stroke he’d suffered four months ago had robbed him of clear speech and he didn’t move well, but he loved to watch what was going on.

  “Gr.” That’s about as much of his son’s name as he could manage. “Miss Grace.”

  Edie sprang from her chair as if her hand didn’t hurt a bit. “Mr. Oscar.” She kept her hand at her side, where he couldn’t see it. “You must be glad to have your son home at last.”

  Chapter 2

  Let me get some ice for that hand,” Grant said. He disappeared from the room.

  He’d better run away. Edith had been the one to find his father on the floor, as still as death, on Easter Sunday. Mr. Oscar was so proud of his son in the navy—just look at the photograph of him in uniform.

  The problem was that after Mrs. Oscar had died, Mr. Oscar had gone into a steady decline, and his son wasn’t there to do anything about it. Even after the stroke, Grant hadn’t made it home for almost four months.

  “Miss Grace.” Mr. Oscar struggled with the words, but his smile was all that mattered.

  “Sit down so I can take care of you properly.” Grant stood behind her, water dripping from the towel wrapped around an ice chip he had broken from the block of ice in their kitchen.

  Mr. Oscar was getting agitated, probably wanting to know what had happened. “The bees got to me today.” She held out her hand, swollen and red. How much worse it would have been if Grant hadn’t taken care of her.

  Of course, if Grant hadn’t surprised her, she probably wouldn’t have been stung in the first place.

  Mr. Oscar indicated that he wanted to be turned around, and Grant complied. His eager eyes watched every movement his son made, as if ready to take over if he didn’t do a good job.

  The ice provided instant relief to the heat, and he gently laid her affected hand on the arm of the sofa. “Keeping it elevated a little will help.” Grant grabbed one of the pillows his mother had embroidered. “Try this.” He slipped it under her arm.

  It felt awkward, and uncomfortable, but Edith agreed with the course of treatment. She had studied the appropriate treatment for bee stings when she had decided to harvest honey by herself. She should thank him for helping her.

  He frowned. Once he was satisfied she was as comfortable as possible, he plopped down in a well-worn chair by the fireplace. “Pa, did you know Edie is taking the honey from the meadow?”

  All the good feelings Edith had fostered for Grant soured. “Taking your honey? Do you think I’m stealing it?”

  Grant looked at her as if she were the one who didn’t know what was happening. “My grandfather put up those log gums, on our land. You’re the one who told me that.”

  Mr. Oscar was trying so hard to say something that she feared he would have another stroke, so she rushed to explain. “Of course I know the log gums are on your land. I talked with your father about it, last winter.” She didn’t want to explain her reasons—her dreams—to this man who seemed determined to think poorly of her. She would approach it as she had with his father.

  “I had researched the market price for honey. I asked if I could possibly have a discount if I harvested it myself. He insisted I take what he had already brought in for
free. I refused.” She smiled at the memory. Maybe the father and son had something in common—stubbornness. “We compromised. I agreed to take it for free, and he agreed to let me harvest it.”

  “And look how well that turned out. Your hand stung so badly you can’t use it.”

  “You ran into me, as I remember, and knocked over the pail I was using to collect the honey, so all that work—and pain—was for nothing.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you thought you could use all the honey this year since he’s in no shape to harvest it himself.”

  What had happened to the young lad who always had a kind word for her, to make him so suspicious? “As a matter of fact, I intended to ask if he wanted me to bottle all of it and sell it at the farmers’ market. Bringing him the money earned, of course.”

  Mr. Oscar nodded and banged his hand on the chair. Even Grant couldn’t ignore his father’s approval.

  Grant tipped his head to the side, doing some kind of mental calculations. “What happened this morning is unfortunate. Give me a few minutes.” He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and returned with a picnic basket filled with jars of honey. “Hopefully this will replace the honey you hoped to gather today.”

  “It’s too much—”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Use it wisely, because there won’t be any more honey coming from that meadow.”

  “I’d be happy to pay, if that’s the problem.” The particular assortment of plants and flowers gave that honey—and therefore her baked goods—the best taste in the county. She intended to prove they were the best in the entire state at the Rutland Fair in September.

  “Money isn’t the issue.” Grant shook his head. “We’re going to plow it under and farm it.”

  “But what about the bees? The honey?” The answer to her question dangled there, but she didn’t want to grasp it.

  “There won’t be any more honey after we harvest the last of it. It’s time that field starting earning money.”

  “But you sell the honey….” The more Edith sputtered, the redder Grant’s face grew. He didn’t care about the honey. He didn’t care about the beautiful meadow, alive with sights and sounds and aromas.

  “Who owns that meadow, Miss Grace?” Her name sounded like an expletive.

  “God.” The word came out of her mouth before she could call it back. “His name isn’t on the deed, but He made it, perfect just the way it is.”

  Grant’s mouth flapped open then he closed it and swallowed. “And I suppose you’ve left your property the way it was before the first settler came to Spruce Hill? Do you know there were no bees in America until Europeans brought them here?”

  She hadn’t known that. “I apologize. I had no right to say what I did.” Now that she had humiliated herself, she wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. “My hand is much better now. I’ll go home.” She looked at the basket brimming with honey. Oh, how she wanted to take it with her, but she didn’t trust her arms to handle the weight. “I appreciate the gift, but I’ll have to come back for it.”

  Mr. Oscar struggled to say something. Edith hugged him. “It’s all right. Everything will work out.”

  She wanted to walk out of there without another word, but her upbringing demanded better of her. “Welcome home, Mr. Oscar. Your father is very glad to have you here.” She unwrapped the towel and ice from her hand and laid them in the sink. “Thank you for taking care of me.” She headed for the door. Was the man going to let her go without saying another word?

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring it to you.” Grant wasn’t ready to say good-bye. “I’d like to hear why this honey is so important to you.”

  She flicked a glance at his father and shrugged. “Will it make a difference?” Those soulful, gray-green eyes said more than her words. It mattered to her, a great deal. She crossed the porch and descended three steps. Once her feet landed on the ground, her back straightened and she turned around. Her eyes now more green than gray, she said, “If you bring the honey in the morning, you can stay for breakfast.”

  The way she moved, musical perfection in a female form, made him want to watch. He was as bad as a man on shore leave, ready to marry the first woman who looked at him kindly. He had withstood that temptation, but his years at sea had worn away his comfort in the presence of the opposite sex.

  Something about Edie—Edith—Miss Grace—confounded him, at a time he could least afford any distractions. “Bother.” He went inside and shut the door.

  “No.” When Pa shook his head, his whole body wobbled with it. He didn’t like Grant’s ideas for the farm, but they had to do something to save the only home his father had ever known.

  “We’re talking again tomorrow.” Grant headed for the kitchen to fix lunch. If he gave every penny he had saved, they could postpone the inevitable. But they needed a longterm solution. And what about his own dreams? He didn’t want to spend money on a farm that had been on the brink of financial ruin for most of his life. His father had the heart of an angel—that is, if an angel lived in a poorhouse because he gave everything away.

  Including the honey. Grant would have to call on all the discipline he had developed in the navy to cope with neighbors who were taking advantage of a sick old man.

  Even Miss Grace? Especially Miss Grace, if she was using the honey for her own gain.

  Pa’s head had fallen forward as he was sleeping. Grant brought a bowl of vegetable soup to his father’s side, and his eyes fluttered open.

  Grant pulled up a chair and guided his hand to his mouth. “I know you want Miss Grace to have the honey, as long as she wants it. You don’t want to change a single thing.” Grant looked out the window at the front lawn. The lilac bushes were a little more straggly than when Mama was alive, and the rosebushes should be dug up and thrown into a mulch pile. Things had already changed, and his father didn’t see it.

  “Work out.” His father steepled his fingers together in prayer. “God.”

  Where was God in all of this? The question Dad raised all day and into the morning when Grant headed for the Grace farmhouse. The neighbors had pulled together to plant the crops after Dad’s stroke, but the fields looked neglected. Weeds choked the edges, and everything needed irrigation. The farm would earn a smaller return than usual, and their medical expenses had risen. Was there an end in sight?

  If he hadn’t gone to the navy, would things have gotten this bad? Grant shook this head to clear those thoughts away. “What if” questions didn’t matter. What if his younger brother hadn’t drowned when he was ten years old? That’s when he’d first become friends with young Edie. She missed Grant’s brother as much as he did.

  Ma, the perfect farmer’s wife, died of grief a few years later, which helped push Grant out the door to the sea. Somehow Pa had lived past all that loss with a smile in his heart, even now with the stroke. That was Grant’s one reason in trying to save the farm. Losing it might be the one loss his father couldn’t survive.

  He rounded the corner and found himself a few feet away from the front door to the Graces’ home. He checked his appearance, making sure his shirt was properly tucked at the waist, ran a hand over his hair, and rubbed his smooth chin—why he would take all that trouble for a woman who had given him nothing but trouble yesterday, he didn’t know.

  Delightful smells wafted through the air, the scent of baked bread and spices and something else that was tantalizingly familiar. He was drawn to the house as certainly as Hansel and Gretel found the witch’s gingerbread house.

  Only his witch was a young woman with hair the color of red cedar and emeralds sparkling in her granite-colored eyes. She appeared on the doorstep. No wonder the children had succumbed to temptation.

  Chapter 3

  The look in Grant’s eyes changed from contemplation to that of a befuddled lad, and Edith released a long breath. When she’d arrived home the previous evening, she had discussed the confrontation with her mother. She couldn’t help it when Mother dres
sed the wounded hand.

  “You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.” Mother said the words in perfect seriousness, although they both smiled. But neither mother nor daughter could contain their laughter. “In all seriousness, you are more likely to gain the young Mr. Oscar’s favor if you are as sweet as the honey you crave than if you demand he honor the verbal agreement you had with his father.”

  A long string of “buts” had led to Edith’s capitulation and to the care she had taken with her appearance this morning. She had exchanged yesterday’s dress for a green calico with so many flowers that she might have plucked her skirt straight from the meadow. The green flattered her coloring. She might not have the beauty of a Gibson Girl, but she could turn a man’s head when she tried.

  And then Grant appeared. His years at sea had given him an extra swagger, something that would draw a woman’s eyes.

  She shook her head in an attempt to rid her mind of such foolishness and went outside. He waved a hand in greeting.

  “Good morning, Mr. Oscar. I didn’t expect to see you so early.” She waved back with her bandaged hand then pulled it back. “You added more honey. That wasn’t necessary.”

  “You planned to fill your pail. I want to be certain you have at least that much.” He pulled a wagon full of mason jars, carefully packaged to prevent breakage. The number held far more honey than her single pail could have carried. The generosity of the gift brought tears to her eyes. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Once we get the jars inside, I have something for you as well.”

  He nodded. Before she blinked twice, he lifted the wagon and set it on the porch as if it weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. “I’ll leave the wagon on the porch so it won’t dirty up your floor, but now we don’t have to climb up and down the stairs.” Even with a jar in each hand and a third hugged to his chest, he still managed to open the door by himself.

  Edith called after him. “The pantry is to the right of the kitchen.”

  “I remember.” His voice floated back in her direction.