Abiding Love Read online

  Abiding Love

  Melody Morgan

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  With a valiant effort, Irene stayed at Ross's side while they skated farther down the canal. When he turned suddenly in front of her, she slammed against him, bringing them both down in a tumble of skirts and a tangle of legs.

  "Oh! I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?" she said, trying to raise herself to her feet. But the attempt only made her slip and fall on top of him again.

  With a cry of despair, she tried once more, but he quickly grabbed her and said, "I think it's better if I get up first."

  Rolling over her with his nose inches from hers, he lay across her. The softness of her woman's body was apparent in spite of the heavy clothing she wore, and even if he'd tried, he couldn't have ignored the curves that lay beneath them.

  Then her world reeled again as his lips pressed hers, searching, fulfilling. Lost to everything but the brush of his mustache and the strength of his hands, Irene succumbed to emotions she'd only dreamed about. But this wasn't a dream or a page from one of her novels. It was happening now, and it was real.

  And she didn't want it ever to stop.

  To Carmen without your inspiration,

  this book would never have

  happened. This one is yours.

  Love, Mom

  A LEISURE BOOK

  August 1995

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Copyright © 1995 by Paulette Brewster All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Acknowledgments

  I'd like to thank the Grand Rapids Historical Society for publishing the two volumes of historical data including many wonderful old pictures. They were an invaluable aid in my research.

  Also, a special thanks to John at the Ludwig Mill, a veritable fountain of historical information.

  Another thank you goes to Jan P. at the Swanton Library, who knows my penchant for "old book" sales.

  But my most heartfelt thanks goes to the proprietors of Grand Rapids, who have done a wonderful job of giving life to a lovely little historical town.

  Thank you all!

  Prologue

  The church was filled to stifling capacity. Every friend and relative who lived within a decent distance had come to see the perfect couple joined in a perfect marriage. Love, honor, and money would be their foundation. Everyone had concurred on that point throughout the courtship.

  Of one accord, all eyes turned to the back of the church as the lovely, dark-haired bride moved through the entrance to stand alone, silhouetted in the bright June sunshine. Her dress was of the finest imported silk, embroidered with tiny pearls and adorned with the most delicate lace. A unified feminine sigh could be heard echoing softly off the ceiling. Hardly a woman within the confines of the church could say she wasn't envious of Irene Barrett.

  Irene looked out over the rows of smiles in an effort to find reality in this moment, but she couldn't focus on a single face. She couldn't recognize a single friend. Frantically, her eyes searched the front pews, where she knew her three sisters and her mother sat. With concentrated effort she was able to locate and identify the proud features of Winnie Barrett, who beamed happily back at her daughter.

  Forced to look away, Irene swung her gaze toward the front of the church and had to steady herself.

  Andrew was waiting. His self-assured stance and oh-so-charming smile tried to convince her that everything would be all right.

  The organ struck a soft chord and the familiar wedding march vibrated through the air. Irene took a few halting steps forward as though an invisible string tugged her unwilling body toward the sophisticated man at the opposite end of the aisle. With each step, the soft rustle of her gown escalated into a deafening roar in her ears until she could hear none of the musical notes that floated toward her. The delicate scent of roses filled her nostrils, suffocating her. Hesitantly, she made her way past the pews until finally she stood beside the man who was to become her husband. For life.

  Andrew reached for her cold hand with his warm one, his grasp supplicating. But her gaze was frozen on the minister who stood before them.

  For life, she thought again as she swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat.

  The reverend smiled at her, then his words one by one surrounded her, enveloped her.

  "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day to witness the joining of two wonderful people into marriage. A marriage that we all agree was made in heaven." He smiled at them with sincerity. "I'm surprised that the angels themselves haven't showed up for this event."

  A reverent ripple of laughter flowed over the crowd in agreement.

  Irene could feel the invisible push of those who watched just as she'd felt the invisible tug of Andrew drawing her down the aisle into marriage with him. But as the words of the reverend crept into her heart, she listened with a singleness of mind. Her mind.

  "Marriage is many things," he went on. "Not just the everyday coming and going of two people, but the united coming and going of two people. United in their goals and purposes, united in their beliefs and, especially, united in their honesty and devotion to one another. And that's what we call . . . love."

  Irene felt a stirring within her breast, an awakening.

  "Do you, Irene Barrett, promise to love and cherish this man"

  "No," she whispered, interrupting him.

  Aghast and bewildered, the reverend frowned as though he couldn't have heard her correctlyor maybe she hadn't really spoken. He paused, staring at her.

  "No," she said again, a little stronger this time. "I can't." Then, with her heart thudding, she pulled her hand free from Andrew's grasp and turned away toward the open doors and sunshine.

  As she half ran, half walked down the aisle, she heard those who had come to see her married gasp first, then whisper, and finally rise from their seats as though they could stop her. But she would not be stopped. Not now, not when she knew in her heart what her mind had been trying to tell her.

  She hurried down the street, leaving behind the sound of rising voices. She did not look back for fear that someone might actually try to come after her and force her back to the church. At last she reached the safety of her picketed front yard, where she paused to catch her breath and glance behind her.


  But nobody followed, not even Andrew.

  Relieved, she crossed the small front yard, then stopped to lean heavily against a porch post. With the early summer sunshine pouting down on her head, she vowed never again to be bound by a relationship of which honesty and trust weren't the cornerstone. After all, that was the real basis for true love. And she would settle for nothing less.

  Chapter One

  Grand Rapids, Ohio1879

  ''. . . The tall, dark-eyed young man hurried past. He stopped suddenly in her path, turned, and his eyes met hersthose dark, laughing, magnetic eyes that few women had the power of resisting . . ."

  Irene Barrett, alone in her upstairs bedroom, reclined comfortably with a clime novel in her hands. The glow from the single lamp beside her loveseat reflected on the well-worn page before her, and the romantic words charmed her now as they could not do in the bright light of day. Of course, she had more sense than to believe that such artificial, greater-than-life characters with their idyllic situations could ever exist. Experience had taught her well. Nevertheless, her heart begged for more.

  With a restless sigh, she dropped the book against her breast and closed her eyes. If only there really were gallant men who would rescue ladies from their plights in life. She sighed again and momentarily considered her own particular plight before giving it a name: boredom.

  Rising from her seat, she placed the book lovingly on the table and began to dress. This was her night to sit in front of the saloon to protest the behavior of the rowdies who frequented the many rough spots on Front Street. Needless to say, she never looked forward to it. But as the town's only spinster schoolteacher, indeed only spinster, she was expected to show her support. Just weeks ago they had not bothered to ask her to join them when they'd donned men's baggy pants and armed themselves with clubs before going on a saloon-smashing spree. Perhaps she might even have dared to go with them, if they'd asked, but they had already decided what her limits and expectations were. So that night she'd stayed home, pulled out the box hidden beneath her bed, and read her romantic novels.

  But tonight she would sit before the saloon.

  She dressed with the same care she might have taken to go to a dance. The skirt she chose was a warm burgundy, although some called it maroon, above which she wore a spotless white waist with a cameo brooch, topped by a matching burgundy jacket. Black piping accented the bottom of the skirt in large open loops, while the same design graced the jacket.

  Her dark hair was done just as severely as when she stood before her class at the schoolhouse, with the exception of the softly rolled curls hidden beneath her large flower-adorned hat.

  Irene lifted the hem of her skirt for a quick peek at the petticoat abundantly trimmed with pristine lace. She had applied the imported French lace herself only five years earlier as part of her trousseau. A trousseau she had never needed.

  She gave herself one last look in the mirror, then blew out the lamp and made her way through the waning daylight down the narrow hall and the even narrower stairway. Her high-heeled shoes hardly made a sound as she walked lightly across the carpeted parlor and out the front door. There wasn't any need to lock it, since everyone in town looked upon her house as a sort of shrine to lost love, never to be desecrated by thieves, prowlers, or anyone who knew her. Or Andrew.

  She stepped onto the newly laid boardwalk that barely extended to her end of town. Below the rocky cliff, located a mere road-width away from her front porch, the rushing water flowed and swirled over the shallow rapids of the Maumee River.

  Across the river was the Miami and Erie Canal, stretching in the moonlight like a silvery ribbon. That same canal had brought birth and growth to old Gilead, as Grand Rapids had once been called, but it had also brought Irish immigrants bent on spending their hard-earned money in the saloons that prospered on both sides of the river. The Irish immigrants were gone now, along with their rioting drunken brawls, but the canal remained. And so did many of the saloons.

  On she walked, crossing the Clover Leaf Division of the Nickel Plate Railroad tracks, then past the small, iron-fenced cemetery where Chief Te-Na-Beek slept in peace alongside the founders of Grand Rapids. She proceeded down a hill toward the brightly lit town, where numerous shops, liveries, and saloons lay nestled at the bottom of a ravine on the otherwise flat plain of northwest Ohio.

  In spite of the raucous laughter spewing forth from the drinking establishments, she continued toward the rowdiest, where the matrons of the town would be gathering.

  When she was within only a few doors of the Broken Keg Saloon, a sinking sensation started somewhere in the region of her stomach. A small knot of women stood in front of the solid wooden door, their hands clasped tightly around clubs raised awkwardly before them. With only a few lanterns hung outside to dispel the oncoming darkness, Irene had difficulty identifying each woman. Straining for a better look, she recognized Mrs. Wainwright and Emma Gregg. But who were the men accompanying them?

  Gradually, the distance between herself and the growing crowd of women lessened. And with shocking realization, she could plainly see that the short plump "man" was none other than the widow Clara Wilson dressed in her infamous baggy pants.

  "Good evening, Miss Barrett," said Lucy Wainwright, her voice tight enough to suggest she'd been laced too strictly into her corset.

  "Mrs. Wainwright," Irene returned, with a nod. Resolutely, she put down her dread, determined that she would not succumb to fright and return to the loneliness of her house and her novels.

  Emma Gregg looked as skittish as a mouse in a barn full of cats.

  "Hello, Emma," Irene said. Emma was the only married woman who might have a sliver of an idea of the sort of life Irene led. She, too, was twenty-six and a spinsteruntil a few weeks ago.

  Emma turned small round eyes on Irene and squeaked out, "Hello."

  "What is going on?" Irene whispered to the two women.

  "I dare say that Clara has kept her word," answered Lucy Wainwright, her voice an inch tighter.

  "Her word?" Irene asked.

  Lucy and Emma nodded simultaneously while Emma clutched Irene's arm, drawing her near.

  Just then Clara's voice rose above the murmuring group. "For the sake of the children, we cannot allow the devil's drink to continue to ruin our town!"

  A shout of agreement went up around them.

  Emma's grasp tightened on Irene's arm. "I'm so sorry I didn't warn you. But truly, I didn't believe she would actually go through with this again."

  "Nor did I," added Lucy, shaking her head with quick, nervous movements.

  "We shall meet the devil with force!" Clara shouted. "And not back down in the face of evil!" She brandished her club, which looked like a broken broom handle, and those who were armed did the same. "Forward, ladies! Do not be swayed by fear but press on! For the sake of the children!"

  The crowd suddenly milled around Irene, Lucy, and Emma, sweeping them along like minnows in a flood. The door burst open, and the warm, smoky air surrounded each of them as they Were forced inside the saloon by the women pushing from behind.

  Irene heard the splintering glass before she could see anything but the backs of the women in front of her. She felt herself jostled and pushed from side to side, while all around her chairs scraped the wooden floor and tables were overturned. Through the ensuing melee she saw Clara sending glass after glass flying from the bar to land helter-skelter around the crowded room.

  To her right, Irene watched while a woman clothed in a heavy jacket that reached to the tips of her fingers raised a club and brought it down on the back of a man.

  "You said you were going to see your mother!" the woman yelled, raising the club again. "I should have known!"

  The trapped husband crawled beneath a table. "I did!" he hollered back.

  Then the tide turned once again, and Irene found herself mashed against the end of the bar. An elbow jabbed her in the ribs while a runaway husband trod on her toes. She clutched the raised edge
of the bar to keep from being thrust to the floor. Her mind whirled and her eyes sought an exit from the turmoil and thunderous noise threatening to drown her.

  A broken chair leg was suddenly forced into her free hand.

  "Take this!" a woman screamed over the uproar.

  Irene stared blankly at her. Was this Polly? Sweetnatured, always smiling Polly?

  "Don't just stand there!" Polly yelled. "Use it!"

  When she didn't respond, Polly gripped the club over the top of Irene's unwilling hand. The wild-eyed woman pulled the club back sharply, stretching Irene's arm awkwardly, then swung wide and high. It sped by in a blurred arc, squarely on a collision course with the large mirror behind the bar. The impending crash resounded in Irene's ears even before the impact, and she closed her eyes, waiting for it to be over.

  The weapon jolted her arm clear to her shoulder as the glass cracked and split. Her eyes popped open, and she and Polly watched as the shattered pieces fell to the floor, leaving nothing more than a bright spot in the exact shape of the mirror on the wall.

  "Hallelujah!" Polly shouted with triumph and turned toward the chaotic room, disappearing into the midst of the rampaging women.

  With the broken chair leg still in her hand, Irene stared at the shards of glass at her feet that still reflected bits of lamplight. Never in her life had she destroyed anything on purpose, not even something she didn't like. In a daze, she watched the hundreds of tiny sparkling lights suddenly dim as a pair of black boots crunched and ground the broken pieces of mirror into the wooden floor, halting less than a foot from the toes of her own shoes.

  Irene glanced up the length of the man who stood before her, stopping when her brown eyes met his gray-blue ones. His cool gaze swept over her like a north wind from Canada in January, coming to rest on the club she held.

  "Are mirrors your specialty?" he asked, his hostility as evident as the thick mustache brushing the top of his lip.