1914
Marigold Mahoney waited in the train depot, fidgeting and fretting. She did not want to be in Heart Junction, South Dakota. She wanted to be in Minneapolis where she belonged.
Mari shook her head as she glanced at the five bags of belongings setting next to her. How would she survive in this tiny town with only a few of her belongings?
She wrung her hands. She should have brought her blue silk frock, her oak vanity and her dress form. Without her dress form, how could she keep her clothes from wrinkling? And without a maid, who would press her clothes?
Blast her father for exiling to this dreadful, tiny town! It would have been better if he’d have disguised her as a boy and enlisted her in the military service. Her brothers were far better off in the military than she was in Heart Junction. At least they were able to travel to exciting places around the world.
She’d been only to New York, Chicago and New Orleans. She’d like to see Paris, Rome, London and Athens as well as her Irish homeland. Father had spoken often of his homeland.
"I beg your pardon," a deep voice said from behind her.
Mari turned around and looked up into the most intriguing, deep brown eyes she’d ever seen. "Are you speaking to me, sir?"
"Yes, miss. Are you Miss Marigold Mahoney?"
Mari’s fascination with the handsome gentleman nearly stole her voice. "Yes sir, I am."
He nodded toward her. "Good day, miss. I’m Grit Truman. Your father hired me to be your driver."
She lifted her chin. "Charmed to meet you, I’m sure, but Mr. Truman, you are late. I don’t appreciate tardiness in my servants."
"Your servants?" he said, raising his brows. "Miss, I am no one’s servant. I am your automobile mechanic. While it is true that I will be chauffeuring you since you, like most women, are unable to drive an automobile, you may not now nor ever refer to me as your servant," he said firmly.
"Like most women? And just how many men do you know who have had experience driving an automobile, Mr. Truman? I’d wager from the meager representation of the horseless carriage which I have seen in this town that there are few people of either gender who have even ridden in an automobile let alone driven one."
He chuckled lightly. "Touche, Miss Mahoney."
"Touche? Parlez vous francais, monsieur?"
Grit shook his head. "I may slip a foreign word into a sentence once in a while, miss, but I don speak any language but good old American English."
She nodded and quelled her disappointment. Servant or not, she’d hoped for a moment that this man with the deep, brown eyes and ruggedly handsome features might be an amiable companion she could converse with in more than one language.
"English is fine, sir, as long as you understand the language well."
He gave her a crooked nod and a peculiar look. "I do, of course."
She lifted an arrogant brown. "Then I presume you understood my father when he instructed you to meet me at precisely eleven-fifteen this morning/"
"Yes, miss, I did. Unfortunately, my horse didn’t wish to accommodate my schedule or yours. She decided to drop her foal at ten. I couldn’t just abandon her. Not only does an animal deserve to be taken care of property, I can’t afford to lose a good mare. As a farmer I depend on my animals to help me with my work."
"You’re a farmer? A man of property, then?"
Grit rubbed his finger over his upper lip. "I am a farmer, yes, but I am not yet a man of property. I rent my buildings, and I sharecrop the land."
"You’re a sharecropper?" Her tone was far too condescending, and she immediately regretted using it.
"Yes, miss. Is there anything wrong with that?"
"I don’t suppose so. It’s just that, as a woman of means, I’m not sued to dealing with …" She stopped herself before she made matters worse by insulting him further.
"You have means, Miss Mahoney, or your father has means?"
"It’s all the same, Mr. Truman."
He shrugged casually and gave her an unexpected smile. "Whatever you say, Miss Mahoney. If you say you have money, I believe you. I shall not hold your state of wealth against you. I enjoy the company of rich people as much as I enjoy the company of the poor."
"Mr. Truman, whether or not you enjoy my company is up to you. Your job is to take me wherever I want to go, even if you strongly dislike being with me."
"Miss Mahoney," he said, giving her a look she could not define, "I assure you, I could never dislike being in the company of a woman as beautiful as you."
His surprising show of charm left her speechless. Worse yet, his totally improper compliment sent her heart into palpitations. Her strange reaction to him confused her. Why should her body betray her by responding as though she were attracted to this common farmer? Marigold quickly looked away so he wouldn’t see the roses she could feel blooming in her cheeks.
"Miss Mahoney?"
"Yes?" she replied without looking at him.
"If you’re ready to go, I’ll take your bags to the carriage. I’ll take three of them at once, and then I’ll come back for you and the rest of your baggage. Would that suit you?"
She could feel the heat in her cheeks burning as hotly as ever so she continued to look away from him. "Yes, Mr. Truman."
She sensed him next to her as he picked up two bags and her trunk. When she was sure he was walking from her, she looked at him. Her heart began to beat wildly. How strong he was! Her heavy trunk full of shoes, clothes and personals items was a feather to him. And what a confident, assured gait he had in his stride.
She judged him to be over six feet tall. His dungarees clung to his legs showing their powerful muscles. His blue cotton shirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders.
Grit Truman was a very attractive man.
Servant, mechanic, sharecropper, whatever he wanted to call himself, he was every inch male. If she were a silly woman like Betsy Lindstrom or Luella Senilla whom she knew from her finishing school, she’d be tempted to toy with Mr. Truman’s affections.
But Mari did not believe in tempting the servants… Did she?
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