Love's Fortune by Laura Frantz Page A

lump of loss and fury. She couldn’t remember how far New Hope was. Couldn’t think beyond the next step. Sweat trickled down her back, turning her corset itchy.
    When the jingle of a harness met her ears, she stepped aside, keeping her back to the swirling dust, her eyes fixed on a far road marker.
    “Pardon me, miss. You look in need of a ride.”
    Slowly she turned, took in a black-hatted man in a fancy carriage, and kept walking. It wasn’t like her to be so standoffish, but weariness had worn a hole in what few good manners she possessed.
    “At least tell me where you’re headed.”
    The concern in his tone touched her. A bit winded from going uphill, she managed a terse, “New Hope.”
    “The Ballantyne estate?” He sounded slightly perplexed. “New Hope’s a few miles more . . . but the gloaming will soon overtake you.”
    The gloaming. A Scots word. Her feet slowed. If not for the blister rubbing her heel raw, she’d have held fast to her stubbornness.
    With an agile leap, he jumped down from the carriage andswept his hat from his head. A tumble of curls gave way, as arresting as the beard that marked his jaw. The rich ginger of his hair was the exact shade of the varnish in their violin shop, as if she’d taken a camel-hair brush and applied it. But it was the kindness in his hazel eyes that struck her.
    “The Ballantynes are close friends of mine. I live down the road from them.” He held out a hand and, when she made no protest, relieved her of her bag, turning his broad back to her to secure it with his own luggage. “I doubt you want to part with your fiddle.”
    Taking her by the elbow, he helped her into the open carriage. When her backside connected with the leather seat, she nearly sighed aloud in relief, willing her wide skirts to settle. Sitting opposite, he returned his hat to his head, and the vehicle rolled forward.
    She was glad he hadn’t asked her name. Glad too that he knew a fiddle graced her case.
    His smile was weary but warm. “I’m a patron of the arts myself and appreciate a good bow hand when time warrants.”
    “Do you play?”
    “Nary a note.” His expression was so glum she almost felt sorry for him.
    “Are you of a mind to learn?”
    He chuckled. “If the teacher wasn’t some bewhiskered, grumpy old coot, but you, I would.”
    She smiled back at him.
    “You’re not from here. Your speech is singularly Southern.”
    “I’m from Kentucky.”
    “A good many accomplished fiddlers down there.” He eyed her case. “Mind if I have a look?”
    The expectant question would have cracked open the hardest heart. Setting the case in her lap, she unclasped it and tookout the Nightingale. In the fading sunlight she read stark appreciation in his eyes. It warmed her like the sun itself. Papa’s hard work securing it—all the years spent hunting it—seemed worth it right then.
    Placing the violin on her shoulder, she shrugged aside any shyness, silently consecrating her music to her Maker as she always did. With a tap of her foot she struck the first note. Never had the Nightingale sounded so lively and high-spirited, resounding in the open air with an infectious rhythm, chasing away her homesickness and the dust of the road. She moved on to a serene piece next, partial to the haunting laments. Closing her eyes, she nearly forgot the subtle movement of the carriage and her dread at seeing Aunt Andra again.
    When her bow slid off the strings, he clapped his gloved hands. “A Highland reel followed by a Lowland lament.”
    She nodded. So he did know something about music. Fiddle music, anyway.
    “Play another,” he murmured.
    He was studying her with a sort of bemused confusion. Like she was no longer the disheveled young woman limping down the road but someone else entirely. For a few fleeting seconds she opened her heart to his admiration, enjoying his pleasure.
    “You make me want to quit everything and pursue the violin,” he said when the music ended.
    A flush