Notorious in the West

by Lisa Plumley

  Griffin blinked. He must have misheard her.

  She saw his bewilderment. “You were rude to her.”

  He could think of nothing to say to that.

  “You threw a vase at her. You destroyed an entire breakfast tray. You shouted and scowled and behaved quite menacingly.”

  He still wasn’t sure how to address her complaints. Those actions had been necessary, given his situation—given his pain.

  Gruffly, he defended himself. “She wouldn’t leave me alone. I requested to be left alone.”

  “Well. I’m afraid that won’t be possible here.”

  “It will be possible,” he disagreed, unable to believe they were actually arguing about this. “Or I’ll know the reason.”

  He expected compliance. Usually—and forever after—he got it. Instead, from her, Griffin merely received a smile. Her smile was steeped in patience, glowing with a sunset’s worth of prettiness. It confused him into silence. She had to be the most sought-after woman in Morrow Creek. Why was she there, with him?

  And why did she look so…familiar to him?

  “Mr. Turner, The Lorndorff Hotel enjoys a fine reputation in the Arizona Territory and well beyond.” Her peaceably clasped hands did not entreat him to listen, the way Miss Holloway’s outflung palms had earlier, but rather suggested that this “chambermaid” took for granted Griffin’s full attention and eventual cooperation. That was…unusual…in an employee. “Certainly you wouldn’t have us endanger that reputation by ignoring one of our most important guests while he’s here, would you?”

  Pleasantly, she awaited his response. For a heartbeat, Griffin could not fathom who she was talking about.

  Then he realized. It was him.

  Hell. He hated when that happened to him. When would his success and security finally sink into his bones?

  Bothered that she’d made him remember both his hungry days of skipping meals and his days of clawing for success during the same few minutes’ conversation, Griffin frowned. This ended now.

  Roughly, he strode to the bureau. He rummaged through his things, came up with his money clip and counted some bills.

  He strode back to her with a handful of cash on offer.

  “Take it. Consider your work here done,” Griffin said. “I’ll never say a word to damage The Lorndorff’s reputation.”

  She frowned at the money, plainly as much at a loss for a response as he had been during her demand for an apology to the maid. Even with her brow furrowed, she somehow looked tempting.

  All the more reason, he figured, to have her gone.

  He knew exactly the means to managing that. Quickly, too.

  “Surely this isn’t the first time a man has offered you money.” Griffin nodded coldly at the cash. “The difference is, this time, all you have to do to earn it is leave.”

  Her face jerked upward to meet his, giving him the fleeting and unfamiliar impression that she didn’t care a whit about his nose or his tenement life or his poor abused heart. No one had ever looked past his nose long enough to pierce his soul—not the way she did. It was almost enough to make Griffin regret goading her. Almost, but not quite. Not when she struck back at him.

  “You should be ashamed, sir! I am not for sale.”

  “Are you sure about that?” He waggled his money, belatedly realizing why she looked familiar to him. “I saw a whole passel of cheap elixir bottles downstairs that say otherwise.”

  Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. “That was— It was—”

  “It was proof you can be bought. There’s no shame in that, as far as I’m concerned. Hell, I approve.” Griffin sent his gaze over her face and figure with newfound respect, seeing beyond her fine features and evident decorum to the real, raw woman beneath. “After all, you can’t pay bills with virtue, can you?”

  “I am virtuous!” Her cheeks pinkened. “And you are wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  Her annoyed gaze locked with his. “Yes.”

  “Hmm. That’s interesting.” He observed her anew, liking her courage. “I bet you wish you’d left when you had the chance.”

  He felt a smile sneak onto his face and was dumbfounded by it. It couldn’t be that he was enjoying her company now that he knew she wasn’t some uptight, righteous type—could it?

  It seemed it could, Griffin marveled, and smiled afresh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled twice in one day.

  His pleasure only appeared to gall her further. “I wish I’d clobbered you with your breakfast tray. That’s what I wish!”

  He offered a tsk, tsk of sham politeness. “Come now. That’s hardly the exemplary service The Lorndorff is known for.”

  An unintelligible sound of frustration came from her. Oddly enough, Griffin liked it. He liked seeing her ladylike facade crumble. He liked knowing he could affect her. He liked…her.

  The realization made Griffin falter.

  He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her.

  He’d come here to be alone. He’d set out to make his supposed “chambermaid” leave, not to become smitten with her. He was not a man who failed to achieve his objectives. Not anymore.

  “That sort of outburst really does call for dismissal,” he reminded her. “You shouldn’t push a man like me too far.”

  “Asking for an apology is not going ‘too far,’” she averred. “I insist you ask for Miss Holloway’s forgiveness.”

  Impressed by her determination, he considered it. Then he came to his senses. “No. But you’re gutsy. I like that.”

  She gawked. “You’re mad. But I should have expected that!”

  Irately, her gaze whipped over his black clothes, his hat and his dark hair, as though their combined qualities entirely proved her assertion. Griffin figured they probably did, to most people. He wore black to avoid attention. He wore his hat to hide his face. He wore his hair long to distract from his hated nose. He’d done what he could, just as he’d sworn he would years ago, to make the world see a man when they looked at him.

  He reckoned he’d done pretty well hiding the Turner curse. But this woman… She looked as if she saw every inch of badness in him. As if she saw him and didn’t approve of what he’d become.

  Well, that made them even, then, didn’t it?

  He’d become a man, it was true. But not a good man. Not entirely. He’d been counting on Mary to make that transformation complete. Now, though, Griffin was lost. Probably for good.

  That made holing up at The Lorndorff a fine plan. The devil didn’t deserve a heavenly choir. Griffin Turner didn’t deserve sunshine and smiles and the friendly company of good people.

  “I should have expected no better,” she declared, breaking into his ruminations, “from a man who would belittle a maid, manhandle a woman and offer a bribe, all before breakfast!”

  Her outraged tone suggested that she actually objected to his actions, not his appearance. Griffin knew that could not be the case. It never was. Especially not while she was, at that very moment, avoiding looking him straight in the face—avoiding looking at his nose. Avoiding looking at pitiable Hook Turner.

  His temper flared. This was why he needed to be alone.

  “If you’re hoping to be ‘manhandled,’ as you say, you’ve come to the wrong room,” he informed her coolly. “I’m not interested in empty-headed women with nothing more on their minds than posing prettily and being paid handsomely for it.”

  “‘Empty-headed’?” She gawked at him. “You dare call me—”

  “Although you did help sell thousands of bottles of that complexion concoction,” Griffin went on smoothly. “I hear it’s even more successful than Lydia E. Pinkham’s tonic. I offer you my congratulations, miss, from one entrepreneur to another.”

  Sardonically, he offered her a sharp salute.

  She did not appreciate the gesture. “You gravely misunderstand me, Mr. Turner. Worse, you underestimate me.”

  “No.” He contemplated it. “I don’t believe I do.”

&
nbsp; “I am more than an image on a bottle!”

  “Really? What else are you?”

  Rather than answer him, she paced. Then she whirled, sending her skirts swaying. “You truly are beyond the pale.”

  “That’s not an answer to my question.”

  “What else am I? I’m unimpressed with you, that’s what else I am. You’re hopelessly rude. Purposely boorish—”

  “I’ve been deemed much worse.” By my own mother, for one. “Although not by anyone as wholesome as you.” He gave a civil nod. “I’ll take your attentiveness as a compliment.”

  “Don’t. All I want from you is a bit of contrition.”

  “Ah. You’re angling for an apology for yourself now, too?”

  “You are the one who’s empty-headed, Mr. Turner, if you believe I would ask for an apology for myself.”

  “You only crusade on behalf of your friends?”

  “It’s not a crusade.” She gave him an uncomfortably comprehending look—one he didn’t care for much. “It’s decency. Something you’re not on very close terms with, evidently.”

  But Griffin knew that already. She couldn’t hurt him by pointing out the truth, any more than she could wound him by asserting grass was green. He hauled in a breath, intending to tell her so. “I’m sorry,” he surprised himself by saying.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. But she didn’t speak.

  “That’s not good enough for you?” he groused, unaccountably piqued by her unsatisfying reaction to his concession. “You want a prettier apology than that? I don’t have one for you.”

  “Mr. Turner.” Delicately, she placed her hand on his arm. He realized, to his unwelcome dismay, that he didn’t know her name—and, to his further consternation, that he wanted to. “An apology isn’t only for the person who receives it. It’s also for the person who gives it. It’s for the person who needs to see what he’s done…and to try his hardest not to do it again.”

  Griffin frowned. Would she never quit saying things that confounded him? Something about her made him feel that she had…something…he needed. Something important and inexplicable.

  Something he shouldn’t allow himself to have.

  “You shouldn’t casually touch a man like me,” he warned in a low voice. “Especially when you’re alone with him in his private hotel suite, and he’s still a little drunk.”

  “Drunk?” She peered at him. “That explains a great deal.”

  It didn’t explain enough, Griffin knew as he moved beyond her reach to stand nearby. It didn’t explain why he’d apologized to her…except that he’d felt a cad for not doing so. In the past decade, few people had roused a true sense of remorse in him.

  That she had was all the more reason to avoid her.

  “Don’t make excuses for me,” he said. “You’ll regret it.”

  “I doubt it,” she disagreed with surprising sanguinity. “Folks generally live up to people’s expectations of them.”

  “Or down. I’ll likely stay drunk for weeks to come.”

  “Is that your plan? Is that why you’ve come here?”

  “No. I came here to confide all my secrets to a suitably nosy chambermaid.” He gave her a deliberately bland look. “I’m lucky you’re here. You’re exactly what I need.”

  Her uncomfortable expression told him all he needed to know. She was no more a chambermaid than he was a saint.

  “You’re making fun of me. I see.” With abundant poise, she put her palms together. “I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

  She offered Griffin a wobbly, unpracticed chambermaid’s curtsy. Despite his best intentions to remain unmoved by her, her awkward gesture amused him greatly. Her stubborn pride endeared her to him, too. They had that much in common—that, and a love of difficult books. He didn’t want to see her leave.

  He also didn’t want to admit it.

  It would almost have been worthwhile to agree to being pestered by maid service while he was here, Griffin reckoned, if it would mean seeing Miss Milky White every day during his stay. Having her attend to him would mean he didn’t have to endure one rubbernecking dunderhead after another as various members of the hotel staff found reasons to “help” fulfill his requests.

  This was not the first time he’d been the subject of prurient curiosity during a hotel visit. It wouldn’t be the last. The difference was, Griffin now knew how to inure himself.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” Her gaze lingered tellingly—yearningly—on his books. With evident effort, she transferred her attention to the door. “Good morning to you!”

  Griffin tried not to watch her leave. He did. But there was something positively entrancing about the way his “chambermaid” moved. It wasn’t overtly sensual. It wasn’t even especially ladylike. Her movements, it occurred to him, were appealing not because of their grace but because of their inherent liveliness. Here was a woman, he understood as he watched her stride across his suite, who was interested in everything life had to offer.

  Why that should appeal so strongly to him, Griffin didn’t know. He only knew that it did. And that he still wanted her.

  “Wait,” he blurted.

  She turned, characteristically inquisitive…and far too decent for the likes of him. “Yes?”

  “I…” Hellfire. All at once, he felt as bumbling as a green youth of fourteen, all thumbs and stutters. “What is your name?”

  “Hmm.” Her eyes sparkled. “You want to know my name?”

  Was she teasing him? Incredibly, her tone suggested as much, yet Griffin knew that couldn’t be possible. No one teased him. He’d become far too influential—far too fearsome—for that.

  “Tell me your name.” A beat. “Please.”

  This time, it was her turn to smile. “If you want to know that—if you want me to come back—then you’ll have to apologize to Miss Holloway first,” she declared. “She’ll let me know when you’ve done so to her satisfaction.”

  “No.” Griffin could scarcely believe her audacity. She couldn’t order him about. “Tell me now. I demand to know.”

  Her laughter rang out. “Mr. Turner, you are in the Arizona Territory! I don’t know or care what you’ve done back in the states. Here, everyone starts fresh. Before you start expecting folks to kowtow to you, you’ll have to prove yourself.”

  He frowned. “I’ll do nothing of the kind.”

  A shrug. “Suit yourself. But our coffee is mighty fine. Everyone in town says so. I can promise you that you’re missing out on a wonderful brew. And a tasty breakfast, too.”

  She opened the door to his suite. Griffin stopped her.

  “Wait.” He couldn’t help admiring the steely strength of her posture and the shininess of her elaborately upswept hair. He couldn’t help admiring her. Unfortunately, that impulse was in opposition to everything he knew he ought to want. “Do you really have nothing to lose?” he asked, reminded of her words in the hallway. If that was true, it was something else they had in common. “With your friend, Miss Holloway, I heard you say—”

  “I’m afraid that’s not something I intend to share with you, Mr. Turner.” She cast him an indomitable over-the-shoulder look—one that, again, diligently avoided his nose. “Remember, if you begin feeling peckish, just ask for Miss Holloway at the hotel’s front desk and get busy making your amends to her.”

  “I’d rather eat wood chips. I’d rather wear skirts!”

  “I think that could be arranged. There’s Mr. Copeland’s lumber mill at the edge of town. He has wood chips available. As far as skirts go, well, Mrs. Crabtree—the newspaperman’s wife—is a fine seamstress. I’m sure she could accommodate your request.”

  Her mischievous expression poked at his pride and his wish for seclusion alike. Suddenly, the notion of spending his days alone in the dark didn’t hold quite as much soul-salving appeal as it once had. But if she thought he was going to beg…

  “I’d rather shut down this hotel altogether,” Griffin told her mulishly, “than be ordered
about by a chambermaid.” He didn’t understand why she believed him capable of apologizing to Miss Holloway in the first place. Or why she believed him interested in doing so. The tabloid press who wrote about his ruthless business practices expected nothing of the kind from him. Unlike his “chambermaid,” they showed Griffin due respect for his reputation. Unreasoningly, he wanted her to respect him, as well. “I can do it, you know.”

  Her smile flashed again, full of patient indulgence. “What I know is that you’ve had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.” Breezily, she raised her hand in a farewell gesture. “Enjoy your solitude, sir. You know how to reach me, if you need anything.”

  Then she curtsied again—nearly toppling over in the process—exited his suite and left Griffin on his own to brood.

  Chapter Six

  It took less than three and a half hours for everything in Olivia’s life to change. She popped over to Miss Violet Benson’s church-side home for her quilting bee—late, flushed and inattentively toting a parasol instead of her sewing supplies, having been rattled by her encounter with Mr. Turner—only to return to The Lorndorff later to find the whole place in tumult.

  Outside the hotel, a pair of guests were hastily piling into a waiting wagon. A carriage stood behind it, obviously awaiting more departing guests. From the corner livery stable, taciturn Owen Cooper, the owner, strode toward the hotel while leading two saddled horses, undoubtedly delivering them to some out-of-town visitors who’d stabled their mounts with him.

  Confused, Olivia picked up her pace. That was when she glimpsed the hotel’s employees clustered worriedly in the lobby. Annie was there, along with the other maids. So were the desk clerk, the bellman and the dining room staff. Through the open doors leading inside, an unfamiliar, well-dressed man was visible, too. He stood on the lower steps of the hotel’s oak staircase, addressing the staff from that elevated position.

  Olivia ducked inside, feeling—as she always did—gratefully enveloped by The Lorndorff’s cozily familiar furnishings, fine upholstered settees and sparkling crystal chandeliers.