Notorious in the West

by Lisa Plumley

  Oddly enough, her father was nowhere in sight.

  “…the future of the hotel is as yet undecided,” the stranger was saying in an assured tone. “The Lorndorff may remain a hotel, much as it is today. Or it may close to guests and become Mr. Turner’s private residence in Morrow Creek.” He gave the hotel employees an amiable shrug. “If you don’t want to work for Mr. Turner in either capacity, you may accept your final pay envelopes and be on your way. Or you may remain here, on staff, to fulfill Mr. Turner’s wishes. It’s your decision.”

  Galvanized by his words, Olivia stopped cold, surrounded by bewildered employees, gossiping guests and the workaday sounds of industry going on in the lively street outside the hotel.

  Mr. Turner’s wishes? As far as Olivia recalled, the cranky, hard-drinking Mr. Turner’s wishes had extended to exactly three things: being left alone, making sure no one gossiped about him—especially right under his nose—and shutting down the hotel if he didn’t get his way in the first two instances.

  I’d rather shut down this hotel altogether than be ordered about by a chambermaid, she recollected him saying before she’d left his suite. I can do it, you know.

  Oh, sweet heaven. Could he possibly have truly done it?

  She hadn’t dreamed he’d actually had the wherewithal.

  The hotel seemed to still be functioning. But it was doing so perfunctorily, Olivia realized as she took an observant look around. It was doing so without her father’s guidance. Without her father’s heart and attentiveness and care. Without the very qualities that had made The Lorndorff legendary in the West.

  This hotel was her home. Its staff was a family to her. She loved…all of them. Now, possibly because of her—because she’d accidentally pushed ornery Mr. Turner into making a rash and foolhardy decision—the hotel’s operations were threatened.

  Queasily, Olivia remembered her earlier, unfortunate reaction to Mr. Turner’s threat about closing The Lorndorff.

  You’ve had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.

  Her flippancy had been unwise, to be true. Still, that didn’t explain who this man was or how this was happening to the hotel. Only one of her father’s wealthy investors could have…

  Oh, dear. Mr. Turner was one of her father’s wealthy investors, Olivia realized, and she’d offended him. Why had she let her father convince her to step away from the hotel’s day-to-day business? If she’d been aware of Mr. Turner’s identity—and less incensed at his treatment of Annie—she might have avoided this. She might have placated him instead of riling him.

  “You do realize that you must make a choice today,” the stranger called out when the staff remained in their places, muttering unhappily among themselves. “You can’t have it both ways. Mr. Mouton no longer runs The Lorndorff. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better things will be for you.”

  A swell of fresh dissent met his announcement. One of the bellmen grumbled. A maid wrung her handkerchief in her hands, staring up at the stranger through disbelieving, defiant eyes.

  Olivia didn’t know who this man was, but he’d have to go through her before assuming control of her family’s hotel.

  “Excuse me!” She made her way to the front, then came to stand directly at the foot of the staircase. She stared up at him as determinedly as she could. “I am Olivia Mouton. My family owns this hotel. I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  “I am Palmer Grant.” He extended his hand. “Mr. Turner’s associate.” A smile creased his youthful face, making him appear far more likable than he deserved to, under the circumstances. “I was expecting to see you earlier in the proceedings, Miss Mouton. Given what Mr. Turner told me about you, I’d thought you’d be in the fray straightaway. He said you’re a fighter.”

  “He doesn’t know me.” Baffled, Olivia rejected the very idea. As far as she’d been aware, Mr. Turner hadn’t even known her name. Yet in the space of a few hours, he’d learned her name and accomplished much more, besides. Resolutely, she clutched her parasol. “But he’s right about one thing—I am a fighter. And I’ll fight to keep this hotel in my family, where it belongs.”

  The staff gathered around her, nodding and murmuring among themselves. They seemed to realize that Olivia knew something about this dire situation that they did not. Annie, in particular, sidled nearer. She stood staunchly beside Olivia.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for fighting,” Mr. Grant informed the crowd. “Mr. Turner owns a very large share of The Lorndorff Hotel. Furthermore, he owns one hundred percent of the land it’s built on and the neighboring properties. The management of the hotel is his decision. It’s my job to make that decision clear.”

  “Is he incapable of doing that himself?” Olivia asked. “Why doesn’t he come downstairs to attempt this coup on his own?”

  At her questions, the crowd of staff members shifted in anticipation. But Palmer Grant merely gave a knowing grin.

  “Mr. Turner is more than capable of doing…whatever he wishes, in whatever fashion he wishes, to whomever he wishes.” Mr. Grant gave her an unnervingly perceptive look. “You, of all people, must realize that by now, Miss Mouton.”

  Olivia lifted her chin. “And my father? What about him?”

  A shrug. “He disappeared into his office an hour ago.”

  Olivia felt her heart turn over. She cast a worried glance at Annie. Had her father given up on the hotel, just like that?

  She knew he could be…retiring at times. Despite having founded The Lorndorff, Henry Mouton had never been the most aggressive of men. At heart, he was a genial host—a friend to everyone. He wasn’t overly ambitious, but Olivia didn’t mind that. She considered her father easygoing and loved him for it.

  But surely even he wouldn’t have surrendered the management of his hotel—his pride and joy—to Griffin Turner. Would he?

  Exactly how formidable was Mr. Turner anyway? He hadn’t earned all those nefarious nicknames for nothing. In this instance, at least, he really was behaving like a beast.

  There was only one manner in which to handle this, Olivia decided. Courageously. And quickly. She turned to the staff.

  “Everyone, I’m sorry about this confusion.” Nervously, she stared out at their expectant, hopeful faces. “Clearly, there’s been some sort of gross misunderstanding here. If you’ll all just be patient, I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “It’s not a misunderstanding,” Mr. Grant objected easily. “The Lorndorff Hotel is under new management. From now on, Griffin Turner’s word is law. The sooner you fall in line with that, the happier you’ll all be.” He cast an amused look at Olivia. “Or you can allow a woman whose greatest achievement is having her likeness appear on a nostrum bottle to ‘lead’ you.”

  As one, the gathered staff members turned to Olivia. She had never felt stronger—or more ready to take on a challenge and win. For her father’s sake. For her friends’ sake. For her home’s sake. For the sake of what was the right thing to do.

  The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Mr. Turner has asked you to marry him yet, has he? If he has, well…then we might have us a fighting chance of winning.”

  Everyone seemed plumb perked up by the possibility. Olivia almost hated to disabuse them. “No. He hasn’t.” In fact, he’d seemed unaccountably unmoved by her looks overall. “But I—”

  “That’s it, then. We’re done for!” the bellman moaned. “If he ain’t able to see how marriageable Miss Mouton is, I reckon he ain’t right in the head, anyhow. There’s no winnin’ that.”

  A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.

  Aghast, Olivia looked out at them. These were her friends and neighbors. They were practically her family. Yet even they didn’t believe she could take on Mr. Turner and win…at least not on the merits of her intelligence and ingenuity and fortitude.

  Dismayed, she shifted her gaze to Mr. Grant. He had obviously read the situation as astutely as she had, because he’d already withdraw
n a stack of pay envelopes from his valise.

  “Do you all quit?” Mr. Grant asked, raising the envelopes. “Or will you get back to work under Mr. Turner’s management?”

  Breath held, Olivia waited. But it was no contest at all. One by one, all the staff members made their way dispiritedly back to their posts. They began dealing with guests, carrying baggage and refilling oil lamps…in the new Lorndorff Hotel.

  The one that didn’t feel like Olivia’s home anymore.

  Left alone with Palmer Grant, she watched him return the pay envelopes securely to his valise, his head tactfully bowed.

  “For a man who just won,” she said as she glanced at him, “you don’t seem particularly happy about your triumph.”

  But Mr. Grant only shook his head. “This wasn’t a triumph.”

  “Not for you, perhaps, but for Mr. Turner—”

  “Not for him, either.” Mr. Grant lifted his solemn face to hers, then mustered a halfhearted smile. “But if you’re really as special as Griffin seems to think you are, you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.” With surprising affability, he shook her hand. “Good luck, Miss Mouton. I think you’ll need it.”

  Then Palmer Grant hefted his valise, cast one final look at the now bustling hotel and took himself off—leaving Olivia alone to figure out how she was supposed to regain her father’s hotel…whether anyone believed she could accomplish it or not.

  *

  Any minute now, Griffin figured as he lay in the darkness on his hotel suite’s bed, he would start to feel better.

  Any minute now, the crushing weight on his chest would ease. The urge to grip a whiskey bottle would lessen. The compulsion to draw the curtains would disappear and the need to forget everything and everyone would vanish. Any minute now, a sliver of hopefulness would nudge its way into his hardened heart and carry him toward the next day and the next conquest, the way it always had in the past. The way it had to do today.

  Under most circumstances, exercising his authority made Griffin feel better. That had been true for years. After his forced takeover of The Lorndorff Hotel yesterday, however, he felt…worse, if anything. He didn’t understand it. Flexing his influence and power and wealth had always improved his outlook.

  This time, inexplicably, it hadn’t.

  But he’d be damned if he’d back down on his decision now.

  After all, what else was he supposed to do? Admit he’d made a stupid mistake, hand over the hotel to Henry Mouton—who hadn’t even had the gumption to fight for it—and pull foot for someplace new? If he did that, Griffin knew, he’d lose another kind of hope: the hope that he’d see Olivia Mouton again. He wasn’t ready to face that. In his darkest hour, she’d gotten to him. She’d moved him. For whatever reason, he needed her.

  She made him feel…something. So he doggedly stuck to his original plan. He sent out Palmer Grant for additional whiskey and cigarillos, dragged himself into bed with the lot of them and then did his utmost to forget who he was and why he was there while he waited for his supposed “chambermaid” to return.

  While he waited to see if she could make him feel again.

  Naturally enough, just when Griffin had given up hope for the fifteenth time in twenty-six hours, a gentle feminine humming came from outside his suite’s door. A knock sounded. An instant later, the door swung open…and Olivia Mouton herself walked in. She looked like a dream. She smelled like roses and coffee. Still humming, she sounded like an angel.

  She did not behave like an angel, however.

  “I warned you, Mr. Turner,” she said in a suspiciously cheery tone of voice, “that’d you’d underestimated me.”

  She deliberately opened the curtains, flooding his suite with skull-crushing daylight. She resumed her humming while she did it. Then, with that atrocious act accomplished, she turned to face him with her arms akimbo and her skirts swaying. Well, if her posture wasn’t outrageously—and unjustifiably—triumphant!

  Wincing from his rumpled bed, Griffin could only squint at her outline, silhouetted as it was against the stark territorial skyline outside, and wish it was midnight outside.

  “You misunderstood me yesterday,” she reminded him in a voice like warm butter on hotcakes. “I aim to make myself clearer from here on, so that it won’t happen again.”

  Then she studied his room with an alarming intensity, picked up his two bottles of whiskey, scooped up his beloved cigarillos into her apron and marched away from him.

  At the last instant, she grabbed his philosophy book, too.

  “Whoa! Stop!” Griffin called groggily from his bed, blinking at her audacity. “You can’t take that. It’s mine.”

  She lifted her chin. “This entire hotel was mine—mine and my father’s. Then you came and took it away from us. I think you should find out how you like losing something for a change.”

  This could not be happening. “I already have. I’ve lost—”

  Mary. My chance at a future. Goodness, he wanted to say.

  He couldn’t. Not then. Not to her or to anyone.

  “—more than you know,” Griffin settled on saying. Inadequately. “I’ve lost more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Yes. I’m sure it’s devastating to lose a gilded statue or a fancy pile of silver cutlery or whatever it is you big-city types cherish.” Her unimpressed face swam in his vision. With evident relish, she gave his favorite book a possessive tap on its leather-bound spine. “The fact remains, I’m borrowing this.”

  Olivia wheeled around crisply. She sashayed to the door, then paused. “I’ll be back later to bring you breakfast.”

  “Don’t bother,” Griffin grumbled. “I don’t want it.”

  “I’m bringing it anyway. I’ve agreed to do a job.”

  “I’ll have you dismissed.” He clutched his sheets, unable to pursue her because of his partial state of undress. “I will!”

  “If you do, you’ll never see me again.” She gave him a thoughtful, unswerving look. “Is that really what you want?”

  Griffin stared at her. Then at the ceiling. He frowned.

  His silence spoke volumes. His “chambermaid” knew it.

  “Hmm. I didn’t think so.” Gaily, she waved. “Bye for now!”

  The door closed, leaving Griffin alone in blindingly bright silence. Grumpily, he leaned over. He withdrew the last of his whiskey and cigars from his hiding place beneath the bed frame. He uncapped the liquor, took a swig, then frowned at the door. He wished his consternation could pierce its painted wood and wind up affecting its true target. He wished he’d foreseen this.

  It seemed Miss Olivia Mouton had discovered the concept of leverage. She’d used it to win this round between them.

  If you do, you’ll never see me again. Is that really what you want?

  What was wrong with him? He hadn’t been able to say yes.

  Perhaps he had underestimated Olivia Mouton, Griffin realized to his amazement. Perhaps he had misunderstood her. But he didn’t intend to make the same mistakes twice. He hadn’t become The Tycoon Terror by behaving like a nitwit—a nitwit who liked coffee, roses and ladies who inexplicably smelled like both. Next time, Griffin pledged to himself, he would win.

  *

  In the hotel hallway, Olivia collapsed against the wall opposite Griffin Turner’s private suite, feeling a well-earned hysteria burble inside her. She clutched his bottles of liquor in the crook of one arm and his leather-bound book in the other. She stared down at her apron pockets, brimful of cigarillos.

  Helplessly, she felt a giggle burst from her.

  “You are insane!” Annie announced. She’d been waiting in the hallway, loyally standing nearby in case Olivia felt her well-being or virtue were threatened. “Are those his things?”

  “Yes.” Olivia nodded. “I took them. The whiskey and cigars he doesn’t need. Without them, he’ll be much more amenable.” Her gaze sharpened as she remembered her early days in Morrow Creek. Then, The Lorndorff had been a threadbare tent hotel frequent
ed by rough men with rough habits. She’d learned to manage them. “Without them, I think I can convince him to see reason.”

  Annie shook her head. “It’ll take more than a bout of teetotalism to make a man like The Boston Beast see reason.”

  “Don’t call him that! Or those other nicknames, either.”

  Annie gave her a bewildered look. “Olivia, the man stole your father’s hotel! I mean, I know he owned a part share—”

  “We shouldn’t stoop to that base level, that’s all,” Olivia argued. “Name-calling is beneath us. All right?”

  “All right. But I still say he deserves it.”

  “If you treat him as though he deserves it, he’ll continue to behave in ways that deserve it. Don’t you see?”

  Her friend frowned. “No. This sounds like some of that scientific gobbledygook you used to spout when we were younger.”

  There was a reason for that, Olivia knew. She’d already formulated a hypothesis about Griffin Turner. She’d already developed a theory about how she could persuade him to return management of the hotel to its rightful place: her father.

  “It is,” Olivia agreed as she and Annie walked together down the hallway. “Using scientific methods, I intend to conduct a systematic observation of Griffin Turner. I plan to measure and evaluate his responses to my actions, to experiment as much as is necessary with those actions, and then to test my existing hypothesis and modify it as necessary to obtain results.”

  “Oh. Is that all?” Annie laughed, grabbing the handrail as they descended the stairs. “Same old Olivia.” She gave a playful wink. “And here we’d all become convinced that you preferred lithography modeling to conducting scientific experiments.”

  Realizing she’d said too much, Olivia stopped her friend partway down the staircase. “Please don’t tell my father any of this,” she begged. “I know he won’t approve of my getting involved this way. But I believe this is my best chance at succeeding.”

  “Your best chance at succeeding?” Laughing, Annie gestured at her. “You are your own best chance at succeeding. You don’t need a scientific plan, Olivia. You are beautiful! Use that.”