Notorious in the West

by Lisa Plumley

  “Nothing. I’m essentially finished, in fact. You’re simply here to keep me company. And to meet people, of course.”

  “That can’t be true.” He frowned. “There must be heavy things to maneuver. Displays to set up.” Willingly, Griffin shucked his long coat, then his suit coat, leaving them both to the coatrack. He rolled up his sleeves, loving the way Olivia’s eyes widened at the sight of his bare forearms. “I’ll manage the difficult tasks. Just point me in the right direction.”

  Standing there, Olivia merely stared at him. She seemed hypnotized by his forearms. She seemed…approving.

  “As you can see,” Griffin added, unable to resist performing a subtle flexing movement to win even more of her approval, “I’m strong enough for anything you’d have me do.”

  For a moment, all Olivia seemed to want him to “do” was pull her into his arms and hold her there, the way he’d done so many times over the past days. Then, abruptly, she blinked.

  “Right. Yes. Of course!” A ladylike titter burst forth from her. “I’ll just introduce you to Miss Violet Benson first. She’s the daughter of my very good friend, the minister, Reverend Benson. I probably have told you how very God-fearing I am.”

  Confused, Griffin gazed back at her. “No. You haven’t.”

  “Well, I am.” With effort, Olivia swerved her gaze away from his forearms. She smiled. “I am also well respected and decorous. Very like Jonas’s mother, whom you met the other day?”

  Vaguely, Griffin recalled the woman from the musicale. “I wasn’t impressed with her inattentiveness to her own child,” he said bluntly. “If that’s what you find admirable about her—”

  “I thought you found her admirable! You conversed for a long time.” Olivia’s brows lowered. “You seemed engrossed.”

  “I was making damn sure she would pay better attention to Jonas next time.” Memories of his own mother’s negligence poked at him, making him scowl anew. “I was making sure she wouldn’t turn her neglect to abuse and blame Jonas for getting lost.”

  “Who would blame a child for getting lost?”

  Darkly, he gazed back at her. “My mother, for one. She had an uncanny ability to make every difficulty my fault somehow.”

  “Oh.” Olivia’s compassionate gaze met his. Her hand raised gently to his shoulder. Her touch worked like magic to soothe his troubled mood. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. That honestly never occurred to me. I saw you talking with Jonas’s mother and thought you were impressed by all her good qualities.”

  “I might have been. If I’d seen them.”

  Olivia seemed perplexed. “She’s very admired in town.”

  “If that’s so, give me a less-regarded woman any day.”

  At Olivia’s crestfallen expression, Griffin belatedly recalled her efforts to be admired in town for her own ladylike behavior. Although that was the very behavior he was trying to staunch—because it made her so unhappy—he amended his words.

  After all, he could not give her bravery by scorning her efforts—misguided and unhappiness provoking though they were.

  “Not that I don’t admire efforts toward respectability, as well,” he said, feeling out of his depth all of a sudden. “For instance, women with children should strive to be as good as they possibly can. That will benefit their children.”

  Olivia appeared hopeful. “And their husbands?”

  Griffin had no idea. After his calamitous proposal to Mary, he’d given up hope of matrimony for himself. At least he had for a while. But lately, he’d indulged more than his fair share of fantasies about coming home to a modest Morrow Creek house with Olivia there waiting for him, brandishing a broom with comical ineffectualness and serving him bakery-bought pies by the dozen. He’d pictured Olivia coming to him on their wedding night, looking beautiful and giddy and wonderfully naked.

  He’d even wondered what sort of husband he might be.

  But that didn’t mean he was prepared to admit any of it.

  “Naturally, their husbands would benefit, too,” he told her agreeably. “Doesn’t every man enjoy an amenable wife?”

  “Amenable. Yes.” Olivia’s pert face took on an alarming sense of purpose. “That is a very achievable quality!”

  He frowned. “You’re wearing that mulish expression you get sometimes,” he observed. “You know…the one that keeps you persisting when you’ve clearly lost a game of chess with me.”

  “The game is never lost until it’s over with,” Olivia announced with a newborn sense of vigor. She tucked her arm in his, then directed them both toward the rooms where the displays were set up. “That is one of my guiding principles.”

  “You don’t have to ‘achieve’ any particular quality with me,” Griffin reminded her as they passed through the doorway into the first room. Worryingly, his words seemed to pass right through her. “What would I know about what husbands prefer?” he asked reasonably. “I’ve never even been married.”

  “I know. But that might change.” Blithely assured now, Olivia steered him in the direction of a plainly dressed, plain-featured, dark-haired woman. She was clearly directing the volunteers’ efforts. Just before they reached her, Olivia winked up at Griffin. “If the circumstances are just right, you might find yourself wanting to propose to a very special someone.”

  Feeling increasingly wary, Griffin let himself be led.

  Purposefully, Olivia stopped. “Mr. Turner, I’d like you to meet Miss Violet Benson.” She cast him a meaningful look. “Miss Benson is sponsoring today’s handicrafts show along with the Territorial Benevolent Association. It’s going to be…”

  She continued speaking, but Griffin couldn’t quite listen. All his attention was suddenly directed at what Olivia had said moments ago, about him changing his mind and proposing to “a very special someone”—and at the wink she’d tossed him, too.

  Even as he politely shook hands with demure Violet Benson and said hello, Griffin couldn’t help wondering…was Olivia angling for him to propose marriage to her friend? Was that why she’d mentioned her father, Reverend Benson, in such glowing terms? Was that why she’d given him that wink? Why she’d probed his attitudes toward marriage and family life and children?

  No, no, no. This was all wrong. His simple mission to help Olivia break free of her self-imposed restrictions was becoming ever more complicated. He didn’t want marriage to just anyone!

  He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted marriage to Olivia. As much as he wanted to be with her, Griffin still had doubts. He had doubts he could win her. Doubts he deserved her. Doubts he could be a good husband, given everything in his past.

  The only thing he didn’t have doubts about was that he wanted Olivia in a way he’d never wanted another woman before.

  Fraught with unease, Griffin nonetheless mustered a smile for both women. He had never been a man who was unduly thrown by changing circumstances. He could handle this complication in the same way he handled everything—with dogged resilience, ruthless exactitude and an unfailing attitude of positivity.

  Positivity? Struck by that, Griffin hesitated. Then he realized, to his amazement, that it was true. He did possess a determination to see the positive in life. If he had not, he never would have survived. He never would have succeeded. Right from the moment when he’d stood up to his mother at the age of fourteen and sworn she’d be proud of him someday, Griffin had possessed a gritty positivity. He’d known he could succeed.

  Just because he sometimes succumbed to the darkness didn’t mean he stopped expecting the sunrise. And just because things seemed thorny with Olivia didn’t mean he intended to give up.

  For her sake, Griffin told himself, he would persevere.

  He glanced up to find Miss Benson in midconversation.

  “…a few additional items,” she was saying in polite, measured tones, “that we received just this morning.”

  “Additional items?” Olivia looked baffled. “I thought everything for the handicrafts show was already here. People have
been talking of little else except getting their items finished and brought here to the display house.”

  “That’s true.” Miss Benson shot Griffin a tentative glance. Then, as though expecting to get no further responsiveness from him, she returned quickly to Olivia. “But these are crated items. They’re labeled specifically to your attention, Olivia.”

  “My attention?” She puckered her brows. “All I’m set to display is a single cross-stitched sampler, as usual.”

  Miss Benson shrugged. “Perhaps someone knew that you’d volunteered to help me organize the exhibition and decided to make an anonymous contribution. Not everyone is as fearless as you’ve always been.” A bashful smile enlivened her dowdy features. “That time you dressed down the medicine-show man is practically legendary in town. Remember? I was so awed by—”

  “Oh! I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone reminiscing,” Olivia broke in, a skittish look on her face. She aimed a pointed glance at the room’s stately grandfather clock. “It’s so late!”

  But Griffin was having none of it. He buttonholed Miss Benson. “Legendary? Olivia?” he urged. “What happened?”

  Clearly eager to tell, Miss Benson inhaled. “Well—”

  “Look!” Olivia interrupted again, pointing. “There are three crated items near my sampler display. Let’s open them!”

  Griffin joined Miss Benson in frowning at her.

  “Oh. Right.” The minister’s daughter gave a faltering gesture. Reticence appeared to come naturally to her. “Yes, I know we should. Only I was about to tell Mr. Turner about—”

  “The crates can wait,” Griffin said. After all, he knew full well what was in those crates. Their construction and delivery had been his doing. He smiled at Miss Benson. “I’m keenly interested in your story, Miss Benson. Please, go on.”

  At his urging, she flushed mottled red. She waved away his invitation, staring down at her shoes. It occurred to Griffin, too late, that Miss Benson was a woman unaccustomed to male attention. No wonder she’d looked at him glancingly, if at all.

  No wonder she’d dismissed the possibility he’d listen to her when they’d been discussing the arrival of the crates.

  He understood that sort of defensiveness. He’d lived it.

  Miss Violet Benson deserved a man who would recognize her unique charms and appreciate them, Griffin knew. She deserved a man who would see past her drab appearance—a man who would enchant and confound and love her completely. Unfortunately, Griffin would not be that man. His heart was already spoken for…

  …by the selfsame woman who was glaring impatiently at him at that very moment. He looked at Olivia, knew both that she was demanding and that he loved her for it and grinned effusively.

  Miss Benson, as observant and insightful as only the sometimes overlooked could be, spotted his grin immediately.

  “Go!” She shooed them away, smiling at them. “My gossip can wait.”

  “Thank you.” Wearing a look of pure gratitude, Olivia grabbed Griffin’s hand. With him in tow, she all but careered across the room to her waiting table and its three crates—one size small, one medium and one large. “Here we are!”

  “We’ve got to stop traveling places that way,” Griffin groused with a grin. “You nearly pulled my wrist out of its socket.”

  Olivia tossed him a skeptical look. “Little ole me? Never.”

  He laughed. “‘Little ole you’ has the might of an elephant when provoked by a mystery—or by a need to escape some gossip.” He offered her an inviting look. “So, tell me…what about the medicine-show man? This isn’t the first time I’ve heard tell—”

  —of your legendary showdown with the peddler who would eventually make your face famous, Griffin meant to say. He knew parts of the story. He wanted to hear the whole of it from her.

  But Olivia had already glimpsed a waiting crowbar. She jabbed the tool toward him, compelling him to take it.

  “Later,” she said, rubbing her hands. “Right now, let’s find out what’s in these mysterious crates.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  While Griffin lifted the lid off the first crate, Olivia stood on tiptoe to see what was in it. All she saw was a burlap-wrapped bundle. Interestedly, she stepped nearer. Wearing an oddly expectant look, Griffin moved back to allow her closer.

  “Go ahead,” he urged. “Take it out. Unwrap it.”

  It was almost as though Griffin could read the curiosity that was in her heart. Maybe it was reflected in her eyes. Olivia loved a good mystery—hence her interest in puzzles.

  “Go on. You’ll never know what it is otherwise,” he added, plainly inviting her to give in to her natural curiosity…and its two obvious companions, impatience and unfeminine assertiveness.

  Eagerly, Olivia prepared to grab that bundle. Then she recalled how solicitous Griffin had been with Violet and stopped herself cold. During one conversation, Griffin had shown a greater interest in the minister’s daughter than most men in Morrow Creek did in a whole year. For a long time, Violet had been sadly overlooked by the men in town. She was one of Olivia’s closest friends, so Olivia couldn’t help wishing things were different for her. With Griffin, they had been.

  He’d clearly been impressed with Violet’s reserve.

  In fact, Griffin’s reaction to Violet proved that he truly was blind to beauty—or to its lack. Because as goodhearted and well liked as Violet Benson was, she was also one of the plainest women in town. It was simply the accepted wisdom that Violet was a perpetual wallflower, first to volunteer for things and last to be asked to dance. But given Griffin’s attitude to Violet, Olivia knew now more than ever that she had no chance of impressing him with her most avowed asset: her looks. That made it doubly crucial that she impress him with her saintly good character. If she tried very hard to develop one. Immediately.

  To that end, Olivia conjured an air of reticence. It felt a bad fit. Nonetheless, she persisted. “No. I couldn’t possibly!” Graciously, she inclined her head. “Please, you look first.”

  Her invitation was met with a perplexed look. “It’s yours.”

  “We don’t know that,” she argued. “Yes, it was delivered to me, in my care, for the handicrafts show. But that doesn’t—”

  “It’s yours,” Griffin insisted. “Trust me. I know.”

  With effort, Olivia clasped her hands behind her back. She shook her head. “Please, Mr. Turner. I insist you look first.”

  Her attempt to sound politely restrained was unimpressive, at best. How had she managed to fool her friends and neighbors into believing she was truly ladylike for all these years?

  “Olivia.” Griffin delivered her a too-insightful look. “What’s the matter? You sound as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth—when we both know you keep some piquant words in there.” He stepped closer. “Do I have to remind you?”

  Silently, Olivia held steady. She needed him.

  She needed him to believe she was every bit as refined as Violet was. And Jonas’s mother was. Even though, when reminded of her, he’d seemed unmoved. In fact, his vehemence toward Jonas’s mother had caught Olivia by surprise. She’d been using that good woman as a convenient model of temperance, but now…

  Griffin gazed down at her. His nearness made her yearn, very inappropriately, to be held in his arms. That feeling only grew more heated when, undoubtedly demonstrating her knack for “piquant” speech, he tossed back her own words from earlier.

  “If I could,” Griffin said in a low, seductive tone, “I would spend time just staring at you, too.” He stopped, then gave her an exasperated look. “What is that, if not you being predictably and wonderfully honest with your thoughts?”

  “It was me being inappropriate.”

  He gave her a direct look. “Was it untrue?”

  Olivia gazed up at him. “It was true. I do like the way you look. When I see you now, I see…you. I like that. I like you.”

  Whatever emotion Griffin felt at that, he hid it ably.

  “I like
the way you look, too,” he said gruffly. Then, “Look inside the crate. People are starting to arrive.”

  Olivia glanced up, saw the townspeople coming in and made her decision. “I’ll look first if you’ll promise to look next.”

  “I already know what’s in these three crates.”

  That stopped her. “How could you?”

  “Just…” Exasperatedly, Griffin held her by the shoulders, steered her into position in front of the smallest opened crate then commanded her to look. “I’ll open the other two crates.”

  Obligingly, Olivia did look. She picked up the object inside, unwrapped it then gazed at it in total disbelief.

  “It’s a toothbrush.” She peered more closely. “It’s my toothbrush. The one I sketched! The one I invented!” She whipped her dubious gaze to Griffin. “You made a prototype for me?”

  “Your design was very clever. I couldn’t resist,” Griffin said. “A reservoir handle that could contain a dentifrice agent dispensed via a screw-threaded mechanism? It’s ingenious.”

  Olivia boggled at it. Then she lunged for the next crate.

  Still clutching her innovative toothbrush in her fist, she grabbed the next item. She flipped it over. A tidy pile of sturdy stitched fabric met her gaze. At first, Olivia thought it really was some shy stranger’s contribution to the handicrafts show.

  Then she recognized it. “My lady’s rational skirt for cycling!” With patent amazement, she held up the garment. It was fashioned in two parts. One was a bloomer-style underlayer. The other was a skirt-style overlayer for modesty. Excitedly, Olivia pointed at it. “This will enable women everywhere to enjoy the freedom of cycling.” Marveling at its construction, she shook her head. “We have a Bicycling Association in town, you know. I have to show this to Grace Murphy. She’ll be so proud.”

  “That will make two of us.” Griffin cast a hasty glance at the people filing into the handicrafts show. He gestured to a spot beside Olivia’s sampler. “You’ll have to come here to see the third one. It’s too big to uncrate and put on the table.”