The Rascal

by Lisa Plumley

  The worker looked bewildered, but nodded nonetheless.

  Encouraged, Grace continued. “Mr. Hofer stocks a powerful brand that just might improve your chances of appealing to the ladies. Particularly if you also purchase some laundry soap, dishwashing powder and cleanser and use them all.”

  He boggled. “All that? On myself? I’ll go plumb raw!”

  She offered a heartening smile. “I mean that you should use those items on your clothes, your floors and your dishes,” she clarified. “And the castile soap on your person. No woman can resist a man who keeps an orderly household and hygienic appearance—most particularly, the orderly household.”

  “Ah. I will. Thank you muchly, ma’am.”

  Beneficently, Grace waved off the aromatic young man with the trailing end of her scarf, careful to keep her distance. She hadn’t progressed more than fifty yards, though, before being beset by another proposal of marriage. How did truly alluring women manage it? Grace wondered.

  Gritting her teeth as she listened to her fifth prospective suitor of the day, she found new sympathy for her sister Molly. Molly, naturally beautiful and vivacious, had always struggled to turn away unwanted beaux—men interested more in the heft of her bosom than in the weight of her thoughts.

  “Thank you, no,” she interrupted the butcher’s apprentice, a scrawny boy less robust than Grace herself. She doubted he even had whiskers to shave yet. “I’m afraid I’m finished with entertaining marriage offers for today. However, there is a lovely young lady working at the mercantile who might enjoy your company, if you’d care to make her acquaintance while purchasing an item or two. I believe you two might suit.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  Grace lifted her chin. “She has a very beautiful character, and that is more important than mere loveliness.”

  Looking glum, the young man headed toward Main Street.

  Having accomplished that bit of matchmaking—a family hobby she hadn’t much indulged in till now—Grace hurried to the sanctity of the Pioneer Press offices. The abhorrent and doubtless underqualified Thomas Walsh had yet to arrive on the eastern train, and until he showed his pointy-nosed face, Grace wanted to accomplish a few more changes in the editorial content of the newspaper. Her papa had granted her unprecedented leniency of late, probably owing to his discomfort with the whole Walsh debacle, and she meant to take advantage.

  Blissfully, Grace shut the door behind her. The warmth and familiarity of the typesetters’ office quickly enveloped her.

  Ah. No one would dare to bother her here.

  She unwound her scarf and tugged off her gloves, dropping both to her desk beside her box of type, her composing stick and her special revolving inkstand. Feeling markedly relieved, Grace sat on her chair and closed her eyes, not even bothering to remove her coat. In a minute she would…after she recovered from her trying after-lunch trek between the jailhouse and here.

  “Uh, Miss Crabtree?”

  Grace sighed. Apparently, her moment of peacefulness was already at an end. She reluctantly opened her eyes to find Barney Bartleson waiting on the other side of her desk, his ink-stained apron a near match for his ink-smudged hands.

  He blinked rapidly, looking ill at ease. As one of her father’s printing press operators, he generally seemed more comfortable with equipment than with people.

  “What is it, Mr. Bartleson?” Grace kept her voice gentle, so as not to startle her meek colleague. “Is there something wrong with the printing press?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s fine. It’s only—” He gulped, looked out the window, then shifted from foot to foot. “You see, I’m nearly twenty-five now, plenty old enough to…uh…”

  He faltered and stopped. Ruddiness bloomed from his collar to his haphazard hairline. He stared at the floor.

  “Well, what I mean to say is that I sure could use me a wife, and if you’re amenable to the prospect of becoming Mrs. Bartleson, then, uh, perhaps we could, er…”

  “Mr. Bartleson. Is this a proposal of marriage?”

  He brightened. “Yes, ma’am. I guess it is.”

  “A proposal of marriage here, at my workplace?”

  “I reckon so.” He shrank back a little, hands twisting in his apron. “Ma’am, I hate to pester, but…is that a yes?”

  “No, Mr. Bartleson, it is not.” Suddenly feeling pushed to her limits, Grace grabbed her gloves. She yanked them on with aggravated jerks, then wound her scarf around her neck. “I’m sorry, but this simply won’t do. I’ve had enough.”

  “But…” He blinked at her. “You never leave your desk before the evening edition is set. You never leave when there’s work to be done.” He seemed flummoxed. “You never even leave when someone else’s work is still to be done. Where are you going?”

  Grace paused with the office door open. She felt a little like the warrior goddess Athena, off to fight a great battle—and a lot like a beleaguered spinster suffragist, off to skirmish with a certain blue-eyed Irish prankster.

  “I’m going to end this nonsense,” she informed Barney crisply, “once and for all.”

  Then she pulled on her practical hat and set out for Jack Murphy’s saloon, every hasty step bringing her closer to improvising a plan of retribution unlike anything Morrow Creek had ever seen.

  Chapter Six

  “You don’t say? A whole performing troupe?” Daniel McCabe whistled, his muscular blacksmith’s frame filling more than his due allotment of space at Jack’s saloon. He hefted his ginger beer for another lunchtime swig. “Not just dancing girls like you had in here last year?”

  “A whole troupe,” Jack confirmed. He’d been corresponding by post with the entertainers for months now, but he still hadn’t entirely convinced them to stop in Morrow Creek on their way west to San Francisco. “Acrobats and all.”

  Daniel nodded in approval. “That ought to cost you a pretty penny. I reckon it’ll be worth it though.”

  “Yep,” Jack agreed. Although it occurred to him that if he didn’t get Grace Crabtree safely wed before the troupe arrived, she’d probably stage another one of her protests and ruin all his plans. “I hear the Birdcage in Tombstone hired a troupe, and their profits were—”

  “Hmmph,” Harry interrupted from nearby. The older man had been the first person Jack hired in Morrow Creek, and he typically felt he deserved a say in things. “A whole troupe oughta pack this place up right tight. Don’t have room on that itty-bitty stage for a whole ‘troupe’ plus customers, too.”

  Dolefully, the man shouldered his way down the bar behind Jack. He slid a plate of beans with bacon across the polished wood to a waiting cowboy. The corn bread on the plate wobbled precipitously—as Harry’s food was wont to do—then settled.

  Working from the small kitchen in Jack’s quarters out back, Harry kept customers supplied with what he called “basic victuals.” Jack figured Harry’s simple meals kept men tipping back whiskeys instead of leaving to eat someplace else, and that meant more business for him. There was some profit to be made from the food, too, even if it was barely edible. It turned out that so long as the grub didn’t stink, smoke or scuttle away, bachelors weren’t picky.

  Harry also doubled as Jack’s backup barkeep, for those rare occasions when Jack couldn’t serve himself. It didn’t happen often. All Jack had in Morrow Creek—hell, all Jack had in the whole world—was his saloon. He never saw much reason to leave it. Despite Marcus Copeland’s needling that he’d grow himself clean into place behind the bar like a massive ponderosa pine and never be able to get free.

  “The customers won’t be onstage.” Jack grinned, sharing a fun-loving glance with McCabe. “They’ll be at their tables buying twice as much liquor as usual. At least that’s my hope.”

  He needed the money, too, if he were to keep the place afloat. He’d already sunk most of his funds into payments collected by a land agent on behalf of his landlord. Leasing operated differently in the territory than in Boston—which was how Jack had come to share the property
in the first place. Despite the obstacles presented by Grace Crabtree, he hoped to buy the whole caboodle someday and make his new life complete.

  “Bunch o’ dang fool nonsense if you ask me,” Harry grumbled. He wiped his hands on his grimy apron, then shuffled toward the saloon’s back room again. “Jest don’t expect me to feed all them trapeze monkeys and whatnot,’ cause I ain’t.”

  Daniel watched the man leave, then regarded Jack with his usual carefree grin—an expression that had grown even more expansive since his marriage to Sarah. “Looks like you’re the one stuck with feeding those trapeze monkeys, Murphy.”

  Jack shrugged and grabbed his polishing cloth.

  “One of these days, Harry’s going to take over this place,” Daniel opined. “You ought to show him who’s boss.”

  “Right.” Jack tucked his cloth into the next glass, cleaning it with a practiced motion. The gesture made his pocketed cigarillos sway, emitting the rich scent of tobacco. “I should show him who’s boss, the way you do with your wife whenever she wants you to bring home some ribbons or lace from the mercantile?”

  The blacksmith’s face turned ruddy. “It was only that one time. Just one damned basketful.”

  “But you looked right purty with all that pink on.”

  “I wasn’t wearing it. I was carrying it.”

  Jack plucked another glass. He gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Daniel demanded.

  With a shrug, Jack arced his cloth inside the glass. Secretly, he felt downright pleased with himself. His grunts must be getting better—manlier—if Daniel took them to mean something. He affected a casual demeanor. “Only that a man shouldn’t let a women push him around.”

  Daniel eyeballed him with all the skepticism borne of their yearlong friendship. “Fine. Soon as you get yourself a woman, I guess you can try out that philosophy. Until then, you can just keep your addle-headed opinions to—”

  The saloon’s doors slammed open, interrupting him in mid-sentence. Daniel glanced to the entryway in surprise. Jack double checked the position of his customary under-the-bar pistol. Anybody stomping into a saloon that way was looking for trouble, plain and simple.

  “Jack Murphy, I’ve had just about enough of you!”

  Grace Crabtree. And she was definitely looking for trouble.

  Jack blanched. “Miss Crabtree, get out of here.”

  Naturally enough, she kept coming instead. Jack couldn’t in good conscience fire a warning shot to keep her at a safe distance either—more’s the pity. Actually using his Colt would have solidified his rugged western image nicely. Reluctantly, he eased his hand away from his pistol.

  With her usual vitality, Grace strode fearlessly into the saloon’s midday gloom. Her shoes thumped forward in as unladylike a fashion as they always did, and her whole face shone with a fervor Jack might have mistaken for enthusiasm in anyone else. With Grace Crabtree, though, a man never knew.

  Despite everything, Jack found himself admiring that about her. Most women simply didn’t possess his uppity neighbor’s audacity, her unpredictability, her intelligence. Those were rare qualities—qualities to be appreciated. Not that he’d admit as much to anyone in Morrow Creek, Jack assured himself.

  He’d rather kiss a trapeze monkey.

  Grace marched right behind the bar as if she owned the place, her scarf trailing behind her like a banner. Every man paused with his whiskey or mescal halfway to his lips, snooping unabashedly. Several frowned. More than a few rose in their seats, apparently prepared to oust the female in their midst. After the debacle of the other day, when Jack had rescued Grace and wound up with her occupying his saloon for the better part of an hour, his patrons were right to be wary.

  Grace cast a scathing glance toward Jack’s over-the-bar oil painting—his most prized artwork—in which his beloved Colleen cavorted in all her saucy water-nymph’s glory. If looks were matches, his barkeep’s pride and joy would doubtless be aflame twice over. Jack stepped protectively toward it, meeting Grace at the middle of the bar.

  He caught her arm. “You cannot be in here again.”

  “It’s too late.” She wrenched loose with surprising vigor, then regarded him triumphantly. “I already am.”

  “All my customers will rebel.” Reasonably, Jack nudged his chin toward his irate patrons. “I can’t be responsible for—”

  “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

  Behind her back, he shooed his customers to their tables, making sure they knew not to come any closer. To her face, he presented his most no-nonsense demeanor. “I’ll listen outside.”

  He tried towing her that way. Undaunted, Grace wriggled from his grasp. She stood her ground, blocking the way with her hideous reformer’s bonnet trembling—probably from the sheer force of its ugliness—then planted her feet. She regarded him with an expression chockablock with stubbornness.

  “You’ll listen right here and right now, if you please.”

  He didn’t please. For an instant, Jack experienced a distinct sense of commiseration with Sheriff Caffey and Deputy Winston. How many times had those poor men interrupted Grace in the midst of a protest, a strike, a long parade of picketing? Staring down at her determined, upturned face, he knew exactly how out of their depths those lawmen must have felt.

  Those men, however, didn’t possess Jack’s famous charm.

  He tried a smile. “Come on now, darlin’.”

  Her eyebrow rose at his use of the endearment, but Jack pressed on anyway. It wasn’t like him to be deterred easily. Grace must have learned that by now. “Won’t you be more comfortable outside with a nice sarsaparilla?”

  “It’s snowy outside. I don’t want a sarsaparilla.”

  Jack gestured to Harry, who’d come out at the first sign of commotion. Daniel McCabe watched interestedly, too.

  “Harry, bring Miss Crabtree a nice hot cup of tea. No sugar. I reckon she’s sweet enough already.”

  Her snort could be heard all the way to the faro tables.

  Jack smiled more widely, appallingly conscious of his audience. If he’d been able to be himself—with all his talents for handling women—he’d have dispatched Grace long ago. But with a goodly portion of Morrow Creek watching, he couldn’t risk it. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered for his past.

  “Harry?” he nudged. “Is the kettle on?”

  “I heard ya’ the first time.” Complaining, Harry headed for the back room, clearly reluctant to miss the spectacle.

  “No, thank you,” Grace called after him, hands on her hips. She gave Jack a pointed stare, ignoring McCabe’s presence as easily as she did the rest of the customers. “I won’t be needing anything from Mr. Murphy except his acquiescence.”

  “Hmmph.” Daniel sounded as though he were stifling a guffaw, the damned knucklehead. “I’m not sure he’s got any.”

  Grace didn’t so much as glance at her brother-in-law. “Kindly stay out of this, Daniel.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He didn’t sound contrite in the least. Quite possibly, that was why Grace swiveled her gaze to center fully on him.

  “Shouldn’t you be at the blacksmith’s shop?” She spied his mostly empty plate of beans and bacon, and her eyes narrowed still further. “I happen to know Sarah makes you a wonderful homemade lunch every day. What are you doing eating here?”

  “Sarah’s lunch has vegetables in it.” He grimaced. “Carro—”

  Grace’s barbed look stopped him flat.

  “That’s it.” Daniel grabbed his hat. He breezed past Jack with his hand raised in farewell. “You’re on your own, Murphy.”

  With a sinking feeling, Jack watched his friend amble outside in jovial defeat, his long winter coat trailing. Chairs scraped and empty glasses hit tables, then several other men followed. A few made their displeasure known with over-the-shoulder glares.

  Clearly too irate to notice, Grace turned her attention to Jack again. She may have been two heads
shorter and a whole lot skinnier, but she possessed uncommon pluck. Or gall. Or just plain doggedness. Jack wasn’t quite sure what to label it. He only knew he wanted her gone.

  He crossed his arms. “You’re ruining my business.”

  “You’re ruining my peaceful existence.” Grace jabbed him in the chest. “Stop sending husbands my way.”

  Ah. So his plan was working. Jack sucked in a deep breath to keep from smiling outright. “Tempted by a few of them, are you? Well, I might have known. Truth be told, you always looked like the marrying kind to me.”

  “Perhaps,” Grace observed, “you need spectacles.”

  “Listen.” Jack cocked his head, cupping one palm to his ear. “I can almost hear those wedding bells chiming already.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Or an extra-large ear trumpet.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Jack caught himself admiring the slender curve of her hips, proof positive that what he really needed was a dose of common sense. She’d obviously driven him daft at last. He dragged his gaze from the dowdy lengths of her practical skirts to meet her eyes. “I’ve never known a woman who didn’t want to be married, all my sisters included.”

  At that moment, Harry groused his way past the array of whiskey bottles behind Jack. He clunked a watery cup of tea on the bar, prompting Jack to wonder exactly where he’d procured a fancy china teacup. After all, Jack had outfitted his saloon in a deliberately rustic manner—all the better to suit his new nonprofessorial life…and his paltry funds.

  “I put in eight spoons of sugar,” Harry announced.

  Grace met his gimlet gaze with unexpected courtesy. “It looks lovely, thank you. Very kind of you.”

  Grizzled old Harry actually blushed. Jack goggled as his secondary barkeep and his primary female adversary exchanged pleasantries behind the bar. Then Grace turned to Jack again, catching him frowning in confusion.