by Lisa Plumley
“I wish I didn’t.” Unfortunately, her bird-watcher friend had seen to the contrary. He could still hear her chirping.
“They have lovely white tail feathers,” Grace continued.
She looked awfully pleased with herself. How she managed to dance so lightly with the weight of all that meddling on her shoulders, Jack didn’t know.
“Most ornithologists of my acquaintance can identify all varieties of Junco upon sight,” she informed him. “Easy as pie.”
“Hmm. Some rarities are like that.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Pretty obvious once you know what you’re looking for.”
For instance, once Jack had started noticing the pale-faced intellectuals and motley artists and rabid reformers coming out of the woodwork, he’d immediately discerned a pattern. Every one of them had been intent on enlightening him on subjects ranging from tea drinking to Celestial philosophy to the bards of the Renaissance. The whole lot of them, he’d bet, had one particular rabble-rouser to thank for their inspiration.
“Whatever you’re up to,” he said, “it’s not going to work.”
“On the contrary.” Grace studied his shirt collar, then lifted her gaze to his face. “It’s already working.”
Eager to refute her claim, Jack was nonetheless unsure how. Because he still didn’t grasp what Grace was playing at. Was she reacting to his attempts to get her wed? Attempting to retaliate, after a fashion? Even for her, that was nonsensical.
Left with no option that wouldn’t endanger his new rugged persona, Jack was forced to grunt. As negatively as possible.
Undaunted, Grace nodded. “It occurs to me I’ve never seen you dance before. Dancing is awfully…civilized, isn’t it?”
Her impish expression galled him.
So did his own response to it. How could he enjoy sparring with her, even while she drove him daft? And what exactly did she mean by emphasizing civilized that way? Had Grace somehow guessed the secret of his past life in Boston?
Chilled, Jack had to acknowledge it was possible. Grace was more erudite than most. Her interests ranged far and wide. She might have read about his professorship. She might even have blundered onto his infamous corsetry creation… and meant to dangle it in front of his face, newfangled laces and all.
Unwarranted, a vision of Grace attired in nothing but a tight corset and some clever embellishments burst into his mind. She crooked her finger, beckoned him nearer…and smiled seductively. He almost shook with the vividness of it.
“Look,” she said. “You’ve popped one of your braces loose.”
Grace’s voice cleared his head, returning Jack to the wedding-day swirl of revelers, music and laughter. He frowned.
“See?” She indicated his shirtfront, where one of the braces meant to hold up his trousers drooped ineffectually. “Here. I’ll move sideways so no one can see while you mend it.”
With no maidenly modesty at all, she shielded him, pretending to admire a painting on the Stotts’ parlor wall.
Revelers danced past them, whooping with laughter. No one paid any mind to the goings-on in their corner. Hastily, Jack repaired the metal fastening—only to find that Grace had turned to examine his actions with scholarly interest.
“Wait a minute.” She squinted. “I’ve never seen braces like those before. Not even in the dress reform pamphlets. Are they—”
They were his own design, Jack realized belatedly. He should have known her perceptiveness would cause trouble.
“—some newfangled version from the east?”
She stared at him artlessly, awaiting his reply.
Was she baiting him? Right then and there, Jack vowed to be as uncivil and as uncooperative as possible, especially when Grace was around. If she wanted him civilized, he promised himself silently, he’d be as rough and ready as any lumberjack or railroader. Possibly more. All the better to throw her off the trail to his past and safeguard his new life in the west.
He crossed his arms. “If you want a man’s britches to patch up, you ought to take on one of those husbands I’ve been sending your way.”
That proved exactly as diverting as he’d hoped.
“Husbands? Most of them are barely able to stand upright!”
“Well, now.” Jack summoned up his best satisfied look. “That’ll make mending their britches especially tricky, won’t it? But I do know how you appreciate a challenge.”
Grace crossed her arms, evidently struck speechless. What the bespectacled donkey couldn’t do, Jack clearly could.
“No need to thank me.” He held up both palms, warding off her supposed gratitude. “It’s my pleasure to help a neighbor.”
Just then, another partygoer ambled past. He glanced at Grace, then at Jack, then back at Grace again. He stopped.
“Tarnation! If you ain’t that marrying gal!”
Grace ground her teeth. She cast Jack an accusatory glance.
“Yessir.” Jack slapped the man on the shoulder, drawing him nearer with his friendliest barkeep’s manner. “This is Grace Crabtree. Finest mender of britches in all the territory.” Grace stomped his toe. Her slipper made not a dent.
“You don’t say?” The man grinned, then rubbed his nose with enthusiasm. He left a trail of spice cake on his cheek, adding to the dirt and smudged tobacco already there. “I guess I could use me some patched-up britches sometime.”
“Then this is your gal.” Jack did his best to ignore Grace’s murderous look. He felt reasonably certain his hair was on fire all the same. “You probably didn’t recognize her without her man-shoes on.”
“Hmm. Well, I sure didn’t rec’ nize her until I saw you two standin’ together, Murphy. That there’s a plain fact.”
The man looked Grace up and down, clearly considering.
“If you ask me to open my mouth and show my teeth like a packhorse,” Grace informed him, “I’ll kick like one, too.”
He guffawed, elbowing Jack. “Feisty, ain’t she?”
“That she is,” Jack agreed mildly. “That she is.”
“All right.” The man exhaled, treating them to a blustery dose of liquored cider. Creakily, he began bending on one knee.
Looking horrified, Grace grabbed his shoulder. “No! The answer is no. No no no! Please don’t go any further.”
“But I want them free drinks Murphy’s got,” he objected, hunkering awkwardly in place. His bushy brows drew together. “I reckon you seem presentable enough. A mite skinny, but—”
“No.” She shuddered. “I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.”
The man glanced to Jack. Jack shook his head.
“I ain’t askin’ twice,” the man warned.
“I understand.” Humbly, Grace clasped her hands.
“She’ll try to bear up under the disappointment,” Jack said, deepening his brogue. “Better luck with your next wife.”
“Hmmph. I ain’t too sure I want one. Now.” He eyeballed Grace. “Thanks kindly, Murphy. I’ll be by your place later.”
“I’ll be there.” Harry was minding the saloon now.
Raising his hand in farewell, Grace’s latest suitor shuffled away, grumbling all the way to the cake table. She watched him leave with an expression of pure relief.
Jack edged nearer, close enough to catch a whiff of her castile soap. He waited patiently until she met his gaze.
“Miss Crabtree, I just don’t understand you.”
“I should think that would be patently obvious.”
“So I’m wondering if you’d help me out.”
Her raised brows indicated she might, however reluctantly.
“Just tell me… Exactly how picky do you plan to be?” Manfully, Jack stifled a grin. Then he spread both arms wide. “After all, that one even had most of his teeth.”
Chapter Eight
A week later, Grace found herself still mulling over Jack Murphy’s outrageous matchmaking. Not that she intended to indulge in such folly. It was simply that everywhere she went, there were reminders of his medd
ling. Potential suitors approached her in the street, after church and even within the frilly confines of the millinery shop.
Only the Pioneer Press offices were safe.
Relishing the predictable orderliness of the newspaper’s clippings-covered walls, clattering press runs and inky smells, Grace dragged her tray of type closer. She’d considered quitting once Thomas Walsh had arrived. But after working with him a while, she was glad she hadn’t behaved rashly. The man had an eye for logical columns, an ear for liberal news and a mind for radical causes that nearly matched her own. Because of those fine qualities, he and Grace had formed a rapid camaraderie.
“Miss Crabtree, this is brilliant!” Mr. Walsh strode into the typesetters’ office with his coattails flapping. His spectacles slanted askew. He righted them impatiently. “An absolutely galvanizing piece of work. You’ve done it again.”
“Thank you, Mr. Walsh.” Given their like-mindedness, there was no need for polite modesty between them, a reality Grace found refreshing. “I’d hoped you would think so when I wrote the article. The issue of poor nutrition among children is so important. It must be addressed, and quickly, too.”
The editor agreed, nodding in that thoughtful way he had. As they conversed further, Grace idly examined Mr. Walsh. For a handsome man—and one who cut an especially fine figure in his suits and stylish hair—he stirred none of the giddy feelings she experienced in Jack Murphy’s company.
It was peculiar, yet undeniably convenient. Without her emotions to assail her, Grace could concentrate fully on making the most of the Pioneer Press and her part within it. So long as she felt free to contribute, she realized, she did not regret losing the editorship to Mr. Walsh. Likely, without the additional struggle of convincing the townspeople of her good intentions, she could actually achieve more.
“You’ll set this for tomorrow’s edition then?”
At Mr. Walsh’s inquiry, Grace started. She had, she was appalled to realize, drifted into a reverie involving Jack Murphy’s surprising skill at dancing. She recalled the devilish way he’d regarded her while goading that near-toothless codger into proposing marriage. At the memory, Grace frowned.
She could not go on this way.
“Indeed I will.” She accepted the article with a brisk nod.
Mr. Walsh bowed. “I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”
Grace watched him depart for his office—the same office Adam Crabtree had relished leaving, given his jubilant manner upon packing his belongings. She leaned her head in her hand and sighed. Now that her workday duties were settled, all that remained were her private troubles to deal with. Beginning with one particularly pesky Irishman…and ending, Grace felt certain, with her eventual triumph.
At Molly’s small bakeshop later, Grace drew her plate nearer, savoring the cinnamon bun she’d selected. Among all the women in Morrow Creek, her sister by was far the finest baker, even if it had taken her awhile to develop her skills. Now Molly had turned from a flibbertigibbet of a girl to a respected businesswoman in her own right, thereby proving Grace’s long-standing opinion that there was nothing in the world a Crabtree woman couldn’t accomplish if only she put her mind to it.
Which brought Grace very neatly to the topic at hand.
“I can’t see any way around it.” She watched her sister shape cookies and place them on her waiting baking sheets. The whole maneuver was mystifying, and did not appear very gratifying, but Molly seemed to enjoy it. “I’m simply going to have to civilize Jack Murphy myself.”
Molly frowned, but didn’t stop in her work. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You never know what will happen when you meddle with a man. Believe me.” She smiled, doubtless thinking of her premarital travails with lumber mill owner Marcus Copeland. “I’ve had a quantity of experience in the matter, and I can’t say I’d recommend taking that kind of wrangling upon yourself. Not even you can predict how a man will react.”
“I most certainly can!” Grace disagreed. “Men are boundlessly predictable.” She ignored her sister’s skeptical twist of the lips. Obviously Molly had never considered the matter at length. “Besides, you can’t convince me you would do things differently with Marcus. I won’t believe it.”
“Differently? No.” Molly’s smile widened. “Things did turn out wonderfully in the end, as you know.” She patted her belly. “But this feud of yours with Jack Murphy…it’s different.” Momentarily abandoning her waiting dough, she offered a straightforward look. “Honestly, Grace. You two will be leasing that building together for some time to come. Can’t you just cooperate with him? It would be so much easier.”
“Easier for Jack, perhaps, but not for me.”
“Ah.” Molly waggled her brows. “It’s ‘Jack’ now, is it? Well, that’s very interesting. Very, very interesting.”
“Mr. Murphy,” Grace substituted hastily. She tore off another bite of cinnamon roll, forcing her attention to its spicy sweetness rather than her inadvertent slip of the tongue. “Membership in all of my clubs is down by a third, and the decline is directly relatable to his saloon. Women are afraid to come near it. The place is too rowdy by far.”
“Saloons often are.” With a shrug, Molly sprinkled sugar on her unbaked cookies. She surveyed the effect critically, then added a little more. “Have you considered that perhaps the men downstairs are louder because they’re trying to drown out the sounds of your women’s choral group upstairs?”
“Why would they? We sound wonderful!” Indignantly, Grace straightened on her fancy ironwork stool, letting her skirts swing freely over her brogan shoes. “I’ll have you know, we’re bringing much-needed culture to this town.”
Molly quirked her lips, decrying that claim without a single word. When had frivolous Molly, youngest of all the sisters, become so sensible? So savvy to an ostensibly innocent statement? Serenely, she slid her baking sheets into the warm waiting ovens. When she returned to the work counter, her gaze was knowing beneath her fashionably curled bangs.
“And you’ve never, not even once, encouraged your fellow singers to—shall we say—put forth a little extra effort?”
Grace chewed her next bite of cinnamon bun with more defiance than she might have otherwise. She didn’t answer.
“You’ve never,” her sister continued tirelessly, “sung your melodies a little louder than strictly necessary?”
Grace reached for her cup of tea. She sipped delicately, then raised her chin. “There is nothing wrong with enthusiasm.”
Molly laughed. Shaking her head, she wiped her hands on her apron. Flour dusted the rug underfoot and snowed onto her gingham skirts, too. With a moue of distress, Molly shook them out. Grace half suspected that her sister had decorated the entire bakeshop in a similarly froufrou manner—from the floral wallpapered walls to the trim blue wainscoting—to purposely coordinate with her wardrobe.
“You can’t fool me, Grace. I know you too well.” Eyes sparkling, Molly went to her bakery shelves. She put one hand to the small of her back, then reached to the row of napkin-lined baskets waiting to be outfitted with cookies or lemon-raisin pies. “Never mind that I’m the youngest.” She puffed, red-faced. “I’ve gained a great deal of experience over the past year.”
“I daresay you’ll gain more experience yet.” Eyeing her sister’s expanding waistline, Grace hurried from her chair to help take down the baskets Molly sought. “Once the baby arrives, I mean.” She paused, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as she considered what lay ahead. Soberly, she met her sister’s gaze. “Moll… Are you afraid?”
“Of the baby coming? Pish posh.” Molly waved away the notion. “I’m looking forward to it. I hope he—”
“Or she!”
“—looks exactly like Marcus.”
An adorable little boy skipped into Grace’s imagination, dark haired and chubby-cheeked…and bearing a marked resemblance to Jack Murphy. Her imaginary self stood near the pair of them, beaming contentedly, without a single protest banner or picket sign in sight.
Egads. What was wrong with her? She never daydreamed, much less about sentimental pap like children and husbands. Clearly, the endless parade of potential bridegrooms had affected her for the worse. Grace resolutely returned her attention to Molly.
“Although I do miss some of my favorite dresses already,” her sister was saying. “I’ll admit that much, however silly it may be of me. Mama promised to help make new gowns that will fit for the duration, and Cook will be helping out with some of the baking duties here at the shop. She hasn’t as much to do at home now, you know, with Sarah and me both gone….”
She nattered on cheerfully while Grace plunked more baskets on the work counter, trying to ignore the pang she felt at Molly’s mention of their steadily emptying household. Once the Crabtree home had been filled with chatter and cozy dinners and games of chess and reading aloud. Now it was lacking in all but the quietest murmurs and her parents’ occasional jests. Things weren’t the same at all. And they never would be again.
Suddenly, silence descended.
Molly put her arm around Grace’s shoulders. She gave a squeeze. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I don’t know what got into me, to be running on that way.”
Grace shrugged, plopping down one basket and lining the rest up neatly. She would not think about how alone she sometimes felt without her two sisters nearby. It wasn’t as if Molly and Sarah had left the territory or even the town. But their lives were full of other things now—other people—and Grace found it harder than ever to overlook her own loneliness.
She drew in a deep breath, then produced a smile.
“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “It’s good of you to offer Cook something useful to do. Every woman needs to feel productive, to give her life meaning and purpose. That’s what Heddy Neibermayer wrote about so brilliantly last month in her article in The Suffrage Gazette. It was—”
