The Rascal

by Lisa Plumley

  “Every person needs to feel loved,” Molly interrupted softly. She contemplated her array of baskets, then seemed to come to a decision. She lifted her gaze to meet Grace’s directly. “You need to feel loved, Grace. Do you think that maybe, if you spent a little less time with your clubs and such, that you might find—”

  “But my clubs are all I have!” Grace cried.

  Molly’s pitying look was more than she’d bargained on.

  “What I mean to say,” she rejoined carefully, taking her seat at the counter again as an excuse not to meet Molly’s sympathetic gaze, “is that they are important to me.” She fussed with her coat, all the better to seem composed, then jerked her chin higher. “I won’t allow Jack Murphy to ruin them. As soon as I make him see reason, everything will be solved. You’ll see.”

  Her sister sighed. “When it comes to this disagreement between the two of you, did it ever occur to you that perhaps you’re a part of the problem?”

  Rebelliously, Grace bit into her cinnamon bun. She refused to dignify that statement with a response. She was the beleaguered party, not Jack. Overloud singing or not.

  “Whether you’ll admit it or not, you know I’m right.” Molly surveyed the bakery, hands on her hips as though deciding what task to take on next. It was nearly time for the shop to open. “Perhaps this time you’ll need to bend a bit.”

  Ha. Only if Jack did so first.

  “I’m already bending,” Grace informed her sister. She’d bent to consider Jack a man with attractive lips, for one. She’d bent to admire his voice and his shoulders and his hands. She’d bent to try dancing with him, too! But she would be as likely to confess enjoying it as she would be to take up watercolor painting or knitting tea cosies. “I’m personally involving myself in my civilizing project, for one.”

  Not that she’d had much choice in the matter. Jack had discerned what she was up to with alarming rapidity. Grace didn’t have time to waste sending him more poets and artists and reputability-bestowing bastions of the community. For utmost efficiency, she’d decided to take matters in her own hands.

  “I don’t know about this project of yours. Civilizing?” Molly shook her head. “I’ve met Mr. Murphy, remember? He’s a smidgen rough, and a saloonkeeper besides. You may have bitten off more than you can chew this time.”

  “Pshaw. That will never happen.” Grace rummaged in the rucksack she used for ornithology expeditions, pushed aside her specialty spyglass, then proudly withdrew her planning journal. “Look. I’ve made a list of the necessary steps.”

  “You have? This I simply must see.” Wearing an eager grin, her sister leaned nearer. “Step one, reasoned debate. Step two, active protest. Step three…repeat steps one and two.”

  She glanced up, stricken.

  “What’s the matter?” Defensively, Grace turned the journal to face herself. It still looked exactly as she remembered it—exactly as it had after her feverish strategizing session in her meeting rooms last night. “As plans go, this one is simple and clear. And this strategy has proven very effective.”

  “Certainly. When encouraging Ned Nickerson to order Jane Austen novels for his Book Depot and News Emporium, perhaps,” Molly exclaimed, wide-eyed, “but not when dealing with a man!”

  Affronted, Grace closed her journal. Her sister had been wed mere months. Yet already she was an expert on persons of the male persuasion? Nonsense. Grace knew better.

  “Sarah appreciated it,” she said crisply.

  Of course, her other sister hadn’t fully absorbed the plan. Sarah had been writing an arithmetic lesson, overseeing a student’s examination and giving instructions to her new teaching apprentice when Grace had arrived at the schoolhouse earlier. So a verbal overview had had to suffice.

  Grace supposed it was possible that she’d exaggerated the merits and complexity of her three-step civilizing scheme when describing it. She was a fairly skilled orator, after all, having studied all the great speeches of Susan B. Anthony, Heddy Neibermayer and Elizabeth Cady Stanton in detail.

  Molly blinked. “Do you truly intend to debate Mr. Murphy?”

  “Well… I may try a strike instead,” Grace confided, feeling prodded into defending herself. Surely once Molly realized how indomitable her plan truly was, she would see its usefulness. With relish, Grace spread her arms wide, envisioning the scene. “Else chain myself to his bar rail. That’s proved excellent in the past. He certainly won’t be able to ignore me.”

  She lifted her chin, already imagining herself tutoring an appreciative Jack Murphy. A refined Jack Murphy. A fully civilized Jack Murphy who had her to thank for enriching his thinking…who gazed at her with adoration and gratitude and respect. What her ornithology friends and fellow poets hadn’t been able to accomplish, Grace vowed, she would. It would be wonderful. Absolutely, marvelously, wonderful.

  “Grace!”

  “What?”

  Molly opened her mouth. Closed it again. Opened it, as though she didn’t know quite where to begin. “Do you honestly believe that’s the civilized way to approach things?”

  Wrenched from her musings, Grace stood silent. She didn’t want to admit it, but worry niggled at her. Exactly as did, these days, her helplessness at coping with Jack Murphy and the feelings he engendered in her.

  “Fine. Never mind.” Grace shoved her journal back into her rucksack. Clearly, Molly didn’t properly appreciate innovation. “I’m sorry I showed you anything. I’m off to the newspaper.”

  She got to her feet in one swift movement.

  “Oh, horsefeathers! I’ve done it again. Wait a minute,” Molly urged, hurrying around the work counter to stop her. “I’m sorry, Grace. Truly, I am. It’s only that… Well, sometimes I forget exactly how different we are.”

  Her sister’s gaze held Grace steady. For an instant, only that, she felt herself relent. How could she not, when bright-eyed, endlessly optimistic Molly urged her to?

  It was exactly akin to their childhood days, when the three Crabtree sisters had been inseparable. Certainly Grace had been the leader then. Sarah had been the organizer. But Molly…Molly had kept them all together through their inevitable squabbles. She had kept them together in every way.

  Grace looked away. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  Molly didn’t ask what she meant. Doubtless she didn’t have to. The truth must have been written on Grace’s face, she knew, ready for anyone who truly understood her to see it.

  “He’s not like anyone else,” she admitted quietly.

  She cast a pleading glance in Molly’s direction. It was as close as Grace had ever come to asking for help. With her breath held, she waited for her sister to make a joke, to roll her eyes, to turn away. Turning away would be worst of all.

  When Grace had been ten years old, she recalled, a mere slip of a girl with dirty knees and tumbled hair, she’d once gotten stuck in a tree too big for safe climbing. When Sarah and Molly had happened upon her, so lofty and so scared, she’d boastfully announced that she’d decided to live there amid the branches. She’d even sent both sisters home for a blanket and pillow for the night. It had seemed a far better plan than admitting weakness.

  It had been Molly who had refused to entertain talk of treetop camping. She’d shimmied up the sticky pine trunk to coax Grace down instead, her eyes huge through the whole upward journey, and they’d all gone home together. No one save the sisters had ever known.

  And Grace had never been happier to touch solid ground.

  “Well,” Molly said staunchly, returning Grace to the present with her eager demeanor. “That’s perfect then, isn’t it? Because you’re not like anyone else either.”

  It was so like Molly to ladle on the kindness just when things had turned their most troublesome. No wonder Grace had felt drawn to come here. Awash with gratefulness and more than her fair share of memories, she hid her smile behind her thick knitted scarf. She suspected Molly saw though, because she smiled back more widely than ever before.

  Then
she clapped her hands. “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  “Get to what?” Grace asked. “Surely you don’t mean…”

  “Exactly.” Molly beamed, bubbling over with eagerness. “It’s all settled, isn’t it? I’m going to help you devise a plan for dealing with Jack Murphy!”

  * * *

  A wintry breeze followed Jack down one of Morrow Creek’s wide streets, carrying along with it the usual scents of horse traffic, wet woolens, new-milled lumber and swaying pine trees. Appreciatively, he inhaled. It wasn’t often he left his saloon this way. Maybe that was why he welcomed the crush of snow beneath his boots, the bite of frost on his tongue, the bustle of townspeople moving past.

  Just beyond Morrow Creek, the ponderosa pines and scrub oak climbed the face of the nearby mountain, nearly touching the cloudless sky. Closer in, the false-fronted buildings hunkered in rough rows. Wagons equipped with sleigh runners cut paths everywhere, taking people about their business.

  Jack had heard his patrons talk of how the town was growing—had heard them exclaim over its expansion since the railroad had come in. Old-timers criticized the crowding at meetings of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club, complaining that so many buildings shut out the view and choked out sociability and brought in all the wrong elements. But to Jack, the place still felt open, chockablock with kindliness and possibility.

  More so than Boston had in the end, to be sure.

  Carrying on his chores, he veered toward the small row of houses near the railroad tracks, where the rail workers lived. He dropped his dirty washing with the laundress he employed there, offering her a smile and a hearty thank-you. Next he ambled to the cobbler and left his spare boots to be soled.

  Then, heart kicking in anticipation, he strode to the west end of town where the stagecoach station stood. It was always his last stop on these journeys, and his hammering heartbeat told the reason why. The building was humble but busy, with horsemen arriving, a drummer departing and several travelers waiting for passage. At the threshold, Jack paused to knock clean his snow-encrusted boots, earning himself a few peculiar looks in the process.

  Damnation. In all his keenness, he’d forgotten where he was. Scowling for good measure, he slammed his boot extra hard on the doorstep, as befit a real western man, then galumphed inside. He made sure to keep his shoulders broad, his chest out, his manner swaggering.

  There was no telling who he’d see here, and he couldn’t afford to appear overly fastidious. If he didn’t make his entrance convincing, he’d have to stride carelessly through a bit of far worse street leavings just to make his mark.

  He tipped his hat to some waiting ladies, then bellied up to the counter. On the opposite side, the station clerk glanced up. His greeting was the same it was every week.

  “Afternoon, Murphy. Nice weather we’re having.”

  Jack grunted. “Fine enough.”

  “I guess you’ll be wanting these then.” The clerk shoved a twine-wrapped packet of letters across the counter. “Been waitin’ a couple of days for you.”

  Jack would swear his hands dampened beneath his thick leather gloves. It was always this way when he came to collect his mail. One part anticipation, one part fear and one part hopefulness that the saloon plans he’d been working toward would come to pass before he went plumb bust from expenses.

  He nodded, then snatched up the bundle. “Mighty obliged.”

  “Yep.” Already occupied with his next duty, the clerk didn’t glance up. “See you next week.”

  Outside, Jack fisted his letters and kept walking. The first note was a solicitation to buy parts for his own still, courtesy of a drummer he’d met some time back. The second was a mail-order flyer about a new hair tonic that, in a pinch, also cured dyspepsia and doubled as a bar cleaner. The last bore patently familiar handwriting in a fancy curled script.

  Beneath his breath, Jack swore. He shoved the rest of his mail in his coat pocket, clutching the final letter. Ladies swept past in twos and threes, chattering as they shopped. Men lumbered onward on foot and on horseback, going about their dealings. None of them glanced his way. Still, Jack debated opening the third letter.

  He should wait until he reached his private rooms behind the saloon. Prudence would be most sensible. If someone saw the postmark on that letter, they might ask questions. They might wonder, and rightly so, why a simple saloon-keeper received so much mail at all, much less every week.

  Jack had attempted to disguise that incongruity by sending away for every mail-order pamphlet and patent-remedy leaflet he’d ever heard of. He’d hoped to detract from telling letters like this one. Letters that ought to be kept private. And yet…

  Carefully, he smoothed the envelope. Memories rushed to him, filled with laughter and gossip and all varieties of perfume. Rose. Lavender water. Lily of the Valley. Fondness swept through him, taking his breath away. Damnation.

  This letter wasn’t what he’d expected to find today. He’d expected word from the Excelsior Performing Troupe and its management. He’d anticipated that they’d answer his last letter with a decision to detour to Morrow Creek for a series of performances after all—performances that could well ensure his saloon’s successful future and reputation.

  Instead he’d gotten this. This handful of memories.

  Releasing his pent-up breath, Jack raised his hand to his mouth. He bit the tip of his glove, tugging it off and tasting burnished leather. With tingling fingers, he opened the letter. Another burst of sweet fragrance struck him, tugging at the remembrances he usually tamped down and safeguarded.

  Dearest Jack, he read. Surprise! You probably didn’t think you would hear from us again so soon, but Corinne excels at finding post offices everywhere we stop. We wish she were as skilled at leaving some of her possessions behind! She has consumed all the space in our satchels again. They’re overstuffed so much we might well upset the train car soon.

  Helplessly, Jack smiled. Merely gazing at those neatly penned lines made him feel at home. Also lonelier than ever. Why this? Why today? He hadn’t even had time to prepare, the way he usually did, for a letter like this one.

  Below the first paragraph, the ink had smudged. As clear as day, a new ink color and a different looped handwriting began.

  Don’t listen to her! it read. I need all those things because Arleen, Glenna and Nealie never bring enough of their own. One of us has to be prepared, and you know it’s always me.

  A crease in the paper came next, culminating in several smoothed-out folds. Jack could easily imagine the tussle that writing this letter had produced. The chatter, the laughter, the grabbing and jostling to be next with the pen. He’d experienced all of it himself, many times. But he’d never thought he would miss any of it…not so much that he ached with its lack.

  Frowning anew, both warmed and bereft at once, he went on.

  We wish you would come home to Boston again, came a bolder handwriting, marked with heavy strokes and flourishes. We promise the furor has died down, Jack! Even if it hadn’t, Nealie has a plan to make everything right. Only Arleen is looking over my shoulder, shrieking that I mustn’t tell, so I won’t.

  Jack didn’t wonder at Glenna’s mulish tone. Although she was loath to admit it, his youngest sister had always been the worst at keeping a secret. Any secret. Although she had managed to do so, most notably and regrettably, at least once—when she’d spirited away his schematics and had them made into those disastrous corsetry samples. It only went to show that women—even well-intentioned ones—couldn’t be trusted not to make everything worse. He was better off away from them.

  All the same, Jack touched his fingertips to the words, imagining the scene. All four of his sisters, arguing for the use of the paper, the ink, the best spot at whatever desk they’d managed to find. The Murphy girls were unrelenting when they thought they were right—which was, admittedly, most of the time.

  You’ll never guess where we’re headed next, he read. Nealie says it’s our duty, and I guess she’
s right. But she always says things like that, in that virtuous, bossy tone of hers, so however can a person be sure? Anyway, please keep a lookout for Indians. And if you see one, kindly ask him for his inscription. I would treasure it always and always. If only I could keep it out of Corinne’s hands, because you know she’d just sell it for a profit someplace and miser all the money, else spend it on boring old necessities like coal oil.

  He guffawed. That came from Arleen, who had their eldest sister pegged, to be certain. There wasn’t anything Corinne wasn’t willing to do to make sure her loved ones were provided for—including squirreling away their savings whether they approved or not. His was a bossy brood, but a special one.

  His exposed fingers growing chilled, Jack turned over the letter. Every inch of the paper was covered in writing to maximize the postage cost, and where there weren’t any sentences, there were squiggly pencil drawings. Those came courtesy of Glenna, who had never met a person or place she didn’t yearn to capture on paper.

  Do write back to us soon, he read, grinning at the multiple underlines beneath the word soon. Otherwise we will spread the word that you have joined the circus and wed the bearded lady—

  He laughed. “Bearded lady?”

  “Yes,” someone agreed from nearby, sounding amused. “I hear they stay quite warm in wintertime.”

  At the sound of that voice, Jack jerked his head up. Grace Crabtree stood before him, looking unaccountably pert in a way he couldn’t explain. She peered interestedly at his handful of scribbled-upon, creased and ink-blotted memories from home.

  Hastily, he rammed the letter in his pocket. He needed a diversion. An explanation. A bolster for his manly persona and an excuse for his lack of self-possession all at once.

  Especially if Grace suspected, as he thought she might, who he really was and where he’d really come from. And why.

  “It’s a gambling device,” he declared loudly. “I get solicitations for them. Being a saloonkeeper and all.”

  Her eyebrows rose. Her gaze remained jammed on his pocket.