The Rascal

by Lisa Plumley

  “A few? No! No, there were many. And all of them bought things. Razors, soap, washboards. Readymade clothing. Sweets. Ribbons and cleansers and brooms and mops.” Squeezing harder, Hofer laughed with pure joy. He patted her on the back. “You are a good woman, Miss Crabtree. Perhaps a little misunderstood, only, by people who do not see your generosity.”

  Grace began to feel concerned she might not break free. Ever. “I’m delighted, Mr. Hofer.” She squirmed. “Only—”

  “Ah, but I am embarrassing you! You are modest!”

  “That is not a quality I’ve had the pleasure of having ascribed to me. However, I’m so pleased that you—”

  “See? You are even modest now!” Chuckling, Hofer embraced her again. Over his shoulder, Grace glimpsed several customers pointing and nudging each other. A few grinned. “Thank you, thank you,” Hofer said. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, you only have to ask. Jedediah Hofer is at your service.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hofer.” Torn, Grace hesitated. But if a woman were to be practical… “As it happens, I could use a bit of castor oil and some tea,” she proclaimed, hoping her nose wouldn’t become permanently crooked from being compacted against Hofer’s suit coat. She wiggled it experimentally. “I’m going through both at a fearsome rate. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

  “Ah! For you, nothing is too much trouble!”

  He released her, sweeping aside other customers with his beefy arms as he led her into the mercantile. Grace followed in his wake, the smells of pickles and rolled calico and wood smoke reaching her instantly. There was nothing homier than a properly run mercantile. She savored the entire enterprise.

  Twenty productive minutes later, Grace emerged with her satchel filled to overflowing. The bargains she’d made would keep her supplied with restorative tea for the entire week.

  “Thank you!” she called, clutching everything to her middle. “Thank you, Mr. Hofer. You’re very kind.”

  Four pounds of tea and a whole gallon of castor oil.

  Jack would be very pleased.

  With that thought in mind, Grace journeyed home next. She kept her steps brisk so as to not leave Jack alone for too much longer. Harry had assured her that he looked in on Jack during those times when Grace had errands or work to attend to, but ever since the time she had returned to find them both throwing dice with Daniel, she tried not to linger with her duties.

  At the Crabtree household, after a welcoming hug from her mother and a plateful of Cook’s best whole-flour Grahamite biscuits with jam, Grace got directly to the point of her visit.

  “Your recuperative tea is working wonders,” she said pensively, “but I’m wondering if there’s something more I could be doing. I have cleaned everything just as you suggested—”

  “Pleasant surroundings do enhance healing,” Mama agreed.

  “—and it was awfully sloppy in there, believe you me!” Grace elaborated, picturing the scene. “Leftover whiskey bottles, piles of cigarillos—which were most peculiar, given that Mr. Murphy does not partake in them—boots and jackets everywhere. It was quite a chore.”

  Her mama only smiled indulgently. “To think that you never cared much for housework,” she commented.

  “I’ve organized everything, too. Alphabetically in the case of the foodstuffs and by color and purpose in the case of the clothing and other items.” Grace doled out a small grin. “Mr. Murphy proclaims he can’t find a thing anymore. But I know he’ll comprehend my classification system with some teaching.”

  Fiona Crabtree nodded. “Alphabetical, you say? Well, I would expect nothing less of you.”

  Heartened somewhat, Grace nodded. “I’ve also made sure that Jack—I mean, Mr. Murphy, of course—keeps himself well bathed with strong soap. And neatly combed and barbered, too.”

  “That sounds very…civilized.”

  “Thank you.” Grace tilted her head to the side, momentarily silent as she recalled the kerfuffle between her and Jack when she’d attempted to wield his straight razor on him herself. Even now she felt downright astounded at the strength he’d mustered. Most men would not have been so robust while laid low with a head injury. Clearly, Jack was exceptional.

  “I’ve supervised his meals and his liquor intake, allowing only small sips of watered brandy occasionally. And I’ve kept him warm with myriad blankets at all times.” Grace leaned toward her mother, concerned all over again. “He insists they make him sweat,” she confided. “Does that mean he’s fevered?”

  Her mama considered it, looking unconcerned. “Probably not,” she said as she perused the biscuit plate. “Not given the other symptoms you described to me yesterday. And the day before. And earlier this week as well.”

  Too worried to be mollified or concerned with that reminder of her multiple visits, Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid Mr. Murphy won’t allow evidence of any weakness to reach me.”

  “Hmm,” Mama mused. “Imagine that sort of stubbornness…”

  “Exactly.” Grace nodded more vigorously, feeling understood at last. “Also he seems to go out of his way to be contrary. Do you know, he even refused to eat the barley broth I made him?”

  At this, her mama froze with her hand partway to a biscuit.

  She withdrew and stared at Grace. “You made?”

  Grace nodded. “I read the recipe in a nutritional pamphlet from the library of the Social Equality Sisterhood. It was a very nourishing combination of turnips and rutabagas and chicken broth, coupled with pearled barley and four pounds of onions.”

  Her mama widened her eyes. “Four pounds? Goodness!”

  “Yes, I cried a river while chopping,” Grace recalled. But next she remembered her worry over Jack and rushed to the real reason for her visit. “But nothing is working! I fear my Mr. Murphy will never recover—”

  “Your Mr. Murphy?” Again came that knowing smile.

  Grace couldn’t counter it. “And it will be all my fault for failing to teach him to sled properly on that first run. If only I had exerted my will just a bit more forcefully—”

  Her mama appeared to stifle a guffaw.

  “—perhaps he would never have been hurt at all!”

  Desperately, Grace stared down at her clasped hands. The truth was, she did not know what else to do. She was not by nature a particularly nurturing individual, she feared, and for the first time she felt the lack of that quality.

  Women were supposed to be caring and helpful, weren’t they? Able to conjure failsafe remedies and kind encouragement and hand-sewn sickroom samplers at a moment’s notice, complete with coordinating linens and perhaps a flowered tea cosy.

  “I do not,” she admitted gravely, “even know how to begin knitting a tea cosy.” She did not glance up. “I am…a failure.”

  For a moment, the only sounds in the parlor were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the thump and crackle of a log falling into the fire and the distant bustling of Cook preparing lunch in the kitchen. Miserably, Grace waited.

  “Oh, Grace,” Mama told her quietly. “You are not a failure. No one who loves as deeply as you do could ever be considered a failure at anything.” She paused, undoubtedly regarding her in that gentle way she had. “Do you know how rare that is?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not helping him!”

  Undaunted by that confession, her mama continued. “I should have known it from the moment you sent that newsboy here for the makings of my special tea.” Placidly, she poured more coffee for them both. “You are smitten, Grace. More than that, you are in love with Mr. Murphy. No, don’t bother denying it. There’s no other reason you would be here right now.”

  “If you’d only tell me what to do—”

  “Why, follow your heart, of course. That usually does the trick.” This time, Fiona did choose that biscuit she’d been eyeing. Leisurely, she applied some jam. “You’ll find that—”

  “I mean about Jack,” Grace interrupted. She felt near to grit
ting her teeth with frustration. Why would her mama ramble on about love and hearts when there were practical concerns to be worked out? “Please, Mama. I’m desperate for your help.”

  “Which is why I know for certain you do not need it.”

  Thoroughly baffled, Grace shook her head. “The world has gone mad,” she announced. “Jack is delirious, Jedediah Hofer has gone round the bend and both Sarah and Molly give me silly looks when they see me. What is wrong with everyone?”

  “Grace.” Mama set down her plate, regarding her seriously. “Let me ask you one thing, and maybe you will see what I mean.” Delicately, she paused, her gaze roving over Grace’s face. “How many times have you felt moved to ask me for help?”

  “Er…” Grace deliberated. “Umm…I know there must have been several times. When I was small, perhaps, or—”

  “The last time you asked me for help,” Mama informed her placidly, “was when you were twelve years old and asked me to devise a dress pattern for bloomers.”

  Grace remembered. She hadn’t possessed the patience or skill for seamstress’s work, but had dearly coveted her own version of the scandalous garment. “You refused. Likely because you knew I would never be seen in a proper dress again.”

  “That’s right. You would have worn those bloomers—scandalous or not—until they fell off you in rags.” Mama gave her a fond smile. “Since then, you haven’t asked me for a single piece of advice or help, Grace, no matter how strenuous or challenging the task before you.” Momentarily—astonishingly—she seemed almost proud. “Even when you were tossed into Sheriff Caffey’s jail, you never wanted us notified. It was a sore challenge to your papa, believe me. Especially that first time.”

  “He came to collect me, all the same.”

  “And I’m going to help you now, all the same.” Mama gave Grace’s hand an affectionate squeeze, then straightened to her usual regal stature. “Love is not bloomers, and you are not the same person you were at twelve. So I hope you’ll have a mite more patience when I suggest this to you.”

  “I will.” Fervently, Grace nodded, feeling hopeful. She respected her mama’s judgment. She knew she would be grateful for whatever morsel of advice her mama had now. In all eagerness, Grace asked, “What should I do?”

  “Stop trying to change Mr. Murphy.” Mama stirred her coffee. “A man is who he is, and that’s all there is to it. You have to take him as he comes and be happy for it.”

  Grace stared. A moment passed, ripe with incredulity.

  “That’s your advice?”

  Her mama nodded. “I hope you’ll consider it.”

  “That’s truly your advice?”

  “It truly is. Believe me, Grace. It only sounds simple. At times I’m sorely challenged to follow it myself.”

  This time, Grace did gnash her teeth. She could not believe this was what came of asking for help. Nonsensical advice and impractical suggestions, when what she truly needed were clever strategies and prudent measures. No wonder she had avoided it.

  It was at that moment, as her teeth ground together and her mama regarded her patiently, that Grace realized the truth.

  Perhaps she had overestimated her own ability to handle Jack Murphy, she thought in alarm. Perhaps she had bitten off more than she could chew. Perhaps she never should have agreed to care for him. Perhaps she never should have kissed him.

  No, she decided. She couldn’t regret the kissing.

  She couldn’t quite regret the caring either.

  What was she going to do?

  All amuddle, Grace stood and said her goodbyes to her mother. There would be no further help to be found here. But before she left…

  “If you think of any other advice,” she said urgently, “please be sure to let me know.”

  Despite the way she’d initially discounted it, Grace recalled her mama’s advice a few days later when she discovered something very unexpected beneath the bar in Jack’s saloon.

  She understood what her mother had been trying to say, of course. Naturally it was better to accept people as they were. That was exactly the consideration Grace wished the people of Morrow Creek would extend to her more often. But surely, had Fiona understood the potential inherent in the things Grace stumbled onto—and what they implied about Jack Murphy—she would have thought differently. Wouldn’t she?

  Astonished at her findings, Grace sneaked a quick glance around the saloon. It was dark and shuttered, unlit except by the single oil lamp she’d carried from Jack’s quarters in the back room. She’d only meant to grab some brandy for a nightcap with Jack—a watered nightcap, of course—but instead she’d found this. An entire sheaf of papers, jutting from a cubby between the bar cloths and the extra tequila, just begging to be found.

  Biting her lip, Grace looked over her shoulder. She listened. No rumblings came from Jack’s rooms. She’d left him grumpily perusing a Jane Austen novel, which she’d brought with a mind toward continuing her broad-mindedness scheme but which she had employed as an ordinary diversion instead.

  Poor Jack seemed woefully bored of late, resentful of being kept still and hungry for the outdoors. He’d certainly told her often enough that he wished he were “out hunting bear” or “climbing a blasted mountain” instead of being cooped up.

  The remembrance of that made her smile. She could not quite picture Jack cornering a black bear or scaling the territory’s northern peaks, but she had admired the winning way he flexed his muscles while describing those things. She had been most impressed with his imitation of a fierce hunter, too.

  Confident he was still comfortably settled and usefully occupied with his reading, Grace again spread her hands over the papers she’d found. She held her breath, studying them. The first was a beautiful drawing, technical in nature, depicting what seemed to be a mechanical device for pouring whiskey.

  The drawing held all sorts of numbered parts and diagrams. It included meticulously detailed views of the device’s workings from both sides, the front and the back. As much as she looked, Grace could detect neither a trademark symbol nor a patent notice. The image did not include a company letterhead or even the designer’s signature at its bottom.

  Mystified but intrigued, Grace turned over the sheet to reveal the next page. It contained another drawing, this one of a device that seemed—to her untrained eyes—to be intended for use in a lumber mill such as Marcus’s. It featured pulleys and wheels and long-bladed saws in an intricate combination, along with the same multiple views the first drawing had shown.

  Clearly, Grace reasoned, Jack possessed an admiration and an eye for art—one that had gone heretofore undetected. Otherwise why would he have saved these very inventive drawings? Most likely, they’d been left behind by a visitor to his saloon, and Jack hadn’t been able to throw them out.

  Wiser now in the ways of Jack Murphy, Grace gave a perceptive glance to his bawdy over-the-bar oil painting. She suddenly comprehended that frolicking water nymph for the ploy she truly was—an attempt to hide Jack’s cultured side.

  Smiling, Grace nodded. She couldn’t say she felt entirely surprised. She examined the water nymph again, satisfied with her conclusions. She’d known all along there was more to Jack than could be seen at first glance. Doubtless that explained why she pondered him so often herself…and why she found him so very fascinating, too.

  The next drawing was of something familiar—a single fastener for a pair of men’s braces. Instantly, Grace could see it was cleverly designed, its features making it more durable and functional than most. It looked to be convertible, too, although she couldn’t quite make out—no matter how she turned the drawing—exactly how such a marvel would work.

  Something about its design niggled at her….

  Pondering the matter, Grace glanced up, wishing she had someone to share her findings with. The saloon lay silent though, as it always did on Sundays. Even Harry was not in his usual place behind the bar. She would have liked to ask him about the drawings. They really were extraordinary
. She’d only seen their like in books, never in person.

  No wonder Jack had thought so highly of them. Appreciation of artistic talent was something the two of them had in common.

  Carefully, Grace rerolled the papers. Then she collected a bottle of brandy and a pair of glasses, and headed back to Jack’s rooms. This time, she might add a bit less water to Jack’s nightcap…and learn a few more things in the process.

  Deeply embroiled in the adventures of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, Jack didn’t realize Grace had returned until she clunked two heavy-bottomed glasses on the table beside him and added a bottle of his best brandy.

  Instantly, he schooled himself into a deep frown and aimed his displeasure at his book, making his forehead wrinkle beneath its wrapping of unneeded bandages. Moving his lips silently, Jack pretended to struggle over the next passage—one he particularly liked under ordinary circumstances.

  It would not do for Grace to realize as much, however. Jack still had his nonprofessorial western persona to maintain. For the sake of hiding his past, he had to appear rugged, rough and completely uninterested in things like literature—especially literature about men and women falling in love.

  “Enjoying your book?” Grace asked cheerfully.

  Jack grunted. He decided he might never surrender that useful all-purpose reply. It had proven far too handy to be laid aside.

  After dashing to the kitchen for water, Grace drew a chair closer to the fire. Purposefully, she slid it nearer to him. As usual, she fussed over the maneuver, making sure the chair was evenly aligned and plumped before turning to the brandy.

  Glasses and bottle clinked. Shortly, the liquor’s heady aroma wafted across the pages Jack still pretended to ponder. With Grace in the room, he could scarcely read at all. If he did, he inevitably became pulled into the story and was completely unable to maintain his pretense of reluctance.