by Lisa Plumley
Not because she didn’t want to help Griffin. She did. He’d trusted her with something monumental when he’d confided in her about his terrible past. He’d trusted her to help him. Olivia fully intended to do that. She intended to cure Griffin’s loneliness and bring him into the light. Whether doing so returned The Lorndorff to her family was inconsequential.
Although she did still hope to regain the hotel....
What she didn’t anticipate, though, was that helping Griffin would necessarily mean bringing him into her world. There, despite her protestations, she really wasn’t much more than a famous lithography model with a remedy bottle to her credit. In Morrow Creek, Olivia remembered belatedly, everyone saw her as nothing more than a beautiful woman with a long string of suitors and a baffling inability to choose among them.
It began with the bellman. His crestfallen expression was the first detail to catch Olivia’s attention as she descended the hotel stairs and entered the lobby, escorted by Griffin.
The bellman pretended to busy himself with some luggage while she approached, but his dejected look did not wane.
“Good morning!” Olivia called. She murmured an apology to Griffin. She excused herself, then trod the few short steps that separated her from the hotel’s front desk. Concernedly, she eyed the bellman. She touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Right as rain.” Irritably, he shrugged off her hand. “You seem to be doin’ all right for yerself, too.”
His disgruntled nod indicated Griffin, who had dressed for the day in a well-fitted ensemble of shirt, trousers, expensive brocade vest, suit coat, boots and hat—all typically in black, of course. Wearing those togs and liberated from his gloomy room, he appeared twice as commanding as usual, Olivia thought. She couldn’t help remembering that the man she’d developed an infatuation with was, in fact, a captain of industry. He was also an infamous citified rogue. Those realizations should not have given a good woman a thrill—but they did thrill Olivia.
“Yes. I’ve agreed to show Mr. Turner the town,” Olivia told the bellman. “He’s new to these parts after all.”
The bellman sniffed. “Seems to have taken charge pretty readily, for all that.” He jutted his chin. “Didja accept his proposal? I reckon you did, once he got the sense to make it.”
“He didn’t propose.” She smiled at him. “The fact is—”
“Don’t bother explainin’. I can tell when I’m licked.” The bellman issued Griffin a malicious look. He fiddled with the luggage, then swerved his attention back to Olivia. “You’re better’n him, Miss Mouton. You oughta remember that. Even if you ain’t gonna marry me, you can’t marry someone like him.”
Before Olivia could think of a suitable response to that, Griffin was there. His gaze flicked to the vexing array of Milky White Complexion Beautifier and Youthful Enhancement Tonic shelved above the bellman’s head, then moved to Olivia.
Protectively, he took her elbow. He looked solicitously into her face. “Miss Mouton. Is everything all right here?”
“It’s fine,” Olivia told him. She glanced to the bellman again. She should not have waited to decline his marriage proposal. She could see now that keeping him on tenterhooks was no favor to him. Contritely, she lay her hand on his uniformed forearm. “I’m so sorry. But we’ll always be friends, won’t we?”
“Sure.” Another sniff. “You’ll need friends. Later.” The bellman’s deferential glance shifted meaningfully to Griffin. “Good morning to ya, Mr. Turner, sir. Do ya need anything?”
Griffin shook his head, calling her attention to his neatly clubbed hair. With his long hair—and his oversize nose—obscured by his hat, he almost blended in. At least he did until he spoke. Then his natural authority asserted itself. No one in the territory carried quite the same...impact as the infamous Griffin Turner did, just by being present.
“Perhaps a cigarillo?” Griffin raised his chin, nodding to indicate the slender Mexican cigars tucked into the bellman’s uniform pocket. “If I’m not mistaken, Jimmy, those are the same brand I used to be fond of. Would you mind sharing one?”
Olivia froze. When she’d gleefully distributed the contraband goods she’d liberated from Griffin’s room last week to various members of the staff, she hadn’t expected him to ever find out. His knowing look said he’d already guessed everything.
Bluntly, the bellman eyed him. “How’d you know my name?”
Griffin shrugged, unbothered by his blatant suspicion. “It’s my job to know. Everyone here is important to me.”
“It took Mr. Mouton a week solid to learn my name.” The bellman cracked a confiding grin. “He’s fond o’ woolgatherin’.”
Their conversation continued apace as, to Olivia’s amazement, the bellman went on chatting. Convivially, he gave Griffin one of his own former cigarillos. Griffin thanked him. He passed the cigarillo under his nose to appreciate its cured tobacco scent, then gave Olivia a surreptitious wink. The rascal. He was flaunting his knowledge of her antics now!
Perhaps, she realized belatedly, she’d bitten off more than she could chew. Griffin Turner was more akin to tough jerky than he was to Molly Copeland’s melt-in-your-mouth spice cake.
“Well, you have yourself a nice time seein’ Morrow Creek,” the bellman said. “I’d better git back to work at your hotel!”
Your hotel. Taken aback, Olivia gawked at him. This was one thing she hadn’t anticipated—that Griffin might actually endear himself to the hotel staff even more than her father had done.
She’d better warn her father, she realized. Henry Mouton had to try harder to regain The Lorndorff. Olivia knew he’d been hoping to find other investors—endeavoring to buy out Griffin. That was why, it turned out, her father had spent so much time at Jack Murphy’s saloon. He hadn’t only been drinking. He’d also been getting Mr. Murphy’s advice. The saloonkeeper was a Boston man himself and surprisingly adept in the ways of business.
Murphy also, her father had assured her, poured a fine mescal. But if another willing investor didn’t appear soon, or if Griffin couldn’t be persuaded to make a deal with him...
Olivia was better off following her own plan, she knew. Even if no one believed she could successfully carry it out.
“Your work is certainly appreciated, Jimmy.” Griffin tipped his hat. “I’m obliged for the cigarillo. Thank-you kindly.”
After a few more niceties, they parted. Olivia frowned.
“You didn’t tell me you could be charming!” She shook her head at Griffin’s unabashed expression, marveling as he offered a genial nod to passersby. “Whatever has gotten into you?”
He only grinned. “Perhaps you’ve inspired me.”
Olivia doubted it. “How did you know Jimmy’s name?” she demanded. “You’ve not been downstairs since you arrived. Is it because Mr. Grant spies for you? That must be it.”
“He doesn’t spy,” Griffin returned easily. “He is managing The Lorndorff. Nothing more.” His puzzled face turned to hers. “I’m curious to know—aside from Jimmy, the bellman, how many men have proposed to you? How many of them are awaiting answers?”
“You heard us? You were eavesdropping?”
Did that mean he’d also heard the bellman claim that she was too good for Griffin?
A backward glance. “It wasn’t difficult to decipher the situation. When you arrived in the lobby on my arm, Jimmy looked like a kicked puppy. When you walked toward him to say good morning, he practically wagged his tail. I inferred the rest from there.” At Olivia’s aghast look, Griffin gave a pragmatic shrug. “There’s something about growing up hand to mouth, in danger of getting beaten, that makes a man notice the details of things.” Moving on, he made a show of admiring the chandeliers, the rugs and the hotel’s luxurious decor. “I’m simply curious to know how many more men are in competition for your hand.”
�
��Are we counting you among them?”
His grin widened. “That would hardly be fair to them.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Olivia announced. She gave his arm a tug, then forcibly tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “We have a tour of Morrow Creek to enjoy.”
That sobered him. “You were serious about that?”
“Don’t worry.” Olivia strode onward through the lobby, all but hauling Griffin in her wake, feeling like a tugboat pulling a big, burly, recalcitrant steamer into harbor. “The sunlight won’t hurt you. Even full force, it’s actually quite pleasant.”
He balked. “You didn’t tell me your plan led outdoors. I thought we’d be starting small. Perhaps by touring the hotel.” A hopeful look. “Or having toast. I think you’re fond of toast.”
She was. She ate toasted buttermilk bread with jam every morning, along with her daily coffee. But she couldn’t guess how Griffin knew about her fondness for her very ordinary breakfast.
“I like toast, too.” He veered toward the hotel’s dining room, which awaited at the lobby’s far end. “Let’s have some.”
“No!” Fixing her feet near the double doors leading from the hotel to the town’s main street, Olivia stopped. She gazed at Griffin, with his obdurate expression and his admirably clean-shaven jaw, and understood that there was only one way to combat loneliness. Head-on. “Outdoors is where the world is waiting,” she explained. “Morrow Creek is beyond friendly. Trust me.”
Her assurances barely penetrated Griffin’s unease. He tugged his hat but did not move closer to the street. There, horses and riders passed by. Townspeople conversed and conducted business. The sounds of jangling harnesses and tromping hooves held steady, mingling with the distant barking of someone’s dog.
“Trust me,” she urged again. “I know what I’m doing.”
Griffin swallowed hard. He gave a firm nod. “Don’t blame me when people stare,” he said. “They will. I’m warning you.”
“And what of it?” She waved. “People stare at me all the time.”
“They stare at you in wonder, because you’re beautiful.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing,” Olivia assured him. “No one knows better than me how empty beauty really is.”
He didn’t notice her inadvertent confession. He was too intent on his own. “They stare at me in fear, because—”
“Because you do your utmost to intimidate them!” Olivia gave him another yank, grateful that he’d accidentally overlooked her admission. All she had was beauty. She couldn’t malign it now. “Come with me. Honestly, the only reason anyone shies away from you is because you make them do it.”
“No.” He planted his boots. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” she promised him. She did. She understood that Griffin drove away people on purpose, with his threatening demeanor, shouted commands and overall antagonism. Clearly, as with Jimmy, he was capable of behaving sociably. “I also understand that sometimes the only way out is through. Come.”
“Come?” A frown. “I don’t like it when you’re bossy.”
“You will learn to adore it. Don’t worry.”
“You were nicer upstairs,” Griffin grumbled.
“That means you’ve agreed to come with me, doesn’t it?”
He shot her a deliberately displeased look. “Did you have to give away all my cigarillos? What happened to my whiskey?”
She sighed. “The kitchen staff enjoyed it immensely.”
“Humph. Did they at least know it came from me?”
“Of course not!” Olivia fixed her gaze on the street outside. “It came from me—the Robin Hood of The Lorndorff.”
“I doubt so many men would have proposed to you,” Griffin opined, “if they’d known you could be this contrary.”
Perturbed by that, Olivia hesitated. The real her was contrary. “What makes you think they don’t know that already?”
“Because of the way they look at you. They have dreams of wedding Miss Milky White in their eyes. And not much more.”
No one had ever phrased her situation quite so succinctly. Or so accurately. Without meaning to, Griffin had defined her nearly lifelong dilemma. Not that she wanted him to know that.
“You make me sound like a prize to be won,” she told him instead. She added an intentionally lighthearted look. “And if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late for the jam-tasting jamboree.”
“Jam tasting?” Griffin shied away in horror. “Forget I ever mentioned toast. I’m not a man who attends country jamborees.”
Olivia laughed. “Just stick with me,” she said as she lifted her chin determinedly, “and try not to be intimidating.”
“I don’t think I can help it,” Griffin cautioned her.
But Olivia wasn’t listening. She was already stepping into the sunlight and bringing Griffin with her. She hoped, with all her heart, that this would not be the last time she did so.
For his sake. And maybe, a tiny bit, for her sake, as well.
Chapter Ten
Several hours later, Olivia found herself with sore feet, a hoarse throat and a sunny, private spot beside Morrow Creek’s namesake creek. A few feet beyond her aching toes, the water burbled along its banks, glimmering in the sunlight. All around her, tall ponderosa pines and scrubby mountain oaks crowded the steep landscape, turning it green and lush. Nodding wildflowers dotted the patchy grass. The territorial mountains rose in the distance, revealing Morrow Creek for the valley town it was.
From here, though, the town might as well be miles away. At this distance from the creek bridge, even the noisy sounds of horse traffic didn’t carry. The afternoon school bell and the blacksmith’s hammer were swallowed up by the cloudless skies overhead, and the town’s houses and buildings stood far away from this secluded spot. Nothing penetrated the trees and grass and mountainside except for birdsong and rustling leaves.
“Ah.” In patented delight, Griffin reclined on a rock slab beside her. He pillowed his dark leonine head on his arms, his hat abandoned beside him. Apparently, when he’d bared himself to her, he’d lost his need to hide—at least as long as he was out of the view of strangers. “This is good. It’s worth all the dillydallying and silly conversations leading up to it.”
That was not a polite way to refer to the many rounds of calls they’d made so far, visiting several of Olivia’s friends and neighbors and experiencing the sights and sounds of Morrow Creek. But it was accurate. Together, she and Griffin had strolled the main street. They’d popped into the impressively busy offices of the Pioneer Press. They’d browsed Hofer’s popular mercantile, said hello to a throng of children playing outside the schoolhouse where Sarah McCabe taught on schooldays, perused the lumber mill with its piles of felled timer and—of course—attended the jam-tasting jamboree. They’d encountered a number of townspeople on their way. Only a few had openly gawked at Griffin, to Olivia’s satisfaction.
“I thought you’d like it here,” she told him. She longed to massage her tired feet, but it would not be ladylike to remove her high-buttoned shoes. “That’s why I saved it for last.”
“Ah.” He cracked open one eye. “You’re a savorer, then.”
“A savorer?”
“Someone who likes to wait for good things—who likes to delay the gratification of them for as long as possible.”
“I suppose so.” Pulling up her knees to her chest with her skirts flowing around her, Olivia nodded. “Isn’t everyone?”
“No. Some of us know you have to grab the goodness while it’s within reach, else lose it forever.” Griffin levered upward on his elbow. He studied her. “Scarcity teaches that lesson.”
“You’re wealthy. You don’t have scarcity anymore.”
He disagreed. “I’ll have scarcity forever.” He touched his chest,
indicating his heart. She doubted he was aware of it. He lay back again, letting the sunshine soak into him. Eyes closed, he said, “Just like you’ll have marriage proposals forever.”
Ugh. Reminded of one of the most trying elements of their day so far, Olivia squinted into the treetops. She’d never realized before exactly how much of her life was defined by the receiving—and subsequent evasion—of marriage proposals.
My son William proposed to Miss Mouton, one of the women at the jam-tasting event had confided to Griffin. She was quite right to turn him down, though. He was scarcely eighteen.
Or, my brother proposed to Miss Mouton last winter, a woman at Hofer’s mercantile had said. He’s still awaiting an answer.
Or, I proposed to Miss Mouton myself, a bucker had said while greeting them outside Copeland’s lumber mill, well on a year ago now. He’d given a wink. Any day now, she’ll come round.
Taken as a whole, glimpsed through an outsider’s eyes, the entire compilation had been dismaying. Olivia could almost feel the town’s fervent wishes bearing down on her even now. More than anything, her friends and neighbors wanted her to be a wife, to be perfectly proper, to be different than she was.
She feared she was running out of reasons to resist that.
“Eventually I’ll be old.” She gave a blithe wave, watching a butterfly alight on a Griffin’s bent knee—watching him notice that butterfly with evident delight. “No one will want me then.”
Griffin laughed. “Is that your plan? To delay your suitors until you’re feeble and gray? It’s novel, I’ll give you that.”
“What choice do I have?” Olivia shot an irate look toward the grosbeaks twittering in the nearby oak tree branches. “If I say no outright, I’ll disappoint people. If I say yes—”
“You’ll disappoint yourself,” Griffin finished for her.
Surprised, she glanced at him. For a man who appeared to love nothing more strongly than an afternoon sunbath, Griffin was unexpectedly perceptive. “Yes. I have no wish to marry.”
