by Lisa Plumley
—of your legendary showdown with the peddler who would eventually make your face famous, Griffin meant to say. He knew parts of the story. He wanted to hear the whole of it from her.
But Olivia had already glimpsed a waiting crowbar. She jabbed the tool toward him, compelling him to take it.
“Later,” she said, rubbing her hands. “Right now, let’s find out what’s in these mysterious crates.”
Chapter Thirteen
While Griffin lifted the lid off the first crate, Olivia stood on tiptoe to see what was in it. All she saw was a burlap-wrapped bundle. Interestedly, she stepped nearer. Wearing an oddly expectant look, Griffin moved back to allow her closer.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “Take it out. Unwrap it.”
It was almost as though Griffin could read the curiosity that was in her heart. Maybe it was reflected in her eyes. Olivia loved a good mystery—hence her interest in puzzles.
“Go on. You’ll never know what it is otherwise,” he added, plainly inviting her to give in to her natural curiosity...and its two obvious companions, impatience and unfeminine assertiveness.
Eagerly, Olivia prepared to grab that bundle. Then she recalled how solicitous Griffin had been with Violet and stopped herself cold. During one conversation, Griffin had shown a greater interest in the minister’s daughter than most men in Morrow Creek did in a whole year. For a long time, Violet had been sadly overlooked by the men in town. She was one of Olivia’s closest friends, so Olivia couldn’t help wishing things were different for her. With Griffin, they had been.
He’d clearly been impressed with Violet’s reserve.
In fact, Griffin’s reaction to Violet proved that he truly was blind to beauty—or to its lack. Because as goodhearted and well liked as Violet Benson was, she was also one of the plainest women in town. It was simply the accepted wisdom that Violet was a perpetual wallflower, first to volunteer for things and last to be asked to dance. But given Griffin’s attitude to Violet, Olivia knew now more than ever that she had no chance of impressing him with her most avowed asset: her looks. That made it doubly crucial that she impress him with her saintly good character. If she tried very hard to develop one. Immediately.
To that end, Olivia conjured an air of reticence. It felt a bad fit. Nonetheless, she persisted. “No. I couldn’t possibly!” Graciously, she inclined her head. “Please, you look first.”
Her invitation was met with a perplexed look. “It’s yours.”
“We don’t know that,” she argued. “Yes, it was delivered to me, in my care, for the handicrafts show. But that doesn’t—”
“It’s yours,” Griffin insisted. “Trust me. I know.”
With effort, Olivia clasped her hands behind her back. She shook her head. “Please, Mr. Turner. I insist you look first.”
Her attempt to sound politely restrained was unimpressive, at best. How had she managed to fool her friends and neighbors into believing she was truly ladylike for all these years?
“Olivia.” Griffin delivered her a too-insightful look. “What’s the matter? You sound as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth—when we both know you keep some piquant words in there.” He stepped closer. “Do I have to remind you?”
Silently, Olivia held steady. She needed him.
She needed him to believe she was every bit as refined as Violet was. And Jonas’s mother was. Even though, when reminded of her, he’d seemed unmoved. In fact, his vehemence toward Jonas’s mother had caught Olivia by surprise. She’d been using that good woman as a convenient model of temperance, but now...
Griffin gazed down at her. His nearness made her yearn, very inappropriately, to be held in his arms. That feeling only grew more heated when, undoubtedly demonstrating her knack for “piquant” speech, he tossed back her own words from earlier.
“If I could,” Griffin said in a low, seductive tone, “I would spend time just staring at you, too.” He stopped, then gave her an exasperated look. “What is that, if not you being predictably and wonderfully honest with your thoughts?”
“It was me being inappropriate.”
He gave her a direct look. “Was it untrue?”
Olivia gazed up at him. “It was true. I do like the way you look. When I see you now, I see...you. I like that. I like you.”
Whatever emotion Griffin felt at that, he hid it ably.
“I like the way you look, too,” he said gruffly. Then, “Look inside the crate. People are starting to arrive.”
Olivia glanced up, saw the townspeople coming in and made her decision. “I’ll look first if you’ll promise to look next.”
“I already know what’s in these three crates.”
That stopped her. “How could you?”
“Just...” Exasperatedly, Griffin held her by the shoulders, steered her into position in front of the smallest opened crate then commanded her to look. “I’ll open the other two crates.”
Obligingly, Olivia did look. She picked up the object inside, unwrapped it then gazed at it in total disbelief.
“It’s a toothbrush.” She peered more closely. “It’s my toothbrush. The one I sketched! The one I invented!” She whipped her dubious gaze to Griffin. “You made a prototype for me?”
“Your design was very clever. I couldn’t resist,” Griffin said. “A reservoir handle that could contain a dentifrice agent dispensed via a screw-threaded mechanism? It’s ingenious.”
Olivia boggled at it. Then she lunged for the next crate.
Still clutching her innovative toothbrush in her fist, she grabbed the next item. She flipped it over. A tidy pile of sturdy stitched fabric met her gaze. At first, Olivia thought it really was some shy stranger’s contribution to the handicrafts show.
Then she recognized it. “My lady’s rational skirt for cycling!” With patent amazement, she held up the garment. It was fashioned in two parts. One was a bloomer-style underlayer. The other was a skirt-style overlayer for modesty. Excitedly, Olivia pointed at it. “This will enable women everywhere to enjoy the freedom of cycling.” Marveling at its construction, she shook her head. “We have a Bicycling Association in town, you know. I have to show this to Grace Murphy. She’ll be so proud.”
“That will make two of us.” Griffin cast a hasty glance at the people filing into the handicrafts show. He gestured to a spot beside Olivia’s sampler. “You’ll have to come here to see the third one. It’s too big to uncrate and put on the table.”
That could only be one of...well, several items, Olivia knew. Giving the contents of her sketchbook a hasty mental review, she set down her cycling skirt sample. She placed her toothbrush prototype on top of it. She inhaled, shot Griffin a helplessly excited glance then looked toward the spot he’d indicated.
A device made of polished, turned wood stood there, fitted with a wheel. The wheel itself was outfitted with hanger arms, slats and shelves, forming a sort of circular bookcase.
“It’s my book-holding carousel! You made a prototype of this, too?” Wonderingly, Olivia trod around it. She gave it a gentle push. The revolving mechanism spun the wheel, just as designed. The next shelf—one of six—held an open book. Tears leaped to her eyes. “It’s my favorite! With this, you can read several books at once.” She marveled. “How did you make this?”
“With a great deal of help from my new friends, the lumber mill owner, the blacksmith and the saloonkeeper,” Griffin said. “Did you know Murphy has a secret past of inventing things himself? His creations caused such a furor he fled Boston.”
“Mr. Copeland, Mr. McCabe and Mr. Murphy were too kind.” Amazedly, Olivia transferred her attention to the lady’s skirt and the toothbrush. “I’m guessing their wives may have helped with your plan, as well. I see ladies’ handiwork here.”
“Everyone was surprisingly helpful,” Griffin told her. He gazed concerne
dly at her tears. “As soon as I mentioned—”
“You didn’t say these things were for me, did you?” Olivia yelped, dashing away her sentimental tears. Suddenly she felt all too aware that her years of decorum were for nothing if her outlandish hobby of inventing things came to light. It was unfeminine enough to be bookish and interested in science. It would be a hundred times worse to be a verifiable entrepreneur, filing patents and creating inventions and working to sell them.
Even freethinking suffragist Grace Murphy—née Crabtree—hadn’t gone that far toward female equality. And she’d been detained in Sheriff Caffey’s jailhouse a time or two for her courageous efforts on behalf of women’s rights.
“No. I didn’t say they were for you.” With a patient smile, Griffin thumbed away an errant tear—one she’d plainly missed—from her cheek. “I thought you would say that by displaying your work here at the handicrafts show. The book carousel should be of particular interest. Although I wish I’d brought more books—”
“I can’t tell people about these. I can’t!” Urgently, Olivia gestured at the prototypes. “People will think—”
“That you’re brilliant? Rightly so.”
“That I’m strange! That I’m eccentric. That I’m—”
“Brave?” Griffin stepped nearer. He held her shoulders, then smiled at her. “Do it, Olivia. Show everyone who you are.”
“I can’t.” Resolutely, she shook her head. Didn’t he know how much depended on not doing that? This had to be another of Griffin’s tests, Olivia reasoned. He had bags of money. Having these prototypes made would have been inconsequential to him.
“You can,” he insisted. His gaze met hers. “There was more light in your eyes when you looked at your inventions than there was in the entire time you were cross-stitching your sampler.”
“You don’t know that,” she grumbled, remembering the pricked fingers and tangled embroidery floss she’d endured. “You weren’t there for the entire time I was stitching it.”
“I was there long enough to know that you might tolerate needlework, but you love inventing things. Just admit it.”
Obstinately, Olivia refused. “You don’t know me.”
“Then let me know you. Let everyone know you.” His impassioned gaze worked to persuade her. “Can’t you see? You must show yourself. Otherwise you’ll never really be happy.”
If that was Griffin’s notion of irony, Olivia didn’t care for it. What did he know about showing himself to everyone? He did everything he could to remain invisible and unknowable.
“You’re making fun of me.” Even that was a kinder scenario than the one wherein Griffin was testing her suitability to be a bride. “You know I should prefer needlework, and since I don’t—”
Oops. Drat it all. Feeling nearly overcome, Olivia stopped.
She gestured in frustration toward the prototypes Griffin had made—toward the shapes of her imagination, revealed now in ivory and bristles, in muslin and thread...in wood and metalwork fittings. She could scarcely believe she was seeing them.
She could scarcely believe he’d made them for her.
Even more, she could scarcely believe she was disowning them. But Griffin was more important to her than her longtime flights of fancy. Making an impression on him had to prevail. How else could she love him? How else could she prove herself?
“You claim them.” Olivia lifted her chin. “I’ve just developed a frightful headache,” she fibbed. “I’m going home.”
“Olivia.” Griffin appeared utterly downhearted. He grabbed her arm, even as more attendees to the handicrafts show arrived—even as conversations swirled around them and people began touring the various tabletop displays. “Please stay. Please. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am happy. I’m thrilled by these!” Pulling her arm from his grasp, she gave a helpless wave at the models he’d fashioned of her inventions. They represented a real opportunity to move forward. With these prototypes, Olivia knew, she could file for patents. She could take steps to a new life. She could...alienate herself from her family and friends. She sighed. “They’re wonderful. Truly, they are. But if you think I can claim them—”
“I know you can claim them. They’re remarkable!”
“—then you don’t know me at all.” Even more determinedly, Olivia squared her shoulders. She glanced around the handicrafts show. “I’m sorry, Griffin. I wish I could be different.”
“I don’t want you to be different. I want you to be you.”
Olivia only shook her head. “That’s very convincing,” she told him with the shadow of a grin. “But I’ll believe that line the day you show up hatless, wearing clothes that aren’t black.”
For a moment, Griffin looked almost crafty. Then...
“Fine.” He smiled at her. “I didn’t become the man I am by giving up, Olivia. I’m going to make you admit the truth.”
The truth. Unfortunately, that statement only confirmed her suspicions. Griffin was testing her, Olivia reasoned. The most bedeviling part was, she had no idea whether she’d passed.
Given that she sometimes feared, in her own heart, that she might be nothing more than an empty beauty—that her life’s highlight truly might have been appearing on that remedy bottle—Olivia reckoned she might not have passed Griffin’s test at all.
But then she realized another unexpected truth. The only reason Griffin would test her was if he was considering marrying her! Pondering that, Olivia shot him an observant glance.
He stared back, hands on his hips, looking manful and sturdy and broad shouldered...and so adorably mulish that she wanted to fling her arms around him and hug him straight into next week. He did care about her. That meant she still had hope.
She had hope that Griffin might love her—might even propose to her. She also had hope that he might relinquish The Lorndorff altogether, for the sake of her happiness. Once those things had happened, she could be happy and enjoy harmony at home, too.
With a new lightness, Olivia touched Griffin’s arm. Doing so made her remember what he’d looked like, partly naked, that day in his hotel suite bed. It made her recall what he’d felt like while holding her close. Boldly, she slid her hand past his cuffed shirtsleeve, down to his bare, hair-sprinkled forearm.
His skin felt shockingly hot. Excitingly firm.
He jolted at her touch, and her imagination flared anew. She’d had no idea she could affect him merely with her touch....
This fraught encounter with her invention prototypes didn’t have to be a setback, Olivia told herself. It could be another beginning. Now that she knew she possessed some leverage with Griffin, she didn’t have to be quite so fearful of the outcomes of their encounters. Now that she knew Griffin wanted her...
...she was free to want him back. Unreservedly.
“I just might make you admit the truth, too,” Olivia said, echoing his earlier words. “Just wait and see if I don’t.”
Then she sashayed away, said her goodbyes to Violet Benson and the other members of the Territorial Benevolent Association and made her way back to The Lorndorff to formulate her plans.
Chapter Fourteen
Before arriving alone in Morrow Creek, stealing in under cover of darkness, Griffin had experienced baseball games. After all, the pastime of baseball was tremendously popular in Boston. Griffin was acquainted with Harry Wright. He’d followed the career of pitcher Albert Spalding. He’d reported on the sporting exploits of the Red Stockings, the Beaneaters, and the Red Caps in his own newspapers. But despite his diverse and long-standing understanding of the game of “baseball,” Griffin realized very quickly that the sport was played...differently in Morrow Creek.
In the Arizona Territory, he’d learned, many things were.
For one thing, Griffin noticed as he strode pa
st the modest schoolhouse and approached the designated baseball field, a distinct festival atmosphere prevailed. Townspeople streamed toward the game site with cheerful expressions. They held picnic baskets in hand, covered with gingham checked cloths, swinging them to and fro as they walked. They brought hand-stitched baseballs and rudimentary homemade bats. They laughed.
Where Griffin came from, sporting events were serious business. Gamblers wagered fortunes on them. Players staked their livelihoods and reputations on winning them. Spectators started rowdy brawls over them. But here in Morrow Creek, where rosy-cheeked children whooped their way toward the field and women sewed homemade team symbols on their husbands’ shirts and men struck silly strongman poses—like barnstorming Signor Lawanda come to clobber the bases—everything was different.
It was, to Griffin’s mind, miles and miles better.
Of course, that opinion probably owed more to the presence of Olivia, he knew, than to any real appreciation of sport. Because as he spied her waiting in the distance, speaking with a group of her friends and holding a bat herself, Griffin felt himself involuntarily walk faster. His heartbeat raced, too.
More than that, it felt as if his whole heart expanded.
Honestly, Griffin had expected that to quit happening by now. How much affection could one meager heart hold after all?
Maybe his heart had extra room, having been empty for so long...at least until he’d met Olivia.
“Whoa, there.” Beside him, nearly at a trot now, Palmer Grant shoved out his arm. “Slow down, Turner. Do you want these ladies to believe we’re eager to see them play baseball?”
“I am eager to see them play baseball,” Griffin returned honestly. He’d learned from Olivia—and from the members of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club—that in the town’s established league, the men played their games first. Then the women played their games last. “As curiosities go, it’s bound to be entertaining. Besides, Olivia strongly implied that it’s somehow scandalous.”
