Harlequin Historical May 2014 - Bundle 1 of 2: Notorious in the WestYield to the HighlanderReturn of the Viking Warrior

by Lisa Plumley

She’d said, in fact, that suffragist Mrs. Murphy had gone to some lengths to have the women’s league approved. She’d staged a protest, then instigated a strike among the women who sewed the regulation-weight horsehair baseballs used by the men’s leagues. She’d seized and then hidden all the existing baseballs so the men couldn’t practice unless they came to terms. In the end, she’d been successful...with some compromises.

  “You interpreted that to mean it’s worth racing to?” His associate stared at him. “Where’s your dignity, man?”

  “I’ve never needed dignity less than I do around here.” Griffin grinned, still striding onward. “It’s damn refreshing.”

  At that, Palmer stopped altogether. Incredulously, he peered at Griffin. “I knew you were sweet on Miss Mouton. But it’s worse than that. Do you actually enjoy this rustic town?”

  Griffin stopped, too. He shrugged. “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t I—” Palmer stuttered. He frowned. “My outlook on the matter doesn’t count. We’re talking about you. You and your increasing willingness to participate in this...looniness.” As proof, he shook his head at the sturdy homespun clothes Griffin had borrowed to play baseball in. He straightened his own collar with a fussy gesture. “As soon as you come to your senses—”

  “Again, that’s not going to happen.”

  “—we’ll be heading back to Boston, where the streets are paved, the restaurants serve good steaks and the women are sophisticated. Remember that?” Palmer asked. “Remember your mansion? Your other mansion? Your business and properties—”

  “None of that matters.” Griffin waved hello to Olivia.

  Palmer exhaled in evident exasperation. “You ordered new suits! I took that to mean you were ready to return home.”

  “No. But thank you for relaying my wishes to the tailor. With a rush on the job, I think those suits will arrive soon.”

  “You can’t stay here forever, Griffin,” Palmer persisted. “Henry Mouton has more gumption than you counted on. You know he’s contacting potential investors to buy out your shares of the hotel.” An even more aggrieved look. “He’s telegraphed Simon Blackhouse! You know...of the California Blackhouses?”

  Hearing that notorious family name made Griffin frown.

  “The Blackhouses? Mouton didn’t say anything about them.”

  “Undoubtedly, he’s keeping his strategy close to his vest.”

  “He’s playing with fire, is what he’s doing.” Griffin knew of the Blackhouses. If anything, their line was worse than his own. They’d had a fortune for generations—and no morals to stymie that fortune’s disreputable use. Extortion, cheating, threats of violence...nothing was too extreme if it satisfied the Blackhouse family’s pleasure-seeking ways. “Did you warn Mouton off?”

  “I tried.” Palmer frowned. “He seemed to think it was a trick. After you offered to let him manage The Lorndorff again, Mouton started thinking everything we did or said was a trick.”

  Griffin sighed. Henry Mouton was a sore trial, to be sure.

  Griffin had extended an olive branch to Mouton with that management offer. Admittedly, it had been a half measure. Mouton had had too much pride to accept it. Still, Griffin had been willing. For Olivia’s sake, he’d been prepared to let her father come back as the hotel’s acting manager. He’d been rebuffed.

  Now they were at an impasse. Griffin couldn’t relinquish the hotel completely. If he did, what excuse would he have for seeing Olivia? Her determined mission to make Griffin surrender control of her father’s hotel had kept Olivia glued to Griffin’s side. Until he felt sure of her feelings for him, he could not abandon his only means of making certain she stayed near.

  “I’ll come up with a strategy,” Griffin promised, setting aside the issue for now. “Don’t worry. In the meantime—”

  He broke off, realizing that Palmer was no longer listening. He was waving, with alarming enthusiasm, at a woman who knelt near the improvised home plate while sorting through a burlap bag of baseballs. Annie. It was Olivia’s friend Annie.

  She glanced up, saw Palmer and waved equally vigorously.

  “Hmm. You say you want ‘sophisticated’ women?” Griffin couldn’t help grinning. “She, my friend, is a chambermaid.”

  “So was yours, at first! She was a chambermaid, too.”

  “Yes. Olivia surprised me,” Griffin admitted. “Maybe Annie will surprise you, too.” He gave her another look. “Maybe she’s more complicated than you know. Women often are.”

  Palmer scoffed. “I doubt I’ll find out. I’ll be back in Boston by then. You enjoy your baseball. I have other plans.”

  Without so much as another hectoring reminder of Griffin’s temporarily abandoned mansions and businesses, Palmer took off at a dash. He ducked between two bat-carrying men. He galloped past a cluster of children, then nearly collided with a grandmotherly woman who fittingly lectured him on decorum.

  Palmer arrived at Annie’s location. He swept off his hat.

  The chambermaid looked up. She smiled broadly at him.

  Despite Palmer’s protestations to the contrary, there was little doubt that the two of them had sparked a romance. Whether their budding ardor would flourish was anyone’s guess. But as Griffin watched his upright associate and Olivia’s freewheeling friend chat together—spiritedly if contrastingly—he felt newly inspired to sort out things with Olivia.

  He may not have succeeded with persuading Olivia to dance to the fiddle music at the town musicale. He may not have won her heart—or ignited her courage—with his presentation of her invention prototypes at the handicrafts show. In fact, given her topsy-turvy reactions on that day, Griffin wasn’t sure if making those prototypes had been the right thing to do at all.

  Still, Olivia had, afterward, allowed him to bring those models secretly to her cozy attic rooms at The Lorndorff. And she had cried happy tears upon seeing the prototypes again. And she had hugged Griffin thank-you with such ferocity that he’d thought his ribs might crack. So that was progress, of a sort.

  In fact, it was heartening progress, Griffin decided as he loped toward the baseball field himself. Olivia’s grateful reaction proved he was on the right course. From here, he only had to persevere. He only had to help Olivia help herself.

  The upcoming baseball game was an opportunity to do just that, Griffin realized as he neared her position and saw that—unlike her fellow members of the women’s league—Olivia was not wearing a sturdy dress, outrageously hemmed to her ankles to allow free movement. She was not clad in sensible brogan shoes with low heels, suitable for a sportswoman’s athletic needs. Instead, Olivia stood bundled in a lightweight coat with its collar up to her neck, doubtless broiling in the heat.

  Even in the mountainous town of Morrow Creek, it wasn’t cool enough to require outerwear. Not at this time of day, at least. Glimpsing Olivia’s buttoned-up coat, Griffin puzzled.

  Something was not quite right here.

  “Miss Mouton!” He greeted her formally, since they were in public, by clasping her hand in his. He smiled, undoubtedly looking naively smitten. “It’s a beautiful day for baseball.”

  “Yes, it is!” She smiled back at him, still holding her bat. The breeze loosened tendrils of hair from her chignon, then tossed them across her face. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Turner.”

  With a moue of frustration, Olivia hooked those soft tendrils with her fingertip. She tucked them behind her ear. That impatient gesture only pulled Griffin’s attention to her lovely hands, to her winsome face...to her soft, alluring lips.

  Olivia glanced up at him welcomingly, and all at once, Griffin didn’t care that they were in public. He didn’t care that the residents of Morrow Creek had gathered all around them with boisterous goodwill, lugging bats and balls and improvised baseball bases. Given Olivia’s nearness, Griffin wanted more.

 
He wanted to touch her hair himself. He wanted to pull her closer for a kiss. He wanted to embrace her, to explore her sweet womanly curves with his hands, to give in to all the most ungentlemanly impulses he strived so hard not to surrender to when they were alone together in his hotel suite.

  So far, he’d done a good job of suppressing those sensual needs. Now, in the space between his hello and his handclasp, they came roaring back to him, twice as intense and a million times more demanding.

  He’d never been more aware of Olivia as a bountiful and passionate woman—or himself as a strong-bodied and virile man.

  The air between them felt atingle with mounting sensuality, rife with a sense of forbidden possibility. Together, he and Olivia could share so much more than they already had, Griffin knew. Together, they could be one. But a woman like Olivia deserved more from him than desire and wild imaginings and longings to kiss her. She deserved everything he had.

  So, chivalrously, Griffin gave it. He gave her respect and admiration. He gave her gallantry. He smiled anew, and vowed to himself not to seduce her...however much he wanted to.

  He nodded at her coat. “Have you caught a chill?”

  His studied tone made her smile. “Indeed, I haven’t.”

  “Yet you’re bundled up as if you expect a blizzard,” Griffin said. “Won’t you find it difficult to play?”

  “I don’t expect to.” Olivia glanced to the side, exchanged a few words with another female player then returned her attention to him. “I don’t ordinarily play in the games,” she informed him. “Generally, I function as the team’s secretary. I maintain notes of our meetings, catalogue our equipment, set the batting order among the players...things like that.”

  “You don’t play? Why?”

  “Because it’s appropriate.” She shrugged, her bat still held capably in hand. “Because it’s...sufficient for me.”

  Griffin doubted it. For a long moment, he studied her. He knew her love of activity. He understood her interest in sports.

  Suddenly, he realized the truth. “This is like Nickerson’s Book Depot and News Emporium,” he declared. “You want to be part of the baseball league, but you don’t trust yourself to play. So you surround yourself with baseball, then don’t partake of it.”

  Olivia laughed, even as people passed by them, preparing either to play in the game or spectate. “What? Don’t be silly!”

  Dauntlessly, Griffin persisted. “This is not a course of action that will lead inevitably to some imagined downfall,” he said. “You won’t hit one baseball and transform into a hoyden. You won’t pitch one inning and erase years of known propriety.” He squeezed her arm encouragingly. “Play, Olivia. Do it.”

  A hopeful light came into her eyes. Still, disappointingly, she waved away his urgings. “You can’t make me play baseball.”

  “Why stay on the fringes? If you want to, play!”

  Cautiously, Olivia looked around. She bit her lip. “No one would understand. I’ve never played in a game. I practice, but—”

  “These women would understand.” Griffin gestured at the other female players. “They are playing, too! Isn’t that right? Surely they wouldn’t dare criticize you for joining them.”

  “It’s different for them. They’re not Miss Milky White.” Agitatedly, she waved. “They have more than that to rely on!”

  Olivia’s distressed tone struck him in a way nothing else could have. Gently, Griffin took her free hand. He lifted it in his, kissed it then placed it atop her bat where it could join her other hand in grasping it. Automatically, Olivia assumed a batter’s grip. Dreamy eyed, she adopted a batter’s ready stance.

  “You are not only Miss Milky White, either,” Griffin said.

  Her anxious gaze met his. “No. I’m...more than that.”

  He smiled. “Try not to sound so tentative. It’s true.”

  Olivia’s yearning expression almost broke his heart. Could she truly be that uncertain of her own innate appeal?

  She could, if her sagging shoulders were any indication. Disappointingly, she lowered her bat to rest on the ground.

  “If I have to buy and break every bottle of that blasted remedy to prove it to you,” Griffin swore, “I will.” He added a rascally grin. “You know how much I love smashing bottles.”

  At that, Olivia laughed. “If only you could.”

  “I think you could.” From beyond the haphazard rows of spectators seated on the grass, Griffin heard his name being called. He flung up his hand to acknowledge that summons, then returned to Olivia...to his heart. “You could stop saying you’re more than a face on a patent remedy and start proving it.”

  She frowned. “That’s hardly a sensitive way to put it.”

  He shrugged. “My detractors would say I’m never sensitive. You’ve already witnessed more Hook Turner miracles than anyone.”

  “Don’t call yourself that. Please.”

  “Don’t hide your light under a bushel. Please.”

  In vexation, Olivia shook her head. “I won’t if you won’t.”

  “If I thought that was true, I’d forget that nickname entirely.” Griffin tugged down his hat, preparing to join the other members of the men’s club for their baseball game. “Now, you think about how much fun you might have while playing.”

  “I’d rather think about how manly you look in your sporting attire.” Olivia gave him a sassy, assessing glance—one that made him feel undeniably roused. “You seem very...fit, Mr. Turner.”

  “I am very fit, Miss Mouton. Watch and see.” Grinning at her teasing, Griffin dared to squeeze her hand again. More seriously than he wanted, he asked, “Will you root for me?”

  “Always,” Olivia promised with her eyes shining up at him. “I am on your side, wherever that takes me.”

  Humbled by that, Griffin shook his head. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve—” he spread his arms “—any of this.”

  “Yes, you do.” In a gesture remarkably similar to the way he had arranged her in front of her first crated prototype, Olivia put her hands on his shoulders. She turned him around.

  At least she tried. He was too big for her to move.

  Subtly, Griffin helpfully cooperated. He turned.

  “There. Now go,” she instructed him. “Have fun today.”

  “You won’t have fun,” he pointed out. “Why should I?”

  “Maybe you’ll inspire me.” Olivia gave him a feeble shove. Then, when he didn’t budge an inch, she added, “Do I have to start smashing up bats? I will, you know, if you don’t go.”

  Her faux menacing tone was probably meant to mimic his. Knowing that, Griffin felt warmed all over. She did care.

  “Watch me win.” Proudly, he straightened. “For you.”

  Then, with a swagger that felt irrefutably real—and was probably wholly underserved—Griffin left Olivia to face her own fears...and went to confront a few of his own. As a man who’d never played a single game of baseball, he knew his performance on his team ought to be...interesting, if nothing else.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Seated on a patched old quilt amid the spectators, watching the men’s baseball game enter its eighth inning, Olivia felt nearly toasted through. The sun beat down on her head. The spectators packed close together, increasing the ambient temperature. The fabric of her springtime coat seemed to have doubled in thickness since she’d first put it on that morning.

  She’d never had a more daft idea than wearing it. Or, rather, wearing the ensemble she’d dressed in beneath it. But since Olivia didn’t want anyone to know what she’d foolishly outfitted herself in that morning—in a fit of optimism, no doubt—she huddled in her coat, holding a small homemade pennant.

  As handcrafted as it was, her miniature pennant added a certain jollity to the proceedings. Emblazoned wit
h the symbol of Griffin’s adopted team and joined with everyone else’s similar pennants and banners, it demonstrated a certain sense of sportsmanship and town loyalty that she was proud of. Later, she’d switch pennants and cheer on her own female team. But now, while the men played, Olivia was strictly a spectator.

  Not that she’d be much more than that later, she thought wryly, remembering Griffin’s urgings that she play in today’s game. Like every other baseball game, Olivia had planned to spend this one as an onlooker. As much as she yearned to play, she couldn’t risk unleashing her own vigor and competitiveness.

  Women were only allowed to compete for the title of Best Jam in the county fair or Most Finely Stitched in displays of fancy needlework. To compete in other arenas only suggested an unfeminine thirst for accomplishment...not that that particular truism had ever stopped Grace Murphy from achieving amazing feats, Olivia mused as she spied the suffragist standing to the side, all while being married to her saloonkeeper husband.

  Watching alertly as Grace gave Jack Murphy a distinctly robust cheer, Olivia couldn’t help being intrigued. Her husband seemed to love everything about her. Even as Sheriff Caffey issued Grace a chastising look—bringing his helper, Deputy Winston, in on his very public censure—Jack Murphy only smiled. It was clear that he respected Grace because she was herself. No matter what anyone else thought of her antics.

  “The players are quite virile, aren’t they?” someone asked, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts. “Especially my Mr. Davis.”

  At that, Olivia returned her attention to her own group of friends, situated on her worn quilt. Adeline Wilson sat prettily beside Olivia. She was the one who’d just spoken, and she looked as beautiful as she always did, especially while mooning over her longtime beau, Clayton Davis. The lumber-mill sawyer stepped up to bat. He aimed a lovelorn look at Adeline.

  She returned it unabashedly. “Hit a home run, Clay!”

  She watched raptly as he did so. She clapped for him.

  “Well done!” Olivia clapped, too. “My, he’s very good!”

  “Yes.” Still watching her sweetheart run toward second base, Adeline nodded. “I only wish Clayton was half as good at tendering a marriage proposal as he is at clobbering a ball with a bat.” She slanted Olivia a bemused look. “I don’t know what his holdup is, but I’m running out of patience, to be sure.”