They were alike in that regard.
“Women are not, by nature, pursuers of men,” Marcus told her, ladling hyperbole into his trap. “Their aggressive behavior demands an excuse. A scapegoat, if you wish. Hence, the make-believe matchmaker.”
“The matchmaker is not make-believe,” Molly said from between her teeth. “And you know nothing of women if you do not believe they can pursue whatever they wish, whenever they wish to. I started a business! I—”
“Ah, but that is commerce, not romance. Between men and women, there can be only one pursuer.” He pointed to himself. “Men.”
“Nonsense. These are enlightened times. Women can pursue whatever and whomever they wish.”
He feigned regret, shaking his head. “If only the women in Morrow Creek believed that were true. Then they’d have no need of this matchmaker pretense.”
Molly gritted her teeth. She flung down her cloth and faced him, hands on hips. “If I chose to, I could prove to you that the matchmaker exists.”
Marcus scoffed. “Next you’ll tell me you are the matchmaker.”
A tense moment stretched between them. Marcus hardly dared breathe, lest he destroy the fragile momentum he’d created. Any moment now, Molly would tell him the truth.
Once she did, he realized, they’d be done with their meetings. The notion saddened him. Thanks to Molly’s frequent visits to his lumber mill, and now their tutoring sessions, he’d begun looking forward to their time together. In Molly’s chaotic company, he felt nearly lighthearted. It was an uncommon sensation—and a surprisingly welcome one, too.
But Marcus had a mission to complete, and he intended to do so. The members of the men’s club were counting on him. Several of them believed Molly herself might be the matchmaker. Were they right?
Her gaze met his. He was certain he detected secrets there.
“We have gotten ourselves off course,” Molly announced.
She untied her apron with a few practiced tugs and removed it. Before Marcus could so much as blink, she’d traversed the short distance to her basket and tossed the garment inside it.
“I have other things to do today,” she said. “Other chores to perform, and much of my own baking to do. We’ll meet again as we agreed, on Monday evening after your mill and my shop close.”
“But the biscuits—they’re not done yet.” It was a pathetic attempt to make her stay, yet Marcus’s determination demanded it. Success had been so close! “Stay,” he coaxed. “At least until they’re out of the oven.”
Molly shook her head. “Never fear. You’ll know when they’re done. You’re a quicker study than you seem.”
His protestations to the contrary were useless. Marcus could not make her stay. Moments later, Molly’s supplies were packed, her gloves and hat were on, and she was on her way out the door.
“Well. This has been…invigorating,” she said.
She offered him a handshake. It was brief, businesslike and, for Marcus, deeply frustrating. He had the unexpected feeling Molly had beaten him today, without even knowing it. It had seemed impossible that she might elude his questioning, and yet she had.
Clearly he needed another strategy. But what?
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
“Everything?”
“The baking lessons. The company. I enjoyed it.”
She smiled. It was then, seeing her smile, that Marcus’s next tactic occurred to him. It was a little risky—mostly to him—but if it resulted in unveiling the matchmaker sooner, it would be worth it.
Molly might not know that she had beaten him, but he would know for certain when he finally bested her, Marcus vowed. His victory in this was imperative, for the sake of the men’s club, for the sanity of the town, and for the restored sanctity of life as it was meant to be: calm, predictable and constant.
“I’ll see you on Monday,” he promised, then bid her goodbye, the better to give himself time to plan during his ritual walk to the lumber mill.
“I believe Marcus Copeland knows something about the matchmaker,” Molly said to her sister Grace that afternoon.
“Why do you say that?” Grace asked.
Hesitating, Molly shifted the sign she’d been carrying down Morrow Creek’s main street. Emblazoned with a slogan in favor of women’s suffrage, it was identical in sentiment to the sign carried by her elder sister. Grace was a staunch supporter of the work of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, and spent part of every Saturday, when the farmers’ wives often came to town, spreading the word about the women’s campaign.
“He insists the matchmaker doesn’t exist,” Molly said. “Quite adamantly, too. I’m certain he’s been trying to goad me into revealing something.”
“It’s possible. Men sometimes use bullying techniques to get what they want.”
Remembering the way she’d felt in Marcus’s presence—alive, challenged, eager—Molly shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t force me to reveal anything.”
“Force comes in many forms.” Grace waved her sign toward a group of cigar-smoking men outside the mercantile. They hooted in an ill-mannered way, but she only continued on, head held high. “Sometimes the merest persuasion is a kind of force. Particularly when wielded by skilled hands.”
Marcus’s hands were skilled. Molly pictured them, recalling his strong, gentle grip as he’d urged her outside for a walk. She’d enjoyed his touch. But she doubted that was what her sister had in mind.
“Have you given away our secret?” Grace asked sharply.
“No.” Molly was offended that her sister could even suspect as much. “I won’t, either. You know we promised to keep it close, between ourselves.”
“I know. But this is too important to let slip, and you’re more liable to weaken than Sarah or I.”
“I am not! Just because I’m the youngest—”
“Doesn’t mean you’re the least capable. I know, I know.” Grace gave a weary sigh, adjusting her grasp on her sign. “You keep telling us that. But honestly, Molly, it does. You haven’t the experience or the critical nature to recognize when you’re being led astray.”
Molly rolled her gaze skyward. “Pardon me for not being a cynical old cow.”
“Heavens,” Grace said sweetly. “Shall I begin mooing now, or only when Mr. Copeland appears?”
“Now. Please,” Molly returned in an equally sugary coo, helpless to prevent a smile. It was impossible to insult her opinionated sister. Truly, it was.
“Perhaps I will,” Grace mused, far too seriously for Molly’s peace of mind. Her sister gazed directly ahead. “There’s Mayor Wallace, now. Conceivably, if he thinks I’m addled he’ll humor me by listening to my views on temperance.”
“Either that or he’ll lock you up and provide you with the perfect opportunity to lecture inmates on the evils of liquor.”
It had been a jest. Molly might have known her sister wouldn’t see it that way.
“You know,” Grace said, “you may be right.”
Oh, dear.
Grace’s expression turned thoughtful. She trained her attention on the mayor’s lanky form as he strolled toward the town’s favorite meeting place, Murphy’s saloon.
“Those criminals could use a word or two,” Grace said.
Recognizing one of her sister’s impassioned outbursts in the brewing, Molly grabbed her just in time.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she cried. “Not again.”
“Molly, let me go!”
“You’ll not embarrass us all by harassing the mayor,” Molly said from behind her women’s rights sign. She waved to a few local ladies passing by, then addressed her sister again. Sternly. “Especially if doing so involves invading Mr. Murphy’s saloon. Promise me you won’t go in there.”
“Pshaw. I won’t embarrass anyone.”
“That’s what you claimed last month. Before you and the members of your Ladies’ Literature group chained yourselves to the awning of Mr. Nickerson’s Book Depot and
News Emporium.”
“He refused to stock the works of Jane Austen.”
“I know. But I doubt Papa was thinking of the glories of literature when Deputy Winston carted you home.”
With a disgruntled frown, Grace freed her sleeve from Molly’s hand. She glared at the saloon’s elaborate facade as they continued walking but, to Molly’s immense relief, did not veer toward it again. The promise of good behavior she’d asked for, however, was not forthcoming. Predictably so.
Instead, Grace hurled a parting scowl over her shoulder and said, “In my opinion, Jack Murphy deserves all the trouble he gets in that saloon of his.”
“Grace!”
“He does. The man has pestered me to no end lately. He is insufferable.”
“I’ve heard said he’s charming. That lilting accent, those sky-colored eyes, that wondrous dark hair—”
“That arrogant manner, those archaic opinions, that insistence on pure entertainment as a worthwhile pastime,” Grace interrupted with evident disgust. She tightened her grip on her sign and raised it defiantly higher. “The man doesn’t seem to realize that the twentieth century is nearly upon us! Some women may find those things charming, but I certainly do not.”
“Mr. Murphy is frivolous, then?”
“Utterly.”
Grace confirmed this truth with the air of a woman who’d glimpsed something horrible. Horsehair pantaloons, perhaps. Or a bonnet made entirely of mud.
“He is utterly frivolous,” she repeated, “and completely thrilled with the fact of it. He is also nosy, persistent and altogether too sure of himself for polite company.”
“It could be said,” Molly remarked offhandedly, “that a woman like you needs a little frivolity in her life.”
“Frivolity? Frivolity? No one needs frivolity.”
Privately Molly thought her sister did. Grace was far too serious-minded. Surely the happiness she needed couldn’t penetrate so sober a disposition. Could it?
“Mark my words, Molly, and be on guard,” Grace said, tidily proving her point. “The men in this town cannot be trusted. They are up to something—Jack Murphy and Marcus Copeland included. They’re behaving entirely too sneakily. I imagine it has to do with those meetings they’ve been having at the saloon. Until I can be certain, you must be careful.”
“A conspiracy?” Molly shook her head. “Surely that’s not possible. I can’t quite envisage the men engaged in—”
“I realize they don’t seem capable of it,” Grace interrupted knowingly, “with their pints of ale and their constant gambling. Not to mention their inability to communicate without grunting. But despite all that, they seem to have united. And thus united, well, you know I believe integrated effort is the key to many things. Thus united, the men may actually be able to enact some changes in this town.”
“What kind of changes?”
“Never mind that now.” They reached the end of the street and pivoted for their final parade homeward. “Just promise me you’ll exercise caution. Given what you’ve told me of Mr. Copeland—and what I already know of Jack Murphy—they may well be on the hunt for the matchmaker.”
Molly felt her eyes widen. “I knew it!”
“I knew it first.” With a trace of sisterly smugness, Grace reached out to straighten Molly’s suffrage sign. “Given the matchmaker’s striking success, the men were bound to become suspicious eventually. But,” she warned, “I don’t want you to be the first to reveal our secret.”
Molly wouldn’t be. She swore it to herself, then and there. No matter what Marcus did, no matter what devious or tempting strategies he tried, she would be ready for him. And she would prove to her sisters that when it came to keeping a secret, she was the one who could be relied upon.
Guaranteed.
In the day and a half remaining until he next met with his “tutor,” Marcus worked harder than ever at his lumber mill, and spent the rest of his time finding out everything he could discover about Molly Crabtree.
She was, it seemed, a bundle of contradictions. As a youngest daughter, she’d never kowtowed to her older sisters. As a businesswoman, she’d never sought advice or funding. As a friend, she’d never stopped searching for more company, more conviviality, more enjoyment from life. She baked but burned the bread; lived in a journalist’s household, but rarely took time to read. She found interests in many areas, but had yet to stick through to the end with a single one.
It was this last that intrigued Marcus the most. If Molly constantly changed passions, then it was likely her stint as the matchmaker—if she were, indeed, that mysterious, meddlesome creature—would be short-lived. Inevitably Molly would tire of pairing men and women in Morrow Creek, and would move on to something else. With luck, and Marcus’s guidance, her next venture would be something vastly more suitable.
Like knitting, perhaps. Or darning socks.
Women were well fitted to such pursuits. They probably found them fulfilling, he reasoned, much as he found running a successful lumber mill fulfilling. Given Molly’s unconventional upbringing, she’d simply gotten the misguided notion that other activities might satisfy her better. To wit: archery, poetry, watercolor painting, astronomy, “professional” billiards, circus performing and millinery—all of which she’d attempted with greater or lesser success in the past.
Molly’s enthusiasm was endearing, Marcus thought, and her capacity for hard work was admirable. That was something—another thing, a tiny part of him prompted—they had in common. Molly did not stint in her efforts, but pursued whatever her current goals were with distinct passion.
Much the way he did.
Heaven help the man whom she decided to snag for a husband, though, he considered as he strode homeward after a wearisome Sabbath of visiting and talking. Faced with Molly’s inimitable zeal, the poor knuck wouldn’t stand a chance. He’d find himself hog-tied and glassy-eyed, overcome by the ardor that Molly undoubtedly brought to everything she did. Poor, pitiable man.
It was fortunate he, himself, wasn’t susceptible to her.
Whistling with good cheer, comforted by the notion that he was finally getting things well in hand, Marcus entered his blessedly silent house. He chucked his suit coat and hat, laid a fire and assembled all the accoutrements for his usual Sunday routine—a ledger, a rationed inch of penny candy and a lantern. By the time he’d turned the first page of his account book, Marcus knew that tomorrow would bring him victory at last.
That, he reckoned, or another rock-hard cinnamon bun. A man couldn’t ask for the world, all at once.
Chapter Six
Marcus’s plans began unraveling the moment he stepped outside his front door on Monday morning, only to trip over the gift of a blank clothbound ledger—decorated with ribbons!—propped outside his front door. He picked up the monstrosity, wincing as the pastel grosgrain affixed to its cover fluttered in the breeze.
From a most sincere admirer, the accompanying note read.
For an instant, he paused. An admirer. Could it be Molly?
No, Marcus decided instantly. This kind of froufrou fancywork went beyond her capabilities. For that matter, so did this kind of inane schoolgirlishness.
No, the fault for this exploit had to lie with the damnable matchmaker. She’d undoubtedly gotten some unmarried female worked into a state with one of her personal advertisements in the Pioneer Press. This time Marcus was the hapless victim.
Scowling, he held the ledger by his fingertips and opened his front door again. He flung the beribboned thing inside, wiped his hands and set out on his way.
Along the path to the mill, he discovered still more signs of the matchmaker’s mischief. A miner walked by reading a perfumed letter, the fragrance wafting from the paper so strong it made Marcus’s eyes water. The tanner opened his shop, surrounded by two brazen women who seemed determined to knit their way into the man’s heart with a pair of redesigned rifle cozies.
“It ain’t that the old one didn’t work,” the tanner told them
as Marcus passed. “It’s just that…aw, hell. Do ya’ have to look so blasted hopeful?”
The tanner caught Marcus’s eye. The pleading in his gaze would have been funny—if not for the very real chance that Marcus might find himself with a knit ledger cozy at any moment. He hurried onward.
At the edge of town, a gaggle of women gathered over a kettle of frothy gray liquid, making soap. As they worked, snatches of their conversation drifted to Marcus.
“If he thinks he’s getting away from me that easy, he’s mistaken!” one of the women said, stirring. “We’re ideal for each other. The matchmaker says so. He just can’t see it yet.”
“Sounds like my Horace,” another woman agreed. “No matter how many times I point out how well we suit, he won’t agree. It’s plain I’ll have to try harder. Specially with the dance at the Chautauqua coming up next month.”
“The dance!” another exclaimed. “How will we ever make these menfolk of ours look nice for the dance? My George won’t even scrape the mud from his shoes, much less shine them.”
Marcus glanced down at his own dusty boots, the same pair Molly had fished from the oven. They were old, familiar and comfortable. Exactly the way he liked them. Why would he want to waste time making them shiny? Muddy or gleaming, they’d still fit the same on the inside.
Sometimes he just didn’t see the sense in female logic.
Shrugging, he continued on. At least he had the sanctuary of the mill to look forward to, Marcus told himself as he rounded the bend. There, men were men, and women weren’t allowed. Voices were raucous, jokes were ribald, and the only fragrances were of cut lumber, fresh pine needles and honest sweat. Perfume didn’t waft amongst the axes and crosscut saws. Inane chatter and polite manners didn’t muck up the work to be done. And no one bothered to gussy up the workaday surroundings with ribbons and bows.
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