By the time Marcus arrived—customarily early—the work crews would already be setting off with blades and springboards and steel wedges for back-cutting. They’d have their lunches in tin buckets and their oil cans ready for cleaning pitch from their saw blades. Without a care for feminine niceties or social nonsense, they’d turn swearing into a language all its own as they tromped into the woods, discussing the workday to come.
It was a coarse world, to be sure. But it was a world Marcus was comfortable in. A world he loved. A world he’d come from, beginning as a lowly skid greaser—working in tandem with a bull whacker to haul logs to their ship points—and fighting his way up to hooktender, sharpener and faller. He knew and understood every job at his mill. Marcus never assigned a man to a task he wouldn’t have been willing to do himself. That was his philosophy, and he’d never wavered from it.
Not even while finding the success he had here, in the old-growth ponderosa forests of the northern Arizona Territory.
Embraced now by one of those forests, Marcus continued down the narrow logging road. His ledger—his customary, nonembellished ledger—swung easily in his grasp. The rustle of birds and squirrels in the underbrush followed his progress, and the rising sun winked between the tree trunks alongside him.
Tomorrow he might bring out his own well-used pair of corked shoes, embedded with steel spikes in the soles and heels, and head out with one of his logging crews. It would do him good to remember what it felt like to bite the ax into an undercut, to sledgehammer bits into a backcut, to try again the solitary bucker’s job of sawing the felled lumber into manageable pieces. He’d swap stories with the men. Trade curse words and jokes. Labor until his arms ached, and…see pink ribbons up ahead on the lumber mill?
Marcus blinked. They remained, billowing at least six feet long on a smoke-scented breeze. The wood smoke, he knew, came from the heating stove in the mill’s offices. But the ribbons, attached as they appeared to be to one edge of the mill’s eaves? Those were new. And unwelcome.
He stared at them as he stalked closer. Not only had they been somehow attached to the eaves, but a four-foot-long thing had been constructed beneath them. As he neared it, pushing his way through the crowd of lumbermen assembled there, Marcus realized it reminded him of nothing so strongly as a marketplace stall. It was nestled smack up against the outside wall of the mill, looking for all the world as though it had sprung there overnight like a particularly gaudy mushroom.
Molly Crabtree stood inside it, beaming with delight. She hadn’t spotted him yet—which probably explained the carefree expression on her pert, pretty face—because she was thoroughly occupied with handing out baked goods to his men. They lined up four deep to obtain her dyspepsia-causing disasters, grinning like idiots all the while.
But how could that be? This was Monday. The day Marcus customarily doled out money to the men, money meant for exactly this purpose.
It hadn’t seemed fair to force them to spend their hard-earned funds on inedible fripperies, all so Marcus could interrogate Molly about the matchmaker on his own convenient terms. Today, though, he hadn’t equipped them yet. How, then, were they paying? Were they using their own coppers for those sticky snickerdoodles, petrified cakes and lackluster pies?
Marcus spotted one man seated on a lumber pile nearby. He’d propped his ankle on his knee and now peered at his shoe critically. As Marcus watched, the man hefted a cinnamon bun. He aimed his gaze at the sole of his shoe, spied the loose nail that had doubtless been troubling him then hammered it cleanly in with the iced roll in his hand.
Aw, hell. Clearly Molly’s baking hadn’t miraculously improved. Unable to prevent a wince, Marcus looked away.
No, he most assuredly couldn’t ask his men to spend their own money on these “goodies.” He’d have to pay them back for their purchases the minute Molly left, and be more careful about doling out their weekly baked-goods funds in the future, too.
Nearby two men filed snags from their fingernails with the edges of small cakes. Beside them, another man slipped a snickerdoodle into his boot, smiled as the cookie filled in a hole in the sole, then happily sauntered away. Marcus fought an urge to cover his eyes against this disaster. If the men became any more inventive in their nonedible uses for Molly’s baked goods, he might find himself with an outhouse of pasted-together pastry “bricks,” glued immovably with cinnamon-apple mortar.
It was time to put a stop to this. Frowning, Marcus commanded his way to the head of the crowd. He stopped in front of Molly, enraptured for the barest moment by the curve of her cheek as she glanced downward to wrap a pile of cookies in paraffin-coated paper.
Then he came to his senses. He cleared his throat.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
Molly jerked, startled from her careful wrapping by the sound of Marcus’s irate voice. She looked up…straight into his narrow-eyed gaze.
My, you look handsome today, a traitorous part of her whispered. She squelched it cleanly. After all, the man was presently glaring at her. It wouldn’t do to swoon over him.
Defiantly she stood up taller.
“I’m selling my baked goods to your workers, of course.” With dignity, Molly handed over the snickerdoodles to the lumberman who waited for them. “Just as we agreed. And by the way, your profanity is unwelcome here, Mr. Copeland. You really ought to consider setting a better example for your men. I doubt they appreciate their avowed leader using such language. Especially in the presence of a lady.”
Muffled guffaws could be heard. Molly didn’t think she imagined the slight tinge of purple that entered Marcus’s clean-shaven complexion. Nevertheless, she went on.
“Be that as it may,” she told him gaily, “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to show you the new stall the men surprised me with today.” She spread out her hands, showcasing the small sales booth they’d built for her. Constructed of unpainted lumber, it featured a plain face, a work surface and hidden shelves behind. “With these twin beams on each side, which very intelligently affix the whole works to the eaves of the lumber mill building—” at this, she rewarded the men with a proud smile “—it almost looks as though it was always meant to be here. Doesn’t it?”
Her smile widened with delight. Truly, the lumbermen’s gesture had been too kind. They had made her feel welcome here. Molly was grateful for that.
“And to embellish the structure with these pink ribbons?” she went on enthusiastically, catching the tip of one with her fingertips. “Absolutely wonderful! Why, they must have worked for hours to build this for me. I have to tell you, Mr. Copeland. It makes me feel downright at home here.”
The men lingering nearby looked abashed. A few waved; more kicked their boots shyly in the dirt. Marcus’s frown deepened.
“I am surprised, though, at your late arrival. I felt sure you would beat me here by several hours at least.” She cocked her head thoughtfully, momentarily pausing in her baked goods sales to examine him teasingly. “Was I mistaken in believing you arose at sunrise, worked till moonrise, and only bothered to rest on alternate Sundays when rain prevented the mill from running?”
“Rain,” he said tightly, “doesn’t prevent the mill from running.”
“See then? That makes it all the more remarkable. I’ve beaten the hardest-working man in town to his job. Imagine that!”
Molly smiled, hoping to jolly him into good humor.
She did not succeed. Marcus bared his teeth, then rounded the edge of her stall. He muscled his way into the cramped space with all his usual authority.
“Stop!” she protested, trying to shove him back out again. “We’ve already discussed this. No one is allowed inside my baked goods stall except me. Right, Mr. Smith?”
Molly glanced rapidly about for the mill’s main foreman. At the same moment, Marcus grabbed her elbow. He steered her backward, the better to sandwich her between the wall and his broad chest.
“Mr. Smith?” she tried again, rising on tiptoes
to locate the foreman. Marcus’s wide shoulders blocked her view. “We agreed. Mr. Smith!”
There came a tentative murmur.
“Shut up, Smith.” Marcus didn’t so much as look over his shoulder to be assured the man obeyed. Doubtless, he didn’t need to. “And you, Miss Crabtree. What business do you have arriving at my mill before I do? Your customary sales time is two hours from now.”
“Why are you being so persnickety? Honestly, I don’t see what difference it—”
“We have a routine here, Miss Crabtree.”
Once again he used her proper address—deliberately, no doubt. Probably to assure his men they should do the same. Molly felt pleased that her proper-manners tutorial had taken effect so quickly. But Marcus was still going on.
“A routine that has never altered in the two years I’ve owned this mill. Neither you nor anyone else is going to change that. There are…things that need to take place before your arrival.”
“I merely meant to get a head start on my day,” she explained. “I have calls to pay this afternoon, visits to make to the townspeople who are heading the Chautauqua committee. My sister Sarah has warned me that I must impress them if I’m to have a booth for my bakeshop this year.”
“Are they impressed by impertinence?”
“Obviously not. And don’t be silly. You’re clearly trying to bait me.” Molly remembered her conversation with Grace, and resolved to be strong. “But it won’t work. You imply that I’m being impertinent now, which in this case would be impossible. Since I am not in any way subservient to you.”
Marcus gawped, clearly outdone by her logic.
To prove her theory, she wrenched her arm free and addressed the next man in line. “What can I get for you today, Oswald?”
Marcus elbowed forward. “A path to the forest to start work?” he suggested in a growl.
The man’s jaw dropped. “I’ll get my cakes later,” he mumbled, then hurried away.
Other men followed. Molly watched them leave with dismay.
“See? See what letting you into my booth has done?” She jabbed Marcus in the ribs with her elbow, feeling boundlessly provoked. “You’re chasing away my customers.”
“How?”
Not even humoring her by rubbing his side, he pretended innocence…poorly, she thought.
“It isn’t my fault if the men who want to retain their jobs are leaving to go to work,” he said.
“This is hardly a function of our business arrangement,” Molly pointed out. She folded her arms and regarded Marcus indignantly. “You are reneging, Mr. Copeland. It’s very poorly done of you. How can I be expected to satisfy your men if I’m not allowed to service them?”
His lower lip twitched. A hint of amusement brightened his eyes, then spread all the way to the rest of his face. From one moment to the next, Marcus’s entire countenance changed. Molly had no idea why. His sparkling eyes and barely stifled mirth aggravated her to no end.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “I insist upon servicing your men!”
A few lumbermen paused in their retreat. They glanced over their shoulders with palpable hopefulness—probably, Molly reasoned, still hankering for sweets. Feeling justified in her pique, she surveyed her nemesis, Marcus.
He was bent nearly double, his shoulders shaking with laughter. If that was his answer, he deserved no further discussion.
Molly grabbed her basket. She hastened after the departing men. “Wait! Who wants more sweets? Don’t listen to Mr. Copeland. He severely underestimates my determination to satisfy your cravings.”
More men stopped. Heartened, Molly beckoned them closer. Three paced nearer. Then their eyes widened, their expressions changed, and they bolted for the woods as fast as their legs would carry them.
Mystified, Molly watched. An instant later, two strong arms grabbed her from behind, lifting her clean off her feet.
“Hey!”
“Enough is enough,” came Marcus’s voice. “Come with me.”
He left her little choice. Since he carried her, his no-nonsense words were a mere formality. Of course she protested all the same, but in the next instant he twirled her in his arms to fling her over his shoulder. Molly had hardly any breath left when he’d finished, much less any choice in the matter.
She had never expected this.
“Put me down!”
His only reply was to flick her skirts away from his nose.
“You are a barbarian! A barbarian in a fine suit, but a barbarian nevertheless!”
He shrugged. As easily as she herself might have carried a sack of oats, Marcus balanced her between his shoulder and bent arm. Cradling her in this ignoble position, with one hand on her back for balance, he began to walk.
Decorum grew increasingly difficult to retain. Still she tried valiantly.
“I am a businesswoman. Stop this right now!”
He did not. Amidst all the commotion, her basket dropped. Delectables scattered to the pine-needle-strewn ground. Envisioning herself tumbling just as easily, Molly panicked. He was a tall man. Things looked more dangerous from up here. She clutched at Marcus’s muscular back, her fingers encountering fine wool, strong male and unrelenting movement.
“Put me down,” she ordered again.
“I won’t.” He shook his head, his hair brushing her cheek. “You are a danger to yourself. And my own sense of sanity.”
Despite Molly’s objections, Marcus grasped her tightly. His attitude held all the unyieldingness of a man who’d been pushed beyond his limits.
“Where has your sense of humor gone?” she asked, poking his back as though she might discover it tucked beneath his suit coat. “You used to possess a passing wit. Did you forget it inside your cookstove, too?”
His answer was a grunt of warning.
Molly persisted. “Perhaps I can help you find your good nature as easily as I found your lost boot jerky. Ouch! Did you pinch me?”
Marcus glowered and moved on across the yard.
Sagging in temporary resignation, Molly tried to make herself as burdensome as possible. She thought of stones, boulders, wagonloads of railway steel. Heavy, heavy, heavy. Thank goodness, most of the men had dispersed, because she wouldn’t have wanted witnesses to this display. Or to the childishness Marcus seemed to bring out in her.
Church bells, iron stoves, two-ton oxen, she thought.
Her efforts affected Marcus not at all. Stopping beside her new sales stall, he gave it—and its pretty ribbons—an unaccountably black look. Then he threw some folded currency into the tin that doubled as the cash bin.
Intrigued, Molly twisted to see. She gawked at the quantity of money he’d just spent. With that, she could buy butter, baking molds, even the expensive candied flowers she typically denied herself. Perhaps, she mused prosaically, those things were worth being carried.
“I am purchasing all the rest of your baked goods for today.” Marcus picked up the tin, which rattled with coins, and tucked it beneath his free arm. He turned, careful not to clonk Molly’s noggin against her stall’s twin beams, then addressed his foreman. “Smith, clean this up and stow Miss Crabtree’s basket.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Smith!” Molly disagreed, desperate to assert herself in some way—any way. “Remember your ingrown toenail. The plaster will dislodge itself if you exert yourself overmuch.”
She sensed, rather than saw, Marcus’s confusion.
“I gave Mr. Smith a medicinal plaster for his foot,” she explained, trying to be sensitive to the foreman’s sheepish expression. “You really oughtn’t expect a man his age to do the kinds of work he does. As soon as he described his troubles to me, I knew something had to be done. If you’d only let Smith sit for part of the day, he’d feel much better.”
“Now you presume to tell me how to run my business?”
“Well, ‘presume’ may be too strong a word—”
“I am escorting you to town,” Marcus interrupted, saving her from disen
tangling herself from what was sure to become a subject as sticky as molasses. “Otherwise, who knows what sort of trouble you might find yourself in on the way. Smith, I’ll return in an hour.”
Approximately twenty minutes and seven entreaties to “put me down” later, Marcus deposited Molly at her bakeshop’s threshold. He released her, then took a pace backward—the better to examine the exterior of her small shop. He’d never visited it before, but its peaked roof, lumber-sided exterior and gingerbread trim were about what he’d expected. Feminine and impractical, just like Molly herself.
“Thank you for letting me walk on my own once we arrived in town,” she said stiffly, yanking her arm from his. “I thought you’d become deaf to my pleas.”
“I hear everything you say. Some of it more than once.”
“More than once?”
“Sometimes when I’ve left you, I keep hearing your voice in my head.” Distracted, he thumbed flaking paint from the door trim. “I think it’s a reaction to so much conversation, all at once.”
He’d never in his life endured so much chatter as he had since becoming acquainted with Molly Crabtree.
“Humph,” she disagreed. “It’s only a conversation if both people join in.”
Not dignifying that nonsense with a reply, he kicked her shop’s corner beam. “This beam will crumble within two years. I’ll fix it for you.”
“You are proving my point nicely.”
Marcus shrugged. Damnation, but she could yammer on. He squinted. “I can see rotten shingles from here. Your roof probably leaks.”
Her expression told him it did. Stubbornly she said, “You are still proving my point.”
“I’ll fix that, too.”
“You’ll repair my perceptions of you? Lovely! You can begin by being a little less observant—” she moved protectively in front of her building “—and a little more conversational.”
“I mean,” he said, favoring her with a smile, “I’ll fix the faults in your shop.”
“Thank you,” she said loftily, still piqued over the way he’d handled things at the mill, “but I can manage quite well on my own. I don’t need help from a barbarian like you.”
Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 01] Page 8
