The Rascal (11 page)

He laughed. “Bearded lady?”

“Yes,” someone agreed from nearby, sounding amused. “I hear they stay quite warm in wintertime.”

At the sound of that voice, Jack jerked his head up. Grace Crabtree stood before him, looking unaccountably pert in a way he couldn’t explain. She peered interestedly at his handful of scribbled-upon, creased and ink-blotted memories from home.

Hastily, he rammed the letter in his pocket. He needed a diversion. An explanation. A bolster for his manly persona and an excuse for his lack of self-possession all at once.

Especially if Grace suspected, as he thought she might, who he really was and where he’d really come from. And why.

“It’s a gambling device,” he declared loudly. “I get solicitations for them. Being a saloonkeeper and all.”

Her eyebrows rose. Her gaze remained jammed on his pocket.

“You wouldn’t be familiar with it, seein’ as how you don’t spend much time wagering.” Manfully, he spread his legs and plucked his braces with his thumbs, adopting the western pose he’d observed. “A bearded lady is akin to a dice cage, only—”

“Hairier?” she supplied, lips quirked.

“Exactly. Hairier. Hence the name. Yessir, that’s it.”

“Hmm.” Grace pondered that for a minute.

Hellfire. He was caught. Snared by his own inability to lie convincingly. Any minute now, Grace would pin him with one of her measuring looks, point out some logical inconsistency and
refuse to leave him alone till he confessed the whole truth. She’d probably muster up a whole protest, too, complete with banners and some of that caterwauling choral music she favored.

Jack wanted to groan aloud. But Grace only went on thinking, allowing him far too much time to admire the roses in her cheeks and the all-over vibrancy of her appearance. She looked especially pretty today, he thought. Softer somehow.

The lacy scarf pinned at her throat made her bosom appear particularly generous. He’d never noticed that before. Most likely he wouldn’t have noticed today, except for the damnable strain he felt. Clearly, his mind had enacted a desperate bid to distract him from his letter-reading mistake.

Jack was so busy gawking and so chagrined to have been caught reading something so potentially revealing in public that he did not react quickly enough when Grace finally moved. With no warning at all, she thrust a napkin-lined basket upward, nearly poking him in the nose.

“Would you like one?”

Jack hesitated, utterly flummoxed that she hadn’t pursued the question of the “bearded lady” any further. A lack of curiosity was distinctly unusual in his neighbor. “One what?”

“A dried-apple fritter. One of my sister’s specialties.”

Grace flipped back the napkin, presenting a tidy row of sugar-dusted pastries. She smiled, too. The surprise of it fairly bedazzled him. Who would have thought tetchy Grace Crabtree could look so fetching? Not the man who’d unsuccessfully paired her with so many potential suitors, that was for certain.

He squinted. “What’s wrong with them?”

Her smile dimmed. “Nothing’s wrong with them.”

“Then why give one to me?” Decisively, Jack covered the fritters again. “Likely they’re sugared-up fried bricks. Or
dynamite in apple-covered packages.” He gave her a quelling look. “Are you on your way to bust a protester out of jail?”

Grace looked affronted. “Of course not!”

“Then what’s wrong with you?”

She drew in a fortifying breath. “If you truly must know, I’ve come to ask you to walk me home, Mr. Murphy. I knew you would be here today, just as I’ve noticed you tend to be every week at this time—”

He attempted, unsuccessfully, to break into that stunning announcement. Grace was having none of it. She mowed onward.

“—and so I determined to waylay you. The fritters are an inducement, and as such, I made particularly certain they are delicious. I may be new at these things, but I am not an idiot.” Moving stiffly—as though she’d practiced the maneuver, however ridiculous a notion that was—Grace crooked her elbow. “Now, Mr. Murphy, I would be most flattered if you would agree to escort me home. It’s just that way, if you please.”

More befuddled than ever, Jack stared at her. She kept one elbow bent for his use in accompanying her, and the other in place to offer the fritters. She pointed her chin homeward. If she’d suddenly burst into mooing, he could not have been more astonished. Was Grace Crabtree…courting him?

“If you’d kindly take my arm instead of standing there gawking like a trout,” she instructed, “I would be eternally grateful, sir. People are staring.”

Indeed they were, Jack realized. The sight of his apparent standoff with the town’s most implacable spinster had begun to draw a crowd.

“Doubtless they expect fisticuffs at this point,” Grace observed. Her gaze met his and held. Astoundingly, she smiled more widely, as though amused by the idea. “Shall we oblige?”

Jack guffawed. He simply couldn’t help it. In the moment between her bizarre invitation and her jest, Grace had become the woman he expected again. It was that woman—not the one who had sweetly offered baked goods and inexplicably refused to call him out on his tall tales—whom he wanted to walk with.

“It’s my practice,” Jack grumbled, “never to oblige anybody anytime. No matter what kind of goodies they’ve got.”

Then he relieved Grace of her basket, took her arm and guided them both toward the end of town where the Crabtree household lay…thereby proving himself a paltry liar all over again, but caring not quite as much as he knew he ought to.

A mouthful of tasty apple fritter, he found, helped the retraction go down quite nicely. So, he discovered further, did Grace’s answering laughter. And before Jack knew quite what had hit him, he found himself struggling with a near fascination with prickly Grace Crabtree—fancy bosom, bossy notions, tetchiness and all.

O
nce Jack came to terms with the notion of seeing Grace Crabtree peaceably for a change, he realized it made a great deal of sense. How better to discover exactly what qualities she enjoyed in a potential husband, he reasoned, than to spend time with her? To talk with her and observe her and perhaps even woo her a little, all for the sake of ensuring her eventual wedded bliss—and his own saloon-bound happiness?

He would question her, he would learn her preferences and priorities, and then he would deliver them to her—in the form of an ideal husband candidate. One whom Grace could not refuse. It was an augmentation to his plan that couldn’t fail. In fact, Jack almost wished he’d struck upon the idea of such enhanced togetherness himself.

Not that his approval was strictly necessary to the proceedings, as it turned out. Because from the day of their dried-apple fritter incident onward, Grace simply didn’t let up.

She was there when Jack stepped outside to sweep his saloon stoop in the mornings, smiling with a cinnamon bun or a jar of jam for a gift. She was there when he paid calls
through town, falling easily into step with him between the butcher’s and the laundress’s, chatting about politics and news and literature.

She was there when he ate dinner upon occasion at the Lorndorff Hotel, ready to question him about knives and forks and deportment. There when he emerged from Miss Adelaide’s bath house establishment with a fresh haircut and shave, eager to applaud his new “refined” appearance. She was there when he broke up fights at his place, prepared to applaud his efforts.

“My!” she exclaimed as he hauled a particularly disorderly patron onto the street one night. “He’s a big one, isn’t he?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Grace.” Breathing hard, Jack dumped the man into position against the porch railing. The knucklehead was as big as he was, but heavier. He gave him a nudge. “Stay put.”

“Whatever you say, Captain,” the man slurred. “I never meant to cause no ruckus.” He wavered. “Only the other miners and me, we had ourselves a disss—” A blink. “Disagreement.”

“Er, if I might intervene?” Grace stepped closer, tilting her head as she examined the man. She wrinkled her nose. “Would you mind terribly putting him out back or to the side instead?” She gestured past the stairs leading to her meeting rooms. Her hopeful gaze lit upon him. “I’m expecting the ladies for our women’s baseball league organizational meeting any moment now. We’d be most appreciative if you could assist us.”

She’d demanded he do the same before. Many times. But on this night, somehow, Grace’s request felt different.

Jack shrugged. “Easily done.” He squared his shoulders, then grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him around to a suitably sheltered corner. After getting the man settled,
he brushed off his hands, only to find that Grace had followed him. Manfully, Jack broadened his chest. “That’s done. Anything else?”

She glanced ponderingly down at the man. Loud snores issued from his direction. Apparently moving him had proved much gentler to his disposition than the seven bolts of tequila had.

“Won’t he get cold?” she asked.

“I’ll make sure he gets back to his boardinghouse.”

“Then I think that will do,” Grace murmured. She girded her courage. “Except, of course, for this one little thing.”

Then she grabbed Jack’s shoulder for balance, raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him. Full on the mouth.

It was the briefest of contacts, lasting only moments. But for Jack, shocked into place by the tenderness of the gesture, the warm softness of her lips, the whirl of pleasure that shot through him, it felt much longer. Much, much longer.

He stared as she lowered again, her face a study in shadow and moonlight. Their breath puffed between them, visible in the wintry cold, coming more quickly than ever before.

“Thank you kindly,” she added, almost demurely.

It wasn’t until Grace excused herself and walked away, her practical skirts swooshing beneath her bulky coat and ugly hat, that Jack fully realized what had just happened. Grace Crabtree had kissed him. Grace Crabtree had kissed him… and he’d liked it.

He raised his hand to his mouth, still staring.

Tarnation. This was a development he hadn’t reckoned on at all. And he had no notion how to cope with it either.

Puffing with exertion, Grace tightened her grip on her wooden sled’s tow rope. She’d bundled herself so thoroughly
against the cold afternoon that she could scarcely see through the opening between her wrapped scarf and her knit hat. Simply identifying Sarah beside her, towing an identical sled, required turning her head and shoulders all the way to the right.

Snow sprinkled Grace’s coat and Sarah’s. It filled in their footsteps and drifted into their faces, making them both blink with wet eyelashes. Nevertheless, they continued upward, scrambling their way up the track that had been cleared for their ascent.

Morrow Creek had enjoyed slightly warmer weather until recently, when a cold snap had put the lie to rumors that spring was on its way. Like Grace and Sarah, the citizens of the town dealt with that handily enough, though, by heading to the foothills to the south, where the sloping curves offered ideal conditions for winter fun. Not a person, young or old, was impervious to the lure of a fast run down the snowy hillside.

Proving as much, people of every age and description gathered around them, similarly bundled and wrapped. Alone or in twos and threes, they flew past on sleds. They rode improvised carriers like pickle-barrel lids or burlap flour sacks. They clumped together on toboggans, chattering and whooping as they zoomed by, all decorum thrown literally to the wind.

Grace could not imagine why she had never devised a club dedicated to this activity. After all, it was enjoyable, physically enriching and equality minded—much as bird-watching or snowshoeing were. Simply devising a more appropriate official attire would consume a great deal of time, keeping her occupied for days. As it was, her woolen winter skirts were snowy, laden with ice clumps at the hems. They crackled against her laced boots, swinging again and again with her forceful strides.

“Look, there’s Daniel.” Sarah waved to her husband, who lugged beneath his burly arm a sled equipped with wicked-looking runners. Doubtless he’d designed it specially in his blacksmith’s shop for exactly this occasion. “And Eli, too.”

The small boy beside Daniel—shorter and skinnier but with identical dark hair and posture—waved both arms, making his coat flap crazily. His grin shone all the way across the hill. At nearly nine years old, Eli was Daniel’s only nephew. He was one of Sarah’s most mischievous students at the schoolhouse, too.

“He looks fit to burst a button.” Grace smiled, waving also. “As though he can’t wait to start sliding down the slope.”

“Sledding is one of Eli’s favorite activities.” Sarah gazed at the boy fondly. She blew a kiss, which he pretended not to see, instead frowning fiercely at his mittens. “He and Daniel have been inseparable, even since Lillian and Lyman came back.”

For a time, Eli’s mother and her new husband had left Eli in Daniel’s care. Not long after, he and Sarah had married. In a sense, those two males—one tall and one small—had brought Grace’s sister more happiness than she’d ever known before.

Now, both males tromped merrily through the snow, searching for an ideal spot to try out their sled. Or at least Daniel searched. Little Eli busily copied his uncle down to the last gesture, scowling at the drifts and peering at the horizon.

Still climbing, Grace watched the distant pair wistfully. “Well, it just goes to show, I guess. You simply can’t underestimate the power of love.”

Happily, she tugged her sled upward. At the end of its rope, the painted wood and metal jostled over bumps and dips with every step. Just a few more feet and she’d be at the top, ready for a thrilling ride down the slope. Despite her interest in civility and equality, Grace found she truly enjoyed a brisk—

She stopped, sensing something was wrong. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. Confused, Grace swiveled—only to find her sister a good two yards back, gaping at her in plain disbelief.

“What’s the matter? Is your sled stuck?” Setting the soles of her boots against the snow with practiced agility, Grace maneuvered her way downward again. She arrived breathlessly beside Sarah, who still hadn’t moved. “Give me the rope. I’ll help you tug it free. I’m stronger than you anyway.”

Not even that sisterly jibe earned a proper reply.

Sarah blinked. “Did you just say, ‘the power of love’?”

Had she? Abashed, Grace gazed across the hill again. She wished a tobogganer would careen nearby, forcing them to move—and handily changing the subject in the process.

“I may have done, yes,” she admitted. “What of it?”

Sarah still gaped. “What in the world has come over you?”

Uncomfortably, Grace fidgeted. She felt as awkward as a woman trussed into a brand-new corset—who had just discovered she’d stepped on an anthill. Perhaps Sarah would simply give up.

“Does this have to do with you and Mr. Murphy?” Sarah demanded, finally snapping to herself again. In direct contradiction to Grace’s hopes, this was her sister’s best schoolmarm’s tone, and it brooked no nonsense. “Are you—”

Grace had no desire to learn the rest of that question.

“Let’s just say that Molly’s methods proved surprisingly effective.” Particularly her tutorial on how to capture a man’s attention with the tiniest kiss. Grace fisted her tow rope and pulled, heading uphill again. “And leave it at that, shall we?”

Grace wanted to. Else she’d be unable to sled properly. Instead she’d spend all her time daydreaming—as she had shamelessly done for the past few days—lost in recollections of that kiss she’d shared with Jack. That single, magical kiss.

Her heart had pounded so, it was as if she’d snowshoed ten miles beforehand, and her hands had trembled when she’d first touched his brawny shoulder. It had felt like hot stone beneath her fingertips, so broad and strong. And his mouth! However brief their kiss had been, Grace had had ample time to savor the shocking warmth of his lips, the husky sound of surprise he’d made, the light-headed sensation she’d experienced…

But she’d determined not to daydream today.

Until now, she’d been doing quite well.

“No, we shan’t leave it at that!” Sarah hastened upward, too. She met Grace’s every step with a vigorous one of her own, displaying the tomboyish qualities that had always been unique to her. “I want to know every last detail. Give me a complete reporting of what’s happened between you two so far, and don’t leave anything out.”

Impatiently, Sarah waited, one hand on her hip.

“Hmm. If you ever tire of teaching school, you might find a position at the
Pioneer Press
,” Grace teased, reaching the top at last. She surveyed the scene below them, where sporting friends and neighbors sped over the packed snow-and in some cases, tumbled comically. She rewrapped her scarf. “You would likely make an excellent journalist. I shall alert Mr. Walsh straightaway as to your investigative potential. He’s really quite capable, you know, and has remarkable plans for the newspaper.”

“I can’t believe it! Now you’re being coy?”

“Nonsense.” Grace lowered her eyelashes as Molly had demonstrated, attempting her best modest demeanor. “I’m not.”

Stomping closer, Sarah dropped her tow rope. “I never thought I would see the day. My suffragist sister is a full-blown coquette. No wonder I’ve seen so little of you lately.”

Grace shrugged and situated her sled. The runners creaked
and the red-painted boards peeled at the edges, but she and her sled had seen many adventures together. Just contemplating taking her seat upon it made her feel carefree again.

Apparently recognizing an imminent escape when it was nearly upon her, Sarah dragged her sled in place as well. They sat side by side on them as they had so many times before, carefully tucking in their skirts with gloved hands before hoisting both feet to their separate metal yokes for steering.

“Wait.” Sarah peered dramatically, going so far as to lean closer. Her freckled face was barely visible above her bright red scarf, but her dubious expression was plain all the same. “I know you confided your plan to me, but… Mr. Murphy is not just another project to you, is he?”

“Of course he is.”

“No, he’s not. I know you, Grace. If he were a project like any other of yours—and that project were proceeding as successfully as your face suggests right now—”

Hurriedly, Grace clamped down on her dreamy grin.

“—then you wouldn’t be able to resist crowing about it!” Sarah sucked in a revelatory breath, charging onward with evident glee. “You’d be telling me forward and back how very civilized you’ve made the saloonkeeper, exactly according to your plan. How terribly cultured he is these days, and how—”

“Jack did purchase a volume of sonnets at Nickerson’s Book Depot and News Emporium yesterday,” Grace pointed out in her own defense. She wiggled on her sled, getting comfortably situated. “When I caught him, he claimed it was a gift for a prostitute.”