The Rascal (13 page)

They both regarded him, grinning like loons. Jack felt uncomfortably like a child who’d learned, at long last, to tie his own shoes or shovel his own mouthful of mush without leaving most of it slopped on the table. He scowled anew.

Why had he come here again?

Before he could reason it out, Grace turned briskly to her newfound editor friend. She examined the snow-covered ground to the sides and back of him. “But Mr. Walsh, this is truly a tragedy. I see you don’t have a sled!”

Walsh spread his arms. “Regrettably, that’s true. I thought I would visit for the camaraderie, though, and perhaps watch for a while. It’s no trouble.”

“But that won’t be enjoyable. Or very healthful in this cold air. Here. You must take my sled!” Grace tugged the tow rope, bringing her derelict sled closer. “I insist.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Walsh demurred. “What will you use?”

Grace pondered the question for less time than Jack would have liked. She bit her lip, calling to mind the single, tantalizing kiss they’d enjoyed. Jack couldn’t help but wish for another, longer version. Simply for comparison’s sake.

Or for diversion from these galling circumstances.

“We’ll share, of course,” she announced. “Both of us.”

Walsh brightened. “Truly? That’s so kind of you.”

“I’m sure we’ll fit.” Grace gestured to her sled. “We’ll simply have to scrunch up tight, that’s all.”

They beamed at each other like lovesick beavers. At once, Jack unhappily imagined the two of them ensconced on Grace’s dilapidated sled—Walsh with his arms around Grace from his steering position in the back, Grace laughingly
allowing him to guide them both downhill…downhill toward a union Jack obviously could not allow.

What would happen with his saloon then, if both of these radicalizers fell into marriage together?

There was nothing for it. There was only one way, Jack knew, to securely capture Grace’s attention for his own.

He cleared his throat, then pulled his black hat over his eyes. Striving for as gruff a manner as possible, he turned to Grace. “Actually…I was hoping you would teach me how to sled.”

Grace’s eyes widened. “Truly? You don’t know how?”

It pained Jack greatly to shake his head. “Never learned,” he lied, “much to my regret. It’s a sore gap in my education.”

“Oh. Well then.” She turned to Walsh, frowning with apparent regret. “I’m afraid my first duty must be to instruct poor Mr. Murphy. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Walsh grasped his sissy coat lapels. “You must do all you can to help those less refined than you. It’s your obligation as a woman of importance in the community.”

Neither of them so much as glanced at Jack. He would have earned more attention were he one of Harry’s trapeze monkeys.

“I knew you would understand.” Grace fluttered her eyelashes, then offered another squeeze to Walsh’s arm. “You’re ever so courteous, as always. Thank you for your kindness.”

“My kindness pales in comparison with yours, Miss Crabtree. Clearly, your willingness to help Mr. Murphy suggests that much, doesn’t it? It’s not often a lady will go to such lengths.”

Stifling a groan, Jack ignored the rest of Walsh’s nattering. Instead he shoved his gaze to the people milling around them—hauling sleds and wooden barrel lids, laughing and talking—and tried to seem brusque. In need of sledding instruction. And unabashed by their discussing him as though he were lacking in both wits and hearing. Less refined. Hell.

He didn’t know how Grace could swallow such twaddle. Surely she was a fine woman. A woman of intelligence and humor and remarkable achievements. But to suggest so boldly that the whole community needed her? Jack knew he needed her most of all.

Beside him, Grace and Walsh laughed merrily.

Suddenly, the answer to his troubles appeared. Marcus Copeland stepped over the rise in the hill, accompanied by his wife, Molly. The two of them pulled an enormous toboggan, crafted of fine-honed boards doubtless culled from Marcus’s successful lumber mill at the edge of town.

Spying them, Jack raised his hand in salute. “I see your sister and brother-in-law are headed this way, Miss Crabtree.”

She and Walsh glanced in that direction—Walsh more cheerfully than Jack would have expected of a man who’d just been denied an opportunity to “scrunch up tight” with Grace.

“Their toboggan looks equipped for carrying three, I reckon,” Jack added. “You’re in luck, Walsh.”

“Perfect!” Grace exclaimed. “Mr. Walsh, let me make the arrangements posthaste. I’ll take care of everything.”

She hurried away, moving with her usual no-nonsense strides, leaving her sled behind. Jack glanced at its pathetic construction, its well-worn runners, its frayed rope.

“It’s terribly neighborly of you to take my place with Miss Crabtree.” Walsh offered Jack a handshake—one that felt surprisingly sturdy—and a good-natured grin. “I couldn’t think of a single way out of getting on that contraption. I’m most grateful, Murphy. You’re a far braver man than I am.”

He offered a single shuddering glance at Grace’s rickety sled. Then he left to join Grace and her family, holding his bowler with both hands, clearly unaccustomed to wilderness living but mustering the pluck to tackle it all the same.

Grudgingly, Jack found himself respecting the man. He knew firsthand how difficult it was to head west, away from everything familiar and citified and predictable. Doing so required a brand of bravery not everyone possessed. For all he knew, he and Thomas Walsh had many things in common.

But Jack did not want one of them to be Grace Crabtree.

Intending to ensure exactly that, Jack tromped toward their small gathering. Sarah and Daniel and Eli had joined the assemblage, too, during those few moments when Jack had been watching Walsh take his leave. Everyone gestured happily, chattering in that animated way everybody associated with the Crabtrees eventually seemed to adopt.

Jack had something beyond conversation in mind for him and Grace—something much more intimate. Much more enlightening. And, ideally, much more enjoyable. It was time to make good on his claim of needing sledding instruction… and, more than likely, to gather a bit more information about Grace’s courtship preferences while he was at it.

Oddly enough, he could hardly wait.

“A
ll right then.” Briskly, Grace trooped back to Jack’s position at the top of the hillside, having handily matched up Mr. Walsh with Molly and Sarah and all the rest of her family and dispatched them toward their own fun. “Let’s get your lessons started, shall we?”

With her limbs tingling from the exertion she’d expended already, Grace hauled her sled into position. She toed it more in line with the track she’d already followed for several runs, then glanced up. Jack was being strangely silent. Jack was…

He was following the progress of Mr. Walsh’s group with narrowed eyes, his whole expression stone-faced and surprisingly stubbled. Perhaps he’d missed his morning shave. That was no reason to appear so fearsome though.

She nudged him, aiming for his ribs but accidentally encountering his belly instead. It felt every bit as solid as the rest of him. Warm, too, even through the layers of his rugged coat and shirt. Startled, Grace snatched her elbow away.

He glanced down. Instantly, his whole demeanor softened.

Had his eyes always been so blue? So clear? At that
moment, Grace couldn’t be sure. But she did feel pulled into their depths, drawn to wondering what he was thinking about…or whom.

He blinked, and the spell was broken.

Grace started. What was the matter with her? She acted as though Jack’s plain black hat were positively mesmerizing—or else the man beneath it might be.

“We’ll begin with a survey of the parts of the sled,” she announced, doing her best to carry on with her plan despite her preoccupied state. In as businesslike a fashion as she could muster, she strode a circle around their vehicle. “These are the runners, specially curved to bite into the snow for improved steering. This is the body of the sled, sized for one or two.” Another glance at him. “We will be a tight fit, I fear. You’re quite a bit bigger than Mr. Walsh.”

At her mentioning it, Jack actually appeared to glow. She must have imagined the effect though, for with his next breath he seemed as unaffected as ever. Now that she thought of it, size wasn’t the only difference between Jack and Thomas Walsh, Grace mused. Jack was bigger, it was true, but he was also tougher, stronger and somehow more compelling.

Why that should be, Grace didn’t know. Surely Mr. Walsh was the more cultured, the more enlightened, of the pair. She’d noticed those differences in the two men straightaway. But as interesting and skilled and professionally accomplished as she considered Mr. Walsh to be, particularly after working very amiably with the new editor for weeks now, she still found Jack twice as thrilling. Especially when she kissed him.

Dreamily, Grace contemplated his jawline. Perhaps next time she would touch him there…sample the texture of his skin and the harshness of his whiskers. Would they feel soft? Or bristly?

And what of that hollow at his throat? It drew her eye, the only bit of exposed skin visible above his coat collar. Likely it led to even more fascinating areas below—areas she’d never glimpsed on a man, but suddenly felt boundlessly intrigued by.

Jack nodded. “I am much bigger.”

“Yes.” Desperately, Grace cleared her throat. “Nonetheless, we will endeavor to make this lesson work, tight fit or no.” She indicated the pointed front of the sled, where the tow rope dangled. “This plane is meant to cut into snowdrifts. Also the mechanism beneath offers rudimentary steering capabilities—”

“Let’s get on with the doing of it.” Jack’s voice was husky, his brogue deepened. “You know I’m not much for talking.”

“Oh. Very well then.” He sounded impatient. Inexplicably disappointed, Grace regarded her sled blankly. She’d rather been looking forward to spending a bit more time with Jack than this—to enjoying his company without feeling pressed for a suitable excuse. “I suppose if you’ll just take your place then—”

Instead Jack grabbed her sled by its body. He hoisted it easily under his arm, then pointed his chin toward a distant trail, all the way at the edge of the cleared hillside.

“That looks like a good spot.”

“But that area is not even improved!” Grace protested. “It’s positively wild over there, with all sorts of obstacles. That’s why no one is sledding down that portion of the hill.” Otherwise its privacy would doubtless have lured young lovers, perennially interested in enjoying courtship without their neighbors eavesdropping. She and Jack were—of course—too sensible for such shenanigans. More’s the pity. “It’s probably got bumps and buried rocks and trees—”

“Sounds interesting. Let’s go.” Jack trudged that way, clearly expecting her to follow him.

She didn’t, of course. Overbearing man. What made him think he could lead this endeavor? Grace was the one with the knowledge and experience, she reminded herself staunchly.

Stubbornly, she remained in place, watching Jack stride across the hilltop. He carried her heavy sled as though it weighed nothing, his shoulders marching effortlessly toward the ponderosa pines bordering the wilder section of the hill.

It seemed he meant to guide their lesson—something she should have expected but hadn’t. It would be just like the two of them to battle over this encounter, too.

As Jack passed by, people of all sorts stopped their activities to glance at him, Grace noticed with surprise. Young and old, they smiled at the saloonkeeper as though pleased merely to be in his presence. It was a phenomenon she’d never noticed before. But to be honest, she understood how they felt.

Of late, she’d experienced a very similar sensation. The more time they spent together, the more intriguing she found him—which was something she definitely had not reckoned on.

While Grace considered that dilemma, Jack kept going, neatly making off with her prized sled.

“Wait!” she called, waving her arm.

He paused, then turned with easy athleticism. She’d swear she caught a wolfish smile on his face, but it jogged up and down as she hastened to catch up, and Grace couldn’t be certain.

“For an avowed student,” she announced, panting as she reached him, “you don’t seem very interested in listening to your teacher. I would have asked Sarah for advice, had I known I’d be enlisted to wrangle with such an unruly learner.”

Jack gave a careless sound. “I am interested in listening to you. I want to know everything you have to say.”

Surely he was placating her. Grace harrumphed.

“I want to know everything that’s in your mind.” Startlingly, he touched her temple with his gloved hand, smoothing a wayward tendril of hair. His gaze met hers. “I promise I will, after today.”

Unexpectedly affected, Grace stilled. Warmth skated over her forehead, then receded. Jack smiled at her. His touch was as light as a feather—but markedly more rousing. As absurd as it sounded, she felt as if her whole person blushed.

“Nonsense,” Grace blustered. “I am a very private person. No one is privy to everything that’s in my mind.”

He winked at her. “That’s because no one has asked the right questions. Yet.”

Wholly unable to devise a response, Grace stared at him. Right questions? What were those? She was so lost in wondering that she scarcely noticed when a group of people passed by—until one of them stopped. Pulled from her reverie, Grace recognized Alma Potter, one of the members of her weekly literature group.

“Why, Grace! That is you. Wherever have you been?”

“Hello, Alma,” Grace began. “I don’t—”

“You haven’t been to a meeting in weeks!” Alma carried on. She gave Grace a shrewd look. “Don’t tell me you’ve shirked in reading the book selection. I won’t believe it.”

Pinned by her friend’s observation, Grace heartily wished for a diversion. Another rogue tobogganer, perhaps, or some assistance from Jack. A gentleman would have sensed her predicament and offered some distraction. But Jack only stood there, looking amused, waiting to see what she’d say.

The truth was—however loath Grace felt to admit it—that she’d quit attending a select few of her clubs and activities lately, pushed to it by the need to divide her time between Jack
and the newspaper. Simply put, Grace had been forced to prioritize. She hadn’t realized until just this minute what the order of her priorities suggested.

That she’d rather spend time with Jack than with the members of her longtime clubs—more than a few of which she’d founded herself in a bid to stave off loneliness.

Grace gestured awkwardly. “I’m afraid you’ve pegged it, Alma,” she prevaricated, even though she’d read the group’s selection twice over in preceding years. Admitting as much certainly wouldn’t squeeze her out of her current predicament. “I’m woefully behind with my reading. I didn’t want to say so.”

“Hmm. I never thought I’d see the day.” Alma looked Grace over once more, clearly taken aback. Then she gave her a warmhearted pat to the shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself though. You can catch up, can’t you?”

“Indeed,” Grace agreed, relieved. “I suppose I must.” But strangely, she felt less interested than ever before in losing herself in chitchat, even with regard to great literature. “I do hope the meetings have been going well?”

“Fine, fine.” Alma glanced backward, locating her companions. “We’ve all pulled together to organize things. Sally Cooper has your spare keys, of course, so we’re able to conduct meetings as usual. In only a
slightly
less organized fashion.”

Grace smiled at the compliment, remembering entrusting her friend—in case of an emergency—with the auxiliary keys to her leased space and the responsibility that came with them. For the first time, she felt glad to have relieved herself of both.

However temporarily.

“But it’s certainly not the same without you.” Alma waved to her fellow sledders, then offered an apologetic smile. “I really must be off, but I hope I see you next week!”

Grace said her goodbyes, then turned to face Jack again.

He watched her interestedly…and with far too much perceptiveness in his gaze. “You’ve missed your meetings?”

“Only a few.” Hastily, Grace regrouped. It wouldn’t do for Jack to realize exactly how much she’d drifted from her customary routine. “Now then. Once we’re actually situated upon the sled, ready to proceed downhill—”

“I’ll take my position first.” Nonplussed by the snow-covered trail ahead of them, Jack dropped her sled. A moment’s stretching of his strong legs and broad arms—then a firm grasp on the sled’s body—brought him into place. Thus seated, he spread his knees, then gestured toward the sliver of wood visible between them. “Get on board.”

Grace could no more follow his suggestion than she could sprout wings and fly away. She was too busy staring. His position was positively immodest! How did Jack sit there with such appearance of casualness? It was downright scandalous.

And strongly appealing, however much she wanted to deny it.

Grace stepped back. “You don’t even know how to sled.”

“I’m a quick study,” he said.

“But I haven’t even taught you anything yet.”

“No matter.” He should have looked incongruous there on her sled, a big man all hunkered atop it with scarcely room enough for his enormous feet. But for some reason, Jack didn’t. Jack only looked…charming. “We’ll learn as we go,” he said.

He held out his hand. Skittishly, Grace studied it.

“You’ll have to let me steer,” she cautioned. “You don’t possess the expertise for the task.”

Unsurprisingly, he did not agree. Grace took a deep breath, then glanced to the area he’d indicated. Or at least she tried to.
With his legs sprawled and his manner so casual, Jack all but stole her attention himself. His legs were muscular, filling out his everyday brown trousers in spectacular fashion. His chest looked broad enough to rest on like a pillowed headboard.

Suddenly, she yearned to do exactly that.

“I fully intend to steer,” she announced instead, grandly raising her chin. “You’re strictly a passenger on this sled.”

“I heard you the first time. Get on. I’m cold.”

Well now, Grace reasoned. That was no wonder, given the insufficient weight of his coat. It was the sort of garment a man would throw on to pay a quick call down the street, not to frolic in the snow. He wasn’t wearing a scarf either. Clearly, Jack should have planned better. She’d have to mention such skills when offering him her upcoming broad-mindedness tutorials.

On the other hand, it would be positively unsociable to refuse him a bit of warmth, wouldn’t it? That would prove contrary to all the enriching, enlightening and emancipating she’d attempted to accomplish in all this time with him.

With a final nervous glance to the scant inches of sled seating that were her destination, Grace carefully and bravely lowered herself into position. It was not a simple maneuver, with her skirts to arrange and her modesty to preserve.

This was not the first time she’d shared a sled ride with a man, of course. Such occasions were one of the few opportunities for both sexes to mingle, Grace knew, given that everyone tended to bundle up enough to make even the merest improprieties impossible. One glance around her reminded her of that. Just a short distance away, an entire toboggan full of men and women swept down the hill, its occupants whooping.