The Rascal (16 page)

“—and I assured him I would take charge of everything.” Brightly, Grace took hold of his hand. She stroked his palm, then lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes shimmered with suppressed tears, astonishing him. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt. I didn’t realize the extent of your injury until I saw you just now. Your bandages are so huge! I’ve never seen the like. They’re—”

“Bound to become a new fashion.” He angled his head for her to admire, like a fashion plate in Godey’s. “Even grooms might someday wear them to get marr—”

“Don’t joke! Jack, you have six inches of bandages on your head. That’s serious. Also you’re behaving very strangely.” She pursed her lips in evident concern. “I can tell from your babbling about marriage that you’re still a little off-kilter.”

He frowned. “It’s the fumes from your ‘tea’ talking.”

“Speaking of which—” Grace squeezed his hand once, then efficiently brought it to his cup. She wrapped his fingers around the warm width of it, threading them through the cup handle. “I want to see you drink every drop.”

“I can’t hear you.” Jack cupped his free hand around the place where his ear should have been visible, had it not been obscured by the full contingent of unnecessary bandages he’d requested Doctor Finney embellish him with. “These blasted bandages have deafened me.”

“I said,” Grace shouted, “drink your tea!”

Not even exhibiting the cynicism he expected, she pantomimed lifting the cup to his mouth. This was going to be all too easy. Resigned to his fate, Jack did so. He didn’t dare examine the contents first. The noxious odor alone nearly knocked him out of his seat.

Why was he doing this again?

A ruckus came through the walls, reminding him anew. His saloon. His new life. He had to find Grace Crabtree a husband and steer her away from the likes of citified Thomas Walsh at the same time. He had to find her a man who would oppose her meeting space and all her rabble-rousing activities alike.

“Harry is minding the saloon,” Grace informed him, noticing his glance toward the adjoining wall and offering another gentle squeeze to his arm. “He’s agreed to do so for as long as it takes for you to recover, so don’t worry about that at all. You won’t be going back to the saloon until you’re well.”

“No!” He hadn’t counted on this. “I’m perfectly able—”

“I’ve taken care of everything, Jack,” Grace assured him warmly. “Exactly as I intend to take care of you.”

Her penetrating gaze slipped to his wobbling empty cup. Appallingly, she immediately hastened to the kettle to refill it. She wrapped his hand around his second dose of steaming tea, then nodded. “One isn’t nearly enough, you know.”

Manfully, Jack gulped, trying not to breathe. Instantly, his insides rebelled. Quite possibly, they turned inside out and upside down as well. He shuddered. One cup of that diabolical brew had been bad enough. Apparently, two cups taken together were downright lethal.

“Excellent.” Grace beamed. “Only a few more cups to finish the pot, and then I’ll make you more. It’s a failsafe remedy, with my mama’s assurance of effectiveness. She keeps up on all the latest news in wholesome living, you know. In the meantime, I want you to keep warm.”

From somewhere, Grace had procured a thick woolen blanket. She proceeded to tuck its smothering width around him, fussing and fluttering. She fastened it securely in place with something, then regarded her work with satisfaction.

Jack glanced down. “A lady’s brooch? Grace, no. I—”

“Shh.” She laid her finger against his mouth, nimbly removing the spent cup from his hand as she did so. She smiled. Hers was such a beatific smile, Jack actually wondered if he had been drugged to be capable of thinking such a thing about his meddlesome upstairs neighbor. “No one will see you save me,” she promised him, “and I think you look very handsome.”

She thought he looked handsome?

She’d paid him a compliment?

“Now I know I’m delirious.” He sat there for a minute. Or possibly more. Jack couldn’t be certain, so discombobulated was he by this entire experience. He reconsidered things. “That tea is not as bad as I thought,” he heard himself say.

Obligingly, Grace refilled his teacup. He drank almost gratefully, gazing at her over his cup’s rim as he did so. There was something calming about having her care for him this way. Something sweet. Jack decided he quite liked it.

He held out his cup for more. It wavered. “When you quit wobbling that way, Grace, I wouldn’t mind a bit more tea.”

“Wobbling? Me?” Then she smiled. Both of her did. “I’m not wobbling, that’s just the valerian root taking effect.” Grace peered assessingly into his eyes. “Mama says it’s capable of making even Molly be silent, which is quite a feat, I assure you.” A moment’s pause while Jack felt his head sway, then… “It’s off to bed with you.”

She took his arm, her touch surprisingly soothing. Her manner accepted no nay-saying. Jack found himself being led toward his bedroom, his girly pinned blanket trailing him like a blasted ball gown, with Grace beside him. She murmured something about coddling him in his present state, her voice soft.

He liked her voice soft. It reminded him of the way she’d felt when he’d kissed her. Soft all over…soft just for him. He liked soft Grace Crabtree. He liked her all over.

They reached his bedroom. For a fleeting moment, Jack’s heartbeat leaped wildly. There would be more kissing now. He felt he could perform masterfully, all of a sudden. Despite his bleariness, he could make Grace happier than she’d ever been.

To be truthful, he had occasionally indulged in thoughts of having her here alone with him, he recalled as he shuffled in her wake with a roguish grin, eyeing her bedraggled skirts and shawl-wrapped shoulders. He had hoped she might let down her frazzled hair and practice her most liberated ways beneath his sheets. He’d always believed those fanciful thoughts were his alone, not shared by Grace. But now it seemed…

Dazedly, he leaned on her. “I know you’re not really that liberated,” he said to reassure her. “Not like I’ve dreamed.”

She only smiled knowingly. “I believe I’ll decrease the dose next time I brew up some healthful tea for you. I may have overestimated your size and vigor.”

He thumped his chest. “I have plenty of size and vigor!”

“Yes, that’s fine,” she soothed. “Come right this way.”

Aggravatingly unconvinced in the matter of his virility, Grace sat him down on his bed. She dropped to her knees, then gazed up at him. Belatedly aware of her suggestive position, Jack’s whole body surged to alertness.

His head pounded. So did his loins. The activities Grace’s pose brought to mind were thrillingly seductive and, in his befuddled condition, seemed distinctly possible.

His boot clunked to the floorboards. And another.

“See?” Jack tried, blinking against his disappointment.
“You are wonderful at that maneuver. If your new husband were a lying-down drunk, you would be very qualified to care for him.”

“Yes.” Grace rolled her eyes, then tucked his wayward blanket more securely. She rose again, fluffing his pillow. “That’s exactly what I want. A drunkard for a husband.”

Her sarcastic tone made her true feelings known. Jack was not too addled to recognize that much. “Aha!” he bellowed, louder than he intended. “Then what do you want in a husband?”

Her considering look met his. Yes! This plan was proceeding apace, despite its rocky beginnings and his own bewildered state. Grace would confide in him, she would explain all her innermost desires to him, and then he would satisfy them with a proper husbandly candidate.

“Blah,” she said confusingly. “Blah blah blah.”

He may have overestimated his own ability to cajole Grace Crabtree, Jack realized with alarm. He may have bitten off more than he could chew. He may have made a mistake in drinking that damned tea of hers.

“Blah?” he repeated, perplexed.

A heartbeat later, Jack fell fast asleep.

“Hmm. For a scandalous saloonkeeper,” Grace said, “you have a very faulty ability to withstand remedying compounds.”

At the bracing sound of her voice, Jack roused himself. He blinked groggily, unsure where he was at first.

His initial assessment told him this place was too clean and too tidily arranged to be his own purposely rugged territorial lodgings. He’d deliberately strewn those with cast-off clothing, miscellaneous belongings, cigarillo stubs and empty liquor bottles—all the better to offer the correct nonprofessorial impression to anyone who visited them.

Grace’s form came into view as she sat on his bed beside him, bathed in sunlight from his single window. Its wrinkled curtains had been flung open for the first time ever, revealing an expanse of slushy alleyway better left unobserved.

Ah. So he was in his bedroom.

He felt muddled, Jack reflected. Also smothered in what felt akin to a triple layer of woolly blankets, making him sweat. His mouth tasted of tree bark and oil slick and toenails.

A memory whacked him upside the head.

“You drugged me!” he accused, pointing. Or at least trying to point. His myriad blankets stifled his movements, making it necessary to burrow his way impatiently from beneath them. At such vigorous movement, something poked him. He slapped at his chest and discovered…a lady’s brooch? Jack plucked at it in disbelief. “You dressed me like a damned churchgoing matron?”

Grace merely shrugged, carrying on with unwrapping something. A bar of soap. She placed it beside his newly full water pitcher and basin. “I always do exactly what’s necessary, Jack. You know that. Now it’s time for you to get cleaned up.”

Completely astonished and hoping to muster the wherewithal to understand what the hell was happening, Jack put his hand to his forehead. Athumb’s width of bandages met his fingers.

His plan to spend time with Grace rushed back to him.

So did last night’s misgivings about its implementation.

Oblivious to them, Grace held out a dripping cloth. “Here you are. All soaped up for you.”

“I’m not a damned infant! I can soap it myself. Wash myself, too. When I choose to.” Jack glared at her, attempting to enact a standoff. But he was overwarm. He grabbed the cloth and swiped it over his face. Eyes screwed shut against the stinging soapsuds, he shoved the cloth back for a rinse.
He waggled his fingers for its return. He scrubbed again, blinded but grudgingly refreshed. “Did you pile more blankets on me last night while I was drugged?”

He opened his eyes on Grace’s amused expression.

“What?” he snapped, gesturing for a towel.

“Nothing.” She handed it over primly. She was not likely to be hired at Miss Adelaide’s saucy bathhouse anytime soon.

Disgruntled, Jack scrubbed the towel over his face. It scraped over his whiskers and set his hair on end, performing its job admirably as usual. He flung it onto the bed, then met Grace’s obviously stifled guffaw.

“What is the matter with you?” he demanded.

“You wash up like a little boy. It’s adorable.”

He didn’t want to be adorable, Jack reminded himself. He wanted to be effective. In the clear light of day, he realized he couldn’t shilly-shally around with kissing Grace Crabtree. He had to play matchmaker for her. Immediately and permanently.

One glimpse at his nearby trunk told him there might be a problem with that. Atop it at precise right angles sat a neatly folded blanket and pillow-items, judging by their pristine state, that had been recently employed by his bossy nursemaid.

“Did you stay here last night?”

“Of course.” She plucked the towel from beside his blanket-covered hip, not behaving in nearly as tittering and blushing a fashion as a real western man might have warranted. She draped the towel over her arm, then rose with the pitcher and basin and cloth all in hand. Grace beamed at him. “I promised I would take care of you, Jack. How is your head this morning? Do you need more tea?”

He warded her off with both hands. “No tea. Lord knows what I did under its devil influence last night.”

Grace laughed merrily. “You couldn’t do a thing.”

Which only bothered him all the more. For the first time since he truly had been a small boy, Jack felt discomfortingly out of control. Even vulnerable. He didn’t like it.

“You have to leave,” he said, casting his well-meant plan to the wind. He’d do without it. He got up, hoping that placing both feet—both bare feet?—on the floorboards would increase his authority. At least he was still dressed in his own damned clothes. “You have to go home right now. Your reputation might still be salvaged if you sneak out the back way. I’ll show you.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving.” Looking carefree, Grace waved her arm. Her clothes were disheveled, clearly leftover from yesterday. But she’d managed to redo the tight knot of hair at her crown, giving her a stately air, and her skin glowed with cleanliness, too. “My whole family knows I’m here—in my meeting rooms at least. I sent them a message yesterday. They’ve long since given up on corralling me into acceptable behavior, you know.” She pondered the matter cheerfully. “I believe it was my first few stints in Sheriff Caffey’s jail that turned the tide.”

Jack didn’t know how she could be so blithe. Her attitude was disastrous to his plan, he realized. “No man will marry you with a ruined reputation,” he warned. “You ought to—”

“No matter. I’ve done without a husband quite nicely all this time. Although I begin to believe I’ve missed out on some wondrous kissing.” With a wink, Grace turned smartly, still carrying his washing implements. “Come along. I’ve made us breakfast. After that, I have a whole regimen of wholesome potions and remedies and exercises for you.”

He stared. Clearly, Grace had taken over here. What had happened to his clever plan?

He ought to abandon it, Jack told himself. It had rapidly skedaddled sideways in a manner he hadn’t predicted.

On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have breakfast before making any rash decisions. He ought to keep an eye on Grace, too.

Doggedly and blearily, Jack followed her swishing skirts into a suspiciously clean and unsticky kitchen.

Coffee perfumed the air, making him feel a bit more alert.