The Rascal (9 page)

“Excellent!” Bracingly, Grace executed another turn, smiling up into his face. “Next thing you know, you’ll be a fully refined gentleman. Won’t that be wonderful?”

Her cheeks flushed prettily. Her eyes sparkled, too. No wonder the donkey had pounced, Jack realized. He didn’t know she was really a passel of problems in disguise.

Not waiting for his reply, Grace continued on. “I must say, I was surprised by your invitation to dance.”

Jack was, too. He still felt mystified at what had come over him when he’d glimpsed Grace with the stranger. Wasn’t a match for her what he’d wanted? Then why interrupt what had looked to be a promising flirtation with the donkey, spectacles and all?

“But I’m not displeased.” She glanced at their joined hands as though taken aback by the union. “Your invitation may have been a bit…unpolished, but your dancing is competent.”

He bit his cheek to hide a grin. “Thank you. Yours is less toe-crushing than I’d feared.”

“Almost a compliment! We are well matched today.”

“Your new friend doesn’t think so.” Jack turned them both so Grace could view the donkey glowering at them from beside a parlor chair. “Who is he?”

A curious expression flitted over her face. For an instant, Grace seemed almost entranced…provoking him all the more.

She lifted her chin. “The
Pioneer
Press’s
new editor.”

Ah. That explained everything—except the sense of relief Jack experienced. “No wonder he slobbered all over you.”

“What?” Looking appalled, Grace transferred her attention to Jack. He couldn’t say he missed the dreamy contemplation
she’d displayed when looking at her new editor. “He did not slobber all over me,” she informed him.

Jack arched his brow. “Looked that way to me.”

“That’s because you’re—unlike me, you—oh, never mind.” She sighed. “Mr. Walsh is sophisticated. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jack hmmphed. “Not much mystery to a slobbery kiss.” He offered her an overly solicitous gaze, ducking his head to do so. “Do you want to borrow my handkerchief?”

Her reply was a glower well-matched to the donkey’s.

“I’m surprised you could take my hand,” Jack added, “seeing as how yours was probably slimy from that kiss.” He pretended to examine his hand. “Maybe I need my handkerchief.”

“Mr. Murphy. That is enough.”

Grinning, he spun her round. “It’s not nearly enough.”

It wouldn’t be either. Not until he got her duly wed.

The fiddles picked up tempo, separating him and Grace for part of the dance. When next she returned to his arms, she’d recovered her fighting spirit—and Jack had recovered his equilibrium. She was only Grace…Grace who had bedeviled him nearly from the start. He could handle her and would.

“I had a reason for asking you to dance,” he said.

“Oh?” Grace’s gaze sparkled mischievously. “And what was that? A compelling urge to match shoes again? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not able to indulge you today.”

Daringly, she flashed him a glimpse of slipper.

Caught off guard by her lightheartedness, Jack laughed. Then he spun her around, meeting her playful mood with one of his own. Still smiling, he laid his cheek against her hair. “Ah, Grace. You have no notion how you’ve indulged me already.”

They slowed in their dancing. With near fondness, he inhaled the fragrance surrounding her…a unique blend of
castile soap, oil paint and stubbornness. He couldn’t fathom why it made him feel so contented. Having such difficulty pulling himself away from her was foolish in the extreme.

“Indulged you? I’ve done no such thing!” she protested.

But she had, Jack realized. Mysteriously so. Around them, other partygoers danced and talked and feasted on cakes and cider, but for him—of a sudden—there was only Grace. Just Grace. She made him feel oddly at home in his skin. Perhaps, he reasoned, someone had liquored the cider. He’d lay odds that Daniel McCabe was the rascally culprit.

There was no other excuse for the way he felt, Jack told himself—all free and happy and improbably drawn to the most splintery spinster in Morrow Creek.

He definitely needed to avoid spirits in the future.

Doggedly, he rallied. “The reason I asked you to dance is to tell you to leave off.” He attempted to look stern. “I know what you’re up to, and I won’t have it.”

“Why, Jack! I can’t imagine what you mean.”

At Grace’s shameless—and boundlessly overplayed—innocence, he couldn’t help but smile more widely. Foolish as it was, her use of his given name warmed him through, too. Either that or he’d simply danced too much in the overcrowded room.

“Ask your friend, the poet.” He maneuvered them toward the parlor corner, intent on having his say as privately as possible. “The one who sneaked into my saloon yesterday, ready to ‘improve’ me with his poetry readings.”

Grace widened her eyes. “Oh? Did you enjoy them?”

Hell. His intuition had been correct. She
had
set that damned poet upon him.

“Enjoy them? Can’t say,” he told her matter-of-factly. “By the time my customers quit buying him Old Orchard, your poet—”

“My poet? I’m sure I don’t grasp your meaning.”

“—couldn’t see well enough to read.”

“Oh. Poor Cedric.” Squinting worriedly into the crowd of revelers, Grace gave a distressed sound. “He’s so talented, too.”

“Almost as talented as that bird watcher I met the day before at the apothecary.” Jack frowned. “She wouldn’t let me buy my bottle of bay rum hair tonic until I learned all about the wonders of the dark-hooded, red-backed Junco.”

Grace’s smirk was telling. “Truly? How fascinating.”

Damnable female. He couldn’t even manage a grunt.

“I have long considered the
Junco
hyemalis dorsalis
a most thrilling species of sparrow,” she nattered on. Her gaze met his with all appearance of earnestness. “They’re active this time of year. The Junco is a migratory bird, you know.”

“I wish I didn’t.” Unfortunately, her bird-watcher friend had seen to the contrary. He could still hear her chirping.

“They have lovely white tail feathers,” Grace continued.

She looked awfully pleased with herself. How she managed to dance so lightly with the weight of all that meddling on her shoulders, Jack didn’t know.

“Most ornithologists of my acquaintance can identify all varieties of Junco upon sight,” she informed him. “Easy as pie.”

“Hmm. Some rarities are like that.” He gave her a shrewd look. “Pretty obvious once you know what you’re looking for.”

For instance, once Jack had started noticing the pale-faced intellectuals and motley artists and rabid reformers coming out of the woodwork, he’d immediately discerned a pattern. Every one of them had been intent on enlightening him on subjects ranging from tea drinking to Celestial philosophy to the bards of the Renaissance. The whole lot of them, he’d bet, had one particular rabble-rouser to thank for their inspiration.

“Whatever you’re up to,” he said, “it’s not going to work.”

“On the contrary.” Grace studied his shirt collar, then lifted her gaze to his face. “It’s already working.”

Eager to refute her claim, Jack was nonetheless unsure how. Because he still didn’t grasp what Grace was playing at. Was she reacting to his attempts to get her wed? Attempting to retaliate, after a fashion? Even for her, that was nonsensical.

Left with no option that wouldn’t endanger his new rugged persona, Jack was forced to grunt. As negatively as possible.

Undaunted, Grace nodded. “It occurs to me I’ve never seen you dance before. Dancing is awfully…civilized, isn’t it?”

Her impish expression galled him.

So did his own response to it. How could he enjoy sparring with her, even while she drove him daft? And what exactly did she mean by emphasizing
civilized
that way? Had Grace somehow guessed the secret of his past life in Boston?

Chilled, Jack had to acknowledge it was possible. Grace was more erudite than most. Her interests ranged far and wide. She might have read about his professorship. She might even have blundered onto his infamous corsetry creation… and meant to dangle it in front of his face, newfangled laces and all.

Unwarranted, a vision of Grace attired in nothing but a tight corset and some clever embellishments burst into his mind. She crooked her finger, beckoned him nearer…and smiled seductively. He almost shook with the vividness of it.

“Look,” she said. “You’ve popped one of your braces loose.”

Grace’s voice cleared his head, returning Jack to the wedding-day swirl of revelers, music and laughter. He frowned.

“See?” She indicated his shirtfront, where one of the braces meant to hold up his trousers drooped ineffectually. “Here. I’ll move sideways so no one can see while you mend it.”

With no maidenly modesty at all, she shielded him, pretending to admire a painting on the Stotts’ parlor wall.

Revelers danced past them, whooping with laughter. No one paid any mind to the goings-on in their corner. Hastily, Jack repaired the metal fastening—only to find that Grace had turned to examine his actions with scholarly interest.

“Wait a minute.” She squinted. “I’ve never seen braces like those before. Not even in the dress reform pamphlets. Are they—”

They were his own design
, Jack realized belatedly. He should have known her perceptiveness would cause trouble.

“—some newfangled version from the east?”

She stared at him artlessly, awaiting his reply.

Was she baiting him? Right then and there, Jack vowed to be as
un
civil and as
un
cooperative as possible, especially when Grace was around. If she wanted him civilized, he promised himself silently, he’d be as rough and ready as any lumberjack or railroader. Possibly more. All the better to throw her off the trail to his past and safeguard his new life in the west.

He crossed his arms. “If you want a man’s britches to patch up, you ought to take on one of those husbands I’ve been sending your way.”

That proved exactly as diverting as he’d hoped.

“Husbands? Most of them are barely able to stand upright!”

“Well, now.” Jack summoned up his best satisfied look. “That’ll make mending their britches especially tricky, won’t it? But I do know how you appreciate a challenge.”

Grace crossed her arms, evidently struck speechless. What the bespectacled donkey couldn’t do, Jack clearly could.

“No need to thank me.” He held up both palms, warding off her supposed gratitude. “It’s my pleasure to help a neighbor.”

Just then, another partygoer ambled past. He glanced at Grace, then at Jack, then back at Grace again. He stopped.

“Tarnation! If you ain’t that marrying gal!”

Grace ground her teeth. She cast Jack an accusatory glance.

“Yessir.” Jack slapped the man on the shoulder, drawing him nearer with his friendliest barkeep’s manner. “This is Grace Crabtree. Finest mender of britches in all the territory.” Grace stomped his toe. Her slipper made not a dent.

“You don’t say?” The man grinned, then rubbed his nose with enthusiasm. He left a trail of spice cake on his cheek, adding to the dirt and smudged tobacco already there. “I guess I could use me some patched-up britches sometime.”

“Then this is your gal.” Jack did his best to ignore Grace’s murderous look. He felt reasonably certain his hair was on fire all the same. “You probably didn’t recognize her without her man-shoes on.”

“Hmm. Well, I sure didn’t rec’ nize her until I saw you two standin’ together, Murphy. That there’s a plain fact.”

The man looked Grace up and down, clearly considering.

“If you ask me to open my mouth and show my teeth like a packhorse,” Grace informed him, “I’ll kick like one, too.”

He guffawed, elbowing Jack. “Feisty, ain’t she?”

“That she is,” Jack agreed mildly. “That she is.”

“All right.” The man exhaled, treating them to a blustery dose of liquored cider. Creakily, he began bending on one knee.

Looking horrified, Grace grabbed his shoulder. “No! The answer is no. No no no! Please don’t go any further.”

“But I want them free drinks Murphy’s got,” he objected, hunkering awkwardly in place. His bushy brows drew together. “I reckon you seem presentable enough. A mite skinny, but—”

“No.” She shuddered. “I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.”

The man glanced to Jack. Jack shook his head.

“I ain’t askin’ twice,” the man warned.

“I understand.” Humbly, Grace clasped her hands.

“She’ll try to bear up under the disappointment,” Jack said, deepening his brogue. “Better luck with your next wife.”

“Hmmph. I ain’t too sure I want one. Now.” He eyeballed Grace. “Thanks kindly, Murphy. I’ll be by your place later.”

“I’ll be there.” Harry was minding the saloon now.

Raising his hand in farewell, Grace’s latest suitor shuffled away, grumbling all the way to the cake table. She watched him leave with an expression of pure relief.

Jack edged nearer, close enough to catch a whiff of her castile soap. He waited patiently until she met his gaze.

“Miss Crabtree, I just don’t understand you.”

“I should think that would be patently obvious.”

“So I’m wondering if you’d help me out.”

Her raised brows indicated she might, however reluctantly.

“Just tell me… Exactly how picky do you plan to be?” Manfully, Jack stifled a grin. Then he spread both arms wide. “After all, that one even had most of his teeth.”

A
week later, Grace found herself still mulling over Jack Murphy’s outrageous matchmaking. Not that she intended to indulge in such folly. It was simply that everywhere she went, there were reminders of his meddling. Potential suitors approached her in the street, after church and even within the frilly confines of the millinery shop.

Only the
Pioneer Press
offices were safe.

Relishing the predictable orderliness of the newspaper’s clippings-covered walls, clattering press runs and inky smells, Grace dragged her tray of type closer. She’d considered quitting once Thomas Walsh had arrived. But after working with him a while, she was glad she hadn’t behaved rashly. The man had an eye for logical columns, an ear for liberal news and a mind for radical causes that nearly matched her own. Because of those fine qualities, he and Grace had formed a rapid camaraderie.

“Miss Crabtree, this is brilliant!” Mr. Walsh strode into the typesetters’ office with his coattails flapping. His spectacles slanted askew. He righted them impatiently. “An absolutely galvanizing piece of work. You’ve done it again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walsh.” Given their like-mindedness, there was no need for polite modesty between them, a reality Grace found refreshing. “I’d hoped you would think so when I wrote the article. The issue of poor nutrition among children is so important. It must be addressed, and quickly, too.”

The editor agreed, nodding in that thoughtful way he had. As they conversed further, Grace idly examined Mr. Walsh. For a handsome man—and one who cut an especially fine figure in his suits and stylish hair—he stirred none of the giddy feelings she experienced in Jack Murphy’s company.

It was peculiar, yet undeniably convenient. Without her emotions to assail her, Grace could concentrate fully on making the most of the
Pioneer Press
and her part within it. So long as she felt free to contribute, she realized, she did not regret losing the editorship to Mr. Walsh. Likely, without the additional struggle of convincing the townspeople of her good intentions, she could actually achieve more.

“You’ll set this for tomorrow’s edition then?”

At Mr. Walsh’s inquiry, Grace started. She had, she was appalled to realize, drifted into a reverie involving Jack Murphy’s surprising skill at dancing. She recalled the devilish way he’d regarded her while goading that near-toothless codger into proposing marriage. At the memory, Grace frowned.

She could not go on this way.

“Indeed I will.” She accepted the article with a brisk nod.

Mr. Walsh bowed. “I’m indebted to you, ma’am.”

Grace watched him depart for his office—the same office Adam Crabtree had relished leaving, given his jubilant manner upon packing his belongings. She leaned her head in her hand and sighed. Now that her workday duties were settled, all that remained were her private troubles to deal
with. Beginning with one particularly pesky Irishman…and ending, Grace felt certain, with her eventual triumph.

At Molly’s small bakeshop later, Grace drew her plate nearer, savoring the cinnamon bun she’d selected. Among all the women in Morrow Creek, her sister by was far the finest baker, even if it had taken her awhile to develop her skills. Now Molly had turned from a flibbertigibbet of a girl to a respected businesswoman in her own right, thereby proving Grace’s long-standing opinion that there was nothing in the world a Crabtree woman couldn’t accomplish if only she put her mind to it.

Which brought Grace very neatly to the topic at hand.

“I can’t see any way around it.” She watched her sister shape cookies and place them on her waiting baking sheets. The whole maneuver was mystifying, and did not appear very gratifying, but Molly seemed to enjoy it. “I’m simply going to have to civilize Jack Murphy myself.”

Molly frowned, but didn’t stop in her work. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? You never know what will happen when you meddle with a man. Believe me.” She smiled, doubtless thinking of her premarital travails with lumber mill owner Marcus Copeland. “I’ve had a quantity of experience in the matter, and I can’t say I’d recommend taking that kind of wrangling upon yourself. Not even you can predict how a man will react.”

“I most certainly can!” Grace disagreed. “Men are boundlessly predictable.” She ignored her sister’s skeptical twist of the lips. Obviously Molly had never considered the matter at length. “Besides, you can’t convince me you would do things differently with Marcus. I won’t believe it.”

“Differently? No.” Molly’s smile widened. “Things did
turn out wonderfully in the end, as you know.” She patted her belly. “But this feud of yours with Jack Murphy…it’s different.” Momentarily abandoning her waiting dough, she offered a straightforward look. “Honestly, Grace. You two will be leasing that building together for some time to come. Can’t you just cooperate with him? It would be so much easier.”

“Easier for Jack, perhaps, but not for me.”

“Ah.” Molly waggled her brows. “It’s ‘Jack’ now, is it? Well, that’s very interesting. Very, very interesting.”

“Mr. Murphy,” Grace substituted hastily. She tore off another bite of cinnamon roll, forcing her attention to its spicy sweetness rather than her inadvertent slip of the tongue. “Membership in all of my clubs is down by a third, and the decline is directly relatable to his saloon. Women are afraid to come near it. The place is too rowdy by far.”

“Saloons often are.” With a shrug, Molly sprinkled sugar on her unbaked cookies. She surveyed the effect critically, then added a little more. “Have you considered that perhaps the men downstairs are louder because they’re trying to drown out the sounds of your women’s choral group upstairs?”

“Why would they? We sound wonderful!” Indignantly, Grace straightened on her fancy ironwork stool, letting her skirts swing freely over her brogan shoes. “I’ll have you know, we’re bringing much-needed culture to this town.”

Molly quirked her lips, decrying that claim without a single word. When had frivolous Molly, youngest of all the sisters, become so sensible? So savvy to an ostensibly innocent statement? Serenely, she slid her baking sheets into the warm waiting ovens. When she returned to the work counter, her gaze was knowing beneath her fashionably curled bangs.

“And you’ve never, not even once, encouraged your fellow singers to—shall we say—put forth a little extra effort?”

Grace chewed her next bite of cinnamon bun with more defiance than she might have otherwise. She didn’t answer.

“You’ve never,” her sister continued tirelessly, “sung your melodies a little louder than strictly necessary?”

Grace reached for her cup of tea. She sipped delicately, then raised her chin. “There is nothing wrong with enthusiasm.”

Molly laughed. Shaking her head, she wiped her hands on her apron. Flour dusted the rug underfoot and snowed onto her gingham skirts, too. With a moue of distress, Molly shook them out. Grace half suspected that her sister had decorated the entire bakeshop in a similarly froufrou manner—from the floral wallpapered walls to the trim blue wainscoting—to purposely coordinate with her wardrobe.

“You can’t fool me, Grace. I know you too well.” Eyes sparkling, Molly went to her bakery shelves. She put one hand to the small of her back, then reached to the row of napkin-lined baskets waiting to be outfitted with cookies or lemon-raisin pies. “Never mind that I’m the youngest.” She puffed, red-faced. “I’ve gained a great deal of experience over the past year.”

“I daresay you’ll gain more experience yet.” Eyeing her sister’s expanding waistline, Grace hurried from her chair to help take down the baskets Molly sought. “Once the baby arrives, I mean.” She paused, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as she considered what lay ahead. Soberly, she met her sister’s gaze. “Moll… Are you afraid?”

“Of the baby coming? Pish posh.” Molly waved away the notion. “I’m looking forward to it. I hope he—”

“Or she!”

“—looks exactly like Marcus.”

An adorable little boy skipped into Grace’s imagination,
dark haired and chubby-cheeked…and bearing a marked resemblance to Jack Murphy. Her imaginary self stood near the pair of them, beaming contentedly, without a single protest banner or picket sign in sight.

Egads. What was wrong with her? She never daydreamed, much less about sentimental pap like children and husbands. Clearly, the endless parade of potential bridegrooms had affected her for the worse. Grace resolutely returned her attention to Molly.

“Although I do miss some of my favorite dresses already,” her sister was saying. “I’ll admit that much, however silly it may be of me. Mama promised to help make new gowns that will fit for the duration, and Cook will be helping out with some of the baking duties here at the shop. She hasn’t as much to do at home now, you know, with Sarah and me both gone….”

She nattered on cheerfully while Grace plunked more baskets on the work counter, trying to ignore the pang she felt at Molly’s mention of their steadily emptying household. Once the Crabtree home had been filled with chatter and cozy dinners and games of chess and reading aloud. Now it was lacking in all but the quietest murmurs and her parents’ occasional jests. Things weren’t the same at all. And they never would be again.

Suddenly, silence descended.

Molly put her arm around Grace’s shoulders. She gave a squeeze. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. I don’t know what got into me, to be running on that way.”

Grace shrugged, plopping down one basket and lining the rest up neatly. She would not think about how alone she sometimes felt without her two sisters nearby. It wasn’t as if Molly and Sarah had left the territory or even the town. But their lives were full of other things now—other people—and Grace found it harder than ever to overlook her own loneliness.

She drew in a deep breath, then produced a smile.

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “It’s good of you to offer Cook something useful to do. Every woman needs to feel productive, to give her life meaning and purpose. That’s what Heddy Neibermayer wrote about so brilliantly last month in her article in
The Suffrage Gazette
. It was—”

“Every person needs to feel loved,” Molly interrupted softly. She contemplated her array of baskets, then seemed to come to a decision. She lifted her gaze to meet Grace’s directly. “You need to feel loved, Grace. Do you think that maybe, if you spent a little less time with your clubs and such, that you might find—”

“But my clubs are all I have!” Grace cried.

Molly’s pitying look was more than she’d bargained on.

“What I mean to say,” she rejoined carefully, taking her seat at the counter again as an excuse not to meet Molly’s sympathetic gaze, “is that they are important to me.” She fussed with her coat, all the better to seem composed, then jerked her chin higher. “I won’t allow Jack Murphy to ruin them. As soon as I make him see reason, everything will be solved. You’ll see.”

Her sister sighed. “When it comes to this disagreement between the two of you, did it ever occur to you that perhaps you’re a part of the problem?”

Rebelliously, Grace bit into her cinnamon bun. She refused to dignify that statement with a response. She was the beleaguered party, not Jack. Overloud singing or not.

“Whether you’ll admit it or not, you know I’m right.” Molly surveyed the bakery, hands on her hips as though deciding what task to take on next. It was nearly time for the shop to open. “Perhaps this time you’ll need to bend a bit.”

Ha. Only if Jack did so first.

“I’m already bending,” Grace informed her sister. She’d bent to consider Jack a man with attractive lips, for one. She’d bent to admire his voice and his shoulders and his hands. She’d bent to try dancing with him, too! But she would be as likely to confess enjoying it as she would be to take up watercolor painting or knitting tea cosies. “I’m personally involving myself in my civilizing project, for one.”

Not that she’d had much choice in the matter. Jack had discerned what she was up to with alarming rapidity. Grace didn’t have time to waste sending him more poets and artists and reputability-bestowing bastions of the community. For utmost efficiency, she’d decided to take matters in her own hands.

“I don’t know about this project of yours. Civilizing?” Molly shook her head. “I’ve met Mr. Murphy, remember? He’s a smidgen rough, and a saloonkeeper besides. You may have bitten off more than you can chew this time.”

“Pshaw. That will never happen.” Grace rummaged in the rucksack she used for ornithology expeditions, pushed aside her specialty spyglass, then proudly withdrew her planning journal. “Look. I’ve made a list of the necessary steps.”

“You have? This I simply must see.” Wearing an eager grin, her sister leaned nearer. “Step one, reasoned debate. Step two, active protest. Step three…repeat steps one and two.”

She glanced up, stricken.

“What’s the matter?” Defensively, Grace turned the journal to face herself. It still looked exactly as she remembered it—exactly as it had after her feverish strategizing session in her meeting rooms last night. “As plans go, this one is simple and clear. And this strategy has proven very effective.”