The Rascal (17 page)

“I should consult with Doctor Finney first,” he disagreed, cursing the day he’d devised this backfiring scheme to help get Grace married. “He might have other ideas, ideas that aren’t—”

“Not to worry.” Sunnily, Grace gestured toward a waiting chair. “I asked Doctor Finney about your treatment last night before he left. He’s such a dear man. He agreed to everything I suggested as far as your convalescence is concerned.”

Jack would just bet he had. Damn the man. The doctor had double-crossed him. Groaning anew, Jack sank onto his chair and put his head in his hands. Those hellfired bandages met his fingertips again, reminding him of the fix he’d gotten into.

He couldn’t run his saloon. Couldn’t relieve Harry of duty. Couldn’t so much as wash himself without Grace Crabtree supervising every facet of his day.

What would she think if he simply tore off those bandages?

If he confessed?

If he gave up his plan to get her wed altogether?

Doubtless Grace would sink in the heels of her blasted man-shoes and refuse even more obstinately to move her meeting rooms. Jack would not be able to bring his performing troupe to his saloon. Would not be able to regain his patronage or open the upstairs boardinghouse rooms he wanted. Would not be able to enjoy the new western life he’d worked so hard for.

This time, Jack was well and truly sunk—sunk by his own hand. For the next week at least, he was at Grace’s mercy.

Heaven help him.

F
or the next several days, Grace slept upstairs in her meeting room space, on a cot thoughtfully moved there by her papa and Marcus. She looked in on Jack frequently, bustling in to examine his bandages, deliver a meal or tidy up his messy bachelor rooms—she would swear they disordered themselves between visits while Jack slept. She added his chores to her itinerary, too, dropping by the butcher’s, the post office and the laundress on the same schedule as Jack had done.

Not for anything would Grace have admitted knowing that schedule in advance, however. A woman did have to safeguard her pride. Even from a man who had wholeheartedly kissed her. Instead she dutifully pretended to concentrate as she wrote out the list of tasks Jack recited, going so far as to bite her lip in consternation as she struggled to enumerate every one.

It was, Grace decided afterward, a splendid performance.

Despite Jack’s obvious—and maddening—skepticism.

Encouraged to do so by Mr. Walsh, Grace did carry on with her typesetting work at the
Pioneer Press
in the afternoons, but
she abdicated most of her club and ladies’ organization meetings for the time being. She persisted in working toward her various causes on her own, however, writing letters and devising schemes on behalf of the Morrow Creek women’s baseball league. Spring was on its way, and she needed to be prepared.

All in all, her days were busy and satisfying. Grace found it fulfilling to be in charge of so many varied doings at once—so much so that she scarcely missed some of her more ancillary activities, such as her women’s archery society and her Indian club exercise group. Perhaps Molly and Sarah had been correct. Perhaps she had overcommitted herself. Just a bit.

With that realization in mind, Grace decided to dedicate herself to a few select activities for the time being. Beginning with Jack…and his continued convalescence.

He was a difficult patient, to be sure. In fact, he possessed so much vigor, so much ability to gainsay her remedies and wrestle over the administering of them, that it was sometimes difficult to remember he had been injured at all. Grace even found him sneaking into the saloon to play billiards, snatch cheroots or supervise faro dealing with Harry. Once she caught him lugging in a store of firewood, too, looking astonishingly adept at hauling such a heavy load.

Without Doctor Finney’s assurance that Jack required diligent care, Grace might have begun to doubt the necessity of her being there for him. Fortunately, she did have the doctor’s blessing—and an able excuse for her presence, too.

Under those terms, Grace indulged her secret desire to be with Jack Murphy. Cloaked under cover of doing her usual good works, she cared for him as often as she could and removed every possible burden from his shoulders—something she felt uniquely equipped to do. Which was how she
came to be striding toward Jack’s saloon one clear February morning, with his mail in her satchel and her reformer’s hat happily squashed on her head.

“Ho, there!” someone called from across the street, surprising her. “Miss Crabtree, over here!”

Half fearing another awkward marriage proposal—of which she’d had admittedly fewer lately—Grace turned. To her immense relief, Jedediah Hofer waved from beneath the awning of his busy mercantile, his ruddy complexion and white-blond hair in stark contrast with his dark suit.

Pleased to see him, she headed in that direction.

“How are you, Mr. Hofer? Business is brisk, I see.”

“
Ja
, very brisk. So much that I’ve had to hire a second assistant!” Mr. Hofer beamed, gesturing toward the people still browsing the wares in his crammed store. Among them were several graying miners and a few cowboys, along with a dandified gambler. “That’s why I wanted to call you over here. Grace…”

He paused, his face turning even redder than usual. His cheeks puffed alarmingly, too. Concerned, Grace stepped nearer. “Mr. Hofer, are you all right? You look—”

“Thank you!” He suddenly wrapped her in an impulsive bear hug, murmuring his gratitude all the while. “You have sent so many customers to me! I am in your debt.”

“Oh! Well…” Muffled by his shoulder, Grace attempted to nod. This was a great deal of emotion. She wasn’t sure she was equipped to cope with it politely. “Yes, I see. If you mean my potential husbands, I suppose I did send a few of them here.”

“A few? No! No, there were many. And all of them bought things. Razors, soap, washboards. Readymade clothing. Sweets. Ribbons and cleansers and brooms and mops.”
Squeezing harder, Hofer laughed with pure joy. He patted her on the back. “You are a good woman, Miss Crabtree. Perhaps a little misunderstood, only, by people who do not see your generosity.”

Grace began to feel concerned she might not break free. Ever. “I’m delighted, Mr. Hofer.” She squirmed. “Only—”

“Ah, but I am embarrassing you! You are modest!”

“That is not a quality I’ve had the pleasure of having ascribed to me. However, I’m so pleased that you—”

“See? You are even modest now!” Chuckling, Hofer embraced her again. Over his shoulder, Grace glimpsed several customers pointing and nudging each other. A few grinned. “Thank you, thank you,” Hofer said. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, you only have to ask. Jedediah Hofer is at your service.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hofer.” Torn, Grace hesitated. But if a woman were to be practical… “As it happens, I could use a bit of castor oil and some tea,” she proclaimed, hoping her nose wouldn’t become permanently crooked from being compacted against Hofer’s suit coat. She wiggled it experimentally. “I’m going through both at a fearsome rate. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

“Ah! For you, nothing is too much trouble!”

He released her, sweeping aside other customers with his beefy arms as he led her into the mercantile. Grace followed in his wake, the smells of pickles and rolled calico and wood smoke reaching her instantly. There was nothing homier than a properly run mercantile. She savored the entire enterprise.

Twenty productive minutes later, Grace emerged with her satchel filled to overflowing. The bargains she’d made would keep her supplied with restorative tea for the entire week.

“Thank you!” she called, clutching everything to her middle. “Thank you, Mr. Hofer. You’re very kind.”

Four pounds of tea and a whole gallon of castor oil.

Jack would be very pleased.

With that thought in mind, Grace journeyed home next. She kept her steps brisk so as to not leave Jack alone for too much longer. Harry had assured her that he looked in on Jack during those times when Grace had errands or work to attend to, but ever since the time she had returned to find them both throwing dice with Daniel, she tried not to linger with her duties.

At the Crabtree household, after a welcoming hug from her mother and a plateful of Cook’s best whole-flour Grahamite biscuits with jam, Grace got directly to the point of her visit.

“Your recuperative tea is working wonders,” she said pensively, “but I’m wondering if there’s something more I could be doing. I have cleaned everything just as you suggested—”

“Pleasant surroundings do enhance healing,” Mama agreed.

“—and it was awfully sloppy in there, believe you me!” Grace elaborated, picturing the scene. “Leftover whiskey bottles, piles of cigarillos—which were most peculiar, given that Mr. Murphy does not partake in them—boots and jackets everywhere. It was quite a chore.”

Her mama only smiled indulgently. “To think that you never cared much for housework,” she commented.

“I’ve organized everything, too. Alphabetically in the case of the foodstuffs and by color and purpose in the case of the clothing and other items.” Grace doled out a small grin. “Mr. Murphy proclaims he can’t find a thing anymore. But I know he’ll comprehend my classification system with some teaching.”

Fiona Crabtree nodded. “Alphabetical, you say? Well, I would expect nothing less of you.”

Heartened somewhat, Grace nodded. “I’ve also made sure that Jack—I mean, Mr. Murphy, of course—keeps himself well bathed with strong soap. And neatly combed and barbered, too.”

“That sounds very…civilized.”

“Thank you.” Grace tilted her head to the side, momentarily silent as she recalled the kerfuffle between her and Jack when she’d attempted to wield his straight razor on him herself. Even now she felt downright astounded at the strength he’d mustered. Most men would not have been so robust while laid low with a head injury. Clearly, Jack was exceptional.

“I’ve supervised his meals and his liquor intake, allowing only small sips of watered brandy occasionally. And I’ve kept him warm with myriad blankets at all times.” Grace leaned toward her mother, concerned all over again. “He insists they make him sweat,” she confided. “Does that mean he’s fevered?”

Her mama considered it, looking unconcerned. “Probably not,” she said as she perused the biscuit plate. “Not given the other symptoms you described to me yesterday. And the day before. And earlier this week as well.”

Too worried to be mollified or concerned with that reminder of her multiple visits, Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid Mr. Murphy won’t allow evidence of any weakness to reach me.”

“Hmm,” Mama mused. “Imagine that sort of stubbornness…”

“Exactly.” Grace nodded more vigorously, feeling understood at last. “Also he seems to go out of his way to be contrary. Do you know, he even refused to eat the barley broth I made him?”

At this, her mama froze with her hand partway to a biscuit.

She withdrew and stared at Grace. “You made?”

Grace nodded. “I read the recipe in a nutritional pamphlet from the library of the Social Equality Sisterhood. It was a very nourishing combination of turnips and rutabagas and chicken broth, coupled with pearled barley and four pounds of onions.”

Her mama widened her eyes. “Four pounds? Goodness!”

“Yes, I cried a river while chopping,” Grace recalled. But next she remembered her worry over Jack and rushed to the real reason for her visit. “But nothing is working! I fear my Mr. Murphy will never recover—”

“Your Mr. Murphy?” Again came that knowing smile.

Grace couldn’t counter it. “And it will be all my fault for failing to teach him to sled properly on that first run. If only I had exerted my will just a bit more forcefully—”

Her mama appeared to stifle a guffaw.

“—perhaps he would never have been hurt at all!”

Desperately, Grace stared down at her clasped hands. The truth was, she did not know what else to do. She was not by nature a particularly nurturing individual, she feared, and for the first time she felt the lack of that quality.

Women were supposed to be caring and helpful, weren’t they? Able to conjure failsafe remedies and kind encouragement and hand-sewn sickroom samplers at a moment’s notice, complete with coordinating linens and perhaps a flowered tea cosy.

“I do not,” she admitted gravely, “even know how to begin knitting a tea cosy.” She did not glance up. “I am…a failure.”

For a moment, the only sounds in the parlor were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, the thump and crackle of a log falling into the fire and the distant bustling
of Cook preparing lunch in the kitchen. Miserably, Grace waited.

“Oh, Grace,” Mama told her quietly. “You are not a failure. No one who loves as deeply as you do could ever be considered a failure at anything.” She paused, undoubtedly regarding her in that gentle way she had. “Do you know how rare that is?”

“You don’t understand. I’m not helping him!”

Undaunted by that confession, her mama continued. “I should have known it from the moment you sent that newsboy here for the makings of my special tea.” Placidly, she poured more coffee for them both. “You are smitten, Grace. More than that, you are in love with Mr. Murphy. No, don’t bother denying it. There’s no other reason you would be here right now.”

“If you’d only tell me what to do—”

“Why, follow your heart, of course. That usually does the trick.” This time, Fiona did choose that biscuit she’d been eyeing. Leisurely, she applied some jam. “You’ll find that—”

“I mean about Jack,” Grace interrupted. She felt near to gritting her teeth with frustration. Why would her mama ramble on about love and hearts when there were practical concerns to be worked out? “Please, Mama. I’m desperate for your help.”

“Which is why I know for certain you do not need it.”

Thoroughly baffled, Grace shook her head. “The world has gone mad,” she announced. “Jack is delirious, Jedediah Hofer has gone round the bend and both Sarah and Molly give me silly looks when they see me. What is wrong with everyone?”

“Grace.” Mama set down her plate, regarding her seriously. “Let me ask you one thing, and maybe you will see what I mean.” Delicately, she paused, her gaze roving over Grace’s face. “How many times have you felt moved to ask me for help?”

“Er…” Grace deliberated. “Umm…I know there must have been several times. When I was small, perhaps, or—”

“The last time you asked me for help,” Mama informed her placidly, “was when you were twelve years old and asked me to devise a dress pattern for bloomers.”