The Rascal (7 page)

“Four sisters.” She steepled her hands, then took a contemplative step nearer. “Hmm. What do you know?”

Hell. He’d accidentally given her more personal information in mere minutes than he’d given the rest of Morrow Creek in an entire year and a half. And he’d actually entertained thoughts about her hips, too. Her bony, in-his-way, aggravating hips.

What was wrong with him? Determined not to wreck his taciturn reputation any further, Jack clamped his mouth shut. He recrossed his arms for good measure, too.

Grace still regarded him with that exasperating sense of enlightenment. Her mouth quirked. He couldn’t believe he was noticing her mouth at all. He needed a whiskey. Or a good slap.

“Tell me, Jack.” She pursed her lips. “What would you think if one of your sisters, simply to protect her reputation and her sanity, was forced to enter a saloon this way?”

“I would think she should leave.” In a moment of sheer honesty, Jack gazed at her squarely. “Please, Grace. Just behave like a regular woman for once.”

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened. Her throat worked, undoubtedly conjuring up a scathing reply—perhaps in answer to the fact that he’d inadvertently called her by her first name instead of the appropriately proper Miss Crabtree. Jack tended to think of her as Grace, he realized. Just Grace.

That was curious. In light of their disagreements…

“I’ll wait at the stairs to my meeting rooms for precisely five minutes,” she informed him starchily. “After that, I’m enlisting the aid of the Social Equality Sisterhood. My local chapter is very effective, as you may recall. I believe we still have those
picket signs from last year, when we shut down your place for a spell. Consider yourself forewarned, Mr. Murphy.”

With that dire pronouncement, Grace wheeled on her clunky shoes, flung her scarf over her shoulder, and left his saloon.

Afternoon sunshine poured over Main Street, melting the icicles strung from Jack Murphy’s saloon eaves. They dripped steadily on the water barrel outside, fooled by the unseasonable warmth into believing springtime had nearly arrived. Knowing better, Grace crossed her arms over herself and shivered. She jerked her chin upward, willing herself not to cry.

She never cried over anything.

With the exception of her sisters’ weddings, naturally, which she’d explained as ire over the patriarchal institution of marriage. And the first time she’d successfully pedaled her bicycle and remained upright, certainly, but that had been easily hidden behind her bicycling goggles. And the day she’d learned about her father’s decision regarding editorship of the newspaper, of course, but that aberration had clearly been brought on by Jack Murphy’s peculiar brand of kindness afterward.

Perhaps the alcohol fumes inside his saloon affected her strangely, Grace mused. Or the sight of his provocative behind-the-bar painting offended her eyes just that strongly. She wasn’t sure how to explain it, but she still felt a sob lodged in her chest. It stuck there with all the force of Molly’s early and misbegotten attempts at snickerdoodle cookies, refusing to budge. The plain fact was, ever since Grace had first set foot in Jack Murphy’s saloon, she hadn’t felt like herself…and the effect didn’t appear to be abating either.

It was worrisome. In fact, Grace admitted privately, she
hadn’t quite felt like herself ever since meeting him over a year ago. She’d felt, at times, variously fluttery and girlish and unacceptably interested in Jack’s comings and goings. Not that she’d mentioned as much to anyone, even Molly and Sarah. Now, particularly on the heels of his mean-spirited comment, Grace meant to never mention anything favorable about Jack to anyone at all.

Just behave like a regular woman for once.

Wounded despite her resolve to ignore such foolishness, Grace hugged herself tighter. She was a woman like any other! Perhaps a little more active, more prone to books and causes and clubs, but a woman all the same. Why couldn’t Jack see that?

She didn’t care, Grace told herself, straightening determinedly in her sheltered area to the side of the saloon. She didn’t. Jack was a loutish ne’er-do-well without a single industrious thought in his head. He meant nothing to her save an obstacle to the efficient operation of her many ladies’ groups.

But the heavy footfalls that sounded next on the board-walk—and her quickening heartbeat in response to them—made her declaration a lie. She did care, else she wouldn’t have recognized that those footsteps belonged to Jack Murphy. She wouldn’t have felt glad he’d followed her outside after all.

Miserably, Grace realized she would have known the unique cadence of his footsteps anywhere. Late at night, Jack often wandered his saloon downstairs while she planned new suffragist campaigns upstairs. Both she and Jack, it seemed, led solitary lives…divided only by some beams and a few planks of lumber.

And, of course, by their ongoing property dispute.

Funny, that she’d think of him as Jack, Grace considered idly. Mr. Murphy would have been more proper, and yet…

Dismissing the thought, she steeled her expression into determination—the same tactic she used when facing any battle. Then she hurriedly whisked her palms over her cheeks, bit her lip and fluffed out her rumpled skirts.

She’d just realized her error when Jack rounded the corner.

She froze in midfluff, her gloved hands buried in her skirts’ sensible fabric. What was she doing?
Primping?
Grace Crabtree primped for no man, especially one who galled her so. Besides, she possessed no vanity at all. Leastwise as far as Jack Murphy was concerned. It wasn’t practical or commendable.

To hide her mistake, she spoke first. “How did all those men know to recognize me?” she demanded. “To propose to me?”

Lazily, Jack lifted his gaze from her clenched fists. He seemed lost in thought for a moment, but recovered rapidly. In a heartbeat, he returned to the burly Irishman she knew, wrapped in a wool coat and an air of forthright male certainty.

“I told them to look for the plainest, most fast-walking, fast-talking woman they’d ever seen,” he said.

Abashed, Grace stared at her shoes. And her gray skirts. And her haphazardly gloved hands. Her gloves didn’t match, it was true, but they still kept her cozy. Was she really that plain? The plainest woman in town, identifiable on sight?

“I told them to follow any signs of trouble, and they’d find you,” Jack continued.

Considering, Grace wiggled her toes. The motion made not a dent in the solid leather upper of her shoe. Perhaps…

“I told them if they spied a woman who looked capable of outrunning, outtalking and outthinking them, that was you.”

All at once, the pressure in Grace’s chest eased. She lifted her head, beaming. “You do understand me!”

Jack seemed perplexed. His frown marred his good looks
not at all. Neither did his obvious reluctance to speak injure his appeal. Which made not a lick of sense to Grace, who had always dismissed laconism as feeblemindedness and expected herself to prefer a man of elocution, grace and courtesy.

Instead Jack Murphy grunted. He crossed his arms.

Grace tried to feel disgusted. Or aggravated. Or at least a little less admiring of the timbre of his brogue, the width of his shoulders, the certainty of his stance. She failed.

They stood that way, identically situated with their bodies bundled and wrapped and protected, facing one another. It struck Grace that she and Jack Murphy might well be equally stubborn.

“This will make everything so much easier,” she announced firmly.
Outrunning,
outtalking, outthinking
. Those were qualities she prized in herself, to be sure. Apparently, Jack valued them as well. “You may have already noticed that I never back down from a challenge. As I always say, anything worth having is worth fighting for.”

He shrugged. His shoulders still looked wide.

“So you may as well quit now,” she added.

He exhaled. His mouth was nicely shaped, too.

Not that Grace cared about physicality, she reminded herself staunchly. She was an aficionado of the intellect, the heart and the soul. Not of masculine lips, however intriguingly formed. Perhaps all the marriage proposals she’d sustained had affected her ability to behave normally.

“Because,” she stated, a little too loudly, “I don’t have any interest in having a husband.”

He took a step nearer. “Yes, you do.”

Something about the way Jack looked at her—something about the way warmth seeped from his chest to hers, kindling a new kind of heat between them—made Grace’s heart stutter. Her breath caught and held, too. She didn’t
know what to make of the sensation. After all, she was eminently fit, having practiced a variety of outdoor activities for years. Bicycling, baseball, ornithology, Indian club exercises… Discomfited but resolute, she stepped forward, too. It wouldn’t do to let herself be cowed by a mere male like Jack Murphy.

The heat between them flared higher.

“I don’t need a man for anything,” she announced.

His lips turned up. Parted. Even his teeth were nice. She’d never had such a close-up view of them before. For the first time ever, Grace caught herself approving of his clean shave.

“Darlin’, if you believe that,” he said, “then you need a man for certain. You need a man real soon.”

Grace snapped to herself again. Jack’s conviction—and something more, something intriguing in the rasp of his voice—almost stopped her. But she soldiered on anyway. “I don’t want a man. Please stop sending them to me.”

There. That ought to do it.

“Well, now.” Jack scratched his forehead thoughtfully, tilting up the rim of his black winter hat. His eyes sparkled. “I guess I could do that.”

“Very well. See that you do.” Sanity had been restored, even if she’d had to endure a momentary lapse into indecorous ogling to achieve it. Satisfied, Grace hitched up her skirts.

“Except for the reward and all.”

His words ended her victorious retreat. Slowly, Grace turned back, her skirts fluttering lower. “What reward?”

“The one I offered for marrying you.”

Disbelieving, Grace stared. How had she ever found Jack Murphy tolerable, even for an instant? Even for as long as it took to be lulled by his big, strong demeanor, his ready smile, his too-teasing voice?

Two words were all she could manage civilly. “Explain yourself.”

“Any man who successfully marries you gets free drinks in my saloon for a year.” Generously, Jack spread his arms. He possessed two heartily unlikable dimples. “It was supposed to be for a month, but I didn’t have very many takers, so—”

“You beast!” Furiously, Grace walloped him with her scarf. “You’re auctioning me off like a—a—a cow?”

She’d never heard of anything more mortifying.

His low chuckle drove her mad. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more akin to a reward than an auction. But if you think it would be quicker for you to just get up onstage…”

“Arrgh!” Infuriated, Grace paced. She was never at a loss for words, but this time…she was.

“Come on now. Don’t be this way,” Jack urged. “Those free drinks are going to cost me plenty, you know. This isn’t cheap, but I reckon it’ll be worth it in the end. To both of us.”

Was that his notion of an apology? She couldn’t even speak, she felt so embarrassed. Snow squished beneath her shoes as she went on tramping it down in enraged, unsatisfying circles. Beyond them walked curious passersby carrying packages. Some rattled past in sleighs, their breaths puffing in the cold.

Grace hoped none of them could overhear this indignity.

Including the horses.

“I thought you would at least admire the initiative involved,” Jack went on, sounding absurdly reasonable. “It was—”

“Initiative? I can’t believe you even comprehend the word,” Grace sputtered, flinging her arm outward. She quit pacing long enough to glare at him. “You oafish, self-concerned—”

“You ought to be happy. All you have to do is say yes.”

“—uncultured excuse for a human being!”

With a shrug, Jack leaned against the stair rail.

He issued an indifferent sound, then lifted his burly arm and scratched underneath it.

Grace recoiled. All the man did was grunt, scratch and—inexplicably, given that he did not partake of it—smell richly of tobacco. He obviously had no sense of decorum or civility or acceptable behavior. Any man who would raffle her to the most successful marriage bidder was clearly lacking in intelligence as well. Had all that whiskey pickled his brain?

“If you were the least bit civilized,” she began, staring in aggravation at the hard line of his jaw, the unseemly size of his muscles, the rough disorder of his clothes, “you would realize exactly how inappropriate your efforts are.”

He grunted. “Don’t care.” Settling more comfortably against the stair rail—almost as though he were enjoying himself—he smiled in a way that put both dimples to scandalous advantage. “You won’t either, after I snag you a husband or two.”

Now he meant to get her more than one! Gaping at him, Grace finally understood the depths to which he was willing to sink. She’d never met anyone she couldn’t influence, but this time…this time her back was against the wall. Even her threat to enlist the valiant ladies of the Social Equality Sisterhood hadn’t made an impression. Jack was just that loutish.

And exactly that swaggering.

If only she could make him see reason, Grace fumed. But how? How did a person go about instilling sensibility in a man like him? A man who saw nothing wrong with marrying the town spinster to the thirstiest, most penny-pinching drunkard?

Then it occurred to her. Like magic, as she examined his big uncouth hands and handsome oafish face, Grace realized
the truth. All she had to do was civilize Jack! It was as plain as castile soap meeting dirt. Surely once she had properly improved and shaped and enlightened her problematically burly neighbor, he would appreciate how sensible it would be to leave her in peace—and to leave her free of husbandly candidates, too.

Why, he might even go further, Grace reasoned excitedly. With her expert tutelage, Jack might finally see the sense in segregating his saloon from her meeting rooms—and all her difficulties would be solved!