Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 02]

by The Scoundrel

“Mmm. Quite,” Grace was saying.

  Oddly enough, she displayed a distinct lack of enthusiasm for her argument. In fact, she seemed to be agreeing with Molly now. Taken aback at this unprecedented event, Sarah stared. Then she glanced over her shoulder and squinted.

  Was it her imagination, or had Grace’s attention turned squarely on Jack Murphy, all of a sudden? The tall Irish saloonkeeper stood near the cider bowl with Daniel and Marcus, his head bare and his suit finer than most. He tossed back his dark head and laughed, then slapped Marcus on the back.

  Surreptitiously, Sarah peeked at Grace again. Her sister seemed transfixed. Curious. Especially since, only yesterday, she’d called Jack Murphy “a loathsome excuse for a whiskey-besotted layabout, with no regard for common decency or a hard day’s work or a woman’s right to enrich herself.”

  Oblivious to the drama playing out beneath their noses, Molly turned to Sarah. “I guess if you’re feeling victorious, my advice did the trick for you. I see you fixed your hair. Did you try some of the other things I suggested?”

  “Yes.” Sarah decided to put aside the matter of Grace’s feelings for Mr. Murphy, at least for tonight. “I tried the lavender water you gave me, and the beauty cream. Also, I used the hot iron to make curls in my hair, but I fear I’ve singed off a portion in the back. See?”

  Daniel had very nearly touched those heat-crisped hairs earlier, when he’d jokingly tugged one of her curls. She’d have died of mortification if he’d encountered her mistake. Most women knew how to wrangle beauty implements, Sarah knew, but she’d always been discouragingly lacking in that department. She didn’t want Daniel to think less of her.

  She only wished he hadn’t looked so hurt by the tiny whack she’d given him to warn him off. She hadn’t seen brown eyes that big and surprised since she’d told Eli he’d have to spend part of tonight being cared for by one of the young ladies from town.

  Molly examined the spot, displaying all the expertise of a woman born to wield hot hair tongs. “Don’t worry,” she said with a comforting pat. “You can hardly tell the difference. And anyway, you’ll learn the way of it soon enough. Before long, beautifying yourself will come naturally to you.”

  Grace snorted. “You can’t honestly believe a little powder and paint and perfume has led to Sarah’s victory?”

  “I certainly don’t think it’s hurt,” Molly said.

  “Ridiculous. I gave some advice, too, you know. Useful advice.”

  “Useful, you say? Honestly, Grace. If you think—”

  “Stop, you two. I haven’t won anything yet,” Sarah demurred, casting a nervous glance to her husband. Had anyone else seen him steadfastly ignore her greetings from across the room? “I only meant I’ve made some progress. I’m heartened by that, of course, but still…Daniel remains fairly resistant.”

  With a carefree wave, Grace dismissed that obstacle—just as though it weren’t six feet tall and packed with brawn…not to mention a devastating knack for humor. And a skill for morning cuddling.

  “Just continue with your protest plans,” Grace counseled. “You’ll have your conquest soon enough. Those tactics always work for me. Speaking of which, did you change your mind about the signs?”

  “I don’t need picket signs in my own home.”

  “You may well, yet. Men are a stubborn lot, dead set on having their own way. It takes imagination and vitality to make inroads against them.”

  “With them,” Molly specified primly. “Cooperation is key.”

  At her sisters’ differing philosophies, Sarah rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t know it, to hear the two of you go on. It’s as if you’ve never heard of cooperation.” She addressed her younger sister. “Molly, I’m primping and fluffing, just as you said. In fact, I aired out this fancy gown from mothballs, especially for tonight.”

  She grabbed its folds and curtsied. She didn’t even wobble in the unfamiliar movement, thanks to the agility and strength all her tree-climbing and rock-skipping had given her.

  “And Grace, I’ve officially gone on strike, just as you suggested,” Sarah went on. “After hearing your advice, I issued Daniel an ultimatum. Until he gives me a few husbandly courtesies—”

  “They’re not courtesies,” her sister interrupted resolutely. “They’re your due, as part of the unspoken contract you entered into when you married him.”

  “—I won’t be doing his washing, cooking his meals or mending his woolens.” Sarah meant it. This tactic was nigh on her last hope, else she wouldn’t have tried anything so drastic. “No matter how smelly, hungry or tattered he gets. I won’t be doing anything ‘wifely’ of any sort.”

  Aside from lying abed beside him, she amended privately. Waking next to Daniel had been something she’d been unwilling to give up, even for the sake of hog-tying him into loving her.

  Sarah knew her lack of resolve was shortsighted. But she just couldn’t help it. She’d loved Daniel even before marrying him. Becoming his wife had certainly done nothing to dim her ardor. In fact, when faced with his rough-hewn charm, his general good humor and his alarming knack for making her weak in the knees with a single one of his smiles—every blasted day!—Sarah knew she’d only fallen further.

  Drat it. Why did Daniel refuse to love her back?

  “Poor Eli, then.” Molly crossed her arms, giving Sarah and Grace similarly dismayed looks. “What’s he to do during all these shenanigans? He’s only a little boy! He can hardly cook a meal or wash his own clothes.”

  “I still take care of Eli, of course.” Sarah could not believe her sister would suspect otherwise. “He’s done nothing wrong. He’s wonderful, and I love him dearly. In fact, I think I’ve become something of a hero in his eyes for finagling a place for Whiskers in the household.”

  She explained about adopting the cat, about Daniel’s insistence the mangy feline was not a pet at all and about Eli’s fondness for the furry tomcat. He slept with Whiskers—well-scrubbed now—curled up on his bed and talked to him in the mornings while he prepared for school. In the evenings, Whiskers was the first one Eli greeted.

  “Very well.” Molly seemed reassured. “Still, I’m not convinced about these tactics of yours. Mark my words—sooner or later, Grace’s radical ideas will lead to trouble.”

  “They have not led to trouble yet. At least not an unmanageable quantity of it.” Grace sipped from her mug, then slanted a sideways glance to the men at the cider bowl. “But judging by the conspiratorial looks of those three, I think something…inconvenient just might be afoot yet.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Stop laughing, Murphy,” Daniel growled. “You might hurt yourself. Or I might hurt you myself.”

  “I can’t.” Weakly, the saloonkeeper swabbed at the tears in his eyes. His brogue had deepened, as it always did during those rare moments when he let down his guard. “My damn side hurts, too. Ahhh, the pain.”

  “It is a laugh, McCabe. Admit it.” Marcus struggled to speak, his usually somber face alight with mirth. “It’s not every day a man’s wife—”

  Unable to finish, he dissolved into laughter. He leaned on Jack Murphy’s suit-clad shoulder for support. The two of them guffawed like loons.

  “—goes on strike!” Murphy gasped. “Ha, ha! Strike!”

  They collapsed together, their dark coattails flying as they spun drunkenly beside the cider bowl. Uttering dismayed cries, several fan-flashing ladies stepped backward. A few men aimed disgruntled looks their way. Farther out, the music continued, muffling the sounds of their hilarity-fueled scuffle.

  This was getting him nowhere.

  Scowling, Daniel grabbed the flask Jack had secreted into the social. At least the man was good for something. He added a hefty slug to his cider, then drank. It tasted vile, but it gave him a satisfying warm glow. He needed it. Especially tonight, when his two nearest friends found his predicament hilarious. He shouldn’t have mentioned it at all.

  But he had to do something, damn it. Sarah had her dander up. Her head was f
illed with contrary ideas—ideas doubtless put there by her suffragette sister—about “husbandly courtesies” and marriage agreements and other nonsense. Because of them, she’d issued him an ultimatum. Him! An ultimatum!

  It had been bad enough when Sarah had served up those Molly-like wifely looks of hers—although by now Daniel knew what to look for where those were concerned. He’d nearly learned to withstand them. But this refusal to act as a wife was different. ’Twas a horse of a different color—one he damned well refused to ride.

  He sampled another mouthful of liquored-up cider, then sadly admitted the truth to himself. He hadn’t learned to bear up under those affecting looks of Sarah’s. He hadn’t. But he had learned to avoid them. That was something.

  Yet this latest…abomination of hers. It was daft. Going on strike? Only railway workers and coal miners resorted to such measures. They weren’t for a simple woman with a simple husband. But who could tell that to Sarah?

  The state of things was dire. His dirty skillets were mounting. He couldn’t find any socks. And he couldn’t afford to send out his clothes to a laundress—not now that he had two additional mouths to feed on his blacksmith’s earnings. Aside from which, he missed Sarah’s roast chicken. ’Twas a sight better than any of the sorry grub down at Murphy’s place.

  Truth be told, Daniel had gotten to like having her fuss over him. Buttoning up his shirts, arranging his dinner plate just so, turning his face this way and that in the mornings to examine his shave. Smiling at him, touching him…even just being there waiting for him when he came home to his now-bustling household at the end of a hot, hard day.

  There were a million little things Sarah did for him, he realized now. He’d be damned if he didn’t miss them all. Even the ones that had aggravated him at first, like her tendency to starch his shirts so stiff they all but stood up by themselves. He missed her caring. He missed her laughter. He missed her.

  Hell. He should have known marrying a woman would ruin her somehow. He felt heartily sorry to have done such a thing to Sarah. But his back had been against the wall.

  The two of them had never quarreled before. And even though this…he refused to say the word…thing was not an official set-to, it had gotten itself wedged between them, all the same. Daniel did not like it. He refused to accept it. Just feeling the limp way his shirt hung against him—lacking any starch at all, since he hadn’t known how to brew it up himself—stiffened his resolve. He had to solve this.

  “Look at them.” He pointed to Sarah and her sisters across the room, gaily laughing and swishing their skirts. “See how they look so happy? That’s probably because they’re plotting the downfall of all mankind.”

  Marcus laughed.

  Jack choked on his drink. When he’d recovered, he looked uncommonly sober. “Possibly. Particularly Grace.”

  “Oh, ho. Do I smell trouble with your cotenant?” Marcus’s ears all but perked up at a hint of business talk. “I thought you and Grace Crabtree had come to some sort of an agreement about your property dispute.”

  Jack frowned. “I’ll never come to an agreement with that woman!” he swore. “Never.”

  But his expression, when he gazed across the room, told a different story. A story likely to end in something sweeter and fierier than a simple union of commerce.

  “Keep your word, then,” Daniel advised glumly. He hefted his drink again, then loosened his necktie, feeling overwarm at the crowded social. “Save yourself now. Before it’s too late. Elsewise, Grace might start looking at you.”

  Marcus cocked a brow, an all-too-knowing look on his face.

  Grumbling, Daniel did his best to ignore it. At least the man had quit chortling over his misfortune. So what if he might suspect Daniel had fallen prey to a woman’s coy look?

  So what if—once or twice—he had?

  “So,” Marcus said, offering Daniel a slap on the back. “Sarah’s done it to you, as well.” Shaking his head, he swallowed some of his liquored cider. “Fine, then. At least we know what we’re dealing with. Besides, I knew it would happen. Sooner or later, every man falls.”

  “Oh, no. Not I!” Jack vowed, his brogue still deeper.

  “Nor me,” Daniel agreed, appalled at the very notion. “I may have married, but I refuse to let a woman dictate the terms of our life together.”

  As though that were somehow humorous, Marcus’s mouth quirked. “You may not have much choice in the matter. Sarah has already refused to act as your wife, hasn’t she?”

  Until you grant me a few husbandly courtesies, I’m afraid I won’t be doing your washing, cooking your meals or mending your woolens. No matter how smelly, hungry or tattered you get.

  Glumly, Daniel nodded. “She said she won’t do anything ‘wifely’ of any sort.” He looked up. Frowned. “Hold, now. What are those damned smirking looks for?”

  “Nothing ‘wifely’?” Marcus prodded, eyebrows waggling.

  “Nothing?” Jack prompted.

  Their meaning struck him. He refused to discuss it. So what if he and his wife lay virtuously beside one another each night? It was no business of theirs.

  The important thing was, for the want of his kiss and a few sentimental words, Sarah had gone to outlandish lengths. She’d gone on strike. That was the fact of the matter and the problem before him. Hell. If Daniel had known this was coming, he might have mustered the fortitude to dole out her “husbandly duties” when she’d first requested them.

  “There must be another way,” he said, sidestepping the issue of sampling Sarah’s “wifely” pleasures. “Or another explanation. I cannot believe Sarah would wage this…this cockeyed battle of wills with me.” He shoved his hand through his hair in frustration, doubtless leaving it standing on end. He didn’t care. “I thought she was sensible!”

  Marcus shook his head. “She’s a Crabtree, isn’t she? That explains it all.”

  Looking beleaguered, Jack Murphy nodded. “Crabtree women are unlike any other women. In the territory or the States.”

  They fell silent, triply contemplating the mysteries of womankind. Across the room, the Crabtree sisters gossiped and laughed. Grace even had the gall to stare boldly back at the men, then whisper something more to Sarah and Molly.

  “Still,” Marcus mused, “there may be a loophole here.”

  Ahhh. Finally.

  “Trust a businessman to spot it.” Feeling more hopeful, Daniel turned to him. He hadn’t entrusted his friends with this issue for nothing, after all. Eagerly, he rubbed his hands together, beyond ready for a solution. “What loophole would that be?”

  “I can’t talk about it here.”

  Marcus tipped more whiskey into their mugs. After glancing at the nearby revelers, he angled his head to the corner of the crowded room. The three men retreated there, where it was a sight quieter and a little more private.

  “Your reluctance to discuss it says it all,” Jack blurted, plainly unwilling to wait for Marcus to speak. His face shone with the damnable cockiness of an unencumbered bachelor. “I think I know what it is. I can’t believe I didn’t come up with it myself.”

  “Indeed.” Marcus nodded. “It’s simple.”

  Yes. So simple both of those lunkheads could see it, yet Daniel could not.

  He gritted his teeth. “Come out with it, or I’ll pound you both.”

  Jack smirked. “I cannot believe the legendary Daniel McCabe is stymied by a mere woman.” From the depths of his suit coat, he retrieved another flask and uncorked it. Irksomely, he raised it toward Sarah in a toast. “Here’s to the woman who’s outfoxed McCabe.”

  “Hear, hear,” Marcus echoed, raising his own drink.

  “Stop it, damn it.” Daniel cast Sarah a nervous glance. “She’ll see you.”

  “What if she does?” Grinning, Jack sampled his liquor. With mock sorrowfulness, he shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day a female had you tied up in knots, McCabe.”

  “Nor I,” Marcus said, “which is what led me to my solution.
After all, what man in town knows more about women than Daniel?”

  “No one.” Everyone agreed with that, Daniel reasoned. Even Sarah. “What are you driving at?”

  “Only this.” The lumberman hunkered closer, keeping their conversation between the three of them. “For some reason or other, when it comes to this problem, you are ignoring your hardiest asset—your ways with women.”

  Jack snorted.

  “You know it’s true, Murphy,” Marcus insisted. “Who has charmed more of them, bedded more of them—”

  “Make your point.” Daniel crossed his arms. “I’m a married man. It’s not fitting to talk about my conquests.”

  “‘Not fitting’?” That earned a laugh from Jack. He elbowed Marcus knowingly. “There’s his problem, Copeland. He’s gone all prissy on us since getting married. Damnation. Next he’ll be wanting smelling salts or the like.”

  More guffaws. Daniel scowled warningly at him, but said nothing more. He didn’t want to risk distracting Marcus from his supposed plan. With admirable patience—he considered—he resisted the urge to drag it from the man forcibly.

  “All you have to do,” Marcus announced, his entire manner suggesting it was obvious, “is charm Sarah. She is a woman, after all. Therefore, she should be no trouble for you.”

  “Mmm-hmm. ’Tis just as I thought,” Jack said happily. “A good tactic. Seduce her. Charm her, befuddle her and then end this nonsense of a strike. Once you’ve worked your magic on her, Sarah will do whatever you want.”

  “Seduce her? This is my wife we’re talking of.” Daniel frowned, hoping the meaning of his words was plain. “My friend. I won’t hear this kind of talk about her.”

  “Oh, put away your scowls, McCabe,” Marcus said cheerfully. “You know it as plain as I do. It’s the only solution. You must use your best skills and abilities in fighting this matter, and see it ended once and for all.”

  “Take a stand, man,” Jack agreed heartily. “For the good of all mankind! You said it yourself—you’re engaged in a battle of wills. Do you want to win or not?”

  Truthfully, what Daniel wanted was for none of this to be necessary. But since it was…