by Lisa Plumley
She already regretted it though, especially feeling, as she did, foolishly trussed up…like a prickly green chicken surrounded by finer-garbed peacocks. Grace’s only consolation was that her skirts and stiff bodice and voluminous petticoats seemed to have bewildered her would-be suitors.
Doubtless they didn’t recognize her, because none of the marriage proposals she’d grown accustomed to had been forthcoming. Their lack was almost enough to induce Grace into tight-laced gowns every day. Almost. But not quite.
She did, after all, have her reputation to consider. People looked up to her, especially the members of her various clubs. As a woman who’d advocated female dress reform on several occasions, Grace didn’t feel right abandoning her views for the sake of looking pretty—or dodging her specious “beaux” either.
Despite the absence of fresh marriage proposals though, Grace noted plenty of frivolity in the air. All around her, the wedding reception proceeded in merry fashion. The Stotts had opened their home to most of Morrow Creek, it seemed, and their small living room and parlor were packed with well-wishers.
A trio of musicians played in the corner, competing with the hum of conversation and laughter. People milled to all sides of Grace, enjoying the refreshments the bride’s family had provided—some of them baked by Molly herself.
Reminded of her sister, Grace glanced up. Molly still chattered about lace trim and embroidery, fascinated by both. Feeling much less comfortable with the subject matter, Grace excused herself. She made her way through the parlor and arrived in a safe corner, clutching her cup of cider. She watched the partygoers, fervently wishing she had something useful to do. She should have volunteered to take charge of…something.
Grace was not good at leisure. Possibly because she’d deliberately avoided it, preferring activity to feeling alone. Unlike the rest of her family, she was far from adept at social occasions, unless they involved picketing, and heartily preferred a nice protest march to a frivolous dance.
Usually, Sarah kept her company at such events, the two of them identical wallflowers. But today Sarah was smiling on the arm of her new husband, Daniel. She wouldn’t be joining Grace to discuss a novel or decipher a metagram or meet a poetry recitation challenge—to name just a few of their favorite pastimes. Sarah wouldn’t be helping Grace hide her awkwardness.
Several moments ticked past, fraught with merriness Grace didn’t know how to take part in. From across the room, she spied her papa, having no such trouble at all. Clad in his best suit, Adam Crabtree beamed with joviality. He and Grace had spoken again about the newspaper’s editorship and had reached an understanding of late. Grace still felt less than elated about Thomas Walsh coming, but she understood the reasoning behind it.
As she watched, her papa caught her mama’s hand. The two of them danced to the fiddle music, Fiona laughing as they dodged parlor furniture and other partygoers. It was so like her parents, Grace considered with a fond smile, to be the first ones to dance. Doubtless they’d be the last to quit as well.
Scratching the back of her neck—an impulse spurred by her itchy gown—Grace craned to see Lizzie again. The new bride conferred excitedly with her husband, rising on tiptoes. She blushed as he whispered something in her ear. Their faces shone with joy, bringing a pang to Grace’s heart. As happy as she was for her friend, she still felt…a little left behind.
Which was nonsense, Grace assured herself. Honestly. If she’d wanted a husband, she’d had plenty of offers to choose from lately! She was alone of her own choice. An unmarried woman of her own volition. Independent and proud and indisputably busy—especially with her plan to civilize Jack Murphy added to her already-burgeoning list of duties. No woman truly required more. The speeches and writings of Grace’s own personal suffragist heroine, Heddy Neibermayer, assured her of that.
With that recollection in mind, Grace put down her cider and made herself stroll the perimeter of the party, determined to make the best of things. She still felt lonely. But considering Heddy’s example, she decided that the very best remedy would be useful activity.
Perhaps she could seek out a few of her fellow ornithologists or women’s baseball league members and discuss their springtime fund-raisers. Or buttonhole Sheriff Caffey and engage him in a debate about appointing female officers to the town government. Or track down Jack Murphy and pair him with someone suitably enriching…someone who might put forward her refining plan without delay. Like a minister. Or a lady artist.
So caught up was she in her thoughts of a downstairs neighbor who neither grunted nor scratched, Grace barely noticed when a gentleman stepped into her path. Until it was too late.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry!” Embarrassed to have blundered straight into the man, Grace cursed her shoes. At Molly’s urging, she’d abandoned her favorite men’s brogans—the pair identical to Jack’s—in favor of delicate slippers. She had no notion how other women managed to move adroitly in the things. “I didn’t see you there. Please excuse me.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “It’s my fault entirely. I can’t imagine how I could have missed such a vision of loveliness as yourself.”
Oh, dear. She’d stumbled upon another potential suitor. This time, her ladylike disguise hadn’t deterred him at all. In fact, to judge by his eager tone, her itchy gown may have functioned as an incentive. Just one more reason not to wear it.
Resigned to deflecting yet another unwanted proposal, Grace glanced up. Past a fancy waistcoat, past a snowy shirt and velvety necktie, higher and higher until she reached an unfamiliar face. At the sight, her prepared refusal stuck in her throat. No man in Morrow Creek was this tall—save her brothers-in-law—and even well-suited Marcus Copeland didn’t possess the same kind of dapper elegance the stranger did.
Wearing a broad smile, he extended his hand. “Please forgive me. I fear I haven’t quite found my land legs after having departed the train.”
Invigorated and relieved, Grace accepted his handshake. He wasn’t another bumpkin eager to win free liquor. He only wanted to exchange small talk. That she could manage. “I haven’t had the pleasure myself, but I hear the rocking along the tracks is akin to being aboard a schooner.”
“Indeed it is.” He produced a lacy handkerchief and mopped his forehead. His eyes were kind behind his spectacles, his face youthful. “With fewer pirates, however, I’m delighted to say.”
Instantly, she liked him. It wasn’t often an unfamiliar person came to Morrow Creek, but this man was the epitome of culture and sophistication.
His educated speech and spruce dress reminded her of a drawing from one of Molly’s periodical magazines…magically come to life with stylish lines and sophisticated banter. She didn’t doubt he had many interesting stories to tell. She felt flattered that he’d selected her to share them with.
“Then let me be among the first to welcome you safely from your journey.” Grace found herself smiling boldly. This must be one of Lizzie’s far-flung relatives or a relation of the groom. She had definitely underestimated the caliber of her fellow wedding guests. “I am Grace Crabtree.”
“Grace Crabtree?” The glimmer in his eyes suggested he’d heard of her. Likely Lizzie had written him about their work as typesetters. “Then I am doubly glad to make your acquaintance.”
Proving his words, the man swept into a bow the likes of which Grace had never seen, making her laugh. When he straightened, his stylish hair flopped to his forehead in a most endearing fashion.
“I am Thomas Walsh,” he said. “Your new editor.”
So long as the smooth-talking knuck with the sissy clothes and the overfriendly manner and the spectacles as big as teacups merely shook hands with Grace, Jack figured he could stand it. But the instant he actually lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, the moment she laughed with very un-Gracelike glee, Jack knew he had to do something.
Clearly, Grace was out of her depth. Never mind that the man had cheeks like a chipmunk’s and an overbite to match. He was obviously
up to no good, and Grace—innocent, confounding Grace—was ill prepared to cope. She needed Jack to extricate her whether she realized it or not.
Determinedly, he strode across the room. Several times partygoers stopped to talk with him, partially blocking his view. The music swung into another quickly fiddled tune, making it impossible for him to eavesdrop on Grace’s conversation.
Hell. Was she still simpering and smiling at that pretentious twit? Or was she swooning, as she’d nearly done a few minutes ago? Jack didn’t know.
Getting free to go to her was a matter of a few hearty stomps, several manly grunts and—in one urgent instance—a gruff shove between two railroaders. Damnation! He had developed a rowdiness a real mountain man would have been proud of.
Suddenly, he broke loose between two cider-sipping ladies in old-fashioned wide gowns and spied her. Grace was staring up into the unknown man’s face, her eyes wide with what looked like speechless ardor. Had he actually struck her dumb? Jack wouldn’t have thought it possible. He hurried closer.
And nearly collided with them both.
Grace glanced up, startled. Her gaze swung from the stranger to Jack and back again. He realized—astonishingly—that he was nearly panting. Apparently, the trek across the room had been more strenuous than he’d reckoned on. Also the strategy he’d counted on devising when he got there hadn’t quite caught up with him yet. What the hell was he doing?
“Mr. Murphy.” Grace looked dazzled. “Please meet—”
“You promised me this dance,” Jack blurted.
She wrinkled her brow. “I did?”
Momentarily befuddled by her appearance, he didn’t answer right away. Up close, there was something different about her. Her gown? Her hair? He’d almost decided it was her hair—possibly those loose, unschoolmarmlike tendrils she sported so atypically—when Jack realized it was her expression. He’d never seen Grace appear less than one hundred percent certain about anything. Particularly anything relating to him.
Dismissing the aberration as the chipmunk’s influence, Jack stuck out his hand, palm facing.
“You did,” he lied. “I remember it distinctly.”
“You do?”
Jack nodded. Vigorously. Now that he’d embroiled himself, he meant to act to the fullest. The stranger looked on, doubtless disgruntled at the possibility of having the sole object of his attentions taken from him. The man opened his mouth to object, displaying those monstrous teeth. Jack decided he looked more donkey than chipmunk.
Still hesitating, Grace puckered her lips. Just this once, Jack prayed she would not be her usual contrary self.
“Indeed, I did. I’d entirely forgotten our dance.”
In a haze of relief, Jack felt her hand slip to his. He wasn’t sure how they arrived at the area cleared for dancing. Once there he pulled her in his arms and let instinct take over. Years of faculty mixers and Boston society events had prepared him for moments like this, but Grace had experienced no such training. She surprised him by stepping nimbly into place.
“Don’t look so astonished,” she admonished him as they turned. “I happen to excel at all things corporeal. I’m terribly agile and very fit. It’s because of all that protest marching, you see. And what is dancing, I ask you, if not another physical endeavor, meant to improve the heart and strengthen the limbs?”
Jack mustered up his best manly expression. “Dancing is an excuse to hold a woman close.” For good measure, he held her tighter, trying not to think of how well she fit in his arms. This was Grace Crabtree, he reminded himself. The thorn in his side since his arrival in town. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more? Nonsense. Dancing is an exercise in coordination, in music appreciation and in social interaction. Really, Mr. Murphy. You must broaden your thinking.”
“I already have.” He’d broadened his thinking to include the notion of his troublesome neighbor looking feminine and behaving gracefully, for one. She hadn’t even waved a single suffragette banner beneath his nose. “You’d be amazed at what I’m thinking right now.”
“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.”