by The Rascal
Damnation. Remembrance and regret stilled his hand, but Jack refused to acquiesce so easily. He caressed Marjorie again—and encountered another handful of undergarments.
He closed his eyes, pushed to the limit by this damnable intrusion. He wanted to appreciate undergarments as adornments for the female form, just as he’d always done before. Not as the unwitting instruments of his downfall. But he couldn’t.
This was serious. Would he never be able to undress a woman freely again? Would he always be reminded of his lost livelihood when he tried?
One of life’s profoundest pleasures was being with a woman. Jack wasn’t sure he could survive without it. Yet from here on, it would be his own damned fault if he had to.
The moments lengthened, he rasping for breath and Marjorie squirming subtly beneath him.
At last, she craned her neck. “Jack…?”
The disappointment in her innocent query gutted him.
“Shhh. It’s fine.” He kissed her again, hoping to buoy himself and recapture the moment. Somehow though, everything felt skewed. Wrong. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
A pause. “You know, it’s all right if you’d rather…oh, I don’t know. Discuss business, perhaps?” Her chirpy tone belied their intimate position. “I’ve been having a few ideas about your dilemma. And about potential financing. And about how to inform women of your marvelous creations.”
Jack groaned. “You’ve had time to contemplate all that?”
Affably, Marjorie nodded. She regarded him expectantly.
Jack’s spirits plummeted. Circumstances were more dire than he’d thought. Of a certain, he was losing his touch. He had set out to seduce a woman and had only succeeded in igniting her business instincts. What was the matter with him?
Carefully releasing her, he sat up.
“Oh, Jack.” Marjorie grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s only that I got to thinking—”
“It’s all right.” He managed a smile, then patted her knee for reassurance. “My mind works overmuch, too. I can’t stop it. We have that in common.”
He tried for a light tone to leaven the statement, so she wouldn’t guess how much the fact of it bothered him. Here he was, inches away from a willing woman, and his thoughts were crowded not with her myriad charms, but with his new notoriety, his lost teaching position and the peace of mind he might never savor again.
Thrusting his hand through his hair, Jack considered the situation. He could not go to work. His professorship was as lost to him as his good reputation was. He could not go home, at least not without facing bold female admirers, scheming opportunists and his meddlesome sisters’ visits to explain their participation in the whole debacle.
He certainly could not linger overlong with Marjorie. Their lives were independent and always had been, by a mutual agreement that had forever suited them both.
But now… As much as Jack yearned to deny it, as much as he’d endeavored to escape it, one thing seemed evident.
His life would never be the same again.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Wrapping her arms around him, Marjorie hugged him to her. “You’re not the only man who’s had trouble being intimate.”
“I do not have trouble being intimate.” He gritted his teeth. “I’d show you, except…ah, hell.”
His throat tightened. His eyes burned. All at once, Jack felt like bawling. He’d never been weak. He’d been strong. Accomplished. Proud. But now his whole life was in shambles, and there was no immediate way out.
Not now that seducing Marjorie had failed him.
“I understand.” This time, Marjorie patted his knee in a commiserating fashion. “I do.”
Jack wished he did. But he refused to admit as much aloud. He was an educated and discerning man. An inventive man. Yet right now he did not understand. Anything. And he hated it.
Marjorie’s insightful look softened. “Don’t worry. You need time to get used to things, that’s all. Then you’ll feel like yourself again.”
Frowning, Jack prayed she was right. With the discipline and attentiveness that had characterized his dual vocations as academic and inventor, he studied her dressing gown’s embroidered silk. Despite his efforts, frustration swamped him.
There was only one thing left to be said. But before Jack could muster the apology Marjorie deserved, she hugged him close once more. She released him, then examined him cheerfully.
“I’m only sorry you didn’t offer me an investment opportunity in these unmentionables of yours,” she teased as they sat side by side on the settee, old friends regardless. “If you become rich and famous from them—”
“I’m already infamous.”
“—I’ll certainly wish I could benefit. Trust me, Jack.” Marjorie swept her hand toward her middle. “I’ve never worn anything more comfortable or ingenious—or flattering—in my entire life.”
He slanted her a dubious glance. But her faith in him lifted his mood all the same. Marjorie did not discuss money and investments casually. She meant what she said.
“Those undergarments aren’t meant for comfort,” he reminded her with a devilish grin. “They’re meant for easy removal. Not to mention a few more…shocking purposes. I’d be glad to explain them in detail, if you’ve forgotten.”
She put her fingers to his lips, shaking her head at his offer. Her eyes sparkled, doubtless reflecting the renewed glint in his own.
“There’s no need. Besides, however inconvenient this may be right now, remember—you’re only ‘infamous’ here in Boston.”
“This is where my home is.”
Marjorie waved her hand carelessly. “You can always go somewhere else for a while. As it happens, my friends in Philadelphia might host you.” Her smile turned keen. “Some of us relish a good scandal now and then, you know.”
Regrettably, Jack wasn’t one of them.
“Scandal is more enjoyable when it doesn’t bankrupt you.”
“Pshaw. You must have savings. Investments of your own or a nest egg of some kind.” Sounding unconcerned, Marjorie pushed to her feet. She padded to the opposite end of the bedroom, her dressing gown fluttering richly in her wake, then lifted a decanter. “Whiskey? To help you think on it?”
Jack gazed at the amber liquid, mostly unseeing. “Thank you.” Prodded by habitual chivalry, he rose. “I’ll pour.”
Their hands met over the uncapped decanter’s neck. Jack wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but a shot of Old Orchard couldn’t hurt, he reasoned. The liquor’s unmistakable tang rose to meet him, clearing his head.
Solving his predicament would require something drastic, he determined as he downed his first swig. It would require wit and inventiveness and hard work. It would require courage. It would require, as all things did, certain and pure inspiration.
All the better, Jack told himself as he poured another whiskey. He had all those qualities and more. And inspiration had always come easily to him, whether he wanted it to or not. Witnessing Marjorie in her finery was proof enough of that.
“Mmm. You look better already.” Marjorie sashayed nearer, seeming pleased. “Have you found a solution so soon?”
Jack examined his glass. “I have,” he was surprised to hear himself say. “And you will never believe what it is.”
Chapter Two
Fourteen months later
Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory
“Ale,” came a voice from the other side of the bar.
Glancing up, Jack slung his barkeep’s towel over his shoulder. He stifled a grin. The big man who took a seat before him was a favorite among all his saloon’s customers.
Blacksmith Daniel McCabe was renowned for his abilities to swing a hammer, seduce a lady, or hold his liquor. Some of those talents had been stifled, of course, since his marriage to schoolteacher Sarah Crabtree a few months ago. But enough raw edges remained that Jack found Daniel eminently imitable.
Which was one reason he was
happy to see him now.
Not to put too blunt a face on it, Jack still needed tutelage on becoming a proper western roustabout. Once he’d mastered that, he reasoned as he pulled the ale, he would fit in perfectly among his new friends and neighbors. McCabe just might be the man to offer him—however unwittingly—a few necessary tips.
Anticipating exactly that, Jack slung the ale across the bar in a practiced arc.
McCabe nodded. “Much obliged.”
Jack only grunted. Grunting had proven surprisingly useful during his first few months in the west, saving him more than once from accidental lapses into professorial lecturing or elaborate speech.
After wiping up a splash of spilled mescal, Jack pocketed the blacksmith’s coin. Being a saloonkeeper was not making him wealthy. But it did offer him peace of mind. Thanks to his troubles in Boston, that seemed far more valuable these days.
When he’d first come to Morrow Creek more than a year ago, intending to prove himself more man than “sissified corsetry creator,” he’d expected to be exposed right away for the academic he really was. Or possibly for the scandalous, whispered-about inventor he’d unintentionally become.
Surprisingly, things hadn’t turned out that way.
In the west, it seemed, people saw a man for who he was—not who he used to be. They looked no further than the present. So to Jack’s satisfaction, everyone had accepted him as the taciturn Irish saloonkeeper he’d professed himself to be. And he’d immediately taken to the northern reaches of the territory itself, with its mountain ranges and deep ponderosa pine forests and boundless opportunities. So he’d contacted a land agent, arranged for the lease of a new saloon property—setting it as far away from his old life in Boston as possible—and begun anew.
It had cost him plenty, to be sure, Jack mused as he served up a mescal to a sun-browned cowboy. All his savings. All his close contact with his family and friends. Everything he’d once held dear.
But now he had a new life in Morrow Creek, with his past a close-held secret and his unwanted notoriety securely behind him. If he could turn his saloon into a profitable venture, in fact, he’d be well on his way to having everything he needed.
All in all, life was simple. Peaceful. And that was exactly the way Jack liked it. He’d staked everything on an existence filled with not much more than hopes of a rousing good time, a bit of coin to rub together and a few willing women who weren’t wearing his radical undergarments. These days, when end came to end, all Jack wanted was to make his saloon a success…and to prove, to himself more than anyone else, that he would be master of his fate from here on out.
He didn’t ever want to be at the mercy of public opinion—or the subject of public excitement—ever again.
To that purpose, Jack filled his days with serving up whiskey and lager, and his nights with rowdy meetings of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club. He kept to himself, not talking overmuch or getting too close to anyone. It was all for the best, he reasoned. He couldn’t let anyone really know him. Otherwise they’d uncover his secret past, and his quiet life would be set akilter all over again.
So he hid away his books in his solitary rooms at the rear of the saloon, tossed away his suits and neckties for shirts and britches, and answered most inquiries with a grunt or a joke—both designed to keep folks securely at their distance.
“Hey, Murphy. How come you can’t play the piano?” the cowboy across the bar whined, tipping up his hat. “The saloon I was in up round Kansas City had a piano and dancing girls and even a little monkey what would bring you peanuts for a penny. How come you don’t have ent’tainment like that?”
“Quit yer caterwauling, Perkins.” The blustery rejoinder came from the gambling tables across the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor, where several men wagered their newly assayed mine earnings. “You’re just fed up ’cause you already lost on this here faro game.”
Several other patrons agreed, offering good-natured guffaws. Someone suggested Perkins hog-tie them a dancing girl himself and bring her inside.
“Now, now.” Jack spread his hands, palms down, gesturing for order. “There won’t be any women in my place, hog-tied or not.” He couldn’t help but display his Irishman’s grin, nor hide the mischievous glint in his eye. “Leastwise not till I get my boardinghouse rooms set up upstairs.”
“When’s that gonna be, anyhow?” A grizzled miner peered up from his cards. “Me and some of the other fellas could sorely use someplace to stay in town ’sides the Lorndorff. It’s damned near picked my pockets clean already.”
There were nods all around. Demand was high for affordable lodging space, especially with the railroad stopping weekly.
“I’m working on it.” Jack pulled another lager, its yeasty aroma teasing his nose. “I’ve run across a few…difficulties.”
Thinking of those difficulties, he shot a beleaguered look toward the top floor of his leased space. For the umpteenth time, he wished he’d had the necessary funds to secure the entire building for his own use. Unfortunately, when he’d arrived, his meager savings hadn’t spread that far.
Because of that, Jack was stuck with a neighboring tenant directly above him. And unless he convinced his fellow leaseholder to surrender the space to him on payments he could afford—now that his saloon was doing moderate business—his plans for expansion would have to wait.
“You let me know whenever you’re ready to get those boardinghouse rooms started, Murphy,” Marcus Copeland said. The local lumber mill owner had joined McCabe while Jack had been slinging mescal to the cowboy, and now sat with his ledger books spread, as usual, directly in front of him. “I’ll give you the lumber you need to finish those rooms for a good price.”
“Hey!” the blacksmith protested, elbowing him. “That ain’t what you told me when I wanted to buy supplies for Lillian and Lyman’s new house, out near the general store. You didn’t say a blasted thing about ‘a good price.’”
“That’s because your sister and her husband can afford to pay full cost,” Copeland pointed out reasonably, his voice tinged with humor. It wasn’t for nothing he was known as the most frugal-minded man in the territory. “They don’t need a good price. But Murphy here…he does, and we both know it.”
McCabe tilted his head. “Yep. I guess so. On account of the ‘Grace factor,’ I reckon. He surely does.”
Blandly, he gave Jack a mournful look.
His supposed pity was a shameless sham—underlain through and through with a born joker’s appreciation for good humor—and Jack knew it. Everyone in town considered his ongoing feud with Grace Crabtree to be a riotous joke.
Today Jack was having none of it.
“Quit jawing, the both of you,” he commanded. “Else I might decide to charge you both full price for your liquor from here on out. To make up for the ‘nag factor.’”
He raised his brows, challenging his friends to disagree.
Both men chortled, not the least intimidated.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Lazily, McCabe dropped his flat-brimmed hat to the bar. “You’d lose your two best customers.”
Copeland merely examined him, a knowing gleam in his eye. “You’ll have to own up to it sooner or later, Murphy. Grace wants something from you, and it’s useless fighting a Crabtree woman when she’s got her mind set on something. I ought to know.” He cast his eyes heavenward, probably thinking of his wife, Molly, a celebrated baker and a Crabtree woman herself. “And Grace is the most set-minded Crabtree of them all.”
“Amen to that.” McCabe lifted his ale and quaffed.
Jack frowned, not wanting to discuss the “Grace factor” with them. Or anyone. Grace Crabtree—his aforementioned upstairs neighbor—had proved problematic nearly from his first day in town. He didn’t need her two brothers-in-law, both of them idiotically surrendered to marriage already, to remind him of that. As far as Jack was concerned, their marriages alone proved their lack of appropriate mental faculties.
Not that he intended to explain as mu
ch. Coming out with a phrase like appropriate mental faculties would peg him as a man who was more than he seemed, for certain.
“It’s not my fault you’re both shackled with wives,” he said instead, deepening his brogue for effect. “Just because you two have to kowtow to females doesn’t mean I should start humoring Grace Crabtree. Now does it?”
Mouths quirked, his friends exchanged knowing looks.
“She’ll picket your saloon if you don’t,” Copeland warned.
“Or lead her ladies’ auxiliary members in an organized protest,” McCabe added cheerfully. “Remember what happened to Nickerson’s Book Depot and News Emporium when Ned decided not to stock that highfalutin lady author’s book Grace wanted?”
“Jane Austen,” Copeland put in agreeably. “Molly told me the whole story. It was a Jane Austen book.”
Much as Jack appreciated knowing at least one other person in town who possessed a familiarity with literature beyond Beadle’s fantastical dime novels, he did not want to discuss Grace Crabtree and her radical, interfering ways. Nor did he want to join his friends in gleefully predicting his saloon’s further troubles. Why could no one understand that?
Hoping to distance himself from the conversation, he swiped his towel over the bar, then dusted the gilded frame of his famous above-the-bar oil painting, as well. Its enormous canvas depicted a scantily clad water nymph. He’d affectionately nicknamed her Colleen, and her risqué image lent a popular allure to his saloon—one Jack felt rightly pleased with.
No “sissified corsetry creator” would hang a painting like that one. He felt damned certain of that. It had been the first thing he’d purchased upon settling in Morrow Creek.
“Right. Jane Austen,” McCabe agreed, nodding. He sounded utterly unrepentant in needling Jack. As usual. “Remember how Deputy Winston had to unchain Grace from the news depot’s hitching post and haul her off to the sheriff’s office?”
Both men laughed. Copeland hoisted his customary sarsaparilla for another swig, and McCabe finished his ale.