by The Rascal
“Pretend?”
“—and seeing as how you haven’t any beaux of your own—”
“Beaux?” Grace could only gawp.
“—I couldn’t expect you to…” Lizzie bit her lip. “Oh Grace! It’s only that I love Alonzo so very dearly—”
Suddenly caught up in her favorite topic, Lizzie rattled on, extolling the virtues of her future bridegroom with a gleam in her eye. Grace couldn’t bear to listen. Now she was losing one of her best typesetters—one of her friends!—to the addle-headed state of marriage. It saddened her greatly.
“What is it about matrimony that makes mush of women’s minds?” Grace demanded. “I honestly don’t understand it.”
She also didn’t understand how she would cope without her friend by her side. Without the stories and confidences they shared, her workday would seem dreary indeed.
“Oh, Grace.” Lizzie’s face shone, bearing a marked resemblance to her sisters’ countenances of late. “I guess… I don’t suppose you would understand, would you?”
Grace crossed her arms, supremely discomfited. It wasn’t like her to show an excess of emotion, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she were…missing something somehow.
With an expression alarmingly akin to pity, Lizzie examined her. She leaned nearer and patted Grace’s shoulder.
“But if you’re very fortunate, and if you try very hard to find nicer shoes—” her gaze skittered to Grace’s prized, sensible footwear “—then maybe someday you’ll snare a man of your own. Just keep hoping!”
Before Grace could refute that outrageous advice, Lizzie hopped down from her typesetter’s stool. Then she sashayed happily toward the door that divided their workplace from the newspaper offices proper, doubtless to tender her official resignation—and, inadvertently, to leave Grace behind.
As usual.
With her heart pounding wildly, Grace approached the closed door of her father’s office. This was it. The moment she’d waited for. The moment when Adam Crabtree would turn over the day-to-day management of the Pioneer Press to the next generation of capable Crabtrees.
To her.
Confidently, she rapped on the door. Her papa’s jolly voice rang out, offering her admission.
An instant later, Grace found herself standing amid piled newspapers and amassed volumes of books and bookshelves and an enormous desk covered with every aspect of an editor’s responsibilities. Articles. Pencils. Drawings. Newly submitted advertisements. Assorted India rubbers.
The whole lot of it felt like home. It felt like everything she’d worked toward for so long. And looking at it now stimulated feelings in Grace she’d scarcely experienced before—a mishmash of belonging and protectiveness and anticipation. With the accoutrements of this position at her disposal, she could accomplish so much! She could make her father proud.
Adam peered up at her, pausing his fingers against his tall Remington Type Writer machine. There were no others like it in town. Her father was nothing if not an innovator.
“You asked to see me, Papa?”
“Yes, I did.” Sighing, he removed the spectacles he used for close work, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you sit down, Grace?”
“I’m fine standing.” In fact, she felt as though her renowned oversize shoes might not be adequate to keep her feet on the ground. That was how fraught with eagerness she was. “Thank you all the same.”
“Very well. Have it your way.” His smile flashed. “After all, you usually do.”
Grace smiled back. “That’s something I share with you.”
“Yes. Fine.” Clearing his throat, Adam looked to the open doorway. “Perhaps you’ll want to close the door?”
“Oh! Of course.” He wouldn’t want to let anyone in the exterior offices be privy to their conversation. It was a monumental one, after all. Nearly dizzy with hopefulness, Grace fairly skipped to the door. She shut it. “There. Now…exactly what did you want to see me about?”
“It’s about the newspaper. As you know, your mother has been after me for some time to retire. To let ‘a young buck’ take over the running of the Pioneer Press, so we can get on with our golden years. Naturally enough, it’s been difficult for me to hold her off for as long as I have. Your mother is a very determined woman.”
He broke off, fondness suffusing his face.
For her part, Grace concentrated fiercely on being still. She needed to demonstrate her utmost maturity. That would make her papa feel better about handing over the newspaper to her care. She clasped her fingers and waited.
“Also I would like to indulge my artistic ambitions a bit, if I could find the time. I’ve been putting them off for years. And, well…” He cleared his throat again, then peered up at her. An uncommon unease seemed to have gripped him. “The end of the story is this. A new editor is on his way here. I just received his wire today. He’s on the westbound train, set—”
The floorboards waved beneath Grace’s feet. Her ears rang, and a hollowness gripped her belly, even as her papa went on talking in his solid, familiar voice. Surely he hadn’t just implied that someone else was coming to take over the newspaper?
She must have heard him wrong.
“…very capable man,” her papa was saying, “direct from New York University. He’ll bring something new to the Pioneer Press, an outside perspective we’ve been lacking for too long.” He broke off abruptly, brow furrowed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit down? You look a bit pale.”
Not for anything would Grace have moved from that spot. She did have her pride to consider. At this moment, in fact, it might be all she had to consider.
“I’m sorry. Did you say…” Grace shook her head. “Exactly whom have you appointed the next editor?”
“Thomas Walsh. Fine man. Best credentials.”
“Oh. I understand.” Woozily, Grace realized she did not. And perhaps she never would. She clenched her fists more tightly. “But Papa, I’d always believed you might allow me to—”
Unshed tears squeezed her throat, obliterating everything else she’d meant to say. Grace could not believe that now, now when it most mattered to her future, she would succumb to feminine weakness. What was wrong with her?
“That I might—” she tried again. “You see, I’ve spent so much time—” Again, frustratingly, her voice failed her.
“I know, Grace. I know.” All at once, her papa seemed surpassingly weary. “But it’s not to be. I have to at least try Mr. Walsh first. You must understand, I built this newspaper with my bare hands, up from a single printing press assembled beneath an oak near the town square. As admiring as I am of your capabilities, I simply can’t afford to risk the reputation of—”
“I see.” She felt rooted to the spot, numb with disbelief.
“I’m not sure you do.” Her papa rose from behind his desk, his gray brows drawn together with concern. He pulled her into his arms for a gruff hug. “See now. I love you, Grace Abigail. I won’t have you looking so unhappy. Someday you’ll realize—”
But all Grace could realize was that her dreams had been dashed, and her hopes for carrying on the family legacy stymied. Without them to sustain her, she wasn’t sure what to do. But she could not stay there, that was for certain.
Desperately, she drew in a quavering breath. She stepped out of her father’s embrace, her skirts swishing.
“I…I understand. That’s fine, Papa,” she managed to say. “I know you must do what you think is right. As for myself, I really must get back to the typesetting room.”
Grace offered a feeble gesture in that direction, praying her papa wouldn’t notice the way her hand trembled…the way her voice shook and her eyes burned. She could bear up under this disappointment, she vowed. She could and she would.
Somehow.
Her papa gave her a grave look. Something in his solemn eyes made her wonder if he’d guessed how distressed she truly felt. But then Adam Crabtree only released another sigh and nodded.
&nbs
p; “We’ll talk later,” he promised, patting her arm.
“Yes.” She gulped another sob. “Later.”
Then Grace sighted the doorknob through watery eyes, wrenched it open and set herself free…free to a world that had suddenly emptied for her in a very real way.
For the first time in her life, Grace had no plan to assist her, no grand scheme to take her from one point to another. She had only movement. Striding with ever-larger steps, she left the Pioneer Press offices behind her, her oversize shoes squeaking clumsily against the slushy snow.
All around her, the streets of Morrow Creek teemed with activity. Local farmers’ wives shopped at the mercantile. Miners rode through with mules close behind, carrying supplies for hardy winter surveying. Teams of horses pulled wagons freshly equipped with sleigh runners for the season, gouging deep tracks in the street. Before long, springtime would be here, and even more townspeople would venture out.
Moving briskly, Grace jerked her head high and pretended to be on a very urgent mission. She narrowed all her efforts to putting one foot in front of the other, deliberately not thinking about anything other than where to go next. Returning to the newspaper offices was unthinkable. Knowing they would soon be under the management of a stranger—
Swerving, Grace sent her thoughts in a new direction.
Home. She could go home and deal with this disappointment in private. But her mama would be there, doubtless previously informed of her papa’s decision, and she would want to talk the whole issue to pieces. Sympathy, to Fiona Crabtree, meant a nice pot of tea and a marathon session of chattering. And commiserating. And chattering some more. To Grace, the thought of it was simply unbearable.
Almost by rote, she found her feet carrying her in the opposite direction, toward the building she used for meeting-room space for her various clubs and activities. Yes, Grace thought in relief as its false-fronted facade and two-story solidness loomed ahead, smoke puffing merrily from the chimneys. I’ll go there and cope with all of this privately.
Even as she veered in that direction, she could scarcely contain her disappointment. Her confusion. Her rising—and strangely comforting—sense of righteous indignation.
Thomas Walsh indeed!
Grace could not believe this was happening. Now after all her hard work! After all her hopes and dreams.
By the time she drew near enough to read the cursed sign promoting her neighbor Jack Murphy’s downstairs saloon, she was riled up fair to fuming. How dare her papa hire a replacement? Especially one nobody knew? It was outrageous!
Chances were excellent, she assured herself, that the unknown Mr. Walsh had no notion at all of what he was getting into. Eastern men from the States often traveled to the territory, prodded by tales of adventure they culled from silly dime novels and fantastical periodical articles penned by irresponsible journalists.
Once Mr. Walsh realized he would be a simple editor of a simple newspaper in a simple small town, Grace brooded, he would probably give up. Exactly as befitted the ill-spelling, unoriginal, tabloid-reading opportunist he indisputably was.
Conjuring up his many potential faults—an activity she found invigoratingly consoling—Grace stomped her way toward the snowy steps that led to her upstairs rooms. Thomas Walsh was probably incapable of editing at all, she fumed. They’d be fortunate if he could struggle through one of Sarah’s prized McGuffey Readers. He probably dressed poorly, enjoyed stinky cheroots and believed Nast’s cartoons to be the pinnacle of political sophistication.
Still seething, Grace caught the handrail and brought her heavy shoe to bear on the first step. Then the next. And another, moving as fast as frustration could carry her.
All her life, doing something—being active—had kept her from feeling anything she didn’t want to feel. Now although the best she could manage was to move steadily upward toward her solitary rooms, she remained steadfastly at it.
Suddenly, her man-size shoe failed to find purchase on the icy stair. Right in the midst of a silent discourse on Thomas Walsh’s evident inability to comprehend familial loyalty, Grace plummeted down the slippery steps to the ground.
And wound up on her hands and knees in the snow.
Startled by her new position, Grace realized she’d need a moment before she could move. At the least, she’d had the wind knocked out of her. Trembling, she took stock of her situation.
Her left knee stung fiercely, wet with snow melting through her skirts. Her elbow ached. Her ankle felt bruised. One of her mismatched gloves was abraded, too. She stared unthinkingly at its unraveled knit, the sight somehow terribly affecting.
It used to be such a serviceable glove, she mused. Now look at it. Useful for nothing and without a mate besides.
The swish of saloon doors interrupted her reverie.
Heavy footfalls came next, undoubtedly from someone who possessed untraitorous footwear. An enormous pair of boots entered her field of vision, packing down the snow in a gigantic clump. Then a large masculine hand descended, palm up and bare of any gloves at all.
“It’s been awhile since a woman fell at my feet,” came a disturbingly familiar Irish brogue. “Although I haven’t forgotten what a kindhearted a gesture it is. Much appreciated, too.” His teasing tone seemed warm enough to melt the snow. “Come on now, let’s get you up.”
Jack Murphy. Grace had time only to recognize his voice, discern the inevitable humor within it, then attempt to refuse his proffered help before he pulled her to her feet. She arose clinging to his burly arm. With dignity, she wrenched loose.
“I was not falling at your feet!”
The rascal only raised his brows toward the woman-size indentation marking the snow near his boots. He shrugged.
With that simple gesture, Grace had a target for her ire at last. He was a big one, too. A glare was too good for the hardheaded Irishman who bedeviled her daily by refusing to move his saloon, she decided. Even if he had just come to her assistance.
Already Jack Murphy had cost her heaven only knew how many club members—women who were too afraid to pass by the drunks and troublemakers who frequented his saloon in order to attend her meetings and rallies.
What’s more, the barkeep—a former Bostonian, Grace was given to understand—was far too interested in joviality. The man scarcely had the sense to use his time wisely or well, all the while costing Grace the unmolested use of her leased property. She’d done all she could to get him to move and leave her in peace, but the man seemed to hold the addled belief that it was she who lay at fault in their dispute.
“Ah.” Mr. Murphy shook his head, probably catching sight of her mulish expression. “If I’d known it was you thudding down the stairs and causing all that ruckus, I might have left you here. You and the frosty air probably get along just fine.”
“As do you and your frivolous whiskey. Good day.”
Grace raised her hand in farewell, intending to leave him hulking there in his typical brutish fashion while she nursed her disappointments in private. She’d no more taken a single step than Mr. Murphy grabbed her wrist.
“You’re hurt,” he nearly growled. “Come inside.”
Evidently he’d caught sight of her abused glove. Refusing to meet his gaze or even contemplate his dark-haired, devilish-eyed countenance for a single moment, Grace yanked free.
Or tried to. Jack Murphy held fast with surprising force.
Grace frowned. As a rule, they tried to avoid each other. Although given their proximity, doing so had not been an easy endeavor thus far.
“I have clean towels inside,” he said, “along with a bolt of tequila for the pain. Come with me.”
“Mr. Murphy, I will not!” she exclaimed, scandalized.
He towed her forward anyway. “Will not enter my saloon? Or enjoy a snort of tequila?” After glancing both ways, he entered the saloon with Grace in his grasp. “I would think a free-spirited suffragette like yourself would savor both.”
The doors swung shut behind them, sealing her
inside a murky world smelling of liquor, cigar smoke and masculinity.
“The respectful term is suffragist,” Grace rebutted automatically, limping slightly due to her knee injury. “Referring properly to persons of either gender who advocate the natural right of women to vote. I’d prefer it if you—”
“Bunch of twaddle.” Incredibly, Murphy shook his head.
Incensed, Grace found the strength to hobble faster, determined to keep up with him all the way to the bar. She spared an incredulous glance at the bawdy painting hanging above it, then centered her attention on Jack Murphy. The man was impossible. Aggravating. And, from all evidence acquired during their first year’s acquaintance, possibly simpleminded.
Of course, she supposed reluctantly, his features could be considered handsome. Regular. Manly. Possessing a certain rugged charm, even. If one liked that sort of thing. But strictly if the person doing the considering were female, susceptible and not Grace Crabtree.
All at once, the pressure on her hand increased.
“Ouch!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
“Removing this splinter.” He eyeballed a shard of wooden handrail with satisfaction, pinching its newly liberated length between blunt fingertips. “There’s another one, if you’ll—”
“I will not!”
Mr. Murphy lowered his shoulders—a certain sign, she’d learned during their acquaintance, that he was attempting to summon patience against his indisputably uncivilized nature.
She doubted it worked.
“Hold still,” he commanded.
Biting her lip, Grace did. Grudgingly. She hated to admit weakness and loathed even more following rules she had not set down herself. But Murphy was, after all, only trying to help.
Also, practically speaking, she couldn’t perform the delicate maneuver herself. Not easily at least.
She watched at first, wincing as he poked at her palm with a barkeeper’s instrument of some sort. He was adept with his hands, she was surprised to note—probably owing to his talent for pouring whiskey and scooping up the profits. Then Grace realized what other distractions lay nearby, quite apart from Jack Murphy’s blunt fingertips, and decided to take advantage of her unprecedented admittance to that most sacred of all men’s establishments: the saloon.