by The Rascal
Chapter Five
Grace first noticed something askew two days later, while leaving her meeting rooms on her way to the Pioneer Press offices. She’d decided to continue with her typesetting work. Her papa would need someone to help watch over the Crabtrees’ interests at the newspaper for some time to come, Thomas Walsh or no, and Grace considered herself ideal for the task. No one else understood the inner workings, the philosophy, the mission of the Pioneer Press as well as she did.
No one else, to be plain, cared as much.
But on that late January afternoon, as she clattered downstairs and strode past Jack Murphy’s saloon, something peculiar happened. All the men assembled on the boardwalk outside—most of them bundled against the cold into pungent woolen lumps—lifted their hats to her. In unison.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” said the boldest.
Grace, profoundly unused to being the center of any man’s attention save the sheriff and Deputy Winston, ignored them at first. Her mind filled with headlines and typestyles, she kept going through the drifting snow.
“Nice day, ain’t it?” another male called.
She glanced around. Oddly enough, no other woman stood nearby. She frowned in puzzlement. This was odd.
“Salutations.” The third man bared a shy smile.
Grace stopped, staring at them. The first man gripped his hat in grimy hands, politely keeping it at elbow height. He nodded, seeming distinctly—and curiously—eager.
“‘Salutations,’” the second man mimicked, nudging his compatriot. “Humph. Shut up, Arbus, you damned show-off.” He shifted his gaze. “Uh, pardon my language, ma’am.”
“Yer both making us look bad,” the first man complained. “Hush up and try to look civilized. I’m hankering for some corn bread and mebbe a clean shirt, and I aim to get ’em.”
“Quit bossing us around, George. This ain’t the mill.”
“What do you know? You never been this close to a woman without being all likkered up.”
Grace raised her brows. Jack Murphy’s clientele was something to behold, that was for certain.
“I know a highbrow woman like that one—” astonishingly, the third man’s sideways chin jerk indicated Grace “—don’t want to scrub your stinky drawers.” He guffawed. “Do you, ma’am?”
As though that were a reasonable question, the trio peered at her interestedly. Grace blanched.
Then recovered.
“Laundry is a menial endeavor whereby mankind strives to enslave woman by chaining her to a washboard with a never-ending quantity of labor,” she proclaimed. “In my estimation, if you soil it, you should wash it, or an equitable division of household tasks should be agreed upon.”
The men gaped, hands going limp on their hats.
“In other words, gentlemen, I suggest you take yourselves off to the mercantile, buy a set of washboards and learn to appreciate womankind.” Grace flung her knitted scarf over her shoulder with a flourish. “Good day.”
Cheerfully, she continued on her way. The simple truth was, Grace loved an opportunity to enlighten people. Therefore, a new spring to her step existed as she proceeded through town, anticipating a lovely outbreak of washboard purchases at Jedediah Hofer’s mercantile that very afternoon.
The next oddity occurred a mere day later. Beset with the accoutrements of her latest project, Grace tramped through the snow toward her meeting rooms. Although spring hadn’t yet arrived in Morrow Creek, soon it would be time for her annual petition to have her women’s baseball league added to the town’s burgeoning team roster. After being defeated last year, this time Grace intended to be prepared.
Fortunately, it had occurred to her that she possessed an unappreciated secret weapon. Since Grace believed in using whatever advantages worked to egalitarianism’s benefit, however meager or unexpected, that realization had cheered her immensely. There was nothing more satisfying than fighting for a worthy cause, she’d found.
Furthermore, although she knew that some of the townspeople were resistant to the notion of sportswomen, Grace considered female activity wholly natural and perfectly fitting. Women were strong, determined and every bit as capable as men were. Perhaps more in some instances. Her bicycling and ornithology clubs—where women greatly outnumbered men—were proof of that.
Grace had discovered that every hand-stitched, regulation weight horsehide baseball intended for use by the local men’s teams was produced not by the players but by gentle-seeming women. At least a few of whom enjoyed vigorous sports activity themselves. And all of whom had agreed, upon Grace’s request, to forestall further baseball production until their demands for equality were met.
There was a tiny hitch in her plan though. Grace had to ensure that the town’s store of existing baseballs was secured before the springtime thaw, when practices began. Otherwise her efforts would come to naught. Also she didn’t want anyone to know what she was up to. Surprise was a mighty advantage in some instances. So, made awkward by her burden but more than capable of handling it, Grace kept going, her breath puffing in the frigid wintertime air.
“There she is!” came a sudden cry from the saloon steps.
Two men bolted upright and ran toward her. Grace stopped in confusion, her gloved hands wrapped securely around her burlap sack. The baseballs inside shifted with her abrupt stop, clattering in a heavy mass against her coat-covered back, where she’d slung the bulk of the bag.
“Let me help you, ma’am!” one man panted.
Amused onlookers watched as both men bore down upon Grace. If she had been the belle of every ball, she could not have been more the center of attention in that moment. Stunned, she saw the first man shove the second. He slipped and fell with a whoosh in the snow, then scrambled to his feet.
“That’s too heavy for a little woman like yourself,” he yelled, drawing the attention of more passing townspeople.
“Here, hand that over, ma’am,” cried the second man.
Hearty chuckles could be heard nearby, rising over the clinking of harnesses and the snorts of horses. In a town the size of Morrow Creek, interesting events did not occur every day. Not even when Grace Crabtree was involved. She took an ineffectual step backward, unsure how to react.
The men reached her almost simultaneously, each one vying to capture the neck of her bag. They nearly had to jump to do so. Since Grace was almost a head taller than either of her supposed rescuers, she had a difficult time keeping a straight face. Supposing that patting them on the head would be patronizing, she pushed her arm out to ward off further assistance instead.
“I can manage just fine,” she said. “Thank you kindly.”
Her mama had always taught her that polite persistence yielded the best results. It was a philosophy Fiona Crabtree practiced with unusual efficiency in the Crabtree household, whether dealing with the family’s new Grahamite vegetarian diet, their regular games of charades, or a simple debate at the dinner table.
Determinedly, Grace edged forward, doing her best to ignore the onlookers. Although she didn’t mind having all eyes on her for the sake of a protest march or a worthy cause, when it came to her ordinary existence, she felt uncomfortable with undue attention. She was, for a habitual freethinker and avowed suffragist, a very private person.
One of the men grabbed her bag.
So did the other.
The wrestling match that followed, Grace realized, would probably be talked about in Morrow Creek for months—and not proudly by Fiona Crabtree in particular. But she couldn’t surrender her burden—not without endangering the prospects for her women’s baseball team. And she was far too stubborn to relent when others were counting on her.
“No, thank you,” she insisted with a grunt. “Let go.”
“You heard her, Jim,” one man said. “Leave off.”
“You leave off. I’m helpin’ a lady who needs assistance.”
“I’m helping.”
“No, me.” Yank. “Give it over, ma’am. You’re too weak.”
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Considering that Grace had prevailed over two wiry men already, she figured she wasn’t so very weak after all.
“Actually, gentlemen,” she said as she maintained her sensibly gloved grip, “insofar as strength is concerned, if either of you spent as much time in industrious nature trekking or respectable work as you do bragging, blustering and swilling pints at the saloon, you might have a reasoned argument.”
Their hands went slack. So did their mouths.
“As it is, you gentlemen are sorely in need of physical and mental conditioning.” Grace took advantage of their inattention to wrest control of her bag, thereby proving her theory. “I suggest Indian clubs for corporeal agility, daily outings for healthful fresh air and plenty of cod-liver oil—two generous spoonfuls at daybreak—for proper bowel functioning. Both the Indian clubs and the cod-liver oil can be obtained for a reasonable price at Jedediah Hofer’s mercantile.”
They dropped the bag, clearly aghast.
“Please be sure to tell Mr. Hofer that Grace Crabtree sent you. Neighborly collaboration is the heart of any community.”
Feeling victorious, Grace shouldered her bag more securely. Leaving the duo behind, she marched down the street, satisfied she’d done another good deed in enlightening the local menfolk. She’d nearly achieved her mama’s courteous example, too.
Sometimes it wasn’t easy growing up as the eldest daughter in a family as famously progressive as hers. A family made up of unique individuals and original talents—Molly’s for baking, Papa’s for horticulture and journalism, Sarah’s for teaching and Mama’s for nigh-invisible persuasion. Not to mention the overall abundance of poetry writing, musicianship, needlework, whittling, painting and popcorn making.
Moving onward, she congratulated herself on her charitable reply to her latest would-be helpers. And on her quick thinking, too. It wasn’t until she’d passed the bulk of the spectators, nearly rounded the corner to her meeting rooms and spied the lean form of Jack Murphy lingering outside his saloon that she entertained second thoughts about the matter.
Despite the brisk weather, Murphy lounged as comfortably as a cat in a patch of sunlight, wearing plain trousers, a woolen vest and a white shirt. The whole assembly, she noticed, displayed entirely too much musculature for decent company.
Catching her watching him, he lifted his hat to her. He winked scandalously. “I will say one thing.” He angled his head toward the still head-scratching men she’d left in her wake. “You’re a handful of woman, Grace Crabtree.”
“And you are a thoroughly predictable male, Mr. Murphy.”
He smiled as though he enjoyed sparring with her. Perhaps the daft man did. She’d never met anyone more all-out contrary than Jack Murphy, that was for certain. Their ongoing property dispute was proof of that. Why wouldn’t he just move?
“That’s five good candidates down, too.” Sighing, he stared down…at shoes identical to her own. Drat the man! “I might have known just any husband wouldn’t do in your case.”
Grace yanked her gaze from his all-too-familiar footwear to find Murphy shaking his head with mock sorrow. In a rush, the reasons behind her sudden appeal to the opposite gender became entirely clear. The truth struck her with almost as much impact as that dastardly Jack Murphy’s sparkling blue eyes did.
She jerked her chin higher. Find her a husband, would he? There was no chance of that!
Despite Molly and Sarah’s apparent happiness with their marriages, Grace remained skeptical. Any institution that required a woman to forfeit her name, parade about in her most impractical attire, procure a wedding cake and kowtow to a man simply had to be counterproductive to female happiness.
“I might have known you’d try to make good on your offer.” She stepped nearer, despite the danger of their matching shoes becoming too noticeable. “And I do mean ‘try.’”
He scratched his shoulder contemplatively. Squinted. Locked eyes with her again, giving her full benefit of his dazzling Irishman’s gaze. Against all reason, Grace held her breath.
Had she pushed him too far? Would he abandon his efforts now? The notion left her strangely bereft. Without Jack Murphy to enliven—er, disrupt—her days—
He interrupted her untoward thought with a chuckle.
“‘Try’? I don’t know about that.” Behind him, the raucous saloon carried on its debauchery, even at midday. No wonder she wanted it relocated somewhere more suitable. “I came mighty close to succeeding with Arbus, over there.”
Was he mad? The man had discussed his drawers in public!
“On the contrary,” Grace disagreed, absently shifting her baseballs. “But please don’t let your failures till this point distress you. I realize you may feel discouraged right now.”
He offered a bland look. “I’ll try to keep a level head.”
“Yes, you most certainly should.”
With some surprise, Grace realized that she enjoyed their bantering, too…which explained why she’d lingered so long already. Especially when she had work to do, and contraband baseballs to conceal in some safe place upstairs. Oddly enough, though, arguing with Jack Murphy felt invigorating. It gave her an opportunity to hold her own—to feel bonded, in a way, with someone who didn’t fear her, pity her or find her incomprehensible. That was a rarity in Morrow Creek.
She arched her brows. “It’s not a personal failing of yours. You must feel assured of that. Scientifically speaking, men simply aren’t very adept at the intricacies of relations.”
She gave him a sham commiserating tsk-tsk.
Which affected Jack Murphy not at all.
“You, Miss Crabtree, have no idea what I’m adept at.”
That was ridiculous. “I most certainly—”
“No idea.” He looked smug…and not in the least deterred. Which was extremely odd. “No idea a’tall.”
The oaf. “Of course I do. You’re adept at pulling whiskeys, causing trouble and, of course, wasting my time.”
He only smiled more widely—even knowingly—at her.
Something in his rascally demeanor made Grace pause. It wasn’t often that people flummoxed her. Surely this one man—however aggravating—hadn’t managed that feat?
No. It wasn’t possible. She knew what he was up to—marrying her off like some pathetic old maid. It should have been simple to detect from the first. Because truth be told, Jack Murphy was as charming as a field of daisies…and approximately as skilled at subterfuge. That much was plain. Like most of his gender, Grace reminded herself, he was an open book to the discerning female, ripe for page turning and easy interpretation.
The only real mystery was why she hadn’t detected his ham-fisted attempts to hurl marriageable men her way—exactly as he’d offered to do—until today.
But now that she had, she was having none of it.
“Proving that I’m right, I find my time being wasted right now.” She hefted her bag of baseballs with her best amateur batter’s grip, then nodded in dismissal. “Good day, Mr. Murphy.”
“Miss Crabtree.”
His brogue sounded more devilish than ever. His seemingly polite tip of his hat carried a roguish charge, too. He was clearly out to needle her in any way possible.
But not if she bested him first.
Leaving him behind, Grace headed upstairs to plot the most sensible reprisal she could think of. Her grand exit was spoiled only in that Jack Murphy did not follow her progress all the way upward as she’d hoped. Instead he reentered his saloon with a jovial “Drinks on the barkeep!”, leaving his patron’s rowdy “Hurrahs!” ringing in her ears all the way upstairs.
The only thing more challenging than keeping up with her myriad clubs, activities, organizations and interests, Grace learned a short while later, was being forced to juggle several ridiculously dogged suitors, each one intent on becoming the husband she’d never wanted.
“Thank you for your offer,” Grace told a shaggy bull-whacker on her way from the jail, “but I wouldn’t care to ‘hunker down�
� with you in a wifely manner. However, now that I’ve made your acquaintance, I would like to recommend that you visit the mercantile for a razor and strop.” She examined the man’s gnarled, windblown beard. “I daresay using them faithfully might improve your prospects with other, more malleable women.”
He scratched his head. “More what?”
“Malleable.” Seeing his puzzled frown, she added, “Agreeable. Agreeable women.”
“Not so prickly as you, you mean?”
“That’s right.” Grace smiled brightly at him. It wasn’t his fault Jack Murphy had misled him. “Remember, just tell Mr. Hofer that Grace Crabtree sent you. He’ll take care of you very well.”
The disappointed man shouldered his whip, then trudged away in his high boots, kicking aside snow with every step.
“This may come as a surprise to you,” Grace cheerfully informed another hopeful lumber-mill worker later, doing her best to maintain her mama’s principles of courtesy and kindness, “but I am not interested in becoming your ‘bountiful bride.’ Good luck with your next invitation, however. And do drop by the mercantile for some castile soap—perhaps a dozen cakes or so?”
The worker looked bewildered, but nodded nonetheless.
Encouraged, Grace continued. “Mr. Hofer stocks a powerful brand that just might improve your chances of appealing to the ladies. Particularly if you also purchase some laundry soap, dishwashing powder and cleanser and use them all.”
He boggled. “All that? On myself? I’ll go plumb raw!”
She offered a heartening smile. “I mean that you should use those items on your clothes, your floors and your dishes,” she clarified. “And the castile soap on your person. No woman can resist a man who keeps an orderly household and hygienic appearance—most particularly, the orderly household.”
“Ah. I will. Thank you muchly, ma’am.”
Beneficently, Grace waved off the aromatic young man with the trailing end of her scarf, careful to keep her distance. She hadn’t progressed more than fifty yards, though, before being beset by another proposal of marriage. How did truly alluring women manage it? Grace wondered.