Lisa Plumley - [Crabtree 03]

by The Rascal

  “Daniel was resistant, too, you know,” Sarah confided, pointing out her husband and Eli again—this time at the bottom of the hill. Hampered by no such dillydallying as Grace and Sarah had employed, they must have finished their latest boisterous run. “Almost all the way to the end, he tried not to fall. But when it’s love, there’s no fighting it. Not truly.”

  Stubbornly, Grace kept silent. She felt Sarah’s gaze pinned expectantly upon her, and wasn’t sure what to say. Making confidences—like making compromises—did not come easily to her.

  “Mr. Murphy does have his charming moments,” Grace finally admitted. Casting her gaze skyward, she inhaled deeply. This broad-mindedness project of hers had affected more than its target, to be sure. “For instance, his vocabulary has improved dramatically—at least when he’s around me. I’m awfully proud of that. And his appreciation for art and music show no bounds.”

  At least they didn’t, she’d observed, when the art consisted of his bawdy over-the-bar painting and the music entailed dancing girls to go with it. But those were temporary pockets of resistance, only to be expected. With a little concentrated effort, Grace felt certain she could overcome them.

  “He is a lively conversationalist, too. He blusters about politics like any other man, but I believe I am teaching him to become more discerning in his opinions.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Sarah said wryly. “None of us is safe from your opinion making.”

  “I’m sure Jack’s become more enlightened already.” Grace recalled his innovatively designed braces—the pair he’d worn to Lizzie’s wedding. “I didn’t realize it before, but his potential was there all along. I believe Jack may have an interest in dress reform, too. You should see the way he looks at my gowns these days, as though admiring their design.”

  “I’d guess he’s admiring more than their design. He’s admiring the woman inside them.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. He still hasn’t quit tossing potential husbands my way. The latest was an inveterate gambler whose notion of courtship consisted of showing me his gold tooth.” She shuddered. “They become easier and easier to turn down, I must say.”

  Sarah twisted on her sled. “Maybe that’s because you’ve already found the man you’re interested in,” she suggested teasingly. “And his name is Jack Murphy.”

  “Really? Let’s see if you still believe that nonsense at the bottom of the hill,” Grace said. Then, grinning, she gave her sister a shove and sent her flying down ahead of her.

  Outfitted in his meanest boots and darkest hat, Jack stood at the counter of the Pioneer Press offices. Although it was early in the afternoon, the place was deserted—strangely so. He heard the press running somewhere distant, but all the desks were vacant. A sideways glance to the open door of the typesetting office told him even Grace was absent from her duties. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn it was a holiday. One nobody had seen fit to tell him about.

  Impatiently, he slapped his palm on the call bell again.

  “Sorry, so sorry. I’m coming!” came a voice from a rear office. A door opened and shut, then Thomas Walsh—the donkey himself—appeared at the other end of the room. He hastened across with a harried look, wearing a coat and hat, distractedly pushing his prissy spectacles higher on his nose. He’d clearly been on his way out. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’m here to place an advertisement.”

  “Very well.” Walsh plucked a pencil from its holder, then surveyed Jack. His brow furrowed. “Shall we plan it together?”

  “Together?”

  “Yes. Indeed.” Another sweeping glance, this one taking in Jack’s rough coat, his stubbled jaw and his gloved hands. “Many of our advertisers prefer assistance when writing out an advertisement. Some of them aren’t strictly familiar with—”

  “I can write, if that’s what you mean.” Tersely, Jack withdrew his customary saloon-advertising copy from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. “It’s all right here.”

  He should have been pleased. Evidently his new western persona was so convincing that Walsh believed him to be both uncouth and uneducated, incapable of writing a simple saloon advertisement. But for some reason, Jack found Walsh’s helpful attitude irksome. He scowled.

  “Very good!” By all appearances oblivious to Jack’s lack of neighborliness, Walsh picked up the paper. Hastily, he examined it. “This all seems to be in order.” His cheerful expression met Jack’s frown. “How would you like to pay?”

  “On account. Jack Murphy.”

  “Ah. That’s right, you’re Mr. Murphy.” The man nodded. “We met briefly, didn’t we? I’m afraid I didn’t recognize you without your dancing shoes on.” He gave a broad, winking grin.

  Jack frowned more deeply. He didn’t want to think about the Stotts’ wedding party, when he’d made a spectacle of himself by whisking Grace away from Walsh and dancing with her.

  “All the same,” Walsh said cheerfully, “this is an occasion, isn’t it? Since then I’ve heard all about you.”

  Jack stifled a groan. Heaven only knew what fabrications Grace had shared with Walsh and her fellow newspaper workers. Wanting this whole endeavor over with, Jack grunted.

  As usual, the uncivilized sound served him well. Prodded by its lack of friendliness, Walsh didn’t shilly-shally in finishing their transaction.

  “Anyway, be that as it may.” Hurriedly, Walsh scribbled a note on the paper, then tucked it securely in place below the counter. “I’ll make sure this runs as appropriate, Mr. Murphy. Here at the Pioneer Press, we strive to please both our advertisers and our readers. The public deserves no less.”

  Another grunt. They came easier and easier.

  “I’ll just see you to the door, shall I?” With a cultured sweep of his arm, Walsh indicated the exit. He hastened that way, his fancy clothes distinctly out of place in the homespun office. “I was just on my way to the hill outside of town for a little sledding party,” he confided with an air of excitement, his chipmunk cheeks puffed. “You may have noticed that we’re a bit short-staffed today, but as the new editor, I feel it’s important to demonstrate an understanding of local customs. I agreed to indulge everyone.”

  Outside on the steps, Walsh produced a set of keys. He locked the door securely, then turned with an anticipatory expression. Eager to be gone, Jack raised his hand.

  “Much obliged to you,” he said in farewell.

  He’d only managed three snowy steps before Walsh spoke.

  “Er, Mr. Murphy? Just one moment please.”

  Reluctantly, Jack turned back. Since seeing Grace fawn all over the man at the Stotts’ wedding party, he was not eager to spend more time in Walsh’s presence. For the life of him, he refused to believe this was the kind of man Grace preferred.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the way to the correct hill, would you?” In clear bewilderment, Walsh shielded his bespectacled eyes with his gaudily gloved hand. He surveyed the terrain surrounding them, moving past the sparsely populated street and closed businesses. “I believe that when she extended the invitation to join her there, Miss Crabtree forgot I’m new to town.”

  Miss Crabtree. In a flash, Jack discovered a keen interest in sledding parties. Mustering a hearty smile, he tromped in Walsh’s direction. He slapped the man on his scrawny back.

  “Hell, I’m headed that way now. I’ll show you.”

  Ill-equipped for sledding but determined to last the duration all the same, Jack reached the crest of the hill. Despite the sun breaking through the clouds, soft snowflakes dampened his face and dusted his coat. He wasn’t dressed for a long stint in the snow, but he would rather roll downhill buck naked than admit as much to his companion.

  Beside him, Thomas Walsh clapped his hands. “Marvelous! Just look at all the people, would you?”

  The hillside was jam packed. People of every description swooped down the snowy trails, and others lugged their sleds upward for new runs. Jack only cared to identi
fy one woman though. She ought to be easy to spot, he reasoned.

  Doubtless Grace had devised some outlandish getup for sledding in or had gathered an entire club for the purpose of organizing the activity. He didn’t doubt he’d find her surrounded by eager ladies, all of them possibly singing a rousing tune about equality for sporting women.

  “I certainly wish Mr. Crabtree had alerted me to this seasonal activity when I accepted the newspaper position,” Walsh went on, studying the scene eagerly. “If I had known such opportunities existed here in the territory, I’d have had my toboggan shipped on the train.”

  “That’s bad luck to be sure.” Still searching for Grace, Jack gave his jaw a manly scratch. Finally what Walsh had said registered. He glanced sideways. “You’re a sportsman?”

  He even managed not to guffaw upon saying it. Damnation. After all his hard work in erasing the professor from his persona, Jack began to suspect Grace’s “civilizing” lessons were taking hold. How else to explain his interest in being polite to the man who—for all intents and purposes—was his rival?

  On the other hand, if a highbrow man like Walsh earned Grace’s favor and wound up wedded to her, he would probably encourage her to keep her meeting space. Clearly, the two of them needed to be kept apart. Jack couldn’t stand the risk.

  For the sake of his saloon, of course.

  “Indeed.” Walsh nodded. “I am a sportsman of the highest caliber. Championship tobogganer of the New York University team, yet useless without the proper accoutrements of my sport.” He offered a resigned grin. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

  Championship tobogganer?

  Jack frowned. “Damned shame.”

  He devoutly hoped Grace cared nothing for athleticism.

  “Ah. There is Miss Crabtree now!” Walsh waved exuberantly, making his high-buttoned velvet coat sway to and fro. He clapped his free hand on his bowler to hold it steady. “Woo-hoo! Miss Crabtree. Over here!”

  Jack looked. For some reason, the sight of Grace tromping toward them, pink-cheeked and high-spirited, took his breath away. Here in the outdoors, she seemed surprisingly happy.

  Evidently she’d been here for quite some time. A large patch of snow clung to her coat sleeve. Another adorned her scarf, both of them telling the tale, no doubt, of a few bracing tumbles in the snowdrifts.

  She reached them with her skirts ice-spangled, her hair springing from its confinement and her gloved hand firmly grasping the tow rope of her sled. The thing was a woeful affair, with one dented runner and a paltry coat of red paint. But it was clear by the careful way she tugged the wrecked length of it that Grace was fond of it.

  As respectability-minded as Grace seemed to be, it occurred to Jack, she was not concerned overmuch with appearances. Especially for their own sake. That battered sled proved as much, as did Grace’s hearty strides. She acted as she pleased and cared for whatever she wished—no matter how weather-beaten or out of place. For that—and more—he admired her.

  “Mr. Walsh! I’m so glad you came.” She beamed up at the man, exhibiting a distinct lack of formality. She squeezed his skinny, overdressed arm in a jolly manner. “Did you get the evening edition on the press and finished early after all?”

  “I did.” Proudly, Walsh puffed up in his froufrou coat. “All the better to experience this spectacular occasion. It’s exactly as you described, Miss Crabtree. As I’ve mentioned before, you have a particular eye for the telling detail.”

  Grace actually appeared to blush. “You’re too kind.”

  “Not at all. The newspaper is fortunate you’ve decided to stay on in the typesetter’s office. We’d be sorely lacking without your special expertise.”

  “Nonsense.” Her breath puffing in the chill, Grace waved away the notion. “I merely enjoy watching you bring my father’s newspaper in a bold new direction. I certainly didn’t expect the two of us to be so harmonious in our approaches.”

  “Pshaw. You flatter me!” Walsh preened.

  Grace shook her head, still beaming at him. “It’s a great relief for me to have met you, and now to have worked with you, too. My father chose very wisely when he chose you as editor.”

  Their mutual admiration made Jack’s jaw ache. Fully fed up with it, he stepped closer. The motion drew Grace’s attention exactly as he’d hoped. She glanced up, plainly startled out of her conversation.

  “Oh, Jack! You’re here, too. What a surprise.”

  Her warm smile settled on him, offering surprisingly little comfort. Too? He was here, too? Disgruntled, Jack nodded.

  “I didn’t realize you and Mr. Walsh knew one another so well.”

  “Mr. Murphy is an advertiser with the Pioneer Press,” Walsh piped up. “He kindly offered to show me the way to the hill.”

  “He did?” Speculatively, Grace examined him. There was something amused in her expression—something knowing. Or maybe that was simply the glow of outdoor activity making her seem so exuberant. “That’s very polite of Mr. Murphy. Almost civilized. Even open-minded. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Walsh?”

  “Certainly, I would. Yes indeed. Most civilized.”

  They both regarded him, grinning like loons. Jack felt uncomfortably like a child who’d learned, at long last, to tie his own shoes or shovel his own mouthful of mush without leaving most of it slopped on the table. He scowled anew.

  Why had he come here again?

  Before he could reason it out, Grace turned briskly to her newfound editor friend. She examined the snow-covered ground to the sides and back of him. “But Mr. Walsh, this is truly a tragedy. I see you don’t have a sled!”

  Walsh spread his arms. “Regrettably, that’s true. I thought I would visit for the camaraderie, though, and perhaps watch for a while. It’s no trouble.”

  “But that won’t be enjoyable. Or very healthful in this cold air. Here. You must take my sled!” Grace tugged the tow rope, bringing her derelict sled closer. “I insist.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Walsh demurred. “What will you use?”

  Grace pondered the question for less time than Jack would have liked. She bit her lip, calling to mind the single, tantalizing kiss they’d enjoyed. Jack couldn’t help but wish for another, longer version. Simply for comparison’s sake.

  Or for diversion from these galling circumstances.

  “We’ll share, of course,” she announced. “Both of us.”

  Walsh brightened. “Truly? That’s so kind of you.”

  “I’m sure we’ll fit.” Grace gestured to her sled. “We’ll simply have to scrunch up tight, that’s all.”

  They beamed at each other like lovesick beavers. At once, Jack unhappily imagined the two of them ensconced on Grace’s dilapidated sled—Walsh with his arms around Grace from his steering position in the back, Grace laughingly allowing him to guide them both downhill…downhill toward a union Jack obviously could not allow.

  What would happen with his saloon then, if both of these radicalizers fell into marriage together?

  There was nothing for it. There was only one way, Jack knew, to securely capture Grace’s attention for his own.

  He cleared his throat, then pulled his black hat over his eyes. Striving for as gruff a manner as possible, he turned to Grace. “Actually…I was hoping you would teach me how to sled.”

  Grace’s eyes widened. “Truly? You don’t know how?”

  It pained Jack greatly to shake his head. “Never learned,” he lied, “much to my regret. It’s a sore gap in my education.”

  “Oh. Well then.” She turned to Walsh, frowning with apparent regret. “I’m afraid my first duty must be to instruct poor Mr. Murphy. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Walsh grasped his sissy coat lapels. “You must do all you can to help those less refined than you. It’s your obligation as a woman of importance in the community.”

  Neither of them so much as glanced at Jack. He would have earned more attention were he one of Harry’s trapeze monkeys.

  “I kn
ew you would understand.” Grace fluttered her eyelashes, then offered another squeeze to Walsh’s arm. “You’re ever so courteous, as always. Thank you for your kindness.”

  “My kindness pales in comparison with yours, Miss Crabtree. Clearly, your willingness to help Mr. Murphy suggests that much, doesn’t it? It’s not often a lady will go to such lengths.”

  Stifling a groan, Jack ignored the rest of Walsh’s nattering. Instead he shoved his gaze to the people milling around them—hauling sleds and wooden barrel lids, laughing and talking—and tried to seem brusque. In need of sledding instruction. And unabashed by their discussing him as though he were lacking in both wits and hearing. Less refined. Hell.

  He didn’t know how Grace could swallow such twaddle. Surely she was a fine woman. A woman of intelligence and humor and remarkable achievements. But to suggest so boldly that the whole community needed her? Jack knew he needed her most of all.

  Beside him, Grace and Walsh laughed merrily.

  Suddenly, the answer to his troubles appeared. Marcus Copeland stepped over the rise in the hill, accompanied by his wife, Molly. The two of them pulled an enormous toboggan, crafted of fine-honed boards doubtless culled from Marcus’s successful lumber mill at the edge of town.

  Spying them, Jack raised his hand in salute. “I see your sister and brother-in-law are headed this way, Miss Crabtree.”

  She and Walsh glanced in that direction—Walsh more cheerfully than Jack would have expected of a man who’d just been denied an opportunity to “scrunch up tight” with Grace.

  “Their toboggan looks equipped for carrying three, I reckon,” Jack added. “You’re in luck, Walsh.”

  “Perfect!” Grace exclaimed. “Mr. Walsh, let me make the arrangements posthaste. I’ll take care of everything.”

  She hurried away, moving with her usual no-nonsense strides, leaving her sled behind. Jack glanced at its pathetic construction, its well-worn runners, its frayed rope.

  “It’s terribly neighborly of you to take my place with Miss Crabtree.” Walsh offered Jack a handshake—one that felt surprisingly sturdy—and a good-natured grin. “I couldn’t think of a single way out of getting on that contraption. I’m most grateful, Murphy. You’re a far braver man than I am.”