by The Rascal
“Shh.” She laid her finger against his mouth, nimbly removing the spent cup from his hand as she did so. She smiled. Hers was such a beatific smile, Jack actually wondered if he had been drugged to be capable of thinking such a thing about his meddlesome upstairs neighbor. “No one will see you save me,” she promised him, “and I think you look very handsome.”
She thought he looked handsome?
She’d paid him a compliment?
“Now I know I’m delirious.” He sat there for a minute. Or possibly more. Jack couldn’t be certain, so discombobulated was he by this entire experience. He reconsidered things. “That tea is not as bad as I thought,” he heard himself say.
Obligingly, Grace refilled his teacup. He drank almost gratefully, gazing at her over his cup’s rim as he did so. There was something calming about having her care for him this way. Something sweet. Jack decided he quite liked it.
He held out his cup for more. It wavered. “When you quit wobbling that way, Grace, I wouldn’t mind a bit more tea.”
“Wobbling? Me?” Then she smiled. Both of her did. “I’m not wobbling, that’s just the valerian root taking effect.” Grace peered assessingly into his eyes. “Mama says it’s capable of making even Molly be silent, which is quite a feat, I assure you.” A moment’s pause while Jack felt his head sway, then… “It’s off to bed with you.”
She took his arm, her touch surprisingly soothing. Her manner accepted no naysaying. Jack found himself being led toward his bedroom, his girly pinned blanket trailing him like a blasted ball gown, with Grace beside him. She murmured something about coddling him in his present state, her voice soft.
He liked her voice soft. It reminded him of the way she’d felt when he’d kissed her. Soft all over…soft just for him. He liked soft Grace Crabtree. He liked her all over.
They reached his bedroom. For a fleeting moment, Jack’s heartbeat leaped wildly. There would be more kissing now. He felt he could perform masterfully, all of a sudden. Despite his bleariness, he could make Grace happier than she’d ever been.
To be truthful, he had occasionally indulged in thoughts of having her here alone with him, he recalled as he shuffled in her wake with a roguish grin, eyeing her bedraggled skirts and shawl-wrapped shoulders. He had hoped she might let down her frazzled hair and practice her most liberated ways beneath his sheets. He’d always believed those fanciful thoughts were his alone, not shared by Grace. But now it seemed…
Dazedly, he leaned on her. “I know you’re not really that liberated,” he said to reassure her. “Not like I’ve dreamed.”
She only smiled knowingly. “I believe I’ll decrease the dose next time I brew up some healthful tea for you. I may have overestimated your size and vigor.”
He thumped his chest. “I have plenty of size and vigor!”
“Yes, that’s fine,” she soothed. “Come right this way.”
Aggravatingly unconvinced in the matter of his virility, Grace sat him down on his bed. She dropped to her knees, then gazed up at him. Belatedly aware of her suggestive position, Jack’s whole body surged to alertness.
His head pounded. So did his loins. The activities Grace’s pose brought to mind were thrillingly seductive and, in his befuddled condition, seemed distinctly possible.
His boot clunked to the floorboards. And another.
“See?” Jack tried, blinking against his disappointment. “You are wonderful at that maneuver. If your new husband were a lying-down drunk, you would be very qualified to care for him.”
“Yes.” Grace rolled her eyes, then tucked his wayward blanket more securely. She rose again, fluffing his pillow. “That’s exactly what I want. A drunkard for a husband.”
Her sarcastic tone made her true feelings known. Jack was not too addled to recognize that much. “Aha!” he bellowed, louder than he intended. “Then what do you want in a husband?”
Her considering look met his. Yes! This plan was proceeding apace, despite its rocky beginnings and his own bewildered state. Grace would confide in him, she would explain all her innermost desires to him, and then he would satisfy them with a proper husbandly candidate.
“Blah,” she said confusingly. “Blah blah blah.”
He may have overestimated his own ability to cajole Grace Crabtree, Jack realized with alarm. He may have bitten off more than he could chew. He may have made a mistake in drinking that damned tea of hers.
“Blah?” he repeated, perplexed.
A heartbeat later, Jack fell fast asleep.
“Hmm. For a scandalous saloonkeeper,” Grace said, “you have a very faulty ability to withstand remedying compounds.”
At the bracing sound of her voice, Jack roused himself. He blinked groggily, unsure where he was at first.
His initial assessment told him this place was too clean and too tidily arranged to be his own purposely rugged territorial lodgings. He’d deliberately strewn those with cast-off clothing, miscellaneous belongings, cigarillo stubs and empty liquor bottles—all the better to offer the correct nonprofessorial impression to anyone who visited them.
Grace’s form came into view as she sat on his bed beside him, bathed in sunlight from his single window. Its wrinkled curtains had been flung open for the first time ever, revealing an expanse of slushy alleyway better left unobserved.
Ah. So he was in his bedroom.
He felt muddled, Jack reflected. Also smothered in what felt akin to a triple layer of woolly blankets, making him sweat. His mouth tasted of tree bark and oil slick and toenails.
A memory whacked him upside the head.
“You drugged me!” he accused, pointing. Or at least trying to point. His myriad blankets stifled his movements, making it necessary to burrow his way impatiently from beneath them. At such vigorous movement, something poked him. He slapped at his chest and discovered…a lady’s brooch? Jack plucked at it in disbelief. “You dressed me like a damned churchgoing matron?”
Grace merely shrugged, carrying on with unwrapping something. A bar of soap. She placed it beside his newly full water pitcher and basin. “I always do exactly what’s necessary, Jack. You know that. Now it’s time for you to get cleaned up.”
Completely astonished and hoping to muster the where-withal to understand what the hell was happening, Jack put his hand to his forehead. A thumb’s width of bandages met his fingers.
His plan to spend time with Grace rushed back to him.
So did last night’s misgivings about its implementation.
Oblivious to them, Grace held out a dripping cloth. “Here you are. All soaped up for you.”
“I’m not a damned infant! I can soap it myself. Wash myself, too. When I choose to.” Jack glared at her, attempting to enact a standoff. But he was overwarm. He grabbed the cloth and swiped it over his face. Eyes screwed shut against the stinging soapsuds, he shoved the cloth back for a rinse. He waggled his fingers for its return. He scrubbed again, blinded but grudgingly refreshed. “Did you pile more blankets on me last night while I was drugged?”
He opened his eyes on Grace’s amused expression.
“What?” he snapped, gesturing for a towel.
“Nothing.” She handed it over primly. She was not likely to be hired at Miss Adelaide’s saucy bathhouse anytime soon.
Disgruntled, Jack scrubbed the towel over his face. It scraped over his whiskers and set his hair on end, performing its job admirably as usual. He flung it onto the bed, then met Grace’s obviously stifled guffaw.
“What is the matter with you?” he demanded.
“You wash up like a little boy. It’s adorable.”
He didn’t want to be adorable, Jack reminded himself. He wanted to be effective. In the clear light of day, he realized he couldn’t shilly-shally around with kissing Grace Crabtree. He had to play matchmaker for her. Immediately and permanently.
One glimpse at his nearby trunk told him there might be a problem with that. Atop it at precise right angles sat a neatly folded blanket and pillow-items, judging by their pristine s
tate, that had been recently employed by his bossy nursemaid.
“Did you stay here last night?”
“Of course.” She plucked the towel from beside his blanket-covered hip, not behaving in nearly as tittering and blushing a fashion as a real western man might have warranted. She draped the towel over her arm, then rose with the pitcher and basin and cloth all in hand. Grace beamed at him. “I promised I would take care of you, Jack. How is your head this morning? Do you need more tea?”
He warded her off with both hands. “No tea. Lord knows what I did under its devil influence last night.”
Grace laughed merrily. “You couldn’t do a thing.”
Which only bothered him all the more. For the first time since he truly had been a small boy, Jack felt discomfortingly out of control. Even vulnerable. He didn’t like it.
“You have to leave,” he said, casting his well-meant plan to the wind. He’d do without it. He got up, hoping that placing both feet—both bare feet?—on the floorboards would increase his authority. At least he was still dressed in his own damned clothes. “You have to go home right now. Your reputation might still be salvaged if you sneak out the back way. I’ll show you.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving.” Looking carefree, Grace waved her arm. Her clothes were disheveled, clearly leftover from yesterday. But she’d managed to redo the tight knot of hair at her crown, giving her a stately air, and her skin glowed with cleanliness, too. “My whole family knows I’m here—in my meeting rooms at least. I sent them a message yesterday. They’ve long since given up on corralling me into acceptable behavior, you know.” She pondered the matter cheerfully. “I believe it was my first few stints in Sheriff Caffey’s jail that turned the tide.”
Jack didn’t know how she could be so blithe. Her attitude was disastrous to his plan, he realized. “No man will marry you with a ruined reputation,” he warned. “You ought to—”
“No matter. I’ve done without a husband quite nicely all this time. Although I begin to believe I’ve missed out on some wondrous kissing.” With a wink, Grace turned smartly, still carrying his washing implements. “Come along. I’ve made us breakfast. After that, I have a whole regimen of wholesome potions and remedies and exercises for you.”
He stared. Clearly, Grace had taken over here. What had happened to his clever plan?
He ought to abandon it, Jack told himself. It had rapidly skedaddled sideways in a manner he hadn’t predicted.
On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t hurt to have breakfast before making any rash decisions. He ought to keep an eye on Grace, too.
Doggedly and blearily, Jack followed her swishing skirts into a suspiciously clean and unsticky kitchen.
Coffee perfumed the air, making him feel a bit more alert.
“I should consult with Doctor Finney first,” he disagreed, cursing the day he’d devised this backfiring scheme to help get Grace married. “He might have other ideas, ideas that aren’t—”
“Not to worry.” Sunnily, Grace gestured toward a waiting chair. “I asked Doctor Finney about your treatment last night before he left. He’s such a dear man. He agreed to everything I suggested as far as your convalescence is concerned.”
Jack would just bet he had. Damn the man. The doctor had double-crossed him. Groaning anew, Jack sank onto his chair and put his head in his hands. Those hellfired bandages met his fingertips again, reminding him of the fix he’d gotten into.
He couldn’t run his saloon. Couldn’t relieve Harry of duty. Couldn’t so much as wash himself without Grace Crabtree supervising every facet of his day.
What would she think if he simply tore off those bandages?
If he confessed?
If he gave up his plan to get her wed altogether?
Doubtless Grace would sink in the heels of her blasted man-shoes and refuse even more obstinately to move her meeting rooms. Jack would not be able to bring his performing troupe to his saloon. Would not be able to regain his patronage or open the upstairs boardinghouse rooms he wanted. Would not be able to enjoy the new western life he’d worked so hard for.
This time, Jack was well and truly sunk—sunk by his own hand. For the next week at least, he was at Grace’s mercy.
Heaven help him.
Chapter Twelve
For the next several days, Grace slept upstairs in her meeting room space, on a cot thoughtfully moved there by her papa and Marcus. She looked in on Jack frequently, bustling in to examine his bandages, deliver a meal or tidy up his messy bachelor rooms—she would swear they disordered themselves between visits while Jack slept. She added his chores to her itinerary, too, dropping by the butcher’s, the post office and the laundress on the same schedule as Jack had done.
Not for anything would Grace have admitted knowing that schedule in advance, however. A woman did have to safeguard her pride. Even from a man who had wholeheartedly kissed her. Instead she dutifully pretended to concentrate as she wrote out the list of tasks Jack recited, going so far as to bite her lip in consternation as she struggled to enumerate every one.
It was, Grace decided afterward, a splendid performance.
Despite Jack’s obvious—and maddening—skepticism.
Encouraged to do so by Mr. Walsh, Grace did carry on with her typesetting work at the Pioneer Press in the afternoons, but she abdicated most of her club and ladies’ organization meetings for the time being. She persisted in working toward her various causes on her own, however, writing letters and devising schemes on behalf of the Morrow Creek women’s baseball league. Spring was on its way, and she needed to be prepared.
All in all, her days were busy and satisfying. Grace found it fulfilling to be in charge of so many varied doings at once—so much so that she scarcely missed some of her more ancillary activities, such as her women’s archery society and her Indian club exercise group. Perhaps Molly and Sarah had been correct. Perhaps she had overcommitted herself. Just a bit.
With that realization in mind, Grace decided to dedicate herself to a few select activities for the time being. Beginning with Jack…and his continued convalescence.
He was a difficult patient, to be sure. In fact, he possessed so much vigor, so much ability to gainsay her remedies and wrestle over the administering of them, that it was sometimes difficult to remember he had been injured at all. Grace even found him sneaking into the saloon to play billiards, snatch cheroots or supervise faro dealing with Harry. Once she caught him lugging in a store of firewood, too, looking astonishingly adept at hauling such a heavy load.
Without Doctor Finney’s assurance that Jack required diligent care, Grace might have begun to doubt the necessity of her being there for him. Fortunately, she did have the doctor’s blessing—and an able excuse for her presence, too.
Under those terms, Grace indulged her secret desire to be with Jack Murphy. Cloaked under cover of doing her usual good works, she cared for him as often as she could and removed every possible burden from his shoulders—something she felt uniquely equipped to do. Which was how she came to be striding toward Jack’s saloon one clear February morning, with his mail in her satchel and her reformer’s hat happily squashed on her head.
“Ho, there!” someone called from across the street, surprising her. “Miss Crabtree, over here!”
Half fearing another awkward marriage proposal—of which she’d had admittedly fewer lately—Grace turned. To her immense relief, Jedediah Hofer waved from beneath the awning of his busy mercantile, his ruddy complexion and white-blond hair in stark contrast with his dark suit.
Pleased to see him, she headed in that direction.
“How are you, Mr. Hofer? Business is brisk, I see.”
“Ja, very brisk. So much that I’ve had to hire a second assistant!” Mr. Hofer beamed, gesturing toward the people still browsing the wares in his crammed store. Among them were several graying miners and a few cowboys, along with a dandified gambler. “That’s why I wanted to call you over here. Grace…”
He paused, his
face turning even redder than usual. His cheeks puffed alarmingly, too. Concerned, Grace stepped nearer. “Mr. Hofer, are you all right? You look—”
“Thank you!” He suddenly wrapped her in an impulsive bear hug, murmuring his gratitude all the while. “You have sent so many customers to me! I am in your debt.”
“Oh! Well…” Muffled by his shoulder, Grace attempted to nod. This was a great deal of emotion. She wasn’t sure she was equipped to cope with it politely. “Yes, I see. If you mean my potential husbands, I suppose I did send a few of them here.”
“A few? No! No, there were many. And all of them bought things. Razors, soap, washboards. Readymade clothing. Sweets. Ribbons and cleansers and brooms and mops.” Squeezing harder, Hofer laughed with pure joy. He patted her on the back. “You are a good woman, Miss Crabtree. Perhaps a little misunderstood, only, by people who do not see your generosity.”
Grace began to feel concerned she might not break free. Ever. “I’m delighted, Mr. Hofer.” She squirmed. “Only—”
“Ah, but I am embarrassing you! You are modest!”
“That is not a quality I’ve had the pleasure of having ascribed to me. However, I’m so pleased that you—”
“See? You are even modest now!” Chuckling, Hofer embraced her again. Over his shoulder, Grace glimpsed several customers pointing and nudging each other. A few grinned. “Thank you, thank you,” Hofer said. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, you only have to ask. Jedediah Hofer is at your service.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hofer.” Torn, Grace hesitated. But if a woman were to be practical… “As it happens, I could use a bit of castor oil and some tea,” she proclaimed, hoping her nose wouldn’t become permanently crooked from being compacted against Hofer’s suit coat. She wiggled it experimentally. “I’m going through both at a fearsome rate. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”
“Ah! For you, nothing is too much trouble!”
He released her, sweeping aside other customers with his beefy arms as he led her into the mercantile. Grace followed in his wake, the smells of pickles and rolled calico and wood smoke reaching her instantly. There was nothing homier than a properly run mercantile. She savored the entire enterprise.