Читать книгу The Matchmaker - Lisa Plumley - Страница 11

M arcus awakened on Saturday morning to a knocking on his front door—and a sense of confusion. He’d been dreaming of Molly Crabtree, dreaming of sugar and spice and enormous flowery hats, and he wanted those dreams to go on. In them, Molly whispered sweetly to him. She moved closer, took his hand, smiled into his eyes as she puckered her lips and…

Tap, tap, tap.

Groaning, Marcus flung back the blankets. His bare feet struck the chilly pine plank floor. For economy’s sake, he banked his woodstove at night. The resultant coals didn’t do much to warm the frosty September morning. Dragging on a flannel shirt and wool britches over his undershirt and drawers, he went to the door.

“One minute. I’m coming.”

If this was one of his men, here to nag him about timber assignments or supplies—both of which were overseen by his designated foremen now—Marcus would have his head. It had been months since he’d handled all the mill’s details himself. Delegating those jobs hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it.

He wrenched open the door, scowling. “What?”

To his surprise, Molly Crabtree waited there. She backed up a step, as though his question had blasted her. Her eyes widened.

Hell. He’d scared her. In his sleep-fogged state, he wasn’t sure what she was doing there at all, but the last thing Marcus wanted to do was frighten her. Jabbing a hand through his rumpled hair, he started to apologize.

Before he’d gotten very far, Molly’s grasp tightened on the basket she carried. Her chin came up. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Copeland. You passed a late night, I see. Along with the rest of the men in town. My father excluded, of course. He never attends the men’s club meetings.”

She squeezed past him, her eyes bright and her manner brisk. Marcus was too startled by her arrival to protest. In a businesslike fashion, Molly stepped into his house. With a comment about the chill in the room, she maneuvered unerringly past the parlor toward the kitchen. Marcus tried to intercept her—the gentleman in him demanded he carry her basket for her—but she only continued onward, talking all the while.

“In Papa’s opinion, gender-exclusive organizations rarely offer more than shared commiseration and, in the case of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club, shared lager.”

She sniffed suspiciously, as though expecting the tang of liquor to cling to him now, hours later.

Marcus figured it probably did.

“And there’s not a gathering of any sort in this town that goes unnoticed by my sister Grace. If she didn’t organize it, she is at least informed about it. In this case, we ladies could hardly fail to notice the mass exodus of our men to Jack Murphy’s saloon.”

She raised her brows inquiringly.

“There was an emergency meeting last night,” Marcus explained. “Emmaline Jones turned up at O’Neil’s butcher shop yesterday with a Bloomingdale Brothers mail-order catalog in one hand and a pencil in the other. She refused to leave unless O’Neil gave her his opinion on the wedding dresses.”

“But why? Emmaline hardly knows Mr. O’Neil.”

The matchmaker was to blame, of course. But Marcus only shrugged, not ready to broach the subject. “Apparently, she admires the way he wields a cleaver.”

And Molly admired the way Marcus answered a door, he realized. She’d been staring, transfixed, at him ever since putting down her basket on the kitchen table. She looked utterly proper as she stood there, buttoned up and begloved, with a jaunty hat on her head. But there was something wonderfully…speculative in the way her gaze roved along the gap left by his unbuttoned flannel shirt.

He found himself liking it. Perhaps he had been too long without feminine company.

“You’re not prepared for me, Mr. Copeland,” she accused, taking off her gloves.

“I hadn’t expected you so early,” Marcus said, finally remembering their meeting. Molly intended to begin teaching him cooking and housekeeping skills today. “But I assure you—I am prepared for you.”

He smiled, reminded of his dream. “Quite prepared,” he added.

Her eyes narrowed. “You sound as though you’re expecting something far more delightful from me than a simple cooking lesson.”

“From you?” He leaned against the door frame. “I am.”

She seemed to consider that. “Good. Because I have a lot to offer. More than people in this town seem to realize.”

Molly probably meant she had a lot to offer regarding her business ventures, misguided though they were. Marcus knew full well that a woman in trade was an anomaly. Didn’t Molly’s terrible baking confirm that fact?

In all likelihood, Marcus reasoned, her bakeshop was merely a cover for her matchmaking activities. Her shop couldn’t possibly mean as much to Molly as, say, his lumber mill meant to him.

“I don’t doubt you have much to offer,” he said. “You seem a very talented woman to me.”

She paused amidst unpacking supplies from her basket. Something in her expression changed. Molly slanted him a sideways glance. “You needn’t flatter me, Mr. Copeland.”

“Marcus.”

“Marcus. I’ll receive my end of our bargain later, when you help me with my shop’s bookkeeping. This is purely business between us, remember?”

“I remember.” He levered from the door frame and stepped nearer. Why not achieve two goals with these meetings of theirs? Uncovering the matchmaker and renewing his dealings with the fairer sex could both happen at once. “But that could change.”

Molly eyed him. “Not hardly.”

She turned away. He felt unaccountably wounded by her dismissal. He felt even more put out by the way she chose that moment to examine his dusty cast-iron cookstove. Was a hunk of unused black iron more interesting to her than he was?

Impossible.

“You can’t be sure,” Marcus coaxed. “You never know—”

“Oh, I know.” Molly kicked the edge of the stove. She lifted the blackened teakettle. Frowned. “I’m very certain of my feelings.”

“Feminine feelings change. Like the wind.”

“Not mine.”

“I’ve heard otherwise. Some say you’re especially changeable.”

At that, she pursed her lips. Still all but ignoring him, Molly seized the stove handle and opened the oven door to peer inside. “I’d suggest you clean yourself up as befits a proper business meeting. It will take me a while to get this stove ready.”

Marcus frowned. She was issuing orders to him? This couldn’t be happening. He was the man. He was in charge of these proceedings. He would retain the upper hand.

Molly reached into the cold oven. She fished out an old leather boot, then passed it to him with an air of utter disdain. “I believe this is yours?”

“So that’s where it got off to!” Marcus marveled, momentarily diverted. “I stepped in a puddle after that rainstorm last month. I put it in there to dry out.”

“Any longer and it would have become boot jerky.”

She waggled it, giving him a pointed look.

Marcus snatched it. At the motion, Molly’s gaze fluttered over his improper attire and disheveled hair—again. She frowned.

Had he imagined she enjoyed the way he looked? He must have, because now Molly seemed entirely disapproving of him. Doubtless, this matchmaker search was addling his thoughts.

He had to stay the course, Marcus reminded himself. The sooner he uncovered the matchmaker’s identity, the sooner he could have this done. The sooner he could be finished with Molly Crabtree.

He must have been mad to think this bossy, independent-minded woman might be the one to lure him away from his lumber mill and back toward the nonsense of courting, socializing and other ways to waste time. He would do better, Marcus told himself, to find a more amenable, less difficult, woman for that. Molly Crabtree couldn’t have been more wrong for him.

No matter how appealing she seemed, brightening his kitchen with soft pastels and the sweet swoosh of skirts.

Disgruntled, he turned to do as she’d asked.

“Remember to shave,” Molly called after him cheerfully. “And a suit like the ones you usually wear wouldn’t be untoward for our lesson today. It would set the correct tone for the proceedings between us.”

Now she presumed to dress him? Marcus paused. This, he decided, was the final straw. Molly was far too opinionated for her own good. Far too talkative, and far too mannishly industrious. She deserved a lesson in proper feminine behavior. Marcus vowed, right then and there, that he would be the one to offer it to her.

Before he’d finished with her, bullheaded Molly Crabtree—secret matchmaker or not—would learn that a woman did not belong in business, but in a man’s arms. In a man’s life. That was the natural course for females. Setting Molly straight was the least he could do. For the good of men everywhere, Marcus had to take a stand.

Otherwise, who knew what unfortunate knucklehead would someday be blinded by Molly’s beauty, and find himself trapped with a wife who’d rather tally accounts than raise children? With a wife who brought in her own funds? With a wife who commanded her husband to shave?

A female’s natural place was as the light of the home, as the appreciative recipient of her husband’s labors. Marcus could imagine nothing worse than a wife who didn’t need him. He wasn’t ready to fit himself with a marriage noose now, but someday, when he was, he wanted a woman he could pamper. A woman who would wait for him at home, and who would delight in her husband’s attention. Didn’t every man?

Honestly, clarifying this point for Molly would be for her own good.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, pausing near the hallway that led from the kitchen to the second-floor stairwell beyond. A mischievous grin burbled up from someplace inside him. Marcus managed to stifle it. “I know exactly how to handle these proceedings between us. Just wait and see.”

Molly stood by, stiff as a freshly laundered shirtwaist, while Marcus delivered his parting comment. She held her head high as he strode down the hallway out of sight. She felt her hands tremble at the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, followed by the heavy clunk of a second-floor door closing.

She sagged with relief.

What had she gotten involved with? Seeing Marcus this morning, so casually and so intimately, had nearly been her undoing. Molly hadn’t expected to find one of the most proper men in all of Morrow Creek still abed so long after sunrise—much less to find him answering his front door clad in…well, practically nothing!

She was certain his trousers hadn’t been completely fastened. In the gap at the top of Marcus’s waistband, she’d caught a scandalous glimpse of knit underdrawers. And of course, that glimpse had led all the way to a full-on view of his undershirt, plainly visible beneath his open flannel shirt. He hadn’t even had the decency to choose a modest undershirt, one that wouldn’t hug the muscles of his chest quite so closely.

Plainly Marcus Copeland possessed no modesty at all, at least not outside his lumber mill office. It seemed downright unbelievable, but it was true. She would have to be on her guard, lest she find his bachelor influence having an unseemly effect on her. As it was, she knew she might still be blushing.

It wasn’t strictly proper for Molly to be here, after all. An unmarried woman, alone with an unmarried man? Why, if theirs hadn’t been a business arrangement, it would have been quite outrageous. Fortunately, Adam and Fiona Crabtree possessed liberal views, and an abundance of faith in their daughters’ good natures. Had they known about Molly’s mission, they’d doubtless have sent her off to it with their blessings.

She’d left early, though, gathering up her basket of supplies and tiptoeing out before her venture with Marcus could become an issue. Just to be on the safe side.

For all she knew, her family would react to this the same way they had to Molly’s intentions of becoming a cardsharper at the age of twelve—with laughter, jokes and a tip to Deputy Winston about the “gambler” in their midst. After that, Molly had been unable to practice so much as a riverboat-style two-handed double-deal without calling undue attention to herself. Shortly afterward, she’d decided to become a poetess instead, and that had been that.

Pushing aside those memories, Molly prepared to get down to work. She finished unpacking the flour, butter and leavenings she’d brought and arrayed them on the worktable near the sink and water pump. She set a covered pitcher of milk beside them, then carefully removed her hat and placed it atop her basket for safekeeping. She tied on her favorite apron.

All the while, Marcus thumped and bumped upstairs. Water splashed; doors and drawers clunked shut. Once Molly could have sworn she heard the husky melody of a ribald drinking song wafting downstairs. Surely she was imagining things. Marcus Copeland was one of the most upstanding citizens in town. Despite his improper appearance this morning, he wouldn’t dare sing such a tune, especially in the near-presence of a lady.

Would he?

Perhaps she didn’t know Marcus Copeland as well as she thought she did. It was rumored he had experienced all sorts of things while living in an eastern city in the States, before he’d made his way westward to the territory two years ago. Despite his businesslike demeanor, was it possible he possessed hidden qualities no one in Morrow Creek knew about?

Booted footsteps sounded on the stairs. Hurriedly Molly quit gawping at the ceiling. She pretended to be engrossed in searching for a biscuit pan.

“Your home is quite wonderful,” she said conversationally, knowing Marcus would see her industriousness as he entered the kitchen. “So expansive. All the most modern amenities, too.”

She gestured toward the indoor water pump, the grand, if dusty, stove, and the expanse of marble-topped worktable meant to be used for pastry. She didn’t have anything nearly so fine at her bakeshop. Everything in Marcus’s home was covered in the bits and pieces of bachelor life, of course, but that was to be expected with a man like him. It was obvious he needed her help to learn about civilized living.

Boot jerky, after all, was not an appropriate tabletop centerpiece.

Molly averted her gaze from the offending footwear, propped on the worktable where he’d left it, and turned her attention instead upon Marcus.

Shall we get started? she intended to ask. The words faltered on her lips, though, at her first sight of him.

He looked magnificent.

“Do I pass muster?” he asked from the doorway, spreading his arms to indicate his newly clad self. “Or perhaps you’ll want to inspect me at closer range before we begin.”

As though to help her in that regard, he strode nearer. His boots rang against the plank floor. Although his tone had been perfectly solicitous, Molly couldn’t help but find it distinctly at odds with the mischievous expression on his face. Nervously she stepped backward.

How had he accomplished so appealing a demeanor? And so quickly, too? His hair was combed, thick and dark to his collar. His jaw was clean shaven, his clothes…

Molly shook her head. “That, Mr. Copeland, is not a suit.”

It was instead, she saw to her chagrin, an ensemble nearly as revealing as the one he’d answered the door in. A knit Henley-style shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and strong chest, and was crossed in the appropriate places by the braces that held up his trousers. Those, Molly noticed, were the same risqué pair from their earlier encounter.

Holding her breath, she dared to peek.

His britches were fully buttoned.

Sweet heaven. What had gotten into her?

Biting her lip, Molly hurriedly shifted her gaze. Of all the things she’d aspired to become, a loose woman had not been among them.

“I must protest. That, Mr. Copeland, is not proper business attire.”

He grinned. “It’s proper enough for today.”

“I strongly disagree!” Where had all those muscles in his arms and chest come from? The fineness of his physique had certainly never been apparent beneath his customary tailored wool worsted suits and waistcoats. “You look like a lumberman!”

“I was a lumberman. How do you think I began my mill?”

That was neither here nor there. Flustered, Molly tried not to gawk as his smile widened.

“I’m sure you were a wonderful lumberman,” she told him firmly, “but for today, a suit would have been better. Much better. You have such lovely suits.”

Please, put one on, she begged silently. Dressed like this, he seemed much too…not stick-in-the-mud…to her. Like this, Marcus seemed a different man. An approachable, wholly masculine man, unbuffered by formal clothes and the decorous attitude that usually came with them. He seemed very much not like the man who’d been her unwitting nemesis for the past several months…and very much like a man who could make ladies everywhere titter and swoon.

Including Molly, if she weren’t careful.

With shocking casualness, Marcus propped his hip on the tabletop. He regarded her. “I don’t wear suits on Saturday.”

He seemed regretful. Molly was positive that regret was feigned. Behind Marcus’s warm brown eyes, a certain teasing lurked. A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.

“You shall, for our meetings!” she blurted. “I insist!”

“I’m afraid, Molly, that you’re in no position to insist.”

Lazily, Marcus straightened. An audacious tilt cocked his brow as he came closer.

At his advance, the room seemed to cozy in upon them. Molly found herself stepping backward again. Her bustle squashed against the tabletop, bringing her up short. An instant later, Marcus halted his booted feet mere inches from her own. The warmth of his body reached out to her, along with an unidentifiable fragrance. Soap, surely. And something more?

“Now…are you?” he murmured.

She swallowed, looking upward. “Am I…what?”

“In a position to give orders.” He sent his gaze over her face, seeming to savor the sight of her. “Especially to me.”

Oh, my. Her whole being quivered with a nonsensical urge to agree. To nod her head, to blurt her assent and be done with it. In the shadow of Marcus’s imposing form and surprising force of will, Molly could barely remember what they’d been talking about.

“I’ll wear what I like,” he assured her.

His tone, deep and sure, somehow signified that something greater than mere wardrobe was at stake. Alerted by that tone, Molly felt her usual backbone return.

Time to be brave. Businesslike. Unimpeachably proper.

“Perhaps a hat, then?” she ventured.

He laughed out loud, stepping back a pace. Something akin to respect glimmered in his eyes. “You don’t give in, I’ll credit you that.”

“I do not,” Molly agreed. “Is that a yes?”

“To the question of a hat? No.”

Disappointed, Molly frowned. But she had made progress, she was sure. It was almost as though by standing up to Marcus, she’d passed a test of some sort. Things between them had shifted subtly.

They shifted again when Marcus next looked at her. Speculation enlivened his expression. “All this talk of suits has me thinking of work. But I’m not expected at the mill until noon, and until then the place is in capable hands with my foreman Smith. Why don’t we use this time to take a walk together instead? These things can wait.”

The sweep of his hand indicated the baking supplies Molly had prepared. Dumbly she stared at them, then at Marcus’s broad palm. His hands looked capable, she thought inanely. Masculine. Unreasonably enthralling. She wondered how one of them would feel clasping one of hers.

“You don’t really want to think about a boring business venture like ours, do you?” he went on, his tone persuasive. “Not when the sun is shining and there is leisure to be had.”

His smile coaxed her to agree. Lulled by it, Molly almost nodded. It would be nice to take a stroll, to enjoy the changing colors of the oak leaves outside. Especially with someone whose company she enjoyed by her side.

At times, she did grow lonely in Morrow Creek, where the townsfolk only thought of her as flighty Molly Crabtree, liable to embark on a silly quest at any moment. They didn’t understand that she’d only been searching for something all this time…something that would make her feel whole.

“Your expression says you agree,” Marcus said, breaking into her thoughts. “Excellent.”

He grasped her hand. His fingers, strong and slightly callused, entwined with hers as he tugged her away from the kitchen. The sensation was every bit as enthralling as she’d imagined. Surprised, Molly let herself be led for a moment, her only protest a backward glance at the flour, sugar and milk assembled in a tidy row.

The supplies seemed to offer a silent rebuke. Are you here for a pleasurable stroll? they asked. Or a businesslike arrangement?

She couldn’t very well expect Marcus to help with her dreaded bookkeeping, she realized abruptly, if she didn’t hold up her end of their bargain.

“Wait! You haven’t eaten yet,” Molly said. “I’d planned biscuits with honey for breakfast. The fire is stoked and the oven should be ready soon. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Hungry?” Marcus repeated. As though taken aback by the question, he examined her.

In the process, his regard changed. At first rather hurried, it mellowed into a leisurely perusal that caught Molly by surprise. He did look hungry, she thought—and with a multitude of appetites. Not all of them, Molly expected, could be satisfied with her baked goods. Again she remembered her sisters’ cautioning words.

She may have been a bit…reckless in thinking she could deal successfully with a man like Marcus. Particularly given her unexpected, untoward interest in him.

“Let me worry about that,” he finally said, freeing her from his heated gaze. “Get your hat.”

“No.”

He looked perplexed. On him, the expression seemed a poor fit. Perhaps it didn’t get used often.

“What?” he asked.

“No,” she repeated, pulling her hand from his. She straightened her spine. “I’ll not get my hat.”

He frowned, obviously displeased at her refusal. But why? Surely a walk wasn’t so urgent as all that. Yet Marcus seemed quite put out that she…no. There was something else afoot here. Suddenly Molly was sure of it.

“But the outdoors awaits,” Marcus urged again.

Beyond the glass-paned window he gestured toward, ponderosa pines crowded the small house’s yard. Mixed between them, the slender-trunked oak trees common to the northern parts of the territory brandished multiple-colored leaves. Molly could almost smell the fresh scents she knew the trees carried.

Marcus didn’t glance longingly at the landscape at all, she noticed. It was then that she realized the truth.

“You’re afraid!” She turned in wonderment to face him. She crossed her arms with the conviction of her revelation. “You’re trying to divert me from our tasks because you’re afraid. I can’t believe it!”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“You’re afraid of baking.”

“Ha! Ridiculous.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You women and your outlandish ideas.”

“Identify the flour,” Molly challenged, sweeping her arm toward the supplies at the other end of the room. “I dare you.”

“Don’t be childish.”

“He said, glowering,” she teased.

“This is a very unbecoming side of you. Do you think I’m so helpless I can’t pinpoint something so basic as flour?”

Silently she waited. The flour, salt and baking powder were in identical canvas sacks, perhaps eleven inches high and eight inches wide. Molly had sewn them herself, specifically for transporting baking provisions today.

“I think you’re afraid to try,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everyone is uncertain at the beginning.”

“I am never uncertain.”

“That’s something we have in common, then.”

Her pronouncement seemed to goad him into action. With one final, exasperated look, Marcus went to the worktable. He jabbed his finger toward one of the sacks. “This is the flour.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Then we’ll begin the biscuits with two cups of that.” Molly joined him at the opposite side of the worktable and pointed to the teacup she’d found for measuring. “Go ahead and measure some out, then pour it into that bowl I prepared.”

Marcus blanched.

“Afraid you’ve guessed wrong?”

He scoffed and grasped the teacup. It looked ridiculously fragile in his hand as he scowled into its bowl. He drew in a deep breath, then thrust the teacup into the opened sack he’d chosen.

White powder billowed upward. Molly hoped he liked sour biscuits. She could tell from this distance that the substance held suspended in a stream of sunlight was far too fine to be the rather coarse milled flour she’d purchased at the mercantile. Sugar didn’t waft in a cloud like that. Neither did salt. Marcus had chosen the baking powder.

She waited for him to admit his mistake. He did not.

Instead, he peered skeptically at the teacup, now overflowing with baking powder. His drawn-together brows were frosted with white. The sight might have been humorous, if not for the earnest concentration on the features below them.

Marcus snagged the rim of the earthenware bowl. He dragged it closer. He held the baking powder above it and prepared to empty the teacup.

“Wait!” Molly cried. “I can’t let you do it.”

He gave her a bland, cocksure look. Without taking his gaze from her face, he overturned the cup. Baking powder landed in the bowl with a muffled whump.

Oh, no. This was worse than she’d thought, Molly realized. There would be no reasoning with a man who believed himself capable of everything. She hurried around the table to Marcus’s side.

“That’s baking powder,” she protested, staring aghast into the bowl.

“And…?”

“You don’t need a whole cup of baking powder for this recipe. Unless you’re making biscuits for two hundred people.”

He squinted. “We’ll need a much larger bowl.”

“No, we won’t. We’ll need to start over.”

Marcus gave the bowl an accusing look. “You see? We should have taken that walk I suggested.”

“No, we should have begun at the beginning.” She refused to be swayed. Because Marcus was otherwise so capable, Molly had credited him with too much kitchen competence. But that didn’t mean she intended to give up, or let herself be distracted from her mission. “I can see now that I should have begun with something simpler for you. Something like…”

“Like a walk.”

“Like toasted bread,” she decided.

“I prefer biscuits,” he said stubbornly. “I have biscuits every morning at the Lorndorff Hotel.”

“Every morning?”

He nodded. “Coffee, eggs, an edition of the Pioneer Press, and biscuits.”

“What if you fancy griddle cakes one day?”

“I prefer biscuits,” he said firmly.

Evidently Marcus Copeland was a creature of habit. That masculine trait could work to her advantage, Molly decided, if she handled things correctly between them. She’d simply have to train him properly, and she’d succeed. Magnificently.

“Then it’s biscuits you shall have today,” she acquiesced with a smile. Molly scooped the baking powder from the bowl. She returned it to its sack, then dusted her hands clean. “The eggs and coffee will have to wait for another lesson. But you must agree to do everything I say. To follow my every direction. In this, I’m your instructor. You are my pupil.”

“You are enjoying this far too much.”

“Nonsense.” She hid a smile. “I’m merely doing my part to make our business arrangement work. You’ll find I’m a very determined woman.”

“You’ll find I’m a very poor pupil.” Marcus stared at their baking supplies, hands on hips in a disgruntled pose. “What I’ve learned I’ve learned on my own. I don’t take kindly to being told what to do.”

“Then why did you agree to our arrangement?”

For a moment, Marcus only went on with what he’d been doing—frowning the baking powder into submission. Then he shifted his gaze to her face. He shrugged. “I have my reasons,” he said.

Leaving Molly to wonder, for all the rest of that day, exactly what those “reasons” of his really were.