The Rascal by Lisa Plumley

one I offered for marrying you.”
    Disbelieving, Grace stared. How had she ever found Jack Murphy tolerable, even for an instant? Even for as long as it took to be lulled by his big, strong demeanor, his ready smile, his too-teasing voice?
    Two words were all she could manage civilly. “Explain yourself.”
    “Any man who successfully marries you gets free drinks in my saloon for a year.” Generously, Jack spread his arms. He possessed two heartily unlikable dimples. “It was supposed to be for a month, but I didn’t have very many takers, so—”
    “You beast!” Furiously, Grace walloped him with her scarf. “You’re auctioning me off like a—a—a cow?”
    She’d never heard of anything more mortifying.
    His low chuckle drove her mad. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more akin to a reward than an auction. But if you think it would be quicker for you to just get up onstage…”
    “Arrgh!” Infuriated, Grace paced. She was never at a loss for words, but this time…she was.
    “Come on now. Don’t be this way,” Jack urged. “Those free drinks are going to cost me plenty, you know. This isn’t cheap, but I reckon it’ll be worth it in the end. To both of us.”
    Was that his notion of an apology? She couldn’t even speak, she felt so embarrassed. Snow squished beneath her shoes as she went on tramping it down in enraged, unsatisfying circles. Beyond them walked curious passersby carrying packages. Some rattled past in sleighs, their breaths puffing in the cold.
    Grace hoped none of them could overhear this indignity.
    Including the horses.
    “I thought you would at least admire the initiative involved,” Jack went on, sounding absurdly reasonable. “It was—”
    “Initiative? I can’t believe you even comprehend the word,” Grace sputtered, flinging her arm outward. She quit pacing long enough to glare at him. “You oafish, self-concerned—”
    “You ought to be happy. All you have to do is say yes.”
    “—uncultured excuse for a human being!”
    With a shrug, Jack leaned against the stair rail.
    He issued an indifferent sound, then lifted his burly arm and scratched underneath it.
    Grace recoiled. All the man did was grunt, scratch and—inexplicably, given that he did not partake of it—smell richly of tobacco. He obviously had no sense of decorum or civility or acceptable behavior. Any man who would raffle her to the most successful marriage bidder was clearly lacking in intelligence as well. Had all that whiskey pickled his brain?
    “If you were the least bit civilized,” she began, staring in aggravation at the hard line of his jaw, the unseemly size of his muscles, the rough disorder of his clothes, “you would realize exactly how inappropriate your efforts are.”
    He grunted. “Don’t care.” Settling more comfortably against the stair rail—almost as though he were enjoying himself—he smiled in a way that put both dimples to scandalous advantage. “You won’t either, after I snag you a husband or two.”
    Now he meant to get her more than one! Gaping at him, Grace finally understood the depths to which he was willing to sink. She’d never met anyone she couldn’t influence, but this time…this time her back was against the wall. Even her threat to enlist the valiant ladies of the Social Equality Sisterhood hadn’t made an impression. Jack was just that loutish.
    And exactly that swaggering.
    If only she could make him see reason, Grace fumed. But how? How did a person go about instilling sensibility in a man like him? A man who saw nothing wrong with marrying the town spinster to the thirstiest, most penny-pinching drunkard?
    Then it occurred to her. Like magic, as she examined his big uncouth hands and handsome oafish face, Grace realizedthe truth. All she had to do was civilize Jack! It was as plain as castile soap meeting dirt. Surely once she had properly improved and shaped and enlightened her problematically burly neighbor, he would appreciate how sensible it