The Rascal by Lisa Plumley Page A

would be to leave her in peace—and to leave her free of husbandly candidates, too.
    Why, he might even go further, Grace reasoned excitedly. With her expert tutelage, Jack might finally see the sense in segregating his saloon from her meeting rooms—and all her difficulties would be solved!
    It was obvious. Elegant. Perfect.
    She couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized it before. Now that she had, it was as though he’d presented her the solution with both hands—however mucky they might have been with tobacco, tequila and temerity. Surely once Jack Murphy was fully transformed into a broad-minded egalitarian thinker, he would be bound to see reason—her reason—at long last. It was brilliant!
    Craftily, she scrutinized him. Oblivious to her racing thoughts, he watched the passersby, probably plotting to snare her yet another hairy, smelly, or gangly potential husband.
    Yes, Grace decided. Yes indeed. All the raw materials of a proper gentleman were there, albeit in terribly rough form. All she had to do was exert the correct persuasion with Jack, make available the appropriate influences…manage the whole endeavor with cleverness and patience and zeal. Which shouldn’t be too terribly difficult, she reminded herself. After all, cleverness, patience and zeal were her specialties!
    Nothing could stop her now. With all the enthusiasm she could muster, she would turn Jack Murphy into a reasonable and quick-witted man—and accomplish that feat long before he could produce a marriageable suitor for her. It was faultless.
    “What’s the matter with you?” He frowned anew, studying her face. “You look strange, all of a sudden.”
    “Nothing at all.” She widened her eyes with deliberate guilelessness—a gesture she’d never before attempted. She feared it was a poor fit for her. “In fact, I’ve never felt better.”
    Another grunt. “I don’t trust that smile of yours.”
    “That’s quite all right, Mr. Murphy. Your trust isn’t necessary—only your cooperation.”
    Then Grace patted his arm, straightened her hat and left him behind to begin her improving program straightaway. She had a man to enlighten and a saloon relocation to finagle—and the sooner, the better, to be sure.

Chapter Seven
    “O h, Lizzie!” Molly exclaimed, as chatty and exuberant as always. “What a beautiful wedding! I daresay I’ve never seen a lovelier bride. And your gown is absolutely exquisite.”
    She brushed Lizzie’s sleeve with her fingertips, her mouth open in a circle of awe. Among all the women gathered around the new bride, Grace’s younger sister was by far the most effusive in her admiration, but then she’d always possessed an eye for fashion. Even now, while preparing for her and Marcus’s first child, Molly managed to appear effortlessly stylish.
    Unlike a certain Crabtree woman who might be mentioned…
    With an unaccustomed sense of self-consciousness, Grace peered at her own dress. Constructed of sturdy forest-green wool with plain white trim at the collar and cuffs, it was the fanciest item she owned. Unfortunately, it was also the itchiest, and it restricted movement in a most unreasonable manner. For anyone other than her friend Lizzie, Grace would never have appeared in public wearing it. Given the festive occasion, though, she’d decided to loosen her practical outlook.
    She already regretted it though, especially feeling, as she did, foolishly trussed up…like a prickly green chicken surrounded by finer-garbed peacocks. Grace’s only consolation was that her skirts and stiff bodice and voluminous petticoats seemed to have bewildered her would-be suitors.
    Doubtless they didn’t recognize her, because none of the marriage proposals she’d grown accustomed to had been forthcoming. Their lack was almost enough to induce Grace into tight-laced gowns every day. Almost. But not quite.
    She did, after all, have her reputation to consider. People looked up to her, especially the members of her various