Notorious in the West

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“I’d rather eat wood chips. I’d rather wear skirts!”

“I think that could be arranged. There’s Mr. Copeland’s lumber mill at the edge of town. He has wood chips available. As far as skirts go, well, Mrs. Crabtree—the newspaperman’s wife—is a fine seamstress. I’m sure she could accommodate your request.”

Her mischievous expression poked at his pride and his wish for seclusion alike. Suddenly, the notion of spending his days alone in the dark didn’t hold quite as much soul-salving appeal as it once had. But if she thought he was going to beg...

“I’d rather shut down this hotel altogether,” Griffin told her mulishly, “than be ordered about by a chambermaid.” He didn’t understand why she believed him capable of apologizing to Miss Holloway in the first place. Or why she believed him interested in doing so. The tabloid press who wrote about his ruthless business practices expected nothing of the kind from him. Unlike his “chambermaid,” they showed Griffin due respect for his reputation. Unreasoningly, he wanted her to respect him, as well. “I can do it, you know.”

Her smile flashed again, full of patient indulgence. “What I know is that you’ve had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.” Breezily, she raised her hand in a farewell gesture. “Enjoy your solitude, sir. You know how to reach me, if you need anything.”

Then she curtsied again—nearly toppling over in the process—exited his suite and left Griffin on his own to brood.

Chapter Six

It took less than three and a half hours for everything in Olivia’s life to change. She popped over to Miss Violet Benson’s church-side home for her quilting bee—late, flushed and inattentively toting a parasol instead of her sewing supplies, having been rattled by her encounter with Mr. Turner—only to return to The Lorndorff later to find the whole place in tumult.

Outside the hotel, a pair of guests were hastily piling into a waiting wagon. A carriage stood behind it, obviously awaiting more departing guests. From the corner livery stable, taciturn Owen Cooper, the owner, strode toward the hotel while leading two saddled horses, undoubtedly delivering them to some out-of-town visitors who’d stabled their mounts with him.

Confused, Olivia picked up her pace. That was when she glimpsed the hotel’s employees clustered worriedly in the lobby. Annie was there, along with the other maids. So were the desk clerk, the bellman and the dining room staff. Through the open doors leading inside, an unfamiliar, well-dressed man was visible, too. He stood on the lower steps of the hotel’s oak staircase, addressing the staff from that elevated position.

Olivia ducked inside, feeling—as she always did—gratefully enveloped by The Lorndorff’s cozily familiar furnishings, fine upholstered settees and sparkling crystal chandeliers.

Oddly enough, her father was nowhere in sight.

“...the future of the hotel is as yet undecided,” the stranger was saying in an assured tone. “The Lorndorff may remain a hotel, much as it is today. Or it may close to guests and become Mr. Turner’s private residence in Morrow Creek.” He gave the hotel employees an amiable shrug. “If you don’t want to work for Mr. Turner in either capacity, you may accept your final pay envelopes and be on your way. Or you may remain here, on staff, to fulfill Mr. Turner’s wishes. It’s your decision.”

Galvanized by his words, Olivia stopped cold, surrounded by bewildered employees, gossiping guests and the workaday sounds of industry going on in the lively street outside the hotel.

Mr. Turner’s wishes? As far as Olivia recalled, the cranky, hard-drinking Mr. Turner’s wishes had extended to exactly three things: being left alone, making sure no one gossiped about him—especially right under his nose—and shutting down the hotel if he didn’t get his way in the first two instances.

I’d rather shut down this hotel altogether than be ordered about by a chambermaid, she recollected him saying before she’d left his suite. I can do it, you know.

Oh, sweet heaven. Could he possibly have truly done it?

She hadn’t dreamed he’d actually had the wherewithal.

The hotel seemed to still be functioning. But it was doing so perfunctorily, Olivia realized as she took an observant look around. It was doing so without her father’s guidance. Without her father’s heart and attentiveness and care. Without the very qualities that had made The Lorndorff legendary in the West.

This hotel was her home. Its staff was a family to her. She loved...all of them. Now, possibly because of her—because she’d accidentally pushed ornery Mr. Turner into making a rash and foolhardy decision—the hotel’s operations were threatened.

Queasily, Olivia remembered her earlier, unfortunate reaction to Mr. Turner’s threat about closing The Lorndorff.

You’ve had too much Old Orchard, Mr. Fancypants.

Her flippancy had been unwise, to be true. Still, that didn’t explain who this man was or how this was happening to the hotel. Only one of her father’s wealthy investors could have...

Oh, dear. Mr. Turner was one of her father’s wealthy investors, Olivia realized, and she’d offended him. Why had she let her father convince her to step away from the hotel’s day-to-day business? If she’d been aware of Mr. Turner’s identity—and less incensed at his treatment of Annie—she might have avoided this. She might have placated him instead of riling him.

“You do realize that you must make a choice today,” the stranger called out when the staff remained in their places, muttering unhappily among themselves. “You can’t have it both ways. Mr. Mouton no longer runs The Lorndorff. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better things will be for you.”

A swell of fresh dissent met his announcement. One of the bellmen grumbled. A maid wrung her handkerchief in her hands, staring up at the stranger through disbelieving, defiant eyes.

Olivia didn’t know who this man was, but he’d have to go through her before assuming control of her family’s hotel.

“Excuse me!” She made her way to the front, then came to stand directly at the foot of the staircase. She stared up at him as determinedly as she could. “I am Olivia Mouton. My family owns this hotel. I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“I am Palmer Grant.” He extended his hand. “Mr. Turner’s associate.” A smile creased his youthful face, making him appear far more likable than he deserved to, under the circumstances. “I was expecting to see you earlier in the proceedings, Miss Mouton. Given what Mr. Turner told me about you, I’d thought you’d be in the fray straightaway. He said you’re a fighter.”

“He doesn’t know me.” Baffled, Olivia rejected the very idea. As far as she’d been aware, Mr. Turner hadn’t even known her name. Yet in the space of a few hours, he’d learned her name and accomplished much more, besides. Resolutely, she clutched her parasol. “But he’s right about one thing—I am a fighter. And I’ll fight to keep this hotel in my family, where it belongs.”

The staff gathered around her, nodding and murmuring among themselves. They seemed to realize that Olivia knew something about this dire situation that they did not. Annie, in particular, sidled nearer. She stood staunchly beside Olivia.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for fighting,” Mr. Grant informed the crowd. “Mr. Turner owns a very large share of The Lorndorff Hotel. Furthermore, he owns one hundred percent of the land it’s built on and the neighboring properties. The management of the hotel is his decision. It’s my job to make that decision clear.”

“Is he incapable of doing that himself?” Olivia asked. “Why doesn’t he come downstairs to attempt this coup on his own?”

At her questions, the crowd of staff members shifted in anticipation. But Palmer Grant merely gave a knowing grin.

“Mr. Turner is more than capable of doing...whatever he wishes, in whatever fashion he wishes, to whomever he wishes.” Mr. Grant gave her an unnervingly perceptive look. “You, of all people, must realize that by now, Miss Mouton.”

Olivia lifted her chin. “And my father? What about him?”

A shrug. “He disappeared into his office an hour ago.”

Olivia felt her heart turn over. She cast a worried glance at Annie. Had her father given up on the hotel, just like that?

She knew he could be...retiring at times. Despite having founded The Lorndorff, Henry Mouton had never been the most aggressive of men. At heart, he was a genial host—a friend to everyone. He wasn’t overly ambitious, but Olivia didn’t mind that. She considered her father easygoing and loved him for it.

But surely even he wouldn’t have surrendered the management of his hotel—his pride and joy—to Griffin Turner. Would he?

Exactly how formidable was Mr. Turner anyway? He hadn’t earned all those nefarious nicknames for nothing. In this instance, at least, he really was behaving like a beast.

There was only one manner in which to handle this, Olivia decided. Courageously. And quickly. She turned to the staff.

“Everyone, I’m sorry about this confusion.” Nervously, she stared out at their expectant, hopeful faces. “Clearly, there’s been some sort of gross misunderstanding here. If you’ll all just be patient, I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“It’s not a misunderstanding,” Mr. Grant objected easily. “The Lorndorff Hotel is under new management. From now on, Griffin Turner’s word is law. The sooner you fall in line with that, the happier you’ll all be.” He cast an amused look at Olivia. “Or you can allow a woman whose greatest achievement is having her likeness appear on a nostrum bottle to ‘lead’ you.”

As one, the gathered staff members turned to Olivia. She had never felt stronger—or more ready to take on a challenge and win. For her father’s sake. For her friends’ sake. For her home’s sake. For the sake of what was the right thing to do.

The desk clerk cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Mr. Turner has asked you to marry him yet, has he? If he has, well...then we might have us a fighting chance of winning.”

Everyone seemed plumb perked up by the possibility. Olivia almost hated to disabuse them. “No. He hasn’t.” In fact, he’d seemed unaccountably unmoved by her looks overall. “But I—”

“That’s it, then. We’re done for!” the bellman moaned. “If he ain’t able to see how marriageable Miss Mouton is, I reckon he ain’t right in the head, anyhow. There’s no winnin’ that.”

A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.

Aghast, Olivia looked out at them. These were her friends and neighbors. They were practically her family. Yet even they didn’t believe she could take on Mr. Turner and win...at least not on the merits of her intelligence and ingenuity and fortitude.

Dismayed, she shifted her gaze to Mr. Grant. He had obviously read the situation as astutely as she had, because he’d already withdrawn a stack of pay envelopes from his valise.

“Do you all quit?” Mr. Grant asked, raising the envelopes. “Or will you get back to work under Mr. Turner’s management?”

Breath held, Olivia waited. But it was no contest at all. One by one, all the staff members made their way dispiritedly back to their posts. They began dealing with guests, carrying baggage and refilling oil lamps...in the new Lorndorff Hotel.

The one that didn’t feel like Olivia’s home anymore.

Left alone with Palmer Grant, she watched him return the pay envelopes securely to his valise, his head tactfully bowed.

“For a man who just won,” she said as she glanced at him, “you don’t seem particularly happy about your triumph.”

But Mr. Grant only shook his head. “This wasn’t a triumph.”

“Not for you, perhaps, but for Mr. Turner—”

“Not for him, either.” Mr. Grant lifted his solemn face to hers, then mustered a halfhearted smile. “But if you’re really as special as Griffin seems to think you are, you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.” With surprising affability, he shook her hand. “Good luck, Miss Mouton. I think you’ll need it.”

Then Palmer Grant hefted his valise, cast one final look at the now bustling hotel and took himself off—leaving Olivia alone to figure out how she was supposed to regain her father’s hotel...whether anyone believed she could accomplish it or not.

* * *

Any minute now, Griffin figured as he lay in the darkness on his hotel suite’s bed, he would start to feel better.

Any minute now, the crushing weight on his chest would ease. The urge to grip a whiskey bottle would lessen. The compulsion to draw the curtains would disappear and the need to forget everything and everyone would vanish. Any minute now, a sliver of hopefulness would nudge its way into his hardened heart and carry him toward the next day and the next conquest, the way it always had in the past. The way it had to do today.

Under most circumstances, exercising his authority made Griffin feel better. That had been true for years. After his forced takeover of The Lorndorff Hotel yesterday, however, he felt...worse, if anything. He didn’t understand it. Flexing his influence and power and wealth had always improved his outlook.