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“No, you’re not.”
“I am.” She nodded, took a bite of chicken and chewed vigorously. But still her gaze wandered in the direction of town. “Truly.”
“Humph.”
Curious now, Molly leaned sideways, the better to figure out what held her sister so enraptured. All she could see were the same old buildings—the back side of the mercantile, the church steeple, the various saloons and shops along Main Street…and the blacksmith shop, where a tall, powerfully built man stood beside a water barrel, sluicing its contents over his face and bare chest. Squinting, Molly just managed to make out the dark hair and strong features of Daniel McCabe, a moment before he shook his head and went back to work.
“I don’t believe my eyes,” she murmured.
“Hmm?” Vigorously working away at her drumstick, Sarah didn’t look up. So engrossed was she, in fact, that she failed to notice the wide grin spreading across her sister’s face. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re sweet on Daniel McCabe,” Molly said, shaking her head over the sheer obviousness of it. After all, Sarah and Daniel had been friends since their days running up and down the same schoolhouse steps the two women now sat upon. “It’s only fitting, I suppose,” she went on, “considering how close you two have been for all these years. But still—Daniel McCabe? Surely you don’t think a rowdy type like him would be best for—”
“He’s not like that,” Sarah interrupted. “Not on the inside.”
“You know what the matchmaker says—a man’s a man, all the way through, and nothing’s going to change him.”
“Pshaw. I don’t want to change him.”
“I hope not.”
“I don’t want to hear anything else about the matchmaker, either!” Furtively Sarah glanced around the schoolyard to make sure they hadn’t been overheard discussing the subject, then rapidly tucked the remainder of her lunch back into its box. “You know we’ve all agreed not to discuss…the matchmaker…in public.”
“You’re right.” Unable to take the smile from her face at the knowledge that Sarah fancied a beau—especially one so brawny as Daniel McCabe—Molly put away her lunch, as well. They both stood. “I won’t mention you-know-who again.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said primly.
“No matter how much,” Molly continued, “you might need matchmaking services.”
Still smiling, she skipped down the last few steps, looked speculatively toward the blacksmith shop, and then waved goodbye to her sister. It looked as though the Morrow Creek matchmaker might have some very busy days ahead, indeed.
At the mill, Marcus walked between stacks of neatly piled lumber with Smith, his foreman, trying mightily to direct his thoughts toward the business he’d worked so hard to build…and away from a certain blue-eyed baker who was due to arrive at any minute. It wasn’t easy. Ever since Molly Crabtree had begun selling her cookies, tea cakes and cinnamon buns at the mill each day, he’d found himself less and less able to concentrate.
No doubt his inattentiveness was an example of the disruption she caused among his men, Marcus told himself firmly. Once he’d found the proof he needed of her matchmaking activities, his life would return to normal.
He hoped.
Unfortunately, just having Molly nearby had produced inadequate evidence in his investigation. He hadn’t detected any obvious matchmaking activities or inclinations in her. Not so much as a flirtatious glance had passed between Molly and his men as she’d doled out their sweets. If he was to discover her secret matchmaking activities, Marcus realized, he would clearly have to take things a step further…engage her more closely.
Setting that intriguing notion aside for now, Marcus nodded toward a stack of rough-hewn pine ties to his right. “You say this batch is ready to be bundled for the railroad?”
“Sure is, boss,” Smith told him. “Fifteen hundred railway ties for the new express line going down between here and Prescott, exactly as ordered.”
“Good work.” Satisfied, Marcus moved on to the next waiting assortment of lumber, just around the corner. As he did, he reached up to thump the stacked wood. The solid feel of sawed lumber beneath his hand never failed to make the success of his mill feel twice as real. Twice as enduring.
Twice as secure.
The pine boards shifted at the motion. One slid sideways, and something fell from beneath it to the floor below. It rolled, then struck Marcus’s boot.
Frowning, he bent to pick it up. About the size of the baseballs used in the new Morrow Creek league, the object was dense and light brown in color. Marcus raised it higher. Just as Smith paused and turned to see what had delayed his boss, Marcus realized what it was.
A cinnamon bun.
Undoubtedly from Molly’s bakery.
What was it doing rammed amongst the railroad tie shipment?
“Uh, sorry ’bout that, boss.” Smith edged nearer. “Can’t reckon how that got there.”
He grabbed for the cinnamon bun. Marcus held firm.
“Never mind,” he said, scooping up the plain white napkin that had fluttered to the floor alongside the sweet. He wrapped the cinnamon bun inside it and shoved the bundle into his suit coat pocket. Better there than here in the main work area. If the stale bun had fallen from a greater height, it might have brained a man. “How are the sharpeners you hired coming along?”
On the way to their work area, Smith shared a few details about the recently hired men. Just around the corner from where the sharpeners labored to hone the various axes and saws used by the loggers, Marcus spied something else. He stopped. Frowned.
Yes, he’d guessed correctly, he saw as he pried out another napkin-wrapped bundle from between two freshly peeled logs. Another cinnamon bun.
With a disapproving glare around the room, Marcus stowed the rocklike bundle in his pocket alongside the first, then went on with his daily inspection.
“I think the new equipment is working out just fine,” Smith remarked a short while later. They stood side by side, watching thoughtfully as two men directed logs into the splitter Marcus had had shipped in by rail from back East over the summer. “Real nice.”
“Yes.” Burdened by a worrisome feeling he didn’t understand and didn’t much like, Marcus fiddled with the wrapped bundles of cinnamon buns—and a few tea cakes—lining his pockets. By now, his suit was filled fair to bulging with the abandoned sweets. “It’s fine. What about the shipment that came in last week? Jack Murphy might be in the market for some of those pressed-tin ceiling forms for his saloon.”
“Ain’t many of ’em left,” Smith said. Outside, they walked together through the shade of the pines clustered around the lumber mill building, then entered the main work area again. “I reckon we could get some fair quick, though.”
“Good.”
With a distracted feeling, Marcus examined the building and its furnishings. The men all appeared to be working as usual—with the exception of the pair near one of the muley saws. The two bearded mill hands hadn’t noticed Marcus in their midst, which probably explained the fact that one of them was juggling.
Marcus’s frown deepened. Here was proof that letting down his guard—and letting a female into his place of business—had been a mistake. Now the men thought they had leave to indulge in frivolous behavior at all hours. Why had he agreed to join the damned matchmaker search in the first place?
He silenced Smith’s questions about the new work schedules Marcus had been working on, then stalked toward the juggler. Halfway there, he realized the man was not juggling rocks or dirt clumps or any of the other things he’d assumed…he was juggling an assortment of Molly’s molasses cookies.
If she caught wind of this, she’d never be back. He’d never uncover her secrets. With new determination, Marcus crossed the remaining distance between him and the laggard worker.
“I understand,” he said, snatching the cookies from midair as they fell, one by one, from the startled man’s hands, “that you have a pile of logs waiting to be peeled before lunchtime. Isn’t that right, Jameson?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Caught, the man backed up, his mouth agape.
“Then I suggest you cease these childish games. Unless you relish the notion of peeling those logs with your bare teeth, and eating the bark for your noontime meal.”
Jameson clapped his mouth shut. He nodded and, with a mumbled apology, sped toward his usual post with his companion in tow. Ramming the cookies into his pocket along with everything else, Marcus turned to see Smith hurrying to meet him.
“You can make the men buy ’em,” he said, looking dour, “but God’s own angels couldn’t make them eat ’em.”
Marcus glared toward the departing men’s backs. “I paid the men good money to buy these sweets. Money out of my own pocket, damn it! Why won’t they eat them?”
Smith shook his head, as though remembering the plan Marcus had struck upon to bring Molly Crabtree to the lumber mill each day—and deciding upon its foolhardiness, once and for all.
“Have you tried ’em, sir?” he asked.
That was beside the point, Marcus thought in frustration. He needed regular contact with Molly to find out if she was the matchmaker the men’s club members sought. Bringing her to his mill—by whatever means possible—had been the most efficient way to accomplish that. But it wasn’t enough.
“She is a professional baker,” he reminded his foreman. “Surely the sweets aren’t that bad.”
“Hmm.” Sadly, Smith shook his head. Into Marcus’s hand, he pressed a napkin-wrapped bundle he’d confiscated somewhere between the mill’s back door and its center work area, then released its petrified weight. “I reckon you’d better try some yourself.”
For a man who spent his working days surrounded by rough-hewn loggers, Marcus Copeland was a surprisingly well-mannered man, Molly decided on her seventh day visiting the mill. She’d finished selling her basketful of baked goods within minutes of arriving there, and was now being given a tour of the business at Marcus’s side.
“That’s where the skidders drop each load when it’s ready to be milled,” he said, pointing toward a stack of logs waiting to be taken inside.
“My goodness!” Shading her eyes from the noontime sun, Molly looked toward the neatly piled stack. “Look at the size of those logs! You could drive a wagon right over top of that one on the right.”
“Or down the middle, if it was hollow.”
“It must be quite a challenge, cutting all those down. However do your men manage it?”
Marcus shrugged. “Hard work. Teamwork. It’s their job, just like baking is yours.”
Molly couldn’t help but brighten at his words. At last! Here was someone who took her and her ambitions seriously. That Marcus respected her business aspirations encouraged her greatly, even as she struggled more each day to see him strictly as a professional associate.
He was, after all, a very fine-looking and personable man.
He had not, apparently, noticed similarly appealing qualities in her. How had it happened, Molly wondered, that the one man in years she might not have minded admiring her bosoms seemed oblivious to them?
Marcus hadn’t done anything more forward than take her elbow to help her over a patch of rough ground. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to flirt openly so that he might understand how her feelings toward him were broadening. The whole situation was confusing.
She hadn’t felt this out of her depth since she’d decided to become a circus acrobat by reading an illustrated book on the subject. No matter how much she’d concentrated on the pages, her limbs simply hadn’t bent in the proper ways. Now, it seemed, neither did her thoughts. Perhaps, in all her daring endeavors, she’d damaged her feminine wiles somehow.
It was a worrisome notion.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she told him, shoving aside her concerns along with her enjoyment of his steady grasp. “Most people don’t understand why a woman would want to become involved in trade.”
“Especially one like you, I’m sure.”
“Like me? What do you mean?”
“Nothing terrible.” Marcus grinned, undoubtedly at the suspicious expression Molly felt puckering her face. He paused, taking her arm to help her across the gnarled tree roots in their path, then said, “Only that it must come as a surprise to folks that a pretty lady like yourself has time to run a business. Between fending off beaux, and all.”
“Beaux?” Molly laughed, unreasonably delighted by his image of her as the belle of Morrow Creek. The only beaux she had were the unwanted bosom fanciers, who’d chased her since she’d reached womanhood. They hardly counted. “You’re incorrigible, Mr. Copeland.”
“Marcus,” he reminded her.
The warmth in his brown-eyed gaze gave her the same kind of fluttery feelings she’d been beset with ever since their first meeting. Biting her lip, Molly dared a second glance at him as he strode along beside her. Yes, she was definitely smitten with Marcus Copeland.
Smitten, for the first time in her life.
What, she wondered, would the matchmaker advise?
“Very well. Marcus.” She smiled, liking the sound of it. “But what makes a bachelor like yourself think I have so very many beaux, I wonder? It’s not as though I could count you among them.”
“You could.” He stopped, still holding her arm. Slowly he slid his hand down past her elbow, over her forearm, and all the way to her hand. “If you’d allow me to call on you.”
Marcus linked his fingers with hers. For one wild instant, Molly wished away her stylish braid-trimmed gloves. She wished to feel his skin against hers, to measure its warmth and texture, to marvel at the novel sensation of a man’s hand—so much larger and stronger than hers—holding hers closely. But then his words pushed through her thoughts. Their implications went much further than a simple meeting of hands.
“Would you, Molly?” Marcus asked. With a smile that appeared surpassingly devilish for a man as respected as Marcus, he moved closer. “I’m sure the matchmaker would approve.”
“Pshaw. I’m not worried about the matchmaker.”
But she was. A little. Given what she knew about the matchmaker’s activities, she’d vowed never to…no, Molly decided. She wouldn’t worry about that now.
“Then you’ll let me call on you?”
“I don’t know if I should. I’m a businesswoman, after all. A businesswoman who’s engaged in trade here at your lumber mill with your permission. It’s possible that your calling on me will only muddy the waters of our business relationship.”
His smile flashed again. “Surely even business-women need beaux.”
Molly wrinkled her nose. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure they do. According to my parents, a woman who builds an independent life for herself is free to choose a beau. Or not, as she pleases.”
“Or not?” Marcus pretended shock. “That can’t be your fate. Please, Molly. Twice daily visits to the mill. A Sunday walk. Whatever you choose. I want to see you. I must see you.”
His persistence—his urgency—was flattering, if a little unexpected. Something Sarah had said, about Molly being too inexperienced to deal successfully with a man like Marcus, edged into her thoughts. It was possible her sister was right. But how else to gain experience? Letting herself see more of Marcus might be exactly what she needed, Molly decided.
“Very well,” she told him. “In that case…I have an idea. It will keep things on a businesslike footing between us, too.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows.
Molly went on. “I’ve heard you eat all your meals at Jack Murphy’s saloon. This seems as good an opportunity as any to protest that, in the name of all that’s edible.”
“Murphy’s grub is edible.”
“All right, in the name of all that’s fit to spend time eating, then. If you agree, I’ll use my expertise to tutor you in basic cooking and housekeeping skills. That’s how we’ll see more of each other.”
Marcus looked skeptical. “I’m a bachelor. The last time I tried cooking anything, it was my socks as I boiled them clean.”
Oh, dear. “These lessons will be bachelor-proofed,” Molly promised. “We can meet in the evenings after your mill and my shop are closed. Say, twice a week?”
“A man needs to eat seven days a week,” he reminded her.
“I might be able to manage four days a week.” She pretended reticence.
“Then there’s the fact that there are three meals in each day, which adds up to—”
“Very well, six days a week! Excepting Sundays,” Molly acquiesced. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand from his to retrieve her basket, then straightened. As she did so, the satisfied expression on his face came into view. She couldn’t prevent a smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Copeland.”
“Marcus. And driving a hard bargain is the way I’ve built my business. These maneuverings between us have been gentle.”
She looked him over, seeing him in a new and unexpectedly dangerous light. This was a man who got what he wanted, Molly realized all at once. Marcus Copeland, for all his fine suits and good manners, was as strong as any man she’d encountered.
