The Rascal by Lisa Plumley Page A

that pink on.”
    “I wasn’t wearing it. I was carrying it.”
    Jack plucked another glass. He gave a noncommittal grunt.
    “What the hell does that mean?” Daniel demanded.
    With a shrug, Jack arced his cloth inside the glass. Secretly, he felt downright pleased with himself. His grunts must be getting better—manlier—if Daniel took them to mean something. He affected a casual demeanor. “Only that a man shouldn’t let a women push him around.”
    Daniel eyeballed him with all the skepticism borne of their yearlong friendship. “Fine. Soon as you get yourself a woman, I guess you can try out that philosophy. Until then, you can just keep your addle-headed opinions to—”
    The saloon’s doors slammed open, interrupting him in mid-sentence. Daniel glanced to the entryway in surprise. Jack double checked the position of his customary under-the-bar pistol. Anybody stomping into a saloon that way was looking for trouble, plain and simple.
    “Jack Murphy, I’ve had just about enough of you!”
    Grace Crabtree. And she was definitely looking for trouble.
    Jack blanched. “Miss Crabtree, get out of here.”
    Naturally enough, she kept coming instead. Jack couldn’t in good conscience fire a warning shot to keep her at a safe distance either—more’s the pity. Actually using his Colt would have solidified his rugged western image nicely. Reluctantly, he eased his hand away from his pistol.
    With her usual vitality, Grace strode fearlessly into the saloon’s midday gloom. Her shoes thumped forward in as unladylike a fashion as they always did, and her whole face shone with a fervor Jack might have mistaken for enthusiasm in anyone else. With Grace Crabtree, though, a man never knew.
    Despite everything, Jack found himself admiring that about her. Most women simply didn’t possess his uppity neighbor’s audacity, her unpredictability, her intelligence. Those were rare qualities—qualities to be appreciated. Not that he’d admit as much to anyone in Morrow Creek, Jack assured himself.
    He’d rather kiss a trapeze monkey.
    Grace marched right behind the bar as if she owned the place, her scarf trailing behind her like a banner. Every man paused with his whiskey or mescal halfway to his lips, snooping unabashedly. Several frowned. More than a few rose in their seats, apparently prepared to oust the female in their midst. After the debacle of the other day, when Jack had rescued Grace and wound up with her occupying his saloon for the better part of an hour, his patrons were right to be wary.
    Grace cast a scathing glance toward Jack’s over-the-bar oil painting—his most prized artwork—in which his beloved Colleen cavorted in all her saucy water-nymph’s glory. If looks were matches, his barkeep’s pride and joy would doubtless be aflame twice over. Jack stepped protectively toward it, meeting Grace at the middle of the bar.
    He caught her arm. “You cannot be in here again.”
    “It’s too late.” She wrenched loose with surprising vigor, then regarded him triumphantly. “I already am.”
    “All my customers will rebel.” Reasonably, Jack nudged his chin toward his irate patrons. “I can’t be responsible for—”
    “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
    Behind her back, he shooed his customers to their tables, making sure they knew not to come any closer. To her face, he presented his most no-nonsense demeanor. “I’ll listen outside.”
    He tried towing her that way. Undaunted, Grace wriggled from his grasp. She stood her ground, blocking the way with her hideous reformer’s bonnet trembling—probably from the sheer force of its ugliness—then planted her feet. She regarded him with an expression chockablock with stubbornness.
    “You’ll listen right here and right now, if you please.”
    He didn’t please. For an instant, Jack experienced a distinct sense of commiseration with Sheriff Caffey and Deputy Winston. How many times had those poor men interrupted Grace in the midst of