Book Depot and News Emporium when Ned decided not to stock that highfalutin lady author’s book Grace wanted?”
“Jane Austen,” Copeland put in agreeably. “Molly told me the whole story. It was a Jane Austen book.”
Much as Jack appreciated knowing at least one other person in town who possessed a familiarity with literature beyond Beadle’s fantastical dime novels, he did not want todiscuss Grace Crabtree and her radical, interfering ways. Nor did he want to join his friends in gleefully predicting his saloon’s further troubles. Why could no one understand that?
Hoping to distance himself from the conversation, he swiped his towel over the bar, then dusted the gilded frame of his famous above-the-bar oil painting, as well. Its enormous canvas depicted a scantily clad water nymph. He’d affectionately nicknamed her Colleen, and her risqué image lent a popular allure to his saloon—one Jack felt rightly pleased with.
No “sissified corsetry creator” would hang a painting like that one. He felt damned certain of that. It had been the first thing he’d purchased upon settling in Morrow Creek.
“Right. Jane Austen,” McCabe agreed, nodding. He sounded utterly unrepentant in needling Jack. As usual. “Remember how Deputy Winston had to unchain Grace from the news depot’s hitching post and haul her off to the sheriff’s office?”
Both men laughed. Copeland hoisted his customary sarsaparilla for another swig, and McCabe finished his ale.
It was easy for them to make fun, Jack groused. They weren’t saddled with a rabble-rousing female who spent most of her days within shouting distance. He was. And the longer he stayed in the territory, the more problematic Grace became.
At the end of the bar, the cowboy rose. He tossed down a pair of coins, then tucked his hat on his head, situating it just so. His grimy fingernails told the tale of many days on the trail, as did his bedraggled, mud-splattered clothes.
“Well, I’m off to Miss Adelaide’s for a bath and a haircut. And maybe a mite more entertainment.” He chewed his plug tobacco, then aimed a stream of juice toward the spittoon. “If I can lasso me one of them dancing girls, I’ll bring her out your way, Murphy.”
His cronies shouted ribald endorsement of the idea.
The cowboy chuckled. He held up a weathered hand in good-bye, prompting Jack to offer a matching wave.
Some days, Jack considered, he missed his old life of educating and learning and philosophizing. Other days, like today, he felt satisfied merely to have a pint at his elbow, a few customers to keep a roof over his head and an afternoon without bossy Grace Crabtree nagging him about something.
He didn’t know where his aggravating upstairs neighbor was right now, it occurred to him. But he hoped it was far away. And he hoped she stayed there for a while, too.
The cowboy sauntered out, his spurs ringing on the floor. For an instant, the jangle of passing wagons and the overall bustle of town whirled in through the doorway, then subsided. The saloon settled into its usual rhythm of slapping cards, murmuring men and clinking billiards.
“Now there’s a man who’s truly free.” Jack shook his head wonderingly. “ That’s what I came out west for.”
His wistful announcement fell on deaf ears.
“Well, you’re not getting it,” McCabe declared in his usual prosaic fashion. He gave a wink, then stepped away from the bar. “Not till you cope with Grace Crabtree, that is.”
“Damnation, McCabe.” Why did the man have to ruin Jack’s one moment of peaceful contemplation? “Stop yapping already.”
“He’s right.” Copeland jerked a thumb at the blacksmith, then set to work gathering up his ledgers. “Mark my words, Murphy. Never underestimate a Crabtree woman. Not unless you want to be the one who ends up hog-tied.”
Jack scoffed. “You’re both daft. I can handle Grace Crabtree. That’s all I’ve done since I got here, isn’t it?”
His friends all