The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley

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      She’d better be on her guard, lest he someday maneuver her into offering things she wasn’t prepared to give. Like her independence. Her sense of propriety.

      Her untouched heart.

      “Of course, if I’m to forfeit five of my evenings a week, plus Saturday mornings before my shop opens, I’ll need a commensurate sacrifice from you,” she said, suddenly driven to take a stand of her own. “Say, help with my accounting practices?” Bookkeeping was, indeed, one of her least favorite tasks.

      “You’re a quick study in this bargaining business.” He nodded and delivered her a final smile. “I’ll do it.”

      “We’re in agreement, then.” To seal the deal, Molly put forth her hand. “Prepare for a unique learning experience.”

      “The same could be said for you,” Marcus told her as he accepted her handshake. “I’ll wager this arrangement might deliver some new experiences to you, too.”

      Did he have to look so…masculine when he said that? It was as though Marcus’s words offered a promise she didn’t understand…but might, soon.

      “Until tomorrow, then,” Molly agreed, nodding. She adjusted her basket, her hat, and her skirts, taking refuge in the motions as an excuse to avoid the unsettlingly anticipatory light that had brightened Marcus’s dark eyes. What, she wondered, did he know that she did not?

      He escorted her to the front entrance. As their time together drew to a close in the same uneventful fashion it usually did, Molly felt reassured. Surely this new arrangement wouldn’t change things between them, she decided.

      Then Marcus stopped her as she prepared to leave.

      “Be sure to bring your baking supplies and plenty of sugar tomorrow,” he said. His gaze caught hers and held. His rascally grin somehow managed to warm her clean through. “The first thing I’ll be wanting from you is something nice and sweet.”

      Oh, my. This arrangement was changing things already.

      “I will,” she choked out, then fled to town as fast as was possible without actually seeming to run away.

      Thankfully her skirts hid her rapid strides. From a distance Marcus couldn’t hear her breath come faster as it squeezed from beneath her stays. Not for anything would Molly have given him the satisfaction of thinking he’d gained the upper hand with her. The last thing she needed was someone else who thought they knew what was best for her.

      Someone else who’d view her dreams with skepticism.

      No matter what, Molly vowed, she’d deal with Marcus on her own terms. Sensibly. Rationally. Definitely not impulsively.

      Never mind the fact that, if her family could have heard her thoughts, they’d have been laughing their heads off already. Starting tomorrow, she’d show everyone exactly what she was made of. Marcus included!

       Chapter Four

       M arcus awakened on Saturday morning to a knocking on his front door—and a sense of confusion. He’d been dreaming of Molly Crabtree, dreaming of sugar and spice and enormous flowery hats, and he wanted those dreams to go on. In them, Molly whispered sweetly to him. She moved closer, took his hand, smiled into his eyes as she puckered her lips and…

      Tap, tap, tap.

      Groaning, Marcus flung back the blankets. His bare feet struck the chilly pine plank floor. For economy’s sake, he banked his woodstove at night. The resultant coals didn’t do much to warm the frosty September morning. Dragging on a flannel shirt and wool britches over his undershirt and drawers, he went to the door.

      “One minute. I’m coming.”

      If this was one of his men, here to nag him about timber assignments or supplies—both of which were overseen by his designated foremen now—Marcus would have his head. It had been months since he’d handled all the mill’s details himself. Delegating those jobs hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it.

      He wrenched open the door, scowling. “What?”

      To his surprise, Molly Crabtree waited there. She backed up a step, as though his question had blasted her. Her eyes widened.

      Hell. He’d scared her. In his sleep-fogged state, he wasn’t sure what she was doing there at all, but the last thing Marcus wanted to do was frighten her. Jabbing a hand through his rumpled hair, he started to apologize.

      Before he’d gotten very far, Molly’s grasp tightened on the basket she carried. Her chin came up. “Good morning to you, too, Mr. Copeland. You passed a late night, I see. Along with the rest of the men in town. My father excluded, of course. He never attends the men’s club meetings.”

      She squeezed past him, her eyes bright and her manner brisk. Marcus was too startled by her arrival to protest. In a businesslike fashion, Molly stepped into his house. With a comment about the chill in the room, she maneuvered unerringly past the parlor toward the kitchen. Marcus tried to intercept her—the gentleman in him demanded he carry her basket for her—but she only continued onward, talking all the while.

      “In Papa’s opinion, gender-exclusive organizations rarely offer more than shared commiseration and, in the case of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club, shared lager.”

      She sniffed suspiciously, as though expecting the tang of liquor to cling to him now, hours later.

      Marcus figured it probably did.

      “And there’s not a gathering of any sort in this town that goes unnoticed by my sister Grace. If she didn’t organize it, she is at least informed about it. In this case, we ladies could hardly fail to notice the mass exodus of our men to Jack Murphy’s saloon.”

      She raised her brows inquiringly.

      “There was an emergency meeting last night,” Marcus explained. “Emmaline Jones turned up at O’Neil’s butcher shop yesterday with a Bloomingdale Brothers mail-order catalog in one hand and a pencil in the other. She refused to leave unless O’Neil gave her his opinion on the wedding dresses.”

      “But why? Emmaline hardly knows Mr. O’Neil.”

      The matchmaker was to blame, of course. But Marcus only shrugged, not ready to broach the subject. “Apparently, she admires the way he wields a cleaver.”

      And Molly admired the way Marcus answered a door, he realized. She’d been staring, transfixed, at him ever since putting down her basket on the kitchen table. She looked utterly proper as she stood there, buttoned up and begloved, with a jaunty hat on her head. But there was something wonderfully…speculative in the way her gaze roved along the gap left by his unbuttoned flannel shirt.

      He found himself liking it. Perhaps he had been too long without feminine company.

      “You’re not prepared for me, Mr. Copeland,” she accused, taking off her gloves.

      “I hadn’t expected you so early,” Marcus said, finally remembering their meeting. Molly intended to begin teaching him cooking and housekeeping skills today. “But I assure you—I am prepared for you.”

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