Marcus nearly groaned. Did the woman have no sense of what ribald words like that could do to a man?
Evidently, she did not. Neither did she realize what he was truly up to. It was all the luckier for him, Marcus told himself. He’d be finished with this business and back to work in no time.
Putting one hand behind his back as he leaned forward to accept the cinnamon bun, he signaled for his men to begin the next step of his plan. Like magic, lumbermen of all ages and sizes surged forward. They encircled him and Molly, waving fistfuls of money and declaring raging hunger that only her baked goods could assuage.
In the midst of it all, a startled-looking Molly gazed in wonder at the ruckus surrounding her. Then, with a beaming smile, she began selling napkin-wrapped bundles identical to the one she’d given Marcus.
In no time at all, she was left with an empty basket, a fistful of money and an expression of gratitude that, when she turned it on Marcus, made his heart lurch painfully.
“Same time tomorrow?” he made himself ask.
“Yes, indeed!” Molly replied. Still seeming slightly bedazzled, she gathered her things, bade him goodbye and made her way back down the path toward town.
She was hooked.
Indisputably.
But it was Marcus, to his consternation, who felt as though he’d been walloped over the head unawares. Something told him that proving Molly Crabtree was the matchmaker wouldn’t be as simple a process as he’d expected…and neither would making sure he didn’t fall prey to her charms, in the process.
Chapter Three
“I think it’s a mistake, Molly,” Sarah said. “I just can’t reason out why a man like Marcus Copeland would subsidize your bakery business this way.”
“Maybe he has a sweet tooth,” Molly countered.
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
“Perhaps he regrets ignoring my efforts till now.”
“Not hardly.”
“I suppose he may have heard of my baked goods,” Molly mused, “and wanted to try them for himself?”
“Well…” Sarah hesitated, then appeared to think better of disagreeing. “Perhaps. My point is, I think you should be careful. There must be more here than meets the eye.”
Sighing over her sister’s skepticism, Molly put down the square of corn bread she’d been eating. True, Marcus’s abrupt change of heart had seemed a little suspicious at first. But his offer had simply been too good to pass up. Molly was all for anything that helped her bakeshop. It was her pride and joy—or would be, once she made a success of it.
Besides, she generally thought the best of people. Surely Marcus was a good man, or would be, once he let himself be.
She gazed out over the schoolyard filled with laughing, running, playing children, then tapped her heels restlessly against the schoolhouse steps where she and Sarah had met for lunch, bothered by conflicting feelings. Why couldn’t Sarah just be happy for her?
For the past week, Molly had been making daily treks to the Copeland lumber mill, each time with an increasingly heavy basket. Those lumbermen—now those were some fellows with a sweet tooth! They had a surprising quantity of money with which to indulge it, too. It was a plain stroke of luck that Marcus had loosened his stance against letting her sell her baked goods to his men. Whatever his motives had been, she’d be forever grateful to him for setting her on the road toward making a success of her newly launched business.
A brisk September breeze swept over the schoolyard, ruffling the hems of her green worsted gown and Sarah’s yellow calico. Beneath their feet, fallen leaves danced across the white-painted steps, pushed by the wind. Molly shivered and looked again at Sarah.
“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” she asked quietly. “Why can’t you believe in me, and accept that maybe I’m capable of accomplishing something on my own?”
“Of course you’re capable,” Sarah began. She broke off to tell little Wally Brownlee not to capture the girls he was chasing by yanking on their pigtails. More seriously, she said, “I’m just concerned about you, that’s all. We all are. Mama and Papa, and Grace, too. You’re the youngest. You have an impulsive streak. There’s no denying that. I’m afraid it will get you into trouble someday.”
“I’m managing just fine,” Molly told her. All except for the fluttery feeling I get whenever Marcus Copeland comes near. She raised her chin. “I don’t begrudge you your happiness over teaching here at the schoolhouse, nor even all the acclaim you’ll likely get when you manage the Chautauqua next month.”
Sarah blushed at Molly’s mention of the highly anticipated annual event, featuring orators, a concert, plays and picnics, which she had volunteered to organize. If Molly were fortunate, she’d be allowed to host a booth of her own at the pavilion, featuring her baked goods. Participation required approval by the town leaders, but she was hopeful.
Especially now, when she had the patronage of a well-respected businessman like Marcus to rely upon.
But that didn’t mean she cared any less about her family’s opinion. Resuming her earlier argument, Molly said, “Furthermore, I don’t caution Grace about all she’s doing, even though—”
“Nobody cautions Grace about anything,” Sarah broke in.
They shared a laugh. Their older sister was notoriously well-known for taking charge of things—and accepting no arguments, while she did.
“—even though,” Molly continued doggedly, “she must be involved in every women’s group, lecture series and ladies’ aid organization in Morrow Creek.” Drawing in a deep breath, she hoped with all her heart that Sarah would understand the dreams she held so closely. “All I’m asking for is a chance to do something…just once…all on my own.”
At the end of her impassioned plea, Molly looked at her sister. Beside her, Sarah sat, chin in hand, looking at the false-fronted buildings that stood in the distance along Main Street. She sighed. The sound was filled with longing—a soul-deep, romantic kind of longing Molly had never once suspected her sensible bluestocking of a sister might be vulnerable to.
“Why, Sarah! You’re not even listening to me.”
Sarah jerked. She pulled her gaze back to Molly, then picked up the fried chicken drumstick that was all that remained of her lunch. “Of course I’m listening.”
“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