The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley

      “I don’t want fritters.”

      Frowning, Molly regarded him. “Tea cakes then?”

      “No. Something more.” His grasp loosened, became more of caress. His thumb stroked over the sensitive skin at the underside of her wrist. “Something…sweeter.”

      Molly trembled. Staunchly she made herself stop gawping at the lovely contrast between Marcus’s big, sun-browned hand and her lace-trimmed gloves. He’d magically found the one gap between those gloves and her long-sleeved dress, and he toyed with it even now. The sensation caused by his thumb against her bare skin made her want to close her eyes to savor it. Instead, she summoned all her will to address Marcus directly.

      “Perhaps a dumpling, then? They’re quite fresh.”

      So are you, Marcus’s teasing expression said.

      “No. Sweeter.” He tugged her nearer.

      It was true, then. He did have more in mind than mere delectables…!

      Praise for Lisa Plumley’s book

       THE DRIFTER

      “A sweet Americana tale…

       this gentle love story will touch your heart!”

      —Romantic Times

      “In this charming tale of acceptance Ms. Plumley has

       touched a universal chord. Sparked with whimsy and humor, this is a thoroughly enjoyable book!”

      —Rendezvous

      “The Drifter will have you smiling often…I heartily

       recommend it for a pleasurable, romantic read!”

      —Romance Reviews Today

      “There’s a lot to like in The Drifter. If you’ve missed

       those wonderful romances by LaVyrle Spencer, you might want to check it out!”

      —The Romance Reader

      The Matchmaker

      Lisa Plumley

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Melissa Endlich, with many thanks.

       And to John Plumley, with all my love.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter One

      Northern Arizona Territory September 1882

       C hange was afoot in Morrow Creek.

      From the whispering ponderosa pines crowding the hills at the edge of town, to the false-fronted buildings lining Main Street and all the way to the shadowy interior of Murphy’s saloon, things just weren’t the way they were supposed to be. The way the bachelors of the town wanted them to be. Tonight, on this frost-tinged autumn evening, they’d gathered together to address the problem.

      The problem of the mysterious meddling matchmaker.

      Marcus Copeland, running uncharacteristically late, made it into the meeting just as two of the barkeeps broke apart from the crowd to bar the saloon doors. With a nod for both men, Marcus slipped inside and found an empty stool in the corner. From his position at the back of the room, he heard the heavy crossbar thud into place at the doors, sealing all the members of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club inside for this, their third emergency meeting in as many weeks.

      “Damnation! Somethin’ has got to be done,” old man Jeffries was saying. “It ain’t right, what that matchmaker’s been doin’. It just ain’t right.”

      A round of nods and murmured voices greeted his pronouncement. Dusty boots stamped on the floor with enthusiasm, and several men raised their glasses of whiskey, lager and mescal in a show of support for Jeffries. If their combined grumblings and disgruntled expressions were anything to judge by, every last unmarried man in the territory felt equally beleaguered by the matchmaker’s problematic meddling.

      Marcus figured he had more vital things to worry about—like the set of ledgers from his lumber mill that still needed double-checking, and the schedule for next week’s shipment that still needed to be assigned to one of his foremen. But as an upstanding member of the community, and a bachelor who’d been provoked just about as much as any other man there, he’d decided it was his duty to attend the meeting.

      Whether he wanted to or not.

      Near the saloon’s bar, beneath Murphy’s already-famous gilt-framed portrait of a scantily clad water nymph, another man rose. Marcus recognized him as O’Neil, the butcher. He clutched a pint of Levin’s ale in a fist roughened by years of wielding a cleaver, and raised his voice to be heard over the other men.

      “Jeffries is right!” he said. “This ruckus is getting out of hand. So are these forward-thinkin’ ladies. Why just last week, Emmaline Jones turned up at my shop with—”

      He paused, as though the truth of the matter were too awful to be admitted aloud.

      “—with a yellow em-broi-dered butcher’s apron for me. The next day, she came back with a matching neckerchief. Seems the matchmaker told her I had a cold coming on, and would ’precciate the gesture.”

      “Was it em-broi-dered, too?” yelled someone from beside the potbellied stove.

      Guffaws filled the room.

      “No.” O’Neil hung his head. “But it smelled like rose petals. The fool woman wouldn’t leave till I put it on. Now I ask you, how’s a man s’posed to work wearin’ a thing like that? Smellin’ like flowers?”

      The men’s voices rose, loud with advice to O’Neil on the virtues of “smellin’ pretty.” Marcus cracked a grin and opened the first of the two ledgers he’d brought, scanning the rows of neatly penciled entries within. It looked as though it might be a while before the men’s club came to any conclusions. He might as well get some work done.

      “Quit yer bellyachin’,” put in the tanner who kept his shop a short ways distant from the Copeland lumber mill. “That fool matchmaker’s advice has the whole town in an uproar. It ain’t just you. Hell, just this mornin’ that little gal who just came to town gave me a pink knitted rifle cozy!”

      Heads shook all around.

      “Now I ask you,” the tanner went on, “who the hell ever heard of a rifle cozy? My guns ain’t cold, like a pot o’ tea. What’s a fella supposed to do with a thing like that?”

      “Well,” drawled the red-haired rancher from the west side of town, crossing his arms over his tobacco-stained vest, “you can’t put it with my hand-sewed bullet carrier that Mary Jane Mayberry gave me two days ago.”

      “Why not?”