The Matchmaker. Lisa Plumley

a stack of logs waiting to be taken inside.

      “My goodness!” Shading her eyes from the noontime sun, Molly looked toward the neatly piled stack. “Look at the size of those logs! You could drive a wagon right over top of that one on the right.”

      “Or down the middle, if it was hollow.”

      “It must be quite a challenge, cutting all those down. However do your men manage it?”

      Marcus shrugged. “Hard work. Teamwork. It’s their job, just like baking is yours.”

      Molly couldn’t help but brighten at his words. At last! Here was someone who took her and her ambitions seriously. That Marcus respected her business aspirations encouraged her greatly, even as she struggled more each day to see him strictly as a professional associate.

      He was, after all, a very fine-looking and personable man.

      He had not, apparently, noticed similarly appealing qualities in her. How had it happened, Molly wondered, that the one man in years she might not have minded admiring her bosoms seemed oblivious to them?

      Marcus hadn’t done anything more forward than take her elbow to help her over a patch of rough ground. She hadn’t the faintest idea how to flirt openly so that he might understand how her feelings toward him were broadening. The whole situation was confusing.

      She hadn’t felt this out of her depth since she’d decided to become a circus acrobat by reading an illustrated book on the subject. No matter how much she’d concentrated on the pages, her limbs simply hadn’t bent in the proper ways. Now, it seemed, neither did her thoughts. Perhaps, in all her daring endeavors, she’d damaged her feminine wiles somehow.

      It was a worrisome notion.

      “I’m so glad to hear you say that,” she told him, shoving aside her concerns along with her enjoyment of his steady grasp. “Most people don’t understand why a woman would want to become involved in trade.”

      “Especially one like you, I’m sure.”

      “Like me? What do you mean?”

      “Nothing terrible.” Marcus grinned, undoubtedly at the suspicious expression Molly felt puckering her face. He paused, taking her arm to help her across the gnarled tree roots in their path, then said, “Only that it must come as a surprise to folks that a pretty lady like yourself has time to run a business. Between fending off beaux, and all.”

      “Beaux?” Molly laughed, unreasonably delighted by his image of her as the belle of Morrow Creek. The only beaux she had were the unwanted bosom fanciers, who’d chased her since she’d reached womanhood. They hardly counted. “You’re incorrigible, Mr. Copeland.”

      “Marcus,” he reminded her.

      The warmth in his brown-eyed gaze gave her the same kind of fluttery feelings she’d been beset with ever since their first meeting. Biting her lip, Molly dared a second glance at him as he strode along beside her. Yes, she was definitely smitten with Marcus Copeland.

      Smitten, for the first time in her life.

      What, she wondered, would the matchmaker advise?

      “Very well. Marcus.” She smiled, liking the sound of it. “But what makes a bachelor like yourself think I have so very many beaux, I wonder? It’s not as though I could count you among them.”

      “You could.” He stopped, still holding her arm. Slowly he slid his hand down past her elbow, over her forearm, and all the way to her hand. “If you’d allow me to call on you.”

      Marcus linked his fingers with hers. For one wild instant, Molly wished away her stylish braid-trimmed gloves. She wished to feel his skin against hers, to measure its warmth and texture, to marvel at the novel sensation of a man’s hand—so much larger and stronger than hers—holding hers closely. But then his words pushed through her thoughts. Their implications went much further than a simple meeting of hands.

      “Would you, Molly?” Marcus asked. With a smile that appeared surpassingly devilish for a man as respected as Marcus, he moved closer. “I’m sure the matchmaker would approve.”

      “Pshaw. I’m not worried about the matchmaker.”

      But she was. A little. Given what she knew about the matchmaker’s activities, she’d vowed never to…no, Molly decided. She wouldn’t worry about that now.

      “Then you’ll let me call on you?”

      “I don’t know if I should. I’m a businesswoman, after all. A businesswoman who’s engaged in trade here at your lumber mill with your permission. It’s possible that your calling on me will only muddy the waters of our business relationship.”

      His smile flashed again. “Surely even business-women need beaux.”

      Molly wrinkled her nose. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure they do. According to my parents, a woman who builds an independent life for herself is free to choose a beau. Or not, as she pleases.”

      “Or not?” Marcus pretended shock. “That can’t be your fate. Please, Molly. Twice daily visits to the mill. A Sunday walk. Whatever you choose. I want to see you. I must see you.”

      His persistence—his urgency—was flattering, if a little unexpected. Something Sarah had said, about Molly being too inexperienced to deal successfully with a man like Marcus, edged into her thoughts. It was possible her sister was right. But how else to gain experience? Letting herself see more of Marcus might be exactly what she needed, Molly decided.

      “Very well,” she told him. “In that case…I have an idea. It will keep things on a businesslike footing between us, too.”

      Marcus raised his eyebrows.

      Molly went on. “I’ve heard you eat all your meals at Jack Murphy’s saloon. This seems as good an opportunity as any to protest that, in the name of all that’s edible.”

      “Murphy’s grub is edible.”

      “All right, in the name of all that’s fit to spend time eating, then. If you agree, I’ll use my expertise to tutor you in basic cooking and housekeeping skills. That’s how we’ll see more of each other.”

      Marcus looked skeptical. “I’m a bachelor. The last time I tried cooking anything, it was my socks as I boiled them clean.”

      Oh, dear. “These lessons will be bachelor-proofed,” Molly promised. “We can meet in the evenings after your mill and my shop are closed. Say, twice a week?”

      “A man needs to eat seven days a week,” he reminded her.

      “I might be able to manage four days a week.” She pretended reticence.

      “Then there’s the fact that there are three meals in each day, which adds up to—”

      “Very well, six days a week! Excepting Sundays,” Molly acquiesced. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand from his to retrieve her basket, then straightened. As she did so, the satisfied expression on his face came into view. She couldn’t prevent a smile. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Copeland.”

      “Marcus. And driving a hard bargain is the way I’ve built my business. These maneuverings between us have been gentle.”

      She looked him over, seeing him in a new and unexpectedly dangerous light. This was a man who got what he wanted, Molly realized all at once. Marcus Copeland, for all his fine suits and good manners, was as strong as any man she’d encountered.

      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