There's only one thing Daniel McCabe doesn't understand
about women -- how a man can be expected to choose from
among all of them. Settling down with just one woman seems
unthinkable. Daniel loves them all, especially a woman who
goes after what she wants -- just so long as it isn't
marriage.
One evening, after a long day, over a pint of ale, Daniel
gets the surprise of a lifetime. A delivery comes to Morrow
Creak, a delivery that will alter his life forever.
Who, in their right mind, would place a child in the care
of a renowned bachelor like himself? As he looks down into
the face of this little boy, his features look vaguely
familiar...kinda' like his own. So he takes young Eli home.
After a couple of months, Daniel, trying to run his
blacksmith shop along with caring for Eli, decides this is
more than he can handle. He declares, "I need a wife."
Sarah Crabtree, Morrow Creek's spinster school teacher, has
been in love with Daniel for a very long time, but has
hidden her feelings. They've been "best friends" since
their early school years, and Sarah doesn't believe for a
minute any of the rumors about Daniel illegitimately
fathering Eli. He claims he's his nephew and Sarah trusts
him. What Sarah can't believe is that Daniel has just asked
her to marry him -- a dream come true.
Their wedding day dawns clear and chilly, a no-nonsense
kind of day for a no-nonsense arrangement. Sarah is smart
and sturdy, just the kind of woman Daniel needs to help him
raise Eli. Little does Daniel know that sensible Sarah has
a plan to convince him just how much they're meant to be
together, in every way.
THE SCOUNDREL is witty, fun and just plain charming. You'll
fall in love with Eli and Sarah and enjoy the downfall of
Daniel, the burly town blacksmith. As the saying goes, "The
bigger they are, the harder they fall." Truer words were
never spoken. Daniel is brought to his knees by this feisty
woman who knows what she wants and won't settle for less.
Don't miss this truly wonderful love story by Ms. Plumley.
Her stories never disappoint and THE SCOUNDREL is no
exception. I loved this book and you will, too.
Brawny blacksmith Daniel McCabe is not the marrying kind.
He likes his freedom just fine and no Morrow Creek lady is
going to change that! But an unexpected delivery makes the
bachelor rethink his roguish ways.
Daniel suddenly needs a wife--and longtime friend Sarah
Crabtree is quick to oblige. After all, she's been sweet
on
Daniel for years. But then Sarah's dream turns into a
nightmare. Her love match is nothing but a marriage of
convenience! Now Sarah has to convince the biggest
scoundrel in Arizona Territory to let her into his bed--
and
his heart...
Excerpt
August 1882
Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory
There was only one thing Daniel McCabe didn't understand
about women — how a man could be expected to choose from
among them. Beginning with the raven-haired ones and
ending with the feisty ones, there was an endless variety
of females for a man to sample. Settling down with just
one seemed nigh unthinkable.
Curling his fist 'round the pint of Levin's ale on his
table at Jack Murphy's saloon, Daniel smiled at the rouged-
and-powdered beauty before him. Her costume shimmered of
fiery satin; her bosoms pushed at its neckline in a way
that made him wonder about the architecture of corsets. To
make so much of so...much, the garments had to be
fashioned of something sturdier than mere muslin and whale-
bones. Something more akin to tiny versions of the sleigh
runners he'd been shaping at his blacksmith's shop before
coming here today.
The matter might require closer investigation, he
reckoned. Much closer. How else to further his grasp of
architecture and design? A man never knew when an intimate
knowledge of such things might prove handy.
With a wider grin, Daniel propped both booted feet on the
nearest ladder-back chair. Who was he fooling? If there
was one thing he understood, it was ladies'undergarments.
The corset or garter had yet to be designed that could
defeat him. "Twas a point of pride, much like his knack
for forging steel and wielding a twenty-pound hammer.
The snap of Jack Murphy's bar towel pulled Daniel from his
reverie. He glanced up to see the man scowling at him.
"Yes, Rose's charms are a sight to behold," the barkeep
said in his drawling brogue. "But I brought you here to
get your opinion on building a stage in that corner,
McCabe. Not to watch you beguile my dancing troupe."
"It's unavoidable, Murphy. I can't help it."
"Try harder."
"All right." Reluctantly, Daniel spread his arms. "You
heard him, ladies. I am not in the least charming, nor as
irresistible as you might think. I am a serious man, with
serious work to be done."
The women on either side of Daniel giggled, plainly dis-
believing. They did not budge.
Both were costumed as extravagantly as Rose. Both flirted
just as boldly as she did. One laid her arm enticingly
across his shoulders and pressed herself against him, her
feathered headpiece tickling his nose. The other cooed
over the fineness of his arms, honed by years of black-
smith's labor. Each lady had promised him admission to her
boardinghouse room later that evening, if he desired to
receive "private dance instruction."
To be sure, a man could hardly help but develop an
interest. In waltzing, of course.
The lady to his right snuggled closer, not the least bit
daunted by Daniel's claims of seriousness. Their traveling
ensemble had arrived in Morrow Creek two days past. They
were set to perform at Jack Murphy's saloon before moving
west to San Francisco, if Murphy could construct a stage
for them.
The barkeep's exasperated gaze signaled his interest in
doing exactly that. The Irishman was new to the territory,
and Daniel liked him. He decided to try a bit harder.
"I warn you," he told the troupe next. "I'm not a man for
settling down. Neither am I a sweet talker, a fine dancer
or even the least bit a dandy." He nodded at his flannel
shirt and rough-hewn canvas trousers.Although both were
clean, they had seen hard use. "Stay away. You'd do well
to cozy up to Murphy, instead. He's a man of industry.
Purpose.And coin."
"Coin?" Murphy scoffed. "I was, before your aces turned up
last night."
"I never said I wasn't lucky."
The barkeep rolled his eyes.
"Only that you were a fine prospect for these ladies. Far
finer than me."
The women turned contemplative gazes upon the Irishman.
One fluttered her fan. Another fluttered her eyelashes. As
a group, they returned their attention to Daniel,
undeterred.
Murphy snorted. He strode to the corner of the nearly
empty saloon, his boots ringing across the scarred floor-
boards. With hands on hips, he surveyed the area where the
makeshift stage was meant to be built.
Daniel shrugged, his grin wide. "See?" he called out to
his friend. "There's nothing I can do."
"Hmm." Rose sashayed a little closer. "I'd wager there are
a few things you can do. Quite well, at that."
Her ribald gaze swept over him, taking in his oversize
frame and nonchalant pose. Daniel gave her a wink. He
liked a woman who wasn't afraid to go after what she
wanted — just so long as what she wanted wasn't him in a
marriage noose.
Contemplating what diversions the night might hold, he
pulled out a Mexican cigarillo. Eagerly, the lady to his
left held out the table lamp to light it with. With an
arch of his eyebrow, he murmured his thanks. These women
were uncommonly bold. But at least they weren't like most
of the women in town — many of whom were inconveniently
marriage-minded. Dallying with one of Murphy's dancers
would prove pleasurable...and pleasure, above all, was
what Daniel lived for. Life was too short to be spent
among missed opportunities.
It was also too short to shirk a promise to a friend.
Regretfully, he stood. His cigarillo's plume of rich
tobacco smoke trailed his progress across the room to join
Murphy. In his wake, the dancers sighed.
Daniel offered them an apologetic over-the-shoulder
glance — coupled with a smile to promise he'd make up for
their disappointment later. Maybe he'd finish his ale,
order a bath and invite one of the ladies to join him.
Cleanliness was a virtue, after all. Or maybe that was
patience. Either way, he reckoned he had things square.
He squinted at the space Murphy indicated. "You already
talked to Copeland about getting the lumber from his mill?"
The barkeep nodded. "It'll cost me plenty. But even after
paying Rose and her girls, a dance show ought to make a
profit."
"Even after you factor in paying off Grace Crabtree?"
Murphy tilted his head in confusion.
"She's bound to cause a ruckus once she hears you've got
dance-hall ladies here," Daniel said. "I've known them
Crab-tree girls all my life. Grace is the most trouble of
the lot. She's all het up over women's suffrage. Other
things, too."
"That's got nothing to do with me."
"You'll see. Grace is a meddler. If she decides to make
this place one of her damnable 'causes' —"
"My saloon isn't a —"
"That's what Ned Nickerson thought," Daniel
interrupted. "Until Grace and some of her friends chained
themselves to the awning of his Book Depot and News
Emporium, protesting because he didn't have some lady
author's highfalutin book or other. In the end, Deputy
Winston had to haul 'em away."
Murphy frowned. Most likely, Daniel figured, he was
imagining a passel of troublemaking females all picketing
his saloon. With reason. Grace was a handful, and she knew
most everyone in town. The Crabtrees in general were a
bunch of original thinkers, prone to all sorts of odd-ball
behavior. With one exception, of course.
"I could put in a good word for you with Grace's sister,"
Daniel offered. Murphy was out of his depth — whether he
realized it or not. "Sarah's the only sensible one of the
lot. She'll see that Grace ought to leave well enough
alone."
With a skeptical shake of his head, the barkeep strode the
width of the corner, measuring the space available for his
stage. For a moment, he was silent.
Then, "I can cope with Grace Crabtree."
The man was deluded. "Have you never tangled with a woman
before? Most of them are beyond reason."
"I can cope with Grace Crabtree."
Clearly, Murphy hadn't spent much time with the fairer sex.
Daniel shrugged. "It's your funeral."
"No, it's my saloon. I'll see no one interfering with it."
"Oh, yes, you will. Mark my words."
One ale and two flirtatious encounters with the pouting
dancers later, Daniel finished his measurements for
Murphy's stage. Although he wasn't a carpenter by trade,
he'd done his share of building, all the same. By the time
he was old enough to reach for a straight razor for his
peach fuzz, he'd grown a head taller than most men.
Because of that, he'd learned to erect barns, raise roofs
and rebuild storm-damaged houses...all while apprenticing
as a blacksmith.
Now that he'd finished his plans for the stage, it had
grown late. Murphy's saloon was packed to the rafters with
miners and merchants, ranchers and lumbermen. Tinny music
accompanied Rose's impromptu dance beside the piano — as
did raucous cheers from the men watching. She fluttered
her fan and swiveled her hips, belting out a rowdy
rendition of a sentimental tune.
Comfortable at his table with dancers again on either
side, Daniel smoked his second cigarillo. He tilted his
head and aimed smoke rings at the fancy lanterns overhead,
feeling satisfied. He had a whiskey at his elbow, a
bellyful of Murphy's tinned beans and bread, a friendly
obligation fulfilled and the promise of a delectable
evening's entertainment ahead. A man's life didn't get
much better than that.
"Daniel McCabe!" someone yelled. "McCabe?"
He glanced sideways. Several men stepped aside for a boy
in a baggy suit and low hat. Daniel recognized him as the
clerk from the railroad depot. He made his way through the
crowd, an expression of urgency on his young face.
"Is Daniel McCabe here?"
"Over here, boy." Lazily, Daniel indicated the one
remaining chair at his table. "Why don't you sit a spell?"
The dancers murmured their agreement. The clerk gawked at
them, at their impressive bosoms, then at the empty chair.
A blush rose clear from his starched collar to his
eyebrows.
"No, thank you, sir. I couldn't."
"Sure, you could. I have one lady more than I can handle,
anyway."
The dancers tittered. They leaned his way with joint
protests. Another minute and he'd forget the boy was there
at all. Resolutely, Daniel focused on the clerk.
"Well?"
"Well, uh... I came to bring you a message. You've got a
delivery down at the railroad depot."
"A delivery? I'm not expecting anything. Are you sure it's
for me? McCabe?"
"I'm sure. We haven't been able to determine much else
about it, but we know one thing for sure. It's for you."
"I'll get it tomorrow." Daniel raised his whiskey in the
clerk's direction. "You man enough for one of these? I'll
buy you a boost for your trouble in coming down here to
find me."
"Oh, no. You've got to come with me. Tonight."
A portion of Daniel's good cheer evaporated. "I've got
plans for tonight. Believe me, they don't include
hightailing it to the train depot."
Inconveniently, the boy held fast. He didn't so much as
glance at the proffered glass of Old Orchard.
Daniel held out a coin instead. "Here. If you're not a
drinking man, take this to the apothecary. Get yourself
one of those medicinal soda waters they sell. Maybe it'll
grow some hair on your chest."
The clerk's blush deepened, but he straightened his spine
doggedly. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist you come with
me."
Daniel raised his eyebrows. "You insist?"
The boy's Adam's apple bobbed. "Uhhh...yes, sir."
Squinting against his cigarillo smoke, Daniel eyeballed
the clerk. He was plain ruining his night — and his plans
for Beatrice, the dancer to his right, too. There was
something downright intriguing about that feather in her
hair....
But if the boy had to "insist" one more time, he looked as
if he might piss his britches. Daniel had that effect on
men sometimes. He didn't mean for it to happen. There was
just something about his size, his strength...his
reputation for bending steel.
He heaved a sigh, drained his whiskey, then stood. "All
right. Stay here, ladies. I'll be back before you can
say 'lickety-split."
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