Lips That Touch Mine (10 page)

"Why didn't you move back to your father's
house when your husband...when you became a widow?"

"I prefer to live here."

"Many women would have returned to their
father's protection rather than struggle to support
themselves."

"Supporting myself wouldn't be a struggle if
you would close your saloon. Nor would I need protection."

He couldn't argue her point. But he would
never close his business. The best he could offer was a promise.
"I'm at your service, if you should need me in any way."

"I need a thriving business, not a
guardian."

"Just the same, I'm within shouting
distance."

Her lips pursed. "I'm only too aware of
that."

He smiled, longing to kiss her. "You know,
you really ought to give this toad a chance."

Sadness filled her eyes. "I don't believe in
fairy tales anymore," she said. Then she walked out of the kitchen,
leaving Boyd with a new itch he couldn't scratch and a dog who was
a better ladies' man that Boyd had ever been.

After Boyd left,
Claire went to bed. She was exhausted from her sleepless night, and
mortified by her panicked outburst. He'd been intrusive and
aggressive, reminding her of Jack—of the way he used to stalk and
bully her. But Boyd hadn't hurt her. He wasn't Jack.

Boyd wasn't the same type of man. She knew
that intuitively. But he
had
intimidated her, and
intentionally. If she spent more time with him, would his nudges
and proposals turn into shoves and demands? Did all men shove when
they couldn't get what they wanted?

She didn't want to believe that.

She couldn't.

Because part of her had needed the comfort of
Boyd's arms. She needed the compassion he offered, needed to feel
safe again. But his actions had confused her. How could she know
when his arms would offer comfort and when they would seek to
control her?

She buried her head beneath the pillow, and
fought for sleep. When she woke up the next morning, her stomach
was upset and her head groggy. She used her ill health as an excuse
to turn away a boarder, but the truth was, she was afraid to have
the man in her house. He was too quiet, too watchful,
too...male.

Embarrassed by her fear, Claire hid inside
all weekend.

She didn't want to cross paths with her
too-handsome neighbor or the man who'd left that note on her door.
She couldn't even bring herself to face the women at the temperance
meeting on Sunday evening.

By Monday afternoon, four of her concerned
fellow marchers knocked on her door.

"Thank goodness you're all right," Elizabeth
said. "We heard about the warning note left on your door."

"I'm fine." Claire would have liked to invite
Elizabeth inside, but Desmona was with her. After her offensive
probing into her grandmother's journal, Claire couldn't bear to
have the prying woman in her home again. And Claire couldn't afford
to befriend Elizabeth or get involved in her problems. Claire had
her own troubles to tend. She would march for Temperance to help
women like Elizabeth, but that was all. That's all she could
do.

"We noticed you weren't at the meeting last
night," Desmona said.

"I've been unwell these past couple of days."
Desmona shivered in the cold wind, making Claire feel guilty for
not inviting them inside. "Better that you didn't attend if you're
ill."

"I'll make the meeting this evening," she
promised, hoping it would send Desmona on her way.

"There won't be a prayer meeting tonight,"
Mrs. Cushing said. "We decided at our afternoon meeting to adjourn
until Friday after Christmas."

"There was a meeting today?" Claire asked
with dismay. How unforgivable for her to have missed two meetings
when she'd been the one to summon Dr. Lewis to visit and start the
march for temperance.

"There certainly was." Desmona puffed up with
importance. "We wrote a pledge and formed our own Women's
Temperance Union today." Her lips pursed, and deep grooves fanned
above her upper lip. "I offered to be president, but Mrs. Barker
wanted the position. Her sister-in-law is our vice-president, and
Mrs. Barmore is our secretary. We are organized as a society
now."

"That's wonderful news." It was, but it
depressed Claire to have missed such an important meeting, all over
a cowardly fit of nerves. "Thank you for checking on me," she said
to the small group of women. "I'll definitely be at our meeting on
Friday."

Claire sighed in relief as she closed the
door, but she felt incredibly lonely. How lovely it would have been
to invite the ladies inside, to share a pot of tea and some
conversation with someone. She hadn't been with friends since she
was a girl, intruding on her sister's weekend entertainment.

The older neighbor girls used to call on her
sister Lida every Saturday afternoon. The kitchen would smell like
lavender powder and baking bread, and the room would ring with
shrill laughter. Mother would smile and chastise them for being too
loud, but Lida and her friends would giggle and gossip for two full
hours while Claire—too young to be included in their circle—hovered
in the background soaking up every exciting word.

The girls would scurry out when Claire's
father came home for supper.

But that's when Claire's day came to life.
For as far back as she could remember, her father would come
inside, tug her straight blond hair and ask, "What trouble has my
Claire gotten into today?" Claire would crawl onto his lap or leap
into his arms and bask in his attention. When she got too old for
holding, she would blush and giggle and dance around him until he
would capture her and give her a bear hug. He'd kiss her on the
forehead and tell her that he'd missed his girl.

The memory made her throat close. She hadn't
seen or heard from her father since he'd disinherited her over four
years ago.

She opened the desk and retrieved her
grandmother's journal. She had vowed not to read about her
grandmother's sordid affair, but the journal was the only link she
had to her family.

The leather felt soft and warm beneath her
fingertips as she carried it to the parlor. The fire had burned
down to embers, and the room was cold...and empty.

The airy sound of the chimney made her think
of Sailor and the dog's wheezy way of talking to her. She would
gladly give her last seventeen dollars to see his lopsided smile
and have the clumsy canine with his warm body, admiring eyes, and
protective bark beside her for the evening.

She stirred the red coals and added a log to
the fire, then sat in the rocking chair.

Despite her disapproval of her grandmother's
affair, she was curious about how it had happened, what had lured
her grandmother into the situation.

This morning Abe asked me if I've ever been in love.
He shouldn't have asked a married woman such a question, but I
answered him. I said no.

Oh, Grandma...
Claire settled into
the rocker and angled the journal toward the lantern.

I have a deep, respectful affection for my husband,
and it breaks my heart to have these feelings for another man. But
for good or bad, my love for Abe is real. I've never experienced
the excitement or passion I feel for Abe. I don't understand it.
I'll never understand it, but one minute I was preparing lunch
while Abe was building my cupboards, and the next instant we were
staring across the room at each other with the shameful truth of
our desire burning in our eyes. We didn't speak of our attraction,
but the knowledge was as present in that room as we were.

My marriage is built on duty, kindness, and
community. My moments with Abe are private, passionate, and as
addictive as a drug. I cannot resist him.

God knows I've tried. He's tried. We both
failed.

Abe owns my thoughts. He commands my desire. He
fills this hollow space inside me. I would cast everything aside
for him. I would. But he will never ask me to do so.

Claire stroked her fingers over her
grandmother's pain-filled words. No wonder her grandmother had been
captured by moments of intense sadness.

Claire hadn't understood when she was a girl.
But now, as a woman who had once longed for this kind of love and
never experienced it, she knew how rare it was—how devastating it
must be to find love and not be able to claim it.

Abe is tall and handsome in a dark, brooding sort of
way. He's a private man, filled with passion and life and a sense
of humor that he tries to hide. I see these things. I know him,
this amazing, conflicted, lonely man who tries so hard to honor his
vows. He says my smiles melt his resistance. I am ashamed to admit
that I smile each time I see him. I should be sorry, I know, but if
my soul must make restitution for grasping this breath of life,
I'll gladly go to Hell.

Perhaps it was her grandmother's reference to
Abe's passion and sense of humor that brought Boyd's image to mind,
but Claire couldn't clear the vision from her head. Despite Boyd's
flippant attitude, Claire sensed his conflict and loneliness. Maybe
that's why she was drawn to him.

Foolish.

Simply foolish to even admit such a thing.
She believed Boyd hadn't written the warning note, that he would
never harm a woman as he adamantly claimed, but her judgment was
terrible. She knew better than to trust her instincts.

Boyd Grayson couldn't be more unsuitable.

But the other man lurking in his
shadow...
that
man intrigued her.
That
man might
be honorable enough to close his saloon.

o0o

Tuesday afternoon Boyd propped his hands on
his hips and stretched his back. He was glad to end his workday at
Edward's furniture store. Each Tuesday, and sometimes on Friday, he
and Matthew Sesslier, Addison Edward's grandson by marriage, taught
Addison's hired help how to build and carve furniture.

Addison leaned on his walking stick, the
wooden tip buried in an inch of wood shavings on the workshop
floor. "You boys finished for the day?" he asked, looking like he'd
just crawled out of bed. A drab gray sweater hung from his stooped
thin shoulders, his white hair whipped into peaks above dark bushy
eyebrows.

Boyd nodded to the old man who was still as
sharp as his best carving knife. "We got a lot done today,
Addison.

Your boys will be able to finish that bedroom
suite next week." Addison waved gnarled fingers. "Don't know why
you won't carve the damned thing."

"I don't have the time, Addison. I've got a
saloon to run and a sawmill to work."

"Bah. You're as stubborn as your father was."
He turned and limped back into the store, leaving Boyd and Matthew
grinning at each other.

"Your grandfather is a bit cantankerous
today."

Matthew nodded. "He's like that when he
doesn't get his own way. I wish you'd quit wasting your talent in
that saloon and let him hire you."

It aggravated Boyd that Matthew thought he
was wasting his talent. He no longer had any damned talent. "Are
you upset that your wife is marching with those temperance women?"
he asked, purposely changing the subject.

Matthew, a plain, quiet man Boyd had known
since they were boys, dumped a shovelful of wood shavings into a
barrel by the stove. "She believes it's the right thing to do, just
as I believe you're wasting your talent." Matthew propped the
shovel against the wall and dusted his hands on his denim trousers.
"If you weren't a friend, I'd call you a fool."

"I've been called worse."

"I was serious."

"So was I." Boyd whistled to Sailor, who
scrambled to his feet and paced between Boyd and the door.

"You're a natural craftsman, Boyd, and an
exceptional teacher. Why are you using your hands to pour ale?"

Teaching wasn't doing. His apprentices used
their own hands, found their own treasures in the wood. Anyone
could instruct an avid pupil.

Besides, his best memories were at the
Pemberton. Saloon-keeping was easier than the fatigue and fear he
experienced each time he worked on the statue. He had lost his
passion for carving when he buried his father.

He didn't want to talk about his lost talent
or his shortcomings. He was tired and wanted a tall mug of ale to
wash the wood dust from his throat. "Sailor! Get out of there," he
said, scolding the dog for rooting in the bucket of wood shavings.
"I'll see you next week," he said to Matthew, then strolled out the
door before Matthew could nag him further.

He walked up Main Street in the dark with
Sailor trotting alongside him. The instant they neared Claire's
house, Sailor bounded onto her front porch, yipping like a maniac.
Light illuminated her windows, but there was no sign of activity
outside or inside the house. Wondering why he hadn't seen her all
weekend, Boyd climbed the porch steps and peered in the window to
make sure nothing was amiss.

Sailor barked again, and Claire opened the
door. Boyd ducked away from the window, hoping she wouldn't think
he'd been peeping in at her.

But she didn't see him. Her gaze was focused
on Sailor.

"Where have you been?" she asked, the light
from her window casting a hazy glow across her face.

Sailor panted and wheezed and paced in front
of the door like a smitten fool.

Claire laughed—a light, heartwarming sound
that splashed over Boyd like sunshine. He'd never heard her true
laugh. He'd never witnessed a full smile on her face. He'd never
seen the real, unguarded Claire Ashier. Until now. And he liked
what he saw.

She was magnificent.

"You're not coming in with those wet paws,
mister. Go around back." She closed the door, not realizing that
Boyd had been standing three feet away, falling in love with
her.