Lips That Touch Mine (28 page)

Her tremulous smile brought a deep and
satisfying warmth to his heart.

The next morning, Boyd ordered a pane of glass for Claire's parlor
window and also the window above his saloon that he'd been remiss
in fixing. Then he headed to Edwards's Furniture store. All he
could think about was Claire.

When he stopped to check on her this morning,
she assured him that her shoulder was fine and that she would be
ready for their lesson when he returned this afternoon. But it was
frigid as hell outside. Her shoulder must be stiff and sore. It
might be best not to push her recovery, but he felt an urgent need
for her to know how to handle her gun. After last night, there was
no doubt she was in danger.

Because the damned woman was foolishly
stubborn, determined to do herself in over a hopeless cause.

He tripped on the threshold to the store and
stumbled inside. Addison's showroom was empty, but the sound of
angry voices caught his attention.

He peeked inside the large but unpretentious
office where Addison stood by a mammoth oak desk. The man leaned on
his walking stick, his white hair mussed, his face red with anger
as he waved his hand at his grandson Matthew. "I don't give a damn
what they're threatening. This is my store and I'll operate as I
please."

"They will place their orders with our
competitors if we continue to support these men," Matthew said.

"Then let them." Addison's wrinkled jaw
clenched and he turned away. When he spied Boyd standing in the
doorway, his eyes filled with sympathy.

"What's going on?" Boyd asked, sensing the
argument had something to do with him.

"Nothing important." Addison flapped a hand
as if dismissing the conversation. "You boys get to work."

With a sigh, Matthew followed Boyd to the
shop at the back of the store.

"What's going on, Matthew?"

He stopped and shoved his hands into his
pockets, his face grim. "The ladies are boycotting our store
because of what happened at Mrs. Ashier's house last night."

"Why? Addison didn't throw that brick through
her window."

"I know, but the women refuse to patronize
any business that employs men who imbibe alcoholic beverages."

Boyd smirked with disdain. "That's
preposterous. They don't know who threw the brick. And Addison's
own wife is marching with those women."

"I know. Addison is outraged with Desmona. He
refuses to let her, or her temperance friends, dictate how he runs
his business."

"Good for him."

Matthew frowned. "Mrs. Clarke stopped in this
morning to cancel her order for that bedroom suite we were working
on. Emil Cushing came in to say he wouldn't be needing that hutch
for his wife. Mrs. Barnes showed up ten minutes later to cancel her
order for her dressing table." Matthew began rolling his shirt
sleeves up his forearms. "I signed their pledge this morning."

A niggling dread crept up Boyd's neck.

"I had to." Matthew took his apron from a
hook by the shop door and tied it on. "Addison can't afford this.
He's too old to battle over the principle of a situation he hasn't
created or condoned. I'm going to ask the men who are working here
to sign the pledge."

Boyd's gut tightened, but he gave Matthew a
nod of acceptance. "I understand." Matthew was doing what he felt
was necessary to keep Addison's business from suffering. Boyd
respected that. But he sure as hell didn't respect Matthew's
kowtowing to a bunch of harpies. The women had gone too far. They'd
crossed the line of fairness. Addison had nothing to do with this
fight.

And it was becoming a fight.

Matthew held out Boyd's apron. "Will you
stay?" he asked, but he was really asking Boyd to lie down and give
up everything he'd worked for.

He shook his head. "Sorry, Matthew."

Boyd left the store without speaking to
Addison. What the hell could he say to him? Your grandson is
spineless? Matthew was an honest, hardworking man. He was doing
what he felt was right. That was no reason to malign his
character.

But Boyd wouldn't lie down and let a group of
overzealous women dictate his life.

o0o

It was freezing outside, but Claire was glad
to escape the house. The Ormands had decided to stay despite the
incident. She was relieved not to lose her tiny income, but the
constant tension that radiated between the Ormands was unbearable.
They couldn't spend ten minutes in their bedchamber without their
intimate murmurs drifting into the hallway. Baby Emily was certain
to have a sibling before long.

"Where's Sailor?" she asked as she climbed
into the carriage Boyd had brought for her.

"Home. I didn't want him running around while
we're shooting." He pulled onto Main Street, took a quick right
turn onto Chestnut, then a quick left turn onto Barry Road. "Did
you know that your lady friends are boycotting Addison Edward's
furniture store?"

She frowned. "Why would they do that?"

"Because I'm a saloon owner and they don't
want men like me instructing his help."

"That's ridiculous. We never discussed
boycotting other businesses. "

"Well, your friends apparently decided to do
so after hearing about your window being shattered last night."

She tried to contemplate the impact such a
boycott might have, but her mind kept returning to last night, and
how Boyd had held her against him in a comforting embrace when
she'd confessed about Jack.

"I don't like what's happening, Claire.
Addison Edwards hasn't done anything to deserve this boycott."

The boycott might be an effective way to
separate the liquor sellers and drinkers from the community, but it
felt wrong. Their crusade wasn't supposed to punish the local
business owners. It was supposed to unite the community, not divide
it. It was supposed to encourage the saloon owners and their
patrons to become upstanding citizens, to do good for the
community.

Boycotting wasn't the answer in this
situation. It was wrong. Boyd should be free to employ his talent
at Edwards's Furniture store regardless of his position on
temperance. His work at Edwards's had nothing to do with her
temperance cause.

But if it pushed him to close his saloon,
perhaps she should bite her tongue. It could serve her purpose—and,
more important, it might force Boyd to realize his potential.

That wasn't for her to decide, though. She
shivered and tucked the lap robe around her legs.

"If you're not feeling well, I can take you
back home," he said, glancing at her shoulder.

"I'm fine." She sighed. "I'm sorry about the
boycott. Anna and I will talk to the ladies at our next meeting.
"

He nodded but didn't comment.

She studied his handsome profile, wishing she
knew him better. "Other than running a saloon and keeping your
neighbors awake all night, what is your purpose in life? Is there
anything you are willing to invest yourself in?"

"My purpose is to enjoy life."

"I want to enjoy life, too," she said, "but I
also want to contribute to my community. I want to improve the
lives of women and children who need help." She wanted to connect
with that other, more serious man inside him. "What's most
important to you?"

"To live my life on my terms."

"That's all?" she asked.

"That's enough. Some men are as in love with
vice as others are with virtue."

"Unarguably true," she said. "But after
talking with you last night, I'm sensing you want more than your
saloon has to offer. Why aren't you using your talent? Why don't
you fill your hours with creative endeavors and spend your time
with people you love? Don't you ever get lonely living by
yourself?"

He stared at her with suspicion in his eyes.
"Are you perchance angling for a husband?"

She reared back against the seat, sending a
spear of pain through her shoulder. "Of course not!"

He lifted one eyebrow, as if challenging her
statement.

"Never," she said. She would never marry
again.

Irritated with him, and with her sore
shoulder, she scowled. "I was trying to have an intelligent
conversation with you, but I'm convinced it's impossible."

His chuckle drove her irritation a notch
higher. She averted her face and let the biting wind cool her
ire.

"Claire." He covered her mitten-shrouded
hands with his palm. "Why are you always so serious?"

"I'm not."

"You are." He gave her a coaxing smile. "What
do you say we call a truce and simply enjoy the day. No talk of
temperance or boycotts or the purpose of life. "Imagine that I'm
your friend and we're on a grand adventure."

"In the dead of winter?"

"Pretend we're Eskimos."

She laughed. "With your imagination you
should consider writing a book."

"There you go again, attaching a purpose to
everything."

"I wasn't..." She sighed in acknowledgment.
"All right, I was. But you have wonderful ideas and—"

He cupped his hand over her mouth. "If you
say one more word, I'm going to kiss you until you can't remember
your name."

She bit his finger.

He yelped and jerked his hand away.

"That was a warning."

"I'm trembling in fear." He winked and pulled
the carriage to the side of the rutted road. "Ready for your
lesson?"

"Not particularly."

He sighed dramatically. "Poor Cold Claire.
She has no sense of adventure."

She lifted her mitten-covered fist to his
nose, but he laughed and leapt out of the carriage.

"You shouldn't tease me when you're about to
put a revolver in my hands," she warned.

"Who said I was teasing?" He looked up at
her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, his eyes sparkling with
humor. He raised his arms. "Come on. I don't want to keep you out
in the cold too long."

He helped her out, then led her into a wide
field surrounded by dense woods of maple, beech, oak, and conifer
trees.

"Step in my tracks if you can," he said,
leading her several yards into the field. "I want to move away from
the horses."

She followed slowly, struggling to stay
upright in the knee-deep snow.

"Wait here." He walked a long distance away
before dropping a wooden keg on the snow.

"Don't tell me that's our target."

He grinned and headed toward her. "I thought
you'd be delighted to blow holes in one of my kegs."

She propped her fist on her hip. "I thought
we weren't going to talk about temperance."

"Did I say anything about temperance?"

She stuck her tongue out at him and pulled
off her mittens.

He took the revolver out of his pocket and
slipped it into her hand. "Step over here and I'll help you aim the
first shot or two."

Fear rushed through her as she clenched the
loathsome piece of frigid steel. "I'd rather that you shoot it
first," she said, thrusting the gun back at him. A horrendous
explosion blasted through the air, wrenching her arm and blowing a
spray of snow in all directions.

Boyd locked his hands around the gun and
angled it away from his legs. "Claire, honest to God, you terrify
me."

The shock on his face wasn't humorous in the
least, but a sense of hysteria snaked through her and made her
snort.

"You could have shot my foot off."

"I...I just wanted to give the gun back to
you," she said, her voice shaking from fear and laughter.

He blew out a breath. "I'm beginning to think
this was a dumb idea."

"You told me not to be so serious."

"That didn't mean I wanted you to shoot
me."

She grinned. "I'll try not to."

"Then release your grip." She let go, and he
took the gun away from her. "Your first lesson is how to hold a
gun."

He spent several minutes explaining how the
revolver worked, how to handle and load it safely, and how to aim
and shoot. Finally, he turned her toward their target and stood
behind her. "Raise the revolver, and sight the target."

She lifted the gun with both hands, but it
hurt her injured shoulder. "It's too heavy."

He moved behind her and put his arms around
her. He cupped his hands beneath hers and lifted the gun to her eye
level. "Can you see the target?"

"I could see it from home," she said, staring
at the fat brown keg squatting in the middle of the white
field.

"I meant through the sights."

"Oh. You mean those pointy little things that
are getting in my way?"

"Wiseacre." He nipped her earlobe with his
teeth.

She jerked away and the gun exploded, kicking
her back against him.

"Claire..."

"Don't blame me!" She tipped her head to see
him. "You bit me!"

"I did not. That was a nibble."

"Whatever. Your horseplay caused me to pull
the trigger."

He rubbed the end of his cold nose against
her ear. "Maybe we should forget about shooting the gun."

"Maybe I should use you as a target."

"Vicious woman."

"Reprobate."

"Guilty." He kissed her neck.

She longed to turn and kiss him, to savor his
touch, his mouth, but she drew away because it was safer than where
they were headed. "If we're going to shoot this thing, kindly
remove your finger from behind the trigger."

His chuckle warmed her. "Just protecting
myself."

"Let's get this over with."

He acquiesced without argument and helped her
steady the revolver. "Sight it at the center of the keg."

She aimed and fired, but the shot missed the
target. "I can't do this. It nearly knocks me over when it
fires."

"Spread your feet, keep one slightly behind
the other, and lock your elbows."

Maneuvering in the deep snow was nearly
impossible, but she managed to steady herself.