Lips That Touch Mine (29 page)

"I'm going to brace you with my body," he
said, fitting his chest and hips against her.

"If I don't hit that target, Mr. Grayson, I'm
going to know this was a ploy."

He laughed and nudged her hands up. "Come on,
before you freeze to death. You're shaking."

"I'm exhausted. This gun weighs more than I
do."

"Quit stalling."

She pulled the trigger and hit the top of the
keg. "Good, but aim a little lower next time to allow for the
concussion."

His instructions came on warm breaths of air
that caressed her ear and made her shiver. It would be so easy to
turn around and kiss him. Maybe she should. Maybe she should admit
her attraction and...no...no it would be foolish to give him that
power. He was already bending her to his will. But it felt divine
to be held against him. It would be heaven to be kissed and
caressed and...

She pulled the trigger, the successive blasts
shattering her fantasy and clearing her mind as she emptied the
revolver.

"Good job." He gave her a light hug and let
her lower her arms. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Aside from getting my ear bitten, my fingers
frozen, and my shoulder dislocated, it was a grand adventure."

He leaned around her shoulder and gave her a
playful, lusty kiss on the cheek that connected with a loud smack.
"Feel better?"

"You've obviously forgotten that I'm holding
a weapon."

"The gun is empty, darling."

"Yes, but it's heavy enough to knock out a
bull."

He laughed and guided her back to the
carriage. "Honestly, you have no sense of adventure." He was
teasing her, but she sensed the truth behind his words. Her
childhood had been filled with adventure, but she hadn't embraced
her sense of daring since eloping with Jack. Maybe that's why she
faced each day as something to get through, instead of seeing it as
the opportunity she'd once seen.

She climbed into the carriage and felt a deep
sadness well up in her as he drove them back toward town.

"It worries me when you're so quiet."

"I'm just cold," she said, but a sense of
loss pervaded her body. What had happened to the half-wild, willful
girl, who'd tested her parents' patience on a daily basis? Her
antics had made them laugh and chastise her by turns, but their
house had been full of horseplay and laughter.

Boyd pulled the carriage to a stop in front
of her house, and anxiety filled her. She didn't want to be alone.
She didn't want to hear the gasps and whispers of other people
making love.

"Would you like some hot cocoa or tea?" she
asked, craving his company

He climbed out of the carriage, then helped
her out. "I've got to return the carriage to Radford and Evelyn's
livery, then take care of a few things at the saloon."

"Don't tell me you're opening tonight. I won
that poker game, Boyd. You promised to close."

"I intend to. But I need to feed Sailor and
clean the bar." He handed the revolver back to her. "I'll stop by
later to check on you and Anna."

She clenched her mittens around the heavy
gun, resisting the urge to beg him to come inside.

"Thank you for the lesson."

"Thank you for not shooting my foot off." She
smiled, realizing how much Boyd brightened her days, how he never
ceased to bring a smile to her face.

"I'll see you later," he said, then jogged
back to the carriage.

As he drove off down Main Street, she stood
on the porch wondering when she'd begun to consider having an
affair with him.

"Sailor! Leave that alone." Boyd pushed the dog away from the
spilled glass of whiskey, then reached for a rag.

The dog circled back for another lick.

"Don't whine to me if you end up sick."

Sailor sniffed the floorboards, then flopped
down by the door, staring at Boyd with accusing eyes.

"Life is like that, pal." Boyd washed his
hands at the sink, then poured himself another whiskey.

He leaned against the bar and studied the
smooth curves and graceful valleys his father had carved in the
ornate shelving unit. It was a master's work. The mark of a great
man's passion.

Boyd knew each ridge and gully, each scroll
and crest that transformed the natural pieces of mahogany, birch,
and holly into a one of a kind masterpiece. He knew each section
that his own knife had carved, where his father had guided his
hand, where he'd boldly displayed his own talent.

They carved, sanded, and varnished the piece
together.

Boyd spent each minute at his father's side,
watching, learning, testing, proving himself. Some nights they
worked shoulder-to-shoulder in focused silence. Other nights Boyd
and his father exchanged light banter or clowned and laughed, while
challenging each other to a higher level of expertise.

Boyd expected to spend his life like that,
sharing his days with his brothers at their sawmill and his
evenings working beside his father in their wood shop.

But his father had grown too crippled to
work.

Then he'd broken his hip.

A year later, he was dead.

Boyd traced his fingers over the furrowed
wood. How many hours had he spent examining the mirrored shelf, the
last project he and his father had worked on together? How many
times had his chest cramped with grief? With regret?

How many times had he avoided his image in
this mirror?

A shadow shifted across the glass, and
Claire's reflection looked back at him, but he didn't turn around.
She wouldn't be there. Her image was a frequent visitor in his
mind. To see her face, or her fleeting smile, was nothing new.
Especially when he was drinking, when he allowed himself to
remember his beloved father, when the pain snaked through him with
a razor edge that left him bleeding inside.

"Can you see your future in that mirror?" she
asked.

Sailor leapt to his feet with a happy bark,
and Boyd spun to face her.

She scratched Sailor's head, but looked at
Boyd. "You said I had no sense of adventure. Maybe you're right. I
want to understand. About you. About this." Her gesture encompassed
the saloon. "Show me what this is all about."

He was far from drunk, and yet her request
baffled him.

To his surprise, she moved forward and picked
up the bottle of whiskey. "Show me what the attraction is to
drinking alcohol, and to spending time in a saloon." She held the
bottle out to him. "I assume you drink this from a glass?"

He took the whiskey from her, mildly
horrified at the thought of a woman like Claire enjoying hard
liquor. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Maybe I haven't considered both sides of
this issue fairly." Sincerity filled her voice. "I want to
understand who you are. I want to understand why you and other men
choose this life."

How could he explain when he didn't know the
answer himself?

He put the whiskey bottle back on the shelf,
then shooed Sailor away from the bar. The dog flopped down on his
bed beneath the billiard table.

"You shouldn't have left the house alone.
I'll take you home."

"Anna knows I'm here." She pressed her hands
to his chest to stop him from stepping around her. "I'm not leaving
until I experience a night in a saloon."

He laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."

Her chin shot up and she glared at him.
"Don't insult me. I've made my position on intemperance specific
and clear, but you've never shown me one reason to support your
view. Show me now." She retrieved the whiskey bottle and held it
out to him. "Convince me to stop marching for temperance. "

Her eyes sparkled with challenge. He'd rather
kiss her than drink whiskey, but she was so sincere in her quest
that he couldn't turn her away.

He exchanged the whiskey for a jug of wine.
"What do you want to know?" he asked, filling two glasses.

"What do you do here? What do you talk about?
What attracts men to alcohol? Why do you like being here?"

He handed her a glass. "This could take a
while."

"I've got all night." To his shock, she
lifted her glass and drained it. Her face pruned, her eyes
squinted, and her body quivered in reaction.

He burst into laughter. "You were supposed to
sip that."

She clutched her stomach and leaned against
the bar. "I wish I would have."

He laughed again and gestured for her to
follow him. "Come on." He took the bottle of wine, rounded the bar,
and nodded for her to sit beside him. "Relax. That's what most men
come here to do."

She took off her coat and laid it over the
bar, then perched her perfectly rounded bottom on the edge of a
barstool.

"They can do that in their parlors with their
families," she said.

He filled their glasses, then braced his
elbow on the bar.

"When a man sits in his parlor, he thinks of
all the unfinished chores he should be doing, or the attention he
should be giving his wife and children, or the neighbor he should
be helping. When he sits in a saloon, he doesn't have his family or
his fields to remind him of his duties and obligations."

"That's exactly why I'm fighting to close
these places," She lowered her half empty glass to the bar. "His
family needs him at home, or in the fields, or anyplace that
supports them. Your saloon merely tempts him away from his
commitments. "

"That's not true."

"It is." She finished her drink then reached
for the wine bottle.

He grabbed the neck and stopped her. "If you
don't want to be sick, I would suggest you pass."

"I'm perfectly capable of drinking wine with
you."

"I agree, but not at my pace, and definitely
not double my pace."

"I didn't come here for a lecture. I'm here
to learn about this life. I intend to experience all the sin and
vice your saloon has to offer."

"Darling, you couldn't sustain the
shock."

Something dark flickered in her eyes. "You
have no idea what I can endure."

It dawned on him that he wasn't talking to a
virgin, but rather an experienced widow, who understood the layers
of their conversation. She was daring him to treat her as his
equal, to test her intelligence and grit.

"Are you certain you can handle the
education, Claire?"

"Quite." She tugged on the bottle. "Go ahead
and indulge all your bad habits. You can pretend I'm a man for the
evening."

The wine had gone straight to her head. It
must have. Even during his worst drunk he couldn't mistake her for
a man.

But she was interesting with her guard down
and her dander up. The scruples and secrets she used as a shield
had been washed away by her first glass of wine. It would be
interesting to see what another few ounces would wash away.

He took the bottle from her, then filled her
glass. "Sip that one," he instructed, then placed the bottle out of
her reach. She teetered on her chair, and he frowned. "Sit back and
put your feet on that rail." He pointed to a brass rail attached to
the bar, eight inches off the floor.

She slid back on the stool and propped her
feet on the rail. "That's a definite improvement. Now, if the rail
were heated, I could be quite content to sit here and warm my feet
for a spell.

"Only a woman would think of something like
that." He patted his thigh. "Lean back and put your feet up
here."

She glanced at him. "Now you're being
ridiculous."

"I'm just offering to warm your feet. There's
no one here to tell you it's improper. Now put them up here—unless
you've changed your mind about sin and vice and want me to take you
home."

She hesitated, then lifted her chin and swung
her knees toward him. "Fine."

He slid his chair back to allow her to
stretch out her legs. She put her feet in his lap but eyed him
warily while he unlaced her boots and pulled them off. He dropped
her boots on the floor then slipped his palms over her cold
feet.

"Mmmm...that's good." Her eyes widened. "I
mean, the wine is good."

He grinned. "Of course."

"I was trying to make a point." Her brow
furrowed as if she were searching for the thread of their
conversation.

He nearly laughed, but bit his lip. "We were
talking about why the men come to my saloon."

"Right." She sloshed the burgundy wine in her
glass. "So why do they?"

"For camaraderie."

"Oh..."

Her shivery moan sent blood singing through
his veins. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to start nibbling at
her slender ankles and kiss all the way up her sleek, long legs
until he reached the apex of her thighs. And then...

"Those men can find companionship at home
with their wives," she said, her chin lifted in challenge.

"What?"

"Those men should give their wives more
credit."

"Oh. Right." Now he was fighting to keep his
mind on subject. "My saloon isn't meant to draw men away from their
families or responsibilities, Claire. They also come here to seek
information to help with their crops and businesses."

She frowned. "Do you expect me to believe
that?"

"It's true. Some men want to play a game or
two of billiards after sweating in a factory all day." He shrugged.
"They come to saloons for all sorts of reasons."

"Why do they come to your saloon?" She
glanced around the room then looked at him. "The bar is beautiful,
but I can't believe they come for the decor. What draws them here?"
His gut reaction was to swing the conversation to another topic
like making love, but he could sense her sincerity, her honest
desire to understand what this place meant to him and his patrons.
And she was starting to relax. The tension had drained from her
shoulders, and the frown lines between her eyebrows had dissolved.
She probably didn't even realize she was flexing her feet beneath
his fingers or emitting small sighs that were boiling his
blood.