Lips That Touch Mine (3 page)

He had carted wood for Claire's grandmother
so often during the past two years, and eaten Marie's baked goods
at her kitchen table, that the place felt like home to him. He was
glad Claire hadn't changed anything.

She reached for the closet door, but Boyd
slipped his hand over hers, trapping it between the doorknob and
his palm. She jerked her gaze to his, the message in her eyes
deadly.

"I have something I want to give you before
we leave." He released her hand and put his closed fists behind his
back. "Choose a hand."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"It's a game, Mrs. Ashier. Don't tell me
you've never played before."

"I don't play games." She turned back to the
closet, but he raised one fist and held it a few inches from her
haughty nose.

"I'll give you a hint. It's not in my left
hand."

The slight twitch of her lips flooded him
with satisfaction. She ignored him and retrieved an indigo blue
wool coat from the closet. "I don't like surprises, and I don't
accept gifts from men."

"It's not a gift. It's an invoice for
replacing my window."

Her eyebrows jerked up with such surprise, he
bit his lip to stop his grin.

"Well, in that case," she said, thoroughly
flustered as she opened her hand. "I won't apologize for doing it,
but I will accept responsibility."

Instead of an invoice, Boyd placed the
carving on her palm.

She frowned, her gaze moving between his face
and the small sculpted piece of wood. "What is this?"

"I couldn't find any wildflowers in my back
yard, so I brought you this bouquet." He shrugged. "It was the best
I could do in the middle of winter."

She lifted the carving closer to her eyes and
let out a small gasp. "Where did you get this?"

"I made it."

"You did not."

"I did."

Wordlessly, she studied the tiny, intricately
carved bouquet of roses that he'd dabbled with for the last few
months, hoping to find the talent and desire to finish the statue
he'd started seven years earlier. All he'd ended with was something
he planned to feed to the stove.

"This is incredible." She met his gaze, her
own unguarded for the first time. "Did you really carve this?"

"Yes. And it's really for you."

She studied it a moment longer then held the
carving out to him. "I don't accept gifts from men. They always
come attached with an obligation to return something."

"Do you accept apologies?"

"Of course."

"Then this is my apology, in material form,
for disturbing you last night."

"I'm not looking for an apology, Mr.
Grayson." She held out the carving as if to return it. "I want
peace and quiet."

"Keep it," he urged.

She glanced at the carving, then back at him.
"I can't accept it."

"It's nothing but a piece of wood, Mrs.
Ashier." "It's a gift."

"Well, I'm not going to cart it to church
tonight."

He took the carving from her and gestured
toward the parlor. "Mind if I toss it in the fireplace?"

Her eyes widened. "You're going to burn
it?"

"What else would I do with a bouquet of
wooden roses?"

"Give it to your mother."

"Believe me, she doesn't need another carved
piece of wood from me."

"Well, your shoes are wet with snow. Leave
the carving on the cabinet, and I'll toss it out when I return from
church."

"It'll only take a moment to remove my
shoes—"

"I'll dispose of it
later
."

The crack in her voice surprised both of
them. They stared at each other for several seconds before he
smiled and placed the carving on the cherrywood silver chest that
he'd always admired. "I'd appreciate that, Claire."

"It's
Mrs. Ashier
, and we're going
to be late for church if we don't leave promptly."

o0o

Claire sat in an overfull pew at the Baptist
church where that impudent saloon owner had deposited her before
heading toward the back of the church. He'd whispered that he
didn't want to start gossip by sitting with her, but the way he'd
touched his lips to her ear as he whispered the warning was far
more damaging. Already people were peeping at her, then shifting
their gaze to the back of the church, presumably to see if Mr.
Grayson would nod and acknowledge their suspicions.

Well, he was here, and that was all that
mattered at the moment.

She turned her attention to the pulpit where
Dr. Lewis was telling about his heartbreaking childhood filled with
abuse from an alcoholic father. Though he told his story to
motivate others to abstain from the life-destroying vice, there
wasn't an ounce of self-pity in the man. He was a strong and
spiritual speaker whose words immediately began working magic on
Claire and the people around her.

"There is a frightening change taking place
in the converted Christian," Dr. Lewis said, his voice booming from
the pulpit. "It is the shameful lack of temperance. Not only in
bodily habits, but in intellectual, social, moral, and religious
practices as well. Tonight I want to address one
specific
vice, the
worst
case of intemperance we know, namely the
use of alcohol."

Amen. Feeling immensely proud of herself for
summoning Dr. Lewis to their rum-soaked town, Claire glanced across
the sea of inspired faces. Expressions of hope filled her vision,
and her heart lifted. She had supporters here.

"Ninety-nine-percent of all the crime and
poverty in this country can be traced to the same cause. Alcohol,"
Dr. Lewis continued. "Now, who is to blame for this?" He stared at
the congregation as if they should know the answer, but not one
person said a word. "The responsibility, my friends, belongs to
those individuals of respectable position who indulge in drink.
These people who set examples for the rest of us should be kicked
out of respectable society, especially owners of the establishments
that serve it. Encouragement of such a vice is as bad as
self-indulgence."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

Amid shocked gasps, everyone turned to see
who had spoken.

Boyd Grayson stood in the back corner of the
church with his hat clasped in front of him, his dark hair
glistening with melted snowflakes. He met Claire's shocked stare
with a challenge in his eyes, demanding her attention even while
her brain cautioned her to turn away. Last night the darkness had
shadowed his face, but earlier this evening the light in her foyer
had revealed gorgeous honey-brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes
and a manly face that every woman dreamed of.

But not her. She had married a handsome man
like Boyd, and her dream man had become a cruel alcoholic. She was
through dreaming.

The crowd murmured and whispered. Dr. Lewis
folded his hands and addressed Boyd. "I speak only what I believe
is true, Mister...?"

"Grayson," Boyd answered, seemingly undaunted
at being the center of attention. "No disrespect intended, Dr.
Lewis, but you and I both know the expression: You can lead a horse
to water, but you can't force him to drink."

Dr. Lewis nodded, waiting for Boyd to
expound. Claire secretly cursed Boyd for undermining her effort to
improve the lives of people who desperately needed temperance from
the vices that were tearing apart their families. She wanted to
race to the back of the church and clamp her hand over his
mouth.

"I'm asking how you can hold anyone but the
imbiber himself accountable for consuming alcohol?" Boyd asked.

"I can answer best by posing a question. If a
parent left a loaded gun and a four-year-old child unattended in
the same room, would you not hold that parent responsible for an
accident resulting from his negligence?"

"Of course, but we're talking about adults
who knowingly consume alcoholic beverages of their own free will,
not about unsuspecting children and loaded guns."

"Is that so?" Dr. Lewis turned to the
congregation. "I ask you, who is most affected by alcoholism?"
Silence greeted him and he shook his head with a sigh. "Our
children suffer the most hardship. Drunken parents berate and beat
their children. The money that should be used to clothe and feed
them is spent at the saloons. I know because I experienced this
firsthand. I agree that the imbiber is responsible for his own
actions, Mr. Grayson, but every person who encourages him is as
much at fault."

Boyd listened to Dr. Lewis in respectful
silence, but Claire could tell he wasn't the least bit ashamed of
owning a saloon. In his mind, the responsibility lay with the
individual who chose to drink. She didn't disagree, but she also
knew that many men wouldn't be tempted to imbibe if the saloons
were closed. Whether Mr. Grayson wanted to accept it or not, he was
part of the problem plaguing their town and ruining her
business.

"What can we do to correct the problem?" one
woman asked.

Dr. Lewis told them how other women had
formed prayer bands and conducted nonviolent marches on the rum
holes, shutting them down and taking pledges from the patrons to
abstain from drinking. "I've seen it done in Dixon, Illinois, and
Battle Creek, Michigan," he said. "You can do the same thing right
here in Fredonia. All you need to do is organize a campaign."

Dr. Lewis looked straight at Claire. "Mrs.
Ashier was courageous enough to request my help in stomping out
intemperance. I ask you, the Christian people of this town, to
stand with her and do the same."

In the sudden silence, Claire waited for
satisfaction to flood her. Boyd Grayson now knew she'd trapped him
into coming here tonight, that she'd summoned Dr. Lewis to help her
put him out of business. But all she felt was her heart thudding
like a sledgehammer against her chest. What if Boyd Grayson was as
vindictive and vengeful as her husband had been?

"I'll stand with her." A rumble of excitement
passed through the crowd as a woman stood up. "I'm Mrs. Reverend
Beaton, and I would be honored to chair a committee," she said. To
Claire's relief, a Mrs. Williams stood and pledged her support as
well. Then Mrs. Dr. Fuller, and Mrs. Desmona Edwards followed suit.
Before Claire's heartbeat calmed, nearly every woman in the church
stood and volunteered her service.

Knowing it was time for courage, Claire rose
to her feet, her back rigid, her chin high, her gaze fixed on Dr.
Lewis so she wouldn't be tempted to glance at Boyd to gauge his
reaction. "Let us take action," she said, "while our spirit of
purpose is high and our mission clear."

To her surprise, enthusiastic applause
greeted her. When the church finally quieted, Mrs. Beaton gave
Claire a nod of acceptance and suggested that they hold a meeting
at the church the following morning at ten o'clock.

"I'll help you start your meeting," Dr. Lewis
said, "but then I must leave for Jamestown to continue our efforts.
We're going to take our cause clear across the country!"

The buzz of excited voices again filled the
church, and Claire finally dared to glance at Boyd. She expected
him to taunt her in some way, but seeming admiration lit his
eyes—and something more personal and much too intimate for her
comfort.

Suddenly, she regretted asking him to escort
her to church, because now he was going to walk her home.

"You may as
well say it, Mr. Grayson."

Boyd angled his head to see Claire's face as
they crossed Barker Common and began walking up the section of Main
Street they referred to as West Hill. Despite her ramrod posture
and taller than average height, Claire was still four or five
inches shorter than himself and he enjoyed having the advantage,
however slight. "Say what?" he asked.

"That we're doomed to fail. That's what you
were thinking."

"Are you a mind reader?"

"Your expression was speaking for you."

"If that's the case, Claire, I'm afraid I've
offended your sense of decency a number of times since meeting you
last night."

"And you have just done so again by using my
given name without invitation."

He laughed. "Spoken with the honesty of a
child."

"Don't mistake me for one, Mr. Grayson."

She stopped and met his eyes with a boldness
he'd rarely seen from a woman. Her cheekbones were flushed with
cold, her eyes sparked like blue fire in the glow of the gas
streetlamp. The hood she wore framed the most interesting face he'd
ever seen, and he felt a deep urge to tilt her chin toward the
light.

Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. "You can forget
whatever you're trying to suggest with that lazy look in your eyes.
I'm not interested."

He arched his brow. "What do you think I'm
suggesting?"

"That you're used to getting what you
want."

"And you perceive that as a threat?"

"No, only an irritation I won't put up
with."

The defiant tilt of her chin afforded him the
view he'd been craving, but he could only smile at her. He hadn't
enjoyed conversing with a woman this much in all the years he'd
been involved with them. And he'd had more brief involvements than
he cared to remember. "Tell me, Mrs. Ashier; is it me you despise
or is it men in general?"

"I despise being manipulated and considered a
fool. Whether you're willing to admit it or not, you were trying to
hold my gaze long enough to form an intimate connection. I was
merely forthright enough to express my lack of interest."

"Some men might misinterpret your comment as
an invitation."

"Then they would be thinking with their
ego."

A delighted laugh burst from him. "Touché.
So, how does a man redeem himself from such a misstep?"

Her lips twitched and he knew she wasn't
without a sense of humor. "The man could close his saloon and stop
testing the lady's patience."