Lips That Touch Mine (5 page)

Still wearing his brainless canine grin, the
dog dropped into a sitting position and lifted his paw.

She gaped at him.

As if the dog understood she wasn't going to
shake his wet, padded paw, he planted it on the snowy ground in
front of him and sat watching her.

"Go on," she said, shooing him away with her
hand. "Go
home
."

He trotted in the direction she'd moved her
hand, sniffed the ground, then came back and sat in front of her
again.

"I didn't throw anything. I was telling you
to go home."

He stared at her with his big eyes, tilting
his head and panting, not moving a toenail. She sighed and glanced
toward the street to see if her neighbors were about. The street
was empty. Just like her life.

"Can you carry wood?" she asked.

The dog's wheezy answer made her smile.

"Oh, bother. Come here." She held out her
hand and the dog leapt forward, his tail swinging wildly behind him
as she stroked his head. "I could use some company, even if you
aren't much for conversation."

o0o

"Sai-
lor
!"

Boyd shrugged on his coat as he stepped
outside. He scanned Main Street in both directions, wondering which
neighbor his dog was begging scraps from this time. The shameless
mutt had become a mooch, and though Boyd admired Sailor's cunning,
he didn't like him imposing on the neighbors, or having to chase
after the dog each day. Still, he couldn't go to the lumber mill
without the mutt. God knows where the rascal would end up if left
to his own devices.

Boyd gave a shrill whistle and followed a
smattering of dog tracks down Chestnut Street, hoping they belonged
to his dog. They trailed from the middle of the street to the edge,
then back again, as if Sailor had been trying to decide where his
best chances lay. Suddenly, the prints veered left and climbed a
small bank of snow to the rear of Claire Ashier's house. Boyd
glanced across her yard and saw that they led right to her back
door.

And stopped there.

He grinned in anticipation as he followed the
tracks. If Sailor had wheedled his way inside, he had just earned
himself a prime bone from the butcher.

When Boyd reached the back door to the shed
it was open, but neither Claire nor Sailor were around. Having made
this trip hundreds of times to carry wood for Claire's grandmother,
he strode through the shed and knocked on the door that connected
the woodshed with the kitchen.

Sailor's yelp and the sound of chair legs
screeching across the hardwood floor told Boyd he'd guessed
correctly. God he loved that mutt. Sailor was the master of
weaseling.

Claire opened the door, her eyes guarded and
cool. Sailor barked and wagged his tail, wheezing like an
overheated boiler. Boyd rubbed his dog's head, but spoke to
Claire.

"Has Sailor picked out his own room yet?"

"What?" Her brow furrowed. "Oh." Her
confusion melted instantly, and though she released a breath that
resembled a gasp of embarrassment, she didn't smile. "He followed
me inside while I was carting wood."

"Did he carry his share?"

Her lips pursed. "He tracked up my
floor."

Boyd pointed to several chunks of wood beside
the wood bin. "Where are your manners, Sailor? Bring in some wood
for Mrs. Ashier. Go on."

Sailor lunged out the door. He swiped Boyd's
knees then skidded to a stop before the wood scraps. After two
seconds of rooting in the pile, Sailor bit into a hefty hunk of
wood that he struggled to keep clenched in his mouth. He made it as
far as the kitchen, then dropped it on Claire's foot.

Her eyes shot open as she gasped, or maybe
Boyd did—he couldn't discern who was more shocked. Her grip
tightened on the door handle and she shifted as she extracted her
slipper-covered foot from beneath the heavy chunk of wood. Her
accusing eyes met Boyd's, but she didn't say a word.

"Claire—Mrs. Ashier—that wasn't supposed to
happen."

She didn't look convinced. "Good-bye, Mr.
Grayson."

She tried to close the door, but Boyd braced
his hand against the hard flat surface, feeling terrible that she'd
been hurt. "I'm sorry. Truly, Mrs. Ashier. Sailor lugs wood around
all the time at the saloon. I'm always tripping over pieces of
kindling that he drags out of the bucket." He reached down and
grabbed the hunk of wood before Sailor could get his teeth around
it again. He tossed it into the bin behind him then faced Claire,
who was pale. "I'd better look at your toes."

She reared back. "You will not!"

"That was a heavy piece of wood, Mrs. Ashier.
I really think—"

"My toes are
fine
," she said, but
her voice was thin, as if she were in pain.

"Then it must be your slipper that's
bleeding."

She jerked her gaze to her feet then gripped
the doorknob with both hands.

He caught her elbow and turned her toward a
small oak table in her "kitchen. "At least allow me to help you
into a chair." He nudged the door closed with his foot. "I hope
your toes aren't too damaged. I'm not very good at stitching."

"I fail to see the humor in this." She tried
to tug her arm free, but he maintained his grip as she limped
toward a high back cane-bottom chair at the table.

The light sheen of perspiration on her
forehead told him she was in far more pain than she was admitting.
The split piece of firewood had been heavy, with a jagged edge that
had hit her square on the top of her foot.

The instant she was seated, he knelt at her
feet. "Would you mind lifting your gown?"

She clapped her hands over her knees and
glared at him. "Take your dog and go home. I'm capable of tending
to my own toes."

"I'm afraid I can't leave without making sure
your foot isn't badly damaged."

"I told you, it's fine."

He ignored her and tugged the slipper off her
foot.

"
Mister
Grayson!"

"Your toes are still attached. That's a good
sign."

"How dare you be so...so impudent."

He fought to hide a grin as he sat back on
one heel.

"Now, is there really cause here to malign my
male prowess, Mrs. Ashier?"

"Your what?" As if she suddenly realized what
he'd said, her face colored. "I suggested no such thing. I called
you
impudent
, Mr. Grayson. That means arrogant, audacious,
disrespectful—in case you didn't know."

He did know. He'd been accused of being
impudent on many occasions, but he enjoyed getting her stirred up.
"Well, it sounded like something far less desirable." He propped
her foot on his thigh, but she gasped and yanked it away.

"What are you doing?" she asked in
outrage.

"Trying to make sure your foot isn't
broken."

"It's cut and bruised. Nothing more. Now
please leave me to tend to my personal business."

"What if your foot is broken?" he asked,
looking up at her. "If you can't walk, how will you hail the
doctor? How will you care for yourself or your boarders?"

"I don't have any boarders, thanks to
you."

"I'm sorry about that," he said, retrieving
the clean handkerchief he'd tucked in his pocket before leaving the
saloon. "Let me satisfy my curiosity, and I'll leave you in peace."
He pulled her foot to his thigh, but she jerked away.

"I'm afraid your curiosity will have to go
unquenched."

"Honestly, Claire, you would think I was
trying to ravish you." He slipped his hand over her slender foot
and smiled up at her. "Your pretty feet are most tempting, but I
can control myself for a minute or two." He pulled her foot back to
his thigh, and held firm when she tried to tug away. "If you keep
kicking and tussling you
will
make me impudent, or
whatever that word is."

She snorted, and he looked up in surprise,
wondering if he'd really heard the hint of a laugh. Her lips were
pursed, but her eyes...her gorgeous blue eyes sparkled.

"You look like your grandmother when you
laugh." Because he knew she would deny her laughter, or reprimand
him for using her given name, he lowered his head. "Please, Claire.
Give me a minute to look at this. I need to be certain you aren't
badly hurt." To his relief she gave in and let him feel her foot
through her stocking. It was warm against his thigh, slender, and
delicately sculpted at her ankle. He wanted to tug her stocking off
and feel the smoothness of her skin, trace the line of her shinbone
beneath his fingers.

"Is it broken?"

"I don't believe so. But I think the chunk of
wood split the skin on your hallux."

"My what?"

"Your big toe." He smiled at her. "I assumed
if you knew what impudent meant you would surely know the word
hallux."

Instead of frowning, she tilted her head to
study him.

"What truly baffles me is how
you
know the word."

He liked that she was turning the tables on
him. "I took a bad fall in the gorge when I was nine. I'd broken a
rib, but when the doctor told me I'd also broken my hallux, I
thought he meant my back. After he told me I'd only broken my big
toe, I was so relieved, I never forgot the word."

She studied him, and he returned her
scrutiny. In the sudden stillness he could not only hear Sailor
panting, but his own heart-pounding like a drum. He wanted to kiss
her. Really kiss her. The kind of kiss that burns deep in the gut,
that stops time, that makes two people cling and beg and go insane
with lust.

"You're hurting my toe."

Her whispered complaint jolted him and he
realized he'd been gripping her toes. "Sorry." He drew a shuddering
breath and released her foot. "Do you have any iodine?"

"I'll put some on after—"

"Where is it?"

She sighed and pointed toward a door on the
far wall of her kitchen. "In the water closet cabinet."

"Take off your stockings."

"I will not." She started to stand, but he
caught her hips and pushed her back down. She gasped, her
expression outraged.

"You go too far."

"I'm doing what I have to." He winked. "Stay
put. I'll get the iodine."

"You are insufferable."

"So I've been told." He stood up, and Sailor
leapt to his feet. "Stay, Sailor."

Sailor's ears drooped and he blinked at
Claire. She held out her hand. "Don't let him bully you, too."

The dog's tongue flopped out of the side of
his mouth and he ducked beneath her hand. She scratched his head
and he horned in closer.

The damned mutt was right where Boyd wanted
to be.

The unfairness of it rankled as he crossed
the kitchen to retrieve the iodine. He could barely share a civil
word with Claire, but his weasel of a dog was flopped against her
sweet curves, basking in her affection like she owned him.

Well, maybe Sailor wasn't as smart as Boyd
thought. If Boyd were a dog, he'd climb right into Claire's lap and
start licking her from the neck down.

Whoa. The thought stopped him mid-stride.

Claire pulled off her stocking then glanced
at him. "What's the matter?"

He stood in the middle of the kitchen,
warning himself to calm down, to rein in and slow the horse before
he frightened her away.

"Are you all right?"

He was ready to ride for the finish line, but
he hadn't even gotten Claire out of the gate yet. But he would, he
decided. If it was the only thing he accomplished in his life, he
was going to make love to Claire Ashier.

He clenched the iodine in his fist and knelt
at her feet.

"I'd like you to address me as Boyd," he
said. He repositioned her bare foot on his thigh. She didn't fight
him this time or comment on his request.

While he cleaned the blood off her toe, she
continued petting Sailor. There was a tenderness in her touch, a
warmth in the way she stroked the dog's head that was so natural
and unguarded, Boyd peeked up at her face.

The shadow of loneliness dulled her eyes.
He'd seen that same forlorn look in his mirror for years, but to
see the pain and emptiness in Claire's eyes bothered him. In that
brief glimpse, he knew that she'd experienced loneliness, that
she'd suffered loss, that she knew fear.

What tragedy was it that left the residue of
those emotions in her eyes?

"I know it's going to sting," she said. "Just
get it over with."

He ducked his head and saturated a corner of
his handkerchief with iodine. "You like Sailor," he said, trying to
distract her from the sting as he dabbed at her toe.

"Does that surprise you?"

"Maybe."

"Why? I had two dogs when I was a girl, and I
trained both of them myself. I could make them lie down just by
snapping my fingers. I named them Shakespeare and—ouch."

"Sorry. Just a touch more," he said.
"Why?"

"Because I want to make sure it doesn't get
infected. I think you're going to have a bruise on your
instep."

"I was asking why you're surprised that I
like Sailor?"

He finished wiping her toe, replaced the cap
on the bottle and rose to his feet. "Because he's a weaseling,
ill-mannered maniac. And because you seem to prefer your own
company. "

Her lashes lowered like window shades, and
Boyd knew he'd struck a vein.

He set the bottle of iodine on the table. "Is
it too forward of me to ask how long you've been a widow?"

"Yes." Her chin lifted and she met his eyes,
but he sensed that behind her brave front she was hiding something.
"It's not that I prefer my own company, Mr. Grayson. It's that I
prefer not to subject myself to the games, petty judgments, and
humiliating exchanges that most relationships contain."

"Relationships also contain companionship and
joy." "That's why I like Sailor. Despite being clumsy and a bit
rambunctious, I don't have to wonder if his actions are sincere."
She stroked the dog's bony back. "He just needs some training to
polish his manners."