Lips That Touch Mine (9 page)

"Didn't say it did, Sheriff." Karlton turned
and thumped the mug down onto the back bar shelf, a handsomely
carved unit backed with beveled mirrors.

Boyd clenched his fists to keep from swatting
Karlton for being careless of the wood. It had taken him and his
father six months to build and carve that back bar. It was the
centerpiece of his establishment, a masterpiece of exquisitely
figured mahogany combined with holly, flamed birch, and satinwood
inlays, painstakingly joined together to showcase the wood and give
the piece depth. And it had taken an entire day to mount the
fifteen-foot unit behind the bar. It reflected the light and turned
an otherwise ordinary saloon into a palace.

Boyd pushed away from the bar and grabbed his
heavy coat off the rack behind him. "I'll go talk to Claire," he
said, needing to get some air before he started barking at Karlton,
or dwelling on the past.

"Don't do that," Duke said. "You'll only
scare her. Just watch her house and see if she gets any
visitors."

"Pat can do that. If she doesn't want to talk
to me, I'll go with you to see Donny."

Duke stepped in front of him and blocked his
exit. "Don may not have had anything to do with this, Boyd."

"I intend to verify that."

"That's my job."

"I'm the one Claire suspects. I have a right
to clear my name."

With a lightning-quick flick of his hand,
Duke snapped a handcuff around Boyd's wrist.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Duke jerked the empty cuff up to eye level,
pulling Boyd's bound wrist upward. "I'm making a point. You're not
getting involved in this. Settle down or I'll finish the job."

Boyd gritted his teeth, hating that his
brother was the sheriff. Experience told him that if he didn't back
off, Duke wouldn't hesitate to haul his ass downtown to that tiny
jail cell, a claustrophobic little room with a cot and a latrine.
His brother was a damned good drinking partner when he wasn't
wearing his badge, but he was a hard-headed son of a bitch when it
came to upholding the law. No man got in the way of his duty. Not
even a brother.

"Stay away from Don Clark," Duke said.

"Fine."

"Stay away from his store."

Boyd gritted his teeth.

"Stay away from his house—"

"All right for God's sake." Boyd yanked his
wrist. "Take this damned thing off me and get out of my
saloon."

Duke uncuffed him. "Walk me out."

Boyd whistled for his dog, then stepped
outside into the frigid December air.

"I didn't want to say this in front of Pat or
Karlton," Duke said, pulling the door closed, "but Jack Ashier died
two months ago."

Claire was in
the kitchen writing a letter to her sister when she heard a dog
barking in her wood shed. She pushed away from the table, then
opened the door, glad to have some canine company for a while.
Sailor stared up at her with bright eyes and a silly tongue-lolling
grin that made her laugh.

"Did you come to beg table scraps again?" she
asked, having fed him the past two days.

With a happy yip, Sailor bounded inside,
nearly knocking her over in his rush to enter.

"Oh. You rascal" She turned to face the dog,
her hands on her hips. "You are supposed to wait to be invited
inside."

"Me, too?" asked a male voice from behind
her.

Her heart careened into her ribs, and she
whirled to find Boyd Grayson standing in the doorway with his arms
full of firewood.

"I was supposed to fill your wood bins this
morning, but I got delayed," he said, forcing her to step aside as
he entered the kitchen.

"Oh, well, yes..." She gripped the doorknob
and tried to catch her breath. "Thank you for remembering, but I
...I've decided to do it myself."

"I can't let you do that." He dropped the
pile of wood into the empty bin by her stove with a loud crash. She
and the dog both jumped. "I made a promise to you."

"Thank you, but I've changed my mind," she
said, opening the door wider to encourage him to leave. "I'd really
rather do this myself."

"Why, Claire? Because you think I wrote that
note?"

Heat rushed to her face.

"Duke told me you suspect me."

"I said you
could
have written
it."

"How could you think that?"

"You're a saloon owner."

His brows lowered. "So?"

"You have as much to lose as anybody if our
marches are successful."

"That doesn't mean anything, Claire. The
person who wrote that note is a coward without morals."

She stepped away from him, afraid of the
anger in his eyes. "Would you admit it if you had written it?"

His face darkened. "I don't threaten women. I
don't commit cowardly acts. And I don't lie."

"How can I know that?" She lifted her chin
and stared him in the eye. "Write a note for me."

"What?"

She released the door knob and rushed to the
table. She took a pen from a crystal inkwell and thrust it at him.
"Let your handwriting prove that you didn't write the note." She
pushed a sheaf of paper in front of him.

His eyes flared with anger, but he bent over
the table.

With bold, angry slashes, he wrote on the
paper, then tossed the pen down.

Claire studied the slant of his writing. The
author of the original note had slanted the top of his letters to
the left.

Boyd's slanted right. His script was bolder
and more controlled than the script in the note she'd received.

But her heart stuttered as she read his
scribbled words.

I'm not leaving until you stop questioning my
integrity.

She cursed herself for being foolish. Without
her gun, there was no way to evict Boyd Grayson from her home. Why
had she been so rash to challenge him? Had she wanted to believe
him innocent because she was beginning to like and respect his
brother? Because she suspected there was more to Boyd than the
rakehell he seemed to be?

Sailor nosed her thigh, and she reached down
to stroke his half-mast ears. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult
you."

"Then you believe I'm innocent?" She didn't
know what to believe, but couldn't voice the truth. "Your writing
is different from the script on the note."

"I could have purposely changed my script—is
that what you're thinking?"

Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to
her nauseous stomach. "I don't know what to think."

"For God's sake, Claire." He gaped at her.
"Do you honestly believe I would hurt you?"

She didn't answer.

He moved toward her, and his shoulder
collided with the edge of the door. He elbowed it closed.

The loud slam made her recoil. She backed
away from him, willing to agree with anything he said to get him
out of her house. She didn't know him. She didn't know what he was
capable of. A cruel, calculating man could be lurking behind his
handsome face.

Tremors snaked through her stomach, and she
struggled to keep her breathing even. "I...I don't want anyone in
my house right now." She pointedly reached for the doorknob to show
him out.

He clapped his hand over hers and trapped it.
"I didn't threaten you."

She pulled away. "Then who did?"

He stepped around his dog, trapping her in a
narrow space between his tall, hard body and the wall. "I don't
know, but it wasn't me."

She tried to move past him, but he blocked
her escape.

His nearness smothered her. Her chest jerked
with quick, consuming breaths. Jack had stalked her like this,
torturing her with his cat-and-mouse games. He'd always won.

And she'd always lost in the most humiliating
and painful way possible.

As if the dog sensed her distress, he wheezed
and pushed against her side, effectively blocking her exit from one
direction. The wall was at her back. Boyd was directly in front of
her. The kitchen door, her only escape, was to her right.

To her shame a whimper of panic squeezed from
her throat as she planted her palms against Boyd's chest and shoved
him aside. She bolted for the door and yanked it open. The scuffle
behind her sent ice through her veins as she sprinted into the
woodshed.

A second later Boyd's strong arms clamped
around her waist, and the sound of her own scream filled her ears.
It was useless to fight. She knew that. But she fought anyway.

o0o

"What the...?" Boyd stared in shock at the
wild, gasping woman in his arms.

Her futile struggles and frightened
whimpering wrung his heart.

She gasped and tried to wiggle out of his
arms.

He tightened his grip. "I'm not going to hurt
you. Shhhh...I won't hurt you, Claire." He kept his grip firm,
holding her back to his chest as she struggled against him. "Easy.
I'm not going to hurt you. Stop fighting me, and I'll let you
go."

She stilled, but her chest jerked with every
frightened breath she drew.

"I want to talk to you. That's all."

He felt the tension rippling through her
stiff body.

"I'm only going to talk to you. Turn around
and I'll answer any questions you want to ask."

Her shoulders slumped as if the fight had
drained out of her. He loosened his arms, and she turned to face
him.

Seeing her eyes glistening with tears tore a
hole in his chest. He put some space between their bodies, but
didn't release her. "I'm sorry I frightened you."

She raised wet, spiky lashes, and he saw real
fear in her eyes.

"Ah, Claire. I'm sorry. I didn't write that
note. Nothing could make me harm you. Nothing."

Doubt filled her eyes.

"No matter what the reason, I could never
hurt a woman."

She shivered, her breath misting in the cold
air as she exhaled.

The fragrant smell of cut wood filled the
frigid shed.

Her waist felt firm and warm against his
forearms. He wanted to pull her close, tuck her head beneath his
chin and hold her until she stopped trembling. Instead, he loosened
his grip and turned her toward the open kitchen door.

"Go inside. It's too cold out here," he said,
guiding her into the house.

He closed the door behind them, allowing her
to put the table between them.

With a sigh, he leaned against the door.
"Claire, I value two things in life. My family. And my integrity. I
swear I didn't write that note, and I would never, for any reason,
harm you."

"Why do men need to order and push and boss
us around?" she asked, her voice hoarse and unsteady.

"I don't know," he said, sorry that he'd used
his superior strength against her. "Maybe we just want women to
listen."

"I think you do it to intimidate us."

He sighed and scraped his hair out of his
eyes. "I just wanted you to hear what I was saying. Selling liquor
doesn't make me a woman-beater."

"I never suggested it did."

"But you think if I sell liquor, I'm capable
of other reprehensible behavior."

"Every man is capable of bad behavior,
whether he drinks or not."

"I agree. But I've never hit a woman and I
never will. Despite my bad habits and faults, women seem to like my
attention," he said, hoping a bit of humor would calm her.

"I don't."

"You're the first," he said honestly. "Every
mother in town has pushed their little princess into my path,
hoping one kiss from their sweet lips will turn me into a prince.
But alas, no luck." He glanced down at Sailor, who was panting and
nudging his thigh for attention. "I'm still a toad, and you're
still a dog," he said, scratching the mutt's head. "But we have our
honor and our integrity, don't we, boy? We don't steal, we don't
drink our profits, and we don't hurt women." He glanced at Claire
to make his point.

"I was afraid, and..." She shrugged, her face
flushed. "I'm sorry."

"It's my fault. I didn't realize how
frightened you were."

"Because you were too concerned with your
wounded pride to notice."

"He nodded. He had been too abrupt and
aggressive. "I'm sorry, Claire. It makes me crazy to have my
integrity questioned," he said. "This is the first time I've lost
control with a woman though." He grinned, hoping to bring some
levity to the situation. "Usually it's the other way around."

Her jaw dropped.

He loved the flush on her face and knowing
that his stupid comment had taken her mind off her fear. "You would
think all that kissing and amorous attention would have worked some
magic on me. But I guess this toad hasn't been kissed by the right
woman."

"It was a frog," she said, her voice laced
with disdain, "not a toad, that turned into a prince."

"Toad. Frog. What's the difference? The
princess kissed the slimy thing and he became a prince."

"Not in the fairy tale I read. In the
Brothers Grimm version, the princess threw the frog against the
wall."

"After he'd slept in her bed for three
nights," he countered, enjoying their turn of conversation.

"That's likely the reason she threw him
against the wall."

He laughed at her retort, glad he'd succeeded
in turning their conversation. "This toad would definitely respond
better to a kiss."

"Then perhaps you should go find one of those
many ladies who are willing to kiss you."

"Would you do it, Claire? Would you kiss me
and turn me into a prince?"

The wariness settled back in her eyes, but
she didn't bolt from the kitchen. "I kissed a man who looked like a
prince, but he was a liar and a cheat. I've no desire to repeat the
mistake."

"Is that why you prefer to remain a
widow?"

Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he'd offended
her sense of privacy.

He didn't care. She was too private, too
defensive. Whatever she was hiding had left her shaken and wary. He
wanted to know why she was living here in Fredonia when her family
was in Buffalo. Why had Marie left her home to Claire instead of
her own son?