The Longing (36 page)

"I'm not overly impressed that he's my
brother either."

She gaped at him, wondering if she'd heard
him correctly.

The sheriff slanted a glance at Boyd, then
gave her a half grin. "Boyd believes he can manipulate any
situation to his advantage. It's embarrassing to the family, but
the blame rests with my mother." The sheriff lowered his hands and
shrugged, clucking his tongue as he walked toward her. "Ma had this
burning desire to have a girl, but all she got was boys. So even
after Boyd had grown out of wearing gowns to bed, Ma insisted on
coddling him like a daughter. It's made him a bit odd, I'm
afraid."

Boyd laughed along with his patrons at the
joke, as if they were all sharing a private joke at her expense.
"If you're going to divulge my secrets, Duke," he said, "it's only
fair that you share a few of your own. Tell her what you wear to
bed."

Dumbstruck by the absurdity of the brothers'
conversation, Claire shifted her gaze between them, wondering if
they were drunk, insane, or both.

The sheriff looked her straight in the eye.
"Actually I don't wear anything."

She opened her mouth, but was too shocked to
come up with the reprimand the comment deserved.

The sheriff winked and plucked the gun from
her hands. "Beg pardon for the rudeness, Mrs. Ashier. Go on in to
bed now. I'll keep the peace tonight and return your gun in the
morning."

Blast and damnation!
The sheriff and
his wretched brother had purposely distracted her with their
nonsensical conversation in order to disarm her.

That she had been outwitted so easily
infuriated her, but she held her tongue. She had something more
potent than a bullet to put Mr. Grayson out of business. She had
Dr. Dio Lewis, a powerful temperance speaker from Boston, who held
as much disdain for intemperance as she did.

She'd written to Dr. Lewis shortly after
moving to Fredonia and learning that the town was filled with rum
holes like the Pemberton Inn. Dr. Lewis would be arriving tomorrow,
and every church in Fredonia was going to cancel their evening
service so the townspeople could gather at the Baptist church for
his address. Boyd Grayson didn't know it yet, but he was going to
attend that meeting.

Struggling to hide the mayhem raging inside
her, Claire faced her neighbor, knowing he couldn't refuse the
request she was about to make without being unpardonably rude.

"Mr. Grayson, if you would be willing to
escort me to church tomorrow evening, perhaps we can find a way to
make this situation tolerable for both of us." There wasn't a
chance in Hades she would accept anything less than his closing the
saloon, but that was exactly why she needed to get Boyd Grayson to
church. Dr. Lewis had a message for the reprobate.

"In all fairness, Mrs. Ashier, it may not be
in your best interest to keep company with me, being a saloon owner
and all"

"I'm a respectable widow. I believe your
reputation could benefit from the association."

Muffled laughter rippled through the crowd as
Boyd moved to stand at the foot of her porch steps. "Are you sure
it won't sully your own?"

"Quite."

"All right then."

At his nod of acceptance she turned to open
her door, vowing she would soon be rid of Boyd Grayson and his
abominable saloon.

"Mrs. Ashier?"

Gritting her teeth, she turned back to her
reprehensible neighbor.

"I'm looking forward to discovering the
benefits of our association." A slow smile spread across his face.
He tipped an imaginary hat and gave her a courtly bow. "Good night,
fair lady."

An involuntary flutter filled her stomach. No
man, especially a drinking man, should have a face like a prince or
own a smile with the power to mesmerize a woman. She couldn't begin
to guess how many broken hearts Boyd Grayson had caused in his
lifetime, but she vowed hers wouldn't be one of them. She closed
the door in his face, and sagged against the mahogany-paneled wall
of her foyer.

What had she gotten herself into?

She knew firsthand that men who drank alcohol
were too unpredictable and could turn violent and deadly if
provoked. But she'd had to confront him. Her last boarder had left
earlier that evening because of the noise from the saloon. During
the six weeks that she'd been running her boardinghouse, she'd had
many guests, all of whom loved her home but eventually left because
of the noise.

If she were simply renting to overnight
guests, they would put up with the noise for a night or two. But
the people she rented to were seeking a place to stay for several
weeks or months. Traveling salesmen came to town to do business.
Families came to visit relatives who didn't always have room to put
them up. Newly married couples not wanting to set up housekeeping
chose to rent by the year.

Unlike the Harrison Hotel or the Taylor
House, Claire's boardinghouse was a home to her guests. They could
visit her kitchen at any hour to make themselves a cup of tea and
eat her fresh-baked tea cakes, cookies, or breads. They could sit
by a warm fire in the parlor, or play the piano in her music room,
or retire at their leisure to their own private bedchamber.

Taking boarders was her only means of
supporting herself. She had no other options. Not one.

Her father had disowned her at seventeen for
eloping with Jack Ashier, which had been the worst mistake of her
life. She'd naively thought the reckless charmer loved her.

He'd only wanted the dowry he thought her
wealthy father would provide.

But her parents had been outraged with
Claire, and they'd blamed her grandmother Marie, whom Claire had
been visiting, for allowing the elopement to happen. Instead of
giving Claire a dowry, her father disinherited her and broke all
ties with his mother. Claire had spent four years in hell with a
man who had promised her heaven.

Now all she wanted was to feel safe
again.

She rubbed the chill from her arms, dreading
the empty hours that invited nightmarish memories. She had to do
something, anything to keep her mind occupied.

Hurrying upstairs to her bedchamber, she
unlocked a small drawer in the oak chiffonier, then moved aside her
beloved grandmother's diary she'd yet to read. The letter her
sister had written to her a month ago lay open in the drawer.
Homesick, Claire picked up the letter and sank into the wing chair
to read it again.

Dearest Claire, I hope you and Jack are happy in your
new home in Fredonia.

Claire groaned, the weight of her own lies
burdening her conscience. She'd lied while Jack was alive that she
was happy with him, and lied after he died that he was still alive
and moving to Fredonia with her. She'd done it to keep her sister
from worrying.

It must feel strange yet oddly comforting to live in
Grandmother's house. I know how much you loved her. We all deeply
miss her.

Joanna, Jonathan, and Joseph are growing too fast to
keep them in shoes, but they are healthy, happy children. Michael
has become a partner in Daddy's steel mill. I am busy with the
unending household chores, but blessed with love and good health. I
pray that you are, too, dearest sister. I miss you and wish you
could come home for a visit, but as you must suspect, nothing has
changed here. I'm sorry, Claire, but Daddy still refuses to speak
of you. I continue to pray that one day his heart will know
forgiveness, and you can come home.

Your loving sister, Lida.

Claire's throat ached. She would give
anything to be welcome in her father's home again, but he would
never forgive her for the embarrassment she'd caused the
family.

For four years, she had longed to pour out
her heartaches and fears in her letters to Lida, but she'd been too
ashamed to admit her true circumstances. Instead, she'd filled the
pages with false claims of happiness and love for Jack, feeling it
was kinder to write fairy tales than truth.

Now it would be an even bigger lie to tell
her sister that she was grieving Jack. She was relieved to be rid
of him.

She wouldn't have wished him dead, but she
was glad to be free of him, to have a chance to build a safe and
decent life for herself. That's why she had allowed her neighbors
to think she'd been widowed for over a year, as uncomfortable as
she was with yet another lie. But it would have been unseemly for a
widow to bury her husband and open a boardinghouse eight weeks
later. She would tell Lida the truth, of course, that Jack had
drowned two months ago. But she would never tell anyone what had
happened that dreadful night.

What a tangled mess of lies and broken dreams
she'd wrought.

She placed Lida's letter in the drawer beside
a small velvet bag—the only security she had left. She shook the
contents onto the white lawn dresser scarf. The diminishing
thickness of the pile sent a wave of panic through her. She should
have had fifty dollars left. She would have had fifty dollars if
she'd been able to keep her boardinghouse filled each night.

That scoundrel saloon owner was ruining her
life.

She clenched her fist around her last
nineteen dollars. She would not be forced into depending on a man
again. Somehow she was going to shut down that wretched saloon.

What a
surprise the widow Claire Ashier had turned out to be. When Boyd
had seen her standing on the porch last night, he'd never expected
to find himself staring into the face of an angel with angry,
starlit eyes.

He was certain she hadn't intentionally
pulled the trigger on her revolver, but her daring in standing up
to him and his patrons, and her ability to trap him into a church
date, had thoroughly impressed him. Claire Ashier had an edge to
her that warned people to stand aside. Damned if that didn't draw
him like a dog to a bone. He loved a good challenge.

Whistling, he tucked a small wood carving in
his pocket and left his saloon. He strode across Main Street to
Claire's house, then took the steps of her front porch in a single
leap.

Time to see what the lady was made of.

It took well over a minute for her to open
the door, but only seconds for her disdainful expression to be
replaced with surprise. A spark of appreciation filled her eyes as
she surveyed his black wool suit and the Kersey overcoat he'd left
open. Boyd stepped into her foyer, pleased with himself. He'd
gotten her attention.

A brightly burning lantern lit the hall and
spilled into the surrounding rooms. A glance told him Claire hadn't
changed anything in the beautiful house. The east and west parlors
were still decorated in busy gold and burgundy wallpaper. Heavy
draperies dressed tall windows, and chandeliers hung from high,
tin-plated ceilings. The music room was also the same elegant decor
of patterned carpets and rich, glowing woodwork in which her
grandmother had taken such pride. More sheet music rested on the
piano. He couldn't see the kitchen or pantry at the back of the
house, nor the formal dining room from where he stood, but he
suspected they were unchanged as well.

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."