Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

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."

  "Is that all?"

  "That's all."

  He offered his elbow to her, but she declined his assistance. They continued to walk up the incline of West Hill. "Just close his profitable business and do...what?" he asked.

  "Help the lady close the rest of the town's saloons."

  Laughter rose in his chest, but he held it back. "What if the man doesn't want to do that?"

  "Then he'd be well advised to stay out of the lady's way."

  He glanced down, expecting to see humor in her eyes, but they were filled with determination and warning.

  "Women aren't wrong to want their husbands home at a decent hour with some money still in their pockets," she said, her voice quiet but firm with conviction. "We aren't wrong to want to feel safe in our own homes."

  "Have I suggested something to the contrary?" It offended him that she assumed he wasn't aware of, or didn't care about, the families tormented by an alcoholic family member. The mere rumor of a patron abusing his family was enough for Boyd to prohibit the man from patronizing his saloon.

  "I didn't intend to offend your character, Mr. Grayson. I'm merely stating my reasons for uniting the women against you and the other saloon owners."

  "You're claiming to do it for the greater good of society, but I sense there's a more personal reason involved."

  "Fighting for something you believe in is always personal." She climbed her porch steps, stopped at the door and faced him. "Thank you for the escort."

  "Does this mean you're not going to invite me in for tea?" He offered his most charming smile. "Your grandmother always did."

  Her mouth pursed in irritation. "There will be several of us visiting your saloon soon. Consider yourself fairly notified. "

  That was supposed to worry him? He grinned as Claire entered her house and closed the door in his face. He couldn't help himself. The idea of a few women thinking they could change the habits of an entire town was ridiculous. It would be like a colony of ants attempting to move a mountain.

  o0o

  At ten o'clock Monday morning three hundred men and women of all religious denominations gathered in the Baptist church where they prayed, sang, and gave enthusiastic speeches on how to conquer the evils of intemperance. It was the first bright sunny day in weeks, and with high spirits, the ladies withdrew to the rooms below to plan the details of their march, while the men continued in prayer and pledged their support in dollars. Temperance meetings were arranged for every Sunday night and prayer meetings every night until their work was accomplished.

  At precisely half past twelve, the procession of over one hundred ladies came forth from the basement and quietly walked across the park, with Mrs. Judge Barker and Mrs. Rev. L. Williams at the head.

  Claire walked alongside Desmona Edwards and other wives and daughters of the most respected men in town, feeling a deep sense of pride in her mission. If her actions could save one woman, child, or family from suffering the hell she'd endured with Jack, then her efforts would be worthwhile.

  And if she could close down that den of noise across the street from her home, life would be almost perfect.

  Just the thought of a quiet evening made her sigh. Her breath formed a long, frosty funnel in the cold air as she closed her fingers around the miniature carving she'd been unable to throwaway last night. After the conversation she'd had with Boyd Grayson during their walk home, she had been determined to rid herself of his company and the gift he'd forced on her. But the tiny carving of roses was too magnificent to destroy. Each rose, in varying stages of bloom, was so perfectly sculpted that she could almost smell their fragrance. It intrigued her that the reprobate could have whittled something so exquisite.

  The man intrigued her, too.

  Boyd Grayson seemed every bit the charmer and hell raiser she disdained, but what she couldn't see clearly was the shadow he carried with him. There was another man standing behind his dashing personality, and she suspected he was totally unaware of it.

  "All right, ladies." Mrs. Barker clapped her hands. "It's time to begin our work." She led the procession of women down the steps of the Taylor House and into the saloon. They filled the bar, surprising the three Taylor brothers, who knew that no self-respecting woman would enter such an establishment. Mrs. Barker immediately informed the men of the object of their visit, appealing to them personally to cease the sale of intoxicating liquors.

  Mr. Taylor cast a helpless glance at his brothers. "We feel obliged to keep liquor in our hotel for our guests."

  "We didn't come to argue, gentlemen. We're simply here to urge you by the promise of God to heed our pledge."

  After more praying and gentle persuading, Mr. Taylor finally said, "If the rest will stop selling alcohol, we'll stop, too."

  Claire stood with her mouth open, as stunned as the rest of the ladies. None of them had expected such easy capitulation.

  "That includes the drug stores," Mr. Taylor said, breaking their stunned silence. "When every establishment selling intoxicating beverages ceases distribution, I'll stop selling it as well."

  His maneuvering wasn't what they had hoped for, but it was a beginning. Mrs. Barker asked him to reconsider the matter and said they would call on him again the next day.

  They called at Smeizer & Hewes next, but Mr. Hewes stated he had a license and would continue to sell according to its provisions. Next door, Willard Lewis said he would close his saloon if the rest would shut up their businesses as well. The ladies also visited J. D. Maynard's Drug Store. He argued that he couldn't run his shop without selling liquor, but promised not to sell to any drunkards. The ladies then walked to Ba
ldwin's Drug Store, the Harrison Hotel, Duane Beebe's Saloon, Don Clark's Drug Store, and Wriensler's Saloon where they received similar replies.

  Finally, they marched up West Hill to the Pemberton Inn. Claire sensed this would be the biggest challenge, and her own personal battle, but she was determined to win. Straightening her shoulders, she entered the saloon—and came face-to-face with Boyd Grayson.

  He stood behind the bar, hip cocked, a crisp white towel slung over his arrogant shoulder as he filled a mug with ale.

  He turned and smiled, saluting Claire and her fellow marchers with the foaming mug.

  She tightened her stomach to stop the flutter. Why in God's name did she have to be battling the most handsome rakehell in town?

  o0o

  A literal herd of women crowded Boyd's saloon. He whistled in amazement. Every woman in Fredonia must be marching. But the only face he could seem to focus on was Claire's. She wore her hood up, but thick honey-gold hair brushed her cheeks and fell softly across the breast of her coat. Her eyes held a silent challenge that warmed his blood.

  Her face was pink from the cold, but he imagined it flushed with passion, her hair loose and her eyes half closed as he kissed her neck, her breasts, her...

  Her naked image came to him so clearly it flooded his body with heat. He clenched his fingers around the mug handle, struggling for any thought that would drag his mind away from undressing her.

  She smiled at him. "You look shocked, Mr. Grayson."

  He was shocked all right. By his own desire. He'd never felt such intensity in his life. "I was expecting ten or twenty women," he said, struggling to regain his balance.

  Her lips tilted in a superior half-smile. "There are over one hundred of us."

  "And there'll be more," said Mrs. Barker. She and Mrs. Williams then pleaded with him to close his saloon and spare the poor wives and children any more suffering.

  In the early afternoons, Boyd's saloon was usually quiet, but Pat Lyons, who was sitting at the bar drinking an ale, and Karlton Kane, who had been hauling in Boyd's weekly order of liquor, both stopped what they were doing and stared as if the women had lost their minds.

  "Ladies," Boyd said, "I admire your efforts, but closing down drinking establishments isn't the answer to improving your home life. A man who neglects his family or beats his wife will do so whether he's a drunkard or not. Closing saloons will not make those men stop abusing their families."

  "Can you prove that?" Claire asked. To his surprise, she seemed sincere.

  "No. I can't. But do you suppose that man's family might be safer with him drinking at home?"

  Understanding dawned in her eyes and she exhaled slowly. "No."

  "Then you have my answer. I will not close my saloon." Instead of debating, Mrs. Barker turned to the ladies.

  "Let's sing a hymn and pray that Mr. Grayson will reconsider his position."

  Before he could tell her not to bother, the women filled his saloon with a mournful rendition of "Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow." Sailor howled and scratched on the door of the storeroom where Karlton had quickly caged him after seeing the women marching toward the front door.

  The deep baritone of a man's voice drew Boyd's attention to Pat, who was standing beside the bar singing loud enough to wake snakes. Boyd glanced at Karlton, but the burly distiller shrugged as if he had no idea why Pat had suddenly changed sides.

  The hymn ended and Pat bowed. "Well done, ladies."

  The women glowered at Pat, but to Boyd's astonishment, Claire was fighting a smile.

  "We've done our best for this day." Mrs. Barker shooed the ladies toward the door. Let's move on."

  Boyd winked at Claire, but the humor in her eyes vanished. She marched out the door like a sergeant mustering her troops.

  o0o

  On Wednesday morning Claire began her chores with a renewed sense of purpose. The temperance cause was already gaining ground. Monday evening, after their first march, J. D. Maynard had signed their pledge and agreed to stop selling alcoholic beverages in his drug store. Of course, on Tuesday D. A. Clark warned them not to visit his drugstore again, as their visits were annoying.

  Levi Harrison was more of a gentleman. He'd told the ladies he would consider their proposal if they returned to his hotel at eleven o'clock.

  Claire and her fellow marchers would be there. Business by business, they were going to rid the town of alcohol. Day by day, bottle by bottle, they would tear down this mountain of evil.

  She stepped from her warm kitchen into her cold woodshed and felt her spirits plummet. She loathed carrying wood.

  Piece by piece, she stacked it in her arms, then groaned as she carried it inside. This was only the beginning. After she filled the huge bin in the kitchen, she would have to carry three loads into her parlor, and another armload upstairs for the fireplace in her bedchamber. If she was lucky enough to get a boarder, she would have to carry wood for that room, too. It was enough to make a woman wish for a man.

  Almost.

  She dumped her load of wood into the kitchen bin with a crash, then headed back to the shed. She would haul her own fuel each day for the rest of her life to avoid enduring another marriage like the one she'd suffered.

  No job could belittle her or cause her the pain Jack had. Nothing could terrify her more than losing control of her life again, or subjugating herself to a man's cruel demands.

  Nothing.

  The thought of Jack shattered her calm. He'd been dead for weeks, but she couldn't escape him. His domineering presence lived within her, ruling her thoughts, keeping her scared. He was dead. She'd seen his gray, bloated body. She'd watched them lower his coffin deep into the earth and bury it. But Jack Ashier felt as alive as if he were standing behind her.

  Spiders crawled up her back, and she shivered.

  She would never forget that deadly look in his eyes, or the ice-cold fear that sliced through her when he pulled her beneath the brown river water.

  Her knees weakened, and she lurched outside into the frigid morning air. She sucked deep gulps of cold air into her lungs as she slid down the shed wall. Her backside hit the top step and halted her downward plunge.

  "Dear God," she whispered, clasping her stomach and rocking on the step. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block her last image of Jack's enraged face and the deadly intent in his eyes.

  He'd wanted to kill her. He would have killed her.

  A loud breath near her ear knifed terror straight through her heart. She screeched and recoiled, slamming her head against the shed wall. She opened her eyes and found herself nose-to-nose with a long-legged, panting white dog with brown spots and pointy ears that didn't quite stand up. He stared at her with huge chocolate-drop eyes, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.

  Realizing it wasn't her late husband, and that the dog wasn't angling for her throat, she released a hard, trembling breath and clasped a hand over her heart.

  "What are you doing here?"

  The dog emitted a wheezy, whistling sound.

  Her senses returned slowly, and she took two deep breaths before easing away from the wall. She rubbed the back of her head and stared at the dog with dismay, realizing it belonged to Boyd Grayson. "You scared the life out of me. Did your owner send you over here to do that?" After two days of marching on Boyd's saloon, she wouldn't have doubted his desire to make her pay for disrupting his day.

  The dog wheezed again, but with his mouth parted and his tongue hanging out the side, he looked like he was grinning at her.

  "Don't try to charm me, mister." She scooted to the edge of the step. "I've had enough of that from your owner."

  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.