"Pleased to meet you, ladies," Claire said.
They all returned Claire's greeting. The youngest daughter, Elizabeth, who looked the oldest with her weary eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, shrank away from Claire's regard. Her visible discomfort surprised Claire, who glanced at Desmona.
"I'm afraid Elizabeth has never outgrown her shyness," Desmona said, exasperation in her voice.
Elizabeth's flushed cheeks elicited Claire's sympathy. "Are you married, Elizabeth?" she asked, hanging their coats in the closet then guiding the ladies into the parlor.
Elizabeth nodded, her eyes as bleak as if she were admitting to being an inmate in Hell. Suddenly Claire knew that it wasn't shyness making Elizabeth shrink away from people. It was fear. Women who were beaten didn't often make new friends. They typically pulled away from family and friends, and shut down their emotions to protect themselves.
Compassion rushed through Claire, but she warned herself not to get involved. She had her own troubles. She was finally free to build herself a safe new life. She would march for temperance to help women like Elizabeth, but she couldn't involve herself personally with anyone else's marriage problems.
With stiff-jointed slowness, Desmona lowered herself into the rocking chair Claire had just vacated. "Dreadfully cold this evening."
"It certainly is," Claire agreed, remembering how the bitter cold had permeated her bones earlier that afternoon when she and ninety-eight other women had trudged through the snow-covered streets to plead their case with the saloon owners. "Do you think Mr. Clark will allow us inside tomorrow?" she asked, irritated that the drug store owner had locked them out and refused to listen to their request to stop selling liquor.
"We have decided not to call on Mr. Clark tomorrow."
Desmona tugged her sweater around her hunched shoulders. "The men will pay him a visit to see if they can talk some sense into him."
"Let's pray they're successful." Claire looked out her window to see several women walking up the street toward her house. "The rest of the ladies are coming."
"Good to be prompt." Desmona glanced at the end table beside her chair and lifted her gray eyebrows in surprise. "What a beautiful book," she said, reaching for the journal on the table.
The thought of anyone reading her grandmother's diary made Claire's heart race. Especially after discovering her grandmother's inappropriate actions with Abe. If anyone learned of it, her grandmother's reputation would be sullied, and Claire would suffer as well.
"Is this your journal?" Desmona asked, tilting the leather-bound diary toward the light while admiring the gilded lettering.
"No." Claire stepped forward to retrieve the journal, but Desmona opened the cover.
"Oh. It's your grandmother's," she said, her eyes focusing inside.
"It's rather dry reading," Claire said, opening her hand as a request for Desmona to return the book.
Desmona ignored her and turned to the first incriminating page. "I've always wondered what one would write in a journal."
"Daily information mostly," Claire said, trying to distract Desmona from reading further. "She wrote about the weather and the neighbors and such."
"Really?" Desmona asked, but when she lifted her head, Claire could see that Desmona had read enough to know that she was lying. Her heart pounded as she faced the knowing look in Desmona's eyes. "I should love to read this when you're finished with it."
"I'm afraid I can't share something so personal." She boldly tugged the diary from Desmona's gnarled fingers. "It would breach my grandmother's privacy. I'm sure she expected to burn this long before she died."
Desmona's lips thinned. "Perhaps she should have."
Claire couldn't agree more. Why would anyone document something so unsavory? She tucked the book under her arm and went to the foyer. How stupid of her to have let Desmona open the diary. She put the book inside her desk, turned the key in the lock, then slipped the key into her skirt pocket.
She opened the front door, and a stream of women flowed inside. After several minutes of holding her door open to the frigid weather, Claire's house was filled with rustling skirts and the smell of winter air mingled with lavender and rose powder.
Women crowded into every room and vied for a position in the doorways to see Mrs. Barker who was speaking in the foyer. They complained that they couldn't see her, or hear her, interrupting so often that Mrs. Barker finally raised her hand for silence.
She turned to Claire. "Would you mind if we moved our prayer meeting to the church?"
"Of course not," Claire said with relief. She had no idea how crowded her house would be, or how invaded she would feel having a hundred women milling through her home. She thought to support her cause and taunt Boyd Grayson at the same time, but she was the one who felt infringed upon.
She retrieved their coats from the closet, and the women poured out of her home and headed toward town. Desmona and her daughters exited last, and Claire felt a physical rush of relief when she stepped outside behind them, pulling her door closed.
She glanced across the street to the Pemberton Inn where Boyd Grayson stood on the front steps of his saloon. "Short meeting tonight?" he asked, his deep, sardonic voice carrying over to her.
She lifted her chin, irritated that her plan to annoy him had fallen through. "We're just getting started, Mr. Grayson. We'll be back tomorrow." She turned away from his knowing grin and ran straight into Desmona.
"Oh! Mrs. Edwards!" She caught Desmona's arm and steadied the old lady. "I'm so sorry."
"No harm done." Desmona shooed her daughters ahead of her, then cautiously planted her walking stick as she picked her way down the rutted street. "Your grandmother was an interesting lady," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't know her better."
Claire's stomach tightened, her mind scrambling for a way to yank this bone from Desmona's teeth without provoking the woman. "Grandma was a grand storyteller. She filled my ears with stories about knights and princes and ordinary men who would move heaven and earth for their lady love. Her journal is filled with dozens of story ideas. I appreciate them because I grew up with her tales, but I doubt you would find the journal all that interesting."
"On the contrary. I was intrigued by her diary from the very first sentence."
Heat rushed up Claire's neck. Desmona didn't believe a word of her explanation. This old woman might look frail, but she smelled scandal, and wouldn't stop digging until her curiosity was satisfied.
"Do you think Mr. Harrison will stop selling liquor in his hotel?" she asked, deciding that an abrupt change of subject would effectively show Mrs. Edwards that she had no business asking questions about the diary.
"I presume so," Desmona said, watching her footing as she walked beside Claire. "If he's set on getting the deputy sheriff's position, his conscience will force him to stop."
"Does this mean that Sheriff Grayson will take our pledge, too?"
Desmona shook her head, making the tiny beads on her gray velour bonnet tremble. "He already holds the position of sheriff with little fear of losing it."
"Why should the sheriff be an exception?" Claire asked. "He should be one of the men setting an example for this town."
"He does. The Grayson boys are highly regarded by our menfolk. Each year those boys contribute a goodly amount of lumber for our local charity projects. The oldest boy, Radford, is a war hero. Kyle is a respected businessman who employs several of our townsmen. Sheriff Grayson does a fine job of keeping our town safe. He may visit the saloons on occasion, but he doesn't cause trouble or sell liquor. "
"His younger brother does. In that rum hole across the street from my home."
"A shame it is, too," Desmona said, huffing as they crossed the Common toward the church. "That boy is wasting his life in that saloon. "
Claire couldn't agree more.
"I suppose he comes by it naturally though," Desmona said. "His father was tall and handsome and full of charm. Hal Grayson was a rascal, if an incredibly talented young m
an. My Addison wanted to hire him to build furniture for our store. I'd hoped the boy would take a shine to one of my girls, but Hal had other plans. He started up a sawmill and set his sights on Nancy Tremont. They had four boys who inherited his good looks and her energy. Boyd got Hal's talent and wild nature." Desmona stopped at the entrance to the church. "And that young man is as obstinate as his father was, and he isn't going to close his saloon just because we ask him to."
Claire's shoulders sagged. She'd sensed that Boyd wasn't a man who could be told what to do. He wasn't the sort of man who would bow to pressure from his neighbors. He seemed to be everything Desmona called him: obstinate, talented, and wild—an incredibly handsome man who was used to getting what he wanted. He was from a respectable family and had the protection of the sheriff.
How was she going to fight that?
Chapter Five
Boyd ordered a round of drinks for Duke and Kyle, who were sitting at the bar smoking cigars to celebrate the birth of Kyle's first child.
"You look like hell," Boyd said.
Kyle passed him a cigar. "I feel like hell."
Boyd anchored the cheroot between his teeth, struck a match, and drew on the cigar until an orange glow traveled a quarter inch up the length. He braced his elbows on the bar and exhaled a ring of smoke that circled their heads. "Did Marshall Thomas give you and Amelia a rough time today?"
Kyle scraped his brown hair off his forehead. "Doc said a fourteen-hour birth is a blessing. Amelia delivered without a problem, but it sure wrung me out."
"Well, look on the bright side," Boyd said. "In about six weeks you and Amelia will be able to use those handcuffs you never gave back to Duke."
Duke's shout of laughter made Kyle grin. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"
"Not a chance."
If Boyd lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget the night that Kyle, who'd been married for two weeks and hadn't yet consummated his marriage, had demanded Duke's handcuffs then bolted from the bar with a determined look on his face. Boyd suspected that Kyle had wanted the cuffs for himself, to ease Amelia's fear of him, but he'd never said and Boyd had never asked.
Kyle pulled another cigar from his pocket for Radford, who'd just entered the saloon. "I'll have to tell you about it sometime."
It would be a cold day in hell before Kyle would give Boyd that kind of ammunition, but Boyd laughed, amazed at the change in his older brother. Just three years ago, Kyle had been a humorless, miserable man. His fiancée, Evelyn Tucker, had fallen in love with their oldest brother Radford, which had nearly destroyed their family. Then, barely six months after Kyle's broken engagement, Kyle was forced to marry Amelia Drake, their competitor's daughter. It seemed a miracle to Boyd that they all had ended up happy.
"What did I miss?" Radford asked as he stomped snow from his boots and straddled a barstool beside Kyle.
Boyd signaled Karlton to bring a mug for his brother. "Kyle is going to make a confession about his love life."
Kyle laughed. "My adventures consist of fighting for a place in bed between two spoiled cats and my wife's protruding belly. Your love life would be far more entertaining, Boyd."
Duke shot a wry look at Boyd. "When has love ever had anything to do with your affairs?"
A small ache started in Boyd's chest. He struggled not to show any outward sign of the emptiness that overwhelmed him at times. He would never fall in love. He wasn't worthy of it. He asked too much. And gave too little. He would spend his life with his crazy, mixed-breed mutt. All Sailor needed was regular meals and a good daily scratch behind his ears. Boyd didn't want anything more emotionally challenging than that.
Radford picked up the mug of ale that Karlton had just set in front of him. "Don't look so smug, little brother. You'll take the fall someday, and when you do, Kyle and I are going to enjoy every minute of it."
It would never happen, but Boyd didn't argue. He glanced at Duke and changed the subject. "Heard you got a new deputy today."
Duke nodded. "Levi Harrison signed the ladies' temperance pledge, then accepted the position."
"He signed their pledge?" Boyd asked in disbelief, exchanging a disgusted look with Karlton.
"Said he had to if he wanted to become a lawman. The ladies pressured him to stop selling liquor in his hotel and set an example for the rest of us men."
Boyd rolled his eyes. "Next thing you know they'll be hounding you to sign their damned pledge."
"They already have."
"You won't do it, will you?" Karlton asked, butting into their conversation.
"I don't see any need to. I don't have an unquenchable thirst for alcohol, or a family I'm neglecting because of it. And I don't sell liquor." Duke shrugged. "Can't see how my stopping for an occasional mug hurts anyone or keeps me from doing my job."
"Neither can I, and I wouldn't let their nagging sway you," Boyd said. "Besides, the ladies will get tired of marching in this cold weather and give up this nonsense before long."
Kyle and Radford glanced at each other and chuckled. Radford rested his mug on his bent knee. "For being a blatant philanderer, Boyd, you don't know a thing about women. They don't give up until they get what they're after."
"Hogwash," Boyd retorted. "Five dollars says they last a week, maybe two at most."
Radford lifted his mug. "My money says they won't stop until they close every saloon in town, including yours."
"It will never happen." Boyd tapped his mug to Radford's. "I'm confident enough to double the wager."
"Count me in," Kyle said. "I'm with Radford though. Once a woman gets it in her head to do something or change something, there's no reasoning with them. They won't give up. They'll keep after you like a saw blade against a tree, scraping and cutting until you fall."
"Not if they fall first," Karlton said. "I'll triple the wager that the women quit before we give in."
Boyd looked at Duke. "What's your wager?"
"I'm staying out of this. I know how hardheaded you are, but those women are serious about their cause. They've gotten financial backing from a large group of men and they have the support of every church in town. They aren't going to back down any more than you are." Duke lowered his hands to his knees. "The saloon owners are irritated by the ladies' visits. The ladies are outraged by some of the owners' rude treatment of them. And they're all complaining to me."
"Maybe you should tell the ladies to stop marching," Karlton said, walking away.
"They have a right to march."
"Well, I have a license to sell liquor," Boyd argued.
"That's my point, Boyd. Both sides are entitled to do what they're doing." Duke lifted his mug and took a long drink before setting it on the bar. "This isn't my fight. All I can do is keep the peace and make sure nobody gets hurt."
"No one's asking you to choose sides." Boyd signaled for another round of drinks, but Karlton wasn't behind the bar. Assuming he was in the stockroom or relieving his bladder, Boyd got up and poured the drinks himself. He felt better behind the bar.
How ridiculous to think a band of women could close down several profitable saloons. Duke was just feeling pressured because of his job. Radford and Kyle were giving the temperance women too much credit because of their own experiences with their lovely but strong-willed wives.
The women could march and pray all they wanted, but it wouldn't change a thing. They couldn't vote. They couldn't revoke his license to sell liquor. They were wasting their time with all this foolishness.
Radford pushed his mug forward, but instead of ordering another, he stood up. "Good luck with your lady friends," he said, buttoning his coat.
"Where are you going?" Boyd asked.
"Home. I promised Rebecca and William a story before bed." Boyd had always enjoyed his freedom, but sometimes he envied Radford. Three years ago Radford had come home from the war with his four-year-old daughter Rebecca, both of them emotionally wounded and hurting. Evelyn Tucker had loved and healed them and gav
e Radford a son a year after they married. They had found a deep happiness with each other, like Kyle had found with Amelia.
Like Duke would someday find with a woman of his own.
Like Boyd would never have.
"I'll walk you out," Kyle said, getting to his feet.
Boyd nodded to Karlton who was carrying in a fresh keg of beer from the stockroom. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he said, then followed Kyle and Radford outside. He bade them goodnight, then stood on the porch and watched them walk down Main Street. It wouldn't take them ten minutes to reach Radford's home and livery on Liberty Street. Kyle would have to travel five minutes farther to reach his home near their sawmill in Laona.
The night was cold, but Boyd breathed in the frigid air, wondering what it would be like to have a wife and a family. Marriage had changed his brothers. Radford wasn't so jumpy and tense anymore. Kyle had found his sense of humor again. Both of them seemed content and happy. But did the responsibility of having a family ever weigh them down?
A noise across the street snapped his attention to Claire's house. To his surprise, Claire stood on her porch with the door open, angling a paper toward the light from her foyer.
Recognizing a perfect opportunity to speak with her, Boyd descended his steps with a jaunty gait. With any luck she'd taunt him with the success of getting Harrison to sign their pledge. That would be better than having her close her door in his face. It would give him time to talk his way inside.
The snow muffled his footsteps as he crossed the street to her house. She was so absorbed in whatever she was reading that he climbed the steps to her porch without disturbing her.
"That must be some interesting letter," he said.
She cried out and clasped the letter to her chest. Fear filled her eyes, and she panted as if she'd just run up West Hill.
"Are you all right?" he asked, shocked by her reaction.
"Go away." She inched her way inside.
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