Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  "Wait a minute." He thrust out his hand to stop the door from closing. "What's wrong?"

  "Go away or I'll...I'll get my gun."

  "What?" He shook his head. "What's going on here?"

  "You should know." She pushed on the door, but he braced his foot to keep it from closing. Her jaw clenched, and she glared at him. "Will you kindly remove yourself from my property?"

  "Not until you tell me what's going on. I just scared the stuffing out of you, and for some reason you're treating me like a criminal." "You sell liquor. You drink alcohol. You carouse in that rum hole all hours of the night without a thought or care for your neighbors' comfort. That, Mr. Grayson, is criminal. Now leave or I'll get Sheriff—I'll...I'll get my gun."

  "Just because the sheriff is my brother doesn't mean I get special privileges, Claire. If you ask him to remove me from your property, he'll do it."

  Her hands trembled, and she leaned her forehead against the edge of the oak door. She lifted her lashes to reveal dark, fear-filled eyes. "If you have a shred of decency, you'll leave as I've requested."

  Sensing she was on the verge of tears, he stepped back. "The sheriff is across the street. I'll send him over."

  "No." She dragged in a shaky breath. "I'll stop by his office tomorrow."

  "For God's sake, Claire. What's going on?"

  She glanced at the letter in her hand, then lifted her chin and silently glared at him. "I don't know, but I intend to find out." She slammed the door in his face.

  He heard her twist the key in the lock, and he turned away thoroughly confused. What the hell just happened here? She was scared to death. Of him!

  Chapter Six

  From his apartment above the saloon, Boyd watched Claire's house. Why were her lamps burning at two o'clock in the morning? No shadows or movement shifted across her windows, so she must be sleeping. But why with the lantern burning?

  He and Duke had searched her yard, but hadn't found anything to warrant her fear. Duke had knocked and announced himself, but Claire wouldn't answer the door or even bother to look out the window.

  So what the hell was it that had spooked her?

  Boyd paced his apartment, glancing at her windows. Was she awake? Was she watching him, too? Or was she cowering in her house, afraid and alone?

  The thought had him heading for the door, but he stopped in his kitchen and blew out a breath of frustration. Even if he went to check on her, she wouldn't answer the door. Worse, if he knocked on her door, it would just make her more scared, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He would just have to wait until tomorrow.

  With a sigh of fatigue, he headed to a small room off the parlor where he dabbled with his carvings. He'd boarded up the window that Claire's wild gunshot had shattered the previous weekend, but the room still felt chilly.

  Sailor padded in behind him, sniffing and circling the life-size, partially carved statue that forever intrigued the dog.

  "It makes me nervous too," Boyd said, scratching the dog's head. "What do you think? Will tonight be the night?" he asked, wondering if the day would ever come when he would resurrect his talent.

  The dog wheezed and stared at him with adoring brown eyes.

  "You have more faith than I do, but I'll give it a go." He surveyed a long narrow table that was covered with several curved carving knives, various-size chisels and gouges, shaving blocks, sanding paper, tubs of wax, cans of varnish, and other items he and his father had once used to carve furniture. He picked up a small carving knife and turned to the huge block of basswood sitting in the center of the room.

  Claire's bullet had torn away a brick-sized chunk of wood from the upper portion of the statue. When Boyd had first discovered the damage, he'd felt as if the bullet had torn away a piece of his own flesh. But now, in this light, seeing the partially carved block of wood from a different perspective, the missing chunk of wood seemed...right somehow.

  "Maybe that's my problem," he said, talking as naturally to his dog as he would to his own brothers. "Maybe I've been approaching this from the wrong direction." Boyd began shaving away the splintered edges where the bullet had struck the wood. He worked his knife in slow, methodical strokes, but his apprehension grew as the night deepened. He feared he would cut away too much, and despaired that he wouldn't know if he had.

  His hands trembled and his face flushed with heat. This had been so easy once. There had been a time when he'd known the result of each knife stroke before he took it. Now, each curled wood shaving that fell to the floor filled him with anxiety because he was carving blind. He could no longer see the treasure the wood contained.

  o0o

  Claire jerked awake with a gasp.

  She clutched the gun on her lap and searched the shadows of her bedchamber. Nothing moved. No one panted in her ear and threatened her. No one clutched her throat and issued instructions. She was alone and unharmed. Heart pounding, she sank back into the wing chair with a trembling sigh of relief.

  She couldn't live like this again.

  She couldn't bear the sleepless nights, the gnawing fear, the watchfulness.

  The heavy iron revolver pressed down on her thighs, but it didn't comfort her. She had no idea how to successfully use the gun. Her chances of being able to actually shoot anybody were slim, but she kept the revolver nestled in her lap.

  It was the only protection she had if the man who left the threatening note on her door decided to visit her.

  She slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt and wrapped her fingers around the carving Boyd had given her. The note was in her pocket, too, but she had no need to pull it out and read it again. The threatening words had circled in her mind all night long.

  A woman who lives alone shouldn't stir up trouble. Stop the marches or you'll have an unpleasant visitor.

  She was too familiar with the instability of alcoholics to discount the note. Whoever wrote it, meant it.

  Was it Boyd? Had he been waiting near her porch to purposely frighten her? He had as much to lose as anyone if the marches were successful. And if he hadn't written the note, who had?

  She leaned her head back, sick with exhaustion. Her body begged for rest, but she didn't dare undress and climb into bed. She'd saved herself from Jack's rage on many occasions by running out of the house before he could grab her. She couldn't run for help if she was undressed.

  Smarter to remain fully clothed and sitting in her grandmother's wing chair with the gun in her lap. In the morning she would march with the women, then slip away to see the sheriff.

  That was sensible. That's what she'd do. There was no need to panic.

  Then why was she sitting shivering in fear with a revolver clenched in her hands?

  Chapter Seven

  Friday morning Claire slogged down Main Street through ankle-deep slush, shaking with cold and exhaustion. She longed to be safe in bed beneath her grandmother's thick comforter, sipping a cup of hot tea.

  Instead, she spent an hour at church, then tromped through the cold wind to visit Baldwin's Drug Store, the Taylor House, and three saloons. The proprietors all refused to sign the temperance pledge.

  The women ended their march at Barker Common. Claire was shaking so badly from the cold and fatigue, she sank onto a park bench to rest before going to the sheriff's office. Elizabeth winced as she half-collapsed beside her.

  "Are you all right?" Claire asked, her heart filling with compassion for the hurting woman. "I noticed you've been favoring your left side all morning."

  Elizabeth's eyes misted and she gravely shook her head. "I'm not all right, but my mother is heading our directions and I don't want her to know the cause of my injury." She met Claire's eyes. "How did you know?"

  "I was in your situation once," Claire said, realizing too late that she'd revealed her secret. She saw Desmona making her way toward them. "Maybe you should tell your parents. They might be able to help you."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "My father is too old and unhea
lthy. I'm afraid the shock and worry would kill him. He thinks my husband is a good man. I don't want him to know about this."

  Claire frowned. "A good man doesn't beat his wife."

  "He's not all bad," Elizabeth said, repeating the same words Claire had once said about her own husband. "Ted works hard and provides well for us. He was a good father to our two girls."

  "He didn't...bother your girls like this, did he?"

  "No. He was good to them. They never knew we had problems."

  Desmona was too near for them to continue the conversation, so Claire patted Elizabeth's hand and stood. "Take care of yourself," she whispered. Then she strode across the park toward the old academy building that housed the sheriff's office, before Desmona could corner her.

  Sheriff Grayson sat at a scarred pine desk, elbows propped on either side of a stack of papers. One finger tapped the page he was reading, the other hand was braced on his forehead with his fingers stuck in his thick brown hair. He was handsome in a rough and rangy way, but clearly Boyd's brother.

  The massive desk sat in the middle of a room the size of the connecting jail cell. Although the sheriff seemed comfortable in the tiny walled off space, she thought he would appear more at home in his family sawmill, wrestling logs and working alongside the massive horses that moved the timber. She was hesitant to disturb him, but couldn't leave without telling him about the note. She tapped on the doorframe.

  "Sheriff Grayson?"

  He looked up and smiled as if he'd seen her coming for miles and had just been waiting for her knock.

  "Has another saloon owner locked you out?" he asked, referring to Don Clark, who had done just that on Wednesday.

  "We didn't call on Mr. Clark today," she said. "We sent the men around yesterday, and decided this morning to adjourn our marches until Monday."

  "Then you're either guilty of something or you've got a good-sized problem on your hands."

  She stepped into the room. "This was tacked to my door last night." She handed him the note.

  He leaned back in his chair and gestured for her to sit. As he read, his dark brows lowered. "Is this why you wouldn't answer your door?"

  She nodded.

  "Do you know who wrote this?"

  "Maybe Don Clark. Maybe...I don't know. It could be anybody." She sighed, feeling weary to the bone. "Whoever wrote it obviously means to stop our marches."

  He scowled. "Did you tell anyone about the note?"

  "No." She met his eyes and knew he wasn't only referring to the women she marched with. He wanted to know if she'd accused any of the saloon owners. "I don't want to worry the ladies, or cast suspicion on any man without knowing who wrote it."

  "I need to keep this." He laid the paper on the arrest warrant he'd been reading. "I'll question Don and the other saloon owners this afternoon."

  "Will you question your brother too?" Despite her effort to maintain eye contact, his frown made her drop her gaze to her cold, clenched fingers.

  "Do you think Boyd would do this?"

  The sheriff's tone implied his brother would never do such a thing, but she could only shrug. She honestly didn't know what Boyd Grayson would do.

  "Mrs. Ashier?"

  She looked up to see sympathy in his eyes.

  "I know you're frightened, but I'd stake my badge on my brother's innocence. He would never threaten a lady. In fact, when I tell him about this note, I'm going to have a hell of a time keeping him from hunting down the author."

  "Why would he get involved?"

  "Because he's the kind of man who protects those who can't protect themselves. When Boyd was ten he fought a boy twice his size because the boy had been picking on one of our friends. Kyle, Radford, and I had to restrain Boyd while the older boy ran home."

  "You believe he's innocent then?"

  "Yes." The sheriff leaned his wide shoulders back in his chair. "My brother is too hot-tempered to spend time writing a note, Mrs. Ashier. If he'd wanted to give you a warning, he'd have banged on your door and made sure you understood his message. But I'll question him along with the other saloon owners."

  "Thank you," she said, but she wasn't ready to take the sheriff or Boyd Grayson at their word. She would watch and judge them by their actions.

  She got to her feet and moved to the door. "Will you let me know when you find out who left the note?"

  "Of course," he said, pushing his chair back. The room shrank when he stood, and she instinctively took a step back. "My deputy and I will be around this afternoon to check on you."

  She nodded, but didn't leave. "Did you ask Levi Harrison to stop selling liquor at his hotel?"

  His eyebrows lowered. "Why?"

  "Because it was an honorable thing to do."

  He sighed. "Don't accuse me of being noble, Mrs. Ashier. I acted out of self-preservation. I couldn't hire a rum seller as deputy when there are a hundred women in town who would scalp me for doing so."

  "Despite your penchant for frequenting your brother's saloon, Sheriff Grayson, you just climbed a notch in my regard."

  o0o

  Boyd slammed his empty mug on the bar, outraged. "Claire thinks I wrote the note?"

  "Settle down," Duke said, then finished telling him about the incident. "She's scared and doesn't know what to think."

  Pat Lyons leaned his elbows on the bar beside them. "Who could be threatening her?"

  "Any man in town." Karlton, who was four inches shorter than Pat, stood behind the bar drying a beer mug. "She's stirring up trouble with everybody."

  "Unfortunately, that's true," Duke said. "When Mrs. Ashier started the temperance push, I decided to do a little digging into her past. It seems her husband died sucking river water. Apparently Claire was there but unable to save him."

  Boyd's gut tightened. "Do you think someone from her past could have left the note?"

  "I don't know. Mrs. Ashier suspects everyone, but thinks Don Clark might be responsible. I can't see Donny doing something like this though," Duke said. "I'm going to talk with him now, but I want you three to keep this information about Mrs. Ashier in strict confidence. She's pretty shaken up about it."

  "She should be," Karlton said. "The saloon owners and our patrons aren't taking too kindly to being harassed by a nagging group of women."

  "That doesn't give anyone the right to threaten those women."

  "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 gritt
ed 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."

  Chapter Eight

  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."