Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  "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."

  "Becaus
e 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?

  "Why didn't you move back to your father's house when your husband...when you became a widow?"

  "I prefer to live here."

  "Many women would have returned to their father's protection rather than struggle to support themselves."

  "Supporting myself wouldn't be a struggle if you would close your saloon. Nor would I need protection."

  He couldn't argue her point. But he would never close his business. The best he could offer was a promise. "I'm at your service, if you should need me in any way."

  "I need a thriving business, not a guardian."

  "Just the same, I'm within shouting distance."

  Her lips pursed. "I'm only too aware of that."

  He smiled, longing to kiss her. "You know, you really ought to give this toad a chance."

  Sadness filled her eyes. "I don't believe in fairy tales anymore," she said. Then she walked out of the kitchen, leaving Boyd with a new itch he couldn't scratch and a dog who was a better ladies' man that Boyd had ever been.

  Chapter Nine

  After Boyd left, Claire went to bed. She was exhausted from her sleepless night, and mortified by her panicked outburst. He'd been intrusive and aggressive, reminding her of Jack—of the way he used to stalk and bully her. But Boyd hadn't hurt her. He wasn't Jack.

  Boyd wasn't the same type of man. She knew that intuitively. But he had intimidated her, and intentionally. If she spent more time with him, would his nudges and proposals turn into shoves and demands? Did all men shove when they couldn't get what they wanted?

  She didn't want to believe that.

  She couldn't.

  Because part of her had needed the comfort of Boyd's arms. She needed the compassion he offered, needed to feel safe again. But his actions had confused her. How could she know when his arms would offer comfort and when they would seek to control her?

  She buried her head beneath the pillow, and fought for sleep. When she woke up the next morning, her stomach was upset and her head groggy. She used her ill health as an excuse to turn away a boarder, but the truth was, she was afraid to have the man in her house. He was too quiet, too watchful, too...male.

  Embarrassed by her fear, Claire hid inside all weekend.

  She didn't want to cross paths with her too-handsome neighbor or the man who'd left that note on her door. She couldn't even bring herself to face the women at the temperance meeting on Sunday evening.

  By Monday afternoon, four of her concerned fellow marchers knocked on her door.

  "Thank goodness you're all right," Elizabeth said. "We heard about the warning note left on your door."

  "I'm fine." Claire would have liked to invite Elizabeth inside, but Desmona was with her. After her offensive probing into her grandmother's journal, Claire couldn't bear to have the prying woman in her home again. And Claire couldn't afford to befriend Elizabeth or get involved in her problems. Claire had her own troubles to tend. She would march for Temperance to help women like Elizabeth, but that was all. That's all she could do.

  "We noticed you weren't at the meeting last night," Desmona said.

  "I've been unwell these past couple of days." Desmona shivered in the cold wind, making Claire feel guilty for not inviting them inside. "Better that you didn't attend if you're ill."

  "I'll make the meeting this evening," she promised, hoping it would send Desmona on her way.

  "There won't be a prayer meeting tonight," Mrs. Cushing said. "We decided at our afternoon meeting to adjourn until Friday after Christmas."

  "There was a meeting today?" Claire asked with dismay. How unforgivable for her to have missed two meetings when she'd been the one to summon Dr. Lewis to visit and start the march for temperance.

  "There certainly was." Desmona puffed up with importance. "We wrote a pledge and formed our own Women's Temperance Union today." Her lips pursed, and deep grooves fanned above her upper lip. "I offered to be president, but Mrs. Barker wanted the position. Her sister-in-law is our vice-president, and Mrs. Barmore is our secretary. We are organized as a society now."

  "That's wonderful news." It was, but it depressed Claire to have missed such an important meeting, all over a cowardly fit of nerves. "Thank you for checking on me," she said to the small group of women. "I'll definitely be at our meeting on Friday."

  Claire sighed in relief as she closed the door, but she felt incredibly lonely. How lovely it would have been to invite the ladies inside, to share a pot of tea and some conversation with someone. She hadn't been with friends since she was a girl, intruding on her sister's weekend entertainment.

  The older neighbor girls used to call on her sister Lida every Saturday afternoon. The kitchen would smell like lavender powder and baking bread, and the room would ring with shrill laughter. Mother would smile and chastise them for being too loud, but Lida and her friends would giggle and gossip for two full hours while Claire—too young to be included in their circle—hovered in the background soaking up every exciting word.

  The girls would scurry out when Claire's father came home for supper.

  But that's when Claire's day came to life. For as far back as she could remember, her father would come inside, tug her straight blond hair and ask, "What trouble has my Claire gotten into today?" Claire would crawl onto his lap or leap into his arms and bask in his attention. When she got too old for holding, she would blush and giggle and dance around him until he would capture her and give her a bear hug. He'd kiss her on the forehead and tell her that he'd missed his girl.

  The memory made her throat close. She hadn't seen or heard from her father since he'd disinherited her over four years ago.

  She opened the desk and retrieved her grandmother's journal. She had vowed not to read about her grandmother's sordid affair, but the journal was the only link she had to her family.

  The leather felt soft and warm beneath her fingertips as she carried it to the parlor. The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was cold...and empty.

  The airy sound of the chimney made her think of Sailor an
d the dog's wheezy way of talking to her. She would gladly give her last seventeen dollars to see his lopsided smile and have the clumsy canine with his warm body, admiring eyes, and protective bark beside her for the evening.

  She stirred the red coals and added a log to the fire, then sat in the rocking chair.

  Despite her disapproval of her grandmother's affair, she was curious about how it had happened, what had lured her grandmother into the situation.

  This morning Abe asked me if I've ever been in love. He shouldn't have asked a married woman such a question, but I answered him. I said no.

  Oh, Grandma...Claire settled into the rocker and angled the journal toward the lantern.

  I have a deep, respectful affection for my husband, and it breaks my heart to have these feelings for another man. But for good or bad, my love for Abe is real. I've never experienced the excitement or passion I feel for Abe. I don't understand it. I'll never understand it, but one minute I was preparing lunch while Abe was building my cupboards, and the next instant we were staring across the room at each other with the shameful truth of our desire burning in our eyes. We didn't speak of our attraction, but the knowledge was as present in that room as we were.

  My marriage is built on duty, kindness, and community. My moments with Abe are private, passionate, and as addictive as a drug. I cannot resist him.

  God knows I've tried. He's tried. We both failed.

  Abe owns my thoughts. He commands my desire. He fills this hollow space inside me. I would cast everything aside for him. I would. But he will never ask me to do so.

  Claire stroked her fingers over her grandmother's pain-filled words. No wonder her grandmother had been captured by moments of intense sadness.

  Claire hadn't understood when she was a girl. But now, as a woman who had once longed for this kind of love and never experienced it, she knew how rare it was—how devastating it must be to find love and not be able to claim it.

  Abe is tall and handsome in a dark, brooding sort of way. He's a private man, filled with passion and life and a sense of humor that he tries to hide. I see these things. I know him, this amazing, conflicted, lonely man who tries so hard to honor his vows. He says my smiles melt his resistance. I am ashamed to admit that I smile each time I see him. I should be sorry, I know, but if my soul must make restitution for grasping this breath of life, I'll gladly go to Hell.