Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  Perhaps it was her grandmother's reference to Abe's passion and sense of humor that brought Boyd's image to mind, but Claire couldn't clear the vision from her head. Despite Boyd's flippant attitude, Claire sensed his conflict and loneliness. Maybe that's why she was drawn to him.

  Foolish.

  Simply foolish to even admit such a thing. She believed Boyd hadn't written the warning note, that he would never harm a woman as he adamantly claimed, but her judgment was terrible. She knew better than to trust her instincts.

  Boyd Grayson couldn't be more unsuitable.

  But the other man lurking in his shadow...that man intrigued her. That man might be honorable enough to close his saloon.

  o0o

  Tuesday afternoon Boyd propped his hands on his hips and stretched his back. He was glad to end his workday at Edward's furniture store. Each Tuesday, and sometimes on Friday, he and Matthew Sesslier, Addison Edward's grandson by marriage, taught Addison's hired help how to build and carve furniture.

  Addison leaned on his walking stick, the wooden tip buried in an inch of wood shavings on the workshop floor. "You boys finished for the day?" he asked, looking like he'd just crawled out of bed. A drab gray sweater hung from his stooped thin shoulders, his white hair whipped into peaks above dark bushy eyebrows.

  Boyd nodded to the old man who was still as sharp as his best carving knife. "We got a lot done today, Addison.

  Your boys will be able to finish that bedroom suite next week." Addison waved gnarled fingers. "Don't know why you won't carve the damned thing."

  "I don't have the time, Addison. I've got a saloon to run and a sawmill to work."

  "Bah. You're as stubborn as your father was." He turned and limped back into the store, leaving Boyd and Matthew grinning at each other.

  "Your grandfather is a bit cantankerous today."

  Matthew nodded. "He's like that when he doesn't get his own way. I wish you'd quit wasting your talent in that saloon and let him hire you."

  It aggravated Boyd that Matthew thought he was wasting his talent. He no longer had any damned talent. "Are you upset that your wife is marching with those temperance women?" he asked, purposely changing the subject.

  Matthew, a plain, quiet man Boyd had known since they were boys, dumped a shovelful of wood shavings into a barrel by the stove. "She believes it's the right thing to do, just as I believe you're wasting your talent." Matthew propped the shovel against the wall and dusted his hands on his denim trousers. "If you weren't a friend, I'd call you a fool."

  "I've been called worse."

  "I was serious."

  "So was I." Boyd whistled to Sailor, who scrambled to his feet and paced between Boyd and the door.

  "You're a natural craftsman, Boyd, and an exceptional teacher. Why are you using your hands to pour ale?"

  Teaching wasn't doing. His apprentices used their own hands, found their own treasures in the wood. Anyone could instruct an avid pupil.

  Besides, his best memories were at the Pemberton. Saloon-keeping was easier than the fatigue and fear he experienced each time he worked on the statue. He had lost his passion for carving when he buried his father.

  He didn't want to talk about his lost talent or his shortcomings. He was tired and wanted a tall mug of ale to wash the wood dust from his throat. "Sailor! Get out of there," he said, scolding the dog for rooting in the bucket of wood shavings. "I'll see you next week," he said to Matthew, then strolled out the door before Matthew could nag him further.

  He walked up Main Street in the dark with Sailor trotting alongside him. The instant they neared Claire's house, Sailor bounded onto her front porch, yipping like a maniac. Light illuminated her windows, but there was no sign of activity outside or inside the house. Wondering why he hadn't seen her all weekend, Boyd climbed the porch steps and peered in the window to make sure nothing was amiss.

  Sailor barked again, and Claire opened the door. Boyd ducked away from the window, hoping she wouldn't think he'd been peeping in at her.

  But she didn't see him. Her gaze was focused on Sailor.

  "Where have you been?" she asked, the light from her window casting a hazy glow across her face.

  Sailor panted and wheezed and paced in front of the door like a smitten fool.

  Claire laughed—a light, heartwarming sound that splashed over Boyd like sunshine. He'd never heard her true laugh. He'd never witnessed a full smile on her face. He'd never seen the real, unguarded Claire Ashier. Until now. And he liked what he saw.

  She was magnificent.

  "You're not coming in with those wet paws, mister. Go around back." She closed the door, not realizing that Boyd had been standing three feet away, falling in love with her.

  In love?

  In lust.

  Interchangeable words that simply meant he desired to see more of the real Claire Ashier.

  A lot more.

  The cold wind cut through his jacket as he followed Sailor to the back of the house. He'd thought about Claire all weekend, about her irrational fear, about the way he'd frightened her last Friday afternoon. Four days had passed, and he still hadn't found a proper way to apologize. What could he say? I'm sorry I let my wounded pride rule my head?

  Sailor barked and barreled through the open shed door.

  Claire's laughter drifted outside. "Do you really think I would leave you out here in the cold?"

  Boyd stepped into the small room.

  A flash of fright crossed her face and she took a step back.

  "I'll leave if you want me to," he said. He couldn't bear to frighten her.

  Sailor pushed between her thigh and the door frame, scurrying into her kitchen as if he owned the place.

  "I thought I'd fill your wood bins while Sailor tracks up your floor, but if you'd rather I didn't..." He left the sentence unfinished, waiting for her to decide.

  Her lips parted, but she couldn't seem to make up her mind.

  "I'm sorry, Claire. I didn't mean to frighten you the other day. I was insulted that you thought I could have written the note, but it was no reason to bully you." His breath sighed out in a frosty cloud and he slipped his hands into his coat pockets. "If I could erase my actions, I would."

  She leaned her narrow shoulders against the door casing. "So would I."

  He waited for her to say more, but she seemed as devoid of words as he was. Her honey-gold hair was uncovered and swept back in a loose clasp of some sort. He wanted to pull the clasp from her hair and let it spill across the shoulders of her brown and black checkered dress.

  "The kitchen bin is...if you wouldn't mind, I haven't brought in any wood today." She flushed and lowered her lashes.

  "Thank you, Claire."

  She looked up in surprise.

  "For liking my dog and for accepting my apology when you have every reason not to."

  He turned away, giving her the opportunity to disappear inside while he filled his arms with wood. But when he turned back, she was still standing on the threshold.

  "I'll manage the door for you," she said, opening it wide so he could step inside.

  He did his job in silence. It was enough that she was allowing him into her home. He wouldn't press her for more.

  Not today. But tomorrow...tomorrow he would start over and win her friendship in a gentler, more considerate manner.

  "Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, as he returned from carrying his final armful of firewood upstairs to one of the guest rooms.

  Her offer surprised him, and he stopped mid-stride.

  Sailor, who had been following him step for step, ran into the back of his legs.

  Claire smiled, and called the dog to her side. His toenails clicked on the oak floor as he scrambled across the room and butted up against her.

  Boyd shook his head at the dog. "Tea would be nice, if you're comfortable with your offer."

  "Not completely," she said, "but I'll manage if you promise to behave yourself"

  "I'll be a prince," Boyd promised wi
th a smile.

  To his surprise she smiled back. The flash of her white teeth and blue eyes made his hands itch to capture the image on canvas. But his talent wasn't painting. Hell, he had no talent anymore.

  "Do you take sugar in your tea?" she asked, moving to the stove to retrieve the tea kettle.

  "Only if you think I need sweetening."

  Her lips tilted as she filled two cups. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Have you considered signing our pledge by any chance?"

  To realize she was offering him tea so that she could bend his ear about her temperance pledge was the most deflating setback he'd ever experienced with a woman.

  But damn, if he didn't like her persistence.

  He'd had enough easy conquests to know they were generally unfulfilling. This woman offered a challenge. A real challenge. She wasn't playing coy with him. Her agenda was to get him to sign their pledge and close his saloon.

  Nothing more.

  Well, he had an agenda, too, and it had nothing to do with making pledges. Feeling a tad mischievous, he accepted his tea with a nod of thanks. "You know, Claire, your home could earn you considerably more money as a saloon."

  Her eyes widened and she gaped at him. He laughed and nearly spilled his tea.

  She pursed her lips. "You promised to act like a prince and not a toad."

  "I was merely drawing a comparison, to show you how ridiculous your question was."

  "I suppose it was a ridiculous question." She sighed as if she'd expected his answer. "I was hoping you would understand what the saloon is costing the rest of us."

  "I don't want my business to hinder yours, Claire. I'll do my best to control the noise."

  "Thank you," she said, but he sensed her disappointment in him. And it bothered him.

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday morning brought Christmas Eve, the second most depressing day of the year for Claire. Christmas Day would be the worst.

  She buttered a piece of bread for breakfast and took it to the parlor where she kept her grandmother's diary. Reading was the only way she could escape the emptiness of her house.

  An impatient yelping sounded outside on her front porch.

  Claire smiled and set aside her plate. Her visitor wasn't a paying boarder, but he was the next best thing. Sailor.

  When she opened the door, Sailor stood on her porch wearing a huge red ribbon around his neck and a wide canine grin.

  "What's this?" Sailor bounded into the foyer, wheezing and tracking a circle of wet paw prints on her parquet floor as he stared up at her.

  She laughed and knelt to hug the silly dog. "You don't have to beg for my affection."

  The dog let out a growly moan and pushed against her side, nearly knocking her over.

  "Who put this bow around your neck?" she asked, holding him away from her to look at the red ribbon. A rolled up piece of paper was attached.

  Her heart convulsed.

  Oh, no. No. She rose to her feet. Not another warning. Not today.

  Boyd wouldn't threaten her. He wouldn't. So who would have sent this note?

  Any of Boyd's patrons on familiar terms with Sailor.

  The dog tilted his head and stared at her as if trying to understand the sudden shift in her demeanor. Her fingers fumbled as she untied the ribbon from around the note and unrolled the parchment.

  Merry Christmas, Claire.

  Sailor and I would like to take you for a sleigh ride to celebrate the season. Say yes and I'll close my saloon for the night.

  Boyd.

  Her breath rushed out, and she sagged against the desk.

  It wasn't a warning. It was an invitation. From Boyd.

  Lord, she was nothing but a frightened goose!

  Sailor nudged her knees with his nose, as if saying he needed an answer for his master.

  She swallowed and tried to calm her erratic heartbeat, her palm against her chest. It wasn't a threat, she reassured herself.

  Sailor barked twice, his front paws lifting off the floor.

  "A gentleman doesn't rush a lady," she said, but she reached for a pen from her desk. She flattened the note on the desktop, prepared to write a short regret, but the last sentence caught her eye. "Say yes and I'll close my saloon for the night."

  She grinned. He'd finally seduced her into saying yes to one of his proposals. His offer was too tempting to pass up.

  What a blessing it would be to have no noise for one entire evening. Two, if she could finagle it. A smile bloomed on her face as she wrote her reply.

  Dear Mr. Grayson,

  Close your saloon Christmas Eve and Christmas night, and I will be ready in an hour.

  She rolled the note, tied it to the ribbon, then kissed Sailor's spotted head before sending him outside. He ran across the street and bounded up the saloon steps where Boyd was waiting.

  She waved to her handsome neighbor, assuring herself she was only going with him to help the temperance cause. Getting out of her lonely house for a while would be an added benefit.

  But an hour later, when Boyd pulled up in front of the house, her heart somersaulted. The white sleigh was decked with red ribbons and silver bells. Two handsome bay Morgans stood in full harness. Sailor—the silly darling—was perched on the floor in front of the seat, still wearing the huge red bow around his neck.

  Boyd wore a heavy gray ulster, a Windsor-style plush cap, and a white smile that melted the last of her resistance. He hopped down from the sleigh, swept his cap off his head, and executed a ridiculous bow that made her laugh.

  "The Pemberton Inn is officially closed for two evenings," he said, "which leaves me at your service for forty-eight hours."

  She warned herself not to be drawn in by his flirting and his charm. Charm had nearly been the death of her before. She knew men like Boyd didn't change their bad habits. And women like her couldn't live with them.

  He swept his gloved hand toward the sleigh, a Portland cutter with hickory knees, nickel-plated arm rails, and a springback seat with a green, broadcloth-upholstered spring cushion. "Your coach awaits, fair lady."

  She laughed and trudged through the snow. "Where did you get this sleigh?"

  "My brother Radford and his wife Evelyn own a livery. Evelyn and my niece Rebecca decorated the sleigh for us."

  "It's beautiful."

  "I'll give your compliments to Evelyn and Rebecca." He lifted her into the sleigh, climbed aboard and sat beside her.

  Sailor stuck his nose between their knees, wheezing and panting and begging for attention. Boyd wrapped his gloved fingers around Sailor's jaw and stared the dog in the eyes. "Other side, pal."

  Claire opened her arms to the dog. "Don't let him bother you, Sailor. Come here and keep me warm. "

  The mutt barreled onto the seat but lost his balance, his wet paws scratching at the cushion as he scrambled to stay in the sleigh. His clumsy, comical actions made her laugh.

  "You are precious," she said, brushing his nose with her wool mitten. Sailor settled beside her and gazed up with his canine grin and adoring eyes.

  Boyd laughed and nudged Sailor's jaw. "Where's your pride?"

  The dog ignored him, his attention riveted on Claire. She laughed again and put her arm around the dog, pulling him close to her side. "There's nothing wrong with showing your emotions."

  "To a point." Boyd opened a heavy lap robe and laid it over their legs. "But groveling is shameful."

  "For the groveler perhaps—but it's flattering to the one on the receiving end." She lifted the robe and tucked it around Sailor. "You're just being honest in your affection, aren't you?"

  Boyd shook his head. "He's making a fool of himself."

  Claire kept her arm around the dog, loving his warmth and the feel of his heart beating against her side—and her success at putting Boyd off balance. "Where are we going?"

  "It's a surprise." Boyd winked and lifted the reins. "We'll stay in town."

  "Thank you."

  His gaze lingered, his smile fading
. "You're so beautiful," he said, his voice so intimate it sent a tickle swirling through her stomach. "I can't seem to keep my mind on anything but you."

  Her face heated, but she refused to look away, to let him know how much his flirting affected her. She hadn't felt this wicked thrill zinging through her since she'd fallen head over heels for Jack. That "thrill" had led her straight into hell.

  But Boyd was only flirting with her. There was no need for nerves. Still, she couldn't shake the need for caution. "I only agreed to a sleigh ride."

  "I understand. I guess open adoration only works for dogs."

  "I guess so." She smiled.

  He smiled back.

  If he were a gentle shopkeeper, or a pastor, or a man without vice, she would welcome his flirtation as harmless, flattering, sincere. She would never marry, of course, not even one of those men, but she would enjoy their companionship.

  "Are you warm enough?" he asked.

  She nodded, then looked away. Companionship wasn't in her future either. If a man wanted companionship, he took a wife. She would never be a wife. She would spend the rest of her days sharing her house with strangers, decent strangers—travelers, amiable people who left for other climes, troubled people for whom she could be a wayside, young lovers on a honeymoon starting out their married lives. All of them going somewhere. All of them but her. She bit her lip to stop the tumble of her thoughts.

  Sailor yawned and flopped across her lap. She stroked his neck, wishing the clumsy mixed-breed mutt belonged to her.

  "How long have you had Sailor?" she asked.

  Boyd started the horses moving and pulled the sleigh onto the snow-packed street. "A year or so. Found him on my porch, drunk as a sailor, lapping up ale that was draining from a cracked barrel."