Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  Sailor wheezed then trotted to Claire. He pushed against her legs until she smiled and stroked his head. "What mischief are you up to this evening?"

  "He came to rent a room," Boyd said, deciding to dive in rather than test the water. He nudged his valise with the toe of his boot. "I brought his bag."

  Claire frowned at the valise.

  Boyd pulled his deputy's badge from his pocket. "My brother's out of town until Friday. He deputized me to stay here and guard you lovely ladies."

  Her frown deepened.

  "That means I need to rent a room."

  Claire glanced at Anna then returned her scowling gaze to Boyd. "I see no humor in this." She opened the door and nodded for him to leave.

  "I've been dispatched here by the sheriff."

  "Bother that. He's your brother, and somehow you've convinced him to give you a badge. There can only be one reason you want a room in my boardinghouse when you have your own apartment not fifty feet from here." He pushed the door closed and braced his palm against it. "I have a badge that makes it official, Claire."

  She shook her head, but it wasn't fear filling her eyes. It was something else—worry or discomfort, but not exactly fear. "You can't stay here."

  "I have to. My brother has entrusted me to keep you ladies safe until he returns from Pittsburgh."

  She lifted her chin. "Then you can sleep in the shed."

  God, he loved her spunk.

  "Excuse us for a moment," Anna said. She caught Claire's elbow and nudged her friend out of the kitchen.

  Boyd heard the murmur of Anna's voice, then Claire's voice raised in dispute, then Anna's soothing murmur again. Then it was quiet. Deadly quiet.

  Even Sailor stopped pacing and panting and cocked his ears, listening to the sudden silence.

  The sound of a defeated sigh made Boyd grin. He knew that sigh. Claire did that just before she accepted the inevitable.

  The two women came back to the kitchen, Anna looking a little nervous, Claire frowning. "It will cost you three dollars a week," Claire said.

  "Fine."

  "I serve breakfast at five-thirty, lunch at noon, and supper at six o'clock. If you're not present I'll assume you're eating elsewhere."

  "Fine."

  "You're free to use the downstairs rooms and the upstairs bath, but all other rooms except the one you're sleeping in are private."

  "Fine."

  She gave a stiff nod. "Dry your boots, and I'll show you to your room."

  He removed his boots and picked up his valise.

  She glanced at his stocking-clad feet, and her face flushed.

  He followed her across the kitchen and up the stairs, grinning to himself. If seeing him in stocking feet flustered her, she was in for some jolting moments over the next few days.

  Her skirt swayed with each step she climbed, making his hands itch to cup her hips and pull her against him. Ignorant of his thoughts, she strode up the hall and opened the door to a corner room. Two tall windows gave him a view of Main Street—and his saloon.

  Perfect. He could keep an eye on things there too.

  His attention lingered on the large sleigh bed. He pictured Claire lying across the mattress, her hair spilling around her shoulders, her mouth parted and her arms open to receive him. Lust pushed through his groin and the ache nearly made him groan.

  She fluffed the bed pillows. "How long will you need the room?"

  "Until my brother and I think you and Anna are safe without one of us here."

  "I'm sure we'll be fine."

  "I think Larry proved that it doesn't take much for a man to punch through a window or break in a door."

  Her face blanched and she turned away. "The bath is your first door to the right," she said, stepping around him to straighten the drapes on his window. "This is my best, and warmest, room, but if you should need another quilt, I keep one on the top closet shelf." She took a handkerchief from her pocket and dusted the stand beside his bed. "I wasn't expecting a guest tonight."

  "Claire." He touched her hand and stopped her nervous fidgeting. "Why are you afraid of me?"

  "I'm not."

  "You are," he said, knowing it was the truth. It hurt that she still felt she couldn't trust him.

  She tucked her handkerchief in her pocket and moved toward the door. "If I were afraid of you, I wouldn't allow you in my house."

  "Then you must be afraid of yourself, because you are intentionally avoiding me."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "You are, Claire. You're fidgeting like a schoolgirl. Either you're afraid me, or you dislike me."

  "I'm not afraid of you. And I don't dislike you. I dislike your lifestyle and your obvious attempts at seduction,"

  "My attempts at seduction?" He laughed and brushed his fingers across the soft underside of her jaw. "It is you who are seducing me."

  Her eyes widened, but she boldly met his stare. "If I were seducing you, Boyd Grayson, you would know it."

  o0o

  Downstairs, a few minutes later, Sailor met Claire in the foyer, acting so pleased to see her that she released an airy laugh.

  "You are just like your master," she said, brushing her fingers over his tilted ears. "Far too obvious in your affections."

  She went to the music room where Anna was playing the piano. Anna glanced up, her cheek as purple as a grape from Larry's brutal fist, but she seemed serene.

  "It feels wonderful to play again," she said.

  Claire listened for a minute, but she was too tense from her exchange with Boyd to relax. "It's a terrible idea for him to stay here," she said, interrupting the song Anna was playing.

  "He's a paying boarder," the woman said without missing a note.

  "He's a reprobate, and I shouldn't have allowed you to talk me into renting to him."

  "Well, he's the one who's causing you to lose business. It's only fair that he make restitution." Anna continued playing, but switched to a soothing ballad.

  Claire leaned against the piano and closed her eyes, letting the music flow through her, striving for a calm she couldn't quite manage. She loved Chopin.

  "May I join you?"

  The sound of Boyd's voice startled her and sent her pulse racing.

  "Of course." Anna started to leave the bench, but Boyd stopped her with a light touch on her arm.

  "Stay and play a duet with me," he said, paging through the sheet music on the Piano. "Ah, here it is. Claire's grandmother and I used to play this Bach piece together."

  After a slight hesitation, Anna sat beside him on the bench. Boyd laid his long fingers on the keys and began playing Aria from Suite in D.

  "That's beautiful," Anna said with admiration. She studied the sheet music and joined in playing the duet.

  Claire stewed. She'd given Anna refuge, understood and supported the woman at her own detriment. She couldn't bear to have Boyd win Anna's affections so easily. Or worse yet, to have Anna win his.

  When the song ended, he winked at Anna. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the piano.

  "Of course." She slid off the bench and stood beside Claire.

  Boyd ran his fingers up the keys and back down, then started a lively tune that made Anna tap her toe. Claire was beginning to get caught up in the rhythm when he started to sing.

  I once had a lover with gorgeous blond hair, but the lady was so ornery, I called her Cold Claire.

  Anna's eyes widened, but Claire gasped. She wasn't cold. She wasn't! Boyd grinned and kept singing.

  She taunted and teased, while I begged and pleased, but the lady didn't dare, so I called her Cold Claire.

  He ran his fingers up the keys, then back for another verse.

  She pouted so pretty and scowled so sweet, I would have been honored to rub the lady's feet.

  So smitten was I, that I knew I should die, if I didn't get a kiss from her sweet lips.

  Anna ducked her head, but Claire knew her traitorous friend found Boyd's song humorous. She wanted to slam the piano cover on B
oyd's nimble fingers, but decided it would be more satisfying to put the rascal in his place.

  He finished the naughty song and flashed a grin so full of mischief that she felt her knees weaken.

  "May I?" she asked, gesturing to the piano in the same manner he'd used with Anna.

  Instead of leaving the bench, he slid over and offered her half. Unwilling to let him unnerve her, Claire settled herself beside him and placed her fingers on the cool ivory keys.

  He smelled wonderful—a woodsy sort of smell mingled with a hint of cologne. Had he worked the sawmill today? Or had he been carving another piece of art before coming here? Although he wasn't touching her, she felt his solidness beside her as clearly as if he were flush against her.

  Inhaling, she straightened her shoulders and focused on the keys. With every ounce of bravado she could muster, she began singing a temperance song, "Lips That Touch Whiskey Must Never Touch Mine." It was a sad song about a woman losing her lover to alcohol. He'd promised to reform, but she'd trusted in vain, his pledge broken time and again. The song was reminiscent of her own life, and Claire sang it with conviction.

  By the time she finished, Boyd was silent. "Touché," he said. His handsome face, only inches from hers, was filled with respect and admiration. "You have a lovely voice, Claire." His dark lashes lowered as his gaze dropped to her mouth. "And lovely lips that should never touch whiskey," he teased, but his voice was too intimate to be taken lightly.

  Claire heard the swish of a skirt as Anna slipped out of the music room. Blast her. How could her friend desert her? Claire wanted to call Anna back, to leap off the bench and follow, but Boyd clasped her hand.

  "I'm sorry if I offended you earlier."

  Heaven help her. She couldn't look into his handsome face and keep her wits about her. She stared at the keys on the piano. "I don't like your games."

  "I wasn't playing with you. I meant every word I said." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "I think you're afraid to be near me, and that bothers me. I won't hurt you."

  She glanced up, but he wasn't smiling. He was gazing directly into her eyes, his own dark and serious. "I'm not afraid," she said, but she was, and his light snort said he knew the truth.

  She tugged her hand free, but he hooked his arm around her waist and kept her on the bench with him.

  "Stay a minute," he said, but it was a gentle request. He removed his hand from her waist, and she felt a thrill race through her. She hadn't been touched so intimately since before Jack died.

  And never so tenderly.

  Her knees bumped his, and she slid back an inch. "Where did you learn that naughty song?"

  "I made it up."

  "You did not."

  "I did." He smiled. "You inspire me."

  "Are you playing with me because I'm a widow?"

  He stroked his hand up her forearm. "I like you," he said, curling his fingers around her arm. "I'm attracted to you." He gave her a gentle squeeze as his gaze roved her face. "I'd like to kiss you again."

  Her breath whooshed out, and she stared at him. Common sense told her to lift her bottom off the bench and get out of the room, but the reckless girl in her stayed and waited in breathless anticipation.

  "You tell me when you're ready." He got to his feet and gave her a courteous nod. "I'll close Sailor in the kitchen for the night. Sleep well, Claire."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Embarrassed by her wanton feelings, Claire bade Boyd a good night and rushed to the safety of her bedchamber. She would talk to Sheriff Grayson as soon as he returned. Whatever it took, she was going to convince him that she and Anna were safe alone in the house. Maybe Boyd would let Sailor stay with her. A dog would offer some protection. And she still had her gun.

  Whatever happened, she had to get Boyd out of her house.

  He was too handsome. Too persuasive. Too tempting.

  Despite her promise to never marry again, her body still responded to a man's touch. It still yearned and ached to be held. She couldn't help it. She'd enjoyed the early months of sharing her marriage bed with Jack.

  With a sigh, Claire sank into the wing chair with her grandmother's journal. Heaven knew she could use a diversion or some words of wisdom.

  Abe danced with me!

  For three dreadful hours we stood mere feet from each other, dancing with our spouses, pretending our hearts weren't aching with the need to hold each other.

  Abe talked with my husband about our kitchen. He would finish it this week. He would have no reason to return. He would no longer drink coffee in my house, no longer look up to see me watching him, no longer lay down his tools and pull me into his arms.

  I couldn't bear the thought. I turned away to hide my tears. Abe slipped his hand into mine and led me onto the dance floor. He said friends are allowed to dance with each other.

  But we're so much more than friends. It'll show, I thought. Still, I could not end our dance. I could not withdraw my hand from the warmth of his grip. He squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. My husband was only feet from us. My actions horrified me, but I was helpless to stop the secret communication with Abe. He said this would be our first and last dance. My eyes filled and I nodded. He whispered to be strong, to appreciate the moment, to live it fully and keep it alive in my memory. I swallowed my tears and looked at that beautiful man.

  His eyes were dark with pain, but filled with love. For me. Everything he couldn't say was there. I closed my eyes and inhaled his scent. He smelled of forest and soap and man.

  Abe. Oh, Abe ...

  The song was ending. Our hands clasped in desperation. Our bodies betrayed us and moved close, brushing each other, aching, longing, begging to embrace. "Smile," he whispered, but I could not. If I blinked, my tears would have spilled over my lashes. I couldn't release my breath, fearing I would sob. If I had dared to look at him again, I would have begged him not to leave me.

  I held all that emotion inside, dying as the music faded and he released my hand.

  Her grandmother's pain was so real, Claire's eyes misted.

  The affair had been wrong. They'd known that. Claire knew that. But what about the love? How could it be wrong? How could something so true and unwavering be wrong? The timing was wrong. The circumstance was wrong. But not the love. The love was real.

  The fire crackled in the fireplace, but Claire felt chilled. No one should know this depth of heartache. Jack had hurt her innumerous ways and broken her heart when he smashed her dream of love, but her pain couldn't compare to what her grandmother had endured. To love and be loved so deeply, and to be denied that love had to be the most painful thing in the world.

  Her grandmother's words broke Claire's heart and made Claire lonely. She felt a deep need to be held and comforted.

  Tucking the journal beneath her arm, she picked up her lantern and tiptoed to the door. The hall was empty, so she slipped downstairs and hurried to the kitchen. "Hello, dear," she whispered as she knelt by Sailor. "How about some company?"

  The dog wheezed and licked her cheek.

  "Oh, yuck." She wiped her cheek with her sleeve. "That really wasn't necessary. Come on." She pulled a chair next to the stove, welcoming the warmth as she sat. Sailor sat beside her and put his head in her lap. Claire stroked his soft fur and began to read again.

  Several pages of the journal were filled with accounts of stolen moments between Abe and her grandmother: a chance meeting at Brown & Shepherd's store, a secret letter tucked into Abe's coat pocket while she passed him on the street, a private glance shared at church. Even the tiniest of things had momentous significance. Those morsels sustained them when they couldn't steal away to be with each other.

  It seemed impossible to Claire that the two lovers could have been happy, but a deep joy resonated in her grandmother's words.

  Abe's wit is bone-dry, but the darling man never ceases to make me laugh. He tells me outrageous stories about his patrons that I can hardly believe, but he assures me they're true. When we're alone, we talk ab
out the meaning of life, and why we share this forbidden love. After many conversations, we have given up trying to understand. Some things are beyond comprehension or explanation. We've accepted that pain will accompany the joy and love we share.

  Abe and I shared a private glance in church this morning, but as I looked away, I noticed his wife watching me, her eyes filled with hatred and heartache. She knew.

  I could bear her hatred, but my darling Abe had to live with that resentment and anger.

  I left church believing Abe would cancel his visit to repair a hinge on my cupboard door. But he arrived on schedule. I told him my suspicions. He assured me I was wrong, that nothing had changed. I wanted so desperately to believe him, but to my despair, I was right.

  Abe's wife confronted us in my parlor where Abe had kissed me only minutes before. She asked if I knew the definition of honor. I asked if she knew the meaning of love. She confessed that she did not. I cannot credit my emotions in that moment, but it shamed me to feel relief rather than pity, to know that I alone owned Abe's affection.

  I was forced to bid him farewell with a brief, guarded glance, to try to express the depth of love in my heart with the mere meeting of our eyes.

  If only I could hold him one last time, hear his heartbeat beneath my ear, have one final moment of feeling alive, but all I have left of my beloved is this child in my womb.

  Abe, my darling, I'm going to have your baby.

  Claire clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at the date of the journal entry. It couldn't be true.

  Her father had been born...No. No! It wasn't possible.

  But the truth was right there on the page in her grandmother's own script.

  Abe had sired her father.

  It was entirely believable. For whatever reason, her grandmother hadn't gotten pregnant before or after giving birth to Claire's father.