Now she understood Boyd's attachment to his saloon. He became a man while building the huge shelf with his father. He celebrated that passage in this bar by drinking an ale with his dad. To preserve that memory, and the masterpiece he and his father had built, Boyd had bought the saloon.
He slipped his blood-spattered fingers over hers. "I didn't realize it would cost so much, Claire. I would change it if I could, but I can't undo it. I can't go back and hug my father and let him die with his pride intact. I can't take back Karlton's beating or the pain I've caused you. God knows, I'd sacrifice anything to do so."
"We all do things we wish we could change," she said, knowing she would undo her own mistakes if it were possible. "Most times we do those things with good intentions. What boy wouldn't want his father to live?"
He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, his cheeks wet from grief.
"Boyd, sometimes it's not enough to know what you've done," she said softly, "but to know why you've done it."
"I do. Everything I've done has been for selfish reasons."
"I don't believe that." She shifted her weight to her left hip, trying to relieve the pain in her ribs.
He stretched his legs out, unmindful of the glass and debris scattered across the floor. "I'm closing the saloon," he said, pools of sadness in his eyes.
At one time his statement would have thrilled her. Now, she felt a deep sympathy for all he lost. He lost his business, his income, and his refuge, the place where his patrons—many of whom were his friends—had gathered. Worst of all, he lost the project he'd made with his father.
"Will you go to work for Addison Edwards now?" she asked, shifting her weight again but finding no relief from the throbbing ache in her side.
"I'll go back to the mill. I've missed it, and there's more than enough work waiting for me."
"What about your carving?"
He stared at his wrecked saloon. "I can't see the treasures in wood anymore."
She felt her heart sink. "Maybe you're trying too much. Maybe you should do what Michelangelo did with his block of marble, and just chip away everything that isn't David."
He brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "I wish I could. More than you know." He got to his feet and held out his hand. "Let me take you home."
Pain radiated through every bone in her body and spilled out through her pores in a cold sweat, but her heart hurt the worst. Too much had been lost this night. And she was responsible for all of it.
Chapter Thirty-five
Claire woke to bleak sunshine and a bone-deep pain she'd thought she'd never have to experience again. She picked up her house robe, but was too stiff and sore to pull it on. She hobbled to the window to see what was going on outside. The sound of several raised voices had jarred her awake, but she couldn't see through the frosted panes.
Someone tapped on her door. She turned, expecting the doctor, who'd been checking on her and his other patients throughout the night. He kept the injured men at her house, explaining that they needed a day or two of healing before he could move them. She didn't mind; but their presence, and the sight of her bruised, swollen cheek in the mirror, was a frightening reminder of last night's violence.
Anna entered the room, brow creased with worry. "How are you feeling?"
"Miserable. What's going on outside?" Claire scrubbed her fist over the window, trying to clear a section of the glass.
"Our temperance friends are down there and they're outraged. They heard about Karlton attacking you last night, and they're outraged with the saloon owners for serving men like him liquor. They're blaming Boyd because the trouble started at his saloon."
Claire frowned, then winced at the soreness in her cheek. "This wasn't Boyd's fault. Karlton doesn't even drink."
"Our friends don't know that."
"Then it's up to me to set them straight. Help me get dressed."
"You're in no condition to go outside."
"Help me, Anna. I'm too sore to dress myself."
Anna got Claire's day gown, but Claire's ribs were too tender to suffer the tugging and pulling motions of getting dressed. "This isn't going to work." Anna tossed the garment onto the bed, then left the bedroom. She returned a minute later with Claire's longest wool coat and her highest pair of boots. "No one will be able to tell that you're wearing your nightrail under this."
Under other circumstances, Claire would have called Anna crazy, but in her present condition, she thought her friend was brilliant. Gritting her teeth, she struggled into her boots and her coat; then, with Anna's help, she slowly made her way down the stairs. The noise outside grew louder in the foyer, nearly overwhelmed her when she opened the door.
"You saloon owners should be ashamed of yourselves!" someone in the crowd yelled at Boyd.
He was coatless, but seemed oblivious to the cold wind cutting across the porch. He acknowledged the group of women with a sweeping glance. "Karlton's attack was unforgivable. No one could regret this more than I do. That's why I'm shutting down my saloon."
The ladies cheered and chattered to each other happily.
Claire felt bereft and sad. It wasn't Boyd's negligence, or his saloon, that had gotten her hurt. It was her own meddling that put had her into a precarious position with Karlton. Boyd had saved her. He'd been with her all night, smoothing her brow when the pain would wake her, holding her hand because she needed him to.
Unwilling to let Boyd accept the blame for what happened, she stepped onto the porch. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, then it grew eerily quiet as they all stared at her. Claire cursed herself for not pulling her hood up to hide her bruised face. She didn't want to incite them further.
Desmona Edwards stood with her daughters at the bottom of the porch steps, with her hand pressed to her heart. "Dear God," she said. "This is an outrage."
Elizabeth's eyes flooded with tears of compassion as she looked at Claire. A murmur of assent hummed through the mass of women crowded around the porch and in the street.
"Any man who would do that to a woman deserved to die," someone said.
Claire glanced at Boyd. His head was bruised and his knuckles were covered with red scabs. He fought to protect her last night, He punished himself because he felt he'd failed, She'd been wrong about him. She'd been wrong about saloons and the men who frequented them. She couldn't allow any more heartache or loss to happen because of her personal ideals.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said, scowling in displeasure.
"Neither should you," He shouldn't be held accountable for Karlton's actions, or for her own bad decisions. Of all of them, Boyd had lost the most. He'd lost something irreplaceable last night. Because of her.
Anna stepped up behind Claire, "The doctor is coming down."
Claire acknowledged Anna's warning with a slight nod. If the doctor found her outside, he'd haul her right back to bed and give her enough opiate to keep her there.
She faced the women she'd been marching with and scanned the sea of winter hats and outraged upturned faces.
"What Karlton did was wrong," she said, wincing at the pain in her ribs. The effort of raising her voice wrenched her side and made her lightheaded, but she had to end this battle here and now. "But I was wrong too. I wanted to help protect women and children from being beaten or neglected, but I've caused more harm than good, We all have."
"We've shut down the rum holes," Desmona said. "How can that be bad?"
"Those rum holes provided an income to the owners and their families. We were destroying Karlton's life, and that's why he retaliated."
An indignant murmur rolled through the crowd.
"Karlton Kane wasn't a drunkard," she said, gripping the railing to steady herself. She raised her hand to quiet the women, "He attacked me because he was angry, not because he'd been drinking. I'm not saying he was justified in hurting me. But perhaps we were wrong to march against these men,"
Another burst of disagreement came from the women.
"We've gotten men to sign our pledge and stop drinking," one woman said.
"We've closed down four taverns," another woman added.
Claire nodded to acknowledge the truth of their comments. "But has that served the women and children we were trying to help?" No one answered.
"That's my point. We aren't accomplishing what we set out to do. I thought closing the saloons would force men to spend their time at home with their families, that it would keep some men from drinking and gambling. But I've learned that a man who drinks isn't necessarily violent or bad, and that a man who abstains from drinking can be unforgivable cruel. In other words, our battle isn't about stopping men from drinking liquor. It's about stopping the violence in our homes." She paused to catch her breath. "All we've accomplished is to shut down businesses that provided income, and a gathering place, for many decent, hardworking men in this town. Men who weren't abusing alcohol or neglecting their wives and children,"
"Are you suggesting we let these rum holes stay open?" Desmona asked. Her voice was filled with curiosity rather than antagonism.
"I'm suggesting that instead of solving a problem, we're creating one. I'm to blame for that," Claire admitted. "I'm the one who wrote to Dr. Lewis and started these temperance marches."
"That doesn't make you responsible for Karlton's actions," Boyd said, moving to stand beside her. It was as if he knew she was clinging to the railing because she was faint. "There was nothing wrong with your intentions," he said to the women gathered below them. "None of us saloon owners could fault you for wanting to assist those people who need help. Some men do need to be stopped from drinking."
"But we are at fault," Claire insisted. "Our cause is good, but our marching has split the community. We must find a way to bring our town back together. That's the best way we can help our neighbors. Antagonizing business owners isn't productive. It's destructive. One man is dead, and two others are severely injured and lying upstairs in my boardinghouse because of the mess our marches have caused. My conscience can't bear any more of this." Her body shivered and she bit down on her lip to stop a groan of pain.
Mrs. Cushing and Mrs. Barker moved to stand beside Desmona and Elizabeth. "What are you saying?" Mrs. Cushing asked.
"That our efforts are misdirected. Our mission should be to protect the home." Claire drew her elbow against her aching ribs. "Marching may be beneficial in other towns, but I think we can find more effective means to help the women and children who need us. Dr. Lewis has his heart in the right place, but I've come to realize stopping the sale of alcohol will not stop the majority of beatings and neglect. I'm sorry, but I can no longer support his methods."
Mrs. Cushing's mouth fell open. "Are you quitting?"
Claire nodded. "Too much has been lost. I can't bear being the cause of any more pain. And nothing has been gained by our marching that I can see."
Mrs. Barker scowled, but a new light seemed to fill Desmona's eyes. She nodded as if agreeing. Claire could hardly believe Desmona was the same bitter woman who had held a gun to her ribs only a week before.
"What are you proposing?" Desmona asked, stepping forward and taking charge.
"I'm suggesting that each of us consider how we might better contribute to our town, as individuals, and as a group. Consider whether or not closing the saloons is the right course. It isn't to me, and I don't think it's the answer for our town."
"Are you quitting because you were attacked?" Mrs. Barker asked, her eyes and voice sympathetic. "I can certainly understand why you might be afraid to go on."
Sadness snaked through Claire, and she shook her head. "I've suffered worse than Karlton's attack, Mrs. Barker. I was once one of those women we are trying to help."
A sympathetic and mildly horrified sigh rippled through the group, but it was the compassion in Boyd's eyes that made Claire's sinuses sting.
"I'm one of those women, too," Elizabeth said, her voice trembling as she stepped forward. The crowd of women stared, the expressions on their faces a mix of surprise, horror, and pity. "My husband isn't a drunkard. In fact," she said, averting her eyes from Desmona's shocked stare, "he never drinks liquor. Shutting down the saloons won't change him."
The crowd fell dead silent. Their frosty breaths clouded the air, but not a sound came from them.
"Dear God," Desmona cried out, and reached for her daughter.
Elizabeth's cheeks flamed red, but she kept her head high and let her mother hug her.
Claire met Elizabeth's eyes and gave her a nod of support. It had taken immense courage for Elizabeth to take a stand and make her confession.
"My husband was a drunkard," Claire said, purposely drawing the women's pitying attention away from Elizabeth. "He wanted to be successful, but his addiction to alcohol and gaming was too strong. My husband was a conflicted and angry man. Liquor exaggerated those traits and made him controlling and violent."
Boyd touched her arm, the tenderness in his eyes silently letting her know that she didn't need to continue, but that he was there for her if she chose to do so.
She had to continue. She had to convince the women in front of her to see the real problem and to turn their efforts toward helping women like Elizabeth and Anna.
She hugged her arms to her nauseous stomach. "My husband grew more violent each year of our marriage," she continued. "I learned to stay silent. That's what happens to women who are beaten. They grow silent. They disappear." She inhaled and winced at the pain in her side. "Living with Jack was like being caged. We lived in hovels and moved every few months. When my grandmother willed me this house, I believed Jack and I could come here and build a better life. But Jack saw Grandmother's gift as a way to make money. He wanted the deed to use at the gaming tables."
The memory broke her heart again, and she struggled for several seconds to control her rush of tears. The women waited quietly, and when Claire lifted her head, she saw their concern and sympathy.
"I refused to give the deed to Jack."
"Good for you," one woman declared, starting a ripple of murmurs through the crowd.
Their support encouraged Claire to continue. "My husband beat me for defying him," she said, struggling to keep her voice loud enough to be heard. "Grandmother's house was all I had left. It was my only hope for a decent life. So I fought back." The tears she'd been fighting beaded up in her eyes, and Boyd rubbed her shoulder, but she forged on. "We fell into the river and Jack tried to drown me."
A horrified gasp burst from the women, and they pushed closer to the porch. Elizabeth broke away from Desmona and climbed the steps to stand beside Claire.
Her show of support brought more tears to Claire's eyes, but she let them fall without shame. "Jack couldn't swim. The first time he pulled me underwater, I thought he was panicking. The second time I knew he was trying to drown me. My own husband was..." She bit her lip and tears streaked down her cheeks. "I swam away and left Jack in the river. God forgive me, but I don't regret it. I wanted to live!" she said fiercely. "I wanted to come to my Grandmother's house and build a new life, one where I wouldn't be beaten or caged or fear for my life each day. That's all any woman in that position wants," she said, her voice breaking on a sob.
"That's right," Elizabeth declared, her voice strong with conviction. "We just want a safe place to go." She faced the crowd, her eyes meeting Desmona's before looking at the rest of the women. "It doesn't matter if the man beating you is a drunkard or a pastor. It hurts either way. I'm supporting Claire in her decision to quit marching and find a better way to protect our homes."
"I support both of you," Anna said, then patted Claire's shoulder. "The doctor is coming."
The doctor's voice cut through the sudden silence. "What in blazes are you doing outside in this wind, Mrs. Ashier?"
She ducked her head to hide her tears.
Boyd slipped his arm around her shoulders as though to protect her from the doctor. "She wanted to t
hank her friends for their support," he said, then moved her toward her front door and spoke over his shoulder. "Mrs. Ashier needs to be in bed, ladies."
"You're damned right she does," the doctor said. "You ladies get on home now. This gal needs rest."
Claire went inside, but she stopped in the foyer to let Boyd remove her coat. Anna shooed the doctor to the kitchen, promising that Boyd would get Claire back to her bedchamber.
Boyd hung up her coat, not even seeming to notice that she was in her house robe and nightrail. He stood by the closet, his eyes dark with compassion and sadness. "I finally understand," he said, his voice low and gentle. "If Jack was worse than Karlton, then I can only imagine what you suffered. I understand why you won't marry again."
Instead of feeling shame or embarrassment, she felt relief. She was finally free of her secrets, and nobody had run her out of town.
Boyd brushed his knuckles across her jaw, careful not to touch the injured side of her face. "I wish I had been there, that I could have saved you from Jack and that life. I wish I could have saved you from Karlton and the pain you're suffering now."
"You did save me." She cupped his knuckles and pressed his palm against her wet cheek, awed that his hand could be so powerful and yet so gentle. "They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger."
"You don't look very strong right now," he said, drawing his thumb across her jaw bone before lowering his hand to his side.
Her body felt like one big bruise. But she would heal, and she would be stronger for surviving. "I'll be fine," she said, wondering why the look in Boyd's eyes was so ...bereaved.
"If you need anything, let me know."
"I'd love for you to stay another night or two," she said, hoping she didn't sound like she was begging, even though she was close to doing so. He was leaving her. He was going to walk out her door and never come back. She could tell.
"Now that you've quit marching, I won't have to watch over you. You won't be in danger."
Lips That Touch Mine Page 31