If he were a gentle shopkeeper, or a pastor, or a man without vice, she would accept 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.”
“How shameful.”
“I thought so. He was only a puppy.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “I meant it was shameful for you to leave alcohol lying about where an animal could drink it.”
He chuckled. “It brought us together, gave Sailor a name and a home. What’s so terrible about that?”
She couldn’t argue his point so she scowled at him. “Your mother must have had her hands full with you.”
“My mother adores me.”
“Undoubtedly. But does she adore your choice of profession?”
He winced. “She would rather I work the sawmill.”
“Why don’t you? If I understand correctly, it belongs to you and your three brothers?”
Boyd slowed the sleigh and turned left onto Day Street near the center of town. “I’ve worked the sawmill since I was a boy,” he said, steering the team around a small carriage parked on the side of the street. “I wanted a change.”
“Do you ever think of going back?” she asked, sending up a prayer that he would announce his intentions to close his saloon and return to his family business.
“I’m happy working a few hours a week there. That’s enough.”
“Is it?”
He glanced at her, his expression quizzical. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because your brothers are there?”
“Kyle is the only one who works the mill full time. Duke and Radford and I work when we can.”
He made a right turn at the intersection of Day and Lambert Streets where Claire had recently marched with her temperance friends. As Lambert Street angled hard left, Boyd veered right and entered Forest Hill Cemetery.
“Is there a reason you’re taking me to a cemetery?” she asked, wondering what on earth he could be planning.
“Yes.” He winked at her, but didn’t say another word.
Huge, snow-covered maple trees and towering pines cast shadows across the narrow lanes that wound through the cemetery. Everything was buried in several inches of snow, but he seemed to know where he was going. The horses’ shod feet kicked up a dusting of snow with each step, the bells on their harness tinkling with each shift of their majestic bodies, creating a light, rhythmic music that captivated Claire.
Boyd guided the sleigh on a winding path through the towering trees and leafless, snow-covered bushes, past squat, somber tombstones and tall monuments. Suddenly he brought the sleigh to a stop, his expression serene and oddly respectful. “I thought you might like to visit your grandparents today.” He nodded toward two matching headstones on Claire’s side of the sleigh.
Stunned, she glanced to her left and saw two gray stones side-by-side with her grandparents’ names engraved on them. She’d never been here, but Boyd obviously had. He must have come earlier to clear the snow off the stones.
In the few weeks she’d been in Fredonia, she’d been so preoccupied with opening and managing her boardinghouse and the temperance marches that she hadn’t yet visited her grandparents’ graves. Her grandmother hadn’t liked coming to the cemetery, and had never brought Claire here to visit her grandfather’s grave. She’d wanted to remember her husband as a living man, not as a cold stone in a cemetery.
Claire had felt the same. Still, she should have visited the cemetery out of respect for her grandparents. Despite the demands of her new responsibilities, she knew she could have squeezed in a visit. Truth was, she hadn’t been able to face the loss of her grandmother, or the reminder of burying Jack.
“I thought we could hang these on their stones,” Boyd said. He lifted two fir wreathes out of a satchel at his feet and handed them to her. Tiny pinecones and elaborate gold bows decorated each wreath.
His thoughtfulness and generosity touched her.
“How did you know they were here?” she asked, keeping her eyes downcast so he couldn’t see the moisture that was blurring her vision.
“I was a pallbearer for Marie.”
She glanced up, surprised by his confession.
“Marie had lots of friends, you know.”
She knew. The summer she’d spent with her grandmother had been filled with daily visitors. Still, it surprised her that her grandmother would have consorted with a saloon owner.
“I know what you’re thinking.” He smiled, and she felt a guilty flush burn her face. “We were good friends. I cared about your grandmother.”
“Do you have any idea what happened... how she died?” The letter from her grandmother’s lawyer hadn’t explained the circumstances. He had just sent the deed with a note saying Claire now owned the house.
“She was beating me soundly in a game of poker when she slumped over the table.”
“You were with her?”
“Yes.” He caught Claire’s hand and stopped her nervous fumbling with the wreath. “She didn’t suffer. Whatever took her was fast and merciful.”
“I didn’t know she played poker.” The instant the words left Claire’s mouth she cringed. What a stupid thing to say. She could have expressed her heartbreak over her grandmother’s death, or thanked Boyd for bringing her here, or... or any number of thoughts circling her mind, but no, she’d blurted out the most mundane and inappropriate comment of all.
“Marie loved playing cards. She was an ace player.”
So was Claire, but she would never reveal the dirty little secret that had enabled her and Jack to eat.
“Pat and I played cards with your grandmother a couple evenings a week. We kept her wood bins stocked and she kept us fed.” He released Claire’s hand and braced a forearm over his knee. “I miss her. She treated me like her own son.”
So that’s why her grandmother had consorted with a saloon owner. She had missed her son. Boyd had filled that void in her life.
A void Claire had created by eloping with Jack while staying with her grandmother. Her father hadn’t spoken to his mother since that day.
Her grandmother couldn’t have known that Jack had a dark side. She would have only heard Claire’s declaration of being in love with Jack Ashier.
Thank goodness she wasn’t here to learn the truth. Jack had been a deeply conflicted and angry man. While living with him, Claire had been just as conflicted.
“Would you like to hang the wreaths now?” Boyd asked.
She nodded, glad to turn away from her thoughts.
Sailor sniffed the wreath and sneezed. She smiled and hugged the dog, knowing she needed him more than he would ever need her.
Boyd climbed out of the sleigh then helped her down. Her feet were barely on the ground when Sailor leapt off the seat and hit the back of her legs.
She fell against Boyd, her face pressed to the breast of his coat as his arms clamped around her waist to steady her. She smelled a mixture of wool and cologne, heard his breath near her ear, felt the warmth of his body seeping through the thick fabric of his coat.
; Sailor tore off after a gray squirrel scampering back to its hole in an aging oak tree.
Boyd gazed down at her, an indulgent smile creeping across his lips. “Remind me to thank Sailor for this unexpected opportunity.”
“Tell me you didn’t train him to do that.”
“I didn’t. But I don’t regret his recklessness.”
Merciful heaven. Were all rakes blessed with such a heart-stopping smile?
Jack’s smile had been practiced and purposeful, a tool or weapon to use at will. She’d sensed his insincerity, but he’d been too handsome, a master to her youthful naiveté.
She was older and wiser now, but the warmth in Boyd’s smile and the mischief sparkling in his eyes made her feel young and full of foolish thoughts.
“What do you want for Christmas?” he asked.
“We are in a public cemetery.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, ignoring her protest. “What do you want?”
Unwilling to let the rascal unnerve her, she met his eyes. “I want you to close your saloon,” she said, being as flippant as he was prone to being.
“Done. Consider it closed tonight and tomorrow.”
She laughed and swatted his arm. “I mean forever.”
His smile faded, and he gazed down at her. “Nothing is forever, Claire.”
She lowered her lashes. She knew that only too well.
He nudged her chin to make her look at him. “That wasn’t supposed to make you sad.”
“I’m not sad, I’m... cold.” No, that wasn’t true. She wasn’t cold. She was empty. And lonely. Her sudden longing to stay in his arms scared her. She turned and lifted the wreaths off the seat. “Let’s hang these before we freeze to death.”
She’d barely known her grandfather, but she’d adored her grandmother. It wrenched her heart to think of her grandmother lying beneath the frigid snow and earth.
“I brought wire,” Boyd said, pulling a small spool from his pocket. He gestured toward the wreaths in her hands. “It’ll keep the wind from blowing them away.” He pulled off his gloves and positioned the wreaths on the stones. His long, nimble fingers brushed Claire’s mitten-covered hands as he twisted and bent the wire.
“What made you think of doing this?” she asked.
He glanced at her, his cheeks pink from the cold. “Family should be together during the holidays.”
Nothing would make her happier than to spend time with her family, but that wasn’t going to happen. Ever.
For the balance of her life, she would spend her holidays alone, or with strangers.
Boyd’s strong artist’s hands secured the second wreath then he sat back on his heels. “What do you think?”
His boyishly expectant expression melted her heart. “Thank you. This was... it was...” She cleared her throat, cursing herself for being so emotional. “You were kind to do this.”
The smile in his eyes dimmed, and he gave her a small nod.
How miserly her thanks. How stingy her praise. He’d done something many men wouldn’t think of doing, and all she could acknowledge was his kindness?
She reached out and clasped his hand. “Grandmother would be touched by your gesture,” she added, unable to tell him how deeply he’d touched her own heart.
“Your grandmother talked about you often, Claire. She claimed you had a head full of dreams and that you would get hurt.” Boyd held her gaze. “I think you did.”
His bold comment embarrassed her. She stood and headed toward the sleigh.
He caught her hand and stopped her. “I know we’re on opposite sides of this temperance issue, but it will never dictate the way I treat you. You’re safe with me. If you ever need anything, you can trust me. I just wanted you to know that. “
His earnest declaration prodded her to believe him. She did believe him in the deepest part of her soul. But she’d believed Jack, too.
Still, her grandmother wouldn’t have befriended Boyd if he wasn’t a trustworthy man, would she?
“I’d like us to be friends,” he said.
She hadn’t had a friend since she was sixteen years old. But she could never be friends with a saloon owner. Especially the one who was ruining her business.
He nodded toward the sleigh. “I think Sailor’s ready to leave.”
The dog sat beside the sleigh, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth while a dusting of snow melted on his nose. Claire smiled at the silly dog. “What have you been doing? You’re covered with snow.”
With a happy bark, he leapt forward and plowed into her knees, knocking her onto her backside in the snow. He dove onto her lap and licked her cheek then grabbed a mouthful of her skirt and tugged.
“Sailor! Get off of her, you ill-mannered maniac.” Boyd pushed the dog aside and helped Claire to her feet. “Are you all right?”
“Just wet,” she said, drying her cheek on her wool coat.
Boyd retrieved a clean handkerchief from his pocket.
“Did he rip your dress?”
She hoped not. She had too few as it was. Her grandmother’s dresses were too small to be re-cut for her, so she’d salvaged material from several dresses to make five for herself. “No holes or tears,” she said, brushing her hand over her skirt.
“Sailor. Come here and apologize,” Boyd said.
The dog sat in the snow and tilted his head.
“Come here and tell Claire you’re sorry.” Boyd snapped his fingers and Sailor sprawled onto his stomach. “Apologize.”
The dog lowered his nose to his paws and looked up at Claire with sad eyes.
“It’s all right, Sailor.” She couldn’t bear the pathetic look in his eyes.
Sailor whimpered and inched forward on his belly until he was at Claire’s feet. He put his paw over his eyes and let out a mournful howl that echoed through the cemetery.
She flinched. “That was definitely a vocal apology.”
“Good boy, Sailor.” Boyd stomped his foot on the snow.
Sailor scrambled to his feet and reared up on his hind legs. Each time Boyd thumped his foot, Sailor took a hop across the ground.
Amazed, Claire laughed at the dog’s circus antics.
Boyd aimed his finger like a gun. “Bang!”
Sailor hit the snow in full body flop, his tongue lolling from his mouth as if he’d just been shot to death.
“What have you done to this poor dog?” she asked, her voice bubbling with laughter.
“We’ve educated him.”
She was still laughing when she knelt down to hug the dog. “I forgive you,” she said then jerked away to save herself another wet swipe of Sailor’s tongue.
“Better stay clear,” Boyd said, a gorgeous smile lighting his face. “He’ll lick the paint off a post if given a chance.”
“I believe it.” She stood up, determined to get herself a dog just like the rascal sniffing her boots. “Do you know where I can get a dog? Like Sailor?”
Boyd shook his head. “There isn’t another dog like him. He’s been corrupted by living in a saloon and spending his time with drinking men.” He gave her a sideways grin. “It takes a long time to acquire all his tricks and bad habits.”
“I’m sure.”
Their gazes held, but she didn’t feel threatened or offended by his silent perusal. She felt alive for the first time in years.
And happy.
Her nightmare with Jack was over. She’d survived. She could have friends now. She could laugh again. She could move on now.
But what did moving on entail? Days spent catering to strangers? Nights spent alone? Uninspiring at best, dreadfully lonely at worst, but it was safe.
“Thank you,” she said, turning away from his searching gaze. “We should head back.” He couldn’t know how much he’d given her today. She could never tell him.
Chapter Eleven
Boyd drove out of the cemetery, knowing he’d seen another side of Claire today. Despite being frightened and vulnerable, she was courageous and outspoken. She
was fragile, yet there was an inner strength that held her together. She was wounded and hurting, but independent and proud. She was determined but not confident. A puzzle.
An enigma.
A challenge.
“How did you teach Sailor those tricks?” she asked, glancing up at him with her gorgeous blue eyes that made him wish he wasn’t an unsuitable saloon owner.
“My patrons are responsible for his quirks. They teach him those bad habits when I’m not looking.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
“Maybe because you’re an intelligent lady?” he said, enjoying her unexpected playfulness.
“I’m intelligent enough to know when a man is trying to hoodwink me.”
“All right. I confess. I taught Sailor most of his tricks.” He slanted a repentant look her way. “A man gets bored living alone.”
She pursed her lips, a habit she had when fighting a smile. “Perhaps you should move back home with your mother.”
“Gads, no! Sailor would never survive the shock.”
Her laughter bubbled out, and his heart lifted. “I think you are the one who couldn’t manage the shock,” she said. “You wouldn’t be able to carouse and carry on all night.”
“So that’s what you’re angling for. You want to move me back with my mother to get rid of me.”
“Exactly.”
Her eyes sparkled and her lips twitched, and Boyd was thoroughly bewitched.
He’d had romantic liaisons with all kinds of women, tall and beautiful, shy and pretty, tiny and cute, and one homely dear and tender lass who’d made him laugh and forget his troubles for a few weeks. He’d appreciated all of them, but not once had he found himself longing to marry the gal.
Until now, because everything with Claire was different.
She stirred him up, kept him off balance. He sensed her attraction to him, and yet, he couldn’t easily sway her. More than that, He was giving her his best efforts and not making any headway. Claire was forthright, and he respected that. She was outspoken, too, but he admired her ability to speak her mind and stand up for what she believed in.
He turned the sleigh onto Day Street. “Is your mother as outspoken as you are?” he asked.
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