Only You

by Wendy Lindstrom

  “It isn’t your job to protect me.”

  “The hell it isn’t. It was my own bartender who was threatening you, and I didn’t know until it was too late.” He met her eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there before he attacked you.”

  “So am I,” she said wryly.

  He leaned his head against the wall, as if he were too weary to move.

  “Boyd, why didn’t you... hug your father?” she asked, sensing this was Boyd’s cross, that this was what had taken him to his knees tonight.

  “Because that would have given him permission to die.” He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Let me take you home now.”

  “Please don’t. I’m fine. Really.” She squeezed his wrist to keep him still. “I can put the ice pack on my face when I get back. And my ribs are going to ache whether I’m sitting on my sofa or on your floor. Tell me about your father.”

  “Will you go home then?”

  “If you want me to.”

  He bent his knee and draped his elbow over it. “My father had a disease that crippled him. None of the doctors he saw were familiar with the disease, but it was something that attacked his muscles.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “None of us had.” He sighed and pushed his hair off his forehead, showing a smear of blood where Karlton had struck him with the gun. “What I didn’t realize,” he said, “was that while Dad was growing weaker, I was growing stronger. When I was fourteen, we were horsing around and I caused him to fall. He broke his hip. When he learned he’d never walk again, he said it was time for him to leave us. He asked me to give him a hug. In other words, he wanted my blessing to die.” He sighed and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I wouldn’t hug him.”

  “Of course not. You were a boy who needed his father.”

  “My brothers hugged him. They understood what it would cost him to live. I thought he’d heal, that he’d learn to walk despite the doctor’s diagnosis.”

  “Did he?” she asked, suspecting she knew the answer.

  “He tried, but the disease wrung every bit of strength from his body, and every drop of pride from his soul. He got so weak we had to help him on and off the commode.”

  “How sad for all of you.”

  “The day before he died, I went to the bathroom to check on him, and he was sitting on the commode with tears running down his face. Paper was scattered over the floor near his feet, and I knew he’d been unable to take care of himself.”

  Claire’s heart filled with sympathy for a man she didn’t know, but somehow cared very deeply about.

  “He said—” Boyd’s voice cracked and his lips pursed as if he were holding back a sob. He inhaled and continued, but his voice came out in a pain-filled whisper. “He said, when a man can’t tend his own toilet, it’s time to die.”

  Her eyes watered with sympathy. “That poor man.”

  “I couldn’t help him, Claire. I walked out of the house and didn’t come home until the next morning.” Tears slipped down his face, but she couldn’t think of a single word that would offer him comfort. In the awkward silence Boyd grew eerily calm. “He was dead when I got back.”

  A wave of sorrow filled her throat and choked off any words of comfort she might have offered.

  “Mom said he understood why I wasn’t there, but how could he? A son is supposed to be at his father’s side at a time like that.”

  The self-condemnation in his voice broke her heart. He was falling apart, and she had no idea how to help him. She wanted to put her arms around him, to assure him he was a decent, honorable man, but that wouldn’t be enough. Because nothing right now would be enough.

  “Surely your father understood you were scared?”

  “I was his son. I should have been there.”

  They sat in silence, Claire feeling a fierce need to relieve the pain in Boyd’s eyes. But words were inadequate.

  He reached out and picked up a piece of broken mirror. “It took me and my Dad two days to piece these sections of mirror into that shelf that used to hang behind my bar.”

  She saw the gaping, empty space on the wall and the twisted pieces of wood lying across the bar. “What happened here?”

  He shook his head, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say. “It took us half a year to build it, and one long, sweaty day to hang it.” His lips tilted to one side. “He bought me my first ale that day, and we sat right over there at the end of the bar.” He pointed to the place where she’d seen him sitting the night she brought Sailor back and had her first nasty confrontation with Karlton. “That afternoon, I promised myself I would someday own this place and the back bar we worked so hard on.”

  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. 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-four

  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 remind
er 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 had put 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. “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.

  “What good have we accomplished?” Claire asked.

  “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 unforgivably 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.

  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.”