Only You

by Wendy Lindstrom

  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 welled up in her eyes. 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 thank 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.”

  “Yes, 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.”

  She felt sick, hollow, the pain in her ribs dull compared to the pain in her heart. “I have gotten used to you watching over me,” she said. “I’ve come to value your friendship. Please stay.”

  “I’m too selfish, Claire. I want your friendship, your love, and your trust. You’re not ready to give that.” He sighed and brushed his knuckles tenderly over her cheek. “I understand that you may never be ready.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Are you saving this scrap?” Kyle asked, nudging the toe of his boot against a pile of broken back bar bits lying on their father’s wood shop floor. Boyd had brought the pieces, and his massive hunk of basswood here after leaving Claire’s house. He had to get out of there before he started begging her to trust him, to marry him, to love him. The doctor had warned everyone not to upset Claire, that she needed to heal. Boyd needed to stay away and let her do that.

  Pat had promised to stay in Boyd’s rented room at the boardinghouse for a few nights, just to make certain all the danger was really past. Anna and the doctor were there as well. At Claire’s request, Boyd had left Sailor to boost her spirits.

  He stared down at the broken pieces of wood on the floor and saw a reflection of his life. “Maybe I should just burn it all.” He turned to his brothers, who were gathered there with him.

  “Don’t.” Duke knelt beside the pile. “Don’t burn it. You might be able to use these scraps to make other things.”

  The back bar was ruined beyond repair, but for some reason it brought Boyd a measure of peace to know the pieces were stored safely in his father’s wood shop.

  He pushed the shop door closed against the cold wind, shutting out the bleak afternoon sunshine. “I’m surprised you’re here, Duke.”

  “There’s nothing for me to do in town,” his brother said. “It’s been quiet as a morgue all day.”

  Despite the nonchalant response, Boyd knew it had torn a hole in his brother to shoot a man, especially a man he knew. There had been no choice, but that didn’t make it any easier to pull the trigger, or to deal with Karlton’s death afterward,

  “It’s about time things quieted down.” Boyd started a fire in the stove with some old scraps of wood then slapped his palms across his thighs to brush off the wood dust.

  “Look at this,” Radford said, picking up a long stick from the workbench.

  Boyd’s stomach clenched when he saw it. He made the one-of-a-kind walking stick out of diamond willow, and presented it to his dad for a birthday present. His dad had loved it and had made a great show of chucking his old cane into the stove. The day his father died, Boyd had hurled the cane into a field behind the house. Whoever had found the walking stick had brought it here where it would be safe.

  His throat closed as he took the cane from Radford. He inspected it and found himself proud of his early work.
If only he could reclaim that confidence and the plain joy of carving without worrying about the results.

  Would that feeling ever come back?

  “What’s wrong?” Duke asked, seeing Boyd examine the walking stick.

  Boyd leaned the cane against the block of basswood and faced his brothers. “I’m shutting down the saloon.”

  His brothers stared at him, a mixture of surprise and suspicion in their eyes.

  “I figured I’d come back to the mill full time.”

  Kyle slapped Boyd’s shoulder. “Well, my day just improved one hundred percent.”

  “Why are you closing?” Radford asked, his gaze shrewd and assessing.

  “I’m ready to do something different.”

  “You’ve worked the mill since you were eight years old. How will that be different?”

  “I meant different from saloon-keeping.” Boyd realized he wasn’t convincing his brothers. “You should be happy, Radford. You and Kyle won our wager. The ladies closed me down just like you said they would.”

  Radford crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s going on?”

  Boyd huffed out a breath and leaned against the workbench. “I don’t know.” He’d just laid the truth on the line with Claire. He could do no less with his own brothers. “How could you three have hugged Dad, knowing you were giving him permission to die?”

  His siblings glanced at each other, but said nothing.

  “I can understand why you did, Radford. You were older. You’d been through a war. You must have known what it would cost Dad to fight to stay alive. But how did you know, Kyle? How did you know that it was time to let him go?”

  Kyle shrugged. “It seemed like it should be his decision, not mine.”

  “You were barely sixteen, Duke. How did you know to let him go?”

  “I didn’t.” Duke hooked his thumbs in his coat pockets. “I hugged him because Radford and Kyle did.”

  “Why didn’t you make me hug him?” Boyd stared at them. “You three taught me everything. Why didn’t you teach me to let a man die when it’s the kindest thing to do?”

  “So that’s what this is about.” Radford sighed and braced his hand on the metal vise at the end of the workbench. “Boyd, none of us knew what to do when Dad broke his hip. I had my own battle going on in my head, but I understood what it would mean for Dad to lose his ability to walk. I didn’t want him to die. None of us did. But I couldn’t ask any more of him than he’d already given. I was undeserving of his pride. I was willing to let him go because that’s what he wanted.”

  “I wish you would have explained that to me. Maybe I could have hugged him.” Boyd picked up a chisel and balanced it on his palm. “I just wanted him to live. I had no idea he’d grow so weak.”

  “You asked him to fight for us. Where’s the sin in that?” Duke asked. “Dad understood why you didn’t hug him.”

  “The sin is that I could barely even touch him,” Boyd said, his gut twisting with shame. “I said I was afraid I’d hurt him again. But truthfully, I couldn’t stand to feel his bones poking through his skin and feel how that disease was sucking the life out of him.”

  “That was one of the reasons I couldn’t stay either,” Radford admitted. “I couldn’t stand watching him waste away.”

  Boyd glanced up, expecting to see loathing or pity in his other brothers’ eyes. He saw understanding and sympathy. “If I could, I’d go back and give him that hug, you know.”

  “I don’t know why you’re killing yourself over this,” Radford said. “You were closer to Dad than any of us. And you know what? You brought that man more joy than the three of us could ever have hoped to do.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did,” Kyle said, opening the stove door. He chucked in a small chunk of firewood. “Dad was always laughing over something you said or did.”

  Boyd shrugged. “I don’t remember a day where Dad wasn’t threatening to break a board over my ass.”

  “I offered to beat you numerous times, but he wouldn’t let me lay a hand on you.” Not a touch of remorse tainted Kyle’s grin. “You irritated me endlessly, Boyd, but you made Dad happy.”

  “You made us laugh,” Radford said. “All of us. I honestly don’t know how he would have borne his illness without you there to lighten his days. He understood why you didn’t hug him that day. And I think he was touched to know you loved him enough to ask him to fight a little harder.”

  A wad of emotion clogged Boyd’s throat. He stood in the little shop with his brothers, feeling intense love for them, but unable to speak a word. He owed them, and his mother, so much. They were his strength, his safe harbor when he needed one, always standing beside him, never judging him, always there no matter what.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Radford said, “only God had control over whether Dad lived or died. You made the time he had bearable for him. Feeling guilty isn’t serving any of us. I say it’s time you honored Dad and got on with your life.”

  Kyle and Duke nodded in agreement.

  Radford’s words of wisdom rang true to Boyd. He would always regret asking so much of his father, but he had acted out of love. Now he understood the cost of his actions, but at the time, he only knew he couldn’t bear to lose the man.

  “Thanks,” he said, forcing the word past the burrs in his throat.

  “You want a ride back to town?” Radford asked.

  Boyd shook his head. He needed to stay here, in his father’s shop, a place he hadn’t set foot in since his father died.

  After his brothers left, Boyd stroked the scarred pine workbench. He’d spent countless hours standing here beside his father. He balanced his father’s metal carving knives in his palm, remembering the weight and feel and angle of each. His father had taught him how to hold a chisel and grip a carving tool, how to eye a piece of wood for grain and balance. He’d also taught Boyd how to work to the level he was truly capable of.

  His father’s words filled his mind as Boyd stood alone in the small shop. After years of not being able to remember the sound of his father’s voice, he now felt a sense of coming home.

  He stepped three feet to the right, and smiled when the pine floorboards gave a hard creak.

  “I guess the only thing that’s changed is me, Dad,” he said, smoothing his palm over the heavy iron vise mounted to the end of the workbench.

  As if his father nudged his shoulder, Boyd turned to the block of basswood that had been haunting him for years. It stood in the shadows, as if leaning on the walking stick, watching. Boyd finally saw more than a block of wood. He saw his own potential.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The dust-covered windows of the wood shop looked fogged in the morning light, but Boyd kept the stove and the lanterns burning as he continued working. He was carving by feel again, sensing what to keep and what to chip away.

  His father’s personality quirks and nuances had streamed into his mind during the long, silent night. Boyd remembered everything, the way his father would bite his lower lip while carving intricate details in wood; the sly, just-between-us winks he would give Boyd that made him feel grown up and manly. Boyd could even remember his dad’s favorite expletives. His father had become so lifelike, Boyd felt they were working side by side.

  He worked his knife around the intricate peaks and valleys he’d formed in the wood then paused to brush away the tiny wood shavings. He used a curved gouge to remove a small section of wood then switched back to the carving knife to smooth out the rough edges.

  As the statue slowly emerged from the block of wood, Boyd felt something new emerging inside himself. He’d spent uncountable hours in this wood shop helping his father. He’d worked the mill each day after school for his father. He’d fetched and carried for his father. He’d done everything and anything a boy could do to please his dad. Because he’d loved him.

  Love. It was a word he was finally beginning to understand.

  As his mother had explained, love didn’t m
ean never asking too much, never being selfish, or never hurting another. Love meant staying during the hard times, looking for the humor in life, encouraging and supporting the other. It meant making a commitment to be there no matter what.

  Boyd had been there for his dad in the only way he could as a boy of fifteen. Right, wrong, or otherwise, he’d done his best.

  He wanted to be there for Claire, too. Night and day. Every day. He loved her.

  But she was afraid. He understood why, but her inability to trust didn’t make it easier for him to accept her rejection. He thought his blocked talent had created the emptiness in his life, but now he knew he’d been missing love.

  A love Claire had but was afraid to give him.

  Claire reread the last page of her grandmother’s journal then closed the leather cover. The love story wrenched her heart more severely this time.

  She knew what it was like to be married to a man who cheated. Jack had slept with other women. Each night he hadn’t come home, it had broken Claire’s heart. But she was sure Jack hadn’t loved those women. He hadn’t loved anybody, including himself.

  Abe had cheated with one woman and had loved her with all his heart. No wonder Desmona had been bitter.

  Claire felt a deep sympathy for Desmona, but she also empathized with her grandmother and Abe, who had eventually sacrificed their love for duty.

  How had her grandmother and Addison survived five decades of such wrenching torment? They must have crossed paths with each other every week. How could they not throw themselves into each other’s arms at those moments?

  That’s how Claire felt when she’d seen Boyd climbing his porch steps late last night. He’d barely been home during the past week, and when he had, he and Sailor had stayed inside. When she saw him on his porch, she wanted to race across the street and hug him and kiss him and beg him to be her friend again.

  But that would be unfair. He stood by her through everything, protected her when she needed protection, and taught her how to laugh again. She couldn’t take any more without giving more in return.