The Longing

by Wendy Lindstrom

  "Where is the owner of this saloon?" she demanded, her voice shrill and trembling, the gun wobbling in her hands.

  Boyd stepped forward, cringing as she carelessly swung the gun in his direction. From the way she nervously clenched the revolver, he suspected she was scared to death and had never touched a gun before in her life. "May I presume you are Mrs. Ashier?"

  "Yes, and you may also presume that I am furious and fed up with the noise coming from that rum hole." She jerked the nose of the gun toward his saloon. "I haven't slept a night through since moving here. My boardinghouse is empty because of you, and I have no other means to support myself, Mr. Grayson."

  So she knew his name. Good. That would make this little exchange much easier. He nodded toward the gun. "Is that loaded?"

  "It most certainly is. I want these men to go home. Now," she said, sweeping the barrel of the pistol across the crowd.

  "It's too early to send the boys home, but we'll head back inside for the evening. Sorry to disturb you."

  Her jaw clenched and she glared at him. "Do you think an apology excuses your total disregard for your neighbors? I don't want your apology. I want these men gone and that rum hole closed!"

  "It's Saturday night, Mrs. Ashier. I can't close this early. Now, be reasonable and put the gun down before you hurt somebody."

  "Not until you and your inebriated friends go home."

  "This is my home." He jerked his chin toward the saloon.

  "You live there?"

  He nodded and took a step forward, intending to remove the revolver from her shaking hands.

  "Don't come any closer," she warned.

  He stopped and lifted his palms. "No need to get jumpy, Mrs. Ashier." He worked up his most charming smile. "I'd just like to finish this conversation in private," he suggested, starting toward her again.

  "Stay away!" She tensed and pulled the gun to her chest like a child protecting a coveted toy. An earsplitting crack ripped through the night. A window above his bar shattered. The men below ducked flying shards of glass and swung incredulous looks in her direction.

  Boyd stared in outrage. "Are you crazy?"

  Claire gasped and shoved her gun out in front of her. She didn't know what else to do with it; she hadn't meant to pull the trigger. Her heart pounded so hard she could only draw in half-breaths. But for the sake of her own survival, she gripped the revolver and stood her ground. She had to end the noise coming from the saloon before it put her out of business.

  The Pemberton Inn was an attractive two-story structure on the corner of Chestnut and Main Street at the top of West Hill. But to Claire it was nothing more than a rum hole owned by an inconsiderate man. She wasn't sorry at all that she'd taken out a window.

  A man stepped from the crowd, but Boyd signaled him to stop. "Give me a minute, Duke." The man nodded, and Boyd turned to face her.

  Boyd was taller than most of the men in the street, and at least five inches taller than she was. His hair was dark, probably black, but when she saw his face bathed in the light from her window, her stomach dipped. Not even the play of shadow and light could ruin the perfection of Boyd Grayson's face. If anything, it made him more dangerous.

  "I understand that you're upset, Mrs. Ashier, but that doesn't give you cause to shoot at my patrons."

  "I hadn't intended—I wasn't shooting at anybody."

  He nodded toward her house. "Why don't we go inside and discuss this on more friendly terms?"

  Never would she invite a man like him into her home. "Unless you're going to tell me that you're closing your saloon, I have nothing to say to you. I'm a widow trying to support myself. The noise from that rum hole has chased away every one of my boarders."

  He stared back at her without a trace of shame on his handsome face. His look of appreciation and speculation made her glad that several feet separated them. "I'll be happy to rent a room this evening if it will help."

  She gasped at his audacity and jerked her gun toward him, itching to pull the trigger and wipe the smile off his face. How dare he try to seduce her? Her late husband had used his looks and charm to lead her straight to hell. She'd vowed at his graveside that she would never again be manipulated by a man's charm or good looks.

  She refused to waste any more words on the insufferable reprobate standing in front of her. She was nineteen dollars away from being destitute. She wanted his saloon closed.

  Now.

  She waved her gun toward the crowd of inebriates, then folded her arms. "This is my last warning. Go home. All of you." "

  Go easy with that, Mrs. Ashier, or you'll end up shooting yourself." Boyd nodded toward the gun. "If that's your grandmother's revolver, it has a touchy trigger."

  "So do I, Mr. Grayson."

  The men chuckled, so she brandished the gun again. Send those men home and close your bar," she demanded, "or I'm going to visit the sheriff in the morning. Your neighbors deserve some peace and quiet."

  "I'm sure my brother would enjoy your visit, Mrs. Ashier, but he can't close a legitimate business."

  "Your brother?" Her breath whooshed out, and she sagged against her front door.

  "That's right." He gestured to the man on his left. "This is Sheriff Grayson, my brother, and he's a regular customer at the Pemberton."

  To her shock, a bear of a man stepped from the crowd and held up his hands, making the badge on his chest flash in the light from her window. "Mrs. Ashier, these boys mean no harm. I'll get them inside and they won't bother you again tonight."

  Shivering from fury and the frigid cold, Claire gave the sheriff a scathing look. "I'd suggest you step back, Sheriff, because I'm serious about closing this saloon. You should be ashamed of yourself for frequenting it."

  "My job requires me to visit the saloons and keep the peace."

  "Well, you've been remiss in your duty this evening. As long as this saloon is open, there is no peace for this neighborhood. And frankly, it doesn't impress me at all that the owner of this hellhole is your brother."

  "I'm not overly impressed that he's my brother either."

  She gaped at him, wondering if she'd heard him correctly.

  The sheriff slanted a glance at Boyd, then gave her a half grin. "Boyd believes he can manipulate any situation to his advantage. It's embarrassing to the family, but the blame rests with my mother." The sheriff lowered his hands and shrugged, clucking his tongue as he walked toward her. "Ma had this burning desire to have a girl, but all she got was boys. So even after Boyd had grown out of wearing gowns to bed, Ma insisted on coddling him like a daughter. It's made him a bit odd, I'm afraid."

  Boyd laughed along with his patrons at the joke, as if they were all sharing a private joke at her expense. "If you're going to divulge my secrets, Duke," he said, "it's only fair that you share a few of your own. Tell her what you wear to bed."

  Dumbstruck by the absurdity of the brothers' conversation, Claire shifted her gaze between them, wondering if they were drunk, insane, or both.

  The sheriff looked her straight in the eye. "Actually I don't wear anything."

  She opened her mouth, but was too shocked to come up with the reprimand the comment deserved.

  The sheriff winked and plucked the gun from her hands. "Beg pardon for the rudeness, Mrs. Ashier. Go on in to bed now. I'll keep the peace tonight and return your gun in the morning."

  Blast and damnation! The sheriff and his wretched brother had purposely distracted her with their nonsensical conversation in order to disarm her.

  That she had been outwitted so easily infuriated her, but she held her tongue. She had something more potent than a bullet to put Mr. Grayson out of business. She had Dr. Dio Lewis, a powerful temperance speaker from Boston, who held as much disdain for intemperance as she did.

  She'd written to Dr. Lewis shortly after moving to Fredonia and learning that the town was filled with rum holes like the Pemberton Inn. Dr. Lewis would be arriving tomorrow, and every church in Fredonia was going to cancel their evening service
so the townspeople could gather at the Baptist church for his address. Boyd Grayson didn't know it yet, but he was going to attend that meeting.

  Struggling to hide the mayhem raging inside her, Claire faced her neighbor, knowing he couldn't refuse the request she was about to make without being unpardonably rude.

  "Mr. Grayson, if you would be willing to escort me to church tomorrow evening, perhaps we can find a way to make this situation tolerable for both of us." There wasn't a chance in Hades she would accept anything less than his closing the saloon, but that was exactly why she needed to get Boyd Grayson to church. Dr. Lewis had a message for the reprobate.

  "In all fairness, Mrs. Ashier, it may not be in your best interest to keep company with me, being a saloon owner and all"

  "I'm a respectable widow. I believe your reputation could benefit from the association."

  Muffled laughter rippled through the crowd as Boyd moved to stand at the foot of her porch steps. "Are you sure it won't sully your own?"

  "Quite."

  "All right then."

  At his nod of acceptance she turned to open her door, vowing she would soon be rid of Boyd Grayson and his abominable saloon.

  "Mrs. Ashier?"

  Gritting her teeth, she turned back to her reprehensible neighbor.

  "I'm looking forward to discovering the benefits of our association." A slow smile spread across his face. He tipped an imaginary hat and gave her a courtly bow. "Good night, fair lady."

  An involuntary flutter filled her stomach. No man, especially a drinking man, should have a face like a prince or own a smile with the power to mesmerize a woman. She couldn't begin to guess how many broken hearts Boyd Grayson had caused in his lifetime, but she vowed hers wouldn't be one of them. She closed the door in his face, and sagged against the mahogany-paneled wall of her foyer.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  She knew firsthand that men who drank alcohol were too unpredictable and could turn violent and deadly if provoked. But she'd had to confront him. Her last boarder had left earlier that evening because of the noise from the saloon. During the six weeks that she'd been running her boardinghouse, she'd had many guests, all of whom loved her home but eventually left because of the noise.

  If she were simply renting to overnight guests, they would put up with the noise for a night or two. But the people she rented to were seeking a place to stay for several weeks or months. Traveling salesmen came to town to do business. Families came to visit relatives who didn't always have room to put them up. Newly married couples not wanting to set up housekeeping chose to rent by the year.

  Unlike the Harrison Hotel or the Taylor House, Claire's boardinghouse was a home to her guests. They could visit her kitchen at any hour to make themselves a cup of tea and eat her fresh-baked tea cakes, cookies, or breads. They could sit by a warm fire in the parlor, or play the piano in her music room, or retire at their leisure to their own private bedchamber.

  Taking boarders was her only means of supporting herself. She had no other options. Not one.

  Her father had disowned her at seventeen for eloping with Jack Ashier, which had been the worst mistake of her life. She'd naively thought the reckless charmer loved her.

  He'd only wanted the dowry he thought her wealthy father would provide.

  But her parents had been outraged with Claire, and they'd blamed her grandmother Marie, whom Claire had been visiting, for allowing the elopement to happen. Instead of giving Claire a dowry, her father disinherited her and broke all ties with his mother. Claire had spent four years in hell with a man who had promised her heaven.

  Now all she wanted was to feel safe again.

  She rubbed the chill from her arms, dreading the empty hours that invited nightmarish memories. She had to do something, anything to keep her mind occupied.

  Hurrying upstairs to her bedchamber, she unlocked a small drawer in the oak chiffonier, then moved aside her beloved grandmother's diary she'd yet to read. The letter her sister had written to her a month ago lay open in the drawer. Homesick, Claire picked up the letter and sank into the wing chair to read it again.

  Dearest Claire, I hope you and Jack are happy in your new home in Fredonia.

  Claire groaned, the weight of her own lies burdening her conscience. She'd lied while Jack was alive that she was happy with him, and lied after he died that he was still alive and moving to Fredonia with her. She'd done it to keep her sister from worrying.

  It must feel strange yet oddly comforting to live in Grandmother's house. I know how much you loved her. We all deeply miss her.

  Joanna, Jonathan, and Joseph are growing too fast to keep them in shoes, but they are healthy, happy children. Michael has become a partner in Daddy's steel mill. I am busy with the unending household chores, but blessed with love and good health. I pray that you are, too, dearest sister. I miss you and wish you could come home for a visit, but as you must suspect, nothing has changed here. I'm sorry, Claire, but Daddy still refuses to speak of you. I continue to pray that one day his heart will know forgiveness, and you can come home.

  Your loving sister, Lida.

  Claire's throat ached. She would give anything to be welcome in her father's home again, but he would never forgive her for the embarrassment she'd caused the family.

  For four years, she had longed to pour out her heartaches and fears in her letters to Lida, but she'd been too ashamed to admit her true circumstances. Instead, she'd filled the pages with false claims of happiness and love for Jack, feeling it was kinder to write fairy tales than truth.

  Now it would be an even bigger lie to tell her sister that she was grieving Jack. She was relieved to be rid of him.

  She wouldn't have wished him dead, but she was glad to be free of him, to have a chance to build a safe and decent life for herself. That's why she had allowed her neighbors to think she'd been widowed for over a year, as uncomfortable as she was with yet another lie. But it would have been unseemly for a widow to bury her husband and open a boardinghouse eight weeks later. She would tell Lida the truth, of course, that Jack had drowned two months ago. But she would never tell anyone what had happened that dreadful night.

  What a tangled mess of lies and broken dreams she'd wrought.

  She placed Lida's letter in the drawer beside a small velvet bag—the only security she had left. She shook the contents onto the white lawn dresser scarf. The diminishing thickness of the pile sent a wave of panic through her. She should have had fifty dollars left. She would have had fifty dollars if she'd been able to keep her boardinghouse filled each night.

  That scoundrel saloon owner was ruining her life.

  She clenched her fist around her last nineteen dollars. She would not be forced into depending on a man again. Somehow she was going to shut down that wretched saloon.

  Chapter Two

  What a surprise the widow Claire Ashier had turned out to be. When Boyd had seen her standing on the porch last night, he'd never expected to find himself staring into the face of an angel with angry, starlit eyes.

  He was certain she hadn't intentionally pulled the trigger on her revolver, but her daring in standing up to him and his patrons, and her ability to trap him into a church date, had thoroughly impressed him. Claire Ashier had an edge to her that warned people to stand aside. Damned if that didn't draw him like a dog to a bone. He loved a good challenge.

  Whistling, he tucked a small wood carving in his pocket and left his saloon. He strode across Main Street to Claire's house, then took the steps of her front porch in a single leap.

  Time to see what the lady was made of.

  It took well over a minute for her to open the door, but only seconds for her disdainful expression to be replaced with surprise. A spark of appreciation filled her eyes as she surveyed his black wool suit and the Kersey overcoat he'd left open. Boyd stepped into her foyer, pleased with himself. He'd gotten her attention.

  A brightly burning lantern lit the hall and spilled into the surrounding r
ooms. A glance told him Claire hadn't changed anything in the beautiful house. The east and west parlors were still decorated in busy gold and burgundy wallpaper. Heavy draperies dressed tall windows, and chandeliers hung from high, tin-plated ceilings. The music room was also the same elegant decor of patterned carpets and rich, glowing woodwork in which her grandmother had taken such pride. More sheet music rested on the piano. He couldn't see the kitchen or pantry at the back of the house, nor the formal dining room from where he stood, but he suspected they were unchanged as well.

  He had carted wood for Claire's grandmother so often during the past two years, and eaten Marie's baked goods at her kitchen table, that the place felt like home to him. He was glad Claire hadn't changed anything.

  She reached for the closet door, but Boyd slipped his hand over hers, trapping it between the doorknob and his palm. She jerked her gaze to his, the message in her eyes deadly.

  "I have something I want to give you before we leave." He released her hand and put his closed fists behind his back. "Choose a hand."

  Her brow furrowed. "What?"

  "It's a game, Mrs. Ashier. Don't tell me you've never played before."

  "I don't play games." She turned back to the closet, but he raised one fist and held it a few inches from her haughty nose.

  "I'll give you a hint. It's not in my left hand."

  The slight twitch of her lips flooded him with satisfaction. She ignored him and retrieved an indigo blue wool coat from the closet. "I don't like surprises, and I don't accept gifts from men."

  "It's not a gift. It's an invoice for replacing my window."

  Her eyebrows jerked up with such surprise, he bit his lip to stop his grin.

  "Well, in that case," she said, thoroughly flustered as she opened her hand. "I won't apologize for doing it, but I will accept responsibility."

  Instead of an invoice, Boyd placed the carving on her palm.

  She frowned, her gaze moving between his face and the small sculpted piece of wood. "What is this?"