o0o
A literal herd of women crowded Boyd's saloon. He whistled in amazement. Every woman in Fredonia must be marching. But the only face he could seem to focus on was Claire's. She wore her hood up, but thick honey-gold hair brushed her cheeks and fell softly across the breast of her coat. Her eyes held a silent challenge that warmed his blood.
Her face was pink from the cold, but he imagined it flushed with passion, her hair loose and her eyes half closed as he kissed her neck, her breasts, her...
Her naked image came to him so clearly it flooded his body with heat. He clenched his fingers around the mug handle, struggling for any thought that would drag his mind away from undressing her.
She smiled at him. "You look shocked, Mr. Grayson."
He was shocked all right. By his own desire. He'd never felt such intensity in his life. "I was expecting ten or twenty women," he said, struggling to regain his balance.
Her lips tilted in a superior half-smile. "There are over one hundred of us."
"And there'll be more," said Mrs. Barker. She and Mrs. Williams then pleaded with him to close his saloon and spare the poor wives and children any more suffering.
In the early afternoons, Boyd's saloon was usually quiet, but Pat Lyons, who was sitting at the bar drinking an ale, and Karlton Kane, who had been hauling in Boyd's weekly order of liquor, both stopped what they were doing and stared as if the women had lost their minds.
"Ladies," Boyd said, "I admire your efforts, but closing down drinking establishments isn't the answer to improving your home life. A man who neglects his family or beats his wife will do so whether he's a drunkard or not. Closing saloons will not make those men stop abusing their families."
"Can you prove that?" Claire asked. To his surprise, she seemed sincere.
"No. I can't. But do you suppose that man's family might be safer with him drinking at home?"
Understanding dawned in her eyes and she exhaled slowly. "No."
"Then you have my answer. I will not close my saloon." Instead of debating, Mrs. Barker turned to the ladies.
"Let's sing a hymn and pray that Mr. Grayson will reconsider his position."
Before he could tell her not to bother, the women filled his saloon with a mournful rendition of "Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow." Sailor howled and scratched on the door of the storeroom where Karlton had quickly caged him after seeing the women marching toward the front door.
The deep baritone of a man's voice drew Boyd's attention to Pat, who was standing beside the bar singing loud enough to wake snakes. Boyd glanced at Karlton, but the burly distiller shrugged as if he had no idea why Pat had suddenly changed sides.
The hymn ended and Pat bowed. "Well done, ladies."
The women glowered at Pat, but to Boyd's astonishment, Claire was fighting a smile.
"We've done our best for this day." Mrs. Barker shooed the ladies toward the door. Let's move on."
Boyd winked at Claire, but the humor in her eyes vanished. She marched out the door like a sergeant mustering her troops.
o0o
On Wednesday morning Claire began her chores with a renewed sense of purpose. The temperance cause was already gaining ground. Monday evening, after their first march, J. D. Maynard had signed their pledge and agreed to stop selling alcoholic beverages in his drug store. Of course, on Tuesday D. A. Clark warned them not to visit his drugstore again, as their visits were annoying.
Levi Harrison was more of a gentleman. He'd told the ladies he would consider their proposal if they returned to his hotel at eleven o'clock.
Claire and her fellow marchers would be there. Business by business, they were going to rid the town of alcohol. Day by day, bottle by bottle, they would tear down this mountain of evil.
She stepped from her warm kitchen into her cold woodshed and felt her spirits plummet. She loathed carrying wood.
Piece by piece, she stacked it in her arms, then groaned as she carried it inside. This was only the beginning. After she filled the huge bin in the kitchen, she would have to carry three loads into her parlor, and another armload upstairs for the fireplace in her bedchamber. If she was lucky enough to get a boarder, she would have to carry wood for that room, too. It was enough to make a woman wish for a man.
Almost.
She dumped her load of wood into the kitchen bin with a crash, then headed back to the shed. She would haul her own fuel each day for the rest of her life to avoid enduring another marriage like the one she'd suffered.
No job could belittle her or cause her the pain Jack had. Nothing could terrify her more than losing control of her life again, or subjugating herself to a man's cruel demands.
Nothing.
The thought of Jack shattered her calm. He'd been dead for weeks, but she couldn't escape him. His domineering presence lived within her, ruling her thoughts, keeping her scared. He was dead. She'd seen his gray, bloated body. She'd watched them lower his coffin deep into the earth and bury it. But Jack Ashier felt as alive as if he were standing behind her.
Spiders crawled up her back, and she shivered.
She would never forget that deadly look in his eyes, or the ice-cold fear that sliced through her when he pulled her beneath the brown river water.
Her knees weakened, and she lurched outside into the frigid morning air. She sucked deep gulps of cold air into her lungs as she slid down the shed wall. Her backside hit the top step and halted her downward plunge.
"Dear God," she whispered, clasping her stomach and rocking on the step. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block her last image of Jack's enraged face and the deadly intent in his eyes.
He'd wanted to kill her. He would have killed her.
A loud breath near her ear knifed terror straight through her heart. She screeched and recoiled, slamming her head against the shed wall. She opened her eyes and found herself nose-to-nose with a long-legged, panting white dog with brown spots and pointy ears that didn't quite stand up. He stared at her with huge chocolate-drop eyes, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth.
Realizing it wasn't her late husband, and that the dog wasn't angling for her throat, she released a hard, trembling breath and clasped a hand over her heart.
"What are you doing here?"
The dog emitted a wheezy, whistling sound.
Her senses returned slowly, and she took two deep breaths before easing away from the wall. She rubbed the back of her head and stared at the dog with dismay, realizing it belonged to Boyd Grayson. "You scared the life out of me. Did your owner send you over here to do that?" After two days of marching on Boyd's saloon, she wouldn't have doubted his desire to make her pay for disrupting his day.
The dog wheezed again, but with his mouth parted and his tongue hanging out the side, he looked like he was grinning at her.
"Don't try to charm me, mister." She scooted to the edge of the step. "I've had enough of that from your owner."
Still wearing his brainless canine grin, the dog dropped into a sitting position and lifted his paw.
She gaped at him.
As if the dog understood she wasn't going to shake his wet, padded paw, he planted it on the snowy ground in front of him and sat watching her.
"Go on," she said, shooing him away with her hand. "Go home."
He trotted in the direction she'd moved her hand, sniffed the ground, then came back and sat in front of her again.
"I didn't throw anything. I was telling you to go home."
He stared at her with his big eyes, tilting his head and panting, not moving a toenail. She sighed and glanced toward the street to see if her neighbors were about. The street was empty. Just like her life.
"Can you carry wood?" she asked.
The dog's wheezy answer made her smile.
"Oh, bother. Come here." She held out her hand and the dog leapt forward, his tail swinging wildly behind him as she stroked his head. "I could use some company, even if you aren't much for conversation."
o0o
Boyd shrugged on his coat as he stepped outside. He scanned Main Street in both directions, wondering which neighbor his dog was begging scraps from this time. The shameless mutt had become a mooch, and though Boyd admired Sailor's cunning, he didn't like him imposing on the neighbors, or having to chase after the dog each day. Still, he couldn't go to the lumber mill without the mutt. God knows where the rascal would end up if left to his own devices.
Boyd gave a shrill whistle and followed a smattering of dog tracks down Chestnut Street, hoping they belonged to his dog. They trailed from the middle of the street to the edge, then back again, as if Sailor had been trying to decide where his best chances lay. Suddenly, the prints veered left and climbed a small bank of snow to the rear of Claire Ashier's house. Boyd glanced across her yard and saw that they led right to her back door.
And stopped there.
He grinned in anticipation as he followed the tracks. If Sailor had wheedled his way inside, he had just earned himself a prime bone from the butcher.
When Boyd reached the back door to the shed it was open, but neither Claire nor Sailor were around. Having made this trip hundreds of times to carry wood for Claire's grandmother, he strode through the shed and knocked on the door that connected the woodshed with the kitchen.
Sailor's yelp and the sound of chair legs screeching across the hardwood floor told Boyd he'd guessed correctly. God he loved that mutt. Sailor was the master of weaseling.
Claire opened the door, her eyes guarded and cool. Sailor barked and wagged his tail, wheezing like an overheated boiler. Boyd rubbed his dog's head, but spoke to Claire.
"Has Sailor picked out his own room yet?"
"What?" Her brow furrowed. "Oh." Her confusion melted instantly, and though she released a breath that resembled a gasp of embarrassment, she didn't smile. "He followed me inside while I was carting wood."
"Did he carry his share?"
Her lips pursed. "He tracked up my floor."
Boyd pointed to several chunks of wood beside the wood bin. "Where are your manners, Sailor? Bring in some wood for Mrs. Ashier. Go on."
Sailor lunged out the door. He swiped Boyd's knees then skidded to a stop before the wood scraps. After two seconds of rooting in the pile, Sailor bit into a hefty hunk of wood that he struggled to keep clenched in his mouth. He made it as far as the kitchen, then dropped it on Claire's foot.
Her eyes shot open as she gasped, or maybe Boyd did—he couldn't discern who was more shocked. Her grip tightened on the door handle and she shifted as she extracted her slipper-covered foot from beneath the heavy chunk of wood. Her accusing eyes met Boyd's, but she didn't say a word.
"Claire—Mrs. Ashier—that wasn't supposed to happen."
She didn't look convinced. "Good-bye, Mr. Grayson."
She tried to close the door, but Boyd braced his hand against the hard flat surface, feeling terrible that she'd been hurt. "I'm sorry. Truly, Mrs. Ashier. Sailor lugs wood around all the time at the saloon. I'm always tripping over pieces of kindling that he drags out of the bucket." He reached down and grabbed the hunk of wood before Sailor could get his teeth around it again. He tossed it into the bin behind him then faced Claire, who was pale. "I'd better look at your toes."
She reared back. "You will not!"
"That was a heavy piece of wood, Mrs. Ashier. I really think—"
"My toes are fine," she said, but her voice was thin, as if she were in pain.
"Then it must be your slipper that's bleeding."
She jerked her gaze to her feet then gripped the doorknob with both hands.
He caught her elbow and turned her toward a small oak table in her "kitchen. "At least allow me to help you into a chair." He nudged the door closed with his foot. "I hope your toes aren't too damaged. I'm not very good at stitching."
"I fail to see the humor in this." She tried to tug her arm free, but he maintained his grip as she limped toward a high back cane-bottom chair at the table.
The light sheen of perspiration on her forehead told him she was in far more pain than she was admitting. The split piece of firewood had been heavy, with a jagged edge that had hit her square on the top of her foot.
The instant she was seated, he knelt at her feet. "Would you mind lifting your gown?"
She clapped her hands over her knees and glared at him. "Take your dog and go home. I'm capable of tending to my own toes."
"I'm afraid I can't leave without making sure your foot isn't badly damaged."
"I told you, it's fine."
He ignored her and tugged the slipper off her foot.
"Mister Grayson!"
"Your toes are still attached. That's a good sign."
"How dare you be so...so impudent."
He fought to hide a grin as he sat back on one heel.
"Now, is there really cause here to malign my male prowess, Mrs. Ashier?"
"Your what?" As if she suddenly realized what he'd said, her face colored. "I suggested no such thing. I called you impudent, Mr. Grayson. That means arrogant, audacious, disrespectful—in case you didn't know."
He did know. He'd been accused of being impudent on many occasions, but he enjoyed getting her stirred up. "Well, it sounded like something far less desirable." He propped her foot on his thigh, but she gasped and yanked it away.
"What are you doing?" she asked in outrage.
"Trying to make sure your foot isn't broken."
"It's cut and bruised. Nothing more. Now please leave me to tend to my personal business."
"What if your foot is broken?" he asked, looking up at her. "If you can't walk, how will you hail the doctor? How will you care for yourself or your boarders?"
"I don't have any boarders, thanks to you."
"I'm sorry about that," he said, retrieving the clean handkerchief he'd tucked in his pocket before leaving the saloon. "Let me satisfy my curiosity, and I'll leave you in peace." He pulled her foot to his thigh, but she jerked away.
"I'm afraid your curiosity will have to go unquenched."
"Honestly, Claire, you would think I was trying to ravish you." He slipped his hand over her slender foot and smiled up at her. "Your pretty feet are most tempting, but I can control myself for a minute or two." He pulled her foot back to his thigh, and held firm when she tried to tug away. "If you keep kicking and tussling you will make me impudent, or whatever that word is."
She snorted, and he looked up in surprise, wondering if he'd really heard the hint of a laugh. Her lips were pursed, but her eyes...her gorgeous blue eyes sparkled.
"You look like your grandmother when you laugh." Because he knew she would deny her laughter, or reprimand him for using her given name, he lowered his head. "Please, Claire. Give me a minute to look at this. I need to be certain you aren't badly hurt." To his relief she gave in and let him feel her foot through her stocking. It was warm against his thigh, slender, and delicately sculpted at her ankle. He wanted to tug her stocking off and feel the smoothness of her skin, trace the line of her shinbone beneath his fingers.
"Is it broken?"
"I don't believe so. But I think the chunk of wood split the skin on your hallux."
"My what?"
"Your big toe." He smiled at her. "I assumed if you knew what impudent meant you would surely know the word hallux."
Instead of frowning, she tilted her head to study him.
"What truly baffles me is how you know the word."
He liked that she was turning the tables on him. "I took a bad fall in the gorge when I was nine. I'd broken a rib, but when the doctor told me I'd also broken my hallux, I thought he meant my back. After he told me I'd only broken my big toe, I was so relieved, I never forgot the word."
She studied him, and he returned her scrutiny. In the sudden stillness he could not only hear Sailor panting, but his own heart-pounding like a drum. He wanted to kiss her. Really kiss her. The kind of kiss that burns deep in the gut, that stops time, that makes two people cling and beg and go i
nsane with lust.
"You're hurting my toe."
Her whispered complaint jolted him and he realized he'd been gripping her toes. "Sorry." He drew a shuddering breath and released her foot. "Do you have any iodine?"
"I'll put some on after—"
"Where is it?"
She sighed and pointed toward a door on the far wall of her kitchen. "In the water closet cabinet."
"Take off your stockings."
"I will not." She started to stand, but he caught her hips and pushed her back down. She gasped, her expression outraged.
"You go too far."
"I'm doing what I have to." He winked. "Stay put. I'll get the iodine."
"You are insufferable."
"So I've been told." He stood up, and Sailor leapt to his feet. "Stay, Sailor."
Sailor's ears drooped and he blinked at Claire. She held out her hand. "Don't let him bully you, too."
The dog's tongue flopped out of the side of his mouth and he ducked beneath her hand. She scratched his head and he horned in closer.
The damned mutt was right where Boyd wanted to be.
The unfairness of it rankled as he crossed the kitchen to retrieve the iodine. He could barely share a civil word with Claire, but his weasel of a dog was flopped against her sweet curves, basking in her affection like she owned him.
Well, maybe Sailor wasn't as smart as Boyd thought. If Boyd were a dog, he'd climb right into Claire's lap and start licking her from the neck down.
Whoa. The thought stopped him mid-stride.
Claire pulled off her stocking then glanced at him. "What's the matter?"
He stood in the middle of the kitchen, warning himself to calm down, to rein in and slow the horse before he frightened her away.
"Are you all right?"
He was ready to ride for the finish line, but he hadn't even gotten Claire out of the gate yet. But he would, he decided. If it was the only thing he accomplished in his life, he was going to make love to Claire Ashier.
He clenched the iodine in his fist and knelt at her feet.
"I'd like you to address me as Boyd," he said. He repositioned her bare foot on his thigh. She didn't fight him this time or comment on his request.
The Longing Page 29