Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (51 page)

“Sorry. Just a touch more,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I want to make sure it doesn’t get infected. I think you’re going to have a bruise on your instep.”

“I was asking why you’re surprised that I like Sailor?”

He finished wiping her toe, replaced the cap on the bottle and rose to his feet. “Because he’s a weaseling, ill-mannered maniac. And because you seem to prefer your own company.”

Her lashes lowered like window shades, and Boyd knew he’d struck a vein.

He set the bottle of iodine on the table. “Is it too forward of me to ask how long you’ve been a widow?”

“Yes.” Her chin lifted and she met his eyes, but he sensed that behind her brave front she was hiding something. “It’s not that I prefer my own company, Mr. Grayson. It’s that I prefer not to subject myself to the games, petty judgments, and humiliating exchanges that most relationships contain.”

“Relationships also contain companionship and joy.”

“That’s why I like Sailor. Despite being clumsy and a bit rambunctious, I don’t have to wonder if his actions are sincere.” She stroked the dog’s bony back. “He just needs some training to polish his manners.”

“Would you train him? If I brought him over each day, would you teach him some manners?”

The look on Claire’s face told him she saw right through his ploy, but she didn’t order him to leave. She gave him one of those looks women get just before they take you into the jeweler’s shop and empty your pockets.

“Are you willing to fill my wood bins each day in return?”

There it was. Her payment for services rendered. He was used to this subtle maneuvering. And good at it.

“Of course.” He could barely contain his grin. He’d had women eager to bed him, women eager to be wooed, but this was the first time he’d ever had to use Sailor as a go-between. Claire Ashier was only eager to get her wood bins filled.

Well, he would change that.

“You’ll have to bring him first thing in the morning. We can start this Friday. Before breakfast.”

“Before breakfast? I’m lucky if I wake up before lunch unless I’ve promised to work at the mill that day.”

“Morning is the only time I’ll be able to do it.”

She was playing him, and he knew it, but he was playing her, too, and she knew it, so the only way for him to win—and he intended to win—was to agree to her terms. But before breakfast? That would be dawn for a woman like Claire. Not even Sailor got up that early.

“If that doesn’t suit you—”

“It’s fine,” he said then gave her his most disarming smile. “But I was hoping we could arrange evening visits.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I’ll be hosting prayer meetings in the evenings.”

“Here?” he asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. The thought of a hundred righteous do-gooders, praying and caterwauling hymns only yards from his door, raised the hair on his arms. “Claire, it’s bad enough having those women visit my saloon each day. It’ll be torture having that noise seep into my life around the clock.”

Her lips curved into a pleased smile. “I know.”

Wednesday evening Claire prowled her bedchamber, searching for something to distract her from the yawning emptiness of the house. She wished she had a dog like Sailor to keep her company, but she couldn’t risk offending her boarders. Maybe a cat. No. No, she could never have a cat. It would be a constant reminder of... no. No cat.

The vast silence mocked her.

She rested her forearm on top of the chifforobe and looked out her window at the Pemberton Inn. With the noise coming from that rum hole, she would be lucky to rent out a single room this week.

Not only would that leave her without an income, it would leave her alone in the house. Without boarders, she had too much time to think, too much time to remember. She couldn’t be alone, especially next week during the Christmas holiday. It would be unbearable.

A panicky feeling washed through her, and she closed her hand around the tiny carving. Was there anything she could do to convince Boyd Grayson to close his saloon? Was there
anything
that would touch his heart, or challenge his honor, or appeal to his sense of decency?

Failing that, how long would it take for her to find his Achilles’ heel?

Her stomach tightened with dread. She would have to spend two dollars tomorrow to replenish the items in her pantry. That would leave her seventeen dollars.

She needed boarders.

She needed that saloon closed.

“What am I going to do, Grandma?” Sighing, she opened the dresser drawer and trailed her fingers over her grandmother’s diary then raised the book to her nose. It smelled of leather and her grandmother’s rose sachet.

Swallowing her anxiety, she took the journal downstairs to the parlor. She sat in a deep-seated rocking chair near the fireplace and hugged the journal to her chest. The rocking motion soothed her, and she envisioned herself as a little girl being rocked in her grandmother’s arms. A sense of peace filled her and she felt more relaxed. She’d loved this creaky old chair and her grandmother’s girlish laugh and the flowery smell of the house.

This was home.

Her home.

She needed to stay here. She
would
stay here.

“I could sure use your help, Grandma.” The sound of her own voice made her sigh. She was talking to a book. Maybe she
should
get a dog.

The name Marie Claire Dawsen was written on the first page of the diary. Claire recognized her grandmother’s handwriting—it was the same slanted script that filled the rest of the journal. She stroked her fingertips over the page and began to read.

I am overflowing with confusion and heartache, but I cannot share this inner torment with anyone.

This morning Abe—I dare not write his real name—pressed his cheek to my hair. His breath felt warm against my ear as he said my name... just my name, but oh, how he spoke it, soft as a prayer, his voice filled with pain and a passion we are forbidden. He is husband to another, father to four, prisoner to his obligations. I am a pastor’s wife. But here, in the circle of Abe’s arms, amidst the smell of coffee and wood shavings, I am a woman for the first time in my life.

A trembling breath of astonishment slipped from Claire’s tight throat. In stunned disbelief she reread the first page.

Her Grandma Dawsen had allowed a man who was not her husband to hold and caress her, to breathe his desire across the bare flesh of her ear? The act was so wicked it raised goose bumps on Claire’s neck to imagine the private, heated moment from fifty years past.

Judging by the date of the journal entry, her grandmother would have been in her early twenties at that time, and her Grandpa Dawsen would have been exiting his forties. Was their age difference the cause of her grandmother’s attraction to another man? Claire was just a child when her grandfather died, and though he’d been rather plain and quiet, he’d seemed like a good man who hadn’t deserved his wife’s infidelity.

What on earth had compelled a warm-hearted, honorable woman like Marie Dawsen to have relations with a married man?

Had Abe taken liberties with her grandmother? Had he trampled her protests like Boyd Grayson had trampled Claire’s earlier this morning? Had Abe pushed her grandmother into something she may not have wanted?

Lord knows Claire had tried to dissuade Boyd from such inappropriate behavior, but he’d been insistent and persuasive about doctoring her foot. His infringement on her person had been shocking. He’d frightened her with his nudging and controlling ways, embarrassed her with the liberties he’d taken. All she’d wanted was to get him out of her house. But the feel of his warm hands caressing her foot and ankle had made her shiver with need.

She never should have let him see her foot, let alone touch it. She’d been perfectly capable of treating her own wound. But she was so lonely, so desperate to connect with another human being, that she’d been unable to pull away from his touch.

Foolish, but true. Had her grandmother felt that way too?

The sound of laughter and a firm knock on her door startled Claire. She glanced at the clock above her mantel and realized the women were already arriving for the prayer meeting. She closed the diary and set it on a brass-trimmed tripod table beside her chair. When she opened the door, Desmona Edwards and four other women stood on her porch.

“I see we’re the first to arrive,” Desmona said, stepping into the foyer at Claire’s bidding. “These are my daughters,” she added, waving her wrinkled hand at four women of Claire’s mother’s age. “Elizabeth is my youngest daughter. Mary is my oldest then Beatrice and Virginia.”

“Pleased to meet you, ladies,” Claire said.

They all returned Claire’s greeting. The youngest daughter, Elizabeth, who looked the oldest with her weary eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, shrank away from Claire’s regard. Her visible discomfort surprised Claire, who glanced at Desmona.

“I’m afraid Elizabeth has never outgrown her shyness,” Desmona said, exasperation in her voice.

Elizabeth’s flushed cheeks elicited Claire’s sympathy. “Are you married, Elizabeth?” she asked, hanging their coats in the closet then guiding the ladies into the parlor.

Elizabeth nodded, her eyes as bleak as if she were admitting to being an inmate in Hell. Suddenly Claire knew that it wasn’t shyness making Elizabeth shrink away from people. It was fear. Women who were beaten didn’t often make new friends. They typically pulled away from family and friends, and shut down their emotions to protect themselves.

Compassion rushed through Claire, but she warned herself not to get involved. She had her own troubles. She was finally free to build herself a safe new life. She would march for temperance to help women like Elizabeth, but she couldn’t involve herself personally with anyone else’s marriage problems.

With stiff-jointed slowness, Desmona lowered herself into the rocking chair Claire had just vacated. “Dreadfully cold this evening.”

“It certainly is,” Claire agreed, remembering how the bitter cold had permeated her bones earlier that afternoon when she and ninety-eight other women had trudged through the snow-covered streets to plead their case with the saloon owners. “Do you think Mr. Clark will allow us inside tomorrow?” she asked, irritated that the drug store owner had locked them out and refused to listen to their request to stop selling liquor.

“We have decided not to call on Mr. Clark tomorrow.”

Desmona tugged her sweater around her hunched shoulders. “The men will pay him a visit to see if they can talk some sense into him.”

“Let’s pray they’re successful.” Claire looked out her window to see several women walking up the street toward her house. “The rest of the ladies are coming.”

“Good to be prompt.” Desmona glanced at the end table beside her chair and lifted her gray eyebrows in surprise. “What a beautiful book,” she said, reaching for the journal on the table.

The thought of anyone reading her grandmother’s diary made Claire’s heart race. Especially after discovering her grandmother’s inappropriate actions with Abe. If anyone learned of it, her grandmother’s reputation would be sullied, and Claire would suffer as well.

“Is this your journal?” Desmona asked, tilting the leather-bound diary toward the light while admiring the gilded lettering.

“No.” Claire stepped forward to retrieve the journal, but Desmona opened the cover.

“Oh. It’s your grandmother’s,” she said, her eyes focusing inside.

“It’s rather dry reading,” Claire said, opening her hand as a request for Desmona to return the book.

Desmona ignored her and turned to the first incriminating page. “I’ve always wondered what one would write in a journal.”

“Daily information mostly,” Claire said, trying to distract Desmona from reading further. “She wrote about the weather and the neighbors and such.”

“Really?” Desmona asked, but when she lifted her head, Claire could see that Desmona had read enough to know that she was lying. Her heart pounded as she faced the knowing look in Desmona’s eyes. “I should love to read this when you’re finished with it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t share something so personal.” She boldly tugged the diary from Desmona’s gnarled fingers. “It would breach my grandmother’s privacy. I’m sure she expected to burn this long before she died.”

Desmona’s lips thinned. “Perhaps she should have.”

Claire couldn’t agree more. Why would anyone document something so unsavory? She tucked the book under her arm and went to the foyer. How stupid of her to have let Desmona open the diary. She put the book inside her desk, turned the key in the lock then slipped the key into her skirt pocket.

She opened the front door, and a stream of women flowed inside. After several minutes of holding her door open to the frigid weather, Claire’s house was filled with rustling skirts and the smell of winter air mingled with lavender and rose powder.

Women crowded into every room and vied for a position in the doorways to see Mrs. Barker who was speaking in the foyer. They complained that they couldn’t see her, or hear her, interrupting so often that Mrs. Barker finally raised her hand for silence.

She turned to Claire. “Would you mind if we moved our prayer meeting to the church?”

“Of course not,” Claire said with relief. She had no idea how crowded her house would be, or how invaded she would feel having a hundred women milling through her home. She thought to support her cause and taunt Boyd Grayson at the same time, but she was the one who felt infringed upon.

The women poured out of her home and headed toward town. Desmona and her daughters exited last, and Claire felt a physical rush of relief when she stepped outside behind them, pulling her door closed.

She glanced across the street to the Pemberton Inn where Boyd Grayson stood on the front steps of his saloon. “Short meeting tonight?” he asked, his deep, sardonic voice carrying over to her.

She lifted her chin, irritated that her plan to annoy him had fallen through. “We’re just getting started, Mr. Grayson. We’ll be back tomorrow.” She turned away from his knowing grin and ran straight into Desmona.

“Oh! Mrs. Edwards!” She caught Desmona’s arm and steadied the old lady. “I’m so sorry.”

“No harm done.” Desmona shooed her daughters ahead of her then cautiously planted her walking stick as she picked her way down the rutted street. “Your grandmother was an interesting lady,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know her better.”

Claire’s stomach tightened, her mind scrambling for a way to yank this bone from Desmona’s teeth without provoking the woman. “Grandma was a grand storyteller. She filled my ears with stories about knights and princes and ordinary men who would move heaven and earth for their lady love. Her journal is filled with dozens of story ideas. I appreciate them because I grew up with her tales, but I doubt you would find the journal all that interesting.”

“On the contrary. I was intrigued by her diary from the very first sentence.”

Heat rushed up Claire’s neck. Desmona didn’t believe a word of her explanation. This old woman might look frail, but she smelled scandal, and wouldn’t stop digging until her curiosity was satisfied.

“Do you think Mr. Harrison will stop selling liquor in his hotel?” she asked, deciding that an abrupt change of subject would effectively show Mrs. Edwards that she had no business asking questions about the diary.

“I presume so,” Desmona said, watching her footing as she walked beside Claire. “If he’s set on getting the deputy sheriff’s position, his conscience will force him to stop.”

“Does this mean that Sheriff Grayson will take our pledge, too?”

Desmona shook her head, making the tiny beads on her gray velour bonnet tremble. “He already holds the position of sheriff with little fear of losing it.”

“Why should the sheriff be an exception?” Claire asked. “He should be one of the men setting an example for this town.”

“He does. The Grayson boys are highly regarded by our menfolk. Each year those boys contribute a goodly amount of lumber for our local charity projects. The oldest boy, Radford, is a war hero. Kyle is a respected businessman who employs several of our townsmen. Sheriff Grayson does a fine job of keeping our town safe. He may visit the saloons on occasion, but he doesn’t cause trouble or sell liquor.”

“His younger brother does. In that rum hole across the street from my home.”

“A shame it is, too,” Desmona said, huffing as they crossed the Common toward the church. “That boy is wasting his life in that saloon.”

Claire couldn’t agree more.

“I suppose he comes by it naturally though,” Desmona said. “His father was tall and handsome and full of charm. Hal Grayson was a rascal, if an incredibly talented young man. My Addison wanted to hire him to build furniture for our store. I’d hoped the boy would take a shine to one of my girls, but Hal had other plans. He started up a sawmill and set his sights on Nancy Tremont. They had four boys who inherited his good looks and her energy. Boyd got Hal’s talent and wild nature.” Desmona stopped at the entrance to the church. “And that young man is as obstinate as his father was, and he isn’t going to close his saloon just because we ask him to.”