Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (53 page)

Friday morning Claire slogged down Main Street through ankle-deep slush, shaking with cold and exhaustion. She longed to be safe in bed beneath her grandmother’s thick comforter, sipping a cup of hot tea.

Instead, she spent an hour at church then tromped through the cold wind to visit Baldwin’s Drug Store, the Taylor House, and three saloons. The proprietors all refused to sign the temperance pledge.

The women ended their march at Barker Common. Claire was shaking so badly from the cold and fatigue, she sank onto a park bench to rest before going to the sheriff’s office. Elizabeth winced as she half-collapsed beside her.

“Are you all right?” Claire asked, her heart filling with compassion for the hurting woman. “I noticed you’ve been favoring your left side all morning.”

Elizabeth’s eyes misted and she gravely shook her head. “I’m not all right, but my mother is heading our directions and I don’t want her to know the cause of my injury.” She met Claire’s eyes. “How did you know?”

“I was in your situation once,” Claire said, realizing too late that she’d revealed her secret. She saw Desmona making her way toward them. “Maybe you should tell your parents. They might be able to help you.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “My father is too old and unhealthy. I’m afraid the shock and worry would kill him. He thinks my husband is a good man. I don’t want him to know about this.”

Claire frowned. “A good man doesn’t beat his wife.”

“He’s not all bad,” Elizabeth said, repeating the same words Claire had once said about her own husband. “Ted works hard and provides well for us. He was a good father to our two girls.”

“He didn’t... bother your girls like this, did he?”

“No. He was good to them. They never knew we had problems.”

Desmona was too near for them to continue the conversation, so Claire patted Elizabeth’s hand and stood. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered. Then she strode across the park toward the old academy building that housed the sheriff’s office, before Desmona could corner her.

Sheriff Grayson sat at a scarred pine desk, elbows propped on either side of a stack of papers. One finger tapped the page he was reading, the other hand was braced on his forehead with his fingers stuck in his thick brown hair. He was handsome in a rough and rangy way, but clearly Boyd’s brother.

The massive desk sat in the middle of a room the size of the connecting jail cell. Although the sheriff seemed comfortable in the tiny walled off space, she thought he would appear more at home in his family sawmill, wrestling logs and working alongside the massive horses that moved the timber. She was hesitant to disturb him, but couldn’t leave without telling him about the note. She tapped on the doorframe.

“Sheriff Grayson?”

He looked up and smiled as if he’d seen her coming for miles and had just been waiting for her knock.

“Has another saloon owner locked you out?” he asked, referring to Don Clark, who had done just that on Wednesday.

“We didn’t call on Mr. Clark today,” she said. “We sent the men around yesterday, and decided this morning to adjourn our marches until Monday.”

“Then you’re either guilty of something or you’ve got a good-sized problem on your hands.”

She stepped into the room. “This was tacked to my door last night.” She handed him the note.

He leaned back in his chair and gestured for her to sit. As he read, his dark brows lowered. “Is this why you wouldn’t answer your door?”

She nodded.

“Do you know who wrote this?”

“Maybe Don Clark. Maybe... I don’t know. It could be anybody.” She sighed, feeling weary to the bone. “Whoever wrote it obviously means to stop our marches.”

He scowled. “Did you tell anyone about the note?”

“No.” She met his eyes and knew he wasn’t only referring to the women she marched with. He wanted to know if she’d accused any of the saloon owners. “I don’t want to worry the ladies, or cast suspicion on any man without knowing who wrote it.”

“I need to keep this.” He laid the paper on the arrest warrant he’d been reading. “I’ll question Don and the other saloon owners this afternoon.”

“Will you question your brother too?” Despite her effort to maintain eye contact, his frown made her drop her gaze to her cold, clenched fingers.

“Do you think Boyd would do this?”

The sheriff’s tone implied his brother would never do such a thing, but she could only shrug. She honestly didn’t know what Boyd Grayson would do.

“Mrs. Ashier?”

She looked up to see sympathy in his eyes.

“I know you’re frightened, but I’d stake my badge on my brother’s innocence. He would never threaten a lady. In fact, when I tell him about this note, I’m going to have a hard time keeping him from hunting down the author.”

“Why would he get involved?”

“Because he’s the kind of man who protects those who can’t protect themselves. When Boyd was ten he fought a boy twice his size because the boy had been picking on one of our friends. Kyle, Radford, and I had to restrain Boyd while the older boy ran home.”

“You believe he’s innocent then?”

“Yes.” The sheriff leaned his wide shoulders back in his chair. “My brother is too hot-tempered to spend time writing a note, Mrs. Ashier. If he’d wanted to give you a warning, he’d have banged on your door and made sure you understood his message. But I’ll question him along with the other saloon owners.”

“Thank you,” she said, but she wasn’t ready to take the sheriff or Boyd Grayson at their word. She would watch and judge them by their actions.

She got to her feet and moved to the door. “Will you let me know when you find out who left the note?”

“Of course,” he said, pushing his chair back. The room shrank when he stood, and she instinctively took a step back. “My deputy and I will be around this afternoon to check on you.”

She nodded, but didn’t leave. “Did you ask Levi Harrison to stop selling liquor at his hotel?”

His eyebrows lowered. “Why?”

“Because it was an honorable thing to do.”

He sighed. “Don’t accuse me of being noble, Mrs. Ashier. I acted out of self-preservation. I couldn’t hire a rum seller as deputy when there are a hundred women in town who would scalp me for doing so.”

“Despite your penchant for frequenting your brother’s saloon, Sheriff Grayson, you just climbed a notch in my regard.”

* * *

Boyd slammed his empty mug on the bar, outraged. “Claire thinks
I
wrote the note?”

“Settle down,” Duke said then finished telling him about the incident. “She’s scared and doesn’t know what to think.”

Pat Lyons leaned his elbows on the bar beside them. “Who could be threatening her?”

“Any man in town.” Karlton, who was four inches shorter than Pat, stood behind the bar drying a beer mug. “She’s stirring up trouble with everybody.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true,” Duke said. “When Mrs. Ashier started the temperance push, I decided to do a little digging into her past. It seems her husband died sucking river water. Apparently Claire was there but unable to save him.”

Boyd’s gut tightened. “Do you think someone from her past could have left the note?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Ashier suspects everyone, but thinks Don Clark might be responsible. I can’t see Donny doing something like this though,” Duke said. “I’m going to talk with him now, but I want you three to keep this information about Mrs. Ashier in strict confidence. She’s pretty shaken up about it.”

“She should be,” Karlton said. “The saloon owners and our patrons aren’t taking too kindly to being harassed by a nagging group of women.”

“That doesn’t give anyone the right to threaten those women.”

“Didn’t say it did, Sheriff.” Karlton turned and thumped the mug down onto the back bar shelf, a handsomely carved unit backed with beveled mirrors.

Boyd clenched his fists to keep from swatting Karlton for being careless of the wood. It had taken him and his father six months to build and carve that back bar. It was the centerpiece of his establishment, a masterpiece of exquisitely figured mahogany combined with holly, flamed birch, and satinwood inlays, painstakingly joined together to showcase the wood and give the piece depth. And it had taken an entire day to mount the fifteen-foot unit behind the bar. It reflected the gas lighting and turned an otherwise ordinary saloon into a palace.

Boyd pushed away from the bar and grabbed his heavy coat off the rack behind him. “I’ll go talk to Claire,” he said, needing to get some air before he started barking at Karlton, or dwelling on the past.

“Don’t do that,” Duke said. “You’ll only scare her. Just watch her house and see if she gets any visitors.”

“Pat can do that. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll go with you to see Donny.”

Duke stepped in front of him and blocked his exit. “Don may not have had anything to do with this, Boyd.”

“I intend to verify that.”

“That’s my job.”

“I’m the one Claire suspects. I have a right to clear my name.”

With a lightning-quick flick of his hand, Duke snapped a handcuff around Boyd’s wrist.

“What are you doing?”

Duke jerked the empty cuff up to eye level, pulling Boyd’s bound wrist upward. “I’m making a point. You’re not getting involved in this. Settle down or I’ll finish the job.”

Boyd gritted his teeth, hating that his brother was the sheriff. Experience told him that if he didn’t back off, Duke wouldn’t hesitate to haul him downtown to that tiny jail cell, a claustrophobic little room with a cot and a latrine. His brother was a good drinking partner when he wasn’t wearing his badge, but he was hard-nosed when it came to upholding the law. No man got in the way of his duty. Not even a brother.

“Stay away from Don Clark,” Duke said.

“Fine.”

“Stay away from his store.”

Boyd gritted his teeth.

“Stay away from his house—”

“All right.” Boyd yanked his wrist. “Take this off me and get out of my saloon.”

Duke uncuffed him. “Walk me out.”

Boyd whistled for his dog then stepped outside into the frigid December air.

“I didn’t want to say this in front of Pat or Karlton,” Duke said, pulling the door closed, “but Jack Ashier died two months ago.”

Claire was in the kitchen writing a letter to her sister when she heard a dog barking in her wood shed. She pushed away from the table then opened the door, glad to have some canine company for a while. Sailor stared up at her with bright eyes and a silly tongue-lolling grin that made her laugh.

“Did you come to beg table scraps again?” she asked, having fed him the past two days.

With a happy yip, Sailor bounded inside, nearly knocking her over in his rush to enter.

“Oh. You rascal” She turned to face the dog, her hands on her hips. “You are supposed to wait to be invited inside.”

“Me, too?” asked a male voice from behind her.

Her heart careened into her ribs, and she whirled to find Boyd Grayson standing in the doorway with his arms full of firewood.

“I was supposed to fill your wood bins this morning, but I got delayed,” he said, forcing her to step aside as he entered the kitchen.

“Oh, well, yes...” She gripped the doorknob and tried to catch her breath. “Thank you for remembering, but I... I’ve decided to do it myself.”

“I can’t let you do that.” He dropped the pile of wood into the empty bin by her stove with a loud crash. She and the dog both jumped. “I made a promise to you.”

“Thank you, but I’ve changed my mind,” she said, opening the door wider to encourage him to leave. “I’d really rather do this myself.”

“Why, Claire? Because you think I wrote that note?”

Heat rushed to her face.

“Duke told me you suspect me.”

“I said you
could
have written it.”

“How could you think that?”

“You’re a saloon owner.”

His brows lowered. “So?”

“You have as much to lose as anybody if our marches are successful.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, Claire. The person who wrote that note is a coward without morals.”

She stepped away from him, afraid of the anger in his eyes. “Would you admit it if you had written it?”

His face darkened. “I don’t threaten women. I don’t commit cowardly acts. And I don’t lie.”

“How can I know that?” She lifted her chin and stared him in the eye. “Write a note for me.”

“What?”

She released the door knob and rushed to the table. She took a pen from a crystal inkwell and thrust it at him. “Let your handwriting prove that you didn’t write the note.” She pushed a sheaf of paper in front of him.

His eyes flared with anger, but he bent over the table.

With bold, angry slashes, he wrote on the paper then tossed the pen down.

Claire studied the slant of his writing. The author of the original note had slanted the top of his letters to the left.

Boyd’s slanted right. His script was bolder and more controlled than the script in the note she’d received.

But her heart stuttered as she read his scribbled words.
I’m not leaving until you stop questioning my integrity.

She cursed herself for being foolish. Without her gun, there was no way to evict Boyd Grayson from her home. Why had she been so rash to challenge him? Had she wanted to believe him innocent because she was beginning to like and respect his brother? Because she suspected there was more to Boyd than the rakehell he seemed to be?

Sailor nosed her thigh, and she reached down to stroke his half-mast ears. “I’m sorry, Boyd. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Then you believe I’m innocent?” She didn’t know what to believe, but couldn’t voice the truth. “Your writing is different from the script on the note.”

“I could have purposely changed my script—is that what you’re thinking?”

Her fingers trembled as she pressed them to her nauseous stomach. “I don’t know what to think.”

He gaped at her. “Do you honestly believe I would hurt you?”

She didn’t answer.

As he moved toward her, his shoulder collided with the edge of the door. Irritated, he elbowed it closed.

The loud slam made her recoil. She backed away from him, willing to agree with anything he said to get him out of her house. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he was capable of. A cruel, calculating man could be lurking behind his handsome face.

Tremors snaked through her stomach, and she struggled to keep her breathing even. “I... I don’t want anyone in my house right now.” She pointedly reached for the doorknob to show him out.

He clapped his hand over hers and trapped it. “I didn’t threaten you.”

She pulled away. “Then who did?”

He stepped around his dog, trapping her in a narrow space between his tall, hard body and the wall. “I don’t know, but it wasn’t me.”

She tried to move past him, but he blocked her escape.

His nearness smothered her. Her chest jerked with quick, panicky breaths. Jack had stalked her like this, torturing her with his cat-and-mouse games. He’d always won.

And she’d always lost in the most humiliating and painful way possible.

As if the dog sensed her distress, he wheezed and pushed against her side, offering comfort, but effectively blocking her exit from one direction. The wall was at her back. Boyd was directly in front of her. The kitchen door, her only escape, was to her right.

To her shame a whimper of panic squeezed from her throat. She planted her palms against Boyd’s chest and shoved him aside. She bolted for the door and yanked it open. The scuffle behind her sent ice through her veins as she sprinted into the woodshed.

A second later Boyd’s strong arms clamped around her waist, and the sound of her own scream filled her ears. It was useless to fight. She knew that. But she fought anyway.

* * *

“What the...?” Boyd stared in shock at the wild, gasping woman in his arms.

Her futile struggles and frightened whimpering wrung his heart.

She gasped and tried to wiggle out of his arms.

He tightened his grip. “I’m not going to hurt you. Shhhh... I won’t hurt you, Claire.” He kept his grip firm, holding her back against his chest as she struggled. “Easy. I’m not going to hurt you. Stop fighting me, and I’ll let you go.”

She stilled, but her chest jerked with every frightened breath she drew.

“I want to talk to you. That’s all.”

He felt the tension rippling through her stiff body.

“I’m only going to talk to you. Turn around and I’ll answer any questions you want to ask.”

Her shoulders slumped as if the fight had drained out of her. He loosened his arms, and she turned to face him.

Seeing her eyes glistening with tears tore a hole in his chest. He put some space between their bodies, but didn’t release her. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”

She raised wet, spiky lashes, and he saw real fear in her eyes.

“Ah, Claire. I’m sorry. I didn’t write that note. Nothing could make me harm you. Nothing.”

Doubt filled her eyes.

“No matter what the reason, I could never hurt a woman.”

She shivered, her breath misting in the cold air as she exhaled.

The fragrant smell of cut wood filled the frigid shed.

Her waist felt firm and warm against his forearms. He wanted to pull her close, tuck her head beneath his chin and hold her until she stopped trembling. Instead, he loosened his grip and turned her toward the open kitchen door.

“Go inside. It’s too cold out here,” he said, guiding her into the house.

He closed the door behind them, allowing her to put the table between them.

With a sigh, he leaned against the door. “Claire, I value two things in life. My family. And my integrity. I swear I didn’t write that note, and I would never, for any reason, harm you.”

“Why do men need to order and push and boss us around?” she asked, her voice hoarse and unsteady.

“I don’t know,” he said, sorry that he’d used his superior strength against her. “Maybe we just want women to listen.”

“I think you do it to intimidate us.”

He sighed and scraped his hair out of his eyes. “I just wanted you to hear what I was saying. Selling liquor doesn’t make me a woman-beater.”

“I never suggested it did.”

“But you think if I sell liquor, I’m capable of other reprehensible behavior.”

“Every man is capable of bad behavior, whether he drinks or not.”

“I agree. But I’ve never hit a woman and I never will. Despite my bad habits and faults, women seem to like my attention,” he said, hoping a bit of humor would calm her.

“I don’t.”

“You’re the first,” he said honestly. “Every mother in town has pushed their little princess into my path, hoping one kiss from their sweet lips will turn me into a prince. But alas, no luck.” He glanced down at Sailor, who was panting and nudging his thigh for attention. “I’m still a toad, and you’re still a dog,” he said, scratching the mutt’s head. “But we have our honor and our integrity, don’t we, boy? We don’t steal, we don’t drink our profits, and we don’t hurt women.” He glanced at Claire to make his point.

“I was afraid, and...” She shrugged, her face flushed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault. I didn’t realize how frightened you were.”

“Because you were too concerned with your wounded pride to notice.”

“He nodded. He had been too abrupt and aggressive. “I’m sorry, Claire. It makes me crazy to have my integrity questioned,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve lost control with a woman though.” He grinned, hoping to bring some levity to the situation. “Usually it’s the other way around.”

Her jaw dropped.

He loved the flush on her face and knowing that his stupid comment had taken her mind off her fear. “You would think all that kissing and amorous attention would have worked some magic on me. But I guess this toad hasn’t been kissed by the right woman.”

“It was a frog,” she said, her voice laced with disdain, “not a toad, that turned into a prince.”

“Toad. Frog. What’s the difference? The princess kissed the slimy thing and he became a prince.”

“Not in the fairy tale I read. In the Brothers Grimm version, the princess threw the frog against the wall.”

“
After
he’d slept in her bed for three nights,” he countered, enjoying their turn of conversation.

“That’s likely the reason she threw him against the wall.”

He laughed at her retort, glad he’d succeeded in turning their conversation. “This toad would definitely respond better to a kiss.”

“Then perhaps you should go find one of those many ladies who are willing to kiss you.”

“Would you do it, Claire? Would you kiss me and turn me into a prince?”

The wariness settled back in her eyes, but she didn’t bolt from the kitchen. “I kissed a man who looked like a prince, but he was a liar and a cheat. I’ve no desire to repeat the mistake.”

“Is that why you prefer to remain a widow?”

Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d offended her sense of privacy.

He didn’t care. She was too private, too defensive. Whatever she was hiding had left her shaken and wary. He wanted to know why she was living here in Fredonia when her family was in Buffalo. Why had Marie left her home to Claire instead of her own son?

“Why didn’t you move back to your father’s house when your husband... when you became a widow?”

“I prefer to live here.”

“Many women would have returned to their father’s protection rather than struggle to support themselves.”

“Supporting myself wouldn’t be a struggle if you would close your saloon. Nor would I need protection.”

He couldn’t argue her point. But he would never close his business. The best he could offer was a promise. “I’m at your service, if you should need me in any way.”

“I need a thriving business, not a guardian.”

“Just the same, I’m within shouting distance.”

Her lips pursed. “I’m only too aware of that.”

He smiled, longing to kiss her. “You know, you really ought to give this toad a chance.”

Sadness filled her eyes. “I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore,” she said. Then she walked out of the kitchen, leaving Boyd with a new itch he couldn’t scratch and a dog who was a better ladies’ man that Boyd had ever been.