Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (54 page)

After Boyd left, Claire went to bed. She was exhausted from her sleepless night, and mortified by her panicked outburst. He’d been intrusive and aggressive, reminding her of Jack—of the way he used to stalk and bully her. But Boyd hadn’t hurt her. He wasn’t Jack.

Boyd wasn’t the same type of man. She knew that intuitively. But he
had
intimidated her, and intentionally. If she spent more time with him, would his nudges and proposals turn into shoves and demands? Did all men shove when they couldn’t get what they wanted?

She didn’t want to believe that.

She couldn’t.

Because part of her had needed the comfort of Boyd’s arms. She needed the compassion he offered, needed to feel safe again. But his actions had confused her. How could she know when his arms would offer comfort and when they would seek to control her?

She buried her head beneath the pillow, and fought for sleep. When she woke up the next morning, her stomach was upset and her head groggy. She used her ill health as an excuse to turn away a boarder, but the truth was, she was afraid to have the man in her house. He was too quiet, too watchful, too... male.

Embarrassed by her fear, Claire hid inside all weekend.

She didn’t want to cross paths with her too-handsome neighbor or the man who’d left that note on her door. She couldn’t even bring herself to face the women at the temperance meeting on Sunday evening.

By Monday afternoon, four of her concerned fellow marchers knocked on her door.

“Thank goodness you’re all right,” Elizabeth said. “We heard about the warning note left on your door.”

“I’m fine.” Claire would have liked to invite Elizabeth inside, but Desmona was with her. After her offensive probing into her grandmother’s journal, Claire couldn’t bear to have the prying woman in her home again. And she couldn’t afford to befriend Elizabeth or get involved in her problems. Claire had her own troubles to tend. She would march for Temperance to help women like Elizabeth, but that was all. That’s all she could do.

“We noticed you weren’t at the meeting last night,” Desmona said.

“I’ve been unwell these past couple of days.”

Desmona shivered in the cold wind, making Claire feel guilty for not inviting them inside. “Better that you didn’t attend if you’re ill.”

“I’ll make the meeting this evening,” she promised, hoping it would send Desmona on her way.

“There won’t be a prayer meeting tonight,” Mrs. Cushing said. “We decided at our afternoon meeting to adjourn until Friday after Christmas.”

“There was a meeting today?” Claire asked with dismay. How unforgivable for her to have missed two meetings when she’d been the one to summon Dr. Lewis to visit and start the march for temperance.

“There certainly was.” Desmona puffed up with importance. “We wrote a pledge and formed our own Women’s Temperance Union today.” Her lips pursed, and deep grooves fanned above her upper lip. “I offered to be president, but Mrs. Barker wanted the position. Her sister-in-law is our vice-president, and Mrs. Barmore is our secretary. We are organized as a society now.”

“That’s wonderful news.” It was, but it depressed Claire to have missed such an important meeting, all over a cowardly fit of nerves. “Thank you for checking on me,” she said to the small group of women. “I’ll definitely be at our meeting on Friday.”

Claire sighed in relief as she closed the door, but she felt incredibly lonely. How lovely it would have been to invite the ladies inside, to share a pot of tea and some conversation with someone. She hadn’t been with friends since she was a girl, intruding on her sister’s weekend entertainment.

The older neighbor girls used to call on her sister Lida every Saturday afternoon. The kitchen would smell like lavender powder and baking bread, and the room would ring with shrill laughter. Mother would smile and chastise them for being too loud, but Lida and her friends would giggle and gossip for two full hours while Claire—too young to be included in their circle—hovered in the background soaking up every exciting word.

The girls would scurry out when Claire’s father came home for supper.

But that’s when Claire’s day came to life. For as far back as she could remember, her father would come inside, tug her straight blond hair and ask, “What trouble has my Claire gotten into today?” Claire would crawl onto his lap or leap into his arms and bask in his attention. When she got too old for holding, she would blush and giggle and dance around him until he would capture her and give her a bear hug. He’d kiss her on the forehead and tell her that he’d missed his girl.

The memory made her throat close. She hadn’t seen or heard from her father since he’d disinherited her over four years ago.

She opened the desk and retrieved her grandmother’s journal. She had vowed not to read about her grandmother’s sordid affair, but the journal was the only link she had to her family.

The leather felt soft and warm beneath her fingertips as she carried it to the parlor. The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was cold... and empty.

The airy sound of the chimney made her think of Sailor and the dog’s wheezy way of talking to her. She would gladly give her last seventeen dollars to see his lopsided smile and have the clumsy canine with his warm body, admiring eyes, and protective bark beside her for the evening.

She stirred the red coals and added a log to the fire then sat in the rocking chair.

Despite her disapproval of her grandmother’s affair, she was curious about how it had happened, what had lured her grandmother into the situation.

This morning Abe asked me if I’ve ever been in love.

He shouldn’t have asked a married woman such a question, but I answered him. I said no.

Claire settled into the rocker and angled the journal toward the lantern, her heart aching for her grandmother and the man she’d loved.

I have a deep, respectful affection for my husband, and it breaks my heart to have these feelings for another man. But for good or bad, my love for Abe is real. I’ve never experienced the excitement or passion I feel for Abe. I don’t understand it. I’ll never understand it, but one minute I was preparing lunch while Abe was building my cupboards, and the next instant we were staring across the room at each other with the shameful truth of our desire burning in our eyes. We didn’t speak of our attraction, but the knowledge was as present in that room as we were.

My marriage is built on duty, kindness, and community. My moments with Abe are private, passionate, and as addictive as a drug. I cannot resist him.

God knows I’ve tried. He’s tried. We both failed.

Abe owns my thoughts. He commands my desire.

He fills this hollow space inside me. I would cast everything aside for him. I would. But he will never ask me to do so.

Claire stroked her fingers over her grandmother’s pain-filled words. No wonder her grandmother had been captured by moments of intense sadness.

Claire hadn’t understood when she was a girl. But now, as a woman who had once longed for this kind of love and never experienced it, she knew how rare it was—how devastating it must be to find love and not be able to claim it.

Abe is tall and handsome in a dark, brooding sort of way. He’s a private man, filled with passion and life and a sense of humor that he tries to hide. I see these things. I know him, this amazing, conflicted, lonely man who tries so hard to honor his vows. He says my smiles melt his resistance. I am ashamed to admit that I smile each time I see him. I should be sorry, I know, but if my soul must make restitution for grasping this breath of life, I’ll gladly go to Hell.

Perhaps it was her grandmother’s reference to Abe’s passion and sense of humor that brought Boyd’s image to mind, but Claire couldn’t clear the vision from her head. Despite Boyd’s flippant attitude, Claire sensed his conflict and loneliness. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to him.

Foolish.

Simply foolish to even admit such a thing. She believed Boyd hadn’t written the warning note, that he would never harm a woman as he adamantly claimed, but her judgment was terrible. She knew better than to trust her instincts.

Boyd Grayson couldn’t be more unsuitable.

But the other man lurking in his shadow...
that
man intrigued her.
That
man might be honorable enough to close his saloon.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon Boyd propped his hands on his hips and stretched his back. He was glad to end his workday at Edward’s furniture store. Each Tuesday, and sometimes on Friday, he and Matthew Sesslier, Addison Edward’s grandson by marriage, taught Addison’s hired help how to build and carve furniture.

Addison leaned on his walking stick, the wooden tip buried in an inch of wood shavings on the workshop floor. “You boys finished for the day?” he asked, looking like he’d just crawled out of bed. A drab gray sweater hung from his stooped thin shoulders, his white hair whipped into peaks above dark bushy eyebrows.

Boyd nodded to the old man who was still as sharp as his best carving knife. “We got a lot done today, Addison.

Your boys will be able to finish building that bedroom suite next week.” Addison waved gnarled fingers. “Don’t know why you won’t carve the thing.”

“I don’t have the time, Addison. I’ve got a saloon to run and a sawmill to work.”

“Bah. You’re as stubborn as your father was.” He turned and limped back into the store, leaving Boyd and Matthew grinning at each other.

“Your grandfather is a bit cantankerous today.”

Matthew nodded. “He’s like that when he doesn’t get his own way. I wish you’d quit wasting your talent in that saloon and let him hire you.”

It aggravated Boyd that Matthew thought he was wasting his talent. He no longer had any talent. “Are you upset that your wife is marching with those temperance women?” he asked, purposely changing the subject.

Matthew, a plain, quiet man Boyd had known since they were boys, dumped a shovelful of wood shavings into a barrel by the stove. “She believes it’s the right thing to do, just as I believe you’re wasting your talent.” Matthew propped the shovel against the wall and dusted his hands on his denim trousers. “If you weren’t a friend, I’d call you a fool.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I was serious.”

“So was I.” Boyd whistled to Sailor, who scrambled to his feet and paced between Boyd and the door.

“You’re a natural craftsman, Boyd, and an exceptional teacher. Why are you using your hands to pour ale?”

Teaching wasn’t doing. His apprentices used their own hands, found their own treasures in the wood. Anyone could instruct an avid pupil.

Besides, his best memories were at the Pemberton. Saloon-keeping was easier than the fatigue and fear he experienced each time he worked on the statue. He had lost his passion for carving when he buried his father.

He didn’t want to talk about his lost talent or his shortcomings. He was tired and wanted a tall mug of ale to wash the wood dust from his throat. “Sailor! Get out of there,” he said, scolding the dog for rooting in the bucket of wood shavings. “I’ll see you next week,” he said to Matthew then strolled out the door before Matthew could nag him further.

He walked up Main Street in the dark with Sailor trotting alongside him. The instant they neared Claire’s house, Sailor bounded onto her front porch, yipping like a maniac. Light illuminated her windows, but there was no sign of activity outside or inside the house. Wondering why he hadn’t seen her all weekend, Boyd climbed the porch steps and peered in the window to make sure nothing was amiss.

Sailor barked again, and Claire opened the door. Boyd ducked away from the window, hoping she wouldn’t think he’d been peeping in at her.

But she didn’t see him. Her gaze was focused on Sailor.

“Where have you been?” she asked, the light from her window casting a hazy glow across her face.

Sailor panted and wheezed and paced in front of the door like a smitten fool.

Claire laughed—a light, heartwarming sound that splashed over Boyd like sunshine. He’d never heard her true laugh. He’d never witnessed a full smile on her face. He’d never seen the real, unguarded Claire Ashier. Until now. And he liked what he saw.

She was magnificent.

“You’re not coming in with those wet paws, mister. Go around back.” She closed the door, not realizing that Boyd had been standing three feet away, falling in love with her.

In love?

In lust.

Interchangeable words that simply meant he desired to see more of the real Claire Ashier.

A lot more.

The cold wind cut through his jacket as he followed Sailor to the back of the house. He’d thought about Claire all weekend, about her irrational fear, about the way he’d frightened her last Friday afternoon. Four days had passed, and he still hadn’t found a proper way to apologize. What could he say? I’m sorry I let my wounded pride rule my head?

Sailor barked and barreled through the open shed door.

Claire’s laughter drifted outside. “Do you really think I would leave you out here in the cold?”

Boyd stepped into the small room.

A flash of fright crossed her face and she took a step back.

“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he said. He couldn’t bear to frighten her.

Sailor pushed between her thigh and the door frame, scurrying into her kitchen as if he owned the place.

“I thought I’d fill your wood bins while Sailor tracks up your floor, but if you’d rather I didn’t...” He left the sentence unfinished, waiting for her to decide.

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to make up her mind.

“I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean to frighten you the other day. I was insulted that you thought I could have written the note, but it was no reason to bully you.” His breath sighed out in a frosty cloud and he slipped his hands into his coat pockets. “If I could erase my actions, I would.”

She leaned her narrow shoulders against the door casing. “So would I.”

He waited for her to say more, but she seemed as devoid of words as he was. Her honey-gold hair was uncovered and swept back in a loose clasp of some sort. He wanted to pull the clasp from her hair and let it spill across the shoulders of her brown and black checkered dress.