Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (79 page)

Claire exchanged vows with Boyd in his mother’s small but homey parlor. Her father gave her away, and her sister Lida stood as her maid of honor, giving Claire a sense of homecoming she desperately needed.

Duke had traded his sheriff’s badge for a handsome black suit and starched white shirt to stand as Boyd’s best man.

Anna stood behind them in her magic dress, slowly but surely building herself a new life. With the help of Duke’s lawyer friends she was trying to divorce Larry, who had been convicted of two murders and would spend his life in prison.

Claire’s mother, and Lida’s husband and three children, were comfortably ensconced in the warm, welcoming bosom of Boyd’s family.

Claire stood beside her future husband, eyeing him with open admiration as she spoke her vows. He looked tall and proud in a full-dress black suit and a snow white shirt, his eyebrows black slashes above warm honey-brown eyes as he promised to love, honor, and cherish Claire until death parted them. When he added his promise not to be a toad, the room filled with laughter.

Claire cried. She couldn’t name a time she’d been this happy.

After their vows, Boyd’s brothers slapped his strong shoulders to congratulate him. And one by one, each tall, dark, handsome brother-in-law kissed Claire’s cheek to welcome her to the family. Her parents hugged her and wished her well. Her sister and Anna cried. And by the time Boyd’s family finished introducing themselves and congratulating her, Claire’s head was spinning as if she’d had too much wine.

But she hadn’t had a drop, because tonight she wanted to savor every minute of her husband’s lovemaking.

They spent the evening getting to know each other’s family, but exchanged private looks of longing while trying to be gracious to the people they loved. After three hours of being pulled in opposite directions, Boyd caught Claire’s waist and directed her to his mother’s small foyer. “That’s a lovely bouquet you’re carrying, Mrs. Grayson.”

She glanced down at the tiny carving she’d held while speaking her vows. “You weren’t supposed to notice.”

“I notice everything about you.” He squeezed her fingers. “I am shocked, though, that you like such naughty art.”

“There’s nothing naughty about this carving. It’s beautiful.”

A wicked grin climbed his cheek, and Claire’s heart stuttered. “What’s wrong with this carving?” she asked, dreading his answer.

“Turn it upside down.”

She lifted her hand and turned the carving so the roses were at the heel of her palm. “It’s an upside down bouquet.”

“Roll it a bit to your left.”

She did. And she gasped.

Turned upside down, the carving resembled the nude backside of a woman. The bouquet of roses formed her rounded bottom, the stems her narrow waist, and the trailing ribbon resembled two arms lifted and bent as if tucked behind her neck.

“I showed this to your family!” she said, mortified by the dual image she’d never noticed.

His hoot of laughter drew everyone’s attention to the foyer. Her face burned, but she forced a smile. “Boyd Grayson, you are a scoundrel,” she said through her false smile. “You’ll pay for this.”

* * *

Boyd pulled his bride into his arms for a playful kiss. “I’m looking forward to it,” he said—and he really was.

Claire was his passion, his love. He would take anything she would give him. And he would give her anything she asked for.

He chafed through supper and cake, and enough well wishes to last him a lifetime, before he could finally secret his bride away to his apartment. They would spend their honeymoon night here. Anna and Claire’s family were staying at Claire’s house. Tomorrow her parents and sister would leave, and Anna would move into his apartment. But for tonight, his old apartment where they’d first made love was their haven.

And to honor that first night, they sat at the bar in the glow of gas lighting, drinking wine together. But when Boyd reached for his wife, she danced away from him with the wine bottle in her hand.

She set it on the billiard table. “Time to pay the piper, Mr. Grayson.”

“For what?”

“For that naughty little trick you played on me with that carving.”

He grinned. “I’ll make it up to you by rubbing your back.”

“I don’t think so.” She stepped away from him. “If you want a willing bride, you have to play ‘Cold Claire’ for me.”

“You’re jesting.”

She lifted her chin. “You have to play it all the way through without making a mistake.”

“That’s a peculiar request for your wedding night, Mrs. Grayson.”

“And a simple one.”

“As you wish.” He took a seat on the piano bench and lifted the cover. “Do I have to sing the lyrics too?”

“Of course.”

Her impish smile put him on guard. “What mischief are you up to?”

“I just want to hear my favorite song.” She nodded at the piano. “Start whenever you’re ready.”

He started. The quicker he played her song, the sooner he could make her sing:

I once had a lover with gorgeous blond hair, but the lady was so—

Claire’s stocking-clad foot landed on the piano bench right beside him. Boyd banged to a stop and stared at her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, standing with her foot planted on the edge of the bench, her skirt hiked clear to her naked thigh. “I’m just going to take off my stockings.”

The lacy edges of her drawers peeped out at him. “Let me give you a hand.” He smoothed his palms up her shin, but she gave his knuckles a playful whack.

“Start over at the beginning.”

“With your ankle?”

She smiled. “With my song.”

He’d rather pull her pretty wedding dress off her gorgeous body and ravish her, but he dutifully fingered the keys. “You’re a cold woman,” he said, his gaze glued to her slender legs.

She smiled and slipped her delicate fingers under the white lace edge of her fancy stocking then slowly slid it down her long leg. “Start singing, Mr. Grayson.”

I once had a lover with gorgeous blond—

She leaned forward and dropped her stocking in his lap, her cleavage nearly brushing his lips.

But the lady was... um, something

“Ornery,” she said, near his ear. “Start over.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not even a little.” She jerked her thumb toward the keys. “Play my song through without a mistake, and we can go upstairs.”

“Is this some sort of challenge?”

“You teased me earlier with that little piece of art. It’s my turn to tease you with a bit of my own art. Unless you don’t have the nerve to watch.”

Laughter burst from him and echoed through the saloon. “By all means, darling, show me what you’ve got.”

“Start the song.”

Now that he knew her game, he was more than willing to play. He made it through the first verse without a hitch as she slipped her other stocking off. Then he started the second verse.

She taunted and teased,

while I begged and... sweet Savior!

Her skirt hit the floor.

but the lady, hum, hum...

and I don’t remember a word.

She burst into laughter, her eyes sparkling with triumph. “
‘The lady didn’t dare, so I called her Cold Claire’
,” she said, supplying his missing lyrics.

This lady did dare, and it was shattering his concentration. He closed his eyes and banged down on the keys, determined to finish the song then carry his luscious bride upstairs to bed.

He made it to the third verse when her hand stroked the inside of his thigh. He slammed his fingers down on the keys so hard, the sound vibrated the window panes.

She knelt at his side, gazing up at him with a sultry half-smile that fired his blood. Her petticoats were gone, and the only thing covering her creamy skin was her lacy drawers and corset. “Did I distract you, darling?”

Oh, he loved her sense of humor.

She stroked his thigh again. “I was just going to ask you to unlace my corset.”

How far would she go if he kept making mistakes?

“I can move away if I’m bothering you.”

He brushed his knuckles over the swell of her breasts. “I like you here.”

“Will you unlace me before you start my song again?”

“Of course, darling. Anything for you.” He freed her from the grip of her corset then willed himself to put his hands back on the keys.

“You’re not singing,” she whispered, nibbling his earlobe with her sweet lips.

I once had a lover,

She sat back on her heels, gripped the bottom of her chemise, and pulled it over her head.

with gorgeous—

Breasts...

She moaned and stroked her palms up over her full bare breasts. “It feels lovely to be free of that corset.”

Boyd slammed the piano lid and swept her into his arms. Her laughter rang through the room as he whirled her in a circle.

He kissed her, loving her, needing her more than air.

Finally she broke away panting. “Take me to bed.”

“Every night for the rest of our lives,” he said, carrying her toward the stairs. She snagged the open wine bottle as they passed the billiard table and took a drink.

He grinned. “I can’t offer you a castle, Claire.”

“I don’t need one.”

“The prince may have a bad day slaying dragons on occasion.”

“The princess will have her own dragons to slay,” she said.

His body burned. His heart beat with happiness. He took her upstairs to their bedroom, eager to love her and give her pleasure and make her his wife.

Sailor leapt to his feet at the foot of their bed, and greeted them with a happy bark that made Claire flinch in Boyd’s arms.

Then a tiny, fuzzy-headed kitten popped up off their pillow, and Claire’s mouth and eyes rounded.

“Meet Sergeant,” he said. “Your wedding present, and the newest member of our family.”

“Oh, Boyd...”

He knew he would never forget the tender look in Claire’s eyes or her beautiful face illuminated by joy.

She hugged his neck. “Sergeant is darling.”

Sailor gave a petulant bark and nudged her bare side with his cold nose. Claire gasped then reached down to pet him. “No need to feel jealous. I have more than enough love for all of you.” She turned her beautiful blue eyes to Boyd and pressed a tender kiss to his mouth. “Thank you. I’m overflowing with love and happiness.”

So was Boyd, but he was too absorbed in watching Claire dribble burgundy wine down her ivory cleavage. It pooled in her navel in a purple pool he wanted to lick dry.

She grinned at him. “Care for a drink, Mr. Grayson?”

“Claire... He kissed her wine-flavored mouth, her full breasts then he hefted her up in his arms to kiss her navel.

She laughed and squirmed away from his tongue. “That tickles.”

Boyd moved toward the bed, but Sailor wasn’t about to be ignored. The mutt wheezed with such excitement, his entire rump wagged. The kitten leapt off the pillow and batted his tiny white paws at Sailor’s swinging tail. Sailor nudged the kitten away with his nose, sending Sergeant tumbling across the fluffy quilt. Sergeant was tiny but determined and he came back swiping his paws at Sailor’s whipcord tail.

Claire’s laughter rang through the bedroom, and the empty place that had been in Boyd’s chest for so long overflowed with happiness. He’d reclaimed his art. He’d found love.

He had Sailor and Sergeant—and his beautiful, loving and courageous Claire with her amazing sense of humor. They were his family, his life, his treasure.

Fredonia, New York

June 1879

The tangy scent of soaps and spices made Duke sneeze as he entered Brown & Shepherd’s store. He grunted in pain and he clapped a hand over his aching shoulder.

Wayne Archer looked up from the package of medicine he was delivering to the store. The stocky apothecary propped his fists on the counter and eyed Duke with suspicion. “Are you ill, Sheriff?”

“Morning, Archer.” Duke ignored the man’s question. Archer didn’t care about Duke’s health. He wanted to get elected sheriff in November. Six men were running for the position against Duke, who had been the sheriff of Chautauqua County since he was twenty-three years old. Five of the seven candidates could handle the position. Duke was one of them. Wayne Archer wasn’t.

Duke stepped away from the soaps and spices and greeted the store owner, Agatha Brown, a kind, elderly widow he’d known since he was a boy.

“You’re too late for licorice sticks,” she said. “I sold the last one yesterday afternoon to your niece, Rebecca.”

“That qualifies as a crime, Mrs. Brown.” He’d been buying or begging licorice sticks from her since he was old enough to ask for them, and he was still one of her best customers.

“My next shipment will arrive tomorrow. Will that keep me out of jail?” she asked.

“This time,” he said sternly.

Her laugh lit her eyes and transformed her somber demeanor into that of a softer, more youthful-looking woman. Agatha Brown was six years older than Duke’s mother, and could make some man a good companion, but Duke suspected she would choose to remain a widow. He’d been a boy when her husband died, and he barely remembered the man, but Agatha had never forgotten him. She seemed content to live with his memory and to run their store on Main Street in the Village of Fredonia.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Something to relieve a headache.” His nagging shoulder pain was bringing it on, but the last thing he would do was announce that fact to Archer. Which was why he wasn’t buying the powder in Archer’s apothecary: Archer would use the information to sway the voters.

Mrs. Brown pointed to the opposite wall of the store. “Top shelf on the left.”

“Thank you.” The pine floorboards sounded hollow beneath his boot heels as he wove his way past a rack of ready-made clothing. Heavily laden shelves sagged beneath tins of food, and wooden bins overflowed with everything from shovels and rakes to bolts of fabric. Brown & Shepherd’s carried anything a man or woman could need.

But as Duke surveyed the medicines, he felt a sharp poke in his ribs.

“Grayson.” Archer scowled at him. “For being a sheriff, you’re sadly unobservant.” He jerked his chin toward a boy who was examining a lady’s comb and brush set. “That young man is attempting to fill his pockets.”

The boy took a fancy lady’s brush from the oak box and slipped it inside his shirt.

Duke’s heart sank. He hated this part of his job.

The boy cast a furtive glance at Mrs. Brown, who was dusting trinkets then ducked outside.

Duke ignored Archer’s snide look, and quietly followed the boy. A few paces outside the store, he brought his hand down on the boy’s thin shoulder. “Hold up, young man.”

The boy yelped and spun to face him. The movement jerked Duke’s arm and sent a hot spear of pain into his shoulder socket. Damnation! His shoulder was so torn up he couldn’t even detain a child.

The skinny, long-limbed youth stared at him, dark eyes wide with fear as they locked on the silver sheriff’s badge pinned to Duke’s leather vest.

“I’m Sheriff Grayson,” Duke said. “You didn’t pay for that hair brush you’re hiding under your shirt.”

The boy’s gaze darted to either side, as if he were deciding whether or not to run.

“I’d rather not handcuff you, but I will if you try to run off on me.”

“I’ll put it back,” the boy said, his voice cracking into a fear-filled falsetto.

“Looks like you could use the brush.”

The boy lowered his eyes and raked bony fingers through his mop of brown hair. “It’s not for me.”

“Are you stealing it for your girl?”

“I don’t have a girl.”

“For your mother then?”

“No, sir.”

Duke rubbed his aching shoulder, cursing the nagging pain that had made his life miserable for the past month.

The boy’s Adam’s apple dipped on a nervous swallow. “Are you taking me to jail?”

Jail wouldn’t teach him anything of value. “I’m taking you home so I can talk to your father.”

“I don’t have a father.”

No surprise there, Duke thought, but checked his unfair judgment. “We’ll talk to your mother then.”

“My mother’s dead.” The boy’s voice was so heavy with grief that Duke’s chest tightened in sympathy.

“How are you getting along without parents?”

“I’ve got Faith.”

“You’ll need more than faith and those light fingers to get by, son. Where are you sleeping?”

The boy turned away. “At home.”

Duke gripped the boy’s shoulder and spun him back around to face him. “I’m sorry about your parents and whatever troubles you’re having, but when I ask you a question I expect a straight answer.”

“I gave you one, sir.” The boy pointed down Water Street. “I live at the old Colburn place with my older sister Faith and our aunts. We moved in three weeks ago.”

Duke had heard that somebody bought the mill, but he hadn’t stopped to officially welcome the owners to town yet. “Is your sister planning to reopen the grist mill?” he asked, believing it impossible for a woman to do so.

“No, sir.” The boy squinted as a bright flood of June sunshine washed across the plank and brick buildings on Main Street. “She’s a healer. So are my aunts.”

“Healers?”

“Yes, sir. They grow herbs and mix tonics and salves that help people.”

The warning twinge that tightened Duke’s gut was as unwelcome as Archer’s earlier probing. He did not need another problem right now, not with the election coming up, not while his wretched shoulder was making his life miserable.

The boy pulled the hair brush from beneath his shirt and handed it over. “I’d like to return this. I don’t want my sister to know what I did.”

His earnest plea moved Duke, but being soft on the boy wouldn’t serve the young man. “You should have considered that before you walked out of the store without paying for it. Come on,” he said, nudging him down Main Street. “Let’s see if your sister can heal your bent for stealing.”

“Sir, my sister is... she’ll... I’d rather go to jail than tell her what I did.”

That was the point in taking the boy home with the stolen item. Shame would be more effective than fear to keep him from repeating the act.

“What’s your name?” Duke asked, keeping his hand on the boy’s shoulder and guiding him down Water Street.

“Adam Dearborn.” The boy’s body jerked as if he’d been stuck with a needle. “I mean, it’s Adam... um... dang it all.” He hung his head.

“Something wrong, Adam?”

“No, sir.”

“All right, let’s meet this sister of yours and figure out what to do about your crime.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“You took something from a store without paying for it. That’s theft, and theft is a crime punishable by law.”

Adam dragged his feet, his shame so acute Duke pitied him. He knew from his own experience how miserable Adam felt right now, but the boy needed to learn the same harsh life lesson Duke had learned at the age of eight from his own father. The burning shame he’d felt that evening nearly twenty-three years ago had been seared into his conscience, and he’d never forgotten his father’s admonishment that honorable men never lie, cheat, or steal. Ever.

Adam would learn that lesson today.

“How old are you, Adam?”

“Just turned thirteen.”

“You’re old enough to work then.”

The boy nodded. “I’ve been working in our greenhouse since I was four.”

They turned down Mill Street, a tiny lane connecting Water and Eagle Streets.

“Tell me more about this greenhouse of your sister’s.”

“Faith grows herbs and stuff for healing.”

“But what does she heal?”

The boy shrugged. “Everything, I guess, or people wouldn’t buy our tonics and balms.”

Suspicion tightened Duke’s gut. He did not need some crazy woman selling snake oil and promising miracle cures to his unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

Adam stopped in front of Colburn’s former mill, a three-story gambrel-roofed building with a towering brick smokestack, and a one-story stone addition attached at the rear. To the left of the huge grist building stood a plank structure that once housed the bales of hay and straw that Colburn had sold. And beyond that was the horse barn, right where it had always been. But Duke’s gut insisted something was different. And his gut was never wrong.

He’d been inside the cavernous building often enough to know that the interior light was too negligible to successfully contain a greenhouse. The water was plentiful, though. The Canadaway Creek was a ready source of power for the many businesses built along its banks as the gristmill was.

“Sheriff Grayson?” Adam bit his lip. “I’d rather go to jail.”

“I’m not offering that choice. Is your sister here?” At Adam’s resolute nod, Duke ushered him inside.

The first thing to strike Duke was the sunlight streaming through new, large windows that lined three of the four walls. That’s what had looked different about the building when he’d eyed the exterior. The lower floor of the building was filled with windows and flooded in sunlight.

The smell of fresh soil mingled with the astringent scent of herbs and an indefinable floral fragrance. The thriving profusion of plants and flowers told him that Adam’s sister knew what she was doing. Maybe the woman was just concocting a few harmless homemade remedies that would save other women the tedious task. Maybe he was overreacting because of his own worries about the upcoming election.

This was his eighth year as sheriff, and he had every confidence that he would keep his position—as long as he could get his shoulder healed. Just one rumor that he couldn’t do his job could change the outcome of the election and end his hard-won tenure as sheriff.

From the back of the greenhouse a child laughed and women’s voices tittered. A softer female voice drew his attention to the front of the building. The woman had her back to him, but her quiet singing was laced with such sadness, Duke felt he was trespassing on a private moment.

Adam stayed by the door and hung his head. “That’s my sister.”

Faith, Duke remembered. She was watering plants, gently touching the green leaves and inspecting the buds.

“Please don’t be mean to her, Sheriff. Faith taught me not to steal. She would never steal anything. Not even if she was starving.”

Shocked by the boy’s plea, Duke eyed Adam. “Why would I mistreat your sister for something you did?”

“Because she’s responsible for me.”

“No, son, you are responsible for you. And you’re responsible for your actions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you take this?” Duke asked, lifting the fancy brush.

The boy ducked his head and his ears turned red. “Faith misses our mother real bad. I thought a new brush might make her happy again.”

That simple declaration sliced through Duke. He’d heard the sadness in Faith’s voice as she sang, and could understand why the boy wanted to make her happy. It was hard for an adult to acknowledge that depth of grief, but far more difficult for a child to witness it in someone he loved and needed. No wonder the boy seemed lost and afraid.

Adam’s sister turned toward them with the watering can clutched in her hand, and every thought in Duke’s mind dissolved into silence. She was as exotic as the plants she tended.

Her arched dark eyebrows drew together as she spotted him and Adam. She set the watering can on a flat of green plants then moved her slender, lithe body gently but hurriedly in their direction, pushing aside plant vines and leaves that congested the narrow row between the wooden flats. With every lift of her arm, the worn blue fabric of her shirtwaist tightened across her full breasts and tiny waist.

“What’s happened?” she asked, stopping before him with fear in her almond shaped eyes.

Duke could only stare in mute appreciation. From the age of eight, he’d made it a policy not to exaggerate or lie, not even to himself. And he could honestly say he’d never seen a more beautiful woman than the one standing in front of him. Her oval face was slightly squared at the jaw and softly rounded at the chin. Her parted lips were lush and made for kissing, her eyes a deep whiskey brown that made him thirst for a drink. She was tall, and he would only have to dip his chin to kiss her forehead or to bury his face in those thick waves of dark, chocolate brown hair.

“Sheriff? Has something happened?” she asked, tiny worry lines marring her forehead, drawing his attention to the bronze tint of her skin. Her voice was smoky, or perhaps slightly hoarse from a cold or singing, but it sounded sultry and sexy to him.

“I had some trouble in town,” Adam blurted.

“What sort of trouble?”

Adam’s chin dropped to his chest. “I stole something from Brown & Shepherd’s store.” He peered up at her, his own almond-shaped eyes full of remorse. “I wanted to give you a birthday present to make you feel better.”

She brought slender fingers to her chest, drawing Duke’s gaze to her nicely rounded breasts. “Oh, Adam, I don’t need a present.”

“You deserve to have your own brush,” Adam said with a touch of defiance that surprised Duke. “You shouldn’t have to borrow from Aunt Tansy”

Color flooded the crests of her cheekbones, but she swept her brother into her arms. “Your character and reputation are far more important than me having my own hair brush.”

Adam’s face grew crimson, and he pulled away as if embarrassed to be hugged in front of Duke. Or maybe it was shame that made his face turn red, Duke couldn’t tell. He was struggling with his own embarrassment for gawking at Faith like a schoolboy.

“I wanted to return the brush,” Adam said, “but the sheriff said I had to bring it to you.”