Lips That Touch Mine (27 page)

"Because I'm a saloon owner. Because you
pigheadedly hold some bigoted notions of what a saloon owner must
be, and you can't see me separate from my profession."

His words rang true. As long as he ran a
saloon she would have difficulty seeing him as anything but a
reprobate. But hadn't he proved himself a gentleman on many
occasions? Didn't he defend her and Anna against harm numerous
times?

He moved to sit on the coffee table, angling
his body to face her. "This temperance business is getting out of
hand."

"So is the drinking in this town."

He braced his forearms on his knees, bringing
his face closer to hers. "Most of my patrons are good, hardworking
men who don't deserve to be harassed."

"When you serve only those decent,
hardworking men, I'll stop trying to shut you down."

"This isn't a game. You're stirring up
serious trouble. The saloon owners and their patrons are furious
that Lewis shut down, and that you ladies are meddling with their
right to sell liquor. "

She bristled. "I wonder how those men would
feel if they were women and had no rights."

"For God's sake, Claire. You ladies are
worming your way into every part of our lives. You're talking to
our bankers and our patrons, and even our damned mothers!"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Use some common sense," he said with
exasperation. "Your house has been ransacked. Karlton manhandled
you because you're meddling with his livelihood. What else needs to
happen before you stop this nonsense?"

She'd seen him angry before, but this was the
first time it was directed at her. Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid
of him. She liked his earnestness even more than his charm. "Is
your anger supposed to stop me from doing what I believe is
right?"

"Yes." He slapped his thighs and stood up.
"I'm trying to tell you that there are a lot of angry men out there
who've had enough of your meddling. They're raising hell in the
saloons. They aren't going to sit back and be gentlemen about this
much longer."

Worry snaked through her. All it would take
was one man to drink too much, to get too aggressive, and she could
be facing another terrifying situation. But if she stopped
marching, all the work would be for naught. She thought about women
like Anna and Elizabeth and knew she couldn't quit.

He sighed. "This isn't the time to dig in
your heels."

"I'm not digging in. I'm...thinking." How
could she proceed with her work and keep herself, and the women she
marched with, safe?

Agitated, she rose to her feet just as the
picture window behind her exploded with a sickening crash. Pain
burst in her shoulder as she doubled forward in a shower of
glass.

o0o

Boyd's heart convulsed as he threw his arms
around Claire and pulled her to the glass-littered floor. Anna
raced into the room, her eyes wide with fright.

"Dear, God," she said, her voice breathless
as she knelt on the floor beside them.

Boyd sat up, his heart thundering as he
helped Claire to her knees. "Are you hurt?" he asked, praying she'd
only cried out in alarm and not pain.

She clutched her shoulder. "Something hit
me," she said, her voice tight.

Blood seeped between her fingers, and his gut
clenched. A brick lay not three feet from her on the glass-speckled
carpet.

Anna pulled the gown off Claire's shoulder,
then glanced at Boyd. "You'd better get the doctor."

"What happened?" Claire asked, shivering in
the frigid wind that was blowing through the window.

"Someone threw a brick." He stood and helped
her to her feet. He guided the women into the foyer where Mr.
Ormand was standing in his nightshirt in shocked silence.

"Stay out of the parlor," Boyd said to them,
then turned to Claire's boarder. "Do you know how to use a
gun?"

"Y-yes," the man said, bobbing his head.

Boyd yanked open the closest door and grabbed
the revolver. He checked to see that it was loaded, then handed it
to Mr. Ormand. "Shoot anybody who tries to enter the house without
Claire's approval."

Mr. Ormand took the gun, but his hands were
shaking so badly he could barely hang on to it.

"I'm going to run for the sheriff and the
doctor. You three wait in the kitchen until I get back."

As if his legs turned to butter, Mr. Ormand
sank down onto the stairs. "I'll stay here," he said, his face
ashen, his hands shaking. "My wife and daughter are upstairs."

Boyd guided Anna and Claire into the kitchen.
"I'll send the boys over to cover the window." He jerked his boots
on. Then, with a last look at Claire, he rushed outside.

He sent Pat for the doctor and the sheriff,
then scoured the area around Claire's house to see if he could
track the culprit's footprints. The prints led back to the street,
which was a churned up mess. Within minutes, there were so many men
moving around her house that he gave up and went back inside.

Anna put a makeshift bandage on Claire's
shoulder.

"There's a gouge there, but it isn't as bad
as I thought," she said. She handed a note to Boyd. "This was
attached to the brick."

When he read the note, fury pulsed through
him for the lowlife who would attack a woman, and for Claire, who
was being so hardheaded and careless.

"This is what I'm talking about," he said,
his voice grating with anger as he shook the note at her. "The
person who wrote this is serious about stopping your marches."

"That was obvious when the brick sailed
through my window," Claire retorted.

"That brick could have been a bullet,
Claire."

She rose to her feet, her eyes flashing. "I'm
fighting for something I believe in, and no one, especially a
coward throwing bricks through my window, is going to stop me."

"No. They're just going to kill you."

Her jaw clenched and she glared at him. "Then
teach me how to shoot my revolver. It appears I'm going to need to
protect myself better."

"Why not just stop the marches and let things
calm down a bit?"

"Because we're finally making progress. No
matter what happens, I'll keep marching until every last saloon in
this town shuts down."

"If this is just about your business," he
said, "I'll give you money."

Indignation burned a hot path up her neck and
face. "This is about women like Anna who should be home sleeping in
her own bed without the fear of being beaten to death. It's about
men like Larry who use alcohol to fuel their bad behavior. The only
people who seem to care about money are you saloon owners," she
said, then stormed from the kitchen.

Furious, Boyd bolted after her and caught up
in the dining room. He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. To
his shock, she cried out and raised her arm as if to block a blow.
The way she cowered against the wall pierced his heart. This woman
knew what nightmares were made of.

His anger dissolved, and his chest
constricted with sadness. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to
hold and comfort and promise to keep her safe, but he sensed it
would be the wrong thing to do. She was too shaken and wary to let
him touch her.

He backed away and lowered his hands to his
side. "Who hurt you? Was it Jack?" he asked quietly.

She averted her face, peering through the
window into the darkness.

"Talk to me, Claire. I'll understand."

She squeezed her eyes closed.

Watching her struggle to keep her composure
rent his heart.

"At least let me hold you."

A breathy sob slipped through her lips, and
she clapped her hand to her mouth.

"Claire. .."

She turned into his arms, and buried her face
in his chest. He stroked her back, feeling the hard trembling in
her body. "I'm sorry." His throat grew hot, and his chest ached
like hell, and all he wanted to do was take her pain away. "What
did he do to you? You can trust me. You know that."

"He did what many drunkards do," she said.
"He drank too much. He gambled away his money. He said vile things,
and he beat me."

Which gave her several reasons to hate Boyd's
saloon. Not only was the noise hurting her business, it had to be a
constant reminder of Jack's drinking problem. She sniffed and wiped
her eyes.

"Jack was smart and handsome, but he gambled
away any success he might have had. That made him angry. Drinking
made it worse."

"Why did you marry him?"

She raised her eyes, as if surprised by his
comment. "I was in love with him."

Jealousy and compassion tore him in opposite
directions. He wanted to tell her that Jack Ashier was no damned
good and hadn't deserved her love. But the compassionate side of
him wanted to hold her until her heartache went away.

"Jack was the man of my dreams," she said, as
if she needed to explain. "He thought I was the answer to all his
problems until my father disowned me without a dowry."

"Your father didn't like Jack?" he asked.

"No," she said wearily. "Daddy insisted I
annul my marriage. His partner in his steel mill had suggested that
a disreputable man like Jack might make demands on my father that
would infringe on their business."

"Like what? Blackmail?"

She shrugged and stepped away. "I don't know.
But when I refused to let Daddy annul my marriage, he vowed to
disown me. I was young and naive. I turned my back on him and left
with Jack."

The despair in her eyes wrenched Boyd's
chest. "You loved your father," he said.

"Very much," she said softly. "When I was
young, I imagined my father to be a strong, tall tree. I would
swing from his arms like they were branches. His laugh was like a
boom of thunder that shook the house and made Mama chastise us for
roughhousing inside." A bereft sadness dulled her eyes. "One day we
both realized that I was too old to swing on his arms, that I was
no longer his little girl. That's when he arranged my marriage to
his partner's son."

She looked up, her face filled with sorrow.
"It was our first serious disagreement. I left the next morning for
my grandmother's house without speaking a word to him."

"That's when you met Jack?"

She nodded. "I eloped with him two weeks
later. You know the rest of the story. I haven't spoken to my
parents since." Her nostrils flared, but she bit her lip and
lowered her face. "A hundred times I wanted to write to my father
and tell him I was sorry, that I loved him and missed him. I'd have
crawled back to him on my knees, but I was afraid Jack would try to
take advantage of Daddy, or find a way to manipulate him. I
couldn't be responsible for causing my father any more pain, so I
lied in my letters and said I was happy with Jack. I've hurt Daddy
so deeply, he could never forgive me."

He slipped his arms around her and rubbed her
back, wishing he could rub away her pain, that he could protect her
from heartache. "I don't want to see you hurt again, he said.
"That's why I want you to stop marching. I'm afraid for you."

"I need to finish this."

"Why?" he asked, struggling to hide his
irritation.

"Because it's the right thing to do. Because
last winter I did something I'll never forgive myself for." She
pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, stepped away from him, and
wiped her eyes. "We had a bad storm that covered the trees and
streets and houses with ice. I heard a cat crying at our door, but
I was afraid to let it in because Jack had been drinking, and he
hated cats."

Boyd didn't know why she was talking about a
cat, but he let her talk.

"I'll never know if the cat found refuge, or
if it froze to death because I was too frightened to take it in. I
was a coward that night, and I regret it."

"You probably saved the cat's life by chasing
it away."

She shook her head as if she'd failed to do
the decent thing and protect the cat.

"That's why I can't walk away from this," she
said. "I can't be a coward. I need to do the right thing this
time."

He understood. But he didn't like her
decision. Not at all. "I'll teach you how to shoot your gun
tomorrow afternoon," he said. Because he didn't know what else to
do to keep her safe.

"Thank you," she said, but the deafening
sound of hammers pounding against the house startled a gasp from
her.

Boyd's heart leapt and he bit back a curse.
He was doomed to be forever on guard around her, looking out for
bricks and bullets.

"Good heavens," she said. "I forgot all about
Mr. and Mrs. Ormand." She wiped her eyes again and babbled about
being a poor hostess, and that the Ormands would probably leave
first thing in the morning because of this fiasco.

"Claire." He caught her hands but kept his
grip loose enough for her to pull away. "The Ormands are fine.
Anna's cleaning up the parlor. Your window is being taken care of.
You can take a minute to pull yourself together."

"I'm beginning to think that isn't possible,"
she whispered. Then she hurried from the room.

Boyd followed her to the foyer where Mr.
Ormand was still sitting on the stairs with the revolver clenched
in his hands.

"We won't be needing the gun now," Boyd said,
taking the revolver from the young man. He clasped Mr. Ormand's
bony shoulder. "Good thing nobody tried to force their way
inside."

"I'd have blown a hole right through them."
Despite his bravado, Mr. Ormand's legs seemed a tad shaky as he
climbed the stairs and returned to the room with his frightened
wife and child.

Boyd put the gun in the closet and turned to
Claire. "I'm going to help the boys board up the window." He lifted
his hand and brushed his knuckles over her soft cheek. "You know,
cats are exceptional at finding shelter. I'd wager my saloon that
your stray found a warm place to sleep that night."