Lips That Touch Mine (40 page)

Dead.

Just like his talent.

He couldn't see the damned statue.

It wasn't there.

With a vicious stab, he thrust the knife into
the wood, startling Sailor who'd been asleep on the floor. The dog
scrambled to his feet and gave him a bewildered look.

"To hell with it." He stood up and turned out
the lantern. "Come on, Sailor." He would chop the block into
kindling tomorrow and get it the hell out of his sight.
Why
torment himself? Why keep trying to revive something that was long
dead?

He slapped the wood dust off his trousers and
headed downstairs with Sailor panting at his heels. He had a saloon
that needed his attention.

Claire and her temperance friends had stirred
up a hornets nest by shutting down three more saloons. Three!

His patronage had doubled because of the
other saloon closings, but each day more men were taking the pledge
and encouraging their friends to do the honorable thing and follow
suit.

Boyd didn't give a damn about the profits
anymore. He just wanted some peace for one night.

The sound of a gunshot jolted him. Sailor
tore across the room, barking and lunging at the front door in a
frenzied attempt to get out. Boyd sprinted across the room, then
yanked the door open as his patrons pushed from behind.

Anna was running up his steps, yelling for
help. "He's beating her," she cried, terror filling her voice,
"Hurry."

Ice rushed through Boyd's veins. Sailor raced
across the snow-covered street and bounded onto Claire's porch with
a ferocious growl. A man's howl of pain filled the night, and Boyd
saw the man kick the dog across the porch.

Karlton!
The bastard was on Claire's
porch.

"Claire!" With a shout, Boyd ran across the
street.

He saw Claire reach out to protect Sailor,
but to Boyd's horror, Karlton kicked her in the ribs then drove her
against the railing. Molten rage flooded through him as he leapt up
the porch steps. He drove himself into the man's broad chest and
slammed him against the wall. The house shuddered, the cannon-like
sound echoing through the neighborhood as Boyd swung his fists into
Karlton's gut.

The man shoved him backward, crashed his
beefy fists into Boyd's shoulders and chest. But Boyd felt nothing,
as he tore into Karlton with deadly intent. He shot his long arms
out, swinging his fists into Karlton's face. Each blow snapped
Karlton's head back, driving the man back until he fell over the
railing and sprawled in the snow.

But that wasn't enough punishment for what
he'd done to an innocent woman. Boyd leapt the railing and landed
in knee-deep snow.

Hands pulled at him, shouts filled his head,
and he continued to strike out. Finally, he realized he couldn't
get to Karlton anymore. A group of bloody men formed a circle
around him, another around Karlton, who was bleeding a river in the
snow.

"Somebody get a damned doctor!"

Pat Lyons's voice cut through the melee, and
Boyd spun toward the porch where Pat was bending over Claire. Anna
was kneeling beside them, her face streaked with tears.

His heart clanged as he vaulted the steps and
fell to his knees beside Claire. "Jesus, God, be all right," he
whispered. He pushed her hair out of her face, and his stomach
clenched with fear. Her left cheek was mottled, and her lip was
bleeding. "Open your eyes, sweetheart."

"M-my gun." She struggled against his hands.
"Where's my gun?"

"You don't need it."

She pushed his hands away, her own shaking
uncontrollably as her frantic gaze swept the porch floor. "Where's
my gun?"

"The boys got Karlton. They're taking him to
my bar until Duke gets there. Anna has your revolver."

She struggled to sit up, but gasped in pain
and sagged back to the floorboards in a near faint. Sailor
whimpered and nudged Claire's shoulder with his nose. Her moan sent
a river of dread through Boyd.

"The doctor's on his way," he said, barely
able to speak through his fear.

"He was going to kill me," she whispered, the
effort to talk almost more than she could manage.

"Karl ton will never touch you again. I vow
it."

Anna touched Claire's shoulder. "Be still.
Please."

Boyd sat on the snow-covered porch and
carefully lifted his beloved's head onto his lap. He wanted to hold
her, to take her inside where it was warm, but he was afraid to
move her.

"You're safe now," he said. But Karlton
wasn't. Duke had better have the wretch long gone when Boyd got to
his saloon, because he would honestly kill the man.

Claire gripped his hand. "He knows about
J-Jack."

"Shhh..." He brushed the tears off her
lashes, feeling helpless and sick to his soul. He should have
recognized Karlton's anger, his veiled threats, his hatred of
Claire as something that would need to be ended. He should have
been paying attention instead of drowning in self-pity.

He yelled to the group of patrons who were
milling around the perimeter of the porch. "Someone get some
blankets out here. And go see what's taking the doctor so damned
long."

Anna and a man from the crowd ran to do his
bidding. A few seconds later Anna brought two thick quilts. She and
Boyd tucked them around Claire's shaking body, and Boyd winced each
time she moaned in pain.

"The doc's coming up the street now," Pat
said, rubbing Sailor's head.

"Jack would have sold Grandma's house,"
Claire said. "It was all I had." Tears flooded her eyes and she
sobbed.

Boyd stroked her hair. "It's okay. Jack's not
here. You're safe now. You'll be all right," he said, but she was
beyond calming.

"No, I won't. I'm not all right." She shook
her head. "I'm not...I'm not."

Tears streaked her temples, but Boyd let them
fall. There wasn't a single thing he could do for her. And that was
the worst feeling he'd ever experienced.

She sobbed and turned her face into the crook
of his arm. The doctor climbed the steps and crossed to where they
sat.

"What the devil are you doing, leaving this
woman outside in the cold?" he demanded, scowling fiercely.

Boyd was as outraged as the doctor, but at
his own lack of attention. If Claire hadn't fired her revolver,
they might have been calling the coroner rather than the
doctor.

"She was kicked in the ribs, Doctor. I was
afraid to move her."

"Kicked?" The doctor glanced at Claire, then
back at Boyd. "Kicked!"

Boyd nodded. Acknowledging the beastly act
sent rage roaring through him again. He would kill Karlton.

He and Pat lifted the quilts and helped the
doctor as best they could. Gently, the doctor ran his fingers over
Claire's rib cage.

She moaned and flinched away.

"You'll have a nasty bruise, Mrs. Ashier,"
the doctor said, "but I'm fairly certain your thick coat saved you
some broken ribs."

As soon as the doctor deemed it safe to move
Claire into the house, Boyd and Pat helped her to her feet, feeling
it would be less painful for her to walk than be carried. Anna
followed them in and put the revolver on the desk in the foyer.

Claire refused to be put in bed, so the
doctor allowed her to sit on the sofa in the parlor. While he
finished examining her, Boyd and Pat made sure Anna hadn't been
injured when Karlton shoved her down the steps. When she assured
him she was fine, Boyd knelt beside Sailor. The dog's eyes and
mouth were free of blood, and his breathing chugged like a well-fed
steam engine.

Boyd rubbed Sailor's ears, feeling gratitude
and love for his brave dog.

A horrendous uproar from his saloon brought
Boyd to his feet. He and Pat raced for the door together.

"Stay with Claire," he told Pat, then bolted
outside.

He saw Karlton leap down the saloon steps.
Two men grabbed at him, but Karlton swung out his arm and hit one
of the men in the head. He shot the second man.

Boyd stared in disbelief. A howl of outrage
came from the men surging out the door of his saloon.

Karlton darted past Levi. The deputy and
several other men pursued him, but Karlton was getting away. Boyd
tackled him in the street, before he could take one step closer to
Claire's boardinghouse.

But Karlton's desperation and bulk made
pinning him impossible. The gun in his hand made him twice as
dangerous. Boyd wrestled his arm around Karlton's neck, hoping to
hold him long enough for Levi to cuff him.

"Look out!" someone shouted, just before Boyd
felt the gun in Karlton's fist connect with his temple. Lights
exploded inside his skull, and weakness stole over him. Karlton
wrenched loose from Boyd's arms and ran toward Claire's porch.

"Get him," Boyd shouted, struggling to his
knees. He couldn't let Karlton inside her house. If he got to
Claire...

Shouts filled the street.

Boyd staggered to his feet.

Levi pointed his revolver at Karlton's back.
"Stop, damn it, or I'll shoot you, Karlton!"

Karlton swung his arm and fired at Levi, then
leapt toward the porch steps. Boyd's heart stampeded his chest, and
he lurched forward on unsteady legs.

"Stay back," Duke called out, shoving Boyd
back into the street as he sprinted past.

Boyd gripped his bleeding head and ordered
his legs to move. The deep snow felt like thick mud sucking at his
feet, making him stumble and go down on one knee.

Pat stepped outside Claire's boardinghouse
and planted himself in front of the door. Karlton raised the
revolver and pointed it at his chest.

"Look out!" Boyd yelled, but his warning was
lost in the noise filling the street. Karlton was going shoot him.
Boyd's best friend was going to die, and he couldn't make his
damned legs move fast enough to save him.

The deadly blast of a revolver ripped through
the night.

A collective grunt came from the shocked
crowd, and Boyd's gut twisted.

"Pat!"

He surged forward, and stumbled onto Claire's
porch.

Numb, Boyd went back across the street to
close down his saloon. He felt no rush of relief, no sorrow, no
satisfaction—just hollow disbelief that Karlton was dead. Duke had
shot him.

He'd had to, of course. Karlton would have
pulled the trigger and killed Pat—and anyone else who'd gotten in
his way. He'd set his course and gone too far to turn back. For
Karlton, it seemed, there had been no choice but to play out his
hand and hope to use Claire as a wild card.

Boyd hadn't known that desperate, deadly side
of Karlton. His throbbing temple was proof of that. His head
pounded and gut felt queasy. But Claire had to feel a hundred times
worse.

After the ruckus from Karlton's charge, the
bar seemed strangely quiet. Boyd climbed the steps to close it down
for the night.

The instant he stepped inside, he slammed to
a stop. The back bar shelf his father had built lay in broken
pieces across the floor. Mugs were toppled, and shards of glass
littered the room. Everett and Zach, two of his regulars, stood in
the middle of the mess, their faces filled with anguish.

"Karlton did this while we was waitin' for
the sheriff to come get him," Everett said. "He jumped the bar and
wrenched the whole damn thing right off the wall. Then he grabbed a
gun from behind the bar and shot Peter right in the damn
chest."

So that's where Karlton got the gun. From
Boyd's own bar. Not a word, not even a breath, escaped Boyd's
throat as he stared at his father's destroyed masterpiece.

The men stood in the silence, seeing only a
part of the destruction one man had caused that night.

Everett gave a helpless shrug. "We told
everyone to leave, and that we'd wait for you to come back. We
didn't know what else to do."

Boyd felt sick to his soul. "Thanks, boys.
I'll take care of the mess."

"We can help you lay this stuff out on the
floor. Maybe you can salvage it."

"No, it's too—you've done enough."

The men glanced at each other and hesitated.
"We'll come by in the morning and give you a hand cleaning up."

"It'll be a few days before I can get to it,"
he said. He appreciated their offer, but he didn't want anybody
touching his father's work.

"All right, then. You let us know."

Boyd nodded. After they left, he surveyed the
damage. Broken glass was scattered over the stools and floor. Huge
pieces of wood lay in broken sections over and around the bar. His
heart cramped with pain. The back bar shelf had been his father's
last project. It was his masterpiece. It was one of the treasures
that marked his existence in this world—in Boyd's life.

Boyd moved forward, but the sound of his
boots crunching through glass stopped him. He looked down,
horrified that he was stepping on pieces of the back bar.

A two-foot section of mirror lay on the floor
in front of him, broken in half. He knelt and lifted the pieces.
His reflection flashed back at him, and he saw the broken man who
had failed both his father and the woman who'd deserved more than
any other to be cherished and protected. His hands shook as he
struggled to fit the halves together. The glass edges grated and
shifted and sliced his skin, but he fought to make them fit. They
had to fit. He had to fix this.

The glass plates wobbled as he grew frantic
in his effort. They clanked together and chipped, causing a jagged
gap to open between them.

"Damn it!" He gripped the pieces with his
bloody fingers. "I can't fix it. I can't fix this."

He hurled the pieces of mirror into the bar.
They shattered with a violent crash that brought him to his feet,
lusting for more.

He kicked over a stool, then swung his arm
and slugged mugs off the bar. They flew in several directions and
smashed on the floor. He overturned the billiard table, then kicked
over the bucket of kindling beside his stove. His fists blasted the
walls with shuddering force. He busted bar stools over the bar and
kicked chunks of firewood across the floor.