Lips That Touch Mine (43 page)

"If you need anything, let me know."

"I'd love for you to stay another night or
two," she said, hoping she didn't sound like she was begging, even
though she was close to doing so. He was leaving her. He was going
to walk out her door and never come back. She could tell.

"Now that you've quit marching, I won't have
to watch over you. You won't be in danger."

She felt sick, hollow, the pain in her ribs
dull compared to the pain in her heart. "I have gotten used to you
watching over me," she said. "I've come to value your
friendship."

"I'll want more than friendship if I
stay."

"So will I," she said shamelessly. She wanted
the comfort of Boyd's arms, his playful humor that had taught her
how to laugh again, and his radiant light that filled her life with
warm sunshine.

"I'm too selfish, Claire. I want more than
that. I want your friendship, your love, and your trust. You're not
ready to give that. And I understand that you may never be
ready."

"Are
you saving this scrap?" Kyle asked, nudging the toe of his boot
against a pile of broken back bar bits lying on their father's wood
shop floor. Boyd had brought the pieces, and his massive hunk of
basswood here after leaving Claire's house. He had to get out of
there before he started begging her to trust him, to marry him, to
love him. The doctor had warned everyone not to upset Claire, that
she needed to heal. Boyd needed to stay away and let her do
that.

Pat had promised to stay in Boyd's rented
room at the boardinghouse for a few nights, just to make certain
all the danger was really past. Anna and the doctor were there as
well. At Claire's request, Boyd had left Sailor to boost her
spirits.

He stared down at the broken pieces of wood
on the floor and saw a reflection of his life. "Maybe I should just
burn it all." He turned to his brothers, who were gathered there
with him.

"Don't." Duke knelt beside the pile. "Don't
burn it. You might be able to use these scraps to make other
things."

The back bar was ruined beyond repair, but
for some reason it brought Boyd a measure of peace to know the
pieces were stored safely in his father's wood shop.

He pushed the shop door closed against the
cold wind, shutting out the bleak afternoon sunshine. "I'm
surprised you're here, Duke."

"There's nothing for me to do in town," his
brother said. "It's been quiet as a morgue all day."

Despite the nonchalant response, Boyd knew it
had torn a hole in his brother to shoot a man, especially a man he
knew. There had been no choice, but that didn't make it any easier
to pull the trigger, or to deal with Karlton's death afterward,

"It's about time things quieted down." Boyd
started a fire in the stove with some old scraps of wood, then
slapped his palms across his thighs to brush off the wood dust.

"Look at this," Radford said, picking up a
long stick from the workbench.

Boyd's stomach clenched when he saw it. He
made the one-of-a-kind walking stick out of diamond willow, and
presented it to his dad for a birthday present. His dad had loved
it and had made a great show of chucking his old cane into the
stove. The day his father died, Boyd had hurled the cane into a
field behind the house. Whoever had found the walking stick had
brought it here where it would be safe.

His throat closed as he took the cane from
Radford. He inspected it and found himself proud of his early work.
If only he could reclaim that confidence and the plain joy of
carving without worrying about the results.

Would that feeling ever come back?

"What's wrong?" Duke asked, seeing Boyd
examine the walking stick.

Boyd leaned the cane against the block of
basswood and faced his brothers. "I'm shutting down the
saloon."

His brothers stared at him, a mixture of
surprise and suspicion in their eyes.

"I figured I'd come back to the mill full
time."

Kyle slapped Boyd's shoulder. "Well, my day
just improved one hundred percent."

"Why are you closing?" Radford asked, his
gaze shrewd and assessing.

"I'm ready to do something different."

"You've worked the mill since you were eight
years old. How will that be different?"

"I meant different from saloon-keeping." Boyd
realized he wasn't convincing his brothers. "You should be happy,
Radford. You and Kyle won our wager. The ladies closed me down just
like you said they would."

Radford crossed his arms over his chest.
"What's going on?"

Boyd huffed out a breath and leaned against
the workbench. "I don't know." He'd just laid the truth on the line
with Claire. He could do no less with his own brothers. "How could
you three have hugged Dad, knowing you were giving him permission
to die?"

His siblings glanced at each other, but said
nothing.

"I can understand why you did, Radford. You
were older. You'd been through a war. You must have known what it
would cost Dad to fight to stay alive. But how did you know, Kyle?
How did you know that it was time to let him go?"

Kyle shrugged. "It seemed like it should be
his decision, not mine."

"You were barely sixteen, Duke. How did you
know to let him go?"

"I didn't." Duke hooked his thumbs in his
coat pockets. "I hugged him because Radford and Kyle did."

"Why didn't you make me hug him?" Boyd stared
at them. "You three taught me everything. Why didn't you teach me
to let a man die when it's the kindest thing to do?"

"So that's what this is about." Radford
sighed and braced his hand on the metal vise at the end of the
workbench. "Boyd, none of us knew what to do when Dad broke his
hip. I had my own battle going on in my head, but I understood what
it would mean for Dad to lose his ability to walk. I didn't want
him to die. None of us did. But damn it, I couldn't ask any more of
him than he'd already given. I was undeserving of his pride. I was
willing to let him go because that's what he wanted."

"I wish you would have explained that to me.
Maybe I could have hugged him." Boyd picked up a chisel and
balanced it on his palm. "I just wanted him to live. I had no idea
he'd grow so weak."

"You asked him to fight for us. Where's the
sin in that?" Duke asked. "Dad understood why you didn't hug
him."

"The sin is that I could barely even touch
him," Boyd said, his gut twisting with shame. "I said I was afraid
I'd hurt him again. But truthfully, I couldn't stand to feel his
bones poking through his skin and feel how that damned disease was
sucking the life out of him."

"That was one of the reasons I couldn't stay
either," Radford admitted. "I couldn't stand watching him waste
away."

Boyd glanced up, expecting to see loathing or
pity in his other brothers' eyes. He saw understanding and
sympathy. "If I could, I'd go back and give him that damned hug,
you know."

"I don't know why you're killing yourself
over this," Radford said. "You were closer to Dad than any of us.
And you know what? You brought that man more joy than the three of
us could ever have hoped to do."

"No, I didn't."

"You did," Kyle said, opening the stove door.
He chucked in a small chunk of firewood. "Dad was always laughing
over something you said or did."

Boyd shrugged. "I don't remember a day where
Dad wasn't threatening to break a board over my ass."

"I offered to beat you numerous times, but he
wouldn't let me lay a hand on you." Not a touch of remorse tainted
Kyle's grin. "You irritated the hell out of me, Boyd, but you made
Dad happy."

"You made us laugh," Radford said. "All of
us. I honestly don't know how he would have borne his illness
without you there to lighten his days. He understood why you didn't
hug him that day. And I think he was touched to know you loved him
enough to ask him to fight a little harder."

A wad of emotion clogged Boyd's throat. He
stood in the little shop with his brothers, feeling intense love
for them, but unable to speak a word. He owed them, and his mother,
so much. They were his strength, his safe harbor when he needed
one, always standing beside him, never judging him, always there no
matter what.

"As far as I'm concerned," Radford said,
"only God had control over whether Dad lived or died. For whatever
reason, he lived for some time, and you made that time bearable for
him. Feeling guilty isn't serving any of us. I say it's time you
honored Dad and got on with your life."

Kyle and Duke nodded in agreement.

Radford's words of wisdom rang true to Boyd.
He would always regret asking so much of his father, but he had
acted out of love. Now he understood the cost of his actions, but
at the time, he only knew he couldn't bear to lose the man.

"Thanks," he said, forcing the word past the
burrs in his throat.

"You want a ride back to town?" Radford
asked.

Boyd shook his head. He needed to stay here,
in his father's shop, a place he hadn't set foot in since his
father died.

After his brothers left, Boyd stroked the
scarred pine workbench. He'd spent countless hours standing here
beside his father. He balanced his father's metal carving knives in
his palm, remembering the weight and feel and angle of each. His
father had taught him how to hold a chisel and grip a carving tool,
how to eye a piece of wood for grain and balance. He'd also taught
Boyd how to work to the level he was truly capable of.

His father's words filled his mind as Boyd
stood alone in the small shop. After years of not being able to
remember the sound of his father's voice, he now felt a sense of
coming home.

He stepped three feet to the right, and
smiled when the pine floorboards gave a hard creak.

"I guess the only thing that's changed is me,
Dad," he said, smoothing his palm over the heavy iron vise mounted
to the end of the workbench.

As if his father nudged his shoulder, Boyd
turned to the block of basswood that had been haunting him for
years. It stood in the shadows, as if leaning on the walking stick,
watching. Boyd finally saw more than a block of wood. He saw his
own potential.

The dust-covered windows of the wood shop looked fogged in the
morning light, but Boyd kept the stove and the lanterns burning as
he continued working. He was carving by feel again, sensing what to
keep and what to chip away.

His father's personality quirks and nuances
had streamed into his mind during the long, silent night. Boyd
remembered everything, the way his father would bite his lower lip
while carving intricate details in wood; the sly, just-between-us
winks he would give Boyd that made him feel grown up and manly.
Boyd could even remember his dad's favorite expletives. His father
had become so lifelike, Boyd felt they were working side by
side.

He worked his knife around the intricate
peaks and valleys he'd formed in the wood, then paused to brush
away the tiny wood shavings. He used a curved gouge to remove a
small section of wood, then switched back to the carving knife to
smooth out the rough edges.

As the statue slowly emerged from the block
of wood, Boyd felt something new emerging inside himself. He'd
spent uncountable hours in this wood shop helping his father. He'd
worked the mill each day after school for his father. He'd fetched
and carried for his father. He'd done everything and anything a boy
could do to please his dad. Because he'd loved him.

Love. It was a word he was finally beginning
to understand.

As his mother had explained, love didn't mean
never asking too much, never being selfish, or never hurting
another. Love meant staying during the hard times, looking for the
humor in life, encouraging and supporting the other. It meant
making a commitment to be there no matter what.

Boyd had been there for his dad in the only
way he could as a boy of fifteen. Right, wrong, or otherwise, he'd
done his best.

He wanted to be there for Claire, too. Night
and day. Every day. He loved her. He
loved
her.

But she was afraid. He understood why, but
her inability to trust didn't make it easier for him to accept her
rejection. He thought his blocked talent had created the emptiness
in his life, but now he knew he'd been missing love.

A love Claire had but was afraid to give
him.

o0o

Claire reread the last page of her
grandmother's journal, then closed the leather cover. The love
story wrenched her heart more severely this time.

She knew what it was like to be married to a
man who cheated. Jack had slept with other women. Each night he
hadn't come home, it had broken Claire's heart. But she was sure
Jack hadn't loved those women. He hadn't loved anybody, including
himself.

Abe had cheated with one woman and had loved
her with all his heart. No wonder Desmona had been bitter.

Claire felt a deep sympathy for Desmona, but
she also empathized with her grandmother and Abe, who had
eventually sacrificed their love for duty.

How had her grandmother and Addison survived
five decades of such wrenching torment? They must have crossed
paths with each other every week. How could they not throw
themselves into each others' arms at those moments?

That's how Claire felt when she'd seen Boyd
climbing his porch steps late last night. He'd barely been home
during the past week, and when he had, he and Sailor had stayed
inside. When she saw him on his porch, she wanted to race across
the street and hug him and kiss him and beg him to be her friend
again.

But that would be unfair. He stood by her
through everything, protected her when she needed protection, and
taught her how to laugh again. She couldn't take any more without
giving more in return.