Lips That Touch Mine (12 page)

"My mother adores me."

"Undoubtedly. But does she adore your choice
of profession?"

He winced. "She would rather I work the
sawmill."

"Why don't you? If I understand correctly, it
belongs to you and your three brothers?"

Boyd slowed the sleigh and turned left onto
Day Street near the center of town. "I've worked the sawmill since
I was a boy," he said, steering the team around a small carriage
parked on the side of the street. "I wanted a change."

"Do you ever think of going back?" she asked,
sending up a prayer that he would announce his intentions to close
his saloon and return to his family business.

"I'm happy working a few hours a week there.
That's enough."

"Is it?"

He glanced at her, his expression quizzical.
"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because your brothers are there?"

"Kyle is the only one who works the mill full
time. Duke and Radford and I work when we can."

He made a right turn at the intersection of
Day and Lambert Streets where Claire had recently marched with her
temperance friends. As Lambert Street angled hard left, Boyd veered
right and entered Forest Hill Cemetery.

"Is there a reason you're taking me to a
cemetery?" she asked, wondering what on earth he could be
planning.

"Yes." He winked at her, but didn't say
another word.

Huge, snow-covered maple trees and towering
pines cast shadows across the narrow lanes that wound through the
cemetery. Everything was buried in several inches of snow, but he
seemed to know where he was going. The horses' shod feet kicked up
a dusting of snow with each step, the bells on their harness
tinkling with each shift of their majestic bodies, creating a
light, rhythmic music that captivated Claire.

Boyd guided the sleigh on a winding path
through the towering trees and leafless, snow-covered bushes, past
squat, somber tombstones and tall monuments. Suddenly he brought
the sleigh to a stop, his expression serene and oddly respectful.
"I thought you might like to visit your grandparents today." He
nodded toward two matching headstones on Claire's side of the
sleigh.

Stunned, she glanced to her left and saw two
gray stones side-by-side with her grandparents' names engraved on
them. She'd never been here, but Boyd obviously had. He must have
come earlier to clear the snow off the stones.

In the few weeks she'd been in Fredonia,
she'd been so preoccupied with opening and managing her
boardinghouse and the temperance marches that she hadn't yet
visited her grandparents' graves. Her grandmother hadn't liked
coming to the cemetery, and had never brought Claire here to visit
her grandfather's grave. She'd wanted to remember her husband as a
living man, not as a cold stone in a cemetery.

Claire had felt the same. Still, she should
have visited the cemetery out of respect for her grandparents.
Despite the demands of her new responsibilities, she knew she could
have squeezed in a visit. Truth was, she hadn't been able to face
the loss of her grandmother, or the reminder of burying Jack.

"I thought we could hang these on their
stones," Boyd said. He lifted two fir wreathes out of a satchel at
his feet and handed them to her. Tiny pinecones and elaborate gold
bows decorated each wreath.

His thoughtfulness and generosity touched
her.

"How did you know they were here?" she asked,
keeping her eyes downcast so he couldn't see the moisture that was
blurring her vision.

"I was a pallbearer for Marie."

She glanced up, surprised by his
confession.

"Marie had lots of friends, you know."

She knew. The summer she'd spent with her
grandmother had been filled with daily visitors. Still, it
surprised her that her grandmother would have consorted with a
saloon owner.

"I know what you're thinking." He smiled, and
she felt a guilty flush burn her face. "We were good friends. I
cared about your grandmother."

"Do you have any idea what happened...how she
died?" The letter from her grandmother's lawyer hadn't explained
the circumstances. He had just sent the deed with a note saying
Claire now owned the house.

"She was beating me soundly in a game of
poker when she slumped over the table."

"You were with her?"

"Yes." He caught Claire's hand and stopped
her nervous fumbling with the wreath. "She didn't suffer. Whatever
took her was fast and merciful."

"I didn't know she played poker." The instant
the words left Claire's mouth she cringed. What a stupid thing to
say. She could have expressed her heartbreak over her grandmother's
death, or thanked Boyd for bringing her here, or...or any number of
thoughts circling her mind, but no, she'd blurted out the most
mundane and inappropriate comment of all.

"Marie loved playing cards. She was an ace
player."

So was Claire, but she would never reveal the
dirty little secret that had enabled her and Jack to eat.

"Pat and I played cards with your grandmother
a couple evenings a week. We kept her wood bins stocked and she
kept us fed." He released Claire's hand and braced a forearm over
his knee. "I miss her. She treated me like her own son."

So that's why her grandmother had consorted
with a saloon owner. She had missed her son. Boyd had filled that
void in her life.

A void Claire had created by eloping with
Jack while staying with her grandmother. Her father hadn't spoken
to his mother since that day.

Her grandmother couldn't have known that Jack
had a dark side. She would have only heard Claire's declaration of
being in love with Jack Ashier.

Thank God she wasn't here to learn the truth.
Jack had been a deeply conflicted and angry man. While living with
him, Claire had been just as conflicted.

"Would you like to hang the wreaths now?"
Boyd asked.

She nodded, glad to turn away from her
thoughts.

Sailor sniffed the wreath and sneezed. She
smiled and hugged the dog, knowing she needed him more than he
would ever need her.

Boyd climbed out of the sleigh, then reached
up to help her down. Her feet were barely on the ground when Sailor
leapt off the seat and hit the back of her legs. She fell against
Boyd's hard body.

Her face brushed the breast of his coat as
his arms clamped around her waist to steady her. She smelled a
mixture of wool and cologne, heard his breath near her ear, felt
the warmth of his body seeping through the thick fabric of his
coat. Sailor tore off after a gray squirrel scampering back to its
hole in an aging oak tree.

Boyd gazed down at her, an indulgent smile
creeping across his lips. "Remind me to thank Sailor for this
unexpected opportunity."

"Tell me you didn't train him to do
that."

"I didn't. But I don't regret his
recklessness."

Merciful heaven. Were all rakes blessed with
such a heart-stopping smile?

Jack's smile had been practiced and
purposeful, a tool or weapon to use at will. She'd sensed his
insincerity, but he'd been too handsome, a master to her youthful
naiveté.

She was older and wiser now, but the warmth
in Boyd's smile and the mischief sparkling in his eyes made her
feel young and full of foolish thoughts.

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asked,
tightening his arms to keep her against him, his mouth only inches
from hers.

"We are in a public cemetery."

"I don't mind," he said, ignoring her
protest. "What do you want?"

Unwilling to let the rascal unnerve her, she
met his eyes. "I want you to close your saloon," she said, being as
flippant as he was prone to being.

"Done. Consider it closed tonight and
tomorrow."

She laughed and swatted his arm. "I mean
forever."

His smile faded, and he gazed down at her.
"Nothing is forever, Claire."

She lowered her lashes. She knew that only
too well.

He nudged her chin to make her look at him.
"That wasn't supposed to make you sad."

"I'm not sad, I'm...cold." No, that wasn't
true. She wasn't cold. She was empty. And lonely. Her sudden
longing to stay in his arms scared her. She turned and lifted the
wreaths off the seat. "Let's hang these before we freeze to
death."

She'd barely known her grandfather, but she'd
adored her grandmother. It wrenched her heart to think of her
grandmother lying beneath the frigid snow and earth.

"I brought wire," Boyd said, pulling a small
spool from his pocket. He gestured toward the wreaths in her hands.
"It'll keep the wind from blowing them away." He pulled off his
gloves and positioned the wreaths on the stones. His long, nimble
fingers brushed Claire's mitten-covered hands as he twisted and
bent the wire.

"What made you think of doing this?" she
asked.

He glanced at her, his cheeks pink from the
cold. "Family should be together during the holidays."

Nothing would make her happier than to spend
time with her family, but that wasn't going to happen. Ever.

For the balance of her life, she would spend
her holidays alone, or with strangers.

Boyd's strong artist's hands secured the
second wreath, then he sat back on his heels. "What do you
think?"

His boyishly expectant expression melted her
heart. "Thank you. This was...it was..." She cleared her throat,
cursing herself for being so emotional. "You were kind to do
this."

The smile in his eyes dimmed, and he gave her
a small nod.

How miserly her thanks. How stingy her
praise. He'd done something many men wouldn't think of doing, and
all she could acknowledge was his kindness?

She reached out and clasped his hand.
"Grandmother would be touched by your gesture," she added, unable
to tell him how deeply he'd touched her own heart.

"Your grandmother talked about you often,
Claire. She claimed you had a head full of dreams and that you
would get hurt." Boyd held her gaze. "I think you did."

His bold comment embarrassed her. She stood
and headed toward the sleigh.

He caught her hand and stopped her. "I know
we're on opposite sides of this temperance issue, but it will never
dictate the way I treat you. You're safe with me. If you ever need
anything, you can trust me. I just wanted you to know that. "

His earnest declaration prodded her to
believe him. She did believe him in the deepest part of her soul.
But she'd believed Jack, too.

Still, her grandmother wouldn't have
befriended Boyd if he wasn't a trustworthy man, would she?

"I'd like us to be friends," he said.

She hadn't had a friend since she was sixteen
years old. But she could never be friends with a saloon owner.
Especially the one who was ruining her business.

He nodded toward the sleigh. "I think
Sailor's ready to leave."

The dog sat beside the sleigh, his tongue
lolling from the side of his mouth while a dusting of snow melted
on his nose. Claire smiled at the silly dog. "What have you been
doing? You're covered with snow."

With a happy bark, he leapt forward and
plowed into her knees, knocking her onto her backside in the snow.
He dove onto her lap and licked her cheek, then grabbed a mouthful
of her skirt and tugged.

"Sailor! Get off of her, you ill-mannered
maniac." Boyd pushed the dog aside and helped Claire to her feet.
"Are you all right?"

"Just wet," she said, drying her cheek on her
wool coat.

Boyd retrieved a clean handkerchief from his
pocket.

"Did he rip your dress?"

She hoped not. She had too few as it was. Her
grandmother's dresses were too small to be re-cut for her, so she'd
salvaged material from several dresses to make five for herself.
"No holes or tears," she said, brushing her hand over her
skirt.

"Sailor. Come here and apologize," Boyd
said.

The dog sat in the snow and tilted his
head.

"Come here and tell Claire you're sorry."
Boyd snapped his fingers and Sailor sprawled onto his stomach.
"Apologize."

The dog lowered his nose to his paws and
looked up at Claire with sad eyes.

"It's all right, Sailor." She couldn't bear
the pathetic look in his eyes.

Sailor whimpered and inched forward on his
belly until he was at Claire's feet. He put his paw over his eyes
and let out a mournful howl that echoed through the cemetery.

She flinched. "That was definitely a vocal
apology."

"Good boy, Sailor." Boyd stomped his foot on
the snow.

Sailor scrambled to his feet and reared up on
his hind legs. Each time Boyd thumped his foot, Sailor took a hop
across the ground.

Amazed, Claire laughed at the dog's circus
antics.

Boyd aimed his finger like a gun. "Bang!"

Sailor hit the snow in full body flop, his
tongue lolling from his mouth as if he'd just been shot to
death.

"What have you done to this poor dog?" she
asked, her voice bubbling with laughter.

"We've educated him."

She was still laughing when she knelt down to
hug the dog. "I forgive you," she said, then jerked away to save
herself another wet swipe of Sailor's tongue.

"Better stay clear," Boyd said, a gorgeous
smile lighting his face. "He'll lick the paint off a post if given
a chance."

"I believe it." She stood up, determined to
get herself a dog just like the rascal sniffing her boots. "Do you
know where I can get a dog? Like Sailor?"

Boyd shook his head. "There isn't another dog
like him. He's been corrupted by living in a saloon and spending
his time with drinking men." He gave her a sideways grin. "It takes
a long time to acquire all his tricks and bad habits."

"I'm sure."

Their gazes held, but she didn't feel
threatened or offended by his silent perusal. She felt alive for
the first time in years.

And happy.