Lips That Touch Mine (22 page)

He finished the naughty song and flashed a
grin so full of mischief that she felt her knees weaken.

"May I?" she asked, gesturing to the piano in
the same manner he'd used with Anna.

Instead of leaving the bench, he slid over
and offered her half. Unwilling to let him unnerve her, Claire
settled herself beside him and placed her fingers on the cool ivory
keys.

He smelled wonderful—a woodsy sort of smell
mingled with a hint of cologne. Had he worked the sawmill today? Or
had he been carving another piece of art before coming here?
Although he wasn't touching her, she felt his solidness beside her
as clearly as if he were flush against her.

Inhaling, she straightened her shoulders and
focused on the keys. With every ounce of bravado she could muster,
she began singing a temperance song, "Lips That Touch Whiskey Must
Never Touch Mine." It was a sad song about a woman losing her lover
to alcohol. He'd promised to reform, but she'd trusted in vain, his
pledge broken time and again. The song was reminiscent of her own
life, and Claire sang it with conviction.

By the time she finished, Boyd was silent.
"Touché," he said. His handsome face, only inches from hers, was
filled with respect and admiration. "You have a lovely voice,
Claire." His dark lashes lowered as his gaze dropped to her mouth.
"And lovely lips that should never touch whiskey," he teased, but
his voice was too intimate to be taken lightly.

Claire heard the swish of a skirt as Anna
slipped out of the music room. Blast her. How could her friend
desert her? Claire wanted to call Anna back, to leap off the bench
and follow, but Boyd clasped her hand.

"I'm sorry if I offended you earlier."

Heaven help her. She couldn't look into his
handsome face and keep her wits about her. She stared at the keys
on the piano. "I don't like your games."

"I wasn't playing with you. I meant every
word I said." He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "I think
you're afraid to be near me, and that bothers me. I won't hurt
you."

She glanced up, but he wasn't smiling. He was
gazing directly into her eyes, his own dark and serious. "I'm not
afraid," she said, but she was, and his light snort said he knew
the truth.

She tugged her hand free, but he hooked his
arm around her waist and kept her on the bench with him.

"Stay a minute," he said, but it was a gentle
request. He removed his hand from her waist, and she felt a thrill
race through her. She hadn't been touched so intimately since
before Jack died.

And never so tenderly.

Her knees bumped his, and she slid back an
inch. "Where did you learn that naughty song?"

"I made it up."

"You did not."

"I did." He smiled. "You inspire me."

"Are you playing with me because I'm a
widow?"

He stroked his hand up her forearm. "I like
you," he said, curling his fingers around her arm. "I'm attracted
to you." He gave her a gentle squeeze as his gaze roved her face.
"I'd like to kiss you again."

Her breath whooshed out, and she stared at
him. Common sense told her to lift her bottom off the bench and get
out of the room, but the reckless girl in her stayed and waited in
breathless anticipation.

"You tell me when you're ready." He got to
his feet and gave her a courteous nod. "I'll close Sailor in the
kitchen for the night. Sleep well, Claire."

Embarrassed by her wanton feelings, Claire bade Boyd
a good night and rushed to the safety of her bedchamber. She would
talk to Sheriff Grayson as soon as he returned. Whatever it took,
she was going to convince him that she and Anna were safe alone in
the house. Maybe Boyd would let Sailor stay with her. A dog would
offer some protection. And she still had her gun.

Whatever happened, she had to get Boyd out of
her house.

He was too handsome. Too persuasive. Too
tempting.

Despite her promise to never marry again, her
body still responded to a man's touch. It still yearned and ached
to be held. She couldn't help it. She'd enjoyed the early months of
sharing her marriage bed with Jack.

With a sigh, Claire sank into the wing chair
with her grandmother's journal. Heaven knew she could use a
diversion or some words of wisdom.

Abe danced with me!

For three dreadful hours we stood mere feet from
each other, dancing with our spouses, pretending our hearts weren't
aching with the need to hold each other.

Abe talked with my husband about our kitchen. He
would finish it this week. He would have no reason to return. He
would no longer drink coffee in my house, no longer look up to see
me watching him, no longer lay down his tools and pull me into his
arms.

I couldn't bear the thought. I turned away to hide
my tears. Abe slipped his hand into mine and led me onto the dance
floor. He said friends are allowed to dance with each other.

But we're so much more than friends. It'll show, I
thought. Still, I could not end our dance. I could not withdraw my
hand from the warmth of his grip. He squeezed my hand. I squeezed
back. My husband was only feet from us. My actions horrified me,
but I was helpless to stop the secret communication with Abe. He
said this would be our first and last dance. My eyes filled and I
nodded. He whispered to be strong, to appreciate the moment, to
live it fully and keep it alive in my memory. I swallowed my tears
and looked at that beautiful man.

His eyes were dark with pain, but filled with love.
For me. Everything he couldn't say was there. I closed my eyes and
inhaled his scent. He smelled of forest and soap and man.

Abe. Oh, Abe ...

The song was ending. Our hands clasped in
desperation. Our bodies betrayed us and moved close, brushing each
other, aching, longing, begging to embrace. "Smile," he whispered,
but I could not. If I blinked, my tears would have spilled over my
lashes. I couldn't release my breath, fearing I would sob. If I had
dared to look at him again, I would have begged him not to leave
me.

I held all that emotion inside, dying as the music
faded and he released my hand.

Her grandmother's pain was so real, Claire's
eyes misted.

The affair had been wrong. They'd known that.
Claire knew that. But what about the love? How could it be wrong?
How could something so true and unwavering be wrong? The timing was
wrong. The circumstance was wrong. But not the love. The love was
real.

The fire crackled in the fireplace, but
Claire felt chilled. No one should know this depth of heartache.
Jack had hurt her innumerous ways and broken her heart when he
smashed her dream of love, but her pain couldn't compare to what
her grandmother had endured. To love and be loved so deeply, and to
be denied that love had to be the most painful thing in the
world.

Her grandmother's words broke Claire's heart
and made Claire lonely. She felt a deep need to be held and
comforted.

Tucking the journal beneath her arm, she
picked up her lantern and tiptoed to the door. The hall was empty,
so she slipped downstairs and hurried to the kitchen. "Hello,
dear," she whispered as she knelt by Sailor. "How about some
company?"

The dog wheezed and licked her cheek.

"Oh, yuck." She wiped her cheek with her
sleeve. "That really wasn't necessary. Come on." She pulled a chair
next to the stove, welcoming the warmth as she sat. Sailor sat
beside her and put his head in her lap. Claire stroked his soft fur
and began to read again.

Several pages of the journal were filled with
accounts of stolen moments between Abe and her grandmother: a
chance meeting at Brown & Shepherd's store, a secret letter
tucked into Abe's coat pocket while she passed him on the street, a
private glance shared at church. Even the tiniest of things had
momentous significance. Those morsels sustained them when they
couldn't steal away to be with each other.

It seemed impossible to Claire that the two
lovers could have been happy, but a deep joy resonated in her
grandmother's words.

Abe's wit is bone-dry, but the darling man never
ceases to make me laugh. He tells me outrageous stories about his
patrons that I can hardly believe, but he assures me they're true.
When we're alone, we talk about the meaning of life, and why we
share this forbidden love. After many conversations, we have given
up trying to understand. Some things are beyond comprehension or
explanation. We've accepted that pain will accompany the joy and
love we share.

Abe and I shared a private glance in church this
morning, but as I looked away, I noticed his wife watching me, her
eyes filled with hatred and heartache. She knew.

I could bear her hatred, but my darling Abe had to
live with that resentment and anger.

I left church believing Abe would cancel his visit
to repair a hinge on my cupboard door. But he arrived on schedule.
I told him my suspicions. He assured me I was wrong, that nothing
had changed. I wanted so desperately to believe him, but to my
despair, I was right.

Abe's wife confronted us in my parlor where Abe had
kissed me only minutes before. She asked if I knew the definition
of honor. I asked if she knew the meaning of love. She confessed
that she did not. I cannot credit my emotions in that moment, but
it shamed me to feel relief rather than pity, to know that I alone
owned Abe's affection.

I was forced to bid him farewell with a brief,
guarded glance, to try to express the depth of love in my heart
with the mere meeting of our eyes.

If only I could hold him one last time, hear his
heartbeat beneath my ear, have one final moment of feeling alive,
but all I have left of my beloved is this child in my womb.

Abe, my darling, I'm going to have your baby.

Claire clapped a hand over her mouth and
stared at the date of the journal entry. It couldn't be true.

Her father had been born...No. No! It wasn't
possible.

But the truth was right there on the page in
her grandmother's own script.

Abe had sired her father.

It was entirely believable. For whatever
reason, her grandmother hadn't gotten pregnant before or after
giving birth to Claire's father.

Her hands shook as she turned the page, but
the rest of the journal was blank. Had their story ended there? Did
she ever see Abe again? Did she ever tell him about his child?

Tears flooded her eyes, for her grandmother
and Abe, and for Abe's wife who had also suffered. Her grandfather
had been betrayed, too, but he probably never realized that his
wife loved Abe, that his son was sired by another man.

A man who might still be alive.

Claire's heart leapt with hope. What if Abe
was alive? Would he want to meet her? Would he admit the affair and
privately acknowledge her, or would he pretend his love for her
grandmother never existed?

The kitchen door opened, and Boyd stared at
her. "Gads, Claire. I thought someone was prowling around down
here."

She ducked her head, trying to hide the fact
that she was crying. "It's just me."

"Is something wrong?" He crossed the room and
knelt beside her chair. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "I'm fine."

"When a woman cries, she is not fine."

"I'm just reading something sad and...it's
nothing, really. I'm fine."

He tilted his head to see the cover of the
book. "What is it?"

"A journal." She wiped her eyes with the back
of her hand, but her tears wouldn't stop. "You can go back to
bed."

"I'm not leaving you crying in the kitchen
alone."

She sighed, knowing he wouldn't give up, and
she was glad because she didn't want to be alone right now. She
needed a friend.

He stroked his hand over her fist that was
clenched on top of the journal. "Trust me, Claire. Tell me what's
hurting you."

His tender inquiry brought a fresh rush of
tears to her eyes that had nothing to do with the journal. Claire
hadn't felt any tenderness in so long, she'd forgotten how good the
gentle stroke of a man's hand could feel.

"Why are you sad?" he asked.

She sniffed and wiped her face, deciding to
trust Boyd with the truth about her grandmother, if not about
herself.

He had cared about her grandmother enough to
cart her wood and carry her coffin, it wouldn't make sense for him
to do anything to tarnish her memory now.

"I'm reading my grandmother's journal," she
said.

"I hope she didn't divulge how often she beat
me at poker."

Claire smiled, glad for Boyd's humor, which
brought some levity to the moment. "She wrote about her
affair."

His dark eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"My grandmother had a lover," she said, then
let Boyd read the first page of the journal.

He let out a low whistle. In the few weeks
she'd known him, it was the first time she'd ever seen Boyd truly
shocked. "I would never have guessed Marie was involved with
someone."

"Her affair took place fifty years ago. I
think it ended a short time later, long before you or I were
born."

He sat back on his heels. "I wonder who Abe
was."

"According to this," she said, lifting the
journal, "he's my grandfather. My grandmother's last entry said she
was carrying Abe's child. Judging from the date of her entry, that
child would have been my father."

Boyd blew out an astonished breath and stood.
"Do you think your father knows?"

She shrugged, because she didn't know and
because she couldn't ask her father. "Do you know any men with the
first or last name of Abraham?"

"You think Abe is still alive?"

"I don't know. Most likely, no, but I...I
hope so." She more than hoped, she prayed he was alive. He would be
the only family she had left. He could finish the story about his
affair with her grandmother. Maybe he would even want to share a
secret friendship with her.