Lips That Touch Mine (23 page)

"Is this why your father quit speaking to his
mother?"

"No." She rose from the chair and laid the
journal on the counter beside the sink. "I broke their relationship
when I eloped with Jack. Grandmother sided with me,"

Boyd's eyebrows lowered. "You must have loved
him a great deal to have eloped with him."

She had, but she turned away from Boyd's
intense regard and pulled her chair back to the table. "Jack was
handsome and charming, everything a naive girl could want. He was
also an angry young man with an addiction to alcohol, which is why
I'd like to leave my past in the past."

"We all would, Claire. Unfortunately, the
past has a way of hanging around."

It certainly did, and that's why she
shouldn't have told Boyd about Jack. She didn't want any man to
know too much about her, to have power over her. And she didn't
want his pity.

But it wasn't pity she saw in Boyd's eyes. It
was concern and compassion. And it elicited a fierce need in Claire
to share her secrets and fears and heartaches with him. But she
couldn't. Ever. So she fled from the kitchen before she could
divulge her whole sordid history.

For the
second night in a row, Boyd went alone to his rented room in
Claire's boardinghouse. He tossed his shirt on the bed, then
stripped off his stockings and dropped them on the floor. Clad in
his trousers, he pulled the chair toward the fireplace in the front
corner of the room.

Retrieving a small chunk of wood from his
pocket, he began whittling, glancing out the window on occasion to
watch his saloon.

The house grew quiet, and he imagined Claire
nestled in her big bed. Did she miss her husband? Did she miss
their lovemaking? If so, what had she meant when she said, "I know
exactly what the danger is." Did Jack beat her?

The crackle of the fire and an occasional
creak of the joists beneath the floor sounded inside. Outside, the
din of music and voices flowed from his saloon. Some of the
conversations were so loud he could hear what the men were
saying.

If it was this loud with the windows closed
and snow muffling the streets, he could well imagine how loud it
would be in the summer months with the windows open and the men
conversing on the porch.

This was why Claire was complaining.

This was why she hated his saloon.

This was why she continued to march to his
saloon day after day.

Shame stole over him, and he lowered his
hands to his lap. How late did the noise keep her awake at
night?

He'd slept above his saloon while it was
open, but on those rare occasions he'd been so exhausted he could
have slept through a battle.

Tonight, though, he wasn't exhausted, nor was
he drinking. He was wide awake. And embarrassed.

The minutes dragged, and the noise escalated
outside.

His neighbors must hate him.

Claire's grandmother had never complained
about the noise, but it must have bothered her. To think he'd
caused Marie sleepless nights gnawed at his conscience. He never
meant to be inconsiderate of his neighbors.

Yet, while he sympathized with Claire and the
rest, he couldn't close his saloon.

Maybe he could close earlier. The neighbors
would be happy, but his patrons would give him fits. It wouldn't
take long for his regular patrons to shift their loyalty to a bar
where they wouldn't be pushed out the door halfway through the
night.

Boyd shaved the piece of wood in his hands as
his mind turned the situation in numerous directions, mulling over
ideas, but finding no solution. He grew so absorbed with the
problem that the loud shouting outside startled him. It was coming
from his saloon.

"Damn it." He pulled on his shirt and lunged
across the room. He had to stop the noise before it woke the
neighborhood.

He heard the other bedroom doors open as he
dashed down the hall. "Stay up here," he said, then raced down the
stairs. He was going to clobber those Carson brothers if they were
fighting again.

But it wasn't the Carson brothers who were
causing the ruckus. It was Zeke Farzin, an obnoxious drunk who'd
been thrown out of Boyd's saloon on several occasions. Apparently
Karlton was attempting to toss him out, but Zeke wasn't inclined to
leave.

Furious, Boyd marched barefoot into the
snow-covered street and hauled Zeke away from Karlton. "What the
hell are you doing back here?"

Zeke swung his arms out. "Get away from me."
Sailor barreled outside, barking and growling as he lunged toward
Zeke.

"Off!" Boyd commanded. Sailor halted three
feet away, his teeth bared, hackles raised, growling with such fury
it sent a chill down Boyd's spine.

Zeke glared at the dog then shifted his black
eyes toward the porch. "Well, would you look at that," he said,
glancing at Claire, who stood on the porch in her house robe. "I
didn't realize this temperance bitch was your mistress."

Claire gasped in outrage, and Boyd buried his
fist in Zeke's gut.

"Apologize to the lady," Boyd demanded.

"Sorry," Zeke said through gritted teeth.

Boyd pushed him toward town. "Get out of
here, and don't patronize my saloon again."

Zeke staggered toward town, but pointed a
finger at Claire. "You're itching for trouble, lady."

Boyd let him go but turned to Pat and Karlton
who were standing with several patrons. "Shut down for the
night."

Pat and Karlton exchanged a glance, then went
inside. The men grumbled, but Boyd told them to leave. As his
patrons made their way home or to the next open saloon, he let his
heart slow and his anger ebb.

The freezing snow finally drove him inside.
Sailor followed him in, and Boyd closed the door. Claire was
waiting in the foyer. Anna was standing on the stair landing, her
eyes huge with fear.

"It was just a drunk," he said.

She sank onto the steps and rested her head
against the spindle railing. "I thought it might be Larry."

Sailor bounded up the steps and licked her
ear. She sobbed and hugged the dog. "Thank you, Sailor. I needed
that."

With an angry tug, Claire cinched her house
robe around her waist, but she couldn't stop shivering. The foyer
was cold, and she was shaking with fury. That wretched saloon
should be closed permanently.

She moved to the foot of the stairs. "Since
we're all awake; let's make some hot cocoa and try to forget about
this." Not that she would or could.

Anna pulled herself to her feet. "Thank you,
but I think I'll just go back to bed," she said. She turned and
slowly climbed the stairs, her body visibly shaking.

o0o

Claire turned to Boyd. "This is what your
saloon does to a woman like Anna."

"Or a woman like you?" he asked.

She headed toward her kitchen. "That man
scared us half to death."

"I'm sorry about that."

She sighed and faced him. "Will you have some
cocoa.?"

"I need to dry my feet first."

She glanced down at his red feet and gasped.
"You must be freezing. Come to the kitchen and I'll get a pan of
warm water for you."

"A towel would be enough."

"Nonsense, your feet are red as beets. Come
on," she said, heading toward the kitchen with Sailor at her
heels.

"Claire, my feet are fine," he said, trailing
behind her. "They're just cold and wet."

"You'll be lucky if you don't catch your
death from this." She lit the lantern on the kitchen table, then
hurried to the stove where she kept a tea kettle and a pan full of
water.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely
handle the kettle. She slopped hot water into an empty pan, then
used the small hand pump on her sink to add cold water. She tested
it with her fingers, added a touch more cold water, then carried
the pan to the table. "Sit down.

He cupped her shoulders and held her still.
"I'm fine."

"Well, I'm not." Dash it all, her eyes were
welling up. She pulled away and put the pan on the floor. "Soak
your feet while I make the cocoa."

He sighed and sat down, which was a good
thing, because if he hadn't, she would have dropped the pan onto
the table and thrown herself into his arms. She desperately needed
a hug, and to feel safe for a moment. Being jolted awake by loud
cursing had spiraled her straight back into her nightmare past with
Jack.

Sailor stuck his nose out from beneath the
table and sniffed the pan of water.

"You won't like it," Boyd said. The dog
licked the warm water, then sneezed and backed away. "I told you,"
he said, casting a grin at Claire.

She turned away to put a distance between
herself and Boyd that she needed but did not want.

His shirt was unbuttoned and hanging open,
revealing a chest sculpted with muscles and covered with shiny dark
hair. She'd seen her husband's naked chest more often than she
cared to remember, but Jack had been blond like her, his chest
nearly hairless.

She couldn't bear having Boyd here, tempting
her, but she was glad he'd insisted on staying. What if it had been
Larry shouting outside? What if he found a way to get out of jail
again? What if he sent one of his nasty friends to bring Anna home?
What good would her gun have been if she couldn't pull the
trigger?

It would have been no good at all. She or
Anna could be dead right now.

The realization sent a shiver down her spine.
She couldn't bear living in fear again. She couldn't. She took two
cups from the cupboard and banged them onto the counter.

"Claire, there's no danger now. You can
relax."

She huffed out an angry breath.

"There's no need to be upset."

"No?" She stirred cocoa and sugar into two
cups of hot milk. "A drunkard threatened me and called me a whore
tonight. Why should that upset me?"

"Technically, Zeke called you my
mistress."

"I fail to see the difference."

"A whore takes all offers. A mistress has one
lover."

Like her grandmother. She had loved Abe. Had
that made her Abe's mistress, or just a woman who'd fallen in love
with the wrong man? Oh, bother, love was far too complicated.

"I'm sorry." She carried the cups to the
table. "I've grown cynical about men and their motives, but that
doesn't give me the right to be nasty to you."

Their eyes met, his dark and long-lashed. Her
attention shifted to his chest and that ebony hair that shone in
the lantern light. Their eyes met again, and a hint of a smile
touched his mouth, as if he wanted her to know that he felt the
attraction too. She flushed and looked away. She stared at the
brown liquid in her cup, nowhere near as appealing as Boyd's chest
but much safer.

And much smarter.

Her hastily thrown on wrapper was as indecent
as his unbuttoned shirt. Could he tell that her breasts were bare
and unbound beneath her nightrail and wrapper? The cotton fabric
brushed her peaked nipples, sending heat up her neck. She angled
her knees, purposely turning her shoulder to him.

He pointed to the pan of water. "I think my
hallux is turning into a prune."

She glanced down and saw his big toe sticking
out of the water. Despite her embarrassment, she smiled,
remembering the first time he sat in her kitchen. Only it was her
hallux that had been damaged that day. "I'll get you a towel." She
patted Sailor's head as she stood.

When she came back to the table, Boyd looked
up at her with adoring eyes. "Would you dry my feet?"

She tossed the towel in his face. "Do you
ever stop flirting?"

He laughed and lifted his feet out of the
water.

While he dried them, she propped her hands on
her hips. "Do you ever have a serious conversation? Do you even
know how?"

He tossed his towel onto the floor and stood
in front of her. "I'm serious about protecting you," he said, his
voice resolute. "No one is going to hurt you again."

Again? Her breath lodged in her chest and she
stared at him. How much did he know about her past?

"You're too tense, Claire." To her shock, he
shrugged his shirt off his shoulders. It slid down his arms and
over his hands, landing on the floor behind him.

Her gaze dropped to his beautiful, bare chest
then bounced back to his handsome face. "What are you doing?"

"Letting you see what you've been peeking at
for the last half hour."

"I was not peeking at your chest."

He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her
mouth. "You were peeking." Before she could protest, he sank into
his chair and pulled her onto his lap. She gasped, but he put his
finger over her mouth. His eyes, only inches from hers, were
sparkling with humor. "You have to stop taking everything so
seriously."

Being held in his arms, feeling his bare
torso against her wasn't serious?

His hard, warm thighs felt sturdy enough to
hold her for hours. His muscled arms circled her waist, but she
felt protected rather than trapped. The beat of his heart vibrated
his chest, and she felt a mad urge to curl against him, to lay her
head on his bare shoulder and take refuge for awhile.

His long, sooty lashes lowered as he kissed
her. The deep, molten kiss sent a river of heat coursing through
her body.

She clenched her fist, needing to move,
wanting to stay. His arms offered heaven and hell, sin and
salvation, safety and danger.

And passion.

Without her stays and corset, she had no
barrier against him, nothing to stop his hands from touching
her.

But he didn't touch her. He drew away, his
eyes dark with desire. "You'd better go up to bed now."

She studied the crescent shape of his black
eyebrows, the perfect line of his nose, the enticing contour of his
lips, and knew she didn't want to leave. All that waited upstairs
was an empty bed and an empty life.