The Longing (38 page)

Claire walked alongside Desmona Edwards and
other wives and daughters of the most respected men in town,
feeling a deep sense of pride in her mission. If her actions could
save one woman, child, or family from suffering the hell she'd
endured with Jack, then her efforts would be worthwhile.

And if she could close down that den of noise
across the street from her home, life would be almost perfect.

Just the thought of a quiet evening made her
sigh. Her breath formed a long, frosty funnel in the cold air as
she closed her fingers around the miniature carving she'd been
unable to throwaway last night. After the conversation she'd had
with Boyd Grayson during their walk home, she had been determined
to rid herself of his company and the gift he'd forced on her. But
the tiny carving of roses was too magnificent to destroy. Each
rose, in varying stages of bloom, was so perfectly sculpted that
she could almost smell their fragrance. It intrigued her that the
reprobate could have whittled something so exquisite.

The man intrigued her, too.

Boyd Grayson seemed every bit the charmer and
hell raiser she disdained, but what she couldn't see clearly was
the shadow he carried with him. There was another man standing
behind his dashing personality, and she suspected he was totally
unaware of it.

"All right, ladies." Mrs. Barker clapped her
hands. "It's time to begin our work." She led the procession of
women down the steps of the Taylor House and into the saloon. They
filled the bar, surprising the three Taylor brothers, who knew that
no self-respecting woman would enter such an establishment. Mrs.
Barker immediately informed the men of the object of their visit,
appealing to them personally to cease the sale of intoxicating
liquors.

Mr. Taylor cast a helpless glance at his
brothers. "We feel obliged to keep liquor in our hotel for our
guests."

"We didn't come to argue, gentlemen. We're
simply here to urge you by the promise of God to heed our
pledge."

After more praying and gentle persuading, Mr.
Taylor finally said, "If the rest will stop selling alcohol, we'll
stop, too."

Claire stood with her mouth open, as stunned
as the rest of the ladies. None of them had expected such easy
capitulation.

"That includes the drug stores," Mr. Taylor
said, breaking their stunned silence. "When every establishment
selling intoxicating beverages ceases distribution, I'll stop
selling it as well."

His maneuvering wasn't what they had hoped
for, but it was a beginning. Mrs. Barker asked him to reconsider
the matter and said they would call on him again the next day.

They called at Smeizer & Hewes next, but
Mr. Hewes stated he had a license and would continue to sell
according to its provisions. Next door, Willard Lewis said he would
close his saloon if the rest would shut up their businesses as
well. The ladies also visited J. D. Maynard's Drug Store. He argued
that he couldn't run his shop without selling liquor, but promised
not to sell to any drunkards. The ladies then walked to Baldwin's
Drug Store, the Harrison Hotel, Duane Beebe's Saloon, Don Clark's
Drug Store, and Wriensler's Saloon where they received similar
replies.

Finally, they marched up West Hill to the
Pemberton Inn. Claire sensed this would be the biggest challenge,
and her own personal battle, but she was determined to win.
Straightening her shoulders, she entered the saloon—and came
face-to-face with Boyd Grayson.

He stood behind the bar, hip cocked, a crisp
white towel slung over his arrogant shoulder as he filled a mug
with ale.

He turned and smiled, saluting Claire and her
fellow marchers with the foaming mug.

She tightened her stomach to stop the
flutter. Why in God's name did she have to be battling the most
handsome rakehell in town?

o0o

A literal herd of women crowded Boyd's
saloon. He whistled in amazement. Every woman in Fredonia must be
marching. But the only face he could seem to focus on was Claire's.
She wore her hood up, but thick honey-gold hair brushed her cheeks
and fell softly across the breast of her coat. Her eyes held a
silent challenge that warmed his blood.

Her face was pink from the cold, but he
imagined it flushed with passion, her hair loose and her eyes half
closed as he kissed her neck, her breasts, her...

Her naked image came to him so clearly it
flooded his body with heat. He clenched his fingers around the mug
handle, struggling for any thought that would drag his mind away
from undressing her.

She smiled at him. "You look shocked, Mr.
Grayson."

He was shocked all right. By his own desire.
He'd never felt such intensity in his life. "I was expecting ten or
twenty women," he said, struggling to regain his balance.

Her lips tilted in a superior half-smile.
"There are over one hundred of us."

"And there'll be more," said Mrs. Barker. She
and Mrs. Williams then pleaded with him to close his saloon and
spare the poor wives and children any more suffering.

In the early afternoons, Boyd's saloon was
usually quiet, but Pat Lyons, who was sitting at the bar drinking
an ale, and Karlton Kane, who had been hauling in Boyd's weekly
order of liquor, both stopped what they were doing and stared as if
the women had lost their minds.

"Ladies," Boyd said, "I admire your efforts,
but closing down drinking establishments isn't the answer to
improving your home life. A man who neglects his family or beats
his wife will do so whether he's a drunkard or not. Closing saloons
will not make those men stop abusing their families."

"Can you prove that?" Claire asked. To his
surprise, she seemed sincere.

"No. I can't. But do you suppose that man's
family might be safer with him drinking at home?"

Understanding dawned in her eyes and she
exhaled slowly. "No."

"Then you have my answer. I will not close my
saloon." Instead of debating, Mrs. Barker turned to the ladies.

"Let's sing a hymn and pray that Mr. Grayson
will reconsider his position."

Before he could tell her not to bother, the
women filled his saloon with a mournful rendition of "Praise God
From Whom All Blessings Flow." Sailor howled and scratched on the
door of the storeroom where Karlton had quickly caged him after
seeing the women marching toward the front door.

The deep baritone of a man's voice drew
Boyd's attention to Pat, who was standing beside the bar singing
loud enough to wake snakes. Boyd glanced at Karlton, but the burly
distiller shrugged as if he had no idea why Pat had suddenly
changed sides.

The hymn ended and Pat bowed. "Well done,
ladies."

The women glowered at Pat, but to Boyd's
astonishment, Claire was fighting a smile.

"We've done our best for this day." Mrs.
Barker shooed the ladies toward the door. Let's move on."

Boyd winked at Claire, but the humor in her
eyes vanished. She marched out the door like a sergeant mustering
her troops.

o0o

On Wednesday morning Claire began her chores
with a renewed sense of purpose. The temperance cause was already
gaining ground. Monday evening, after their first march, J. D.
Maynard had signed their pledge and agreed to stop selling
alcoholic beverages in his drug store. Of course, on Tuesday D. A.
Clark warned them not to visit his drugstore again, as their visits
were annoying.

Levi Harrison was more of a gentleman. He'd
told the ladies he would consider their proposal if they returned
to his hotel at eleven o'clock.

Claire and her fellow marchers would be
there. Business by business, they were going to rid the town of
alcohol. Day by day, bottle by bottle, they would tear down this
mountain of evil.

She stepped from her warm kitchen into her
cold woodshed and felt her spirits plummet. She loathed carrying
wood.

Piece by piece, she stacked it in her arms,
then groaned as she carried it inside. This was only the beginning.
After she filled the huge bin in the kitchen, she would have to
carry three loads into her parlor, and another armload upstairs for
the fireplace in her bedchamber. If she was lucky enough to get a
boarder, she would have to carry wood for that room, too. It was
enough to make a woman wish for a man.

Almost.

She dumped her load of wood into the kitchen
bin with a crash, then headed back to the shed. She would haul her
own fuel each day for the rest of her life to avoid enduring
another marriage like the one she'd suffered.

No job could belittle her or cause her the
pain Jack had. Nothing could terrify her more than losing control
of her life again, or subjugating herself to a man's cruel
demands.

Nothing.

The thought of Jack shattered her calm. He'd
been dead for weeks, but she couldn't escape him. His domineering
presence lived within her, ruling her thoughts, keeping her scared.
He was dead. She'd seen his gray, bloated body. She'd watched them
lower his coffin deep into the earth and bury it. But Jack Ashier
felt as alive as if he were standing behind her.

Spiders crawled up her back, and she
shivered.

She would never forget that deadly look in
his eyes, or the ice-cold fear that sliced through her when he
pulled her beneath the brown river water.

Her knees weakened, and she lurched outside
into the frigid morning air. She sucked deep gulps of cold air into
her lungs as she slid down the shed wall. Her backside hit the top
step and halted her downward plunge.

"Dear God," she whispered, clasping her
stomach and rocking on the step. She squeezed her eyes closed,
trying to block her last image of Jack's enraged face and the
deadly intent in his eyes.

He'd wanted to kill her. He
would
have killed her.

A loud breath near her ear knifed terror
straight through her heart. She screeched and recoiled, slamming
her head against the shed wall. She opened her eyes and found
herself nose-to-nose with a long-legged, panting white dog with
brown spots and pointy ears that didn't quite stand up. He stared
at her with huge chocolate-drop eyes, his tongue lolling from the
side of his mouth.

Realizing it wasn't her late husband, and
that the dog wasn't angling for her throat, she released a hard,
trembling breath and clasped a hand over her heart.

"What are you doing here?"

The dog emitted a wheezy, whistling
sound.

Her senses returned slowly, and she took two
deep breaths before easing away from the wall. She rubbed the back
of her head and stared at the dog with dismay, realizing it
belonged to Boyd Grayson. "You scared the life out of me. Did your
owner send you over here to do that?" After two days of marching on
Boyd's saloon, she wouldn't have doubted his desire to make her pay
for disrupting his day.

The dog wheezed again, but with his mouth
parted and his tongue hanging out the side, he looked like he was
grinning at her.

"Don't try to charm me, mister." She scooted
to the edge of the step. "I've had enough of that from your
owner."

Still wearing his brainless canine grin, the
dog dropped into a sitting position and lifted his paw.

She gaped at him.

As if the dog understood she wasn't going to
shake his wet, padded paw, he planted it on the snowy ground in
front of him and sat watching her.

"Go on," she said, shooing him away with her
hand. "Go home."

He trotted in the direction she'd moved her
hand, sniffed the ground, then came back and sat in front of her
again.

"I didn't throw anything. I was telling you
to go home."

He stared at her with his big eyes, tilting
his head and panting, not moving a toenail. She sighed and glanced
toward the street to see if her neighbors were about. The street
was empty. Just like her life.

"Can you carry wood?" she asked.

The dog's wheezy answer made her smile.

"Oh, bother. Come here." She held out her
hand and the dog leapt forward, his tail swinging wildly behind him
as she stroked his head. "I could use some company, even if you
aren't much for conversation."

o0o

"Sai-lor!"

Boyd shrugged on his coat as he stepped
outside. He scanned Main Street in both directions, wondering which
neighbor his dog was begging scraps from this time. The shameless
mutt had become a mooch, and though Boyd admired Sailor's cunning,
he didn't like him imposing on the neighbors, or having to chase
after the dog each day. Still, he couldn't go to the lumber mill
without the mutt. God knows where the rascal would end up if left
to his own devices.

Boyd gave a shrill whistle and followed a
smattering of dog tracks down Chestnut Street, hoping they belonged
to his dog. They trailed from the middle of the street to the edge,
then back again, as if Sailor had been trying to decide where his
best chances lay. Suddenly, the prints veered left and climbed a
small bank of snow to the rear of Claire Ashier's house. Boyd
glanced across her yard and saw that they led right to her back
door.

And stopped there.

He grinned in anticipation as he followed the
tracks. If Sailor had wheedled his way inside, he had just earned
himself a prime bone from the butcher.

When Boyd reached the back door to the shed
it was open, but neither Claire nor Sailor were around. Having made
this trip hundreds of times to carry wood for Claire's grandmother,
he strode through the shed and knocked on the door that connected
the woodshed with the kitchen.

Sailor's yelp and the sound of chair legs
screeching across the hardwood floor told Boyd he'd guessed
correctly. God he loved that mutt. Sailor was the master of
weaseling.

Claire opened the door, her eyes guarded and
cool. Sailor barked and wagged his tail, wheezing like an
overheated boiler. Boyd rubbed his dog's head, but spoke to
Claire.