Only You Page 17

  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 deeply 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.

  But her father had been born... No. No! It wasn’t possible.

  Yet the truth was right there on the page in her grandmother’s own script.

  Abe, whoever he was, had sired her father.

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

  Hands shaking, Claire turned the page, but the rest of the journal was blank. Had their story ended there? Did her grandmother ever see Abe again? Did she ever tell him about his child?

  Tears flooded Claire’s 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. 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?

  And did Claire really want to meet that man?

  Under normal circumstances she probably would not have wanted such a thing. But without a single person in her life to call family, she definitely wanted to meet Abe.

  The kitchen door opened, and Boyd gawked 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 where Sailor still lounged. “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 comforting 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.

  “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. Not ever. So she fled from the kitchen before she could divulge her whole sordid history.

  Chapter Nineteen

  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? If so, what had she meant when she said, “I know exactly what the danger is.” Had 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.

  That’s why Claire was complaining.

  That’s why she hated his saloon.

  That’s 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.

&nb
sp; 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 though. 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.

  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 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 wench was your mistress.”

  Claire gasped in outrage.

  Boyd grabbed the man by his shirtfront and 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.

  Anna 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.

  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, Claire. Truly.”

  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. “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 nightmarish past with Jack.

  Shaking, she heated milk in a small pot.

  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.

  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 accused me of being a…a loose woman. Why should that upset me?”

  “Technically, Zeke called you my mistress.”

  “I fail to see the difference.”

  “A loose woman 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. 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 grinned and lifted his feet out of the water. “I was just trying Sailor’s trick hoping to win your affection.”

  While he dried his feet, 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 suddenly 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?

  Chapter Twenty

  “Look at ‘em,” Gus Wriensler said to Sheriff Grayson, jabbing his finger toward Claire and the women gathered around her. “They’re like a bunch of wasps, swarming into my saloon, buzzing about us men like we’re all worthless swine. A man’s got a right to have a nip when he feels the need. And I got a license to sell liquor. “

  “You don’t have a right to point your gun at unarmed women,” Duke said. “Keep it put up, or I’ll take it.”

  “Then keep ‘em out of my saloon!”

  Sheriff Grayson turned toward the women. “Ladies, give Mr. Wriensler some time to mull over your message.”

  “I ain’t mulling over nothing.”

  The sheriff scowled at Gus. “Would you prefer to have these ladies on your doorstep every day trying to bring you around to their way of thinking?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then I’d suggest you agree to consider their message and send them word once you’ve reached a decision.”

  “I already know what I—” Gus clamped his mouth shut, his eyes registering the meaning behind Duke’s words. “All right then. But you keep ‘em off my doorstep while I’m making up my mind.”

  Every woman there knew that the minute Gus closed his door he would forget they’d ever been there. Claire saw the disappointment in their faces, knew that some of the women would lose hope and consider the battle lost. But she wasn’t going to let one rude bar owner stall her mission or the dreams of thousands of women across America. “Sheriff Grayson?” she called.

  He had stopped to see her and Anna last night, assuring them that Larry was locked up, and that his friends had been warned to stay away.

  The sheriff gave her a nod of greeting. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ashier.”

  “It is not a good afternoon when a man points a gun at you.

  “Then get off my property,” Gus said.