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  “I’m a respectable widow. I believe your reputation could benefit from the association.”

  Muffled laughter rippled through the crowd as Boyd moved to stand at the foot of her porch steps. “Are you sure it won’t sully your own?”

  “Quite.”

  “All right then.”

  At his nod of acceptance, she turned to open her door, vowing she would soon be rid of Boyd Grayson and his abominable saloon.

  “Mrs. Ashier?”

  Gritting her teeth, she turned back to her reprehensible neighbor.

  “I’m looking forward to tomorrow evening.” A slow smile spread across his face. He tipped an imaginary hat and gave her a courtly bow. “Good night, fair lady.”

  An involuntary flutter filled her stomach. No man, especially a drinking man, should have a face like a prince or own a smile with the power to mesmerize a woman. She couldn’t begin to guess how many broken hearts Boyd Grayson had caused in his lifetime, but she vowed hers wouldn’t be one of them. She closed the door in his face, and sagged against the mahogany-paneled wall of her foyer.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  She knew firsthand that men who drank alcohol were too unpredictable and could turn violent and deadly if provoked. But she’d had to confront him. Her last boarder left earlier that evening because of the noise from the saloon. During the six weeks that she’d been running her boardinghouse, she’d had many guests, all of whom loved her home but eventually left because of the noise.

  If she were simply renting to overnight guests, they would put up with the noise for a night or two. But the people she rented to were seeking a place to stay for several weeks or months. Traveling salesmen came to town to do business. Families came to visit relatives who didn’t always have room to put them up. Newly married couples not wanting to set up housekeeping would rent by the year.

  Unlike the Harrison Hotel or the Taylor House, Claire’s boardinghouse was a home to her guests. They could visit her kitchen at any hour to make themselves a cup of tea and eat her fresh-baked tea cakes, cookies, or breads. They could sit by a warm fire in the parlor, or play the piano in her music room, or retire at their leisure to their own private bedchamber.

  Taking boarders was her only means of supporting herself. She had no other options. Not one.

  Her father had disowned her at seventeen for eloping with Jack Ashier, which had been the worst mistake of her life. She’d naively thought the reckless charmer loved her.

  He’d only wanted the dowry he thought her wealthy father would provide.

  But her parents had been outraged with Claire, and they’d blamed her grandmother Marie, whom Claire had been visiting, for allowing the elopement to happen. Instead of giving Claire a dowry, her father disinherited her and broke all ties with Marie, his own mother. Claire had spent four years in a prison with a man who had promised her heaven.

  Now all she wanted was to feel safe again.

  She rubbed the chill from her arms, dreading the empty hours that invited nightmarish memories. She had to do something, anything to keep her mind occupied.

  Hurrying upstairs to her bedchamber, she unlocked a small drawer in the oak chiffonier then moved aside her beloved grandmother’s diary she’d yet to read. The letter her sister had written to her a month ago lay open in the drawer. Homesick, Claire picked up the letter and sank into the wing chair to read it again.

  Dearest Claire, I hope you and Jack are happy in your new home in Fredonia.

  Claire groaned, the weight of her own lies burdening her conscience. She’d lied while Jack was alive that she was happy with him, and lied after he died that he was still alive and moving to Fredonia with her. She’d done it to keep her sister from worrying.

  It must feel strange yet oddly comforting to live in Grandmother’s house. I know how much you loved her. We all deeply miss her.

  Joanna, Jonathan, and Joseph are growing too fast to keep them in shoes, but they are healthy, happy children. Michael has become a partner in Daddy’s steel mill. I am busy with the unending household chores, but blessed with love and good health. I pray that you are, too, dearest sister. I miss you and wish you could come home for a visit, but as you must suspect, nothing has changed here. I’m sorry, Claire, but Daddy still refuses to speak of you. I continue to pray that one day his heart will know forgiveness, and you can come home.

  Your loving sister, Lida.

  Claire’s throat ached. She would give anything to be welcome in her father’s home again, but he would never forgive her for the embarrassment she’d caused the family.

  For four years, she had longed to pour out her heartaches and fears in her letters to Lida, but she’d been too ashamed to admit her true circumstances. Instead, she’d filled the pages with false claims of happiness and love for Jack, feeling it was kinder to write fairy tales than truth.

  Now it would be an even bigger lie to tell her sister that she was grieving Jack. She was relieved to be rid of him.

  She wouldn’t have wished him dead, but she was glad to be free of him, to have a chance to build a safe and decent life for herself. That’s why she had allowed her new neighbors to think she’d been widowed for over a year, as uncomfortable as she was with yet another lie. But it would have been unseemly for a widow to bury her husband and open a boardinghouse eight weeks later. Someday she would tell Lida the truth, of course, that Jack had drowned two months ago. But she would never tell anyone what had happened that dreadful night.

  What a tangled mess of lies and broken dreams she’d wrought.

  She placed Lida’s letter in the drawer beside a small velvet bag—the only security she had left. She shook the contents onto the white lawn dresser scarf. The diminishing amount of money sent a wave of panic through her. She should have had fifty dollars left. She would have had fifty dollars if she’d been able to keep her boardinghouse filled each night.

  That scoundrel saloon owner was ruining her life.

  She clenched her fist around her last nineteen dollars. She would not be forced into depending on a man again. Somehow she was going to shut down that wretched saloon.

  Chapter Two

  What a surprise the widow Claire Ashier had turned out to be. When Boyd had seen her standing on the porch last night, he’d never expected to find himself staring into the face of an angel with angry, starlit eyes.

  He was certain she hadn’t intentionally pulled the trigger on her revolver, but her daring in standing up to him and his patrons, and her ability to trap him into a church date, had thoroughly impressed him. Claire Ashier had an edge to her that warned people to stand aside. That drew him like a dog to a bone. He loved a good challenge.

  Whistling, he tucked a small wood carving in his pocket and left his saloon. He strode across Main Street to Claire’s house then took the steps of her front porch in a single leap.

  Time to see what the lady was made of.

  It took well over a minute for her to open the door, but only seconds for her disdainful expression to be replaced with surprise. A spark of appreciation filled her eyes as she surveyed his black wool suit and the Kersey overcoat he’d left open.

  Boyd stepped into her foyer, pleased with himself. He’d gotten her attention.

  A brightly burning lantern lit the hall and spilled into the surrounding rooms. A glance told him Claire hadn’t changed anything in the beautiful house. The east and west parlors were still decorated in busy gold and burgundy wallpaper. Heavy draperies dressed tall windows, and chandeliers hung from high, tin-plated ceilings. The music room was also the same elegant decor of patterned carpets and rich, glowing woodwork in which her grandmother had taken such pride. More sheet music rested on the piano. He couldn’t see the kitchen or pantry at the back of the house, nor the formal dining room from where he stood, but he suspected they were unchanged as well.

  He had carted wood for Claire’s grandmother so often during the past two years, and eaten Marie’s baked goods at her kitchen table, that the pl
ace felt like home to him. He was glad Claire hadn’t changed anything.

  She reached for the closet door, but Boyd slipped his hand over hers, trapping it between the doorknob and his palm. She jerked her gaze to his, the message in her eyes deadly.

  “I have something I want to give you before we leave.” He released her hand and put his closed fists behind his back. “Choose a hand.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  “It’s a game, Mrs. Ashier. Don’t tell me you’ve never played before.”

  “I don’t play games.” She turned back to the closet, but he raised one fist and held it a few inches from her haughty nose.

  “I’ll give you a hint. It’s not in my left hand.”

  The slight twitch of her lips flooded him with satisfaction. She ignored him and retrieved an indigo blue wool coat from the closet. “I don’t like surprises, and I don’t accept gifts from men.”

  “It’s not a gift. It’s an invoice for replacing my window.”

  Her eyebrows jerked up with such surprise, he bit his lip to stop his grin.

  “Well, in that case,” she said, thoroughly flustered as she opened her hand. “I won’t apologize for doing it, but I will accept responsibility.”

  Instead of an invoice, Boyd placed the carving on her palm.

  She frowned, her gaze moving between his face and the small sculpted piece of wood. “What is this?”

  “I couldn’t find any wildflowers in my back yard, so I brought you this bouquet.” He shrugged. “It was the best I could do in the middle of winter.”

  She lifted the carving closer to her eyes and let out a small gasp. “Where did you get this?”

  “I made it.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  Wordlessly, she studied the tiny, intricately carved bouquet of roses that he’d dabbled with for the last few months, hoping to find the talent and desire to finish the statue he’d started seven years earlier. All he’d ended with was something he planned to feed to the stove.

  “This is incredible.” She met his gaze, her own unguarded for the first time. “Did you really carve this?”

  “Yes. And it’s really for you.”

  She studied it a moment longer then held the carving out to him. “I don’t accept gifts from men. They always come attached with an obligation to return something.”

  “Do you accept apologies?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then this is my apology in material form for disturbing you last night.”

  “I’m not looking for an apology, Mr. Grayson.” She held out the carving as if to return it. “I want peace and quiet.”

  “Keep it,” he urged.

  She glanced at the carving then back at him. “I can’t accept it.”

  “It’s nothing but a piece of wood, Mrs. Ashier.”

  “It’s a gift,” she insisted.

  “Well, I’m not going to cart it to church tonight.” He took the carving from her and gestured toward the parlor. “Mind if I toss it in the fireplace?”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re going to burn it?”

  “What else would I do with a bouquet of wooden roses?”

  “Give it to your mother.”

  “Believe me, she doesn’t need another carved piece of wood from me.”

  “Well, your shoes are wet with snow. Leave the carving on the cabinet, and I’ll toss it out when I return from church.”

  “It’ll only take a moment to remove my shoes—”

  “I’ll dispose of it later.”

  The crack in her voice surprised both of them. They stared at each other for several seconds before he smiled and placed the carving on the cherrywood silver chest that he’d always admired. “I’d appreciate that, Claire.”

  “It’s Mrs. Ashier, and we’re going to be late for church if we don’t leave promptly.”

  Claire sat in an overfull pew at the Baptist church where that impudent saloon owner had deposited her before heading toward the back of the church. He’d whispered that he didn’t want to start gossip by sitting with her, but the way he’d touched his lips to her ear as he whispered the warning was far more damaging. Already people were peeping at her then shifting their gaze to the back of the church, presumably to see if Mr. Grayson would nod and acknowledge their suspicions.

  Well, he was here, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

  She turned her attention to the pulpit where Dr. Lewis was telling about his heartbreaking childhood filled with abuse from an alcoholic father. Though he told his story to motivate others to abstain from the life-destroying vice, there wasn’t an ounce of self-pity in the man. He was a strong and spiritual speaker whose words immediately began working magic on Claire and the people around her.

  “There is a frightening change taking place in the converted Christian,” Dr. Lewis said, his voice booming from the pulpit. “It is the shameful lack of temperance. Not only in bodily habits, but in intellectual, social, moral, and religious practices as well. Tonight I want to address one specific vice, the worst case of intemperance we know, namely the use of alcohol.”

  Amen. Feeling immensely proud of herself for summoning Dr. Lewis to their rum-soaked town, Claire glanced across the sea of inspired faces. Expressions of hope filled her vision, and her heart lifted. She had supporters here.

  “Ninety-nine-percent of all the crime and poverty in this country can be traced to the same cause. Alcohol,” Dr. Lewis continued. “Now, who is to blame for this?” He stared at the congregation as if they should know the answer, but not one person said a word. “The responsibility, my friends, belongs to those individuals of respectable position who indulge in drink. These people who set examples for the rest of us should be kicked out of respectable society, especially owners of the establishments that serve it. Encouragement of such a vice is as bad as self-indulgence.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?”

  Amid shocked gasps, everyone turned to see who had spoken.

  Boyd Grayson stood in the back corner of the church with his hat clasped in front of him, his dark hair glistening with melted snowflakes. He met Claire’s shocked stare with a challenge in his eyes, demanding her attention even while her brain cautioned her to turn away. Last night the darkness had shadowed his face, but earlier this evening the light in her foyer had revealed gorgeous honey-brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes and a manly face that many women dreamed of.

  But not her. She had married a handsome man like Boyd, and her dream man had become a cruel alcoholic. She was done dreaming.

  The crowd murmured and whispered. Dr. Lewis folded his hands and addressed Boyd. “I speak only what I believe is true, Mister...?”

  “Grayson,” Boyd answered, seemingly undaunted at being the center of attention. “No disrespect intended, Dr. Lewis, but you and I both know the expression: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t force him to drink.”

  Dr. Lewis nodded, waiting for Boyd to expound. Claire secretly cursed Boyd for undermining her effort to improve the lives of people who desperately needed temperance from the vices that were tearing apart their families. She wanted to race to the back of the church and clamp her hand over his mouth.

  “I’m asking how you can hold anyone but the imbiber himself accountable for consuming alcohol?” Boyd asked.

  “I can answer best by posing a question. If a parent left a loaded gun and a four-year-old child unattended in the same room, would you not hold that parent responsible for an accident resulting from his negligence?”

  “Of course, but we’re talking about adults who knowingly consume alcoholic beverages of their own free will, not about unsuspecting children and loaded guns.”

  “Is that so?” Dr. Lewis turned to the congregation. “I ask you, who is most affected by alcoholism?” Silence greeted him and he shook his head with a sigh. “Our children suffer the most hardship. Drunken parents berate and beat their children. The money that should be used to clothe
and feed them is spent at the saloons. I know because I experienced this firsthand. I agree that the imbiber is responsible for his own actions, Mr. Grayson, but every person who encourages him is as much at fault.”

  Boyd listened to Dr. Lewis in respectful silence, but Claire could tell he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of owning a saloon. In his mind, the responsibility lay with the individual who chose to drink. She didn’t disagree, but she also knew that many men wouldn’t be tempted to imbibe if the saloons were closed. Whether Mr. Grayson wanted to accept it or not, he was part of the problem plaguing their town and ruining her business.

  “What can we do to correct the problem?” one woman asked.

  Dr. Lewis told them how other women had formed prayer bands and conducted nonviolent marches on the rum holes, shutting them down and taking pledges from the patrons to abstain from drinking. “I’ve seen it done in Dixon, Illinois, and Battle Creek, Michigan,” he said. “You can do the same thing right here in Fredonia. All you need to do is organize a campaign.”

  Dr. Lewis looked straight at Claire. “Mrs. Ashier was courageous enough to request my help in stomping out intemperance. I ask you, the Christian people of this town, to stand with her and do the same.”

  In the sudden silence, Claire waited for satisfaction to flood her. Boyd Grayson now knew she’d trapped him into coming here tonight, that she’d summoned Dr. Lewis to help her put him out of business. But all she felt was her heart thudding like a sledgehammer against her chest. What if Boyd Grayson was as vindictive and vengeful as her husband had been?

  “I’ll stand with her.” A rumble of excitement passed through the crowd as a woman stood up. “I’m Mrs. Reverend Beaton, and I would be honored to chair a committee,” she said. To Claire’s relief, a Mrs. Williams stood and pledged her support as well. Then Mrs. Dr. Fuller, and Mrs. Desmona Edwards followed suit. Before Claire’s heartbeat calmed, nearly every woman in the church stood and volunteered her service.

  Knowing it was time for courage, Claire rose to her feet, her back rigid, her chin high, her gaze fixed on Dr. Lewis so she wouldn’t be tempted to glance at Boyd to gauge his reaction. “Let us take action,” she said, “while our spirit of purpose is high and our mission clear.”