Only You Page 21

  It was freezing outside, but Claire was glad to escape the house. The Ormands had decided to stay despite the incident. She was relieved not to lose her tiny income.

  “Where’s Sailor?” she asked as she climbed into the carriage Boyd had brought for her.

  “Home. I didn’t want him running around while we’re shooting.” He pulled onto Main Street, took a quick right turn onto Chestnut then a quick left turn onto Barry Road. “Did you know that your lady friends are boycotting Addison Edwards’ furniture store?”

  She frowned. “Why would they do that?”

  “Because I’m a saloon owner and they don’t want men like me instructing his help.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We never discussed boycotting other businesses.”

  “Well, your friends apparently decided to do so after hearing about your window being shattered last night.”

  She tried to contemplate the impact such a boycott might have, but her mind kept returning to last night, and how Boyd had held her against him in a comforting embrace when she’d confessed about Jack.

  “I don’t like what’s happening, Claire. Addison Edwards hasn’t done anything to deserve this boycott.”

  The boycott might be an effective way to separate the liquor sellers and drinkers from the community, but it felt wrong. Their crusade wasn’t supposed to punish the local business owners. It was supposed to unite the community, not divide it. It was supposed to encourage the saloon owners and their patrons to become upstanding citizens, to do good for the community.

  Boycotting wasn’t the answer in this situation. It was wrong. Boyd should be free to employ his talent at Edwards’ Furniture store regardless of his position on temperance. His work at Edwards’ had nothing to do with her temperance cause.

  But if it pushed him to close his saloon, perhaps she should bite her tongue. It could serve her purpose—and, more important, it might force Boyd to realize his potential.

  That wasn’t for her to decide, though. She shivered and tucked the lap robe around her legs.

  “If you’re not feeling well, I can take you back home,” he said, glancing at her shoulder.

  “I’m fine.” She sighed. “I’m sorry about the boycott. Anna and I will talk to the ladies at our next meeting.”

  He nodded but didn’t comment.

  She studied his handsome profile wishing she knew him better. “Other than running a saloon and keeping your neighbors awake all night, what is your purpose in life? Is there anything you are willing to invest yourself in?”

  “My purpose is to enjoy life.”

  “I want to enjoy life, too,” she said, “but I also want to contribute to my community. I want to improve the lives of women and children who need help.” She wanted to connect with that other, more serious man inside him. “What’s most important to you?”

  “To live my life on my terms.”

  “That’s all?” she asked.

  “That’s enough. Some men are as in love with vice as others are with virtue.”

  “Unarguably true,” she said. “But after talking with you last night, I’m sensing you want more than your saloon has to offer. Why aren’t you using your talent? Why don’t you fill your hours with creative endeavors and spend your time with people you love? Don’t you ever get lonely living by yourself?”

  He stared at her with suspicion in his eyes. “Are you perchance angling for a husband?”

  She reared back against the seat, sending a spear of pain through her shoulder. “Of course not!”

  He lifted one eyebrow as if challenging her statement.

  “Never,” she said. She would never marry again.

  Irritated with him, and with her sore shoulder, she scowled. “I was trying to have an intelligent conversation with you, but I’m convinced it’s impossible.”

  His chuckle drove her irritation a notch higher. She averted her face and let the biting wind cool her ire.

  “Claire.” He covered her mitten-shrouded hands with his palm. “Why are you always so serious?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.” He gave her a coaxing smile. “What do you say we call a truce and simply enjoy the day. No talk of temperance or boycotts or the purpose of life. Imagine that I’m your friend and we’re on a grand adventure.”

  “In the dead of winter?”

  “Pretend we’re Eskimos.”

  She laughed. “With your imagination you should consider writing a book.”

  “There you go again, attaching a purpose to everything.”

  “I wasn’t...” She sighed in acknowledgment. “All right, I was. But you have wonderful ideas and—”

  He cupped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t’ say one more word.”

  She bit his finger.

  He yelped and jerked his hand away.

  “That was a warning,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m trembling in fear.” He winked and pulled the carriage to the side of the rutted road. “Ready for your lesson?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Poor Cold Claire. She has no sense of adventure.”

  She lifted her mitten-covered fist to his nose, but he laughed and leapt out of the carriage.

  “You shouldn’t tease me when you’re about to put a revolver in my hands,” she warned.

  “Who said I was teasing?” He looked up at her, his cheeks flushed from the cold, his eyes sparkling with humor. He raised his arms. “Come on. I don’t want to keep you out in the cold too long.”

  He helped her out then led her into a wide field surrounded by dense woods of maple, beech, oak, and conifer trees.

  “Step in my tracks if you can,” he said, leading her several yards into the field. “I want to move away from the horses.”

  She followed slowly, struggling to stay upright in the knee-deep snow.

  “Wait here.” He walked a long distance away before dropping a wooden keg on the snow.

  “Don’t tell me that’s our target.”

  He grinned and headed toward her. “I thought you’d be delighted to blow holes in one of my kegs.”

  She propped her fist on her hip. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about temperance.”

  “Did I say anything about temperance?”

  She shook her head in exasperation and pulled off her mittens.

  He took the revolver out of his pocket and slipped it into her hand. “Step over here and I’ll help you aim the first shot or two.”

  Fear rushed through her as she clenched the loathsome piece of frigid steel. “I’d rather that you shoot it first,” she said, thrusting the gun back at him. A horrendous explosion blasted through the air, wrenching her arm and blowing a spray of snow in all directions.

  Boyd locked his hands around the gun and angled it away from his legs. “Claire, honest to Pete, you terrify me.”

  The shock on his face wasn’t humorous in the least, but a sense of hysteria snaked through her and made her snort.

  “You could have shot my foot off.”

  “I... I just wanted to give the gun back to you,” she said, her voice shaking from fear and laughter.

  He blew out a breath. “I’m beginning to think this was a dumb idea.”

  “You told me not to be so serious.”

  “That didn’t mean I wanted you to shoot me.”

  She grinned. “I’ll try not to.”

  “Then release your grip.” She let go, and he took the gun away from her. “Your first lesson is how to hold a gun.”

  He spent several minutes explaining how the revolver worked, how to handle and load it safely, and how to aim and shoot. Finally, he turned her toward their target and stood behind her. “Raise the revolver and sight the target.”

  She lifted the gun with both hands, but it hurt her injured shoulder. “It’s too heavy.”

  He moved behind her and put his arms around her. He cupped his hands beneath hers and lifted the gun to her eye level. “Can you see the t
arget?”

  “I could see it from home,” she said, staring at the fat brown keg squatting in the middle of the white field.

  “I meant through the sights.”

  “Oh. You mean those pointy little things that are getting in my way?”

  “Wiseacre.” He nipped her earlobe with his teeth.

  She jerked away and the gun exploded, kicking her back against him.

  “Claire...”

  “Don’t blame me!” She tipped her head to see him. “You bit me!”

  “I did not. That was a nibble.”

  “Whatever. Your horseplay caused me to pull the trigger.”

  He rubbed the end of his cold nose against her ear. “Maybe we should forget about shooting the gun.”

  “Maybe I should use you as a target.”

  “Vicious woman.”

  “Reprobate.”

  “Guilty as charged. Now aim and shoot.”

  She drew away because it was safer than where they were headed. “If we’re going to shoot this thing, kindly remove your finger from behind the trigger.”

  His chuckle warmed her. “Just protecting myself.”

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  He acquiesced without argument and helped her steady the revolver. “Sight it at the center of the keg.”

  She aimed and fired, but the shot missed the target. “I can’t do this. It nearly knocks me over when it fires.”

  “Spread your feet, keep one slightly behind the other, and lock your elbows.”

  Maneuvering in the deep snow was nearly impossible, but she managed to steady herself.

  “I’m going to brace you with my body,” he said, fitting his chest and hips against her.

  “If I don’t hit that target, Mr. Grayson, I’m going to know this was a ploy.”

  He laughed and nudged her hands up. “Come on, before you freeze to death. You’re shaking.”

  “I’m exhausted. This gun weighs more than I do.”

  “Quit stalling.”

  She pulled the trigger and hit the top of the keg. “Good, but aim a little lower next time to allow for the concussion.”

  She pulled the trigger, the successive blasts clearing her mind as she emptied the revolver.

  “Good job.” He gave her a light hug and let her lower her arms. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “Aside from getting my ear bitten, my fingers frozen, and my shoulder dislocated, it was a grand adventure.”

  He leaned around her shoulder and gave her a playful kiss on the cheek that connected with a loud smack. “Feel better?”

  “You’ve obviously forgotten that I’m holding a weapon.”

  “The gun is empty, darling.”

  “Yes, but it’s heavy enough to knock out a bull.”

  He laughed and guided her back to the carriage. “Honestly, you have no sense of adventure.” He was teasing her, but she sensed the truth behind his words. Her childhood had been filled with adventure, but she hadn’t embraced her sense of daring since eloping with Jack. Maybe that’s why she faced each day as something to get through, instead of seeing it as the opportunity she’d once believed it to be.

  She climbed into the carriage and felt a deep sadness well up in her as he drove them back toward town.

  “It worries me when you’re so quiet.”

  “I’m just cold,” she said, but a sense of loss pervaded her mind. What had happened to the half-wild, willful girl, who’d tested her parents’ patience on a daily basis? Her antics had made them laugh and chastise her by turns, but their house had been full of horseplay and laughter.

  Boyd pulled the carriage to a stop in front of her house, and anxiety filled her. She didn’t want to be alone.

  “Would you like some hot cocoa or tea?” she asked, craving his company

  He climbed out of the carriage then helped her out. “I’ve got to return the carriage to Radford and Evelyn’s livery then take care of a few things at the saloon.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re opening tonight. I won that poker game, Boyd. You promised to close.”

  “I intend to. But I need to feed Sailor and clean the bar.” He handed the revolver back to her. “I’ll stop by later to check on you and Anna.”

  She clenched her mittens around the heavy gun, resisting the urge to beg him to come inside.

  “Thank you for the lesson.”

  “Thank you for not shooting my foot off.” She smiled, realizing how much Boyd brightened her days, how he never ceased to bring a smile to her face.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Sailor! Leave that alone.” Boyd pushed the dog away from the spilled glass of whiskey then reached for a rag.

  The dog circled back for another lick.

  “Don’t whine to me if you end up sick.”

  Sailor sniffed the floorboards then flopped down by the door, staring at Boyd with accusing eyes.

  “Life is like that, pal.” Boyd washed his hands at the sink then poured himself a whiskey.

  He leaned against the bar and studied the smooth curves and graceful valleys his father had carved in the ornate shelving unit. It was a master’s work. The mark of a great man’s passion.

  Boyd knew each ridge and gully, each scroll and crest that transformed the natural pieces of mahogany, birch, and holly into a one of a kind masterpiece. He knew each section that his own knife had carved, where his father had guided his hand, where he’d boldly displayed his own talent.

  They carved, sanded, and varnished the piece together.

  Boyd spent each minute at his father’s side, watching, learning, testing, proving himself. Some nights they worked shoulder-to-shoulder in focused silence. Other nights Boyd and his father exchanged light banter or clowned and laughed, while challenging each other to a higher level of expertise.

  Boyd expected to spend his life like that, sharing his days with his brothers at their sawmill and his evenings working beside his father in their wood shop.

  But his father had grown too crippled to work.

  Then he’d broken his hip.

  A year later, he was dead.

  Boyd traced his fingers over the furrowed wood. How many hours had he spent examining the mirrored shelf, the last project he and his father had worked on together? How many times had his chest cramped with grief? With regret?

  How many times had he avoided his image in this mirror?

  A shadow shifted across the glass, and Claire’s reflection looked back at him, but he didn’t turn around. She wouldn’t be there. Her image was a frequent visitor in his mind. To see her face, or her fleeting smile, was nothing new.

  “Can you see your future in that mirror?” she asked.

  Sailor leapt to his feet with a happy bark, and Boyd turned to her in utter shock.

  She scratched Sailor’s head, but looked at Boyd. “You said I had no sense of adventure. Maybe you’re right. I want to understand. About you. About this.” Her gesture encompassed the saloon. “Show me what this is all about.”

  Her request baffled him and he remained speechless.

  To his surprise, she moved forward and picked up the bottle of whiskey. “Show me what the attraction is to drinking alcohol and to spending time in a saloon.” She held the bottle out to him. “I assume you drink this from a glass?”

  He took the whiskey from her, mildly horrified at the thought of a woman like Claire enjoying hard liquor. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “Maybe I haven’t considered both sides of this issue fairly.” Sincerity filled her voice. “I want to understand who you are. I want to understand why you and other men choose this life.”

  How could he explain when he didn’t know the answer himself?

  He put the whiskey bottle back on the shelf then shooed Sailor away from the bar. The dog flopped down on his bed beneath the billiard table.

  “You shouldn’t have left the house alone. I’ll take you home.”

  “Anna knows I’m here.” She pressed her hands to his che
st to stop him from stepping around her. “I’m not leaving until I experience a night in a saloon.”

  He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Her chin shot up and she glared at him. “Don’t insult me. I’ve made my position on intemperance specific and clear, but you’ve never shown me one reason to support your view. Show me now.” She retrieved the whiskey bottle and held it out to him. “Convince me to stop marching for temperance. “

  Her eyes sparkled with challenge, but she was so sincere in her quest that he felt duty bound to answer her questions.

  He exchanged the whiskey for a jug of wine. “What do you want to know?” he asked, filling two glasses.

  “What do you do here? What do you talk about? What attracts men to alcohol? Why do you like being here?”

  He handed her a glass. “This could take a while.”

  “I’ve got all night.” To his shock, she lifted her glass and drained it. Her face pruned, her eyes squinted, and her body quivered in reaction.

  He burst into laughter. “You were supposed to sip that.”

  She clutched her stomach and leaned against the bar. “I wish I would have.”

  He laughed again and gestured for her to follow him. “Come on.” He took the bottle of wine, rounded the bar, and nodded for her to sit beside him. “Relax. That’s what most men come here to do.”

  She took off her coat and laid it over the bar then perched on the edge of a barstool.

  “They can relax in their parlors with their families,” she said.

  He filled their glasses then braced his elbow on the bar.

  “When a man sits in his parlor, he thinks of all the unfinished chores he should be doing, or the attention he should be giving his wife and children, or the neighbor he should be helping. When he sits in a saloon, he doesn’t have his family or his fields to remind him of his duties and obligations.”

  “That’s exactly why I’m fighting to close these places,” She lowered her half empty glass to the bar. “His family needs him at home, or in the fields, or anyplace that supports them. Your saloon merely tempts him away from his commitments.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is.” She finished her drink then reached for the wine bottle.

  He grabbed the neck and stopped her. “If you don’t want to be sick, I would suggest you pass.”