Only You Read online

  “I’m perfectly capable of drinking wine with you.”

  “I agree, but not at my pace, and definitely not double my pace.”

  “I didn’t come here for a lecture. I’m here to learn about this life. I intend to experience all the sin and vice your saloon has to offer. I want to be fully informed.”

  “Darling, you couldn’t sustain the shock.”

  Something dark flickered in her eyes. “You have no idea what I can endure.”

  It dawned on him that he wasn’t talking to a virgin, but rather an experienced widow, who understood the layers of their conversation. She was daring him to treat her as his equal, to test her intelligence and grit.

  “Are you certain you can handle the education, Claire?”

  “Quite.” She tugged on the bottle. “Go ahead and indulge all your bad habits. You can pretend I’m a man for the evening.”

  The wine had gone straight to her head. It must have. Even during his worst drunk he couldn’t mistake her for a man.

  But she was interesting with her guard down and her dander up. The scruples and secrets she used as a shield had been washed away by her first glass of wine. It would be interesting to see what another few ounces would wash away.

  He took the bottle from her then filled her glass. “Sip that one,” he instructed then placed the bottle out of her reach. She teetered on her chair, and he frowned. “Sit back and put your feet on that rail.” He pointed to a brass rail attached to the bar, eight inches off the floor.

  She slid back on the stool and propped her feet on the rail. “That’s a definite improvement. Now, if the rail were heated I could be quite content to sit here and warm my feet for a spell.

  “Only a woman would think of something like that.”

  “Stay on topic. I was asking…we were discussing…” Her brow furrowed as if she were searching for the thread of their conversation.

  He nearly laughed, but bit his lip. “We were talking about why the men come to my saloon.”

  “Right.” She sloshed the burgundy wine in her glass. “So why do they?”

  “For camaraderie.”

  “Those men can find companionship at home with their wives,” she said, her chin lifted in challenge.

  “My saloon isn’t meant to draw men away from their families or responsibilities, Claire. They also come here to seek information to help with their crops and businesses.”

  She frowned. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s true. Some men want to play a game or two of billiards after sweating in a factory all day.” He shrugged. “They come to saloons for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Why do they come to your saloon?” She glanced around the room then looked at him. “The bar is beautiful, but I can’t believe they come for the decor. What draws them here?”

  “It’s a refuge to most of us.” He watched her intently to see if she would scoff.

  “From what?” she asked, her expression openly curious.

  “Responsibility, I guess.” He struggled for a way to explain. “Men carry a financial burden on their backs all day. In hard times, it’s heavy. Sometimes a man just needs a place where he can blow off steam before it builds into something ugly.”

  “We have a place. Or... we will soon. We’ve been raising money for a public parlor where men can go instead of... here.”

  How ridiculous. What man would want to frequent a place like that? Boyd wouldn’t. Perhaps the men who’d signed the temperance pledge would use the room. But why? For what?

  She lowered her lashes as if she knew the idea was ridiculous and that it would never replace the saloons. “We’re thinking of providing food and a place to read or play games.” She peeked from beneath her golden lashes. “The men could meet women there, too.”

  Women? Any sane, unmarried man would jump at the opportunity to meet women in a social setting like that. If the women got behind this, their public parlor just might work. But not for long. Once the boys met the available girls, and married, they would head right back to his saloon.

  He smiled because she seemed so hopeful, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her it wouldn’t work. “I’m sure the men will appreciate having an option.”

  “It’s not meant to be an option.”

  “I see. Well, I guess I’ll have to work harder to convince you to stop trying to close my saloon.. Let’s see if you have the daring to learn how to play billiards.”

  She toasted him with her glass then took a healthy swallow. “This is really quite lovely.” She slid off the barstool in a rather loose-jointed manner then swung her glass toward the billiard table. “Lead on. This seems like the perfect opportunity to let my hair down.”

  He grinned. “Claire, darling, I’m really beginning to like you.”

  She returned his smile, warm and open. “Our friendship is rather... unexpected, isn’t it?”

  They were more than friends, but it was enough for the time being.

  Sailor scrambled from beneath the table and butted his nose against her legs. She knelt and hugged his spotted head to her cheek. “The Ormands have found a house and will be leaving in the morning, so you can come visit me again.”

  “That will improve his life—and mine—considerably,” Boyd said. “Sailor’s been irritating me all day.”

  “Good for you, Sailor.” She giggled and kissed the dog’s head. “I need all the help I can get.” The dog stretched and gave a huge tongue-curling yawn that made her laugh.

  Boyd watched her play with his dog, enjoying her new, uninhibited side. Sailor wheezed and pushed against her, making her wobble. Boyd caught her elbow and pulled her to her feet.

  “You’ve ruined my dog,” he said.

  “I’m just teaching him how to treat a lady.”

  “That was supposed to be my job.”

  “Sailor’s better for my intervention.” Claire finished her wine then licked her lips and grinned up at him. “After that first swallow it goes down easy. Should I get the bottle?”

  “Absolutely not.” He handed her a billiard stick. “You won’t be able to play if you drink too much.”

  “I feel fine. In fact, better than ever.” She spread her arms and winced. “Well, almost fine.”

  He nodded toward her shoulder. “Is it causing you much pain?”

  “Surprisingly, no. It is sore, and ugly, but the doctor says it should heal quickly.” She set her glass on the edge of the table and pointed her stick at a corner pocket. “Do we just whack the balls into those holes?”

  “Sort of.” He moved her glass to the shelf that ran the length of the west wall. “You hit this cue ball into one of those balls to direct it into a pocket. Like this,” he said, leaning over the table.

  Years of playing made the move fluid, but he tried to slow it down for Claire’s sake. The cue ball sent the nine ball in a forty-five-degree angle where it dropped into the pocket with a thunk.

  She studied the table, her eyes wide with wonder. “You weren’t even aiming in that direction.”

  He showed her how to direct the balls. “We’ll play fifteen-ball. The object is to sink the highest numbered balls in any of those six pockets. The first person to reach sixty-one points wins.”

  “Can I hit one?”

  “Of course. Take several shots until you get the feel of it.”

  On her first shot, her stick lifted out of her fingers.

  “Hold it like this.” He took the stick and demonstrated for her then handed it back.

  She adjusted her grip, but her aim was bad.

  “Stay there.” He placed his hand on her back to keep her bent over the table. “I’m going to show you how to eye this up.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t tense up or pull away. With a happy yip, Sailor nosed up against them.

  “Not this time, pal. Go lie down.” Boyd nudged him away with his knee. Sailor trotted to the stove and flopped down with a huff.

  “Keep the stick loose in your grip,” Boyd said,
turning back to his lesson with an eagerness that surprised him. “Imagine a straight line from that corner pocket through the center of that green ball.” He touched the tip of her stick to the ball. “You want the cue ball to hit this ball right here.”

  “All right.” She drew the stick back with a quick jerk, but he stopped her hand.

  “The motion should be smooth most of the time.” He moved the stick across her fingers in a slow arc. “Easy,” he said. “Like this.”

  She turned her head, putting her face within inches of his. “Like a bow across violin strings.” The wine brought a pink flush to her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle.

  “I’ve never thought about it that way,” he said, drowning in her blue gaze. “But it has merit.”

  “It’s like an art.”

  She was art. Graceful, glowing, beautiful.

  “Can I try it now?” she asked.

  He forced himself to step back. “Line it up before you shoot.”

  She squinted at the ball, drew her stick back then pushed it forward with an admirably smooth stroke. The second ball hit the edge of the pocket and rolled back onto the table.

  Her eyebrows lowered in concentration as she lined up another shot. Five minutes or more passed while she pushed the ball around the table and finally sank it in the corner pocket.

  “I did it.” Her eyes were filled with such surprised delight, he laughed. Sailor raised his head and gave her a wide grin.

  “Stay,” Boyd ordered, knowing the dog was on the brink of lunging to his feet to plaster Claire with affection. He didn’t blame the dog.

  “Can I shoot another one?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He nodded toward the table. “Hit a few more then we’ll play a game.”

  He watched while she bent over the table, maneuvering her graceful body to accommodate her sore shoulder, moving the stick to make a shot. She missed often, but wouldn’t give up until she’d sunk the ball. What she lacked in skill, she made up for with determination. He could watch her for hours.

  After she’d dropped the last ball, she stood up and braced her hand on the table. “I’m ready.” she said, giving him a bright, self-assured smile.

  He bit his lip to stop his grin. Her slight imbalance made it obvious she was feeling the wine, but she was trying to hide it by bracing her hip against the table.

  “Highest score wins, so aim for the highest-numbered balls.”

  She raised her glass in a mock salute. “What are we wagering?”

  “I can’t think of anything. You decide.”

  She set her glass on the shelf. “If I lose, I’ll bake a pie for you. If you lose, you have to show me some of your carvings.”

  He chalked his stick and moved to the table. “That’s an awfully tame wager for a lady who wants to indulge in all the sin and vice my saloon has to offer.”

  As he’d expected, her chin lifted, but the move unbalanced her. She gripped the edge of the table and stared up at him. “Name a fitting wager then.”

  “A kiss.”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

  “Or something less threatening if you don’t have the nerve,” he teased.

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “All right. But it must be a totally improper kiss.”

  Oh, she was amusing. “How improper?”

  “Sinful. The kind of kiss you would give your wife.”

  The stick slipped through his hand and hit the floor.

  “Or something less threatening if you don’t have the nerve,” she said, the challenge so thick in her voice it made him laugh.

  She reached for her glass, but he caught her hand. She wasn’t slurring her words, but she’d lost the crispness of her speech. “Save that for after the game.” He turned her toward the table then scooped his stick off the floor. “I’ll break then you can shoot.”

  He bent over the table, but stopped in surprise when he realized his hands were shaking. The sight stunned him. Only three events in his life had made him tremble. Carrying his father’s coffin had been one of them. Pulling his brother Kyle from a burning building was another.

  The third was the battle he waged each time he worked on the statue.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He stepped away from the table and blew out a breath. This was ridiculous. It was... unnerving.

  He forced himself to calm down, to focus on the game, to stop acting like a schoolboy. But his hands still shook, and he did a bad job of breaking the billiard balls.

  “My turn?” she asked, her look so innocent and trusting that he knew he should walk her across the street and tuck her safely into her own home. But if he could make her understand that his saloon wasn’t the root of all evil, perhaps she and the other ladies would stop marching and pestering him. The idea of the women spotting Claire in his tavern made him grin.

  “What are you smirking about?” she asked.

  “I was just thinking how difficult it would be to explain your presence here to your lady friends,” he said.

  “Oh, my. Can you imagine their faces if they saw me drinking wine and playing billiards?” She giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth, her gorgeous blue eyes sparkling with laughter.

  “I’d pay a small fortune to see that.”

  Laughter bubbled out between her fingers. She lowered her hand, revealing a wide white smile. It was the first time he’d noticed that one front tooth was slightly ahead of the other. It was barely noticeable, but something about the slight imperfection warmed him and made him want to hug her and protect her and…spend the rest of his life with her.

  Before he could talk himself out of the thing he wanted most in life, he knelt on one knee and clasped Claire’s hand in his own. “Marry me, Claire.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Claire waited for Boyd’s teasing laughter that would indicate he was playing with her, as usual, but his eyes were earnest.

  “I want to marry you, Claire.”

  Pulling from his grasp, she clasped her forehead and sagged against the billiard table. “I’ve obviously had too much wine.” She set aside her glass and inhaled sharply, hoping to clear the wooziness she felt.

  “I’m serious. Dead serious. Seriously serious.”

  She stared at his smiling face as he gazed up at her. “You can’t be. I mean, we don’t suit. You’re a saloon owner and I…I detest establishments that serve alcohol.”

  He stood and gestured to her wine glass. “How can you say that after you just enjoyed half a bottle of my best wine? Circumstances change. I don’t believe you feel the same about me as you did when we first met.”

  “That’s certainly true,” she said. “I no longer feel the urge to shoot you.”

  He laughed, but something in his eyes remained serious and determined.

  She wanted Boyd in her life—but not as her keeper. She had too much to lose if she married. She would lose her property, her boardinghouse, and her independence. Her husband would take ownership of everything, including her.

  She couldn’t lose her freedom again, especially now that she was rebuilding her life.

  “I…I can’t,” she said, and the light in his eyes receded. “Your proposal is noble, but unnecessary.”

  “I’m not offering to be noble. I want to marry you and keep you safe. No one in this town would dare to harm my wife.”

  “Oh, Boyd, you can protect me, but you’ll own me. How safe is that?”

  His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him, a wounded look in his eyes.

  He was a tender and honorable man, and so handsome it made her heart ache, but she wouldn’t marry him.

  Ever.

  Not even if he was professing his love, which he wasn’t.

  With a sigh, she braced her hand on the table to steady herself. “You’re letting our attraction lead you into a marriage proposal that isn’t necessary.”

  His dark eyebrows slashed downward. “I’m not offering out of necessity. I care about you, Claire. I want to ke
ep you safe.”

  “Well, I don’t want to be a responsibility to you. It was too much for my first husband and I can’t take that chance again.” She met his eyes. “Don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry, Claire. I’m insulted that you would compare me to a man like Jack.”

  “This isn’t about you at all,” she said. “It’s about me. I’m not the woman you think I am.”

  “I know you, Claire. You’re stubborn and determined. You care about people and champion causes to help them. You love your family. You take in strays. What else is there to know?”

  She gulped, knowing the only way to make Boyd understand was to tell him the truth. Dreading his reaction, knowing the condemnation she would see in his eyes, she said simply, “I let my husband drown.”

  As if he’d been gut-punched, Boyd stared at her open-mouthed and speechless.

  “I was in the river with Jack when he drowned,” she said, her voice low, her words quiet and laced with heartbreak. “We’d been living in a ramshackle room near the docks in Pittsburgh. I’d just received the deed to my grandmother’s house, and Jack wanted it. I knew he’d gamble it away, so I ran out of the apartment and refused to tell him where I’d hidden it. We argued, and then he beat me. I fought, but I was no match for his strength.”

  Boyd’s brow furrowed and his fists clenched. “Claire…”

  “Jack hit me hard,” she continued before Boyd’s sympathy broke her composure. “He struck me with the back of his hand, but I refused to tell him where I hid the deed. So he slugged me with his fist.”

  “No, Claire...” Boyd clenched his jaw as if trying to contain his rage at the man.

  The memory of her husband, whom she’d given herself to body and soul, striking her without the slightest sign of regret, made her eyes mist despite her resolve to tell the tale without letting emotion take over.

  “The second time Jack hit me our feet got tangled up and we plunged into the river.” A tremor shook her, but she forced herself to finish the story. “He pulled me under the water and I thought he was trying to drown me. I kicked away from him and swam to shore,”