Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (47 page)

Fredonia, New York

December 13, 1873

Boyd Grayson glanced over his shoulder at his part-time bartender and local distiller. “Karlton! Pour me an ale and charge it to Mr. Lyons. He’s going to owe me a drink in about ten seconds.”

Pat Lyons gritted his teeth as he arm-wrestled Boyd. He tried to force Boyd’s knuckles the last few inches to the bar, but Boyd didn’t budge. “Damn you, Grayson. You’ve got an arm like a lumberjack.”

Boyd laughed. The description was more accurate for his older brothers, Duke and Kyle. Both topped six feet and were thick in the arms and chest. Boyd was their height but lean like their eldest brother Radford. It wasn’t bulky muscle that was keeping his knuckles off the bar—it was stubborn pride. At twenty-three, Boyd refused to be bested by anyone, especially in his own saloon.

The regular patrons gathered around the bar, cheering and placing bets, crowding in as the intensity of Boyd’s nightly arm wrestling match escalated. The noise roused his dog, Sailor, out from under the billiard table. The long-legged, mixed-breed mutt paced between the men, searching for the cause of the excitement.

Duke leaned his elbows on the bar to watch the match. “You’re losing your touch, little brother. The life of a saloon owner is making you soft.”

Boyd grinned. “Don’t worry, Duke. I’ll still be able to beat you when I finish here.”

Jovial laughter filled the tavern, and Boyd’s arm slipped back a couple of inches. Pat took advantage of his lack of concentration and gained another inch.

“Pay attention,” Karlton said, nudging Boyd’s shoulder. “I wagered a week’s earnings on you winning this match.”

Boyd grimaced at Karlton’s frightening penchant for gambling, but leaned into the fight. “You’re sweating, Mr. Lyons.”

“And you’re talking too much,” Pat countered.

Boyd grinned and tightened his biceps. Shouts filled the smoky room as he lifted his fist upward, away from the bar.

Pat’s arm trembled as their clenched hands arched toward the ceiling.

Slowly, Boyd dragged his opponent’s hand over and down to the bar. A roar of male voices cheered as he successfully ended the match.

“Took you long enough,” Karlton said, his relief so obvious that Boyd suspected he was trying to work his way out of another bad gambling debt.

Duke lifted his mug in a toast, but Boyd felt a deep pang of regret. He wasn’t worthy of the pride in his brother’s eyes.

“Bring him a drink,” Pat called to Karlton.

As the short, stocky bartender placed a full mug of ale between them, Boyd reached across the mahogany bar and squeezed Pat’s shoulder. “I earned this one,” he said, complimenting his best friend’s strength.

Two years ago, Boyd had bought the Pemberton Inn from Pat, who had turned the inn into a busy saloon. Pat hadn’t been at home anywhere else, so like many of Boyd’s customers, he now spent nearly every evening at the bar, often as the bartender.

Boyd raised his mug and toasted his friend then saluted his patrons who were earning him, and ultimately his distiller Karlton Kane, a small fortune. Karlton was in the business of distributing liquor, but he worked as Boyd’s second bartender three nights a week. Boyd earned a good living from the family sawmill, which he owned with his three brothers. He didn’t need the income, but he did need the nightly entertainment that his saloon provided.

Each night except Sunday the regulars would fill Boyd’s homey tavern and line up along the bar to arm wrestle. Later, they would sprawl in chairs around the cast-iron stove to thaw the winter chill from their bones while they bragged with their friends and taught Boyd’s dog ridiculous tricks.

The Pemberton Inn was more than a place to drink ale. It was a meeting place to discuss town business and commiserate with friends, a second home for many hardworking men who didn’t have anywhere more welcoming to spend their evenings.

And it was Boyd’s sanctuary. In the midst of the men and noise he could pretend he was happy.

He circled the bar and sat beside Duke, careful to avoid the revolver holstered at his brother’s hip. Boyd himself kept a gun behind the bar, but weapons were forbidden in his tavern. Duke was the local sheriff, though, and not about to drop his piece at the door.

“You found a new deputy yet?” Boyd asked, signaling the bartender to refill his brother’s mug.

“No.” Duke accepted the ale from Karlton, gave a nod of thanks then glanced at Boyd. “Want the job?”

“Hell, no.”

Duke’s laughter was buried in an uproar of voices and pounding, scuffling feet.

Boyd jerked his attention to the middle of the tavern where Gordie and Louie Carson were tearing into each other. He and Duke shot to their feet. Karlton came out from behind the bar and Pat Lyons leapt off his barstool, but before anyone could get a hand on the Carson brothers, they careened toward the front wall. Their four hundred pounds of flesh and muscle slammed into Boyd’s front door. The casing shattered and the door blew open, sending the Carsons tumbling outside and sprawling onto Main Street.

With a curse, Boyd bolted outside after them. His patrons and his brother ran out of the bar behind him, with Sailor yelping at their heels. The neighbors were not going to be happy.

Gordie and Louie Carson pummeled each other, grunting and huffing and kicking snow everywhere, while the patrons hollered and wagered on the outcome. Boyd exchanged an exasperated glance with Duke as they reached the fracas and pulled the men away from each other. They yanked the brothers to their feet and turned them toward Chestnut Street.

“Time to go home, boys,” Duke said.

Gordie opened his mouth to argue, but Boyd nudged him in the shoulder. “Go, before I ask Duke to give you boys a room for the night.”

The sudden quieting of the patrons drew Boyd’s attention. The men were all gawking across the street at the widow’s house. A slender young woman stood on the porch pointing a revolver at them. She clutched the gun with both hands, anger and fear marring her beautiful face.

“Where is the owner of this saloon?” she demanded, her voice shrill and trembling, the gun wobbling in her hands.

Boyd stepped forward, cringing as she carelessly swung the gun in his direction. From the way she nervously clenched the revolver, he suspected she was scared to death and had never touched a gun before in her life. “May I presume you are Mrs. Ashier?”

“Yes, and you may also presume that I am furious and fed up with the noise coming from that rum hole.” She jerked the nose of the gun toward his saloon. “I haven’t slept a night through since moving here. My boardinghouse is empty because of you, and I have no other means to support myself, Mr. Grayson.”

So she knew his name. Good. That would make this little exchange much easier. He nodded toward the gun. “Is that loaded?”

“It most certainly is. I want these men to go home. Now,” she said, sweeping the barrel of the pistol across the crowd.

“It’s too early to send the boys home, but we’ll head back inside for the evening. Sorry to disturb you.”

Her jaw clenched and she glared at him. “Do you think an apology excuses your total disregard for your neighbors? I don’t want your apology. I want these men gone and that rum hole closed!”

“It’s Saturday night, Mrs. Ashier. I can’t close this early. Now, be reasonable and put the gun down before you hurt somebody.”

“Not until you and your inebriated friends go home.”

“This
is
my home.” He jerked his chin toward the saloon.

“You live there?”

He nodded and took a step forward, intending to remove the revolver from her shaking hands.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

He stopped and lifted his palms. “No need to get jumpy, Mrs. Ashier.” He worked up his most charming smile. “I’d just like to finish this conversation in private,” he suggested, starting toward her again.

“Stay away!” She tensed and pulled the gun to her chest like a child protecting a coveted toy. An earsplitting crack ripped through the night. A window above his bar shattered. The men below ducked flying shards of glass and swung incredulous looks in her direction.

Boyd stared in outrage. “Are you crazy?”

Claire gasped and held her gun at arm’s length. She didn’t know what else to do with it; she hadn’t meant to pull the trigger. Her heart pounded so hard she could only draw in half-breaths. But for the sake of her own survival, she gripped the revolver and stood her ground. She had to end the noise coming from the saloon before it put her out of business.

The Pemberton Inn was an attractive two-story structure on the corner of Chestnut and Main Street at the top of West Hill. But to Claire it was nothing more than a rum hole owned by an inconsiderate man. She wasn’t sorry at all that she’d taken out a window.

A man stepped from the crowd, but Boyd signaled him to stop. “Give me a minute, Duke.” The man nodded, and Boyd turned to face her.

He was taller than most of the men in the street, and at least five inches taller than she was. His hair was dark, probably black, but when she saw his face bathed in the light from her window, her stomach dipped. Not even the play of shadow and light could ruin the perfection of Boyd Grayson’s face. If anything, it made him more dangerous.

“I understand that you’re upset, Mrs. Ashier, but that doesn’t give you cause to shoot at my patrons.”

“I hadn’t intended—I wasn’t shooting at anybody.”

He nodded toward her house. “Why don’t we go inside and discuss this on more friendly terms?”

Never would she invite a man like him into her home. “Unless you’re going to tell me that you’re closing your saloon, I have nothing to say to you. I’m a widow trying to support myself. The noise from that rum hole has chased away every one of my boarders.”

He stared back at her without a trace of shame on his handsome face. His look of appreciation and speculation made her glad that several feet separated them. “I’ll be happy to rent a room this evening if it will help.”

She gasped at his audacity and jerked her gun toward him, itching to pull the trigger and wipe the smile off his face. How dare he try to seduce her? Her late husband had used his looks and charm to lead her straight to hell. She’d vowed at his graveside that she would never again be manipulated by a man’s charm or good looks.

She refused to waste any more words on the insufferable reprobate standing in front of her. She was nineteen dollars away from being destitute. She wanted his saloon closed.

Now.

She waved her gun toward the crowd of inebriates then folded her arms. “This is my last warning. Go home. All of you.” “

Go easy with that, Mrs. Ashier, or you’ll end up shooting yourself.” Boyd nodded toward the gun. “If that’s your grandmother’s revolver, it has a touchy trigger.”

“So do I, Mr. Grayson.”

The men chuckled, so she brandished the gun again. Send those men home and close your bar,” she demanded, “or I’m going to visit the sheriff in the morning. Your neighbors deserve some peace and quiet.”

“I’m sure my brother would enjoy your visit, Mrs. Ashier, but he can’t close a legitimate business.”

“Your brother?” Her breath whooshed out, and she sagged against her front door.

“That’s right.” He gestured to the man on his left. “This is Sheriff Grayson, my brother, and he’s a regular customer at the Pemberton.”

To her shock, a bear of a man stepped from the crowd and held up his hands, making the badge on his chest flash in the light from her window. “Mrs. Ashier, these boys mean no harm. I’ll get them inside and they won’t bother you again tonight.”

Shivering from fury and the frigid cold, Claire gave the sheriff a scathing look. “I’d suggest you step back, Sheriff, because I’m serious about closing this saloon. You should be ashamed of yourself for frequenting it.”

“My job requires me to visit the saloons and keep the peace.”

“Well, you’ve been remiss in your duty this evening. As long as this saloon is open, there is no peace for this neighborhood. And frankly, it doesn’t impress me at all that the owner of this rum hole is your brother.”

“I’m not overly impressed that he’s my brother either.”

She gaped at him, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

The sheriff slanted a glance at Boyd gave her a half grin. “Boyd believes he can manipulate any situation to his advantage. It’s embarrassing to the family, but the blame rests with my mother.” The sheriff lowered his hands and shrugged, clucking his tongue as he walked toward her. “Ma had this burning desire to have a girl, but all she got were boys. So even after Boyd had grown out of wearing gowns to bed, Ma insisted on coddling him like a daughter. It’s made him a bit odd, I’m afraid.”

Boyd laughed along with his patrons as if they were all sharing a private joke at her expense. “If you’re going to divulge my secrets, Duke,” he said, “it’s only fair that you share a few of your own. Tell her what you wear to bed.”

Dumbstruck by the absurdity of the brothers’ conversation, Claire shifted her gaze between them, wondering if they were drunk, insane, or both.

The sheriff looked her straight in the eye. “Actually I don’t wear anything.”

She opened her mouth, but was too shocked to come up with the reprimand the comment deserved.

The sheriff winked and plucked the gun from her hands. “Beg pardon for the rudeness, Mrs. Ashier. Go on in to bed now. I’ll keep the peace tonight and return your gun in the morning.”

 
Blast and damnation!
The sheriff and his wretched brother had purposely distracted her with their nonsensical conversation in order to disarm her.

That she had been outwitted so easily infuriated her, but she held her tongue. She had something more potent than a bullet to put Mr. Grayson out of business. She had Dr. Dio Lewis, a powerful temperance speaker from Boston, who held as much disdain for intemperance as she did.

She’d written to Dr. Lewis shortly after moving to Fredonia and learning that the town was filled with rum holes like the Pemberton Inn. Dr. Lewis would be arriving tomorrow, and every church in Fredonia was going to cancel their evening service so the townspeople could gather at the Baptist church for his address. Boyd Grayson didn’t know it yet, but he was going to attend that meeting.