Grayson Brothers Series Boxed Set (4 books in 1) (52 page)

Claire’s shoulders sagged. She’d sensed that Boyd wasn’t a man who could be told what to do. He wasn’t the sort of man who would bow to pressure from his neighbors. He seemed to be everything Desmona called him: obstinate, talented, and wild—an incredibly handsome man who was used to getting what he wanted. He was from a respectable family and had the protection of the sheriff.

How was she going to fight that?

Boyd ordered a round of drinks for Duke and Kyle, who were sitting at the bar smoking cigars to celebrate the birth of Kyle’s first child.

“You look awful,” Boyd said.

Kyle passed him a cigar. “It’s been a long day.”

Boyd lit his cigar from one of the three gas lights in his bar. He anchored the cheroot between his teeth, struck a match, and drew until an orange glow traveled a quarter inch up the length. He braced his elbows on the bar and exhaled a ring of smoke that circled their heads. “Did Marshall Thomas give you and Amelia a rough time today?”

Kyle scraped his brown hair off his forehead. “Doc said a fourteen-hour birth is a blessing. Amelia delivered without a problem, but it sure wrung me out.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Boyd said. “In about six weeks you and Amelia will be able to use those handcuffs you never gave back to Duke.”

Duke’s shout of laughter made Kyle grin. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

If Boyd lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forget the night that Kyle, who’d been married for two weeks and hadn’t yet consummated his marriage, had demanded Duke’s handcuffs then bolted from the bar with a determined look on his face. Boyd suspected that Kyle had wanted the cuffs for himself, to ease Amelia’s fear of him, but he’d never said and Boyd had never asked.

Kyle pulled another cigar from his pocket for Radford, who’d just entered the saloon. “I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.”

He would never give Boyd that kind of ammunition, but Boyd laughed, amazed at the change in his older brother. Just three years ago, Kyle had been a humorless, miserable man. His fiancée, Evelyn Tucker, had fallen in love with their oldest brother Radford, which had nearly destroyed their family. Then, barely six months after Kyle’s broken engagement, Kyle was forced to marry Amelia Drake, their competitor’s daughter. It seemed a miracle to Boyd that they all had ended up happy.

“What did I miss?” Radford asked as he stomped snow from his boots and straddled a barstool beside Kyle.

Boyd signaled Karlton to bring a mug for his brother. “Kyle is going to make a confession about his love life.”

Kyle laughed. “My adventures consist of fighting for a place in bed between two spoiled cats and my wife’s protruding belly. Your love life would be far more entertaining, Boyd.”

Duke shot a wry look at Boyd. “When has
love
ever had anything to do with your affairs?”

A small ache started in Boyd’s chest. He struggled not to show any outward sign of the emptiness that overwhelmed him at times. He would never fall in love. He wasn’t worthy of it. He asked too much. And gave too little. He would spend his life with his crazy, mixed-breed mutt. All Sailor needed was regular meals and a good daily scratch behind his ears. Boyd didn’t want anything more emotionally challenging than that.

Radford picked up the mug of ale that Karlton had just set in front of him. “Don’t look so smug, little brother. You’ll take the fall someday, and when you do, Kyle and I are going to enjoy every minute of it.”

It would never happen, but Boyd didn’t argue. He glanced at Duke and changed the subject. “Heard you got a new deputy today.”

Duke nodded. “Levi Harrison signed the ladies’ temperance pledge then accepted the position.”

“He signed their pledge?” Boyd asked in disbelief, exchanging a disgusted look with Karlton.

“Said he had to if he wanted to become a lawman. The ladies pressured him to stop selling liquor in his hotel and set an example for the rest of us men.”

Boyd rolled his eyes. “Next thing you know they’ll be hounding you to sign their pledge.”

“They already have.”

“You won’t do it, will you?” Karlton asked, butting into their conversation.

“I don’t see any need to. I don’t have an unquenchable thirst for alcohol, or a family I’m neglecting because of it. And I don’t sell liquor.” Duke shrugged. “Can’t see how my stopping for an occasional mug hurts anyone or keeps me from doing my job.”

“Neither can I, and I wouldn’t let their nagging sway you,” Boyd said. “Besides, the ladies will get tired of marching in this cold weather and give up this nonsense before long.”

Kyle and Radford glanced at each other and chuckled. Radford rested his mug on his bent knee. “For being a blatant philanderer, Boyd, you don’t know a thing about women. They don’t give up until they get what they’re after.”

“Hogwash,” Boyd retorted. “Five dollars says they last a week, maybe two at most.”

Radford lifted his mug. “My money says they won’t stop until they close every saloon in town, including yours.”

“It will never happen.” Boyd tapped his mug to Radford’s. “I’m confident enough to double the wager.”

“Count me in,” Kyle said. “I’m with Radford though. Once a woman gets it in her head to do something or change something, there’s no reasoning with them. They won’t give up. They’ll keep after you like a saw blade against a tree, scraping and cutting until you fall.”

“Not if they fall first,” Karlton said. “I’ll triple the wager that the women quit before we give in.”

Boyd looked at Duke. “What’s your wager?”

“I’m staying out of this. I know how hardheaded you are, but those women are serious about their cause. They’ve gotten financial backing from a large group of men and they have the support of every church in town. They aren’t going to back down any more than you are.” Duke lowered his hands to his knees. “The saloon owners are irritated by the ladies’ visits. The ladies are outraged by some of the owners’ rude treatment of them. And they’re all complaining to me.”

“Maybe you should tell the ladies to stop marching,” Karlton said, walking away.

“They have a right to march.”

“Well, I have a license to sell liquor,” Boyd argued.

“That’s my point, Boyd. Both sides are entitled to do what they’re doing.” Duke lifted his mug and took a long drink before setting it on the bar. “This isn’t my fight. All I can do is keep the peace and make sure nobody gets hurt.”

“No one’s asking you to choose sides.” Boyd signaled for another round of drinks, but Karlton wasn’t behind the bar. Assuming he was in the stockroom or relieving his bladder, Boyd got up and poured the drinks himself. He felt better behind the bar.

How ridiculous to think a band of women could close down several profitable saloons. Duke was just feeling pressured because of his job. Radford and Kyle were giving the temperance women too much credit because of their own experiences with their lovely but strong-willed wives.

The women could march and pray all they wanted, but it wouldn’t change a thing. They couldn’t vote. They couldn’t revoke his license to sell liquor. They were wasting their time with all this foolishness.

Radford pushed his mug forward, but instead of ordering another, he stood up. “Good luck with your lady friends,” he said, buttoning his coat.

“Where are you going?” Boyd asked.

“Home. I promised Rebecca and William a story before bed.”

Boyd had always enjoyed his freedom, but sometimes he envied Radford. Three years ago Radford had come home from the war with his four-year-old daughter Rebecca, both of them emotionally wounded and hurting. Evelyn Tucker had loved and healed them and gave Radford a son a year after they married. They had found a deep happiness with each other, like Kyle had found with Amelia.

Like Duke would someday find with a woman of his own.

Like Boyd would never have.

“I’ll walk you out,” Kyle said, getting to his feet.

Boyd nodded to Karlton who was carrying in a fresh keg of beer from the stockroom. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said then followed Kyle and Radford outside. He bade them goodnight then stood on the porch and watched them walk down Main Street. It wouldn’t take them ten minutes to reach Radford’s home and livery on Liberty Street. Kyle would have to travel five minutes farther to reach his home near their sawmill in Laona.

The night was cold, but Boyd breathed in the frigid air, wondering what it would be like to have a wife and a family. Marriage had changed his brothers. Radford wasn’t so jumpy and tense anymore. Kyle had found his sense of humor again. Both of them seemed content and happy. But did the responsibility of having a family ever weigh them down?

A noise across the street snapped his attention to Claire’s house. To his surprise, Claire stood on her porch with the door open, angling a paper toward the light from her foyer.

Recognizing a perfect opportunity to speak with her, he descended his steps with a jaunty gait. With any luck she’d taunt him with the success of getting Harrison to sign their pledge. That would be better than having her close her door in his face. It would give him time to talk his way inside.

The snow muffled his footsteps as he crossed the street to her house. She was so absorbed in whatever she was reading that he climbed the steps to her porch without disturbing her.

“That must be some interesting letter,” he said.

She cried out and clasped the letter to her chest. Fear filled her eyes, and she panted as if she’d just run up West Hill.

“Are you all right?” he asked, shocked by her reaction.

“Go away.” She inched her way inside.

“Wait a minute.” He thrust out his hand to stop the door from closing. “What’s wrong?”

“Go away or I’ll... I’ll get my gun.”

“What?” He shook his head. “What’s going on here?”

“You should know.” She pushed on the door, but he braced his foot to keep it from closing. Her jaw clenched, and she glared at him. “Will you kindly remove yourself from my property?”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I just scared the stuffing out of you, and for some reason you’re treating me like a criminal.”

“You sell liquor. You drink alcohol. You carouse in that rum hole all hours of the night without a thought or care for your neighbors’ comfort. That, Mr. Grayson, is criminal. Now leave or I’ll get Sheriff—I’ll... I’ll get my gun.”

“Just because the sheriff is my brother doesn’t mean I get special privileges, Claire. If you ask him to remove me from your property, he’ll do it.”

Her hands trembled, and she leaned her forehead against the edge of the oak door. She lifted her lashes to reveal dark, fear-filled eyes. “If you have a shred of decency, you’ll leave as I’ve requested.”

Sensing she was on the verge of tears, he stepped back. “The sheriff is across the street. I’ll send him over.”

“No.” She dragged in a shaky breath. “I’ll stop by his office tomorrow.”

“Claire, what’s going on?”

She glanced at the letter in her hand then lifted her chin and silently glared at him. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” She slammed the door in his face.

He heard her twist the key in the lock, and he turned away thoroughly confused.
What just happened here?
She was scared to death. Of him!

From his apartment above the saloon, Boyd watched Claire’s house. Why were her lamps burning at two o’clock in the morning? No shadows or movement shifted across her windows, so she must be sleeping. But why with the lantern burning?

He and Duke had searched her yard, but hadn’t found anything to warrant her fear. Duke had knocked and announced himself, but Claire wouldn’t answer the door or even bother to look out the window.

So what had spooked her?

Boyd paced his apartment, glancing at her windows. Was she awake? Was she watching him, too? Or was she cowering in her house, afraid and alone?

The thought had him heading for the door, but he stopped in his kitchen and blew out a breath of frustration. Even if he went to check on her, she wouldn’t answer the door. Worse, if he knocked on her door, it would just make her more scared, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

He would just have to wait until tomorrow.

With a sigh of fatigue, he headed to a small room off the parlor where he dabbled with his carvings. He’d boarded up the window that Claire’s wild gunshot had shattered the previous weekend, but the room still felt chilly.

Sailor padded in behind him, sniffing and circling the life-size, partially carved statue that forever intrigued the dog.

“It makes me nervous too,” Boyd said, scratching the dog’s head. “What do you think? Will tonight be the night?” he asked, wondering if the day would ever come when he would resurrect his talent.

The dog wheezed and stared at him with adoring brown eyes.

“You have more faith than I do, but I’ll give it a go.” He surveyed a long narrow table that was covered with several curved carving knives, various-size chisels and gouges, shaving blocks, sanding paper, tubs of wax, cans of varnish, and other items he and his father had once used to carve furniture. He picked up a small carving knife and turned to the huge block of basswood sitting in the center of the room.

Claire’s bullet had torn away a brick-sized chunk of wood from the upper portion of the statue. When Boyd had first discovered the damage, he’d felt as if the bullet had torn away a piece of his own flesh. But now, in this light, seeing the partially carved block of wood from a different perspective, the missing chunk of wood seemed... right somehow.

“Maybe that’s my problem,” he said, talking as naturally to his dog as he would to his own brothers. “Maybe I’ve been approaching this from the wrong direction.” Boyd began shaving away the splintered edges where the bullet had struck the wood. He worked his knife in slow, methodical strokes, but his apprehension grew as the night deepened. He feared he would cut away too much, and despaired that he wouldn’t know if he had.

His hands trembled and his face flushed with heat. This had been so easy once. There had been a time when he’d known the result of each knife stroke before he took it. Now, each curled wood shaving that fell to the floor filled him with anxiety because he was carving blind. He could no longer see the treasure the wood contained.

* * *

Claire jerked awake with a gasp.

She clutched the gun on her lap and searched the shadows of her bedchamber. Nothing moved. No one panted in her ear and threatened her. No one clutched her throat and issued instructions. She was alone and unharmed. Heart pounding, she sank back into the wing chair with a trembling sigh of relief.

She couldn’t live like this again.

She couldn’t bear the sleepless nights, the gnawing fear, the watchfulness.

The heavy iron revolver pressed down on her thighs, but it didn’t comfort her. She had no idea how to successfully use the gun. Her chances of being able to actually shoot anybody were slim, but she kept the revolver nestled in her lap.

It was the only protection she had if the man who left the threatening note on her door decided to visit her.

She slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt and wrapped her fingers around the carving Boyd had given her. The note was in her pocket, too, but she had no need to pull it out and read it again. The threatening words had circled in her mind all night long.

A woman who lives alone shouldn’t stir up trouble. Stop the marches or you’ll have an unpleasant visitor.

She was too familiar with the instability of alcoholics to discount the note. Whoever wrote it, meant it.

Was it Boyd? Had he been waiting near her porch to purposely frighten her? He had as much to lose as anyone if the marches were successful. And if he hadn’t written the note, who had?

She leaned her head back, sick with exhaustion. Her body begged for rest, but she didn’t dare undress and climb into bed. She’d saved herself from Jack’s rage on many occasions by running out of the house before he could grab her. She couldn’t run for help if she was undressed.

Smarter to remain fully clothed and sitting in her grandmother’s wing chair with the gun in her lap. In the morning she would march with the women then slip away to see the sheriff.

That was sensible. That’s what she’d do. There was no need to panic.

Then why was she sitting shivering in fear with a revolver clenched in her hands?