"And I've been pining the whole time."
"The devil you have." She pushed him away, but her eyes sparkled with love. "You were so busy making eyes at Mrs. Ashier this morning, you nearly ran over me and Rebecca near the Common. Rebecca even shouted at you, but you drove right by us."
His glance shot across his brothers' grinning faces. The wretches were savoring every minute of his discomfort. Even Jeb was trying to hide a grin.
Heat 'burned his neck because he had been preoccupied with Claire. While she'd been sitting beside him, he hadn't given a damn who was strolling through town. It could have been the Union Army, and he wouldn't have noticed one of them.
"Rumor has it you're in love with the pretty widow," Evelyn said, the mischief in her eyes suggesting she enjoyed watching him squirm as much as his brothers did. Radford's wife had grown up as Boyd's neighbor, so the raven-haired beauty was more like a sister than a sister-in-law to him.
Like a true brother, he ignored her and spoke to his mother. "I didn't see you and Rebecca," he said, hoping they would all drop the subject.
"You didn't see me either," Duke added. "You damned near ran me over on Day Street."
"The devil I did."
"If it wasn't you in that decked out sleigh with the pretty widow, then you've got a twin in town who can't manage a pair of horses."
Boyd scowled at Duke. Brothers could be such a pain in the ass sometimes.
"You and the lovely widow created quite a buzz in the park this morning," his mother said. "You two made a cozy picture in that fancy sleigh. Are you courting her?"
He was trying to court Claire, but wasn't about to discuss his situation with his too-eager family. Instead of answering, he winked at Rebecca. "Hey, sprite. I've got mistletoe in my pocket. Where's my kiss?"
Rebecca's face filled with joy, and she leapt off Kyle's lap.
"Did Mrs. Ashier like our sleigh?"
He groaned. "She loved it, Sprite."
"Why didn't you wave to me?" she demanded, her bottom lip full of attitude.
"Because I didn't see you." He swept her up in a twirling hug that made her squeal with laughter—and made his head spin. "Why are you picking on Uncle Kyle?" he asked, swinging the attention to his deserving brother. Let Kyle squirm a bit.
"He's gonna give Ginger's kittens away."
"Is that so?"
Rebecca nodded. "Aunt Amelia says she won't let him."
Boyd slanted a your-turn-to-squirm look at Kyle. "Looks like you're outnumbered."
"I plan to change that by giving away a few kittens." Amelia wrinkled her nose at Kyle. "Would you want someone to give our baby away?"
"I might consider it if he doesn't start sleeping at night."
"You would not," she said with a laugh that flushed her cheeks and made Kyle grin.
"Ginger had five kittens," Rebecca said, tugging on Boyd's black bow tie. "She has two boys and three girls."
Kyle rolled his eyes. "Want one?"
"No thanks," Boyd said, but then he thought of Claire. "But I might know someone who does."
"Ask if they want five." Amelia nudged Kyle in the ribs. He grunted and chuckled. "All right. We'll keep one."
"Where's your mistletoe?" Rebecca asked.
Boyd pulled it out of his pocket, held it above his niece's head, and gave her a loud smack on her cheek. She giggled and he growled against her neck, making her squeal and squirm out of his arms. Laughing, he tucked the mistletoe back into his pocket and glanced down at his nephew, who was soaking something with drool. "What's William trying to eat?"
Rebecca squatted beside her brother. "His shoe," she said, then giggled when her mother wrinkled her nose and removed the leather boot from William's mouth.
Radford wasn't concerned at all that his son was eating his shoe. Neither was Boyd. God knew what horrors the four Grayson brothers had eaten during their lifetime, and they'd survived.
Boyd played with William until his giggles caused hiccups; then he introduced himself to his newest nephew, Marshall, who promptly spit up on the sleeve of Boyd's suit jacket. Rebecca climbed onto his lap and instigated a tickling match.
At last he sank into a chair, into the warm, welcoming bosom of his family, feeling at home...and yet, not at home.
The joking and light banter between them was the same, but something inside him was different this year.
The thought gnawed at him throughout the evening, distracting him by turns, poking him incessantly until finally, he wandered into the kitchen to snatch a second helping of pie. He reached for a plate, but ended up admiring the oak pie safe his father had made for his mother before Boyd was born. Boyd trailed his finger over a cluster of rosettes carved in the center of the safe door. Even his father's early work had the mark of a master craftsman.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" his mother said, entering the kitchen.
"Everything Dad made was beautiful."
"It certainly was," She stopped beside Boyd, but instead of cutting the pie, she stroked her hand over his back, a loving gesture she'd performed too many times to count, "What's bothering you?"
Years of experience had taught him not to try to skirt the question, His mother always knew when he was carrying a heartache or a problem, whether it was a lost puppy or a hurt ego.
"Guess I'm missing Dad more than usual this year."
"Me too," she admitted with the same deep sadness in her voice Boyd felt in his chest,
He looked down at his mother, the most loving, stable person in his life. She had loved him through his childish rages and shenanigans. She had comforted him a thousand times. She'd buried her disappointment when he left the mill and became a saloon keeper. He'd had many lovers, and though his mother had cautioned against it, she'd never manipulated his conscience to direct his decisions. She'd forgiven him everything, and loved him despite his many faults and failings. She'd even stood up against her fellow church members and refused to march against his saloon.
He'd taken it all for granted.
Regret welled up inside him as he pulled her into a hug. He kissed the top of her head, which barely reached his chin. "I'm sorry I've asked so much of you, Mother. I haven't meant to be selfish, but I know I have been."
She tipped her head back and gave him a long, hard look. "Of all my boys, you've been the least selfish. I don't know why you think otherwise. What's weighing on your mind tonight?"
"I haven't done enough for you. I've asked for too much and given too little."
"Boyd Benjamin, where did you get that fool-headed idea? You never ask me for anything."
"Maybe I should have." His lowered his arms and leaned against the sink. "I never asked what you wanted when Dad broke his hip. I only thought of my needs when I refused to hug him. I didn't know my refusal to accept his death would ask too much of you and Dad."
"Is that what this is about?" She sighed and laid her hand on the pie safe, her loving gaze studying him. "If it weren't for you, your father would have given up. After you stormed out of the house that day, refusing to let him quit fighting and give in to the disease, your father wept a river because he felt so loved."
"But he suffered so much after that."
Her frown lines disappeared, and her face grew serene. "That last year was one of our best," she said quietly. "We didn't waste a single moment. Because of you, we had time to prepare ourselves to be separated."
"I couldn't let him go," he confessed hoarsely.
A soft smile touched her lips. "He loved you with all his heart, Boyd. His last breath was a laugh over that little carving you left in the water closet for him."
Boyd couldn't recall anything from that day other than running out of the house with angry tears blurring his vision.
"You don't remember?" she asked with a surprised chuckle. "It was an extremely detailed carving of a nude woman. You'd left her standing on the sink basin as a joke for your father."
The memory rushed back like a dam bursting open. Boyd had whittled the statuett
e during the hours he'd spent at his father's bedside. He wouldn't tell his father what he was working on, only that it was a surprise for him. From the day they had mounted the back bar at the saloon and drunk their first ale together, Boyd had left his boyhood behind. He talked to his father about manly things like carving, receiving hours of instruction while sitting at his bedside. They talked about timber costs and running their sawmill. And they had talked about women.
At fifteen, Boyd had been wild for them. His preoccupation amused his father to no end. So Boyd had whittled his youthful idea of the perfect woman, and left the big-breasted, full-hipped statuette on the water closet sink as a joke. He knew it would make his father laugh. And his father, who had grown frighteningly weak, had desperately needed a diversion from his pain.
His mother slipped her warm hand over his knuckles. "Your father died with that carving in his hand. I made sure it stayed in his hand when we buried him."
A torrent of grief rushed through Boyd and burned his insides.
"You didn't ask your father to fight his battle alone," she said, unaware of the battle Boyd was fighting with the emotions clogging his throat. "You were at his side every day, cheering him up, making him laugh, giving him a reason to keep living. You were his strength. And mine. You brought light to those dark hours, and your father died knowing he was loved—by me, by your brothers, but most of all by you. That's all any man can hope for. You've never asked for anything, Boyd. You've always been the one to give the most."
Her words made him hopeful that he would someday be able to view his past in a kinder light. He'd buried so many memories in the avalanche of grief.
"I wish I could have helped him."
"Me too," she said. "But I couldn't protect your father from that crippling disease any more then I could protect you boys from painful falls and hurtful comments. I could only love you and give you someone to hold on to when you were going through hell. That's all anyone can do."
He nodded, knowing she was right, but wishing he could have done more for his parents.
She sighed and stroked her hand down his arm. "I think you have more on your mind than your father," she said, probing as only a mother could. "Duke suggested that you care a great deal for Mrs. Ashier. I think he may be right."
Boyd sighed. "Duke talks too damned much."
"Mrs. Ashier seems like a nice young lady."
"She is, Mother, but she's not for me. Or rather, I'm not for her."
"Why not? She seemed smitten with you this morning in the sleigh. And I've seen the looks you two exchange in church. What's the problem?"
"I'm a saloon owner. Claire can't see past that."
"My sight isn't what it used to be, but I know what I saw this morning. That girl wasn't looking at a saloon owner. She was looking at a man she desired."
Boyd rolled his eyes. Women saw romance in everything. He picked up the metal spatula and cut a slice of apple pie. "Want a piece?"
"No." She tugged his coat sleeve. "Come here."
He laid down the spatula and followed her to the kitchen door.
She pointed at Evelyn and Radford, who were side-by-side on the 'parlor sofa with a sleepy William and Rebecca flopped across their laps. "Look at your brothers," she said, her gesture encompassing Kyle and Amelia who had returned to the settee after supper. Kyle held his son with one arm, and his wife with the other, while joking with Amelia's mother and Jeb. "That's happiness and fulfillment." She nodded toward Duke, who sat alone in a wing chair sleeping like a well-fed bear." That's contentment." She faced Boyd, "I see loneliness in you, and it breaks my heart."
He sighed and guided her back into the kitchen. "I'm fine, Mother. I'm not lonely, I'm just pining for another piece of pie."
She swatted his arm. "Let me put some pudding and tarts in a basket for you to take home."
A few minutes later she handed the basket to him, "Gads, Mother, this was supposed to be pudding and tarts, not a feast for a family of twelve."
"You're too skinny. You need to get yourself a wife who will cook for you."
"I've got Sailor. Why would I need a wife?"
A wistful look filled her eyes. "Take another look in the parlor on your way out."
He did, and all he could think about on the way home was Claire. Would her presence have made a difference tonight? Would having Claire in his arms have warded off the loneliness his perceptive mother had noticed?
Of course it would have. His discomfort this evening wasn't a matter of him wanting Claire in his arms. The problem was that a saloon owner's arms would never be acceptable to Claire.
Chapter Twelve
"As soon as they locked Larry in jail, I boarded the first available train," Anna said.
Claire's heart softened, and she stoked the parlor fireplace, knowing it would be a long time before bed. Anna needed a friend to talk to and a safe place to rest for a while. Claire understood. She was in the same place only a short time ago.
They talked through the evening, feeling safe and warm beside the fireplace.
Until someone knocked on the door.
Claire gasped and jerked upright in her chair. Anna leapt to her feet and they stared at each other in fear.
"It can't be Larry," she said, but the terror in her eyes made Claire's heartbeat accelerate.
Who else could it be? No decent human being would call on someone at ten o'clock in the evening.
Anna followed her to the foyer. Claire—peeked out the window, but it had grown too frosty to see through clearly. She only knew there was a man at her door.
She took her revolver from the closet, then dangled it behind her skirt, praying she wouldn't accidentally shoot herself in the leg. Her first encounter with Boyd had revealed her dreadful lack of skill with the gun.
Claire signaled for Anna to stay hidden behind the door, then she unlocked it and pulled it open two tiny inches. To her surprise, Boyd Grayson stood on her porch holding a huge wicker basket that emitted the delicious aroma of turkey and plum pudding.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, boldly stepping into her foyer without being invited inside.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, relieved that it wasn't Larry barging into her home.
"Delivering a basket of goodies from my mother."
"It's ten o'clock."
"I'm always hungry at this time of night." He held the basket out to her. "My mother packed enough for a family of twelve."
"Thank you, but I can't accept this." She slipped her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the carving he'd given her. "I appreciate the gesture, but you know how I feel about accepting gifts from you."
"It's not a gift from me. It's a gesture of kindness during the holiday. My mother will be disappointed to know her hard work went into the garbage."
Claire couldn't refuse without feeling rude and unappreciative. "Well...thank you, Would you put it on the desk?" she asked, unable to take the basket from him because of the revolver she was hiding at her side.
He leaned forward to set it on the desk, but spotted Anna hiding behind the door. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced at Claire. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were entertaining."
"Anna's my...guest tonight." She closed the door against the biting cold. "This is Anna Levens, a friend of mine."
He took in Anna's appearance and greeted her with a nod, but his eyes cut back to Claire. "Are you ladies in need of anything?"
He knew. Somehow he knew that Anna was taking refuge with her. His power of intuition and his gentle inquiry touched Claire.
"I can take a room here tonight, if you like."
"No. Thank you for offering," she said, warmed by his concern. "Anna and I will be fine. We have a basket of delicious-smelling food to eat, a fire to warm us, and I have my gun to keep us safe." She lifted the revolver to show him.
He clamped his hand over the barrel and angled it away from his chest. "You really need to get rid of this thing before you shoot yourself—or someone else."
<
br /> "It's the only protection I have."
"In your hands, this gun can be more harm than good." His fingers circled her wrist, and he nodded at the revolver. "Let go."
She sighed and released her grip on the gun.
He opened the chamber of the revolver, and his eyes glinted with disapproval. "This is loaded!"
"I know."
"You could have blown a hole in my chest."
"Nonsense. I wasn't even aiming at you."
"That is what terrifies me."
Wariness settled in Anna's eyes as she backed against the desk. "I'll put the basket in the kitchen," she said, then grasped the handle and rushed to the kitchen.
Boyd sighed. "Looks like you both need protecting."
Claire straightened her shoulders. "We'll be fine." She held out her hand, palm up. "Please return my gun."
"I'd rather not."
"If you don't, I'll report it stolen and tell your brother that you took it."
"Claire, I'm genuinely afraid that you're going to wound yourself with this weapon."
"Nonsense. I keep it in the closet."
"You have no idea how to handle it. Nor do you know how to aim it."
"Well, I won't have to do either as long as I'm not threatened again."
He sighed. "Are we back to that note again?"
His look stung her conscience. "No. I believe you about the note."
"Honestly?"
She nodded. She really did.
"Thank you. That's the best gift I've been given tonight." His gaze shifted to her mouth. "Unless you'd care to top it with a kiss."
Her heart leapt and she stepped away from him. "You'd better not have that mistletoe in your pocket."
His lips quirked, but he shook his head. "It wouldn't work a second time." He nodded toward the closet. "Is that where you keep your gun?"
"Put it on the back corner shelf." She opened the closet door and he put the gun away.
When he turned back, he was wearing a frown. "I assume Anna is running from someone?"
"Yes, her husband. He's in jail for killing a man. The problem is, Anna doesn't know how long he'll be there."
"And you took her in knowing this?"
Lips That Touch Mine Page 11
