He winked at Anna. "I think she's beginning to like me."
To Claire's shock, the woman slipped her hand into the crook of Boyd's elbow. "Stop baiting her and come help me with my chess game. Claire is annihilating me."
"I admire the concentration the game takes," he said, "but it's too tame for my blood."
Claire's heart warmed as she followed them to the parlor, understanding that this was Anna's way of working through her fear one small step at a time. Anna needed to relax, to lower her guard, to learn how to socialize again.
She evidently trusted Boyd to help her do that.
Boyd greeted Mr. and Mrs. Ormand, then sat on the sofa and watched Anna and Claire finish their chess match.
Mr. Ormand, who looked like a boy beside Boyd's worldly confidence, gave an exaggerated yawn and got to his feet. "The baby is fussy this evening, and I'm dreadfully tired of a sudden. The wife and I will bid you all goodnight." His wife clutched their infant to her bosom and climbed the stairs behind him.
Anna and Claire exchanged a grin. The baby hadn't fussed once. Mr. Ormand was just eager to get his wife into bed.
"Would you mind if we switched to cards?" Anna asked.
"Of course not." Claire had never cared for chess. It felt too cat-and-mouse to her, too much like the games Jack had played. She swept the pieces into a felt bag and laid them on the playing board. "Would you care to play a hand of poker?" she asked, with a pointed glance at Boyd.
He raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that a bit immoral for you ladies?"
"Not if you don't tell."
He grinned. "I'll let you ladies decide what the wagers will be."
"It had better be something small," Anna said, "because I don't know how to play."
"If you win, we won't march on your saloon for a day," Claire said. "If we win, you close for a night."
He arched a superior eyebrow. "Are you certain you want to make that wager?"
"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, hoping she looked innocently naive.
"Won't your lady friends be upset when you tell them why you aren't marching on my saloon tomorrow?"
She merely shrugged, not about to debate the issue and divulge how much she knew about the game. She retrieved a deck of cards from the drawer in the sturdy oak coffee table. "Would you like me to deal?"
He leaned back on the sofa. "By all means. Ladies first."
An hour later he stared at her in open admiration. "Did your grandmother teach you how to play?"
She shook her head. Claire had learned the art of playing from Jack and his acquaintances. "Will you keep your promise and close the saloon tomorrow?"
He frowned. "I honor my wagers, Claire."
"Excuse me," Anna said, getting to her feet. "I'll make some tea."
The instant she left the parlor, Claire sighed. "Why do I always seem to be insulting you?"
"Because I'm a saloon owner. Because you pigheadedly hold some bigoted notions of what a saloon owner must be, and you can't see me separate from my profession."
His words rang true. As long as he ran a saloon she would have difficulty seeing him as anything but a reprobate. But hadn't he proved himself a gentleman on many occasions? Didn't he defend her and Anna against harm numerous times?
He moved to sit on the coffee table, angling his body to face her. "This temperance business is getting out of hand."
"So is the drinking in this town."
He braced his forearms on his knees, bringing his face closer to hers. "Most of my patrons are good, hardworking men who don't deserve to be harassed."
"When you serve only those decent, hardworking men, I'll stop trying to shut you down."
"This isn't a game. You're stirring up serious trouble. The saloon owners and their patrons are furious that Lewis shut down, and that you ladies are meddling with their right to sell liquor. "
She bristled. "I wonder how those men would feel if they were women and had no rights."
"For God's sake, Claire. You ladies are worming your way into every part of our lives. You're talking to our bankers and our patrons, and even our damned mothers!"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Use some common sense," he said with exasperation. "Your house has been ransacked. Karlton manhandled you because you're meddling with his livelihood. What else needs to happen before you stop this nonsense?"
She'd seen him angry before, but this was the first time it was directed at her. Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid of him. She liked his earnestness even more than his charm. "Is your anger supposed to stop me from doing what I believe is right?"
"Yes." He slapped his thighs and stood up. "I'm trying to tell you that there are a lot of angry men out there who've had enough of your meddling. They're raising hell in the saloons. They aren't going to sit back and be gentlemen about this much longer."
Worry snaked through her. All it would take was one man to drink too much, to get too aggressive, and she could be facing another terrifying situation. But if she stopped marching, all the work would be for naught. She thought about women like Anna and Elizabeth and knew she couldn't quit.
He sighed. "This isn't the time to dig in your heels."
"I'm not digging in. I'm...thinking." How could she proceed with her work and keep herself, and the women she marched with, safe?
Agitated, she rose to her feet just as the picture window behind her exploded with a sickening crash. Pain burst in her shoulder as she doubled forward in a shower of glass.
o0o
Boyd's heart convulsed as he threw his arms around Claire and pulled her to the glass-littered floor. Anna raced into the room, her eyes wide with fright.
"Dear, God," she said, her voice breathless as she knelt on the floor beside them.
Boyd sat up, his heart thundering as he helped Claire to her knees. "Are you hurt?" he asked, praying she'd only cried out in alarm and not pain.
She clutched her shoulder. "Something hit me," she said, her voice tight.
Blood seeped between her fingers, and his gut clenched. A brick lay not three feet from her on the glass-speckled carpet.
Anna pulled the gown off Claire's shoulder, then glanced at Boyd. "You'd better get the doctor."
"What happened?" Claire asked, shivering in the frigid wind that was blowing through the window.
"Someone threw a brick." He stood and helped her to her feet. He guided the women into the foyer where Mr. Ormand was standing in his nightshirt in shocked silence.
"Stay out of the parlor," Boyd said to them, then turned to Claire's boarder. "Do you know how to use a gun?"
"Y-yes," the man said, bobbing his head.
Boyd yanked open the closest door and grabbed the revolver. He checked to see that it was loaded, then handed it to Mr. Ormand. "Shoot anybody who tries to enter the house without Claire's approval."
Mr. Ormand took the gun, but his hands were shaking so badly he could barely hang on to it.
"I'm going to run for the sheriff and the doctor. You three wait in the kitchen until I get back."
As if his legs turned to butter, Mr. Ormand sank down onto the stairs. "I'll stay here," he said, his face ashen, his hands shaking. "My wife and daughter are upstairs."
Boyd guided Anna and Claire into the kitchen. "I'll send the boys over to cover the window." He jerked his boots on. Then, with a last look at Claire, he rushed outside.
He sent Pat for the doctor and the sheriff, then scoured the area around Claire's house to see if he could track the culprit's footprints. The prints led back to the street, which was a churned up mess. Within minutes, there were so many men moving around her house that he gave up and went back inside.
Anna put a makeshift bandage on Claire's shoulder.
"There's a gouge there, but it isn't as bad as I thought," she said. She handed a note to Boyd. "This was attached to the brick."
When he read the note, fury pulsed through him for the lowlife who would attack a woman, and for Claire, who was being so hardheaded and careless.
&
nbsp; "This is what I'm talking about," he said, his voice grating with anger as he shook the note at her. "The person who wrote this is serious about stopping your marches."
"That was obvious when the brick sailed through my window," Claire retorted.
"That brick could have been a bullet, Claire."
She rose to her feet, her eyes flashing. "I'm fighting for something I believe in, and no one, especially a coward throwing bricks through my window, is going to stop me."
"No. They're just going to kill you."
Her jaw clenched and she glared at him. "Then teach me how to shoot my revolver. It appears I'm going to need to protect myself better."
"Why not just stop the marches and let things calm down a bit?"
"Because we're finally making progress. No matter what happens, I'll keep marching until every last saloon in this town shuts down."
"If this is just about your business," he said, "I'll give you money."
Indignation burned a hot path up her neck and face. "This is about women like Anna who should be home sleeping in her own bed without the fear of being beaten to death. It's about men like Larry who use alcohol to fuel their bad behavior. The only people who seem to care about money are you saloon owners," she said, then stormed from the kitchen.
Furious, Boyd bolted after her and caught up in the dining room. He grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. To his shock, she cried out and raised her arm as if to block a blow. The way she cowered against the wall pierced his heart. This woman knew what nightmares were made of.
His anger dissolved, and his chest constricted with sadness. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to hold and comfort and promise to keep her safe, but he sensed it would be the wrong thing to do. She was too shaken and wary to let him touch her.
He backed away and lowered his hands to his side. "Who hurt you? Was it Jack?" he asked quietly.
She averted her face, peering through the window into the darkness.
"Talk to me, Claire. I'll understand."
She squeezed her eyes closed.
Watching her struggle to keep her composure rent his heart.
"At least let me hold you."
A breathy sob slipped through her lips, and she clapped her hand to her mouth.
"Claire. .."
She turned into his arms, and buried her face in his chest. He stroked her back, feeling the hard trembling in her body. "I'm sorry." His throat grew hot, and his chest ached like hell, and all he wanted to do was take her pain away. "What did he do to you? You can trust me. You know that."
"He did what many drunkards do," she said. "He drank too much. He gambled away his money. He said vile things, and he beat me."
Which gave her several reasons to hate Boyd's saloon. Not only was the noise hurting her business, it had to be a constant reminder of Jack's drinking problem. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.
"Jack was smart and handsome, but he gambled away any success he might have had. That made him angry. Drinking made it worse."
"Why did you marry him?"
She raised her eyes, as if surprised by his comment. "I was in love with him."
Jealousy and compassion tore him in opposite directions. He wanted to tell her that Jack Ashier was no damned good and hadn't deserved her love. But the compassionate side of him wanted to hold her until her heartache went away.
"Jack was the man of my dreams," she said, as if she needed to explain. "He thought I was the answer to all his problems until my father disowned me without a dowry."
"Your father didn't like Jack?" he asked.
"No," she said wearily. "Daddy insisted I annul my marriage. His partner in his steel mill had suggested that a disreputable man like Jack might make demands on my father that would infringe on their business."
"Like what? Blackmail?"
She shrugged and stepped away. "I don't know. But when I refused to let Daddy annul my marriage, he vowed to disown me. I was young and naive. I turned my back on him and left with Jack."
The despair in her eyes wrenched Boyd's chest. "You loved your father," he said.
"Very much," she said softly. "When I was young, I imagined my father to be a strong, tall tree. I would swing from his arms like they were branches. His laugh was like a boom of thunder that shook the house and made Mama chastise us for roughhousing inside." A bereft sadness dulled her eyes. "One day we both realized that I was too old to swing on his arms, that I was no longer his little girl. That's when he arranged my marriage to his partner's son."
She looked up, her face filled with sorrow. "It was our first serious disagreement. I left the next morning for my grandmother's house without speaking a word to him."
"That's when you met Jack?"
She nodded. "I eloped with him two weeks later. You know the rest of the story. I haven't spoken to my parents since." Her nostrils flared, but she bit her lip and lowered her face. "A hundred times I wanted to write to my father and tell him I was sorry, that I loved him and missed him. I'd have crawled back to him on my knees, but I was afraid Jack would try to take advantage of Daddy, or find a way to manipulate him. I couldn't be responsible for causing my father any more pain, so I lied in my letters and said I was happy with Jack. I've hurt Daddy so deeply, he could never forgive me."
He slipped his arms around her and rubbed her back, wishing he could rub away her pain, that he could protect her from heartache. "I don't want to see you hurt again, he said. "That's why I want you to stop marching. I'm afraid for you."
"I need to finish this."
"Why?" he asked, struggling to hide his irritation.
"Because it's the right thing to do. Because last winter I did something I'll never forgive myself for." She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, stepped away from him, and wiped her eyes. "We had a bad storm that covered the trees and streets and houses with ice. I heard a cat crying at our door, but I was afraid to let it in because Jack had been drinking, and he hated cats."
Boyd didn't know why she was talking about a cat, but he let her talk.
"I'll never know if the cat found refuge, or if it froze to death because I was too frightened to take it in. I was a coward that night, and I regret it."
"You probably saved the cat's life by chasing it away."
She shook her head as if she'd failed to do the decent thing and protect the cat.
"That's why I can't walk away from this," she said. "I can't be a coward. I need to do the right thing this time."
He understood. But he didn't like her decision. Not at all. "I'll teach you how to shoot your gun tomorrow afternoon," he said. Because he didn't know what else to do to keep her safe.
"Thank you," she said, but the deafening sound of hammers pounding against the house startled a gasp from her.
Boyd's heart leapt and he bit back a curse. He was doomed to be forever on guard around her, looking out for bricks and bullets.
"Good heavens," she said. "I forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Ormand." She wiped her eyes again and babbled about being a poor hostess, and that the Ormands would probably leave first thing in the morning because of this fiasco.
"Claire." He caught her hands but kept his grip loose enough for her to pull away. "The Ormands are fine. Anna's cleaning up the parlor. Your window is being taken care of. You can take a minute to pull yourself together."
"I'm beginning to think that isn't possible," she whispered. Then she hurried from the room.
Boyd followed her to the foyer where Mr. Ormand was still sitting on the stairs with the revolver clenched in his hands.
"We won't be needing the gun now," Boyd said, taking the revolver from the young man. He clasped Mr. Ormand's bony shoulder. "Good thing nobody tried to force their way inside."
"I'd have blown a hole right through them." Despite his bravado, Mr. Ormand's legs seemed a tad shaky as he climbed the stairs and returned to the room with his frightened wife and child.
Boyd put the gun in the closet and turned to Claire. "I'm going to help the boys
board up the window." He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles over her soft cheek. "You know, cats are exceptional at finding shelter. I'd wager my saloon that your stray found a warm place to sleep that night."
Her tremulous smile brought a deep and satisfying warmth to his heart.
Chapter Twenty-three
The next morning, Boyd ordered a pane of glass for Claire's parlor window and also the window above his saloon that he'd been remiss in fixing. Then he headed to Edwards's Furniture store. All he could think about was Claire.
When he stopped to check on her this morning, she assured him that her shoulder was fine and that she would be ready for their lesson when he returned this afternoon. But it was frigid as hell outside. Her shoulder must be stiff and sore. It might be best not to push her recovery, but he felt an urgent need for her to know how to handle her gun. After last night, there was no doubt she was in danger.
Because the damned woman was foolishly stubborn, determined to do herself in over a hopeless cause.
He tripped on the threshold to the store and stumbled inside. Addison's showroom was empty, but the sound of angry voices caught his attention.
He peeked inside the large but unpretentious office where Addison stood by a mammoth oak desk. The man leaned on his walking stick, his white hair mussed, his face red with anger as he waved his hand at his grandson Matthew. "I don't give a damn what they're threatening. This is my store and I'll operate as I please."
"They will place their orders with our competitors if we continue to support these men," Matthew said.
"Then let them." Addison's wrinkled jaw clenched and he turned away. When he spied Boyd standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with sympathy.
"What's going on?" Boyd asked, sensing the argument had something to do with him.
"Nothing important." Addison flapped a hand as if dismissing the conversation. "You boys get to work."
With a sigh, Matthew followed Boyd to the shop at the back of the store.
"What's going on, Matthew?"
He stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets, his face grim. "The ladies are boycotting our store because of what happened at Mrs. Ashier's house last night."
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