Claire gripped his hand. "He knows about J-Jack."
"Shhh..." He brushed the tears off her lashes, feeling helpless and sick to his soul. He should have recognized Karlton's anger, his veiled threats, his hatred of Claire as something that would need to be ended. He should have been paying attention instead of drowning in self-pity.
He yelled to the group of patrons who were milling around the perimeter of the porch. "Someone get some blankets out here. And go see what's taking the doctor so damned long."
Anna and a man from the crowd ran to do his bidding. A few seconds later Anna brought two thick quilts. She and Boyd tucked them around Claire's shaking body, and Boyd winced each time she moaned in pain.
"The doc's coming up the street now," Pat said, rubbing Sailor's head.
"Jack would have sold Grandma's house," Claire said. "It was all I had." Tears flooded her eyes and she sobbed.
Boyd stroked her hair. "It's okay. Jack's not here. You're safe now. You'll be all right," he said, but she was beyond calming.
"No, I won't. I'm not all right." She shook her head. "I'm not...I'm not."
Tears streaked her temples, but Boyd let them fall. There wasn't a single thing he could do for her. And that was the worst feeling he'd ever experienced.
She sobbed and turned her face into the crook of his arm. The doctor climbed the steps and crossed to where they sat.
"What the devil are you doing, leaving this woman outside in the cold?" he demanded, scowling fiercely.
Boyd was as outraged as the doctor, but at his own lack of attention. If Claire hadn't fired her revolver, they might have been calling the coroner rather than the doctor.
"She was kicked in the ribs, Doctor. I was afraid to move her."
"Kicked?" The doctor glanced at Claire, then back at Boyd. "Kicked!"
Boyd nodded. Acknowledging the beastly act sent rage roaring through him again. He would kill Karlton.
He and Pat lifted the quilts and helped the doctor as best they could. Gently, the doctor ran his fingers over Claire's rib cage.
She moaned and flinched away.
"You'll have a nasty bruise, Mrs. Ashier," the doctor said, "but I'm fairly certain your thick coat saved you some broken ribs."
As soon as the doctor deemed it safe to move Claire into the house, Boyd and Pat helped her to her feet, feeling it would be less painful for her to walk than be carried. Anna followed them in and put the revolver on the desk in the foyer.
Claire refused to be put in bed, so the doctor allowed her to sit on the sofa in the parlor. While he finished examining her, Boyd and Pat made sure Anna hadn't been injured when Karlton shoved her down the steps. When she assured him she was fine, Boyd knelt beside Sailor. The dog's eyes and mouth were free of blood, and his breathing chugged like a well-fed steam engine.
Boyd rubbed Sailor's ears, feeling gratitude and love for his brave dog.
A horrendous uproar from his saloon brought Boyd to his feet. He and Pat raced for the door together.
"Stay with Claire," he told Pat, then bolted outside.
He saw Karlton leap down the saloon steps. Two men grabbed at him, but Karlton swung out his arm and hit one of the men in the head. He shot the second man.
Boyd stared in disbelief. A howl of outrage came from the men surging out the door of his saloon.
Karlton darted past Levi. The deputy and several other men pursued him, but Karlton was getting away. Boyd tackled him in the street, before he could take one step closer to Claire's boardinghouse.
But Karlton's desperation and bulk made pinning him impossible. The gun in his hand made him twice as dangerous. Boyd wrestled his arm around Karlton's neck, hoping to hold him long enough for Levi to cuff him.
"Look out!" someone shouted, just before Boyd felt the gun in Karlton's fist connect with his temple. Lights exploded inside his skull, and weakness stole over him. Karlton wrenched loose from Boyd's arms and ran toward Claire's porch.
"Get him," Boyd shouted, struggling to his knees. He couldn't let Karlton inside her house. If he got to Claire...
Shouts filled the street.
Boyd staggered to his feet.
Levi pointed his revolver at Karlton's back. "Stop, damn it, or I'll shoot you, Karlton!"
Karlton swung his arm and fired at Levi, then leapt toward the porch steps. Boyd's heart stampeded his chest, and he lurched forward on unsteady legs.
"Stay back," Duke called out, shoving Boyd back into the street as he sprinted past.
Boyd gripped his bleeding head and ordered his legs to move. The deep snow felt like thick mud sucking at his feet, making him stumble and go down on one knee.
Pat stepped outside Claire's boardinghouse and planted himself in front of the door. Karlton raised the revolver and pointed it at his chest.
"Look out!" Boyd yelled, but his warning was lost in the noise filling the street. Karlton was going shoot him. Boyd's best friend was going to die, and he couldn't make his damned legs move fast enough to save him.
The deadly blast of a revolver ripped through the night.
A collective grunt came from the shocked crowd, and Boyd's gut twisted.
"Pat!"
He surged forward, and stumbled onto Claire's porch.
Chapter Thirty-four
Numb, Boyd went back across the street to close down his saloon. He felt no rush of relief, no sorrow, no satisfaction—just hollow disbelief that Karlton was dead. Duke had shot him.
He'd had to, of course. Karlton would have pulled the trigger and killed Pat—and anyone else who'd gotten in his way. He'd set his course and gone too far to turn back. For Karlton, it seemed, there had been no choice but to play out his hand and hope to use Claire as a wild card.
Boyd hadn't known that desperate, deadly side of Karlton. His throbbing temple was proof of that. His head pounded and gut felt queasy. But Claire had to feel a hundred times worse.
After the ruckus from Karlton's charge, the bar seemed strangely quiet. Boyd climbed the steps to close it down for the night.
The instant he stepped inside, he slammed to a stop. The back bar shelf his father had built lay in broken pieces across the floor. Mugs were toppled, and shards of glass littered the room. Everett and Zach, two of his regulars, stood in the middle of the mess, their faces filled with anguish.
"Karlton did this while we was waitin' for the sheriff to come get him," Everett said. "He jumped the bar and wrenched the whole damn thing right off the wall. Then he grabbed a gun from behind the bar and shot Peter right in the damn chest."
So that's where Karlton got the gun. From Boyd's own bar. Not a word, not even a breath, escaped Boyd's throat as he stared at his father's destroyed masterpiece.
The men stood in the silence, seeing only a part of the destruction one man had caused that night.
Everett gave a helpless shrug. "We told everyone to leave, and that we'd wait for you to come back. We didn't know what else to do."
Boyd felt sick to his soul. "Thanks, boys. I'll take care of the mess."
"We can help you lay this stuff out on the floor. Maybe you can salvage it."
"No, it's too—you've done enough."
The men glanced at each other and hesitated. "We'll come by in the morning and give you a hand cleaning up."
"It'll be a few days before I can get to it," he said. He appreciated their offer, but he didn't want anybody touching his father's work.
"All right, then. You let us know."
Boyd nodded. After they left, he surveyed the damage. Broken glass was scattered over the stools and floor. Huge pieces of wood lay in broken sections over and around the bar. His heart cramped with pain. The back bar shelf had been his father's last project. It was his masterpiece. It was one of the treasures that marked his existence in this world—in Boyd's life.
Boyd moved forward, but the sound of his boots crunching through glass stopped him. He looked down, horrified that he was stepping on pieces of the back bar.
A two-foot section of mirror l
ay on the floor in front of him, broken in half. He knelt and lifted the pieces. His reflection flashed back at him, and he saw the broken man who had failed both his father and the woman who'd deserved more than any other to be cherished and protected. His hands shook as he struggled to fit the halves together. The glass edges grated and shifted and sliced his skin, but he fought to make them fit. They had to fit. He had to fix this.
The glass plates wobbled as he grew frantic in his effort. They clanked together and chipped, causing a jagged gap to open between them.
"Damn it!" He gripped the pieces with his bloody fingers. "I can't fix it. I can't fix this."
He hurled the pieces of mirror into the bar. They shattered with a violent crash that brought him to his feet, lusting for more.
He kicked over a stool, then swung his arm and slugged mugs off the bar. They flew in several directions and smashed on the floor. He overturned the billiard table, then kicked over the bucket of kindling beside his stove. His fists blasted the walls with shuddering force. He busted bar stools over the bar and kicked chunks of firewood across the floor.
"I can't fix it!" he shouted, his voice circling the room and returning to torment him.
He'd failed everyone. He couldn't fix his father's masterpiece. He couldn't fix Claire's injuries or the pain he brought her, any more than he could fix his father's shredded pride.
Tears flooded his eyes and burned down his cheeks. "I can't fix any of it," he whispered, his throat so clogged with remorse he couldn't breathe. He fell against the wall, his chest gripped by a relentless claw that crushed the air from his lungs.
"I can't fix this," he sobbed, "Oh, God...I'm sorry." He slid down the wall and crouched beside the piano, bleeding and weeping and wishing he could take back all the mistakes he'd made in his life.
o0o
The sound of a crash startled Claire. She'd been sitting on the sofa with Anna, trying to calm down after the deadly scene with Karlton. Sailor barked and raced to the foyer.
Anna followed him. The doctor was upstairs working on the two men Karlton had shot.
Claire clutched her sore ribs and stood. Her head grew light from the pain, but she hobbled to the foyer to look out the window. The saloon was dimly lit, but someone was definitely in there.
What if one of Karlton's friends was angry with Boyd for helping her? She looked at Anna. "Something bad is happening over there."
"Stay here," Anna said. "I'll get Pat." She hurried toward the kitchen where he was filling the stove.
Claire took her revolver off the desk then opened the door. The cold blast of air took her breath away, but it cleared her head and helped steady her as she stepped outside. All she could think about was someone driving their fist or foot into Boyd's body like Karlton had done to her. Boyd had no one to step in and help him.
Sailor sprinted across the street and bounded onto Boyd's porch. Gasping in pain, Claire hobbled behind him and climbed the steps.
She marshaled her strength and entered the saloon with her gun held directly in front of her. She would pull the trigger if necessary.
But as she surveyed the destruction, her breath rushed out and her arms fell to her sides. What on earth happened here? The sight sickened and terrified her. Who'd done this awful thing? And where was Boyd?
A hoarse sob from the corner of the room startled her. Sailor bolted forward with a yelp. Boyd was crouched against the wall, bleeding and sobbing.
She went to him. "Are you hurt?" she asked, lowering herself to her knees with a jerky, pain-filled movement.
He looked up, his eyes ravaged with tears and sorrow. "I can't fix this."
"Can't fix what?" she asked, her hard breathing wrenching her bruised ribs, the pain so sharp it made her nauseous.
"You. My father. My bar." Tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry, Claire. I should have protected you. I should have hugged my father. I didn't do either."
Pat rushed into the saloon, his stance indicating he was ready to take on an army of men. But when he saw Claire kneeling beside Boyd, he stopped and stared. "What the hell is going on?"
Boyd gawked at Claire as if just realizing she wasn't safe on her sofa where he left her, but was here kneeling in the debris on his saloon floor. He looked at Pat. "Why did you let her come here?"
"He didn't," she said in Pat's defense.
Boyd raised his bloody hand to stop her explanation. "Nevermind. I'm taking you back right now." He dragged his shirtsleeve across his eyes, then reached for her hand.
She drew away and spoke to Pat. "Will you please wait outside with Sailor?"
"The doctor said—"
"Please," she interrupted. "Give us a minute."
He nodded and took Sailor outside.
"Boyd, wait." She laid a hand on his arm to stop him from standing. She put the revolver on the floor and pointed it away from them. "What happened here?"
"It's not important. You need to be in bed."
"I feel better sitting on the floor. Really," she said. It wasn't an outright lie. She was in extreme discomfort, but nothing worse than she'd experienced at home on her sofa. She leaned her shoulders against the wall, fighting to disguise her pain and the raspy sound in her voice. "You can take me back as soon as you tell me what happened."
"I can pick you up and carry you home."
"Please don't. It would be painful to be manhandled again."
He sagged back against the wall and released a weary sigh. "This should have never happened. And it's my fault, Claire."
"You didn't beat me."
"I may as well have." Tears filled his eyes, but he seemed unaware of them. "I should have protected you. I'm so sorry I didn't." He slipped his blood-splattered fingers over her hand. "Karlton should never have been able to touch you."
"It isn't your job to protect me."
"The hell it isn't. It was my own damn bartender who was threatening you, and I didn't know until it was too late." He met her eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't get there before he attacked you."
"So am I," she said wryly.
He leaned his head against the wall, as if he were too weary to move.
"Boyd, why didn't you...hug your father?" she asked, sensing this was Boyd's cross, that this was what had taken him to his knees tonight.
"Because that would have given him permission to die." He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. "Let me take you home now."
"Please don't. I'm fine. Really." She squeezed his wrist to keep him still. "I can put the ice pack on my face when I get back. And my ribs are going to ache whether I'm sitting on my sofa or on your floor. Tell me about your father."
"Will you go home, then?"
"If you want me to."
He bent his knee and draped his elbow over it. "My father had a disease that crippled him. None of the doctors he saw were familiar with the disease, but it was something that attacked his muscles."
"I've never heard of such a thing."
"None of us had." He sighed and pushed his hair off his forehead, showing a smear of blood where Karlton had struck him with the gun. "What I didn't realize," he said, "was that while Dad was growing weaker, I was growing stronger. When I was fourteen, we were horsing around and I caused him to fall. He broke his hip. When he learned he'd never walk again, he said it was time for him to leave us. He asked me to give him a hug. In other words, he wanted my blessing to die." He sighed and stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. "I wouldn't hug him."
"Of course not. You were a boy who needed his father."
"My brothers hugged him. They understood what it would cost him to live. I thought he'd heal, that he'd learn to walk despite the doctor's diagnosis."
"Did he?" she asked, suspecting she knew the answer.
"He tried, but the disease wrung every bit of strength from his body, and every drop of pride from his soul. He got so weak we had to help him on and off the commode."
"How sad for all of you."
"The day before h
e died, I went to the bathroom to check on him, and he was sitting on the commode with tears running down his face. Paper was scattered over the floor near his feet, and I knew he'd been unable to take care of himself."
Claire's heart filled with sympathy for a man she didn't know, but somehow cared very deeply about.
"He said—" Boyd's voice cracked and his lips pursed as if he were holding back a sob. He inhaled and continued, but his voice came out in a pain-filled whisper. "He said, when a man can't wipe his own ass, it's time to die."
Her eyes watered with sympathy. "That poor man."
"I couldn't help him, Claire. I walked out of the house and didn't come home until the next morning." Tears slipped down his face, but she couldn't think of a single word that would offer him comfort. In the awkward silence Boyd grew eerily calm. "He was dead when I got back."
A wave of sorrow filled her throat and choked off any words of comfort she might have offered.
"Mom said he understood why I wasn't there, but how could he? A son is supposed to be at his father's side at a time like that."
The self-condemnation in his voice broke her heart. He was falling apart, and she had no idea how to help him. She wanted to put her arms around him, to assure him he was a decent, honorable man, but that wouldn't be enough. Because nothing right now would be enough.
"Surely your father understood you were scared?"
"I was his son. I should have been there."
They sat in silence, Claire feeling a fierce need to relieve the pain in Boyd's eyes. But words were inadequate.
He reached out and picked up a piece of broken mirror. "It took me and my Dad two days to piece these sections of mirror into that shelf that used to hang behind my bar."
She saw the gaping, empty space on the wall and the twisted pieces of wood lying across the bar. "What happened here?"
He shook his head, as if he couldn't bring himself to say. "It took us half a year to build it, and one long, sweaty day to hang it." His lips tilted to one side. "He bought me my first ale that day, and we sat right over there at the end of the bar." He pointed to the place where she'd seen him sitting the night she brought Sailor back and had her first nasty confrontation with Karlton. "That afternoon, I promised myself I would someday own this place and the back bar we worked so hard on."
Lips That Touch Mine Page 30
