"I couldn't find any wildflowers in my back yard, so I brought you this bouquet." He shrugged. "It was the best I could do in the middle of winter."
She lifted the carving closer to her eyes and let out a small gasp. "Where did you get this?"
"I made it."
"You did not."
"I did."
Wordlessly, she studied the tiny, intricately carved bouquet of roses that he'd dabbled with for the last few months, hoping to find the talent and desire to finish the statue he'd started seven years earlier. All he'd ended with was something he planned to feed to the stove.
"This is incredible." She met his gaze, her own unguarded for the first time. "Did you really carve this?"
"Yes. And it's really for you."
She studied it a moment longer then held the carving out to him. "I don't accept gifts from men. They always come attached with an obligation to return something."
"Do you accept apologies?"
"Of course."
"Then this is my apology, in material form, for disturbing you last night."
"I'm not looking for an apology, Mr. Grayson." She held out the carving as if to return it. "I want peace and quiet."
"Keep it," he urged.
She glanced at the carving, then back at him. "I can't accept it."
"It's nothing but a piece of wood, Mrs. Ashier." "It's a gift."
"Well, I'm not going to cart it to church tonight."
He took the carving from her and gestured toward the parlor. "Mind if I toss it in the fireplace?"
Her eyes widened. "You're going to burn it?"
"What else would I do with a bouquet of wooden roses?"
"Give it to your mother."
"Believe me, she doesn't need another carved piece of wood from me."
"Well, your shoes are wet with snow. Leave the carving on the cabinet, and I'll toss it out when I return from church."
"It'll only take a moment to remove my shoes—"
"I'll dispose of it later."
The crack in her voice surprised both of them. They stared at each other for several seconds before he smiled and placed the carving on the cherrywood silver chest that he'd always admired. "I'd appreciate that, Claire."
"It's Mrs. Ashier, and we're going to be late for church if we don't leave promptly."
Claire sat in an overfull pew at the Baptist church where that impudent saloon owner had deposited her before heading toward the back of the church. He'd whispered that he didn't want to start gossip by sitting with her, but the way he'd touched his lips to her ear as he whispered the warning was far more damaging. Already people were peeping at her, then shifting their gaze to the back of the church, presumably to see if Mr. Grayson would nod and acknowledge their suspicions.
Well, he was here, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
She turned her attention to the pulpit where Dr. Lewis was telling about his heartbreaking childhood filled with abuse from an alcoholic father. Though he told his story to motivate others to abstain from the life-destroying vice, there wasn't an ounce of self-pity in the man. He was a strong and spiritual speaker whose words immediately began working magic on Claire and the people around her.
"There is a frightening change taking place in the converted christian," Dr. Lewis said, his voice booming from the pulpit. "It is the shameful lack of temperance. Not only in bodily habits, but in intellectual, social, moral, and religious practices as well. Tonight I want to address one specific vice, the worst case of intemperance we know, namely the use of alcohol."
Amen. Feeling immensely proud of herself for summoning Dr. Lewis to their rum-soaked town, Claire glanced across the sea of inspired faces. Expressions of hope filled her vision, and her heart lifted. She had supporters here.
"Ninety-nine-percent of all the crime and poverty in this country can be traced to the same cause. Alcohol," Dr. Lewis continued. "Now, who is to blame for this?" He stared at the congregation as if they should know the answer, but not one person said a word. "The responsibility, my friends, belongs to those individuals of respectable position who indulge in drink. These people who set examples for the rest of us should be kicked out of respectable society, especially owners of the establishments that serve it. Encouragement of such a vice is as bad as self-indulgence."
"Do you honestly believe that?"
Amid shocked gasps, everyone turned to see who had spoken.
Boyd Grayson stood in the back corner of the church with his hat clasped in front of him, his dark hair glistening with melted snowflakes. He met Claire's shocked stare with a challenge in his eyes, demanding her attention even while her brain cautioned her to turn away. Last night the darkness had shadowed his face, but earlier this evening the light in her foyer had revealed gorgeous honey-brown eyes surrounded by dark lashes and a manly face that every woman dreamed of.
But not her. She had married a handsome man like Boyd, and her dream man had become a cruel alcoholic. She was through dreaming.
The crowd murmured and whispered. Dr. Lewis folded his hands and addressed Boyd. "I speak only what I believe is true, Mister...?"
"Grayson," Boyd answered, seemingly undaunted at being the center of attention. "No disrespect intended, Dr. Lewis, but you and I both know the expression: You can lead a horse to water, but you can't force him to drink."
Dr. Lewis nodded, waiting for Boyd to expound. Claire secretly cursed Boyd for undermining her effort to improve the lives of people who desperately needed temperance from the vices that were tearing apart their families. She wanted to race to the back of the church and clamp her hand over his mouth.
"I'm asking how you can hold anyone but the imbiber himself accountable for consuming alcohol?" Boyd asked.
"I can answer best by posing a question. If a parent left a loaded gun and a four-year-old child unattended in the same room, would you not hold that parent responsible for an accident resulting from his negligence?"
"Of course, but we're talking about adults who knowingly consume alcoholic beverages of their own free will, not about unsuspecting children and loaded guns."
"Is that so?" Dr. Lewis turned to the congregation. "I ask you, who is most affected by alcoholism?" Silence greeted him and he shook his head with a sigh. "Our children suffer the most hardship. Drunken parents berate and beat their children. The money that should be used to clothe and feed them is spent at the saloons. I know because I experienced this firsthand. I agree that the imbiber is responsible for his own actions, Mr. Grayson, but every person who encourages him is as much at fault."
Boyd listened to Dr. Lewis in respectful silence, but Claire could tell he wasn't the least bit ashamed of owning a saloon. In his mind, the responsibility lay with the individual who chose to drink. She didn't disagree, but she also knew that many men wouldn't be tempted to imbibe if the saloons were closed. Whether Mr. Grayson wanted to accept it or not, he was part of the problem plaguing their town and ruining her business.
"What can we do to correct the problem?" one woman asked.
Dr. Lewis told them how other women had formed prayer bands and conducted nonviolent marches on the rum holes, shutting them down and taking pledges from the patrons to abstain from drinking. "I've seen it done in Dixon, Illinois, and Battle Creek, Michigan," he said. "You can do the same thing right here in Fredonia. All you need to do is organize a campaign."
Dr. Lewis looked straight at Claire. "Mrs. Ashier was courageous enough to request my help in stomping out intemperance. I ask you, the christian people of this town, to stand with her and do the same."
In the sudden silence, Claire waited for satisfaction to flood her. Boyd Grayson now knew she'd trapped him into coming here tonight, that she'd summoned Dr. Lewis to help her put him out of business. But all she felt was her heart thudding like a sledgehammer against her chest. What if Boyd Grayson was as vindictive and vengeful as her husband had been?
"I'll stand with her." A rumble of excitement passed through the crowd as a woman
stood up. "I'm Mrs. Reverend Beaton, and I would be honored to chair a committee," she said. To Claire's relief, a Mrs. Williams stood and pledged her support as well. Then Mrs. Dr. Fuller, and Mrs. Desmona Edwards followed suit. Before Claire's heartbeat calmed, nearly every woman in the church stood and volunteered her service.
Knowing it was time for courage, Claire rose to her feet, her back rigid, her chin high, her gaze fixed on Dr. Lewis so she wouldn't be tempted to glance at Boyd to gauge his reaction. "Let us take action," she said, "while our spirit of purpose is high and our mission clear."
To her surprise, enthusiastic applause greeted her. When the church finally quieted, Mrs. Beaton gave Claire a nod of acceptance and suggested that they hold a meeting at the church the following morning at ten o'clock.
"I'll help you start your meeting," Dr. Lewis said, "but then I must leave for Jamestown to continue our efforts. We're going to take our cause clear across the country!"
The buzz of excited voices again filled the church, and Claire finally dared to glance at Boyd. She expected him to taunt her in some way, but seeming admiration lit his eyes—and something more personal and much too intimate for her comfort.
Suddenly, she regretted asking him to escort her to church, because now he was going to walk her home.
Chapter Three
"You may as well say it, Mr. Grayson."
Boyd angled his head to see Claire's face as they crossed Barker Common and began walking up the section of Main Street they referred to as West Hill. Despite her ramrod posture and taller than average height, Claire was still four or five inches shorter than himself and he enjoyed having the advantage, however slight. "Say what?" he asked.
"That we're doomed to fail. That's what you were thinking."
"Are you a mind reader?"
"Your expression was speaking for you."
"If that's the case, Claire, I'm afraid I've offended your sense of decency a number of times since meeting you last night."
"And you have just done so again by using my given name without invitation."
He laughed. "Spoken with the honesty of a child."
"Don't mistake me for one, Mr. Grayson."
She stopped and met his eyes with a boldness he'd rarely seen from a woman. Her cheekbones were flushed with cold, her eyes sparked like blue fire in the glow of the gas streetlamp. The hood she wore framed the most interesting face he'd ever seen, and he felt a deep urge to tilt her chin toward the light.
Suddenly, her eyes narrowed. "You can forget whatever you're trying to suggest with that lazy look in your eyes. I'm not interested."
He arched his brow. "What do you think I'm suggesting?"
"That you're used to getting what you want."
"And you perceive that as a threat?"
"No, only an irritation I won't put up with."
The defiant tilt of her chin afforded him the view he'd been craving, but he could only smile at her. He hadn't enjoyed conversing with a woman this much in all the years he'd been involved with them. And he'd had more brief involvements than he cared to remember. "Tell me, Mrs. Ashier; is it me you despise or is it men in general?"
"I despise being manipulated and considered a fool. Whether you're willing to admit it or not, you were trying to hold my gaze long enough to form an intimate connection. I was merely forthright enough to express my lack of interest."
"Some men might misinterpret your comment as an invitation."
"Then they would be thinking with their ego."
A delighted laugh burst from him. "Touché. So, how does a man redeem himself from such a misstep?"
Her lips twitched and he knew she wasn't without a sense of humor. "The man could close his saloon and stop testing the lady's patience."
"Is that all?"
"That's all."
He offered his elbow to her, but she declined his assistance. They continued to walk up the incline of West Hill. "Just close his profitable business and do...what?" he asked.
"Help the lady close the rest of the town's saloons."
Laughter rose in his chest, but he held it back. "What if the man doesn't want to do that?"
"Then he'd be well advised to stay out of the lady's way."
He glanced down, expecting to see humor in her eyes, but they were filled with determination and warning.
"Women aren't wrong to want their husbands home at a decent hour with some money still in their pockets," she said, her voice quiet but firm with conviction. "We aren't wrong to want to feel safe in our own homes."
"Have I suggested something to the contrary?" It offended him that she assumed he wasn't aware of, or didn't care about, the families tormented by an alcoholic family member. The mere rumor of a patron abusing his family was enough for Boyd to prohibit the man from patronizing his saloon.
"I didn't intend to offend your character, Mr. Grayson. I'm merely stating my reasons for uniting the women against you and the other saloon owners."
"You're claiming to do it for the greater good of society, but I sense there's a more personal reason involved."
"Fighting for something you believe in is always personal." She climbed her porch steps, stopped at the door and faced him. "Thank you for the escort."
"Does this mean you're not going to invite me in for tea?" He offered his most charming smile. "Your grandmother always did."
Her mouth pursed in irritation. "There will be several of us visiting your saloon soon. Consider yourself fairly notified. "
That was supposed to worry him? He grinned as Claire entered her house and closed the door in his face. He couldn't help himself. The idea of a few women thinking they could change the habits of an entire town was ridiculous. It would be like a colony of ants attempting to move a mountain.
o0o
At ten o'clock Monday morning three hundred men and women of all religious denominations gathered in the baptist church where they prayed, sang, and gave enthusiastic speeches on how to conquer the evils of intemperance. It was the first bright sunny day in weeks, and with high spirits, the ladies withdrew to the rooms below to plan the details of their march, while the men continued in prayer and pledged their support in dollars. Temperance meetings were arranged for every Sunday night and prayer meetings every night until their work was accomplished.
At precisely half past twelve, the procession of over one hundred ladies came forth from the basement and quietly walked across the park, with Mrs. Judge Barker and Mrs. Rev. L. Williams at the head.
Claire walked alongside Desmona Edwards and other wives and daughters of the most respected men in town, feeling a deep sense of pride in her mission. If her actions could save one woman, child, or family from suffering the hell she'd endured with Jack, then her efforts would be worthwhile.
And if she could close down that den of noise across the street from her home, life would be almost perfect.
Just the thought of a quiet evening made her sigh. Her breath formed a long, frosty funnel in the cold air as she closed her fingers around the miniature carving she'd been unable to throwaway last night. After the conversation she'd had with Boyd Grayson during their walk home, she had been determined to rid herself of his company and the gift he'd forced on her. But the tiny carving of roses was too magnificent to destroy. Each rose, in varying stages of bloom, was so perfectly sculpted that she could almost smell their fragrance. It intrigued her that the reprobate could have whittled something so exquisite.
The man intrigued her, too.
Boyd Grayson seemed every bit the charmer and hell raiser she disdained, but what she couldn't see clearly was the shadow he carried with him. There was another man standing behind his dashing personality, and she suspected he was totally unaware of it.
"All right, ladies." Mrs. Barker clapped her hands. "It's time to begin our work." She led the procession of women down the steps of the Taylor House and into the saloon. They filled the bar, surprising the three Taylor brothers, who knew that no self-respecting woman would enter such
an establishment. Mrs. Barker immediately informed the men of the object of their visit, appealing to them personally to cease the sale of intoxicating liquors.
Mr. Taylor cast a helpless glance at his brothers. "We feel obliged to keep liquor in our hotel for our guests."
"We didn't come to argue, gentlemen. We're simply here to urge you by the promise of God to heed our pledge."
After more praying and gentle persuading, Mr. Taylor finally said, "If the rest will stop selling alcohol, we'll stop, too."
Claire stood with her mouth open, as stunned as the rest of the ladies. None of them had expected such easy capitulation.
"That includes the drug stores," Mr. Taylor said, breaking their stunned silence. "When every establishment selling intoxicating beverages ceases distribution, I'll stop selling it as well."
His maneuvering wasn't what they had hoped for, but it was a beginning. Mrs. Barker asked him to reconsider the matter and said they would call on him again the next day.
They called at Smeizer & Hewes next, but Mr. Hewes stated he had a license and would continue to sell according to its provisions. Next door, Willard Lewis said he would close his saloon if the rest would shut up their businesses as well. The ladies also visited J. D. Maynard's Drug Store. He argued that he couldn't run his shop without selling liquor, but promised not to sell to any drunkards. The ladies then walked to Baldwin's Drug Store, the Harrison Hotel, Duane Beebe's Saloon, Don Clark's Drug Store, and Wriensler's Saloon where they received similar replies.
Finally, they marched up West Hill to the Pemberton Inn. Claire sensed this would be the biggest challenge, and her own personal battle, but she was determined to win. Straightening her shoulders, she entered the saloon—and came face-to-face with Boyd Grayson.
He stood behind the bar, hip cocked, a crisp white towel slung over his arrogant shoulder as he filled a mug with ale.
He turned and smiled, saluting Claire and her fellow marchers with the foaming mug.
She tightened her stomach to stop the flutter. Why in God's name did she have to be battling the most handsome rakehell in town?
The Longing Page 28
