Lips That Touch Mine Read Free Page A

she was grieving Jack. She was relieved to be rid
of him.
    She wouldn't have wished him dead, but she
was glad to be free of him, to have a chance to build a safe and
decent life for herself. That's why she had allowed her neighbors
to think she'd been widowed for over a year, as uncomfortable as
she was with yet another lie. But it would have been unseemly for a
widow to bury her husband and open a boardinghouse eight weeks
later. She would tell Lida the truth, of course, that Jack had
drowned two months ago. But she would never tell anyone what had
happened that dreadful night.
    What a tangled mess of lies and broken dreams
she'd wrought.
    She placed Lida's letter in the drawer beside
a small velvet bag—the only security she had left. She shook the
contents onto the white lawn dresser scarf. The diminishing
thickness of the pile sent a wave of panic through her. She should
have had fifty dollars left. She
would
have had fifty
dollars if she'd been able to keep her boardinghouse filled each
night.
    That scoundrel saloon owner was ruining her
life.
    She clenched her fist around her last
nineteen dollars. She would not be forced into depending on a man
again. Somehow she was going to shut down that wretched saloon.
     
     

Chapter Two
    What a surprise
the widow Claire Ashier had turned out to be. When Boyd had seen
her standing on the porch last night, he'd never expected to find
himself staring into the face of an angel with angry, starlit
eyes.
    He was certain she hadn't intentionally
pulled the trigger on her revolver, but her daring in standing up
to him and his patrons, and her ability to trap him into a church
date, had thoroughly impressed him. Claire Ashier had an edge to
her that warned people to stand aside. Damned if that didn't draw
him like a dog to a bone. He loved a good challenge.
    Whistling, he tucked a small wood carving in
his pocket and left his saloon. He strode across Main Street to
Claire's house, then took the steps of her front porch in a single
leap.
    Time to see what the lady was made of.
    It took well over a minute for her to open
the door, but only seconds for her disdainful expression to be
replaced with surprise. A spark of appreciation filled her eyes as
she surveyed his black wool suit and the Kersey overcoat he'd left
open. Boyd stepped into her foyer, pleased with himself. He'd
gotten her attention.
    A brightly burning lantern lit the hall and
spilled into the surrounding rooms. A glance told him Claire hadn't
changed anything in the beautiful house. The east and west parlors
were still decorated in busy gold and burgundy wallpaper. Heavy
draperies dressed tall windows, and chandeliers hung from high,
tin-plated ceilings. The music room was also the same elegant decor
of patterned carpets and rich, glowing woodwork in which her
grandmother had taken such pride. More sheet music rested on the
piano. He couldn't see the kitchen or pantry at the back of the
house, nor the formal dining room from where he stood, but he
suspected they were unchanged as well.
    He had carted wood for Claire's grandmother
so often during the past two years, and eaten Marie's baked goods
at her kitchen table, that the place felt like home to him. He was
glad Claire hadn't changed anything.
    She reached for the closet door, but Boyd
slipped his hand over hers, trapping it between the doorknob and
his palm. She jerked her gaze to his, the message in her eyes
deadly.
    "I have something I want to give you before
we leave." He released her hand and put his closed fists behind his
back. "Choose a hand."
    Her brow furrowed. "What?"
    "It's a game, Mrs. Ashier. Don't tell me
you've never played before."
    "I don't play games." She turned back to the
closet, but he raised one fist and held it a few inches from her
haughty nose.
    "I'll give you a hint. It's not in my left
hand."
    The slight twitch of her lips flooded him
with satisfaction. She ignored him and retrieved an indigo blue
wool coat from the closet. "I don't like