My Heart's Desire

by Wendy Lindstrom

He lifted his wrist to Faith’s waiting hand. “All right, Mrs. Wilkins, work your magic.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “My friend said the doctor’s treatment was excruciatingly painful.”

  “But it worked?”

  She nodded. “It can take months, though.”

  “Then we’d better get started.”

  Faith had half-hoped the sheriff would take his questions and suspicions and his too-male self and leave her greenhouse. He’d been imposing with his shirt on, but when he’d exposed his broad, muscled torso, her stomach had done a crazy flip that made her regret her challenging him.

  Her breathing was still so shallow she felt lightheaded. But now that she had an opportunity to win the sheriff’s support, she couldn’t back down. She had to show some of the same starch and wit her aunts displayed. Dahlia had been brilliant to say they were here to serve the ladies in town. That was a perfectly reputable way to earn an income. The ladies would receive great pleasure from spending their husbands’ money, and as long as Faith could tolerate treating the sheriff’s shoulder, she would eventually get his muscles stretched and his shoulder healed. Then he would have to give them his public approval.

  “Have you changed your mind about treating me?” he asked.

  “I was giving you a chance to run.”

  “And miss out on such excruciating... pleasure?”

  Her puff of laughter surprised her as much as his humor had. “I’m amazed, Sheriff. You’re capable of making a joke.”

  “And you’re capable of laughing.” His lips lifted in a half-smile. “You have a nice laugh, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  “And you have a pleasing sense of humor,” she replied, but her bravado failed her and she lowered her lashes. Her aunts would have made the statement while looking him in the eye, but he was too handsome, and too overwhelming up close, and she was unskilled at flirting.

  She slipped her fingers around his manly wrist and felt his hard pulse and warm skin beneath her fingertips. When he turned his palm up and clasped her hand, she flinched then flushed because she was acting like a skittish, naive girl.

  “We’ve started off on the wrong foot, Mrs. Wilkins. Maybe we can start over?”

  “I don’t intend to make this more painful just because you judged me unfairly”

  His laugh echoed in the stone room. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, his eyes filled with warmth. “Just don’t forget I’m the one with the badge and the gun.”

  Lo! The man had been handsome when scowling, but when he laughed, he was spectacular. Full, smiling lips set perfectly in his strong, sturdy face, and his warm, sparkling eyes looked at her in a way that made her stomach twirl.

  “I was joking.” He winked, and her heart kicked so hard she feared he could hear it thump against her chest. “How about starting over. Can we do that?”

  She’d rather run for the hills before he broke her heart. No woman could look in this man’s eyes and not fall in love. To save herself, she swung her attention to his shoulder. “If you’ll put aside your suspicions and judge me by my actions.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Then brace yourself, Sheriff, because you’re not going to like what I’m going to do to you.”

  His scowl and grunts conveyed his pain. Sweat beaded his forehead as she bent his arm at the elbow and rotated his forearm away from his body. After stretching the deltoid and triceps muscles, she straightened his arm and slowly pushed upward, forcing his tight, unwilling muscles to stretch or tear—whatever it took to free the arm. “You’ll need to do this twice a day,” she said, holding his arm in a forced stretch. “And you need to force it a little further each time you do it.”

  “I’d rather shoot myself,” he said, his teeth clamped, his jaw muscles bulging.

  “Only a minute more.” She held his arm steady then lowered it a half inch at a time, pausing each time he puffed out a pain-filled breath.

  “Gads! It’s just as bad bringing my arm back down.”

  “That’s because your muscles are contracting after a hard stretch.”

  “I’m tempted to yield to Dr. Milton’s advice.”

  “You’re free to do as you wish, but that’s what got you into this situation.” She lowered his arm to rest on the table beside him. “If I were you, I’d arrest him for giving bad advice that’s causing you pain and suffering.”

  He rubbed his injured shoulder. “I certainly have grounds to press charges.”

  “Sit up and let me rub some balm into your shoulder.”

  He swung his long legs over the edge of the table and hung his head as if he’d just engaged in an exhausting battle. “I’ll never be able to stretch like this on my own.”

  “You’ll have to. Coming here once a day won’t be enough.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re going to be seeing me twice a day, Mrs. Wilkins, because I need this shoulder fixed.”

  She suspected he simply wanted to do more snooping, but she kept her thoughts to herself and smoothed the balm over his shoulder. She massaged gently, wanting to relax his muscles and ease the tension in his neck and shoulders.

  “I can’t believe those are the same hands that were torturing me only a moment ago,” he said.

  She smiled and worked the pads of her thumbs into his sore muscles. ‘Let that be a warning not to cross me.”

  He laughed, the sound warm and inviting.

  “You’ve successfully survived your first treatment, Sheriff,” she said.

  He stood and tugged the linen from his waist and tossed it on the table. Gingerly, he pulled his shirt on. “What time would you like me to come by this evening? I can’t stretch without your help,” he reminded her.

  She picked up the towel and scrubbed the balm and oils off her hands. “Nine o’clock would be best for me, if it’s not too late for you. I like to put Cora to bed myself, and I’d rather do this when she’s not here.”

  “I have plenty of chores to keep me busy until then, so nine o’clock is fine—unless I’m needed somewhere. A sheriff is never officially unavailable. If I’m not here by quarter after, I won’t be stopping in.”

  “All right.” She fiddled with the linen to divert her eyes while he buttoned his shirt. The sight of him should not leave her as breathless as an innocent girl; she wasn’t an innocent. She and Iris had given massages at her mother’s brothel. Faith had quickly culled out the nasty, groping men, and gained a small group of regular and somewhat respectful customers. That’s how she’d met Jarvis Powell, and though he’d paid her a small fortune for her massages, he’d left her soul impoverished.

  Still, Faith hadn’t worked as a prostitute. Not ever. She’d lived out back in a one-room, one-bed shack with Adam and Cora. Faith’s mother had lived there, too, but spent most of her time sleeping, or in the brothel earning money. And except for buying books and plants, Faith had saved every dime she earned giving massages, vowing to help her mother escape the wretched place and buy their dream house with a porch and a rose garden.

  But her mother’s death had left Faith to pursue that dream alone. Now it seemed the only way she could give Adam and Cora a comfortable home was to use the skills she learned at the brothel. So here she was, this time treating women—and one man—who would appreciate her skill, but not understand the value of it.

  She could accept that, if she had to. What she couldn’t accept was her natural but foolish attraction to the sheriff. He was too smart, too curious about her business and her past. A man like him would dig until he got to the truth. And when he found it, she was afraid he would evict her and her family from his town faster than she could open her mouth to beg for mercy.

  Chapter Eight

  “Why are we going to church?” Cora asked, as Faith stopped in the sun-washed Common.

  Adam flicked his fingers across the top of her head. “Because we want people to like us.”

  Faith exchanged a glance with her aunts, who had altered their old dresses to appear respectful enough for churc
h. They had even donned bonnets, but their usually vivacious faces were pinched with discomfort. Faith suspected it had been years since any of them set foot in a church. She had been herself once, and it was the scariest moment of her life. But this was a new town and a new life, and they would worship on Sunday and build a warm community of friends.

  It seemed as if every person in Fredonia was gathered in town this morning. The streets surrounding the Common were lined with carriages and nickering horses. Large families gathered and greeted friends as each made their way inside one of the three churches near the twin parks. Faith eyed the brick buildings with their arched windows and tall spires, and had no idea which church to enter.

  “Look, Mama!” Cora pointed. “There’s the sheriff!”

  There he was indeed, his tall, broad-shouldered body clothed in a well-cut black suit that enhanced his dark good looks.

  Last night he hadn’t shown up for his shoulder treatment. Faith didn’t know if his job had called him away, or if he’d changed his mind about having her restore his shoulder. Whatever his reason for not visiting, she didn’t want to discover the answer in front of his family or his admiring lady friends.

  Several young women were twirling their parasols, vying for his attention, but he only nodded pleasantly and strode toward the church. How could he be so unaffected by those pretty women? Even from where she was standing, Faith could see that some of them were lovely. Was the man so focused on his job he was immune to a woman’s charms?

  “It could benefit us to go to the same church the Grayson family attends,” Iris said, her cheeks flushed from all the stares she was receiving. Tansy, Aster, and Dahlia nodded in agreement.

  They were right, but Faith waited for the sheriff to enter the church before she led them across the Common and followed him inside.

  After being in the bright morning sunshine, she found the interior of the church quite dim. The building smelled of musty books and beeswax and a cloying mix of colognes. Why worship in a dark building when God had given them this beautiful morning to enjoy? Why not stand in the fresh air beneath the maple trees in the Common to sing praises?

  Faith stood at the back of the church, scanning the full pews, wondering where they would sit. Would they be asked to leave if there wasn’t room for them?

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  The sheriff’s voice startled her, and she glanced up into his warm brown eyes. A flock of flutter-birds took flight inside her stomach. Her mother had told her when she was a small child that her stomach was a world of its own, complete with sky and sea and tiny flutter-birds that were upset by any nervous shift in the wind; and Faith had believed it for the longest time. Even now she couldn’t shake the appropriate image of birds beating their wings in her stomach, because that was exactly how it felt.

  “Good morning, Sheriff Grayson!” Cora said brightly.

  Faith laid her fingers over the child’s mouth. “Hush, sweetie.”

  “Good morning,” he whispered then reached up and pulled the cap off Adam’s head, revealing Adam’s new haircut. “No hats in church,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, I…I forgot,” Adam said quietly, then tucked his brown cap under his arm.

  The sheriff looked less threatening without his gun, but he was too handsome and far more dangerous to her heart in his suit and tie. He gestured with his chin. “My mother is making room in her pew for you ladies.”

  Faith looked over a sea of people to where Nancy Grayson waved her glove-encased hand at them. The sheriff escorted them to her pew, but didn’t sit with them. He guided Adam to the back of the church to stand with a large group of men, three of whom shared a remarkable resemblance to the sheriff.

  “Those are my sons,” Nancy whispered, stepping aside so Faith could enter the pew.

  Faith lifted Cora onto her hip then stepped in behind Iris. As she sat, she nodded to Evelyn and Claire and another woman about their age with hair the color of a burnished chestnut.

  “That’s my daughter-in-law Amelia,” Nancy whispered, settling beside Faith. “She married my son Kyle, who’s in back with Duke.”

  Faith glanced back at the sheriff and the men standing beside him. There was no doubt those four tall, handsome men were brothers. She turned to greet Amelia, and received a warm smile in return. Amelia was as pretty as Evelyn and Claire, but the three women were as different in looks as each season. Amelia was autumn at its peak color, with her brown eyes and gorgeous hair of reds, golds, and browns. Evelyn’s sable hair was black as a winter night, and her gemstone eyes sparkled like holiday ornaments. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Claire reminded Faith of a summer field of wheat under an endless blue sky.

  Nancy Grayson was no season at all. She was mother earth, and this family drew their sustenance from her.

  “This is my granddaughter Rebecca.” Nancy slipped her arm around a cute, dark-haired girl about Adam’s age. “She’s Radford and Evelyn’s oldest.”

  The girl nodded politely, but a blast from a pipe organ buried her soft greeting. The sound filled the church and vibrated in Faith’s chest. The congregation surged to its feet en masse. Faith and her aunts hurried to follow suit.

  Cora put her hands over her ears. “What’s that noise?”

  Faith lifted the child onto her hip. “It’s an organ,” she whispered quickly, hoping no one realized Cora didn’t recognize the sound. Faith had only heard it once herself, but she would never forget that powerful blast that had swept the breath from her.

  Six weeks ago on a chilly Sunday morning Judge Stone had shown up at the brothel and demanded the deed to the property. Her mother had argued fiercely. It was all they had. They wanted to sell the building and start a new and better life elsewhere. But Stone wouldn’t give up. When he got rough, Faith’s mother tried to push past him and had caused her own fall over the second floor railing. Stone had walked out, leaving them to get a doctor, but they hadn’t known any doctors. So Faith and Dahlia had rushed into a church several blocks away, their cries for help buried in the blast of the church organ and impassioned singing. When the song ended and their pleas could be heard, a kind doctor in the congregation had gone to the brothel with them, but the fall had injured her mother’s head too severely. She died twelve hours later.

  Faith had known few acts of kindness from strangers, and she would forever remember the bespectacled doctor and his sincere sorrow that he couldn’t save her mother.

  Thinking back, she’d assumed she would now hate the sound of the organ, but the vibrating pipes filled the church with such majesty, her lips parted on a sigh. Awestruck, Faith listened, captivated by the impassioned people around her lifting and blending their voices in song. The glorious music flooded her with a sense of rightness. They would come to church on Sunday mornings just like the other respectable residents of Fredonia. And someday, she might even have a husband who would love her, who would stand at the back of the church with their sons, waiting to escort her to their safe, love-filled home.

  When the song ended, Faith sat in the pew with Cora on her lap, vowing she wouldn’t be weak like her mother, a woman condemned for her tawdry profession. Her mother had provided food and a dry place to sleep for Faith and the children, but precious little of her time. She’d dreamed of a better life, of marrying a man she loved, of giving her children a real home, but she’d spent thirty years as a prostitute and died in her brothel.

  The sad truth was that Faith’s mother could have moved to a new town and kept her past a secret like Faith was doing. Men would have lined up to propose marriage to the unequaled beauty. But Rose had lacked the courage, or the desire, to change her life. And that’s why Faith hated her.

  But she loved her for so many other reasons, it wrung her heart.

  That conflict gnawed at Faith’s conscience each day of her life, feeding her anger, increasing her guilt. Some days she wanted to forget everything—the brothel, Jarvis, even her mother. Other days she ached for one of her mother’s hard, apologetic hugs
.

  Cora’s breathing slowed, and Faith held her close as the little girl fell asleep. They would build a good life here, she vowed. They would plant their dreams in this rich farming soil of upstate New York and nourish them with firm conviction, courage, and love. Here, in the ashes of her mother’s life, she would plant her dreams and they would bloom like fireweed.

  Certainty swept through her, and the church no longer felt dim and airless. The space felt sacred, the pastor’s words inspiring and uplifting. Faith listened with her eyes closed and her heart open, drinking in the nourishing words she’d been so long denied.

  When the service ended, her heart overflowed with hope as she followed the Graysons outside into the bright June sunshine. She wanted to linger in the Common, to deepen her acquaintance with the people who would become part of her garden, but an outraged shout from across the park drew everyone’s attention toward Main Street.

  “That man’s stealing my horse!”

  Before Faith could understand what was happening, Sheriff Grayson sprinted past her, jaw set, suit coat flapping as he raced across the small park, followed by his brothers and several other men.

  The accused man leapt onto the horse and dug his spurred heels into its flanks. A collective gasp burst from the crowd as he wheeled the horse toward the sheriff and tried to run him down. Instead, the sheriff side-stepped the mare, reached up with one hand, and hauled the rider off the horse. The man hit the ground hard and rolled away from the rearing animal.

  Faith held her breath, fearing those sharp hooves would crash down on the thief, or worse yet, slash the sheriff’s head and shoulders. But one of the sheriff’s brothers caught the reins and led the frightened horse away from the tussle.

  As the man on the ground pushed to his knees, the sheriff planted his boot against the seat of thief’s pants and shoved him face down on the grass. Before the man could push himself to his elbows, Sheriff Grayson pinned him to the ground with a knee to his back.

  “Stay put, Covey.” The man called Covey struggled and cursed, but the sheriff braced one hand on the back of Covey’s head, pressing his face into the spring grass. “You’re under arrest,” he said.