Good Guy Heroes Boxed Set

by Julie Ortolon

  “Sir, my sister is… she’ll… I’d rather go to jail than tell her what I did.”

  That was the point in taking the boy home with the stolen item. Shame would be more effective than fear to keep him from repeating the act.

  “What’s your name?” Duke asked, keeping his hand on the boy’s shoulder and guiding him down Water Street.

  “Adam Dearborn.” The boy’s body jerked as if he’d been stuck with a needle. “I mean, it’s Adam… um… dang it all.” He hung his head.

  “Something wrong, Adam?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, let’s meet this sister of yours and figure out what to do about your crime.”

  “I’m not a criminal.”

  “You took something from a store without paying for it. That’s theft, and theft is a crime punishable by law.”

  Adam dragged his feet, his shame so acute Duke pitied him. He knew from his own experience how miserable Adam felt right now, but the boy needed to learn the same harsh life lesson Duke had learned at the age of eight from his own father. The burning shame he’d felt that evening nearly twenty-three years ago had been seared into his conscience, and he’d never forgotten his father’s admonishment that honorable men never lie, cheat, or steal. Ever.

  Adam would learn that lesson today.

  “How old are you, Adam?”

  “Just turned thirteen.”

  “You’re old enough to work then.”

  The boy nodded. “I’ve been working in our greenhouse since I was four.”

  They turned down Mill Street, a tiny lane connecting Water and Eagle Streets.

  “Tell me more about this greenhouse of your sister’s.”

  “Faith grows herbs and stuff for healing.”

  “But what does she heal?”

  The boy shrugged. “Everything, I guess, or people wouldn’t buy our tonics and balms.”

  Suspicion tightened Duke’s gut. He did not need some crazy woman selling snake oil and promising miracle cures to his unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

  Adam stopped in front of Colburn’s former mill, a three-story gambrel-roofed building with a towering brick smokestack, and a one-story stone addition attached at the rear. To the left of the huge grist building stood a plank structure that once housed the bales of hay and straw that Colburn had sold. And beyond that was the horse barn, right where it had always been. But Duke’s gut insisted something was different. And his gut was never wrong.

  He’d been inside the cavernous building often enough to know that the interior light was too negligible to successfully contain a greenhouse. The water was plentiful, though. The Canadaway Creek was a ready source of power for the many businesses built along its banks as the gristmill was.

  “Sheriff Grayson?” Adam bit his lip. “I’d rather go to jail.”

  “I’m not offering that choice. Is your sister here?” At Adam’s resolute nod, Duke ushered him inside.

  The first thing to strike Duke was the sunlight streaming through new, large windows that lined three of the four walls. That’s what had looked different about the building when he’d eyed the exterior. The lower floor of the building was filled with windows and flooded in sunlight.

  The smell of fresh soil mingled with the astringent scent of herbs and an indefinable floral fragrance. The thriving profusion of plants and flowers told him that Adam’s sister knew what she was doing. Maybe the woman was just concocting a few harmless homemade remedies that would save other women the tedious task. Maybe he was overreacting because of his own worries about the upcoming election.

  This was his eighth year as sheriff, and he had every confidence that he would keep his position—as long as he could get his shoulder healed. Just one rumor that he couldn’t do his job could change the outcome of the election and end his hard-won tenure as sheriff.

  From the back of the greenhouse a child laughed and women’s voices tittered. A softer female voice drew his attention to the front of the building. The woman had her back to him, but her quiet singing was laced with such sadness, Duke felt he was trespassing on a private moment.

  Adam stayed by the door and hung his head. “That’s my sister.”

  Faith , Duke remembered. She was watering plants, gently touching the green leaves and inspecting the buds.

  “Please don’t be mean to her, Sheriff. Faith taught me not to steal. She would never steal anything. Not even if she was starving.”

  Shocked by the boy’s plea, Duke eyed Adam. “Why would I mistreat your sister for something you did?”

  “Because she’s responsible for me.”

  “No, son, you are responsible for you. And you’re responsible for your actions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why did you take this?” Duke asked, lifting the fancy brush.

  The boy ducked his head and his ears turned red. “Faith misses our mother real bad. I thought a new brush might make her happy again.”

  That simple declaration sliced through Duke. He’d heard the sadness in Faith’s voice as she sang, and could understand why the boy wanted to make her happy. It was hard for an adult to acknowledge that depth of grief, but far more difficult for a child to witness it in someone he loved and needed. No wonder the boy seemed lost and afraid.

  Adam’s sister turned toward them with the watering can clutched in her hand, and every thought in Duke’s mind dissolved into silence. She was as exotic as the plants she tended.

  Her arched dark eyebrows drew together as she spotted him and Adam. She set the watering can on a flat of green plants then moved her slender, lithe body gently but hurriedly in their direction, pushing aside plant vines and leaves that congested the narrow row between the wooden flats. With every lift of her arm, the worn blue fabric of her shirtwaist tightened across her full breasts and tiny waist.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, stopping before him with fear in her almond shaped eyes.

  Duke could only stare in mute appreciation. From the age of eight, he’d made it a policy not to exaggerate or lie, not even to himself. And he could honestly say he’d never seen a more beautiful woman than the one standing in front of him. Her oval face was slightly squared at the jaw and softly rounded at the chin. Her parted lips were lush and made for kissing, her eyes a deep whiskey brown that made him thirst for a drink. She was tall, and he would only have to dip his chin to kiss her forehead or to bury his face in those thick waves of dark, chocolate brown hair.

  “Sheriff? Has something happened?” she asked, tiny worry lines marring her forehead, drawing his attention to the bronze tint of her skin. Her voice was smoky, or perhaps slightly hoarse from a cold or singing, but it sounded sultry and sexy to him.

  “I had some trouble in town,” Adam blurted.

  “What sort of trouble?”

  Adam’s chin dropped to his chest. “I stole something from Brown & Shepherd’s store.” He peered up at her, his own almond-shaped eyes full of remorse. “I wanted to give you a birthday present to make you feel better.”

  She brought slender fingers to her chest, drawing Duke’s gaze to her nicely rounded breasts. “Oh, Adam, I don’t need a present.”

  “You deserve to have your own brush,” Adam said with a touch of defiance that surprised Duke. “You shouldn’t have to borrow from Aunt Tansy”

  Color flooded the crests of her cheekbones, but she swept her brother into her arms. “Your character and reputation are far more important than me having my own hair brush.”

  Adam’s face grew crimson, and he pulled away as if embarrassed to be hugged in front of Duke. Or maybe it was shame that made his face turn red, Duke couldn’t tell. He was struggling with his own embarrassment for gawking at Faith like a schoolboy.

  “I wanted to return the brush,” Adam said, “but the sheriff said I had to bring it to you.”

  Duke expected to see condemnation in Faith’s eyes, but he saw surprise and confusion. “I felt he would learn more from his family than any punishment I coul
d give him,” he said. He handed the fancy brush to her. “This is yours.”

  “I… I’ll pay for this,” she said, but Duke could tell she didn’t want the brush. She turned to Adam. “Go to the house and get our money jar.” As soon as Adam sprinted from the greenhouse, she faced Duke again. “I’d rather return this and save my money for more necessary items.”

  It struck him then that Faith and her family were not only grieving but also having money troubles.

  “Maybe we can work out a better solution.”

  Wariness stole the warmth from her eyes. “I’ll pay for it.”

  Adam hurried back into the greenhouse with an old quart jar that held a few paltry coins in the bottom. Faith upended the jar and spilled the coins into her palm. She held them out to Duke, her cool look saying she wasn’t open to other solutions.

  “I hope this is enough,” she said.

  It stung to have his integrity questioned, but she was new to town and didn’t know that he would eat dirt before doing anything dishonest or indecent. He’d pay for the brush himself, but it wouldn’t serve Adam if someone else paid for his bad decision. Adam needed to learn a lesson about taking responsibility, a lesson that would serve him well as he became a man.

  And Faith needed to learn that Duke was worthy of her trust.

  “Adam meant for the brush to be a gift,” he said. “Why not let him work off his debt in the store? I’m sure Mrs. Brown will welcome his help, and that way Adam can give you the gift with a clear conscience.”

  “I’ll do it.” Adam lifted his skinny chest like a soldier bravely facing battle. “I’ll apologize to Mrs. Brown and work extra hard to make up for stealing from her.”

  “Mrs. Brown isn’t likely to allow you in her store, Adam.” Faith shook her head. “You can make your apology when you take this money to her.”

  Duke suspected those were her last coins, and he couldn’t let her use them for Adam’s mistake. “This is Adam’s debt. Let him pay it,” he insisted. The boy wanted and needed to make restitution.

  Before Faith could answer, a small brown-haired girl whooped and darted between them. She threw her arms around Faith’s skirt and hugged her legs.

  “Mama, Aunt Iris said she’s gonna plant me with the onions if I pester her anymore!”

  Duke’s heartbeat faltered. During his covert admiration of the woman, he hadn’t considered Faith’s personal life, that she might have a child, that she might be married, that his own growing anticipation of making a personal call on her was out of line.

  “This is my daughter, Cora,” she said, brushing the girl’s curls out of her lively green eyes.

  Cora pointed to the badge on his chest. “What’s that?” Before he could answer, she gawked at his revolver. “Is that a gun? Do you shoot people?” She was a slip of a girl with skinny arms and legs, and a cute little mouth that spewed questions faster than Duke could answer them. Her curiosity made her bold, and she tried to touch the gleaming metal cuffs hanging from Duke’s gun belt.

  He stepped back, removing the gun from her reach. “Careful, missy,” he said. “Guns are dangerous. Never touch one. Not for any reason. Not ever.”

  “Cora Rose, mind your manners,” Faith said, laying her hand on Cora’s head and gently chastising the girl.

  “What are those?” she asked, undaunted.

  “Handcuffs.”

  “What are they for?”

  Duke glanced at Faith, who gave him an apologetic look. “She’s four,” she said, as if that would explain Cora’s curiosity. For Duke, who had six nephews and two nieces, it explained everything. A four-year-old’s questions could wear a person down faster than an interrogation by the United States military.

  He reached to unhook the cuffs, but the move shot a fierce spike of pain into his shoulder socket. He bit his lip to stop an agonized curse from slipping out then forced himself to pull the cuffs from the clasp on his leather belt. His shoulder throbbed as he squatted and showed her how to work the cuffs. “If you go quietly, you might be able to cuff your Aunt Iris to a fat plant,” he suggested, hoping the child would scamper out of earshot. He didn’t want her to hear his conversation with Faith and Adam.

  Cora giggled and charged toward the back of the greenhouse.

  “Consider your handcuffs lost,” Faith said. “She’ll bury them someplace, and we’ll never find them again.”

  As he stood, he eased out a breath, letting the pain ebb from his shoulder and the hope of courting Faith ebb from his mind. Faith was married. Nothing to do but accept it, take care of the business with Adam then leave. Adam seemed to be a considerate boy, but he needed a man’s guiding hand. Much as Duke didn’t want to meet Faith’s husband, he felt it his duty to inform him of Adam’s mistake and hope the man could provide the guidance and influence the boy needed.

  But he stole one final moment to admire Faith—a woman he wanted to know more about.

  With a resigned sigh, he nodded toward the open door of the greenhouse. “Is your husband at home today?”

  Her lashes lowered. “I’m a widow, Sheriff Grayson.”

  Surprise, relief, and a deep sympathy rushed through him. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five or so. To be widowed in old age was a sad thing, but to lose a spouse at such a young age was tragic. She had lost not only her husband but her mother as well. No wonder her sultry voice was laced with pain.

  Duke understood grief. He’d lost his father over a decade ago, but the pain would never go away.

  The realization that she was hurting and having hard times, too, shifted Duke’s direction like a compass needle seeking North. He’d never been able to turn away someone in need— especially a woman in need—and he sure wouldn’t turn away the gorgeous widow with the sultry voice and those beautiful whiskey eyes.

  Chapter Two

  *

  FAITH DIDN’T WANT her not-so-innocent little brother party to her lies, so she touched Adam’s shoulder and nodded for him to leave. “Go see that Cora doesn’t lose the sheriff’s handcuffs,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Adam headed toward the back of the greenhouse, leaving Faith with Sheriff Grayson—a man she did not want to be alone with.

  His powerful body was overwhelming, but it was the close inspection the ruggedly handsome sheriff was giving her that completely unnerved her. If she wasn’t careful with this man, he would see through her thin veil of pretense to the hard, ugly truth no one could know.

  “I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs….?”

  “Dearbo—oh… oh my, how rude of me not to have introduced myself.” She stuck out her trembling hand. “I’m Faith Wilkins.” A necessary lie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff Grayson.”

  “Likewise.” He closed his long, warm fingers around her hand, making her stomach flutter. “I’m sorry about your tragic loss.”

  She pulled free of his firm grip and curled her fingers into her palms, hiding her green fingernails. “Are you in pain, Sheriff?” she asked, noticing that he’d been rubbing his shoulder.

  He lowered his hand as if she’d caught him revealing an unpardonable weakness. “Just a sore muscle,” he said, but she suspected it would take far more than muscle pain to bother an obviously strong man like the sheriff.

  He surveyed the greenhouse then returned his scrutiny to her. “What exactly do you do here, Mrs. Wilkins?”

  “I grow herbs, vegetables, and flowers.”

  “Adam tells me you’re a healer.”

  “Adam is a boy who overstates the importance of things. I make healing balms and teas from my plants. Simple as that, Sheriff. If you’d care to sample them firsthand, I have a balm that might ease the pain in your shoulder.” The sooner she could appease his curiosity the sooner he would leave. And the sooner her heart would stop hammering in her chest.

  She headed to a small counter in the north corner of the greenhouse. He followed then watched while she opened a large glass jar and scooped out a spoonful of yellowish balm.

 
“Gads, is that chicken fat?” he asked, his voice laced with disgust.

  She laughed. “It’s a mix of resins and oils.” She lifted the gluey-looking balm to her nose, and inhaled. “I add herbs, and salicin, which is harvested from the buds of poplar trees—part of the willow family.”

  “I know trees,” he stated bluntly, as if she’d insulted his intelligence. “I own a sawmill with my brothers.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Forgive me. I’m used to teaching Adam and Cora this way”

  “I’m not offended. I’m curious to see what you do here.” He gestured toward the balm. “You made this, I presume?”

  She nodded. “The salicin and herbs reduce pain, fever, congestion, and inflammation. The balm even smells good.” She put the spoon beneath his nose. “It’s not bay rum, but it smells better than an onion pack.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side. The slight lifting of his lips surprised her and made him seem less formidable. Their gazes met over the spoon. He openly inspected her, but unlike most of the men who’d crossed her path, there was nothing lecherous in the sheriff’s eyes; he seemed to appreciate her boldness, as if there weren’t many people who would dare to shove something beneath his nose. Her nerves had made her careless. She hadn’t meant to challenge him. But apparently she had, and apparently he’d liked it.

  She plopped the small glob of ointment into a jar and handed it to him. “Two or three applications should ease your muscle pain. After you rub it into your shoulder, you’ll feel a soothing warmth in that area.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?” He braced his large, long-fingered hand on the counter. “Will I get my money back?”

  “You haven’t paid me anything.”

  “I intend to.”

  “I’ll refuse it. This is the only way I can thank you for being so kind to Adam today.”

  “I wasn’t being kind.”

  “The way you treated him was more than fair. In my book, that’s being kind.”