Wendy Lindstrom

by Kissing in the Dark

  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. Hell, he’d pay for the brush himself, but it wouldn’t serve Adam for anyone else to pay 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 any more!”

  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’s slender body and kissable lips—lips he wanted to know intimately.

  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 as hell wouldn’t turn away from this gorgeous widow with the sultry voice and those beautiful whiskey eyes.

  Chapter 2

  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.”

  “I would have done the same for any boy.”

  “But you did it for my brother, and that’s what matters to me. Please, take the balm.”

  “What other treatments do you offer?”

  He seemed sincere, but she sensed he was digging for something. The pleasantly warm day suddenly felt close and hot with this giant of a man leaning on her counter asking too many questions.

  .”It would depend on the severity of your problem. But I would first suggest that you see a doctor.” She closed the jar of balm and placed it back on the self.

  “I’ve seen the doctor. He says there’s nothing to be done for my shoulder but to rest it.”

  “Then it is more than a sore muscle?”

  His lip quirked up again. “You have a knack for recalling details. I could use your help when questioning suspects.”

  She’d hoped to put him off with her nosy question, but instead of urging him out the door, she’d invited his closer observation. “Forgive me for taking up your time.” She stepped around the counter and called toward the back of the greenhouse, “Adam! Come up here, and bring Cora and the handcuffs with you.”

  Adam swept Cora into his arms, pushed through a maze of plants, and deposited the girl a few feet from the sheriff.

  “Cora, give the sheriff his handcuffs,” Faith said, then frowned as Cora duckwalked across the plank floor. “Why are you walking so oddly?”

  Cora leaned back on her heels, pressed her brown gingham dress to her knees, and lifted the toes of her tiny brown shoes. “I hooked ‘em on my own self.”

  The metal handcuffs were locked around Cora’s skinny ankles. A quiet chuckle rumbled in the sheriff’s chest, his thick-lashed eyes crinkling at the outside edges as he looked down at her.

  Cora squatted, grabbed the chain between her ankles, and grinned up at him. “Aunt Iris says to keep these on me until I get married.”

  With her hands between her ankles, and her knobby knees jutting upward, Cora looked like a little brown frog. Her stockings were twisted around her ankles, her hair in wild disarray, but Faith could not have adored her more.

  Nor could the sheriff, if the tender look in his eyes meant anything.

  “She reminds me of my niece Rebecca at that age,” he said. “Too smart, too curious, and a smile so bright she could melt a heart of ice.” He sighed and shook his head. “Rebecca turned thirteen last week.”

  With Cora’s rosy face beaming up at them, Faith understood the sheriff’s melancholy. She wanted Cora to stay an innocent, if precocious, little girl forever.

  Faith spied her Aunt Iris around the corner, and cringed as Iris lunged from behind a cluster of lemongrass to tickle Cora’s ribs.

  “There you are, you little imp!”

  Cora screeched with laughter and threw herself against the sheriff’s legs.

  Iris, who had crouched to grab Cora’s ribs, took her time looking up the long length of the sheriff’s body. By the time her frank, appraising eyes lifted to his face, Faith’s own cheeks were burning with embarrassment.

  “Mercy . . .” Iris said, rising to her feet with a fluid grace Faith envied. Iris carried her mother’s Japanese blood in her veins, and men paid exorbitant amounts of money to bed the rare onyx-haired beauty. Faith knew little about Iris or how she had come to be in America. She was seven months older than Faith, but Iris had seen too much to pretend an innocence she’d shed long ago.

  “Is there a woman waiting at home for you, Sheriff?” Iris asked, extending her hand to him.

  Faith’s jaw dropped, but the sheriff smiled and lifted Iris’s hand to his lips as if too-bold women propositioned him every day. “I’m afraid so, ma’am. My mother is expecting me home for supper.” His gaze lingered on her silky black hair and the pretty Oriental tilt of her eyes, and Faith knew Iris was as novel to the sheriff as she’d been to Faith when first arriving at the brothel eleven years ago. Iris said a small colony of Japanese people had come to America in 1869, but Faith still hadn’t seen another man or woman like her. Apparently, the sheriff hadn’t either.

  Iris laughed the way she talked, without reservation. Her exotic eyes sparkled like black diamonds as she assessed the sheriff. “Not only handsome but charming.” She winked a thick- lashed eye at Faith. “Marry this man.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Aunt Iris!” Novel or not, Faith wanted to shoo the woman out the door. They couldn’t afford to have their reputations questioned. Drawing a breath to calm herself, Faith gave the sheriff a wobbly smile. “This is my aunt, Iris . . . um . . .” Dear God, she hadn’t given thought to a last name for her aunts. They had never used last names at the brothel, and they had flown from that life in such a rush of terror, they had never discussed taking last names.

  “Wilde with an ‘e’,” Iris said, mischief twinkling in her eyes. “Miss Iris Wilde, not to be confused with a wild Iris.”

  The sheriff laughed.

  “Are you getting married, Mama?” Cora asked, looking up at Faith with hopeful eyes. Faith wanted to turn green and disappear among the plants.

  “See what you’ve started, Aunt Iris?” she said.

  Iris gave the sheriff a friendly wink. “My niece is so shy she’ll never get herself a suitor or a marriage proposal. I’m just letting you know she’s looking for a husband.”

  Faith choked on her outrage.

  Iris ignored her warning look and pouted her lips at the sheriff. “I was hoping to beg your assistance for a few minutes. Adam is our man about the place, but he doesn’t know about gas lines yet.”

  Faith tried again to convey a message with her eyes, silently warning Iris to clamp her red lips shut. “As soon as the sheriff removes these cuffs from Cora’s legs, he and Adam have business in town. I’ll hire a man to take care of the gas line.” She lifted Cora into her arms and forced herself to face the sheriff. “I apologize for wasting so much of your time.”

  “It’s not a waste of time to welcome new residents,” he said. “I’ll look at that gas line as soon as I free this little frog girl from her chain.”

  Cora giggled and lifted her feet, asking six questions in the time it took him to unlock the cuffs.

  “The cuffs are made of steel,” he said, answering her first question. “Because steel is strong. I put them on bad people so they can’t get away. Yes, my shoulder hurts. Yes, I’ll come play again. And no, I’m not marrying your mother today”

  For the first time since the sheriff arrived, Faith willingly met his eyes. “I’m impressed.”

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Lots of practice. I have six nephews and two nieces.”

  “Any unmarried brothers?” Iris asked.

  “Two older, one younger, all married,” he said. “I’m the last man standing.”

  “Not for long, Sheriff.” Iris linked her arm with his and turned him toward the back of the greenhouse.
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  Faith stared openmouthed at her aunt’s swinging backside, wondering if Iris was matchmaking for her, or worse yet, if the ex-prostitute was angling for the handsome sheriff herself.

  Chapter 3

  Duke rolled up his shirtsleeves, then showed Adam how to hook the gas pipe to the old boiler. The boy seemed interested in learning, but there wasn’t room for him to help connect the gas line to the burner beneath the metal tub. Colburn had tried using natural gas eight years earlier, but the supply from his gas well on Mill Street was insufficient to power the grist mill. So, like other business owners, he’d diverted a feeder stream from the creek and used water and steam for power.

  Colburn must have needed the water reservoir for his grist mill, but Duke couldn’t understand why Faith would want to heat this enormous bin of water. The deep, rectangular vessel had to be nearly eight feet long and four feet wide, and the copper had aged to an ugly greenish black.

  Puzzled, Duke squeezed his aching shoulders between the cold stone wall and the tub. By the time he finished the back- wrenching work, his shoulder throbbed so painfully he wanted to knock back a quart of whiskey and sleep until the damn thing healed.

  After Adam fetched a cake of soap, Duke rubbed water on it, then applied a soapy lather to the gas pipe connections to see if any bubbles developed.

  “How often should I check for leaks?” the boy asked, like a man, even as he shoved his mop of hair out of his eyes like a schoolkid.

  “A couple times a day for the next day or two. If you can’t see any bubbles in the soap, you can assume the connections are secure.” Adam nodded, and Duke struggled to his feet, realizing the boy was missing school. “Why aren’t you in school today?”

  “There’s only two weeks left of the year, sir.”

  “Well, if you were in school, Adam, you wouldn’t have been in Mrs. Brown’s store, and you wouldn’t have gotten yourself in trouble.”

  “I was running an errand for Faith. She needed some cheesecloth.”

  “I want you to go to school next week.”