Wendy Lindstrom

by Kissing in the Dark

  “Papa said Violet was a beauty beyond compare, and claimed she inspired him to lus—love—um, to marry her and plant flowers.”

  Duke’s mother’s hoot startled him.

  “They named their first child Rose.” Dahlia rested Claire’s foot in her lap and sat back on her heels. “For some reason Violet left Papa before they could plant any more flowers.”

  Duke watched Faith brush Cora’s hair off her forehead. “Sweetheart, go see if you can find that plate of cookies,” she suggested.

  “Can I eat one?”

  “Yes, but wash your hands first.”

  When Cora dashed down a plant-shrouded aisle, and out of earshot, her mother blocked Duke’s view of Dahlia. “I’d like to talk with you. Would you step outside with me?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said, “as soon as your aunt finishes her story.”

  A sick look washed across Faith’s face, and she lowered her lashes.

  “What happened to his daughter Rose?” he asked, prodding Dahlia to continue.

  “She remained with Papa, which encouraged him to find a new wife fast.”

  Duke frowned. “Wasn’t he still married to Violet?”

  “He surely was, but he married his neighbor’s spinster daughter anyhow, and added Aster to his garden.”

  Duke saw the soldier-like woman with white hair lift her snowy eyebrows as if this was news to her, but she didn’t comment.

  “For some reason Aster’s mother took Aster and went back to her father’s house, leaving Papa alone with Rose. Papa saw no reason to stop planting flowers, so he moved to Georgia and promptly added a wealthy southern belle to his arrangement.”

  “Oh, Dahlia! Honestly,” Faith exclaimed, her face flushing crimson. “This is more than these poor ladies need to know.”

  But it was nowhere near enough for Duke—or for his mother, if her now-keen gaze was any indication of her interest.

  “Well, it’s the truth.” Dahlia stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “Papa was married to three women at the same time. But the problem was diminished when Tansy’s mother died during childbirth.”

  The blond woman gasped, her hands flitting to her throat, reminding Duke that Tansy was the butterfly of their group. Aster was the white-haired soldier, Iris the saucy Oriental, and Dahlia was the one with the cantaloupes on her chest. Crude, but it was the only way he could keep these women straight.

  Dahlia planted her hands on her ample hips. “You didn’t know Papa was a bigamist?”

  Tansy squinted. “A what?”

  “A three-timing rat,” Aster said with an odd gleam in her eyes. “But the story gets worse. You see, Dahlia’s mother was the robust Italian kitchen maid who worked for Tansy’s mother.”

  Even Duke felt his eyebrows lift with this revelation, but Dahlia just laughed and straightened her apron. “Aster is teasing you ladies. My mama was Italian, but I would call her voluptuous rather than robust. Papa met her in New York City . . . at the theater. When Tansy’s mother died, Papa was much improved in the pocket, so he packed up Rose and Tansy, and moved to the city. While he was establishing himself as a businessman, Aster was delivered to his doorstep with a letter saying her mother had been killed in a carriage accident.”

  Aster cast a mean squint at Dahlia. “This, of course, left him free to marry your mother.”

  “Not quite. He was still married to his first wife, Violet. But Papa met Mama that very evening.” Dahlia’s eyes softened and her voice lowered. “She was at the theater with her father, and she got so excited during the performance, she dropped her fan over the balcony. It hit Papa on the head.”

  Iris’s hoot of laughter snapped everyone’s attention to her. She clapped her hands over her mouth, but another squawk of laughter slipped from her throat as she stepped away from Duke’s mother. “I . . . I remember Papa telling that story,” she said, pushing her shiny black hair out of her eyes.

  “Well, that was the only thing humorous about him meeting that woman,” Tansy said. “She was a viper after she married Papa.”

  “Truly wicked,” Aster agreed, her voice filled with sympathy that was contradicted by the gloating look in her eyes. “Dahlia’s mother left Papa with another child and an empty pocket, then got her wealthy father to buy her a divorce.”

  “Who’s telling this story?” Dahlia asked irritably.

  For some reason these women were taunting each other, and Duke’s attention sharpened as he searched their faces and words for clues.

  “Dahlia!” Faith caught the woman’s elbow. “We’ve only just met these ladies, and this story is . . . inappropriate.”

  Dahlia drew in her breath, lifting a good-sized bosom in the process. “There’s not much left to tell anyhow. Papa already had three girls he couldn’t take care of, so he hired a soft-spoken Oriental woman as a nursemaid and promptly forgot his vow to stop planting flowers. His new Japanese wife added Iris to the garden, then died with Papa shortly thereafter in an explosion aboard a steamer.”

  “Good heavens! Can this be true?” Claire asked, her shoe dangling forgotten from her fingers.

  Duke nearly laughed aloud. Of course it wasn’t true. These women were actresses of the finest caliber. And he wanted to know what they were covering up with their acting skills.

  Everyone looked at Faith, but her jaw was clenched and her stony gaze was fixed on Dahlia.

  “Not entirely,” Dahlia said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I can’t remember every detail, so I decorated the cake a little bit. It would have been a lifeless and sad story otherwise.”

  “It’s tragic.” Evelyn pressed her hand to her heart.

  Duke grimaced. Leave it to the ever-compassionate Evelyn not to see past a mountain of blarney, and that’s surely what this all was.

  Her concern must have nudged Dahlia’s conscience, because the woman heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I was teasing my sisters a bit just now, because the truth is we spent our childhood away from each other. Rose set up a house in Syra . . . Saratoga, and one by one we found her and transplanted ourselves to her garden.” She flipped her palms up and grinned like a pleased child. “But wasn’t the first version more exciting?”

  Duke was just working up a line of questions when his mother burst into laughter and clapped her hands like an enthusiastic fan at a rousing performance. “I’m taking you women home with me.”

  Iris joined in the applause. “Well done, Dahlia.”

  Dahlia curtsied to Evelyn, Claire, and his mother, then boldly winked at Duke over her shoulder. “Welcome to the Evergreen House, where we treat our female guests to a healing massage with our special herbs and balms while entertaining them with fabulous stories.” She stepped back and hooked her arm around Faith’s shoulders. “My niece here is so worried that the ladies in town won’t buy our herbs and special treatments, she can barely sleep at night.”

  “That’s absolutely true,” Tansy said, all aflutter. “Why just last night—”

  “We decided to offer one free massage to every lady in town,” Faith declared, not batting a lash for cutting in on her aunt. “Mrs. Grayson, we would be in your debt if you would pass word of our business to your lady friends.”

  So that’s what these women were up to. Duke ground his teeth. They were swindling his family into promoting their business.

  “Of course,” his mother said in her usual obliging way. She got to her feet and grasped Iris’s hands. “The girls and I will be happy to promote your business to every woman we know, and I’ll be your best customer. You are truly an artist, and well worth whatever price you’re charging.”

  “Not a penny, Mrs. Grayson. Consider it our gift to thank you for such a warm welcome.”

  “We are the ones who received the warm welcome.” Duke’s mother patted Iris’s hands, but spoke to all of the women. “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

  Duke waited until his mother left with Evelyn and Claire, then he took Faith firmly by the elbow. “Let’s have
that private talk now, Mrs. Wilkins.”

  Chapter 7

  Duke guided Faith outside, away from her daughter and out of earshot of the outlandish women she called her aunts. He’d wager his badge, or a win in the next election, that the women weren’t related to each other at all, much less related to Faith.

  He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the vertical board and batten wall of the building. “I stopped to make sure the gas line was secure, but that was some story your aunt just told.”

  Faith fiddled with her apron, aligning the two large pockets with her hip bones, then smoothing the dark green fabric over her flat stomach. “Aunt Dahlia has a flare for drama.”

  So did Faith. Her casual tugging and smoothing of her apron made him vividly aware of what lay beneath the fabric of her dress.

  “Dahlia was just entertaining our guests.”

  “Your guests were my mother and my sisters-in-law, decent people who don’t deserve to be manipulated.”

  Her head jerked up. “Manipulated?”

  “Misled, if you prefer.”

  Her eyes sparked with anger. “In what way, Sheriff?”

  “Dahlia’s story is leaky as a sieve.”

  “Because she was shamelessly embellishing her past, which she confessed to your mother. Storytelling is a great pastime in my family, but I can’t see any reason for her silly story to upset you. Dahlia admitted she was ‘decorating the cake’.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Then you’re saying those women aren’t your aunts?”

  “I’ve already answered that question, and the answer hasn’t changed.”

  He eyed her for a moment and decided she would defend those crazy women as fiercely as she would defend Cora—and Adam, who was walking down the street toward them.

  “Your brother is nearly here.” He nodded in the boy’s direction.

  Faith looked peeved. “Adam and I have to finish our planting, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “One more question.” He thumbed toward the greenhouse. “What else are you selling here? What are those special services you and your aunts offer?”

  Faith’s scowl deepened. “Healing massages.”

  “What exactly is a ‘healing massage’?”

  “It’s the practice of manipulating muscle while applying healing herbs and oils to a sore or injured area of the body.”

  “Will you be offering this service to men?”

  Her eyes sparked with anger and she refused to answer.

  “How do you intend to apply oils and balms without asking your patrons to remove their clothing?”

  She tried to step around him, but he caught her elbow and stopped her from opening the door.

  “Mrs. Wilkins, I’m responsible for what goes on in this town, and I want to know what manner of business you’re running. How will you and your aunts provide these massages?”

  “With our clothes on!” She tried to jerk her elbow free, but he held fast.

  “Let go of my sister!” Adam pushed between them, shielding Faith with his skinny body. His chest heaved and his fists clenched at his sides. “Leave her alone. She didn’t do anything to you.”

  Duke yanked his hand away as if he’d touched a hot poker, ashamed that he’d been gripping her so tightly. He was used to apprehending men. He would never handle a woman roughly. But damn it, he couldn’t allow anything, including Faith’s pretty face, to stand in the way of doing his duty. He’d taken an oath and he would uphold it come hell or high water.

  “All right, son.” He nodded to acknowledge the boy’s anger, but spoke to Faith. “I hadn’t meant to insult you, or to hurt you.”

  She put her hands on Adam’s shoulders and turned him to face her. “I need to talk with the sheriff.” Adam opened his mouth, and she shook her head to silence him. “Go check on Cora while I have a final word with him. When I finish here, I want to get the rest of the cabbage planted.”

  Adam glared at Duke. “You better not hurt her,” he said, then stormed inside and slammed the door.

  Duke felt a mix of admiration and concern for the boy. Adam was justified in his anger, and right to defend his sister, but if he wasn’t careful, he could be heading down a path that would put him on the wrong side of the law.

  “I’m sorry I pushed you.” Duke rolled his aching shoulder and released a sigh of regret. “Adam told me you dislike men. I guess I haven’t helped improve your opinion of us.”

  A startled look crossed her face. “I never . . . I dislike being bullied is all.”

  “I hadn’t meant to bully you. But it’s my job to look out for the residents in my town.”

  “I know that.” She rubbed her elbow and met his eyes with an openness that shocked him. “I’m one of those residents too, Sheriff. My aunts and I are struggling to build a new life here. If my business doesn’t thrive, I can’t support my family. I’m out of money, and I’m mourning someone I love, but despite being desperate and so scared I can hardly take a full breath, I’ve never once considered performing the crude services you’ve unfairly accused me of selling.”

  A slap across the face couldn’t have been more effective in snapping him out of his single-minded pursuit of information. Shame snaked through his gut as he looked through the greenhouse window. Adam stood amidst the mass of greenery, watching them. The plants were stretching upward, alive and healthy, proof that Faith was selling herbs. No harm had come from the balm she had given him, or from the massage Iris gave his mother, or from the existence of Faith’s greenhouse.

  Chagrined, he blew out a breath. “This is a peculiar business you’ve opened, and I won’t deny being skeptical about what you’re doing here, but I had no right to insult you, and no intention of doing so. I’m sorry.”

  “Sheriff Grayson, everything I do here is with the intention of helping people improve their health. How can that be bad?”

  He didn’t question her sincerity, but his gut insisted there was something about these women that would bite him the minute he turned his back.

  “Did my balm help your shoulder?” she asked.

  “For a few hours.”

  “But your shoulder is growing worse, isn’t it?”

  It was, but he wouldn’t admit it.

  “I can see that it is, Sheriff. Your grimace gave you away when you took your handcuffs off your belt for Cora.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Lift your arm then.”

  “What?”

  “Lift your arm above your head.”

  He stared at her, liking the challenge in her eyes, but confused by her odd request.

  “You can’t do it, can you?”

  He didn’t know because he hadn’t tried. It hurt too damned bad just maneuvering his arm into his shirtsleeve.

  “I can fix your shoulder for you,” she said, with a confidence that surprised him.

  “How do you propose to do that?” His own doctor hadn’t been able to repair the injury or ease the pain, and he strongly doubted Faith could do so.

  “Herbal massage.”

  “I’m not interested in Iris’s massage.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You?”

  Her chin dipped once in a decisive nod. “I’ll make an exception and treat your shoulder, only to prove that I can make it better.”

  It would be no hardship having the pretty widow massage his shoulder, but he could, and would, resist his base desire. He’d been sheriff for a long time and had faced life and death situations that taught him how to ignore distractions. If this worked out like he expected, he could get some answers to his questions and prove her healing massage was just a ruse, saving his friends and family from discovering this for themselves. With elections coming up, he couldn’t afford to let anything unsavory take root in this town.

  “All right, Mrs. Wilkins, when do we start?”

  “Now, if you like—but with one stipulation,” she said. “If I succeed in restoring your shoulder, you must publicly acknowledge that m
y business is legitimate.”

  “If you succeed to my satisfaction, I’ll gladly make a public statement. But I have a condition, too. I pay for my treatment.”

  He could see a calculating look creep into her eyes. “Would you consider paying me with lumber?”

  He lifted an eyebrow, wondering what she was angling for.

  “I need to put up walls in the building we’re living in.”

  “I’ll donate the lumber.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t accept anything from . . . I can’t accept a donation.”

  From him, she’d been about to say. Did she think a donation would leave her in his debt? “My brothers and I donate lumber to several causes.”

  “I’m not a cause, Sheriff. I insist on paying for it by fixing your shoulder.”

  “Let’s get started, then.”

  Duke followed Faith to the back of the greenhouse and sat on a long, wooden table. She retrieved his cuffs from Cora, then sent her daughter outside with Adam and two of her “aunts” to finish planting their vegetable garden behind the cavernous building they called their home.

  “You’ll have to remove your shirt, Sheriff.”

  His gut clenched, even as he felt an instant stirring of desire. No respectable woman would ask a man to bare his torso in a public place, and he was so taken aback, and so taken with the thought of her hands touching him, that he couldn’t decide whether to chastise her or welcome her invitation.

  “I know what I’m doing, Sheriff. I’ve been studying botany and anatomy and forms of healing since I was old enough to read. I’m a widow, not an innocent. I’m capable of tending to your shoulder without compromising my morals or damaging my reputation. But if you’re too uncomfortable with this arrangement—”

  “It wasn’t my discomfort I was worried about,” he said, then gritted his teeth and struggled out of his shirt.

  Her cheeks flushed as she tied a long length of linen toga-style around his torso, leaving his injured shoulder exposed. She poured a sweet-smelling oil into her cupped palm, rubbed her hands together, then moved behind him. “This is almond oil mixed with arnica.” She smoothed her warm palms up his back and over the crest of his shoulder. “The massage will relax your muscles, and the herb will soothe the ache.”