Copyright © 2005 Wendy Lindstrom. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author. Originally published by Leisure Books 2005 Fredonia, New York,  June 1879 The tangy scent of soaps and spices made Duke sneeze as he entered Brown & Shepherd's store. His breath hissed out, and he clapped a hand over his aching shoulder. Wayne Archer looked up from the package of medicine he was delivering to the store owner, Agatha Brown. The stocky apothecary propped his fists on the counter and eyed Duke with suspicion. "Are you ill, Sheriff?" "Morning, Archer." Duke ignored the man's question. Archer didn't care about Duke's health. He wanted to get elected sheriff in November. Six men were running for the position against Duke, who had been the sheriff of Chautauqua County since he was twenty-three years old. Five of the seven candidates could handle the position. Duke was one of them. Wayne Archer wasn't. Duke stepped away from the soaps and spices and greeted Agatha Brown, a kind, elderly widow he'd known since he was a boy. "You're too late for licorice sticks," she said. "I sold the last one yesterday afternoon to your niece, Rebecca." "That qualifies as a crime, Mrs. Brown." He'd been buying or begging licorice sticks from her since he was old enough to ask for them, and he was still one of her best customers. "My next shipment will arrive tomorrow. Will that keep me out of jail?" "This time," he said sternly. Her laugh lit her eyes and transformed her somber demeanor into that of a softer, more youthful-looking woman. Agatha Brown was six years older than Duke's mother, and could make some man a good companion, but Duke suspected she would choose to remain a widow. He'd been a boy when her husband died, and he barely remembered the man, but Agatha had never forgotten him. She seemed content to live with his memory and to run their store on Main Street in the Village of Fredonia. "What are you looking for?" she asked. "Something to relieve a headache." His nagging shoulder pain was bringing it on, but the last thing he would do was announce that fact to Archer. Which was why he wasn't buying the powder in Archer's apothecary: Archer would use the information to sway the voters. Mrs. Brown pointed to the opposite wall of the store. "Top shelf on the left." "Thank you." The pine floorboards sounded hollow beneath his boot heels as he wove his way past a rack of ready-made clothing. Heavily laden shelves sagged beneath tins of food, and wooden bins overflowed with everything from shovels and rakes to bolts of fabric. Brown & Shepherd's carried anything a man or woman could need. But as Duke surveyed the medicines, he felt a sharp poke in his ribs. "Grayson." Archer scowled at him. "For being a sheriff, you're sadly unobservant." He jerked his chin toward a boy who was examining a lady's comb and brush set. "That young man is attempting to fill his pockets." The boy took a fancy lady's brush from the oak box and slipped it inside his shirt. Duke's heart sank. He hated this part of his job. The boy cast a furtive glance at Mrs. Brown, who was dusting trinkets, then ducked outside. Duke ignored Archer's snide look, and quietly followed the boy. A few paces outside the store, he brought his hand down on the boy's thin shoulder. "Hold up, young man." The boy yelped and spun to face him. The movement jerked Duke's arm and sent a hot spear of pain into his shoulder socket. Damnation! His shoulder was so torn up he couldn't even detain a child. The skinny, long-limbed youth stared at him, dark eyes wide with fear as they locked on the silver sheriff's badge pinned to Duke's leather vest. "I'm Sheriff Grayson," Duke said. "You didn't pay for that hair brush you're hiding under your shirt." The boy's gaze darted to either side, as if he were deciding whether or not to run. "I'd rather not handcuff you, but I will if you try to run off on me." "I'll put it back," the boy said, his voice cracking into a fear-filled falsetto. "Looks like you could use the brush." The boy lowered his eyes and raked bony fingers through his mop of brown hair. "It's not for me." "Are you stealing it for your girl?" "I don't have a girl." "For your mother then?" "No, sir." Duke rubbed his aching shoulder, damning the nagging pain that had made his life miserable for the past month. The boy's Adam's apple dipped on a nervous swallow. "Are you taking me to jail?" Jail wouldn't teach him anything of value. "I'm taking you home so I can talk to your father." "I don't have a father." No surprise there, Duke thought, but checked his unfair judgment. "We'll talk to your mother then." "My mother's dead." The boy's voice was so heavy with grief that Duke's chest tightened in sympathy. "How are you getting along without parents?" "I've got Faith." "You'll need more than faith and those light fingers to get by, son. Where are you sleeping?" The boy turned away. "At home." Duke gripped the boy's shoulder and spun him back around to face him. "I'm sorry about your parents and whatever troubles you're having, but when I ask you a question I expect a straight answer." "I gave you one, sir." The boy pointed toward Water Street. "I live at the old Colburn place with my older sister Faith and our aunts. We moved in three weeks ago." Duke had heard that somebody bought the mill, but he hadn't stopped to officially welcome the owners to town yet. "Is your sister planning to reopen the grist mill?" he asked, believing it impossible for a woman to do so. "No, sir." The boy squinted as a bright flood of June sunshine washed across the plank and brick buildings on Main Street. "She's a healer. So are my aunts." "Healers?" "Yes, sir. They grow herbs and mix tonics and salves that help people." The warning twinge that tightened Duke's gut was as unwelcome as Archer's earlier probing. He did not need another problem right now, not with the election coming up, not while his wretched shoulder was making his life hell. The boy pulled the hair brush from beneath his shirt and handed it over. "I'd like to return this. I don't want my sister to know what I did." His earnest plea moved Duke, but being soft on the boy wouldn't serve the young man. "You should have considered that before you walked out of the store without paying for it. Come on," he said, nudging him down Main Street. "Let's see if your sister can heal your bent for stealing." "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 . . . urn . . . 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 les-son 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 damn 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 as hell 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 could 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 green-house, 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. 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.     "Remember how LaVyrle Spencer's books swept you away to another place and time while you fell madly, passionately in love with her fabulous characters? ...Ms. Lindstrom has created fresh, vibrant characters, impossible situations, and genuine, heartfelt emotions and masterfully woven them into a passionate romance that will have you smiling as you shed a few tears." -The Romance Readers Connection "...Lindstrom's superbly written, beautifully poignant...romance has a wonderful emotional richness and depth of characterization that will appeal to readers who love authors like Lorraine Heath and Maggie Osborne. -American Library Association.   © WendyLindstrom2011