Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
AUTHOR’S NOTE
"The fourth 1870s Grayson historical romance (see LIPS THAT TOUCH MINE, THE LONGING and SHADES OF HONOR) is a fabulous tale that brings to life Upstate New York through the eyes of a beleaguered woman trying to start over. Wendy Lindstrom is in top form with her latest Grayson gold. " —Harriet Klausner
KISSING IN THE DARK
Recipient of Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award and a Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award nominee.
by Wendy Lindstrom
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
Note: This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Though it contains incidental references to actual people and places, these references are merely to lend the fiction a realistic setting. All other names, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
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 Str
eet. “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.
Wendy Lindstrom Page 1