Wendy Lindstrom

by Kissing in the Dark

  Faith stood in her makeshift kitchen, proudly dishing up a hearty beef stew she’d made for supper. The meal had diminished her meager earnings but contributed to her pride. Claire and Anna brought three warm loaves of bread and two blueberry pies to complete the meal.

  Faith handed a bowl of stew to Claire, who carried it to her husband. Intrigued by their relationship, Faith lowered the ladle in the pot and watched them. Claire Grayson playfully lifted a spoonful of stew to her husband’s gorgeous mouth. Boyd devoured her with his eyes as he accepted her offering, and Faith could see that he didn’t just lust after his beautiful wife, he loved her deeply and passionately, and didn’t care who could see it. Radford and Kyle were the same way with their wives.

  Faith’s life had provided endless examples of lust, but not one example of love, so when Claire returned to the kitchen Faith longed to ask her what marriage was like. But she also feared the question might be too personal, and that asking would reveal too much about herself.

  Dahlia placed a stack of pie plates on the counter next to Claire. “How can you breathe with your husband’s gaze gobbling you up like a dish of cream?” she asked.

  Claire smiled. “I gave up breathing the moment I met him.”

  “You mean after you shot his window out,” Anna commented with a soft laugh. The woman’s shy, hesitant manner made Faith feel protective of her. She seemed afraid to relax, as if she was always waiting and watching for some unseen danger.

  “Is that true?” Dahlia asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Boyd owned a noisy tavern across the street from my boarding house, which we now live in,” Claire said. “His wretched saloon was ruining my business, so I dragged my grandmother’s revolver outside in hopes of convincing him to shut the place down. I accidentally shot out his window.”

  “And when that didn’t work,” Anna added, “she led a band of temperance women against him.”

  Dahlia lifted her water glass in a toast. “I’d be proud to call you my sister.”

  Claire’s smile faded. “It was a bad idea, Dahlia. I wanted to protect my business, and stop men from beating their wives and children, but I caused more harm than good. Men lost their jobs, Boyd’s beautiful bar was destroyed, and three men got shot. Duke was forced to kill a man because of my marches.”

  An icy feeling rushed through Faith. Duke was the sheriff. It shouldn’t have surprised her that his job had forced him to kill a man. But it unnerved her to know he’d taken a life, and terrified her that he might be forced to face his own death in the line of duty. He was rock solid, though, and she could depend on him to make the hard choice if he ever faced Judge Stone.

  “Men who beat women should be castrated,” Dahlia said. “I commend you for facing down those men, and I’d gladly join your marches if you were still doing it.”

  “The temperance union still marches, Dahlia, but Anna and I believe it’s more helpful for us to offer a woman and her children a safe place to stay until she can make more suitable living arrangements.”

  “So do I,” Dahlia said, her eyes lit with passion. “When I was seventeen, I saw a women beaten by her husband, begging a minister for help. He told her to be more obedient and sent her home. I vowed then and there to . . . to never marry.”

  Anna picked up two empty plates and held them near the pie Claire was cutting. “I don’t blame you, Dahlia. If I ever get a divorce from Larry, I’ll spend the rest of my life unmarried.”

  “Never say never.” Claire scooped out a slice of pie and slid it onto a plate. “I swore I would never marry again, and I didn’t think I could have children,” she said. “But here I am with a husband and two boys I love and adore. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be happy?” Dahlia looked across the room to where Boyd was working, hammer in hand, his shirtsleeves rolled up muscled forearms, his dark, handsome profile too perfect for words. “If a man like your husband ever knocks on my door, I’ll marry him before he can ask for directions.”

  Claire and Anna laughed, their warmth and kindness soothing the rawness in Faith’s heart.

  An echo of laughter came from the other side of the room, and they turned to see Patrick dancing Iris through the studded wall of the bedroom he’d just finished framing. Faith sighed and decided to let Iris off the hook. Although she’d flirted with Patrick all week, she’d maintained acceptable behavior for Cora’s and Adam’s benefit. And for her own.

  Iris wouldn’t admit it, but she’d finally met her match. Patrick Lyons was outrageous enough to keep her off balance.

  And Tansy certainly enjoyed flirting with Cyrus. Mr. Darling was a quiet man, and acted with utmost decorum, but his eyes followed Tansy like she was an exotic butterfly in a field of wildflowers. Tansy’s airy southern sweetness charmed the man, and the dazed look on his face said he was a goner.

  Faith was too. Duke was temptation itself. Every treatment on his shoulder put them alone together and thrust temptation in her path. Every charming half-smile, every teasing wink from his thick-lashed eyes, every scorching kiss and touch of his strong hands drew her closer to his flame. And that heat built between them the following week as he and the men finished framing up her house.

  But Faith wasn’t the only one craving Duke’s attention. Adam hung on Duke’s every word, trying his hand at carpentry, beaming when Duke praised him, letting Duke teach him skills a father should teach his son.

  Faith wanted Duke to be the one who guided Adam into manhood—and for him to guide her into becoming a wife and mother to their children.

  Chapter 18

  Adam left his kicking-stone by the greenhouse and hurried out onto Liberty Street. Sheriff Grayson had a rowboat stashed in the gorge behind the house he shared with his mother, and he’d told Adam they could take it out today—after Adam apologized to Faith. So Adam had told Faith he was sorry, and she’d forgiven him as she always did; but her forgiveness only made him feel worse. He would never lie to her, or to anyone, again.

  As he walked past Rebecca’s house, he saw her family in the front yard under the huge oak tree. Rebecca’s father was on his knees straddling William, who was calling for help. A little boy ran across the yard with a wild whoop, and jumped on Mr. Grayson’s back. “Got you, Daddy!” he cried.

  Rebecca’s dad gave a loud grunt and fell to his side. Adam huffed out a quiet laugh. It would take a man the sheriff’s size or bigger to knock over Mr. Grayson.

  “Help us, Becca!” the little boy yelled, clamping his arms around his dad’s neck.

  Rebecca dashed across the yard, her pretty black hair bouncing across her back. Adam’s heart cartwheeled, and he stopped to watch. He hunched down and braced his elbows in the tumble of morning glory vines that flowed like a waterfall over the stone fence.

  Rebecca planted her foot on her father’s stomach. “Unhand my brothers, you ogre.”

  Her dad lunged upward and grabbed Rebecca’s waist, making her screech as he pulled her into the fray.

  “Get her, Dad!” William yelled.

  Rebecca swatted at her brother. “You little turncoat,” she said, then burst into wild laughter as her father tickled her.

  “What are the magic words?” Mr. Grayson asked.

  “I love you,” Rebecca gasped and giggled, kicking her feet.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, not letting up.

  “Yes!” She shrieked with laughter. “I love you, Daddy!”

  Her father stopped tickling, and kissed her forehead. “I love you too, sprite.”

  Mrs. Grayson planted her hands on her hips and looked at her family sprawled on the lawn. “Who is going to scrub those grass stains out of your clothes?” she asked.

  “Nobody. We’ll wear them to clean the barn.” Mr. Grayson caught his wife’s hand and pulled her down beside him, then promptly growled and bit her neck.

  Her laughter filled the yard. “You need a shave.”

  “I need a kiss.” He planted a big one right on her lips.

  Th
e boys both groaned and tried to save their father by tugging him away. Rebecca laughed and cuffed William in the head as she sprinted toward the tree.

  That’s when she saw Adam.

  She gave him a cheerful wave, but Adam was too stunned to return her greeting. He didn’t know a father wrestled with his sons and tickled his daughter and kissed his wife in the middle of the yard.

  Rebecca trotted to the fence. “Thank you for the gift,” she said, her face glowing with happiness.

  Gift? Adam had tucked a note in the stone fence for her two days ago, but he hadn’t been sure she would remember to look for one. She had suggested it the last time he’d walked her to school. But the note sure seemed to make her happy.

  Rebecca’s father was walking straight toward them with a look on his face that made Adam’s stomach queasy. “I’d better go,” he said, pushing off the fence. “I’ll leave another note when I can.”

  “Mama made some sweet tea this morning. Can you stay for a glass?”

  He shook his head. The cool look in her father’s eyes told him that he wasn’t welcome.

  Mr. Grayson put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Your mother needs help getting lunch on the table,” he said.

  Rebecca’s brows pinched in confusion, but she could only cast a worried glance at Adam before dashing into the house. Mr. Grayson sat on the fence, his manner friendly, his eyes suspicious.

  “Adam, you seem like a nice young man, but Rebecca is too young for courting.”

  “COURTing?” Adam cleared his throat. “We’re just friends, sir.”

  “A friend doesn’t leave an expensive parasol on the doorstep.”

  Adam shook his head. “Sir, I haven’t given Rebecca any gifts.”

  “Did you not leave that parasol on our doorstep for her?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Grayson nodded, but didn’t seem convinced. “Rebecca is too young to keep company with you, Adam.”

  In other words, stay away from my daughter. Adam got the message. Mr. Grayson was judging him unfairly, assuming the worst, and it made Adam want to yell at the top of his lungs so the whole world would know he was not a bad person. But he clamped his teeth against his anger, gave Rebecca’s judgmental father a curt nod, and walked away.

  Nicholas Archer was coming down the road, and shouted to him, but Adam sprinted across the apple orchard to escape the boy. He didn’t need two beatings today.

  The sheriff’s place was the next house up the road, and Adam was burning with anger when he banged on the door.

  The sheriff answered, thrust a fishing rod into Adam’s hand, then lifted a wicker hamper off the floor. “Let’s go hook some bass.” He pulled the door closed behind him, and they headed across the back yard.

  Adam trudged alongside the sheriff as they crossed a field of shin-high grass and sprawling maple trees with lime-green leaves. Birch, pine, oak, and ash trees hugged the path that cut down into the gorge. Robins and swallows swooped overhead, twittering and singing. Small animals rustled beneath the ferns and sumac bushes, and the burbling sound of water grew louder as they descended into the gorge.

  “My boat is over here,” the sheriff said, pointing to a cluster of towering pine trees. He set the basket on the grass, ducked beneath the low branches, and disappeared from sight. “Put the rod by the basket and come give me a hand.”

  Adam laid the rod aside and ducked beneath the drooping limbs of the pine tree. He found the sheriff standing in a small, shadowy cathedral in the center of the trees. Sunlight shot down in beams from the towering tops of the trees to the thick cushion of pine needles beneath his feet. The scent of pine was heavy and fragrant, and Adam knew he’d never been in a more magical place. “This is . . . I don’t even know how to explain it,” he whispered.

  The sheriff grinned. “It keeps my boat hidden so it doesn’t tempt anyone to paddle themselves into a dangerous situation.”

  “I could live here.”

  The sheriff laughed, but Adam was serious. It felt safe here.

  They carried the boat twenty feet to the creek. Adam ran back for the basket and rod, then gingerly stepped into the boat. The sheriff used the oars to push them away from the bank, then worked the paddles with long, dragging strokes that propelled them north on Canadaway Creek.

  Gliding through the water in a boat was a feeling Adam had never experienced, and he wanted to go faster, to race across the water like the wind. Trees that were perfect for climbing lined the shale and earth banks. A white, hairy dog stood with his front paws in the water, long, pink tongue lapping noisily from the creek. From the boat, everything along the banks seemed to tower above him.

  The sheriff lifted his left oar and angled it toward shore. “There’s the greenhouse,” he said.

  Adam viewed it from the back, seeing the little stone addition tucked against the huge white plank building. Faith was hanging laundry in the side yard, but from Adam’s position on the water, she looked like she was on a stage.

  “Faith!” Adam shouted, waving his hand. He wanted her to see him in the boat. “Down here,” he said, rising up so she could see him. The boat rocked up on one side, and he gripped the edge, his heart thundering from nearly flying overboard.

  The sheriff grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the bench seat he’d been sitting on. “The first lesson is to never stand up in a boat.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  The sheriff laughed. “You would have been more sorry if you had fallen in that water. It’s cold.”

  “It’s July.”

  “The water’s not warm enough for me until August.” He nodded toward shore. “Your sister has spotted us.”

  She had, and Faith was smiling. Adam waved, feeling proud.

  When she curtsied to them, the sheriff laughed.

  Adam knew Faith liked the sheriff, and that she would probably marry him if he asked her, but he didn’t care about that today. He wanted to get his hands on the oars and row the boat. They followed the creek through Fredonia, hearing talking and shouting and carriages rattling along the rutted roads. A mile out of the village, water dragons and horseflies buzzed along the banks. Birds chirped, and a woodpecker hammered a tree high above his head.

  The sheriff grimaced and paused to rub his shoulder. “I could use a rest,” he said. “Think you could row for a bit?”

  “Yes, sir!” Adam’s heart leapt as the sheriff pushed the oars into his hands. His first uneven stroke caused the boat to swing sideways. Sweat prickled beneath his shirt, but after a few awkward strokes, he got the boat heading north.

  “Now, pull evenly with both oars,” the sheriff instructed.

  It sounded easy, but Adam struggled to plunge in both oars at the same time and at the same depth. His left oar skimmed the surface and flung water across the sheriff’s face and shirt. The right oar sank deep and spun the boat sideways again. Adam waited for the sheriff to cuff him in the head for soaking him, but the man just laughed and wiped his face.

  “I did the same thing to my dad the first time he let me row his boat.”

  “REAlly?”

  “REAlly,” the sheriff said, in a squawking imitation that made Adam laugh. He grinned. “It takes some practice to get a good, even pull with both oars.”

  “I didn’t think it would be so hard,” Adam admitted, looking behind him occasionally so he wouldn’t paddle them into a bank.

  “You’re doing fine, son.”

  A strange warmth filled Adam’s chest. If the sheriff married Faith, he would be sort of like a father. Adam didn’t like the sheriff’s lectures, but it was nice having someone to show him how to frame in a room or row a boat.

  “We’re about to enter Lake Erie,” the sheriff said.

  Adam peered over his shoulder to see a vast blue-green lake of water. His stomach soared with excitement, then dove in terror. The lake was huge.

  They didn’t go far from shore, but Adam rowe
d until sweat rolled down his back and his muscles burned. When the sheriff told him to stop, he almost sighed aloud.

  Their boat drifted and bobbed on small waves while they ate delicious slabs of ham and thick slices of bread that the sheriff’s mother had packed in the wicker hamper. They shared a quart of water, then the sheriff baited the fishing hook with a fat nightcrawler. He cast the line three times to show Adam how to do it. But when Adam tried it, he failed miserably. The third time his distance was better, but he snagged the hook on the lake bottom and lost it.

  The sheriff didn’t seem to care at all. He just repaired the line and handed the rod back.

  Adam wouldn’t take it. “I’ll ruin it,” he said.

  “Adam, I’ve lost more hooks than I can count. That’s part of fishing. The first time I tried casting, I threw my father’s best fishing rod right into the lake. Sank like an anchor. I dove in after it, but the water was too deep to retrieve the rod. That’s one reason I fish close to shore.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I always tell the truth, Adam.”

  Of course he did. He was the sheriff. And he was a Grayson.

  Adam took the rod, but his mind was on Rebecca’s father when he cast the line. The hook and sinker shot over the water and landed with a soft blip six boat lengths away.

  “Nice cast,” the sheriff said, but Adam’s jaw was clenched. He didn’t know anything about a stupid parasol.

  “A fish is going to need a steam engine strapped to his tail to catch that hook you’re reeling in. Go slow and steady.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adam drew the rod up and cast the line again.

  “Something eating at you today?”

  “No, sir.” He reeled slowly, but his heart hammered. The sheriff wouldn’t be happy to learn that Adam hated his brother.

  “You remember the talk we just had about speaking honestly, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” And Adam had just vowed not to lie to anyone ever again. “I’m angry, sir, but believe me, you don’t want to know why.”