Page 32 of The Formation of Us

“It’s inappropriate, Sheriff. We’re just partners in healing your shoulder.”

“I like the partners part.”

Lord, there was nothing to do but get this over with as quickly as possible. She slipped her fingers around his wrist and lifted his arm at the elbow to form a right angle. “I need to stretch your muscles while they’re warm and relaxed.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “All right. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

She worked silently and slowly, wincing when he grunted, biting her lip when she saw perspiration bead on his forehead, battling her own tears when the corners of his eyes grew moist from pain. She rotated his forearm to the side, and returned it slowly. Then she straightened his arm and lifted it above his head, pressing and pushing his stiff muscles to stretch until neither of them could bear it a moment longer. With her breath held, she lowered his arm in tiny increments, sighing with relief when she finally laid his arm to rest beside him.

His broad chest shuddered as he exhaled, but his eyes remained closed and he didn’t move.

She spooned balm into her hand and warmed it in her palms before smoothing the thick ointment over the front of his shoulder. With gentle strokes, she rubbed it down his biceps muscle to his elbow and forearm. The tension in his body ebbed slowly away, his breathing growing less ragged as she walked her fingertips across his muscles.

“Roll over, Sheriff, and I’ll do your back.”

He didn’t say a word, didn’t open his eyes, didn’t even argue about his name. He just rolled onto his good arm and over onto his stomach, twisting the linen around his waist—and leaving his firm buttocks in full view of her greedy eyes.

Did he realize . . . ? Had he done this on purpose?

Faith whisked a linen off the dwindling stack, snapped it open, and draped it over the enticing distraction. He wasn’t the first undressed male she’d seen, but he was by far the most affecting. Her hands were sweating!

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice muffled in the scrunched linens.

“I’m getting more balm,” she said, but her heart pounded so hard her voice quaked. Would he feel her trembling?

She slathered the ointment over his broad back and forced her thoughts to the methodical process of weeding her garden, one section at a time, one plant at a time. She kneaded his muscles and imagined her hands working the soil. The scent of herbs, oils, and resins rose from the bath and his damp skin. She pressed the heels of her palms at the base of his spine and pushed them up his back as if she were creating furrows for seeding.

He moaned low in his throat. She hesitated.

“Did that hurt you?”

“It felt even better than the bath.”

A smile tugged her lips. “I knew you’d like it.”

“This or the bath?”

“The bath.”

“I did. But your hands feel better.”

She had no idea how to respond without encouraging or offending him, so she kept silent.

“Where did you learn to do this?”

“In my garden,” she said, uncertain if his question was sincere interest or intentional probing. “Working muscles is similar to working the soil. Planting and weeding take patience and practice. After a while your hands learn what to do without needing instruction from your brain.”

“Thank God you’re not a blacksmith who manipulates iron with fire and hammers.”

His analogy made her laugh. “Do your brothers have your unique sense of humor?”

“Unique?”

“Teasing. A bit cryptic. Sometimes a tad odd.”

His lips quirked. “I preferred unique.”

“Then you shouldn’t have asked me to clarify.”