Page 5 of The Formation of Us

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.

Chapter 2

Faith didn’t want her not-so-innocent little brother party to her lies, so she touched Adam’s shoulder and nodded for him to leave. “Go see that Cora doesn’t lose the sheriff’s handcuffs,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Adam headed toward the back of the greenhouse, leaving Faith with Sheriff Grayson—a man she did not want to be alone with.

His powerful body was overwhelming, but it was the close inspection the ruggedly handsome sheriff was giving her that completely unnerved her. If she wasn’t careful with this man, he would see through her thin veil of pretense to the hard, ugly truth no one could know.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Dearbo—oh . . . oh my, how rude of me not to have introduced myself.” She stuck out her trembling hand. “I’m Faith Wilkins.” A necessary lie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff Grayson.”

“Likewise.” He closed his long, warm fingers around her hand, making her stomach flutter. “I’m sorry about your tragic loss.”

She pulled free of his firm grip and curled her fingers into her palms, hiding her green fingernails. “Are you in pain, Sheriff?” she asked, noticing that he’d been rubbing his shoulder.

He lowered his hand as if she’d caught him revealing an unpardonable weakness. “Just a sore muscle,” he said, but she suspected it would take far more than muscle pain to bother an obviously strong man like the sheriff.

He surveyed the greenhouse, then returned his scrutiny to her. “What exactly do you do here, Mrs. Wilkins?”

“I grow herbs, vegetables, and flowers.”

“Adam tells me you’re a healer.”

“Adam is a boy who overstates the importance of things. I make healing balms and teas from my plants. Simple as that, Sheriff. If you’d care to sample them firsthand, I have a balm that might ease the pain in your shoulder.” The sooner she could appease his curiosity the sooner he would leave. And the sooner her heart would stop hammering in her chest.