Page 54 of The Formation of Us

In all the years Faith had known Iris, no man had ever left her speechless. Until now. Until this stranger brazenly leaned in her door with that honest face and those blue eyes that declared Iris his even before asking her name.

He tilted his head. “Are you not telling me your name for any particular reason?”

Iris lifted her chin, but Faith could see her aunt was rattled. “I’m Iris Wilde— with an ‘e’.”

He chuckled, “Well, Iris Wilde with an ‘e’, are you married?”

“I’ve never found a man worth marrying.”

“Well, you’ve found him now, Miss Wilde. I’m Patrick Lyons. I suppose you’ll want to be courted before we marry?”

Faith nearly gasped aloud. What a rascal!

But Iris seemed to like his too-forward outrageous manner, because she laughed. “Mr. Lyons, what are you delivering to my door other than blarney?”

He glanced at Faith, then leaned closer. “It’s Pat, or Patrick, if you prefer. I have a delivery for Faith Wilkins.”

Faith lowered her lashes, embarrassed that she’d been shamelessly eavesdropping. But with that heated introduction, how could she not?

“Oh . . . of course,” Iris said, but Faith heard the disappointment in her voice. She obviously liked the man and enjoyed his flirting. Too much, by Faith’s measure. Iris had promised to behave herself, but that promise had flown on the wind the minute Patrick Lyons had come knocking.

Faith waited for someone to speak to her, but the odd silence made her lift her head. Both Iris and Patrick were gone.

Ridiculously curious, she went to the door. To her shock, a wagon stacked five feet high with lumber was being backed toward the house by a team of the biggest horses she’d ever seen. When the driver stopped the wagon near the door, she ducked back inside.

Patrick came in carrying an armload of planks, followed by Iris, who was swinging her hips like she used to do at the brothel.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Patrick said with a nod at Faith. “Mind if I use this empty corner?”

“I’m Mrs. Wilkins, and I didn’t order lumber,” Faith said.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wilkins, but Sheriff Grayson said to deliver it here.”

“You know the sheriff?”

“He and his brothers are my best friends.” Patrick nodded to the corner. “Mind if I put this down before I strain something important?”

Iris laughed. “Go ahead. That corner has been lacking something from the day we moved in.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I like you, Iris Wilde with an ‘e’.”

“Likewise, Mr. Lyons.” She gave him a flirtatious smile that made Faith’s heart hammer with fear. What on earth was Iris thinking? Flirting with a stranger, especially a man who knew the sheriff, was appallingly inappropriate.

Another similarly dressed man carried in an armload of fresh-smelling wood. He stood three inches shorter than Patrick, who Faith estimated at nearly six feet, and was lean with sinewy forearms and a weathered face that suggested he was at least forty.

“This is Cyrus Darling,” Patrick said, pausing to introduce him to Faith and Iris.

The man set down the wood then tipped his cap to greet them.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Darling,” Faith said.

Iris gave a pleasant nod, but a smile broke across her red lips and she winked at Faith. “I can just hear Tansy greeting Mr. Daaahlin’.”

“Hell of a name for a man to be stuck with,” Cyrus said, “but I’ve owned it for forty-five years and suppose I can survive a few more years of taunts and grins.” The man radiated kindness and a quiet serenity that told Faith he was not only comfortable being alone, he preferred it.

“Why, Mista Daaahlin’ sounds like a perfectly handy name to me,” Iris said, mimicking Tansy’s southern drawl, and horrifying Faith. “Cyrus, dahlin’, thank you for carrying in that wood. If I were your wife, dahlin’, I’d tell you to forget the wood and give me some sugar.”

Pat’s hoot, and Cyrus’s chuckle, interrupted Iris’s performance, but Faith stewed. Her aunt had promised to act like a lady, but here she was flirting like a prostitute with not one but two men!