Page 25 of The Formation of Us
“Fair enough.”
“Then brace yourself, Sheriff, because you’re not going to like what I’m going to do to you.”
His scowl and grunts conveyed his pain. Sweat beaded his forehead as she bent his arm at the elbow and rotated his forearm away from his body. After stretching the deltoid and triceps muscles, she straightened his arm and slowly pushed upward, forcing his tight, unwilling muscles to stretch or tear— whatever it took to free the arm. “You’ll need to do this twice a day,” she said, holding his arm in a forced stretch. “And you need to force it a little further each time you do it.”
“I’d rather shoot myself,” he said, his teeth clamped, his jaw muscles bulging.
“Only a minute more.” She held his arm steady, then lowered it a half inch at a time, pausing each time he puffed out a pain-filled breath.
“Gads! It’s worse bringing my arm back down.”
“That’s because your muscles are contracting after a hard stretch.”
“I’m tempted to yield to Dr. Milton’s advice.”
“You’re free to do as you wish, but that’s what got you into this situation.” She lowered his arm to rest on the table beside him. “If I were you, I’d arrest him for giving bad advice that’s causing you pain and suffering.”
He rubbed his injured shoulder. “I certainly have grounds to press charges.”
“Sit up and let me rub some balm into your shoulder.”
He swung his long legs over the edge of the table and hung his head as if he’d just engaged in an exhausting battle. “I’ll never be able to stretch like this on my own.”
“You’ll have to. Coming here once a day won’t be enough.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re going to be seeing me twice a day, Mrs. Wilkins, because I need this shoulder fixed.”
She suspected he simply wanted to do more snooping, but she kept her thoughts to herself and smoothed the balm over his shoulder. She massaged gently, wanting to relax his muscles and ease the tension in his neck and shoulders.
“I can’t believe those are the same hands that were torturing me only a moment ago,” he said.
She smiled and worked the pads of her thumbs into his sore muscles. ‘Let that be a warning not to cross me.”
He laughed, and the linen slipped down his arm. A deep valley cut down the center of his back, with hard ridges rising up on either side of his spine. Sinew and muscle shifted beneath her kneading fingers. His skin was warm and smooth, and suddenly it was no longer the sheriff’s back she was treating; she was touching the body of a strong, handsome man who could joke and laugh and look at her with warmth in his eyes.
Faith’s stomach tingled with awareness, and she jerked her hands away as if his skin scalded her fingertips.
“You’ve successfully survived your first treatment, Sheriff,” she said.
He stood and faced her. The linen hung at his waist, and her gaze riveted on his broad chest. Curly dark hair swept over bulging muscle that bunched and flexed as he reached for his shirt. He slipped it over his sore left arm, then his right, then shrugged it into place.
“What time would you like me to come by this evening?” He tugged the linen from his waist and tossed it on the table. “I can’t stretch without your help,” he reminded her.
She picked up the towel and scrubbed the balm and oils off her hands. “Nine o’clock would be best for me, if it’s not too late for you. I like to put Cora to bed myself, and I’d rather do this when she’s not here.”
“I have plenty of chores to keep me busy until then, so nine o’clock is fine—unless I’m needed somewhere. A sheriff is never officially unavailable. If I’m not here by quarter after, I won’t be coming.”
“All right.” She fiddled with the linen to divert her eyes while he buttoned his shirt. The sight of him should not leave her as breathless as an innocent girl; she was far from innocent. She and Iris had massaged men’s bare torsos at the brothel, but not one of them was as handsome or intriguing as the sheriff. She had quickly culled out the nasty, groping men, and gained a small group of regular and somewhat respectful customers. That’s how she’d met Jarvis Powell, and though he’d paid her a small fortune, he’d left her soul impoverished.
Still, Faith hadn’t worked as a prostitute. She’d lived out back in a one-room, one-bed shack with Adam and Cora. Faith’s mother had lived there, too, but spent most of her time sleeping, or in the brothel earning money. And except for buying books and plants, Faith had saved every dime she earned, vowing to help her mother escape the place and buy their dream house with a porch and a rose garden.
But her mother’s death had left Faith to pursue that dream alone. Now it seemed the only way she could give Adam and Cora a comfortable home was to use the skills she learned at the brothel. So here she was, this time treating women—and one man—who would appreciate her skill, but not understand the value of it.
She could accept that, if she had to. What she couldn’t accept was her natural but foolish attraction to the sheriff. He was too smart, too curious about her business and her past. A man like him would dig until he got to the truth. And when he found it, she was afraid he would evict her and her family from his town faster than she could open her mouth to beg for mercy.
Chapter 8
“Why are we going to church?” Cora asked, as Faith stopped in the sun-washed Common.
