Faith’s day went from bad to disastrous. The sheriff hadn’t taken five steps inside the greenhouse before his eyes widened and he jerked to a halt. He looked from Claire, barefoot with her dress hiked to her knees, to his mother, who sat with her back hunched and her head hanging, to Evelyn, who lounged cross-legged on her pail like a queen getting a manicure.
Evelyn waved him over. “Pull up a pail, Duke. You’re just in time to hear what promises to be an interesting history of the Wilde women.”
The instant the words left Evelyn’s mouth, Faith’s aunts howled with laughter.
Under less worrisome circumstances, Faith would have appreciated the wild women pun, but to flaunt their past as if they were beyond the bounds of social etiquette was foolish. And that is exactly what Iris had done when she came up with that suggestive last name.
“Can I play with your handcuffs?” Cora asked, poking at the sheriff’s thigh.
He pulled the cuffs off his belt without looking away from his mother. “What is going on here?” he asked.
Nancy half-raised her eyelids. “I’m having one of the best moments of my life. Now sit down and let Dahlia finish her story about how these lovely ladies came to be sisters.”
Faith scooted around a flat of wintergreen and stopped before him. She tried her best to get things on her own terms once more: “I assume you’re here to report on Adam’s first day at the store, so why don’t we go outside and talk?”
o0o
Duke heard Faith’s request. But, after walking in here and finding his respectable mother and sisters-in-law looking intoxicated, he wasn’t budging from this spot even if Faith promised to lead him to her bed. He was going to stand right here beside this flat of smelly green stuff until he figured out exactly what the hell was going on. His mother looked drugged out of her head. Had these crazy women fed her some of that jimsonweed Adam mentioned?
Duke nodded to Dahlia—at least, he believed the buxom woman was Dahlia—who was rubbing Claire’s feet. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said.
Dahlia turned her attention to manipulating Claire’s toes in a way that made his own toes jealous. “I was saying that the five of us had the same father.”
His mother’s head lifted. “Five?”
Dahlia nodded. “The four of us and Rose, Faith’s mother.”
“Rose? Oh, of course.” Duke’s mother’s lips pursed as if she were holding back a smile while listening to one of her grandchildren spin a wild tale, but she waved her fingers for Dahlia to continue.
Duke shifted his gaze between his mother, who was an excellent judge of character, and Faith, whose scowl said she didn’t like Dahlia sharing this information.
“Papa first saw Rose’s mother dashing through a field of wildflowers,” Dahlia said. “Violet. She was running away from her dreadful parents.”
Faith closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Papa said Violet was a beauty beyond compare, and claimed she inspired him to lus—love—um, to marry her and plant flowers.”
Duke’s mother’s hoot startled him.
“They named their first child Rose.” Dahlia rested Claire’s foot in her lap and sat back on her heels. “For some reason Violet left Papa before they could plant any more flowers.”
Duke watched Faith brush Cora’s hair off her forehead. “Sweetheart, go see if you can find that plate of cookies,” she suggested.
“Can I eat one?”
“Yes, but wash your hands first.”
When Cora dashed down a plant-shrouded aisle, and out of earshot, her mother blocked Duke’s view of Dahlia. “I’d like to talk with you. Would you step outside with me?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said, “as soon as your aunt finishes her story.”
A sick look washed across Faith’s face, and she lowered her lashes.
“What happened to his daughter Rose?” he asked, prodding Dahlia to continue.
“She remained with Papa, which encouraged him to find a new wife fast.”
Duke frowned. “Wasn’t he still married to Violet?”
