Loving Linsey (28 page)

“Is it absurd?” Addie asked softly.

He turned on Addie. “Don't tell me you believe that drivel!”

She hesitated, once again torn between a lifetime of habit and an onslaught of practicality. Finally she shook her head. “It doesn't matter what I believe.”

“Damned if it doesn't! If you believe it, then you're as daft as she is. And if you don't, then why in the hell aren't you doing something to convince her otherwise?”

“Because it isn't that simple, Daniel! You, of all people, must know how opinionated she can be. Once she gets her mind set on something, a wedge and hammer couldn't pry it loose.”

Linsey's strength of conviction was a trait Addie had clung to for years. Often she'd envied Linsey the ability to stand firm, no matter what windstorm swept through her life. Only recently had Addie begun to see that Linsey's strongest virtue could also be her deepest flaw.

And Addie's most indomitable foe.

Suddenly weary, she slipped the hat pin out of the back of the net-and-felt concoction perched on her head, removed the hat, then
lowered herself to the step above Daniel, far enough away that his aftershave would not send her into a fit of sneezing. “Look, the truth is, I don't know what to believe. Sometimes there will be a sign, and something wonderful or terrible will happen. But other times, good fortune comes my way with no warning. But Linsey . . . there is no doubt in her. She honestly believes she will not survive beyond the end of the year.”

“Because her mother died?”

“Because her mother died after seeing her reflection in a mirror at the wake of her husband's commanding officer. Three months later, she was stricken down with the cholera.”

The tight set of his jaw an indication his cynicism, Daniel squinted into the glare of morning sun that cast an amber glow across the autumn-kissed landscape.

At length, Addie softly told Daniel, “I think that deep down, Linsey feels that there was something she could have done to change things, some way she could have prevented it—or at least been prepared for it.”

“Where'd she get a fool notion like that?”

“A combination of things, I suppose. Coincidence, Aunt Louisa, her own fanciful imagination.”

“Cholera wiped out entire settlements—there is no way to prepare for that.”

“But Linsey needs to control things, and divining the signs is a way that she can feel as if she has some power.”

“And that includes trying to get you and me married.”

Addie sighed. It registered that this was the first actual conversation she'd ever had with Daniel, and the fact that it was getting them nowhere only confirmed her belief that he and she would never make a good match. But now that the truth was out, and Linsey's secret in the open, Daniel at least had a right to an explanation.

“My father died when I was very young. Three, maybe four. He'd been bitten by a snake while collecting wood. We'd lived in Kansas then—at the end of the world, my mother used to say. Sometimes months would pass before we saw another living soul. She said she could endure the solitude for my father's sake, but after he was gone . . . well, she didn't have it in her.

“Then one day, the cavalry passed across our land. My mother literally got down on her knees and begged them to take us. That's how she met Linsey's father. Fell head over heels at first sight, she says, but I think she was just lonely, and scared—at first, anyway. As the years went on, they found love with each other. Their existence revolves around each other. It leaves little room for anyone else—even their daughters.

“Linsey and I are all each other has had since we were five years old. She's determined to see that I have someone to take care of me when she's gone, since Aunt Louisa won't be around forever. Linsey's convinced you are the person I need to help me get through my grief.”

“But there won't
be
any grief,” Daniel argued, “because there won't be any death.”

Addie lifted her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Haven't you heard a word I've said?”

“I've heard, but beliefs can change.”

Good heavens, he was as bad as Linsey! “Linsey's beliefs won't change just because you say they should. They're too ingrained in her.”

“That's why we have to prove to her that all these crazy signs she puts so much store by are nothing but folklore.”

Addie went still, the words igniting the first spark of hope since the day Linsey had told her the news. If Linsey could be persuaded to put aside her notions—or at the very least, doubt them—then maybe there was still a chance for all of them to seize happiness. “How, Daniel? How can we prove it?”

“Hell, I don't know. I'm a doctor, not a magician. I've never dealt with anything like this.”

Slowly, a bright smile spread across her face. “But I know who has.”

Addie didn't understand how she kept getting involved in these plots. First with Linsey, now with Daniel. All she'd ever really wanted was to be a part of something outside herself, to love somebody, to be loved in return. To know that she meant something. What that something was, she couldn't name, but watching and dreaming of Daniel had been the closest she'd ever come to finding it.

Until Oren.

Even that was doomed, though, negated by a promise she'd made to the one person who'd ever been loyal and true to her.

Unless she took charge of the situation and helped Daniel prove Linsey wrong. And the best person to help them was the one person who understood Linsey better than anyone.

It took them an hour to track down Aunt Louisa. They found her at Granny Yearling's house, a tiny clapboard structure on an offshoot road behind the church.

“Now remember, let me do the talking,” Addie said as they waited for someone to answer their knock.

“What will you say?”

“I don't know yet, but Aunt Louisa's faith in superstition is almost equal to Linsey's, so we must be very careful that we don't cause her any distress.”

The door opened a second later.

As she and Daniel stepped inside, the place reminded her of an open hope chest with a hundred year's worth of memories crammed into one little cubicle. Every available surface was cluttered with memorabilia, doilies, lamps, quilts, figurines, miniature tea sets, embroidery hoops, picture frames, and wall sconces of brass, silver, and copper . . .

It made a person dizzy just looking at it all.

They sat on the edge of a thick-cushioned sofa crowded with pillows and dolls. Aunt Louisa and Granny Yearling sat across from them, Granny's hearing horn propped idle on
a table beside her, the pipe in her mouth puffing smoke like a steam engine.

Daniel kept to his word and let Addie do all the talking. It amazed her as much as it appeared to amaze him that not only could she actually say so many words in his presence, but that she could spin them into a coherent tale.

“This . . . friend,” Aunt Louisa hedged when Addie finished, “you say he looked into a mirror at a wake?”

Addie didn't bother correcting Aunt Louisa's error in the friend's gender—the less chance she might associate with Linsey, the better. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh, dear, then he is surely doomed.”

“Bah, superstitions,” Granny scoffed with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Bunch of horse patooey if you ask me.”

“You don't believe there is any danger in looking in a mirror, Granny?”

“The only danger is the simple act of looking into one.”

“What do you mean?” Daniel asked.

“When a body looks into a mirra, most times they see who they want to be and not who they truly are.”

Daniel leaned forward and tapped his fingertips together. “One of the things I've discovered, though, is if someone believes very strongly in something, they can actually will it to happen.”

“Well. Then that person needs to find something worth living for,” Granny grumbled.

Louisa's face became animated. “You know,
Granny, you may be on to something there. What if . . .” Her shoulders slumped. “No, it would never work. The power of mirrors is simply too strong.”

Daniel and Addie both straightened.

“What is it Aunt Louisa?” Addie asked. “Even a slim chance of saving our friend is better than no chance at all.”

“Well, if a woman is made to feel beautiful, she becomes beautiful to herself. If a weak man is made to feel strong, he will begin to see his own strength. Perhaps fate can be conquered in the same manner: combat the power of one belief by pitting it against a stronger, more powerful belief.”

“How?” Daniel asked.

“That, dear boy, is something you will have to discover for yourself.”

For the first time in many years, Daniel had a craving for a healthy dose of Cooter Hobart's special brew, but he wound up settling for the next best thing—whatever Rusty had on the shelf. Louisa and her cryptic goddamn messages: pit the power of one belief against another. What kind of horse shit was that?

He shook his head as he strode into the saloon that evening. The whole thing was just too damned much to take in. Linsey's manipulation, her confession, his own turbulent emotions. . . .

Catching sight of Jarvis at the far end of the bar, Daniel shouldered his way through a fog of cigar smoke, whiskey fumes, and bodies that smelled of stale sweat and painted
women. The Rusty Bucket was full to the brim, unusual for a Friday night, until he overheard a few crusty cowpokes regaling others with tales of their recent trail drive. Not too many of those going on anymore; this part of the country was heading for the winter lull.

“Howdy, Doc,” Jarvis greeted when Daniel bellied up to the bar next to him. “What the hell did you do to rile Potter?”

“Didn't know I did anything.”

Jarvis jerked his thumb over his shoulder, then downed a shot. “He's been sittin' over there all afternoon planning your funeral.”

Daniel spotted Oren, alone at a table in the middle of the room. “Guess I better find out why.” He swiped the glass of whiskey the barkeep had poured him, then ambled to where Oren sat. He looked like hell, slump-shouldered and stinking to high heaven. “This seat taken?”

He lifted his head. Bleary blue eyes went sharp as nails. “Go away, Doc Jr. I ain't normally a violent man, but right now I'm itchin' to shove your ass through a brick wall.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You stole the only woman I ever loved!”

Daniel reared back in surprise. He couldn't mean
Linsey.

“How'd you do it? Did you smile at her? Women are always falling all over themselves for your smile.”

“I think there's been a mistake, Potter.”

“Your intentions—are they honorable?”

“I don't have any intentions, honorable or otherwise.”

“You son of a—you're toying with her?”

Daniel took a step back. Only a fool wouldn't put some distance between himself and a charging bull. Daniel didn't consider himself a small man by any means, but compared to Oren, he was downright puny. He'd seen what Oren in a temper could do to a room. “Whoa there, pal . . .”

An iron finger jabbed Daniel in the solar plexus. “Don't tell me ‘whoa'; I ain't a dad-blamed horse. And don't call me pal, either. A friend wouldn't fool with a friend's lady.”

“I didn't know you had your cap set for anyone.”

“Well, I did. But she loves you. And a woman's feelings are fragile, so you better treat her with honor and respect or I'll rip you in half.”

Before Daniel could defend himself, Oren stalked out of the saloon, slamming the batwing doors so hard that one hit the wall and fell off its hinges. What in the Sam Hill was that all about?

Slowly Daniel became aware that every eye in the place had turned onto him. He lifted his hands away from his sides and barked, “What?”

A few eyes blinked. Someone snickered.

“I'm not compromising anyone, hear?”

With a snort of disgust, he seized his glass and tossed the whiskey down his throat. Maybe Linsey was right to think she was going to die.

Right now, Daniel wanted nothing more than to strangle her.

A horse with a single white stocking is considered lucky, while a horse with four white feet is considered unlucky.

W
ith a frustrated sigh, Linsey stabbed the quill into its stand and raked her fingers through her hair. Her Last Will and Testament lay spread out to dry in front of her. Her inheritance would be split equally between Addie and Aunt Louisa, after a large portion was divided between the church, the school, and Jenny's orphanage. Addie could have whatever personal belongings she wanted, with the rest being donated to whomever she deemed appropriate. Linsey just couldn't find the energy to care anymore.

Beckoned by a chattering outside the library window, she lowered her hands and watched a pair of mockingbirds dive to the ground, then swoop back into the branches of a silver-leaf maple with their prize. She listened to them bicker and imagined them standing beak
to beak, feathers ruffled, each claiming the branch for their own.

Much the same way she and Daniel did.

She should be furious at him for the way he had ridiculed her yesterday—she
was
furious at him. And she wished now that she hadn't told him her secret. If it hadn't been for her vow of honesty, she wouldn't have told him. But she'd been skirting the edges of that promise over the last month, and when he'd all but cornered Addie with his demands of the truth, she'd been left with no choice but to tell him the dreadful news.

And what had he done? Laughed at her.

She might have reveled in the rare sound of it, might have been overjoyed that she'd found something to crack that frigid facade of his. Not when it was at the expense of the most tragic event of her life, though.