Loving Linsey (3 page)

“So you're just going to accept it as your lot,” Addie accused.

Linsey hitched up one shoulder and sighed.
“I don't see that I have much choice. We all turn up our toes sooner or later. It's inevitable. I figure that maybe I'm luckier than most—at least I've been given warning. You know, time to prepare, to make a few arrangements, to do some things I've always wanted to do but never got around to. . . .”

Addie stared at her as if she had rats crawling in her hair.

“I've been giving this a lot of thought.” Linsey rose from the bed and strode to her rosewood vanity. From the middle drawer she withdrew a folded sheet of paper, secured with a wax seal in the shape of a clover. “And I've decided that three months isn't very long to make a difference, but I want to try.”

She returned to the bed, pulled an unresisting Addie down beside her, and held out the paper. “With your help.”

Reluctantly Addie took the note Linsey handed her. “What's this?”

“Well, it occurred to me that I have not done one memorable thing in my life—or at least, nothing I especially want to be remembered for.” The realization had hit home during Bleet's graveside service yesterday morning. An hour of listening to Reverend Simon praise the wheelwright's many virtues had been torture. A stark reminder that one day between now and the end of the year, her neighbors would be gathering around her grave and reciting psalms . . . but little more. Bleet had been remembered for his kindness, his generosity, his honesty . . . what would she be remembered for?

Considering some of the colorful scrapes she'd gotten herself into over the years, the idea didn't bear imagining.

But one thing had become clear: she couldn't just sit around waiting for the hatchet to fall.

Gesturing toward the paper, Linsey said, “I've made a list of things I want to do in the time I've got left.”

Addie broke the seal with her fingernail, unfolded the paper, and read, “Make amends to someone I have wronged. Bring a life into the world to replace the one I'm leaving behind. Never tell another lie?”

“I want to be remembered for my honesty.”

She continued silently reading the items Linsey had painstakingly scribed in the deep hours of the night:
Go on an adventure. Do something I have never done before. Make a difference in someone's life. Contribute something lasting to the community . . .

Finished, Addie carefully refolded the paper. “This is quite a list.”

“I know.” Linsey couldn't remember everything she'd written, but by the time she'd been through, she'd filled all of one page and half of another. “Will you help me?”

Addie jerked to her feet and strode to the window. For a long time she said nothing. She simply stood there with her arms around her middle, looking vulnerable and lost, so much like the little girl who had come to live at Briar House so many years ago.

Oh, Lordy, she'd known Addie would take the news hard. She'd always been the more
sensitive of the two, which, Linsey supposed, accounted for why she herself sought so desperately to remain calm, composed, and collected now. To be strong for Addie. The two of them had been like bread and butter since they were five years old, when Linsey's father and Addie's mother sent Addie here to live. She'd been such a shy and withdrawn little creature then, with hair like sunshine and somber olive-brown eyes too big for her face—so opposite from Linsey, who had inherited her father's vibrant coloring and zest for adventure.

Where had all the time gone?

It seemed like just yesterday that she and Addie had gotten caught stealing a rabbit from the local butcher so it wouldn't end up in the stewpot. Then there had been the summer they decided to “cure” Addie of her fear of heights by jumping off the rocks at Turtle Point—it had taken Addie's broken leg six weeks to mend.

Images continued to roll through Linsey in a bittersweet wave. Tea parties at two in the morning. Skinny dipping in the minister's pond. Linsey's first kiss from that awful Harvey boy. They'd practically scrubbed her lips off her face, trying to get rid of the taste. And the day Addie got her teaching certificate—how they'd celebrated by eating so much ice cream that they'd emptied their stomachs on Daisy and Maisy Bender's front porch.

When Addie's sorrow-filled gaze lifted to hers, Linsey knew she'd been remembering, too.

“What am I supposed to do when you're gone?” she whispered. “Who will I turn to at the end of a trying day? Who will help me plan my schedules, sit with me in church, and spin dreams under the clouds?”

Unshed tears scalded the back of Linsey's eyes. “Oh, Addie . . .”

She pushed herself off the coverlet and met her sister at the window. Together they stared out over the yard, where a line of shedding cedars marked the back property line, and the broadleaf sweet gums displayed a riot of burnt orange and gold. Vibrantly feathered blue jays and cardinals dived from the branches, then soared up again in a spectacular aerial performance. In spite of the burst of color outside the window, the waning afternoon remained as drab and dreary as gray wool, matching their mood.

“I never thought anything could ever come between us,” Addie said.

Linsey swallowed. A lump the size of Texas slid down her throat. “Me either.” Forcing a bright note to her voice, she chimed, “Look at it this way; I'm not dead yet. I have until the year is out—that gives us three good months together.”

“At best.”

The softly spoken words made Linsey's heart constrict. “Yes. At best.”

Silently their heads tilted into each other. Temple pressed against temple. Hands clasped in a plea for strength and courage.

Linsey wished she could find words of wisdom.
Of comfort. But there was nothing left to say.

“I love you, Linsey-woolsey.”

The childhood nickname nearly shattered her flagging composure. “I love you, too, Addie.”

A chilly draft roused Linsey from sleep the next morning. Keeping her eyes closed, she lay still, relishing the breath of October air against her skin. For as long as she lived—be it days or months—she'd not take the sensation for granted again.

The hard part was over, though: telling Addie. They'd stayed up half the night, whispering, reminiscing, planning . . .

Lordy, she had to stop these melancholy thoughts—she had a list to carry out! Kicking her feet from beneath the thick quilt, Linsey tugged her nightrail so the satin folds fell about her ankles. She still wasn't sure how she'd accomplish each task she'd set for herself, but lying abed simply wasted time, and that was not a commodity she had in excess. Surely opportunities would present themselves, if only she looked. They certainly wouldn't come flying through the window into her lap!

That image made her giggle as she crossed the polished oak floor to stoke the embers in the fireplace. No sounds of stirring came from the next room. Addie undoubtedly slept on. Linsey hated to wake her, but school couldn't start without the teacher.

She rapped against the wall that separated their bedrooms. “Addie, time to get up.”

“I'm awake.”

Assured by the drowsy, muffled reply, Linsey chose a high-necked, black-and-burgundy striped day dress from her wardrobe, then stripped out of her nightgown, tossing it over a chair on her way to the bureau. Lucky trinkets littered the surface: seashells, a Liberty Lady coin, a piece of coal from the first mine of the area.

Her gaze lit on the daguerreotype of her parents. She brushed her fingers along the silver frame. Her father looked as dashing as a knight of old in his calvary uniform. He was a burly man with dark blue eyes, a shock of flame-colored hair, and muttonchop whiskers. Standing beside him with a dainty hand resting on his broad shoulder, her mother represented the epitome of a refined Southern belle. No doubt men of all ages had been swept away by Genevieve's wild black curls and striking green eyes. But she'd chosen Lyle Gordon, the son of a neighboring cotton farmer. They'd married before the War Between the States broke out and Linsey had been born soon after.

When the war ended, Major Lyle Gordon had transferred his commission out West. Mother thought a formal education and stable environment would be better for Linsey than the harshness of military life, so they'd left her in Aunt Louisa's care. Six months later, Genevieve had been stricken down with fever.

Linsey thought her father would come for
her after her mother died. Instead he married again, a young widow named Evelyn Witt who not only supported his military career, she gloried in it—so much so that her only child, a little girl Linsey's age, had arrived on Aunt Louisa's doorstep the very next spring. To this day, Lyle and Evelyn remained in Indian territory.

Would they miss her? Maybe a little, Linsey decided. She knew her father and stepmother loved her, for they came to visit as often as her father's duties allowed. They simply loved each other more.

As the downstairs chime sounded the half hour, Linsey pulled away from the picture before her thoughts turned maudlin. “Addie, you best hurry or you'll be late for school,” she called.

Seconds later, Addie's voice sounded from the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for my lucky earbobs.”

“Too little, too late if you ask me,” she grumbled.

“It's never too late for good luck.” Even in her case. And now she needed all the good luck she could garner. “Aha, here they are!” Finding the pair of rubies buried at the bottom of her jewelry chest, she attached them to her ears, only to stop at the sight of her sister. Her eyes were swollen and red, her complexion paler than normal.

“For the love of Gus, Addie, you can't go to school looking like that! What will your students think if they see you looking like you've tussled with a beehive? Come over
here and let me put some cold cloths on your face.”

Compliantly Addie allowed Linsey to guide her to the stool in front of the vanity. After Linsey pressed cold, wet cloths into Addie's hands, she picked up a silver-plated brush and started working the tangles out of Addie's straight blond hair.

“Where are you running off to so early?” her sister asked.

“The orphanage. But I want to stop by the smithy first and see if Oren has any nails made. I'm giving Noah and Jenny one of my lucky horseshoes to hang in their new home after the wedding.” She didn't dare bring up the possibility that she might not be around next month for the ceremony; Addie looked as if she'd had enough distress heaped upon her.

But the mention of their childhood friend brought a sharp pang of regret. The ache remained with Linsey as she brushed Addie's long pale hair, then twisted it into a chignon at her nape. Linsey had lost count of the dreams she and Addie had shared over the last few years. Of meeting a handsome fellow, marrying in a double ceremony, and building homes side by side so they'd never be apart. . . .

Linsey sighed. Now she would never know the bliss of married life. Even if she did find her true love before she departed this world, she couldn't in all good conscience marry a man who would barely be a groom before she made him a widower.

With Addie's hair tended to, Linsey took her place in front of the mirror so Addie could
style her unruly red tresses. Yes, unfortunately, it was too late for her to find wedded bliss.

Linsey stilled.
But it wasn't too late for Addie.

Her gaze shot to her sister's haggard reflection. As long as she could remember, she'd taken care of Addie. But what about when she no longer could? Who would take care of Addie when she was gone?

No one. Other than Aunt Louisa, Addie had not a soul to depend on.

Unless . . .

Of course! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? If she could find Addie someone to share her life with, then Addie might not grieve so deeply at her passing.

The more Linsey thought about finding Addie a mate, the more perfect it sounded. It would be her parting gift to her sister, to honor the friendship and companionship they'd shared over the years.

After Addie left to collect her lessons for the day, Linsey danced around the bedroom, her mood lighter now that she had a plan. She gathered her basket and gloves, mentally listing the requirements for her sister's future husband. He must be strong and capable, yet gentle and compassionate. Oh, and he must be suitably employed so that he could properly provide for Addie. Addie would have a dowry, of course, but Linsey refused to hand her sister over to some fortune-seeking scoundrel.

And children. He must get on well with children, for Addie loved them so. She always said she could have a dozen and still want more.
And books. Addie loved her books, so he must support her fondness for them.

He could never forbid Addie from teaching, either, for that was a special calling for a special woman—who deserved an equally special man.

But who?

The question echoed in her mind as she descended the staircase. The pungent aroma of fresh coffee and the sweet temptation of apple pastries lured Linsey to the sideboard in the dining room.

There was no sign of Aunt Louisa, which didn't surprise Linsey. The woman often left to visit Granny Yearling before anyone else awakened. When Addie walked into the room a few minutes later, Linsey decided that it was probably for the best that they hadn't run into her. As wan and weary as Addie looked, Aunt Louisa would surely notice something amiss, and Linsey couldn't bring herself to tell the old woman what had happened.

Telling Addie had been difficult enough.

Linsey wrapped a few pastries in a napkin while Addie grabbed her lunch basket from the kitchen. By the time they left the house, Linsey found herself in surprisingly fine spirits for a walking dead woman. The musty odor of wet earth and the sharp fragrance of wild onion rose up to mingle with the sweet perfume of her lavender toilet water. The sun had finally come out after a weekend of wicked thunderstorms, and with it, the promise of an Indian summer before the chill of winter set in. Whipped-butter clouds
drifted with lazy grace across the pale blue sky, and miniature rainbows shimmered on the surface of puddles dotting the road.