Walking on Air

by Catherine Anderson

  No matter. Compared to his sister-in-law Loni, he had little reason to complain. At least he wasn’t fighting for his life. The thought made his heart twist, and the lump that seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the base of his throat throbbed like a toothache. He stopped to gaze across his ranch, taking in the huge taupe-colored arena that loomed over all the smaller buildings. Twenty years ago, this had been an empty piece of land, signed over to him by his father. Now, just having turned forty, Quincy saw the story of his adult life in every structure, fence post, and nail. This ranch had been his dream since childhood, but now that he’d accomplished everything he’d planned, all he felt was empty.

  Why Loni? The question had haunted his every waking moment for the past month—ever since the doctor here in Crystal Falls, Oregon, had first uttered the word leukemia and referred Loni to specialists at the Knight Cancer Institute in Portland. How was it fair that Loni had been the one stricken with such a serious illness? Quincy’s brother Clint worshipped the ground she walked on. She had two children who needed her. By comparison, no one really depended on him.

  Quincy blinked away tears and forced his feet to move again. Loni wasn’t going to die, damn it. She was young, and up until two months ago, when she’d sickened with what everyone thought was the flu, she’d been the picture of health. There were surely treatments available for whatever kind of leukemia she had. Nearly every day, people were either cured or put into remission. It was silly of him to be thinking such gloomy thoughts. And he sure as hell didn’t have time for them. Everyone else in the family except his sister, Sam, who had volunteered to care for Clint and Loni’s kids, was in Portland to lend their support, and while it was Quincy’s turn to stay here, looking after all six ranches, he had to make sure everything ran smoothly. It was a hell of a job for one man, but both Parker and Zach had been trading off with him, and he hadn’t yet heard either of them complain. He wouldn’t, either.

  Halfway to the arena, Quincy stopped to take a swig of coffee, hoping the hot slide of liquid would lessen the ache in his chest. Fat chance. He couldn’t think of Loni without struggling to breathe. When had he come to love her like a sister? At first, just being around her had given him the willies. A bona fide clairvoyant who worked closely with the FBI to locate missing children, Loni could get flashes of a person’s past, present, or future by a mere touch of hands. Like most men, Quincy had a private life, and there were certain aspects of it that he preferred not to share with anyone. It had bothered him to think that Loni might see him with a woman in an X-rated moment.

  Now, after coming to know Loni, Quincy realized that whatever she saw when they made physical contact was immediately buried deep within her. She had no desire to inflict harm or embarrassment with her gift of second sight. Over time, Quincy had stopped worrying about that. If Loni had ever seen him during an intensely private moment, she’d never let on, and he’d finally come to trust that she would never breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Clint. After that, growing to love her hadn’t been a big jump for him.

  Now it was a done deal. He could almost see her, big blue eyes dominating a heart-shaped face framed by a wealth of dark, glossy hair. Pretty. But, more important, she was every bit as sweet and dear as she appeared to be. No wonder Clint suddenly looked as if he’d been run over by a semi truck, his burnished face tinted with undertones of gray, his brown eyes, so like Quincy’s own, filled with inexpressible worry and pain. Clint adored his children, but it was Loni who was the true center of his life. Without her, how would he go on? Just thinking about it made Quincy’s stomach roil.

  Though March had finally arrived, the air was so cold it burned Quincy’s lungs when he drew a deep breath. He wished he’d thought to grab his lined Levi’s jacket before leaving the house. Icy fingers curled over his shirt collar and sent a chill crawling down his spine. From the holding sheds, he heard equines neighing and grunting, their way of calling for breakfast. The sound helped to center him and clear his head. He had animals counting on him, and he’d best kick it into high gear.

  Just as Quincy reached the berm of snow that had collected over the winter under the eaves of the arena, his cell phone emitted the sound of a horse whinnying, a tone reserved only for members of his family. As he jerked the device from his belt, he half expected to see his dad’s name on the screen. Frank had rented a hotel suite near the cancer institute, and he and his wife had been at Clint’s side ever since Loni had been admitted there. Always an early riser, Frank often buzzed Quincy to give him an update before the sun came up.

  Quincy’s pulse stuttered when he saw that the caller was Clint. “Hey, Clint,” he said. “How is she?”

  Silence. Then Clint’s voice came over the air, wobbly and hoarse. “It’s bad, Quincy. Real bad. I just talked with the team of specialists taking care of Loni.”

  Quincy had never heard Clint sound so shaken. “At this hour?” It was all Quincy could think to say—a futile attempt to sound normal when his brother’s world might be tipping off its axis. “I thought only ranchers were crazy enough to start work this early.”

  “They’re busy men, and a lot of lives are in their hands.” Clint swallowed. The sound came through to Quincy, a hollow plunk that painted a picture he didn’t want to see. “Loni has acute myelogenous leukemia, a very aggressive strain that’s often unresponsive to treatment. The doctors say they told me the name of it a while back, but apparently it went in one ear and out the other.”

  Quincy wanted to ask Clint more questions, but he sensed that his brother needed to get this said without interruption.

  “Now they’ve finally determined her AML subtype. I guess they had a devil of a time doing that—something about the AML morphology under a microscope not matching up quite right with any other cancers they’ve seen.”

  “What’re you saying, Clint—that she’s got one-of-a-kind leukemia?”

  “Something like that. By now the doctors would be willing to settle for a close match just to begin treatment. Problem is, she’s so far gone, it’s way too late for remission-induction therapy. Her platelet counts are too low for her to undergo chemo or a bone-marrow transplant.”

  “Whoa.” Quincy stepped over the pile of snow to lean a shoulder against the eastern exterior wall of the arena. Quelling rising panic, he managed, “If she’s too sick for either of those, what kind of treatment can they give her?”

  Quincy’s blood ran as cold as the crystallized air when he heard Clint sob. He could not recall ever having seen or heard his oldest brother cry as an adult. “Nothing,” Clint said brokenly. “There’s . . . nothing . . . they . . . can do. At best, they give her . . . a week or two . . . but it’ll be a miracle if she holds on that long.”

  The mug of coffee slipped from Quincy’s hand. He flinched as hot liquid slopped onto his pant leg. His brain told him to pull the drenched denim away from his skin, but he couldn’t get the message to his hands. He stared stupidly at the spray of brown on the snow. None of this was happening. It couldn’t be. Fury at what he was unable to control shot through him in a painful rush. Words blasted out of him.

  “Then we need to get her to another center! The Mayo Clinic, maybe. Samantha’s brother-in-law, Rafe Kendrick, is standing by to fly her anyplace you name. In his jet, she’ll have all the comforts of home. We can’t just let her—” Quincy couldn’t finish the sentence. “There are all kinds of treatments. Somebody, somewhere, can do something! A really good team of doctors can put her into remission. I know it.”

  “She already has a really good team of doctors, some of the best.” For several seconds, Clint rasped for breath. The sound reminded Quincy of the story he’d once read to his little sister, Sam, about a tiny train that huffed and puffed to get up a steep grade. “It’s not their fault she has some weird subtype they’ve never seen! And it’s . . . too . . . late to take her somewhere else. She . . . could . . . die during a long flight. This i
s my . . . fault, Quincy, all mine. I screwed around, thinking she had a bad case of flu. Jesus, help me. I . . . should . . . have realized! If I’d gotten her up here sooner, they might have been . . . able . . . to . . . save her. Now all they can do is give her transfusions . . . and . . . IV fluids. That helps, but it’s a short-term fix, and now she’s getting so dehydrated, they have to poke her and poke her to . . . even . . . find . . . a vein.”

  Quincy hauled in a ragged breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Focus, he ordered himself. His brother needed him to say all the right things, and his mind had gone as blank as a crashed computer screen. “Clint, no matter what happens, this isn’t your fault. You took her in to see competent doctors here. They just didn’t realize what they were dealing with at first, and we lost precious time. If you’re sure she’s in the best hands available, then we just have to trust in the team up there and pray like crazy that she takes a sudden turn for the good.”

  “I’m fresh out of prayers.” Clint sniffed, and Quincy heard a muffled sound like cloth brushing the cell phone. He could almost see his brother wiping his nose with his shirtsleeve. “The worst part is that she’s begging to go home.”

  To die, was Quincy’s first thought.

  Clint blew that theory all to hell by saying, “She’s convinced she isn’t dying. She says she had a vision and saw our third child, a little boy we’ll name Francis Wayne after Dad. I can tell she believes it, clear to the bottom of her heart. She thinks she’s going to get well and have another child.” A brief moment of quiet came over the air. Then Clint added, “You know how, when I first met Loni, I discounted her visions as a bunch of hocus-pocus crap, but she made a believer out of me? I’ve never doubted her visions since—until now.”

  Quincy felt tears trickling down his cheeks and turning to ice where they gathered at the corners of his mouth. “What she sees in her visions is never wrong. Hell, even the FBI acts as if everything she tells them comes straight from the Holy Grail.”

  “Exactly,” Clint said, his voice pitched barely above a whisper, “and now I’m doubting what she tells me. Five specialists out in the hall, telling me she’s dying. Her looking like a corpse already and spinning dreams I know can’t happen—” He broke off. “She’s dying, Quincy. I see the signs. No matter what she saw in her vision, I’m going . . . to . . . lose her. And God help me, I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”

  Quincy tried to gather his wits. This was new ground for him. As the oldest, Clint had always been the one who held everything together, the one who spoke while everyone else listened. Quincy knew Loni’s divinations hadn’t been wrong yet, but there could always be a first time. Loni had never been able to see her own future, only those of others. Wasn’t it possible that she had indeed seen a third child, named after their father, Frank, but the little boy wouldn’t be born to Loni? Maybe in the future, Clint would start over with a second wife, and she would be the one to present him with another son.

  The very thought of Clint with some other woman made Quincy want to puke. No. It just couldn’t happen. Clint was loyal to the bone. He’d never love anyone but Loni.

  “You wanna hear the worst part?” Clint asked. “She’s clinging to life by a thread, and that vision of a third child is her only hope. What if she looks into my eyes and sees I’m not convinced, that I believe the doctors and not her?”

  Quincy had no clue how to respond. His mind kicked into autopilot. Get there. He had to help his brother. “I’ll book a charter flight. I can be there with you in three hours.”

  “No. As great as it’d be to see you, I’m honoring Loni’s wishes and taking her home this morning. We’ll be there by late afternoon. Dad and Dee Dee flew out last night and are at their place now, probably sleeping off the red-eye flight. Parker and Rainie just left for the airport. Zach and Mandy are staying with me to provide moral support, and they’ll fly back with me and Loni on the charter jet.”

  “But, Clint, you need me right now.”

  “What I need is for you to be there looking after my place. If I come home to a disaster in my stable, I’ll lose it, I swear to God. I’m counting on you.”

  Quincy nodded. “You got it, bro. Everything at your ranch is running like clockwork, and I’ll see that it stays that way. If need be, I’ll call Dad for help.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Yeah, I’ll mosey over when I wrap it up for the day.”

  Quincy ended the call and stared blankly at his iPhone, a recent purchase that did everything but tap-dance. Too bad it couldn’t also perform a miracle and save the life of his sister-in-law. As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that making his feet move took a gargantuan effort. With only determination fueling him, he strode toward the north end of the arena to enter by the personnel door.

  If anything on earth soothed Quincy, it was being in the arena-cum-stable at the break of dawn before any of his employees arrived to disturb the quiet. He loved the smells that were synonymous with horses—freshly turned straw, molasses-coated grain, hay waiting to be forked, and manure. The fabulous aroma of frying bacon from his forewoman Pauline’s upstairs viewing room apartment added to the bouquet. Though Quincy no longer ate bacon, he still appreciated the scent.

  As was his habit, he made his rounds, visiting every mare and stallion to make sure all was well before ending his tour at Beethoven’s stall. The stud was Quincy’s special baby, and for reasons he’d never clearly defined, he always lingered with him the longest, finding a sense of peace that seemed to elude him everywhere else. Beethoven, a gorgeous black, nickered in greeting and stepped over for his morning ration of petting. The horse was such a love bug that Quincy often joked that Beethoven would morph into a lapdog if he could. The huge beast laid his massive head on Quincy’s shoulder, chuffing and rubbing cheeks, a show of affection that always dislodged Quincy’s black Stetson. Prepared, Quincy caught the hat before it hit the ground.

  “Hey, buddy,” he whispered around the logjam in his throat. “I hope your morning is off to a better start than mine.”

  Beethoven grunted, a contented sound that told Quincy the horse was as happy as a mouse in a cheese factory. He smiled and scanned the stall, checking to make sure all was as it should be. His gaze slid over the far left corner and then jerked back to a lump of green that didn’t belong there. He stared for a moment at what appeared to be a woman asleep in the straw. What the hell? Surely it was only a trick of the light. His ranch was armed to the teeth with high-tech security, and that was especially true in the arena, with every door, window, skylight, and paddock gate wired to an alarm. If anyone entered without punching in the pass code, which was changed frequently, a siren went off loudly enough to burst eardrums. Quincy had heard nothing.

  And yet—well, shit—there was a woman curled up in the corner. She wore a getup that reminded Quincy of something he might see at a Renaissance fair. Wrapped around her head was a thick multilayered band of antique linen that was then secured over the crown by a see-through scarf of the same color. The linen band appeared to be of high quality and looked to Quincy like the oil filter on his truck. The transparent scarf shimmered like spun gold and was somehow pleated at the crown and looped loosely beneath the woman’s chin. Her hair, a bright, fiery red, followed the slender bend of her back and was surely long enough to reach well below her knees when she was standing. Her silk gown, a deep green and floor-length, judging by the way the skirt billowed around her, sported voluminous sleeves and a plunging, square neckline, which revealed a modest white underdress laced to the waist.

  As if she sensed his gaze on her, she jerked awake and, hampered by the long dress, struggled to her feet. To Quincy’s amazement, Beethoven merely whickered and circled away. Normally the stallion grew nervous when he was approached by anyone except Quincy.

  “God’s teeth!” As round as dimes and as clear blue as a Caribbean lagoon on a hot
summer day, her eyes flashed with irritation. “Ye scared the bee-Jesus out of me.”

  Quincy recognized an Irish brogue when he heard one. His dad’s mother, Mariah Eileen O’Grady, had been born in the old country. But as Quincy recalled, she’d never said bejesus as two separate words or used the expression God’s teeth. “How did you get in here?” he demanded, doing his best not to notice those expressive eyes or the delicate perfection of her oval face. “The whole place is wired.”

  Bewilderment creased her brow. She cast a wary glance around the stall. “Where might it be?”

  “What?”

  “The wire,” she expounded. “I see none.”

  Quincy clenched his teeth. If not for the weird getup, she might have been quite a looker, with that bright red hair, her creamy skin, and those stunning blue eyes, but Quincy was in no mood to appreciate a woman’s feminine attributes. Well, scratch that. Truly beautiful women were difficult for any man to ignore, but he meant to give it his best shot.