Loving Linsey

by Rachelle Morgan

  Dedication

  In memory of my grandmother,

  Kathleen Yarber Badenhoop,

  who provided the inspiration

  To Karen N.,

  Who would have thought that the day you first put a romance novel in my hands, you would soon after be reading my first manuscript?

  I often think that the day we met was one of the luckiest of my life. You’ve been my coworker, my roommate, my in-law, the godmother of my children, and my dearest friend, and for over fifteen years, we’ve shared our deepest sorrows and greatest joys. You’ve laughed with me, cried with me, and come to my rescue more times than I can count. You may not have been the sister of my blood, but you’ll always be the sister of my heart.

  This book is for you.

  Love,

  S.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About the Author

  Also by Rachelle Morgan

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  The ill-omened number thirteen has been regarded as a symbol of death, destruction, and misfortune since ancient Roman times.

  Horseshoe, Texas

  1882

  Whoever had come up with the lackwit idea to hold a wake today of all days should have had their brain examined. Surely everyone knew that the Friday after a rainstorm brought bad luck—but when that Friday also fell on the thirteenth of the month, well, bad luck turned pure rotten.

  Even so, it took only one look around the crowded parlor for Linsey Gordon to see that prophecy had done little to dissuade most everyone in Horseshoe, Texas, from turning out for Bleet Haggar’s wake.

  Flames from dozens of floral-scented candles placed about the room managed to dispel a bit of the gloom and cast a yellow glow on the group of somberly dressed gentlemen shuffling between the kitchen and parlor like lost hounds. A score of women in gathered black dresses and wide-brimmed, veiled hats sniffled into hankies. The cry of the Neelys’ new baby grew distant as his young mother carried him out of the room for his afternoon feeding.

  No, not one of the familiar faces seemed particularly bothered by the fact that the sitting-in was being held on such an unlucky day.

  Habit had Linsey reaching for the smooth crystal disk that always hung around her neck, before it hit that she’d not find it in its usual resting spot. With a troubled frown, she let her hand drop to her lap. She couldn’t recall where she’d misplaced her Token of Good Fortune, but more than ever she needed its comforting presence. The amulet had guarded her for fifteen of her twenty years, and she could surely use its protective qualities now.

  Well, she supposed with a sigh, she’d just have to make do with the sprig of ivy tucked in her right pocket, the piece of coal in her left, and the Lady Liberty coin in her black kid slipper.

  Folks could think her peculiar all they wanted, but she’d seen too many of her Aunt Louisa’s portents and omens come true to take them lightly; terrible prices had been paid by those who did. Why, just last summer, Ollie James had spilled a saltcellar while dining in the town’s restaurant; that night lightning struck his house, burning it to the ground. Then there was the time Elmer Puckett over at the general store lost a whole shipment of merchandise after he walked under a ladder.

  And if the Haggars had paid any heed to the cock that had crowed three times in their yard, a black wreath would not now be hanging on the outside of their door.

  Linsey’s gaze wandered about the parlor, purposely skipping over the pine casket resting on a pair of sawhorses at the front of the room. At least the clock on the sideboard had been stopped, breaking the time cycle so another death would not occur. And several frames on the walls wore shrouds, while other hangings had been turned backside out or taken down all together. There were no bare mirrors where one might glimpse one’s reflection, no pictures that might slip from their nails. . . .

  The measures taken to prevent another death had the mark of Aunt Louisa all over them, bless her heart, for if anyone understood Linsey’s caution, her great-aunt did. Wakes were notorious for being prophetic disasters, and Gordon women just didn’t attend them without seeing to certain necessary preparations.

  Still, as the respectful hum of conversation continued around her, Linsey couldn’t stop wishing that this whole affair would just be over with. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been as fond of Bleet as the next person; the wheelwright had been a jolly fellow, well-liked by all his neighbors. But she could think of a dozen more sensible ways to pass an autumn afternoon than sitting in a parlor courting disaster.

  Her foot began a rapid tap on the floor, as if it could spur the minutes into passing faster. It didn’t. If anything, each moment crawled by at a turtle’s pace.

  Finally the sight of a bow-backed woman making her way down the row provided a welcome distraction. Like the other ladies in attendance, Aunt Louisa wore traditional mourning—a wide-brimmed hat with a half veil over her eyes and a gathered black dress. The camel’s hair and Chantilly lace gown that hung on her spare figure was several years old, for one never wore anything new to a funeral.

  Linsey immediately stopped the motion of her foot, smiled, and discreetly waved her aunt over.

  Aunt Louisa settled into the empty chair beside Linsey and remarked, “I’m surprised Addie isn’t here keeping you company.”

  The old woman’s voice, reedy yet beloved, had a marginally calming effect. “She’ll be along shortly,” Linsey replied. “She had a few papers to grade before the weekend.”

  “Making excuses as usual.”

  Linsey bit back a grin. In spite of Aunt Louisa’s fragile appearance and failing eyesight, she remained amazingly sharp-witted for an eighty-nine year old woman. Addie hated funerals and would avoid this one altogether if she had a legitimate reason. Linsey couldn’t say she blamed her, either.

  “Poor, poor Mr. Haggar.” Aunt Louisa plucked a black hanky from within her cuff and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s just a cryin’ shame, isn’t it?” she said to the flock of women seated nearby.

  A half dozen hat-bedecked heads nodded agreement.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised, though,” Aunt Louisa went on. “I knew something like this would happen as soon as I heard that cock crow yesterday morning.” She shook her head, causing one of her silvery braids to slip from its moorings. “As my dear mother used to say, ‘Monday for health, Tuesday for wealth, Wednesday best of all . . .”

  Thursday for losses, Friday for Crosses, Saturday no luck at all, Linsey silently joined in the familiar verse. It actually had nothing to do with dying, but in choosing the day of the week a couple should wed; however, Aunt Louisa insisted that it applied it to every occasion.

  “What’s that you’re muttering, Louisa?” Persistence Yearling asked from the next row up, propping her brass hearing horn against her ear.

  Aunt Louisa raised her voice for the centenarian’s benefit. “A rhyme, Granny Yearling.”

  “A what?”

  People across the room turned to stare.

  “A rhyme,” Aunt Louisa shouted, her hand cupped at the side of her mouth. “I was muttering a rhyme.”

  “What in blue blazes did you bring a rind to a wake for?�
�� Persistence shot back. “Normal folks bring flowers.”

  Linsey suppressed her laughter as Granny Yearling’s remark instigated a round of bickering with Linsey’s equally feisty aunt. She could always count on these two to liven things up.

  Or perhaps “liven” wasn’t an appropriate word, she thought with an immediate frown. Oh, Lordy, she really needed to get out of here. . . .

  The notion gripped harder a second later when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Judith Harvey, the mayor’s wife, threading her way toward her. Oh, no! The determined look in the buxom matron’s face sent dread careening through Linsey.

  “Aunt Louisa, I need to . . . use the privy,” she completed in a rush.

  Without waiting for a reply, Linsey gathered a fistful of her black organdy skirts and scrambled out of her chair. The last thing she needed on an already doomed day was to get pinned in a corner by the meddling matchmaker!

  She ducked into the kitchen only to find it occupied by two of her male neighbors, both looking quite uncomfortable in their dark suits and stiff paper collars. Oren Potter, the blacksmith, looked up in surprise while Robert Jarvis, the lamplighter, standing at the stove, lowered the metal flask from his mouth and narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Yoo-hoo, Linsey . . .”

  The familiar trill kicked Linsey’s heart into a panicked beat, the clack of her heels on the wooden floor grew louder. Without a second glance at the men, Linsey dashed out a side doorway. Another group of neighbors had congregated in the foyer leading to the front door, but to Linsey’s left, a short hallway remained mercifully clear.

  Linsey hastened down the hallway and turned the knob of the first door she came to. She didn’t care where the door led, only that it offered escape from a woman whose persistence would try the patience of the good Lord Himself.

  Slipping inside the room, Linsey shut the door and pressed her forehead against the wood. Whew, Lordy! That was close! If she’d had to suffer another afternoon of listening to Mrs. Harvey invent nonexistent virtues about her lazy oaf of a son . . . for the love of Gus, everyone knew Bishop Harvey was little more than a wastrel in training.

  Everyone but his mother, that is.

  Well, she was safe for the time being. Mrs. Harvey wouldn’t think to come looking for her in—Linsey turned around to identify her haven—a bedroom. A pretty little bedroom, too, decorated in shades of peach and blue. A wide tester bed with embroidered pillows at the headboard commandeered the center of the floor, a glossy walnut-stained bureau hugged one wall, and a . . .

  Linsey gasped. Her eyes shot wide open.

  Avoiding Judith Harvey lost its importance.

  Forgotten were the mourners in the next room.

  Thoughts of Bleet’s unfortunate death scattered like ashes on a windy day.

  Linsey’s gaze remained transfixed on the sectional mirror making up the back of a curio cabinet set in the corner. Elegant figurines, a pair of lace gloves, and an onyx ring served as the backdrop for a horrified image.

  Her own.

  The mouth-watering aromas of fresh meat pies and baked bread had Daniel’s stomach growling like a summer thunderstorm before he even reached the Haggar’s porch. He hadn’t eaten since—he paused with one foot on the bottom step—early this morning? Last night? Hell, he couldn’t remember.

  He shook his head and continued up the weather-warped stairs. God, it had been a long day. And it would prove even longer before it was through. He still had today’s shipment to record in the books, instruments to clean, vaccinations to prepare for tomorrow’s visit to Jenny Kimmell’s, Reginal Fitz’s article on typhlitis to study . . .

  Yet Bleet had been his patient, and in all good conscience Daniel couldn’t let the day end without stopping by to pay his last respects.

  He nodded a greeting to the trio of men loitering at the corner of the L-shaped porch, enjoying their cigars and pipes, then stepped inside an entryway where people were clumped together as tight as wet batting. Not surprising, considering Horseshoe sat smack in the middle of cattle country—a whistle-stop between the rolling hills of central Texas and the piney woods of the eastern stretch—and any occasion, even the dismal ones, beckoned to folks like sharp whiskey after a trying day.

  Still, the thought of including himself in the mass seemed about as appealing as operating with a cross saw.

  With a weary sigh, Daniel squared his shoulders and worked his way through bodies trussed, tied, and stuffed into varying shades of dark calico, gingham, and broadcloth. Humid heat rose from the press of people, making it as hard to breathe as it was to move. But he figured the faster he offered his condolences to Widow Haggar, the faster he could leave.

  Daniel fielded a dozen or more greetings, as well as enduring the usual, “Hey, Doc Jr., think you could look at my . . . ?” He’d long since gotten used to the annoying nickname his neighbors had dubbed him with, but getting used to it and liking it were two different bottles of tonic.

  Just as he started past the kitchen doorway, a raspy, “If it ain’t the devil himself,” drew his attention inside, where he spied two friends sitting at a polished pine table, staking claim to what Daniel suspected was the only uncrowded spot in the house.

  “Me and Oren were just wonderin’ if you’d show up today.” Robert Jarvis waved him over. “Join us for a spell.”

  Daniel allowed himself a momentary reprieve from the crowd and detoured in their direction. The faint odors of lamp oil and horse hide mixed with lye soap and spiced meat, and grew stronger as he moved into the dingy room. “I didn’t think this house could hold so many people.”

  “It can’t—that’s why we’re in here.” Grinning with typical good nature, Oren Potter stretched out his hand in greeting. “How do, Daniel?”

  The blacksmith’s meaty grip nearly crushed Daniel’s hand, yet he grit his teeth and bore the man’s strength. “Fair to middlin’, Oren. How’s that boy of yours?”

  “That tonic you gave him has been workin’ wonders. No more coughing.”

  The unmistakable pride and relief in Oren’s eyes and voice sent an unexpected pang through Daniel. God knew he’d never hear anything like that from his own dad. Daniel, Sr., was a crotchety old coot who rarely spared a kind word for anyone, much less his own son. Daniel knew it was just his dad’s way. Nothing to do but accept it. But sometimes, when he watched Oren and Bryce Potter together, or heard Oren talk about the boy, he couldn’t help but envy them their relationship.

  “Glad to hear he’s doing better,” Daniel said with a tight smile, though the sentiment came from the heart. Oren had all but destroyed the Rusty Bucket Saloon a few years back when his wife died. Daniel didn’t want to think about how his friend would react if anything happened to his only child.

  Steering the topic to lighter matters, Daniel curled his fingers around the back of a vacant chair and told Robert, “I saw you at the depot earlier. Did your mysterious package finally arrive?”

  The thin wiry man slumped back and snorted. “He-ell, no. It weren’t on the train again.”

  “Don’t know why you’re keeping it a such a confounded secret,” Oren grumbled. “Just tell us what the dad-blamed thing is.”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a surprise then, would it now?”

  “Surprise, my Aunt Wilhelmina! How long ago did you send for it? Six months ago? I’ll bet your three hundred greenbacks are supplying some slicked-down swindler with all the fine liquor and fancy women he can handle.”

  “You’ll eat those words when it shows up on next week’s train.”

  Oren harrumphed. “That’s what you said last week.”

  “Ladies . . .” Daniel held up a palm and interrupted, “as much as I enjoy listening to the two of you whisper sweet nothings to each other, I’ll have to take my pleasure another time.” Jarvis’s package had his curiosity roused, too, but his work wouldn’t get done by itself. Daniel scowled. Hell, he was starting to think like his father. “Any idea where I can find Emmaleen in this
mob?”

  “Last I saw, she was in the parlor,” Oren said.

  Daniel nodded his thanks, then turned just as five feet, two inches of head-bent haste burst through the doorway and slammed into his front. He grunted at the impact; the black-clad figure bounced backward. Daniel reached out reflexively, closing his hands around slim shoulders that could only belong to a female.

  Recognizing the fragile construction of flesh and bone under his hands, Daniel instinctively drew her to him. The sweet scent of lavender filled his senses; a lush cushion of breasts pressed against his chest.

  Ah, woman.

  It had been so long since he’d held a woman this close that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. That was the trouble with being one of only two physicians in the entire county: his responsibilities didn’t allow time for much more than a passing greeting with the local ladies. But if one of life’s finest pleasures insisted on throwing herself against him, he’d hardly object.

  Especially if she happened to be a redhead, he decided, an appreciative smile inching across his face. He’d always had a weakness for women with red hair, and hers was the color of shimmering copper. A double row of thick ringlets tumbled down her back from the complicated knot at her crown.

  All right, maybe he could squeeze a moonlit stroll into his schedule. It wasn’t as if he’d be marrying the girl, or even courting her, God forbid. Just spending an evening with someone who wasn’t bleeding, broken, or in need of a remedy.

  Oh, yes, the idea was sounding better and better.

  Until she tipped her head up.

  Daniel’s smile shrank.

  Words he’d been told could charm water from a dry well died on his lips the instant he looked into the face of his own tribulation.

  Linsey Gordon.

  She stared up at him, her expression dazed, green eyes glazed and blank, her complexion pale as bone china. . . .

  Daniel released her as if she were made of carbolic acid. He’d never touched her before, not once in the ten years he’d known her, and the shock of it made his pulses jump like cold water on a hot skillet.