Loving Linsey (25 page)

“No, ma'am, but if her health were at risk, I would do whatever was necessary. There are other means of protection that I'll discuss with Axel. The only thing I want you to concern yourself with is rest.”

Daniel shut his leather bag, and with the brim of his hat pulled down low, braved the downpour. He'd be glad to see sunshine again. It had been raining for two days—a steady, gray rain that created rivers of red mud through the streets of Horseshoe. The buildings across the way looked like sad old men, an apt reflection of Daniel's mood.

He couldn't place the source of his glumness. Over the last couple of days, business at the pharmacy had been brisk, he'd seen enough patients to choke a horse, and he'd been able to review several clinical dissertations. He'd even managed to douse a few arguments with his father and avert any further disastrous encounters with Linsey. He should be thankful for small favors.

Instead, an unidentifiable restlessness plagued him: an impulse to shuck his duties for the rest of the day and run barefoot through the grass. To watch the clouds drift
across the sky. To do something other than drive himself into the ground for a goal that seemed constantly out of his reach.

He couldn't, of course, and he didn't understand this sudden urge to want to. This craving to experience laughter, to experience life, to experience Linsey—

With a curse, Daniel urged the horse faster. He'd told himself he wouldn't think of her anymore. Wouldn't start wishing again for pleasures he'd long ago forbidden himself until he reclaimed the dream that was lost to him long ago.

When he reached town, he handed the reins of his horse to a stableboy and started for the shop. Mud caked his boots and pant legs, making them stick to his skin, and his shirt stuck to his back despite the overcoat and hat he wore. Swift, purposeful steps took him down the boardwalk toward the apothecary, where he anticipated a bath, a hot meal, and twelve hours uninterrupted sleep—in that order.

Just as he passed the Herald the door opened, and the unexpected appearance of Linsey stepping out of the office brought Daniel to a quick stop. This was the first time he'd seen her since the birth of Caroline's baby, and a shaft of desire sped straight to his loins.

The air all but crackled between them. He wondered if she ever thought about the kiss they'd shared. He wouldn't blame her if she hated him. In fact, he was surprised she hadn't
slapped him senseless for taking advantage of her during a moment of vulnerability. He'd been little better than Bishop Harvey.

She didn't look angry, though. She looked ravishing. Refreshing. Utterly and too damned desirable, standing there with her face flushed and her breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath she took.

He yanked on the reins of that runaway thought, schooled his features to keep them from showing on his face, and nodded once. “Linsey.”

“Daniel.”

His name on her lips caressed him like the dawning of a summer day, soft, breezy, breathless.

“What are you doing out in this weather?” she asked.

He shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Seeing patients. And you?”

Her face jerked toward the letters painted on the window, then to the strap of the reticule around her wrist. “Just tending a bit of business,” she replied with a wobbly smile. “You take care in this rain, now. It wouldn't do for you to catch a chill.”

Without further ado, she hastened past him and down the lane. His gaze followed her, baited by the enticing sway of hips, the bob of a bustle, the rustle of skirts. She really had grown up to become a comely woman.

But more, she had a rare knack of making the dreariness of the day brighten, the cloudiness inside him lift.

He thought of the patients he'd seen over the last few days and how useful it would have been to have her assisting him. He bet she would have been able to calm the Neelys' fretful child and soothe the widow's grief. Hell, she could probably charm the birds from the trees if she put her mind to it.

The idea of keeping her around held a dangerously seductive appeal. He imagined her gracing him with a proud smile when he mastered a difficult operation or pressing a consoling hand to his arm when circumstances looked grim. And at the end of the day, after the sun went down and the night beckoned, they'd come together in wild abandon and soar to heights beyond those of any mortal.

Would that kind of life be such a trial? Would it bring as much misery as his dad claimed?

He frowned with sudden curiosity when she stopped, stepped off the curb, and picked something up off the ground.

She'd done this before, he remembered, and like the last time, he expected her to tuck the object in her pocket.

Instead, she held it up and closed her eyes. Then she . . .
spat
on it? Daniel shook his head and felt a rusty chuckle rise in his throat. Just as he started to turn away, he felt a stinging whack to the side of his forehead.

“What the . . . ?” His hand shot to the spot and came away smeared with blood. He spun around. Linsey had continued her stroll in
blissful ignorance. And at Daniel's feet lay a discarded horseshoe.

Hell, leave it to Linsey to knock some sense back into him.

Never clip your fingernails on a Friday or Sunday.

D
aniel set the small pair of scissors on the bureau top, then brushed the crescent-shaped clippings into the wicker trash basket. Amazing what a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a good night's sleep did for a man's mood. Now all he needed was a few of the eggs he smelled his dad frying below. Of course, the old coot had probably eaten them all just to spite Daniel, but a fellow could always hope.

Mindful of the three stitches above his left eyebrow, Daniel ran a comb through his damp hair, grabbed his hat, and strode downstairs.

Even the weather seemed benevolent. The storms of the last couple of days had swept through, leaving the sky a pale, dusky blue, like it had been the day he and Linsey had gotten trapped together in the balloon.

The memory made him grin. That day really had been the most fun he'd ever had, though he couldn't admit it to anyone.

Especially not the man sitting at the kitchen table, wearing black trousers, white shirt sleeves and suspenders, and drinking coffee from a huge black beer stein. Surprisingly, several overeasy eggs had been left on the plate in the middle of the table.

Daniel slid into his chair and grabbed the plate, his mind still on Linsey. “Dad, do you believe in luck?” he asked at length, sliding a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Daniel, Sr., glanced up from his plate. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you?”

“'Course not,” he groused. “There's no such thing. A man carves his own way in the world by the sweat of his brow and the blood in his veins. Luck doesn't have anything to do with it.” He drained his mug, got to his feet, and slipped his coat off the back of the chair. “You planning on getting those orders written up or are you going to laze around here all day?”

He was tempted to say yes. Tempted even more to tell his dad that it
he
might try doing the same thing. That maybe, if Daniel, Sr., stopped to smell the lavender once in a while, he might actually find something to smile about instead of being in such a goddamn grumpy mood all the time.

Ah, hell, Daniel thought, brooding into his coffee cup after his dad left. If that wasn't hypocritical, he didn't know what was. Over the years he'd become a mirror image of the old man, with all of his faults and none of his merits. He sure hadn't found anything to smile about until a reckless redhead careened back
into his life. It didn't make sense that a woman who had brought nothing but grief down upon his head could be the same one who showed him that enjoying himself didn't necessarily mean he had to give up his dreams.

So why was he having such a hard time accepting a simple apology from her? She'd forgiven him without hesitation for sending her off with Bishop Harvey. Was he overreacting? Had the stage accident been just that—an accident?

Maybe it was time he stopped being so hard on Linsey, he thought, picking up the untouched newspaper folded in the middle of the table. If he was overreacting, if it really had been an accident as she claimed, then the least he could do was stop using his anger over that day as a weapon. He knew what that felt like. He'd experienced the sting of someone's disapproval too often in his life, and he hated it.

Strangely, the decision made Daniel feel quite pleased with himself. With a loud, relaxed sigh and a cup of coffee in his hand, he leaned back in his chair and snapped open the paper to the front page. He read with interest the article reporting that the notorious outlaw Frank James had turned himself over to the law, skimmed over an accounting of Judith Harvey's quilting bee last weekend, and was just about to turn the page when his name jumped out of the headline on a sidebar column:

WEDDING BELLS FOR SHARPE, WITT
?

Coffee spewed from his mouth, spattering
everywhere.
What the
. . . ? Daniel blotted at his shirt as he scanned the article. “In many parts of Texas there's a nip of winter in the air, but in our own beloved community, romance seems to be blossoming between the younger Dr. Sharpe and our own schoolmarm, Adelaide Witt.”

Flabbergasted, he scoured the rest of the article. It read more like a pedigree than report, citing all of Daniel's accomplishments, Addie's talents, and both their contributions to the community, ending with, “Don't be surprised to see these two handfasted by the end of the year.”

For chrissake, where did the
Herald
get such a ridiculous story? He and Adelaide Witt? Married? He'd barely looked sideways at her all the years he'd known her—why the hell would anyone think he was planning to marry her?

A sudden flash of three women and a supper conversation sparked in his mind. Was one of the Gordon women behind this? He dismissed Louisa immediately. She'd never struck him as the manipulating type, and she'd said herself that the choice of mates had been left up to her nieces.

Addie? He couldn't imagine that. The woman was afraid of her own shadow.

So that left . . . Linsey.

Daniel slapped the paper onto the table. He should have known better than to let his guard down with that woman.

Oren's mare gave birth just after daybreak. The foal lay in a bed of straw, covered from
head to hoof in a disgusting film, and disturbingly still.

“Is it alive?” Bryce asked in a hushed voice.

Oren cleared the mucus from the foal's muzzle, then breathed into its nose and mouth.

Spellbound, hands together in prayer, Addie watched through misty eyes as the huge man blew life into the foal while its mother prodded it with her fuzzy nose. The incongruous sight touched her beyond words. “Come on, little one,” she whispered. The mare had labored all night to bring the colt into the world, and it seemed unfair that all her pain and effort could be for naught.

At last, a slight jerk of a hoof made her breath catch in hope. Then, with a visible rise of its chest, the little one raised its head. The mare whinnied to her baby and licked it with her coarse tongue.

Oren backed away, and while the mare tended her young, he plunged his hands into the bucket of water and washed his face. The beaming smile he wore was identical to the one on his son's face.

“You did it, Oren!” Addie exclaimed.

Bryce let out a loud whoop.

Jumping up and down, Addie hugged the child, then turned to Oren, cupped his face, and kissed him full on the mouth. The instant their lips met, it hit her what she'd done.

She froze.

Oren stilled.

Wide eyed, she stared into startled blue eyes. “Oh, my!”

His gaze darkened. “My words exactly.”

She should move away. It would be the proper thing to do. The wise thing to do.

But at the moment, Addie wasn't feeling very proper or very wise. Her pulses raced. Her nerves sizzled. Her blood hummed like the strains of a violin, and Oren was the only man who could play the tune. He smelled of horse and birth and rumpled hay, but Addie didn't care. The intoxicating combination had her feeling as if she'd imbibed too much wine.

Oren's face tilted and his mouth came closer. She lifted her chin to receive the kiss. The hands cupping his cheeks moved around the thick cords of his neck to lock behind his nape. He tasted of salt and spice and man, and she opened her mouth, hungry for more. She moaned when his tongue slid between her lips. A delicious ache uncoiled in her belly and spread to her breasts, making them heavy and sensitive and eager for the feel of him.

With a boldness she hadn't thought herself capable of, Addie pushed herself against him until his heart and hers pounded against one another. His powerful arms wrapped around her back. His tongue twined around hers, coaxing, exploring, enticing Addie into wanting to touch every part of this man—and have him touch every part of her.

He must have sensed her yearning, for he pulled back, his incredible blue eyes dark with desire. “Addie . . .” he breathed.

“Oren . . .” she whimpered.

“Pa?”

They released each other so fast that Addie
fell back onto a mound of straw. Oren reached for her instantly and helped her to her feet. She looked so dad-blamed adorable, standing there trying to pluck straw from her mussed hair, her cheeks bright pink, her green-gold eyes alight with need. He'd never wanted a woman as badly as he did this one.

The time had come for a chat with the boy.

And much to his regret, it should be now. “Let's get this mare some oats, son.”

They left Addie in the stall, giving her privacy to do whatever it was that women did after they'd just kissed a man dumb.

Bryce was quiet for a while until they reached the end of the shop where Oren kept the feed stored. Then he asked, “Are you sweet on her?”