laid aside, one dark head bent to the other as they conferred, building a bond stronger than any step, leading where no physical structure could go.
Did Lincoln realize? Could he hear what was in Cade’s voice? See what was in his eyes and that young, fragile heart?
Did Lincoln care?
“Of course he does.” The sound of her own voice startled her. Only then did she realize how long she’d stood idle, her thoughts on the man and the boy and their labor. Lincoln called him “boy,” never Cade, but he cared. It was evident in his patience and underlay the impersonal way he spoke. His kindness was innate, unforced. Neither six years, a single, youthful indiscretion at an emotional time, nor the truth would change the man who had been her friend, her family, and, once, her lover.
“Watch, Mom.” Cade danced up the steps and down, jumping on each, testing their strength. Once on the ground he ran up again to the porch and launched himself into Lincoln’s arms.
Laughing, Lincoln set Cade on his feet. In the sound Linsey heard a sudden restraint. A shiver of caution reminded her Lincoln was ever the pragmatic one, who never rushed into anything. If he felt in his heart it was right, he could walk away from anything, anyone. He had from her. He would from his own son.
“Did you see, Mom? Did you see?”
“I’m sure she saw.” Lincoln scooped up the fallen Stetson and pulled it down over Cade’s forehead. “Half the county must have heard you. Gus Cade’s likely to come bumping down the trail in his wheelchair, yelling that you’re scaring his horses out of a year’s growth.”
Crossing the yard, Linsey saw Cade grow sober. Interpreting a common expression, she knew something Lincoln said sparked his curiosity. The unsuspecting man would be bombarded by the questions of a literal-minded child who took nothing for granted, never assumed. More traits he shared with his father.
“Mr. Gus has horses, but he rides a chair?”
Question number one. Linsey stopped by the porch, crossed her arms and leaned against a support.
Lincoln had moved to inspect the steps, all of which he and Cade had replaced. Sandpaper in hand, he looked up. “What?”
“You said…”
“I know what I said, tiger.” Lincoln guessed what had spurred the boy’s curiosity. “Actually, the horses pastured at Belle Reve now belong to my brother Jackson. But once Gus kept his own horses and rode them. Then a sickness left his arms and legs too weak to ride or walk. So he uses a wheelchair.”
“Where’s the trail?”
Lincoln crooked a finger toward the path that wound through scraggly live oaks and palmettos. “Right over there. Lucky and I used it to travel between our houses.”
“Between the Stuart farm and Belle Reve,” Cade supplied, drawing on the knowledge gleaned during the hours he’d listened to Lucky tell of the countryside, the houses, and his friends. Especially Lincoln. “Lucky never said Mr. Gus rode in a chair.”
“He didn’t know, Cade,” Linsey interjected, her tone as questioning as her son’s when her gaze met Lincoln’s. “I suppose it happened after Frannie died and we’d settled in Oregon.”
Lincoln looked up from sanding the rough edge of a step, his expression unreadable. “Lucky and I had lost touch by then. I knew he and your mom were in Oregon. Or I thought they were. But I didn’t know where, exactly.”
“You could have looked, couldn’t you?” Cade picked up the block of wood Lincoln had covered in sandpaper for him and scrubbed at an imaginary rough spot.
With the boy and the steps between them, Linsey waited for his answer. “Yes.” His expression was brooding, but Cade couldn’t see. “I could have looked, but I didn’t think he wanted me to.”
“I guess not,” the boy agreed. “He didn’t want anybody to know he was sick, too.”
“Lucky was sick?” Catching the busy hand, stopping it, Lincoln waited until Cade looked up at him. “For very long?”
Cade started his habitual nod, caught himself and the Stetson perched precariously over his forehead, then chose words instead. “A long, long, long time.”
“The letter said he fell.” Lincoln directed the oblique question toward Linsey.
Searching for the simplest way to describe a horrible and inexorably debilitating disease, she hesitated long enough that Cade answered in her stead.
“Being sick’s what made him fall. His arms and legs didn’t work too good no more, just like Mr. Gus.”
Cade picked up the sander, scrubbing too diligently over a step that was already smooth. Linsey stretched an arm across the staircase, and with her fingertips stroked the swirling hair on the back of his neck. A tender gesture that spoke more than words.
“How long is a long, long, long time, Linsey?” If Lincoln’s expression had been grim before, with this discovery his look took it ten times farther.
With her arms drawn tightly against her again, Linsey stifled a painful memory. “Two years for the worst of it. Longer for the less insidious progression. Before you ask why you weren’t told, remember how Lucky was. You were so strong, and he wanted to be like you, but he couldn’t. So he made up for what he lacked with pure courage. He didn’t want your help, Lincoln. Nor mine, until he had no choice. Even then, there were days…”
When she paused to gather her control, with new knowledge Lincoln saw beyond the surface fatigue of months to the deep, soul-searing weariness of years. Yet she could laugh and dance with her son on a ramshackle porch at sunset in a strange land.
With a toss of her head, Linsey gathered in her emotions, a gesture that sent her hair flying. As the morning sun struck a rainbow of shades of gold within its depths, Lincoln was reminded of a lioness. A proud lioness who fought for her mate and her cub.
An ache settled deep in his chest as he wondered if once she would have fought as courageously for him.
“There were days,” she began again, tentatively, unaware of the subtle shift in his regard. “Days when he was stronger, when he lived on determination alone, accomplishing amazing feats.” Throughout the revelation, Linsey’s stare was vague, unfocused. Now her head lifted, her gaze narrowed sharply on Lincoln. “If you remember any one thing about Lucky, remember his courage, and that he died as bravely as he lived.”
Lincoln found the blunt answer unsettling, too brief. He had a hundred questions, a thousand. But none for the boy’s ears. “All right.” Meaningless words. Nothing was all right. Nothing about this was clear. Nothing was resolved.
Casting a look at Linsey that promised there would be more, Lincoln turned to Cade. “Looks to me like you’ve finished that step. In fact, they all look good. Smooth and sturdy. No one’s going to fall through them or catch a splinter. Now we need to do something about the yard. What do you think?”
Cade squinted up at him, one sawdust-covered hand flattened over the crown of the hat. “We could mow it down.”
“Mow it down, huh?” Lincoln studied the yard as if considering the suggestion. “You mean with the tractor.”
“Yep.”
Lincoln almost smiled then, remembering the conversation between mother and son the night before. “Looks like a pretty big job. Think you could ride shotgun? A man never knows when he might need some help.”
“Could I?” Gray eyes that had grown brighter, gleamed like new silver. “Like on a stagecoach?”
“Will you promise to be very still and hold on?” Lincoln watched the little head bob. The hat toppled, and he scooped it from the ground. “Okay, partner. Now, if your mom will lend us a couple of sheets of paper from her tablet, I’ll fix your hat so it will stay on. Then we’ll get on with our work and she can see about her own chores. Deal?”