“Nah.”
His answer doesn’t surprise me. He’s too old to want his momma to tuck him in bed.
I tilt his head up and kiss his forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I watch as his small frame leaves. Time is moving by way too fast for my liking. It seems like it was only a week ago that he was stumbling on the floor learning to walk.
With a wistful sigh, I sit back on the couch and reclaim the journal. I want to read a few more entries before I close it for the night.
The next entry is dated several weeks after the last one, which is strange. There’s usually not more than a week between entries.
William left a month ago to join a few of the other local men fighting against the Confederates. I wanted so badly to beg him to not go, and I knew he wouldn’t have had I asked. But I understand why he went. The fighting is moving closer to our farm, and he wants to do everything he can to prevent it. I’m terrified something will happen to him. While I was at the market a couple of days ago, I overheard some ladies talking about Alice Henry. Her husband, Thomas, died days prior while trying to fight off a band of Confederate bounty jumpers. The same jumpers had pillaged James and Margaret Leechers’ farm not a half an hour away from here. James was badly injured, and they aren’t sure if he will recover. I’ve been praying extra hard lately for the men fighting to protect us, and for the war to end, but especially for my William. I can’t imagine life without him, nor do I want to, but most importantly, Mary is only six months old and needs her daddy.
When I flip to the next page, something falls into my lap. Picking it up by the corner because it looks like it’s about to disintegrate, I realize it’s a flower stuck in some kind of clear plastic. I hold it up closer to my face. It’s old. Like really old. But very well preserved.
Looking back down at the journal, I instinctually know it belongs to Betsy, which means it’s really, really old.
A smile touches my lips when I think about my own flower I preserved in a sealed plastic sleeve that’s hanging in a frame in our bedroom. It was one of the first dahlias Lincoln got me, which is my favorite flower. I kept a particular one because the design on the petals resembled a heart.
Carefully slipping the flower between two pages at the beginning of the journal, I go back to reading where I left off. It’s dated a week later.
I got to see William for a couple of hours yesterday. I’ve never been so happy in my life as when I turned and saw him standing just inside the front doorway. He was holding a single flower in his hand. Although he looked tired and worn out, his handsome face wore a smile. We both moved at the same time until we collided against each other. I don’t know how long we stayed that way, but when he pulled back, I wasn’t ready to let go. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay long. He was on a supply run that wasn’t too far from our home. For two hours straight, he held Mary with one arm and had his other wrapped around my waist as we sat on the porch swing. The longing on his face as he said goodbye to our daughter was heartbreaking. Before he left, he told me he asked Mr. Tanner, one of the neighboring farmers, to stop by every couple of days to check on Mary and me. There is still some concern about the bounty jumpers, although it’s been days since they’ve been seen, and the last time they were, they seemed to be moving away from D.C. I tried to be strong, but I cried when he left.
I frown when I flip the page and realize there are no more entries. I fan the pages, just in case she skipped a few. When I don’t find any, I close the journal, get up from the couch, and walk to where the boxes are that contain the others. I look through the box that holds Betsy’s other journals and realize I’ve read them all. There must be another box with more.
I shut the box and open the one beside it.
“Nope,” a voice comes from behind me. I look over my shoulder. “Enough reading. I get you for the rest of the night.”
I turn and take in Lincoln as he walks toward me. A navy-blue, V-neck shirt molds perfectly across his muscular chest and dark-wash jeans hug his lean hips. His inky black hair is messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his feet are bare. Not for the first time, I marvel at the sexy man he is.
“I need a shower,” he comments, coming to a stop in front of me. “You need a shower.” I arch a brow. “We should do it together.”
“Is that so?” I ask nonchalantly.
“Absolutely.”
“Well….” I drag the word out as I run the tip of my finger down his chest. “You know I’m all about saving water.”
He smirks. “See? I knew you would see it my way.”
I laugh and roll to my toes, but stop just before my lips meet his. “You still owe me more gratitude.”
His chuckle gets cut off as I close the small space between us. It doesn’t take much for my body to catch fire and for my breathing to become labored. I may have initiated the kiss, but it’s Lincoln who devours me. I moan against his lips, my body becoming needy for something only he can give it.
“Let’s go,” he grunts huskily when he pulls back.
Betsy and the journals are soon forgotten as Lincoln leads me from the room.
Chapter Seven
LINCOLN
There’s a soft tap on the door before it opens and Dr. Becker walks in. I get up from my perch on the bed beside Molly and fold myself into the chair. My gut tightens when I see his expression.
After setting his laptop down on the counter and taking a seat on the stool, he turns to face us.
“Your MRI came back with some anomalies. You have high signal intensities in the entire hemispheric cortex.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, fisting my hands on my thighs.
“It means that we still don’t know what we’re dealing with. While the cause of white matter in an MRI could be as simple as a B12 deficiency, it could also be as serious as lymphoma, and many things in between.” My heart damn near drops to my toes with his words. “However, going by your symptoms, Molly, I think we might be looking at an autoimmune disease.”
“An autoimmune disease? Those are normally pretty manageable, right?” Molly inquires hopefully.
“Most of them are, yes.” Dr. Becker reassures. “I’ve already ruled out a few based on your blood work.”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “How do we find out if that’s what she has?”
“We’ll do a more comprehensive round of bloodwork. I also want to send her for a PET scan.”
He pulls the glasses from his face and tosses them on the laptop before rubbing the bridge of his nose. The move is so unlike Dr. Becker, who’s normally very composed. A sinking feeling forms in my stomach.
“What aren’t you telling us?” Molly asks anxiously, noticing his odd behavior as well.
“There’s another possibility I have in mind. It’s so rare that I normally wouldn’t think of it and have never had a patient with it, but an associate of mine had a patient who was diagnosed with it. You share a few of the same symptoms, and along with the MRI results, I believe it’s something we need to look into.” He holds up his hand when Molly opens her mouth to speak. “As much as I want to withhold this information from you until I can rule out the possibility, I’ll give it to you if you’d like. However, I highly advise against it. Having this information will only cause you and your family to worry, especially since the chances of you having this disease are about as likely as a plane crashing into your house.”