Within My Heart (14 page)

“Ranching can be a challenge, Mrs. Boyd. Especially in this part of the country. But you don’t need me to tell you that, now, do you?” Mr. Fossey paused as though searching for his next words, his expression one of compassion. His bushy gray brows knit together as the clock on the mantel behind him sliced off the seconds.

Muted conversation from the bank lobby drifted through the closed office door, and Rachel wondered whether Mr. Fossey’s secretary could overhear their exchange. She hoped not. Yet if what Mr. Fossey had told her a moment ago held true—she felt a humorless laugh—it was only a matter of time before everyone in Timber Ridge would know about her predicament.
I’m sorry, Thomas. . . .

She shifted in the chair, the ache in her leg nearly unbearable.

Since last night, the wound on her thigh had turned purplish black. The poultices she’d applied hadn’t eased the swelling or discomfort, and routine chores were next to impossible. Wriggling her toes sent pain shooting up into her back and made walking excruciating. Even seated and still, she could feel the blood pulsing hot through the bruise. She’d finished the last of her willow bark tea yesterday and would have taken laudanum for the pain last night, if she’d had any. She’d honestly thought it was just a bruise.

Now she wondered. . . .

She eyed her grandfather’s cane resting against the arm of her chair and felt a subtle stirring inside, a yearning for days past, when she was younger and life was simpler. Or perhaps those days only seemed simpler in the remembering.

“Your late husband, God rest his soul,” Mr. Fossey continued, warmth softening the lines wreathing his eyes and mouth, “was a fine man. Thomas managed his accounts with this bank in an exemplary manner, just as you have done.” He raised a hand, as though reading her thoughts. “Yes . . . you
have
been late in repaying your loan, but you’ve also kept me apprised of your circumstances. You informed me your payment would be delayed, which makes my responsibility in answering to the bank’s shareholders a much easier task.”

Rachel looked down at her gloved hands. “You’re kind to offer, Mr. Fossey. With the death of Thomas’s prized bull, I’ve lost the income I would have gained from leasing him to neighboring ranches this spring.”

“And I know you were counting on that money.” Mr. Fossey’s tone reflected regret. “That bull came from fine stock.”

Rachel nodded. For the integrity of her own herd’s bloodline, she knew she couldn’t have bred the bull to her cows again. But losing the potential income from the bull as a herd sire, along with the loss of cattle she’d sustained in the previous two winters, placed her finances in dire straits.

Her gaze slowly lifted to the letter lying faceup on his desk, a letter she’d penned last night after comparing her bills to the ever-decreasing balance in her bankbook. “Regarding my request for more money, and time in which to repay it . . . do you think the board will give it consideration?”

Gilbert Fossey pushed back from his desk, and Rachel tried not to interpret his distancing himself as a bad omen, telling herself it wasn’t a deliberate act on his part.

“I assure you the board gives every lender’s request serious consideration. They’ll be fair in their final rendering. But keep in mind, Mrs. Boyd . . . these men are not philanthropists. They invest their money in order to receive a return on that investment, as you pledged to them at the outset of your loan.”

Rachel nodded, trying to appear confident while feeling as if she were treading water. Perhaps her request wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps she was only prolonging the inevitable, getting in over her head. Still, she couldn’t simply give up. Not when giving up meant she would be forced to sell half of her land, and not when recalling all she and Thomas had sacrificed through the years. “I understand completely.”

Mr. Fossey opened his mouth, then closed it again, giving obvious consideration to whatever thought occupied his mind. “Mrs. Boyd, would you permit me an observation? A most personal one that runs the risk of overstepping the bounds of propriety?”

She stared, completely trusting this man yet not knowing where he was leading.

“Rest assured that my observation issues from the heart of a friend, and
not
as an employee of this bank. And that it comes with the deepest respect for your late husband.”

Now Rachel guessed what he was going to say.

As though knowing she’d read his mind, he smiled. “Have you considered the possibility of remarriage? I know . . . for a fact,” he said, his tone confident, “that there are successful, wealthy men in this town who would court you on a moment’s notice, if you would but give them one look of encouragement. Surely one of them would suit you. If not in a match of the heart, then perhaps one of friendship. Not that you would marry for money, of course, but the fact is, the chances of retaining ownership of your ranch would be greatly improved were you married.”

Rachel returned his kind look, not the least offended. She knew of many marriages built on an alliance of wealth or family name. It wasn’t uncommon. “I’d be lying to you, Mr. Fossey, if I said I’d never entertained that thought. But Timber Ridge is a small town, and I believe I’ve already met every man in the county.”

He flinched playfully. “You are being most severe on my gender, Mrs. Boyd.”

She laughed. “Not at all, sir.” Her smile turned inward. “I was simply very much in love with my husband.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but if Rachel wasn’t mistaken, a subtle glimmer of admiration shone in his eyes. He stood and she followed suit, wincing at the pain in her leg.

She’d checked with Lyda at the store earlier that morning for willow bark, hoping to find the pain-relieving herb in stock. But Lyda informed her that Rand had purchased all they had. What were the chances she could stop by his clinic for the medicine without him being there? He’d done nothing wrong. Quite the contrary, in fact. While she wasn’t ready to relinquish all of her misgivings about the man, he was certainly giving her reason to. She would pay him for the willow bark, of course—she just preferred not to see him so soon, knowing he would inquire about her leg.

But there
was
one thing she would change about the current situation—Rand Brookston was all Mitch talked about. How Rand “rescued” the calf. She sincerely appreciated what he’d done, but she would just as soon undo the impression he—or rather, his profession—had made on her older son.

Mr. Fossey rounded the corner of the desk and glanced down at her cane. Concern crept into his features. “Are you certain your injury isn’t more serious, my dear? You look as though you’re in a great deal of pain.”

Rachel squared her shoulders and stood a little straighter. “I’m fine. I need to work out the soreness—that’s all.”

He stared as though debating her self-diagnosis, then made his way to the door. “Well . . . as soon as I receive word from the board, I’ll let you know.” He reached for the knob.

“Mr. Fossey . . .”

He paused.

“I want to thank you again for agreeing to support me in this. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, or the board.” Her hand tightened on the curved head of the cane. “You were always fair and generous in your dealings with Thomas, and I realize—” Her throat tightened as she swallowed. She’d promised herself to keep her emotions in check. She was certain the other ranchers in Timber Ridge—all men—never got “choked up” during business meetings with Mr. Fossey. A deep breath helped to dislodge the pebble in her throat. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I realize most men in your position wouldn’t have chosen to conduct business with a widow, as you did. I’m grateful for the confidence you’ve shown in me and for the friendsh—” The words caught. She cleared her throat. “For the friendship our families share.”

“Mrs. Boyd . . .” When she didn’t look up, Mr. Fossey bent slightly to secure her gaze. “Rachel,” he tried again softly. “I assure you, my decision to work with you following Thomas’s passing had nothing to do with our families’ friendship.”

Rachel eyed him, having long suspected otherwise.

“All right . . .” He gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps our friendship did influence my initial decision, but it enabled me to see what a competent and intelligent woman you are. And remember, the board had final say in the matter.” He smiled. “You’ve experienced some recent setbacks—that’s all—as has every rancher in the area. The winter’s been hard on all of you.”

Rachel scoffed softly. “Everyone except Leonard Rudger. According to what I heard this morning, he made an offer on the Toberlins’ ranch.” Whose property backed up to hers, though she didn’t voice that reminder. “Rumor has it the Toberlins are going to sell and move back to Missouri.”

Mr. Fossey’s expression revealed nothing. And far too late, Rachel’s discretion delivered warning. She blinked. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. That was imprudent and uncalled for.”

A wave of his hand accompanied an understanding look. “No harm done.” His hand briefly covered hers on the cane. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve endured, losing Thomas the way you did. Add to that the hardship of raising two young boys
and
managing a ranch alone. I admire your strength and courage, Rachel. Sarah and I both do.”

His brow furrowed. “Speaking of Sarah, she and I missed you and the boys at church yesterday. She’d like you, Mitchell, and Kurt to come over for Sunday lunch soon. She’d love the visit. I would too.”

Rachel adored Gilbert and Sarah Fossey, but she still dreaded social gatherings, even small ones. And this one would be especially awkward if she was still waiting on the board’s decision. But more than that, such occasions were a cruel reminder that she was no longer part of a couple, and that Thomas was never coming back. But as her brother had told her countless times, she wouldn’t begin to feel “normal” again—whatever that was—until there was normality to her life.

Her practiced “widow’s smile” came easily. “I’d love nothing more, Mr. Fossey. Thank you. I’ll speak with Sarah about what I can bring.”

Giving her elbow a fatherly squeeze, Mr. Fossey opened the door.

Rachel glanced over to say good-bye to his secretary, but the woman wasn’t there. Perhaps Miss Graham hadn’t overheard their conversation after all. Rachel started for the lobby, mindful of the thick Persian rug, her gait anything but graceful. She was barely aware of the gentleman sitting off to the side, but when he glanced up, it drew her attention.

It took her a moment to place him, but when she did, she stopped mid-limp.

“Edward!” Mr. Fossey said behind her. “I heard you’d arrived in town. It’s about time you got over here to see me.”

The gentleman stood and accepted Mr. Fossey’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Gilbert. It’s been a few years.”

“More than I care to count, I’m afraid.”

Rachel didn’t wish to intrude on the informal reunion, but neither did she want to miss the opportunity to thank the man for the kindness he’d demonstrated at the Mullinses’ store days earlier.

Mr. Fossey’s grin made him look years younger. “Wherever you’re staying, Edward, Sarah’s already upset that it’s not with us.” The men laughed, and then Mr. Fossey’s smile faded. “I’m so sorry about Evelyn. I wish Sarah and I could have seen her again, one last time.”

The gentleman briefly bowed his head. “I appreciate that, Gilbert,” he whispered. “She would have loved to see you both again too.” He glanced in Rachel’s direction, and Mr. Fossey trailed his gaze.

“Mrs. Boyd! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still here. Please allow me to make the introductions.” The men lessened the distance. “Edward, may I present Mrs. Rachel Boyd, formerly of Franklin, Tennessee. Mrs. Boyd owns a ranch just outside of town and has two of the cutest redheaded boys you’ll ever see. Mrs. Boyd’s older brother is currently sheriff of Timber Ridge, has been since the town started up.”

Mr. Fossey leaned closer to Rachel and winked. “James has my vote in the upcoming election, by the way. And I predict he’ll win it in a landslide. Don’t you worry about what the mayor’s trying to do with delaying the election. It won’t amount to anything.”

Hoping he was right, Rachel smiled.

Mr. Fossey straightened and gestured to the gentleman beside him. “Mrs. Boyd, may I present a somewhat ornery but most esteemed former colleague and friend of mine, for over thirty years now, Mr. Edward Westin of New York City.”

Mr. Westin bowed slightly at the waist, his smile as kind-looking as she remembered. “A pleasure, Mrs. Boyd.” His well-trimmed beard, dark but peppered with white, complemented his tailored gray suit. He angled a sideways nod. “I hope you don’t believe everything this old geezer says.”

Rachel laughed, catching the faintest Northern accent and managing an awkward curtsey. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Westin. And not to worry, I know when to adhere to Mr. Fossey’s counsel and when to dismiss it.” She gave Mr. Fossey a knowing look. “I’m glad our paths have crossed for a second time, Mr. Westin, because I wanted to thank you for calming tempers at the Mullinses’ store the other day. That was very kind of you.”

“You’re most welcome, ma’am. I didn’t know what was happening at the time. I just sensed something was wrong. I hope Mr. Mullins is faring better after the—” He stopped short. His expression turned sheepish. “After the incident with his heart,” he said more softly. “News travels fast in Timber Ridge, or so I’ve learned in recent days.”

Rachel nodded. “That it does.” While word had spread about Ben’s heart failure, she was certain the details of his prognosis remained private. “Thank you for your concern. When I visited with the Mullinses yesterday, Mr. Mullins was feeling some better.”

She’d taken Ben and Lyda dinner yesterday, and Lyda had seemed in surprisingly good spirits, saying she thought Ben would be up and about in a couple of weeks. Rachel hadn’t contradicted her, but she was certain Lyda was being overly optimistic. Either that, or Lyda wasn’t aware of the seriousness of Ben’s condition. Maybe Dr. Brookston hadn’t informed them yet. But that seemed unlikely.

The mantel clock in Mr. Fossey’s office chimed three times, and Rachel knew Mitchell and Kurt would be waiting for her at the schoolhouse—along with the young Miss Stafford. Another meeting she’d dreaded all weekend. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to be on my way. Thank you again, Mr. Fossey. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westin.”