Within My Heart (17 page)

Rand smiled. “Not at all, Elizabeth.” He nodded to Daniel. “Ranslett, it’s good to see you again. Come on in. That goes for Beau too.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Daniel snapped his fingers at the dog by his side, and the aging beagle trotted through the door and over to the hearth, where he sank down on the rug, eyes doleful but obedient.

Rand noticed Elizabeth eying the scalpel in his hand and hastened to reassure her. “These aren’t for your visit today, Elizabeth.” He indicated the bedroom door with a nod, fairly confident about the idea just now forming. “I have another patient here, and I’m—”

“Do we need to come back later?” she asked.

“Not at all. In fact . . . your timing is impeccable.”

12

R
achel eased back onto the bed and positioned her skirt over her legs and bare feet, then drew the blanket up to her waist. Her petticoats, woolen stockings, and drawers lay draped over a chair, tucked from sight beneath her coat. She turned onto her side, gritting her teeth to stifle a groan. While the bruise still ached, what was more worrisome was the patch of darker skin that had formed toward the center. It tingled in a painful way, like when her foot fell asleep.

With no hearth in this room, the air was chilled. Grimacing, she scooted over on the bed to take advantage of a sliver of sunshine falling across the covers. She yawned, feeling the effects of the laudanum, grateful to know Mitch and Kurt were with James and Molly.

She stared at the bottle of laudanum turning a tawny gold in the yellow light. The medicine Rand had given her had taken the edge off the pain. A second dose would have caused her to sleep, which she didn’t want. She intended to be awake for the examination.

Stacks of books, sitting floor to waist high, lined one of the walls of the bedroom. All medical volumes from what she could see, and all well tabbed with notes sticking out here and there. She had no doubt Rand had read them all. At least twice. He’d graduated from the College of Physicians in Philadelphia with highest honors. She’d done some checking on him when he’d first moved to town. It helped having a sheriff for a brother. The college was prestigious, and according to what she’d read, its graduates went on to occupy top positions in hospitals back east. Yet Rand had left all that to come west.

A rap on the door. “Rachel?”

Surprised at the feminine voice, Rachel lifted her head as the door creaked open. “Elizabeth! What are you doing here?”

Her friend stepped inside and closed the door. “I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Brookston this afternoon.” She reached for Rachel’s hand, her tentative smile thinning. “He just told us about what happened with the heifer. I’m so sorry.”

Rachel’s focus moved past her. Told
us
?

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze discerning. “Daniel’s here. He insisted on coming with me today.” A series of emotions flitted across her face—longing, anticipation . . . fear. “We’re hoping Dr. Brookston gives us good news this time.”

Rachel squeezed her friend’s hand tight, ashamed for dreading the possibility of seeing Daniel when Elizabeth was struggling with such disappointment. And it was a disappointment she understood. After marrying Thomas, it had taken her two years to conceive the first time, and another two years until the second. “I’ve been thinking of you, Lizzie . . . and praying. I hope it
is
good news today.”

Tears rose in Elizabeth’s eyes. “Daniel says it doesn’t matter to him.” She gave a fragile laugh. “He says that Beau and I are enough.”

Rachel smiled when thinking of Daniel’s dog, remembering when Daniel had gotten Beau as a pup, many years ago, back in Tennessee. They’d kidded then that the beagle would never grow into his ears. She couldn’t recall how old the dog was now, but those days seemed like another lifetime.

Elizabeth’s smile faded. “Daniel’s concerned about you too, Rachel. He asked if there was anything he could do. Anything at all.”

Seeing the tender plea in Elizabeth’s face, hearing it in her voice, Rachel felt an unexpected rush of emotion. Though she could hardly admit it to herself, a part of her
did
miss Daniel. Most of her life, he’d been like a brother to her. Thomas had loved him from the start too, despite Daniel giving him such a hard time when Thomas sought to court her. But how could she forgive Daniel’s negligence? The events he’d set into motion—however unknowingly, if what James had said to her recently was true. Maybe one day in the future she would be able to look at him and not see Thomas lying there in the woods, his body bloodied and—

Rachel took a steadying breath. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine. Tell me about you . . . and your situation.”

The gentle rise of Elizabeth’s brow said she wasn’t fooled in the slightest by Rachel’s all-too-obvious attempt to change the subject, but her sigh said she wouldn’t press the issue. For the moment, at least.

“Daniel wants a child, Rachel. I know he does. He wants one as much as I do. And Dr. Brookston has been wonderful. He gave me some herbs, and I’ve been taking them for the past few months.” She lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “Maybe those have helped. I hope so, because—” she blew out a breath—“I’m not getting any younger.”

Rachel shifted to look intently into Elizabeth’s tear-filled eyes. “Don’t you worry one minute about age. You’re still plenty young. It will happen, in time. It
will
.” But even as she said it, Rachel knew in her heart that, however well intentioned, her words might not be true. She saw in Lizzie’s eyes that she was thinking the very same thing. It wasn’t that God lacked the power to bless her friend’s womb. The question was whether it was His will to do so. That was one of the risky things about faith—laying your heart’s desires before the Lord while also surrendering your will to His. Wanting what you wanted, yet wanting what He wanted for you . . . even more.

“Mrs. Boyd?”

Hearing Rand’s voice from the other side of the door, Rachel gave Elizabeth’s hand one last squeeze. “Will you stay with me? While he examines my leg?”

“Of course.” Elizabeth smiled. “He already asked me if I would.”

Rand entered and closed the door behind him, and the first thing Rachel spotted was the scalpel in his hand. She pointed. “What’s
that
for?”

His expression was the epitome of trustworthiness—and placation. “It’s simply precautionary. I like to anticipate what we may need before we need it.”

Her trust level slipped a notch. How many times had her father used a similar explanation as she’d stood beside him assisting a trusting—but soon to be unpleasantly surprised—patient? Yet she could feel Elizabeth watching her and didn’t want to appear nervous or frightened, which she was.

Lying on her side, facing Elizabeth, Rachel heard Rand arranging instruments on a table behind her and tried not to imagine what the rest of those items might be, or how he planned on using them. While she had a deep appreciation for the field of medicine, being on the receiving end of a doctor’s services had never been her preference.

Rand touched her ankle and her entire body tensed. His grip was warm and confident.

“Mrs. Boyd,” he said, his voice reassuring, “where exactly is the injury located?”

“On my . . .” Rachel swallowed, keenly aware of his hand on her leg, and of the discomfort tightening her throat. “On my thigh. Here . . .” She touched the spot on the blanket that covered her bruise.

He pulled aside the blanket and eased her skirt up, barely touching her, taking obvious care not to reveal more than necessary, yet her anxiety escalated as the fabric rose. She closed her eyes, trying to reason her way through the haze of emotions. Rand Brookston was a physician. He was examining her. That was all. She’d been to doctors before. For heaven’s sake, her father had been a doctor! There was no reason for the disquiet she felt. It was unreasonable, unwarranted. Yet the tightness in her throat said otherwise.

And she gradually realized why.

Thomas was the only man who had ever touched her in an intimate way, and it was
his
touch she remembered, that she wanted to remember. The tenderness in his hands, the safety of his arms, the closeness they’d shared after twelve years of marriage, the familiarity after having known him for the better half of her life. Rand Brookston was a doctor who was examining a wound. He was doing his job. That was all. She knew that. But, however unknowingly, however little sense it made, even to her, he was encroaching upon a memory, upon a precious part of her life that she preferred to keep—

Pressure on her upper thigh sent stabbing pain into her hip and down through her leg, piercing hot. Gasping, she instinctively shielded the place on her leg, her vision swimming.

A hand cradled the top of her head, much like James might have done if he were there. She looked up and Rand’s face came into view.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Boyd.” Compassion weighed his gaze. “I know this is painful, but the bruising on your leg is extensive. Can you move your toes for me?” He reached down to gently squeeze her right foot.

She tried and winced. “I can’t.” She took a quick breath. “It hurts too much.”

“Do you feel any tingling or numbness? In your foot or your leg?”

“Yes,” she whispered, both comforted—and not—that he knew the right questions to ask.

His expression held a depth of empathy. “I need to be certain the femur isn’t broken, and then determine whether blood is still flowing to all areas of the wound. If it’s not, I’ll need to remedy that.”

She closed her eyes, dreading the pain. She was certain the bone wasn’t broken. At least she thought she was. But his other comment gave her pause. Her gaze moved to the instruments on the table. “The scalpel?” she guessed, catching Lizzie’s pained expression as her friend stared, wide-eyed, at her leg.

He nodded. “I’ll work as quickly, and as gently, as I can.”

He straightened, and Rachel took a deep breath, wishing now that she’d accepted more laudanum when he’d offered. She could request another dose and had no doubt he would give it to her. But the thought of doing that made her feel indecisive and weak, and she was beyond weary of feeling that way. And especially didn’t want to appear that way to him.

She slid a hand under the pillow beneath her head, gripping it tightly and bracing herself for what was coming. The pillow was soft against her cheek, and she caught a whiff of bayberry and spice. For weeks following Thomas’s passing, she’d slept with his pillow, relishing his scent, imagining he was still there beside her in the darkness.

And then one night, she’d reached for his pillow and the scent was gone. She’d cried herself to sleep. Again.

The distinctive
tink
of glass on metal brought her eyes open.

Rand knelt before her, cup in hand. Searching his face, she rose up on one elbow, not seeing the slightest trace of “I told you so” in his discerning gray eyes. He held the cup to her lips and she briefly covered his hand with hers, drinking every last drop.

She awakened some time later in her own bed, surprised to see the light of a fully risen sun filtering through the bedroom curtains. Her back muscles sore, Rachel slowly shifted positions, preparing herself for the pain. But to her surprise, her thigh, while achy and sore, didn’t hurt nearly as much as before.

The hot, pulsing sensation was gone.

Pillows cushioned her right calf, elevating the leg. Bracing herself—just in case—she wiggled her toes . . . without wanting to scream in pain! She sighed. Rand Brookston was a gifted physician and surgeon.

Though memories following the second dose of laudanum were sketchy, she recalled snippets of the freezing ride home from the clinic. The merciless bumps and jolts over rutted trails in the back of the wagon, and the jagged outline of mountain peaks against a star-studded sky. She swallowed, her mouth like cotton, and experienced yet another vivid recollection.

The bitter, blissful aftertaste of laudanum.

She fingered the bulk of bandages enwrapping her thigh, thankful to have been spared the memory of the procedure Rand had performed. She vaguely remembered awakening to see him standing over her in the clinic, his face shifting in and out of focus, as had most of what he’d said to her.

Her leg wasn’t in a splint, so it wasn’t broken. And she did remember the word
incision
, so she knew he’d used the scalpel, which meant sutures. But this wasn’t the first time she’d been sutured. She knew what to expect.

He’d also mentioned something about bed rest—which sounded good to her, at least for the morning, once she checked on the boys. She looked around the room for her cane but didn’t see it. She’d been blessed with a high threshold for pain. She knew her limits and wouldn’t risk overtaxing herself, but time to rest was a luxury she didn’t have. Not with the ranch in its current state and young boys to raise.

With deliberate, measured movements, she scooted to the side of the bed and gently eased her legs over the edge, careful of the bandage. A slow, steady throb began in her thigh, reminiscent of yesterday’s pain. The more she moved, the harder the pounding became. Light-headed, she gripped the headboard for support.