Within My Heart (19 page)

A restless murmur rose from the crowd.

Seeing the opportunity, Rand raised an arm. “How many of you are sick right now? Right this minute. Raise your hand.” People scanned those gathered, then gradually traced a visual path back to him. No one lifted their hand. “The truth is”—he lowered his arm—“none of you are sick. And the odds are
great
that none of you will get sick.
If
we’ll all take some simple precautions.”

The man who’d spoken earlier scoffed. “I heard the Fosters’ two kids came down with fever and chills. If it’s not influenza, then what is it?”

Rand thought fast. How to admit the truth without inciting panic? Everyone knew the devastation typhoid fever could bring, but few understood what caused it. Even Paige Foster’s mother had taken a step back when Rand told her, her expression defensive, as if he’d accused her of giving the disease to her children herself. Having learned from his experience with Mrs. Foster, he hoped a more subtle approach would work better. “How many of you wash your hands each time before you eat?” The comment was met with blank stares. “What about washing your food before you cook it? And the water you drink . . . Would you be willing to boil it to make sure it’s clean?”

“I been gettin’ my water from the stream for years,” an older woman said. “Never had to boil it before.”

“And you won’t have to always boil it in the future. But for now, I’m asking you to do these things. It will help prevent you and your families from becoming ill.” He read confusion in some faces, skepticism in others, and still borderline panic in a few, and chose his words carefully. “I’ve seen typhoid before—”

A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

“Listen to me.” Rand raised his voice. “I’ve seen typhoid firsthand, many times, just like you have. We know what can happen. But it doesn’t
have
to happen here in Timber Ridge. Once you know what causes typhoid, it’s easier to stop it from spreading.” He felt a ripple through the crowd and willed a calm to his manner that would somehow ease the air of uncertainty. “The most common way in which people contract typhoid fever is by eating food and drinking water that’s been contaminated with human feces.”

As he expected, looks of disgust replaced those of fear and worry.

He turned his attention to the man responsible for most of the instigating. “I just came from the Fosters’ home. Their son, Benjamin, is already showing improvement. He contracted a much milder case. But the Fosters’ daughter, Paige . . .” His throat tightened remembering how small and weak Paige looked, and how brave a girl she was. “She’s very sick. She’s fighting hard and needs our prayers, but those are the only two cases that have been reported. And hopefully, if we all work together, there won’t be any more.”

The woman with the baby on her hip raised her hand. “What about the milk we give our children? Do we need to boil that too?”

Another woman spoke up. “And what about the meat we get from the butcher? Has that been washed?”

More questions followed, one atop the other, and Rand raised his hand, feeling a gratitude for the people of Timber Ridge that he hadn’t before. He also sensed the sheriff wanting to say something. “I’ll answer any and all questions that you have . . . after Sheriff McPherson is done.”

Gratitude shone in James McPherson’s expression. “The sheriff’s office will work alongside Dr. Brookston to get the information out to everyone. We’ll ask Mrs. Ranslett at the newspaper to print a special edition first thing tomorrow morning with the doctor’s instructions on what to do.” He briefly looked at Rand, who nodded his agreement.

“But for now . . .” McPherson’s focus shifted back to the miner still in his aim. “To those of you who haven’t paid for what you took from Ben and Lyda’s store . . . and we all know who you are.” He leveled his gaze. “Either pay up, or my deputies and I will be paying you a visit.”

Being a student of human nature as well as science, Rand found it easy to distinguish the guilty parties. Patrons who were innocent looked directly at Lyda. Those who weren’t either studied the ground or the items they’d stolen.

Rand stayed after and answered everyone’s questions, feeling a renewed sense of why God had directed him to Timber Ridge. As he was leaving, he saw Mathias Tucker pull up in a wagon. Concern on the man’s face portended ill news, and Rand met him in the street.

Tucker motioned. “I got two of my girls in the back of the wagon. They got fever real bad.”

Rand took one look, and knew.

14

L
ater that night, after checking on Ben, Rand climbed the stairs to Rachel’s unlit cabin, bone cold and weary, feeling every hour of lost sleep. He rapped on the door, and made himself wait a full ten seconds before knocking a second time. The moonless night draped the covered porch in shadows, and though his heart didn’t race the way it usually did when he was alone in bed and the memory returned, he breathed easier when blessed lamplight illuminated the darkened window.

Molly McPherson peered through the curtain before lifting the latch. “Dr. Brookston.” She motioned him inside.

“Dr. McPherson.” He returned the professional courtesy to the former college professor, glad to be out of the cold and wind.

“How’s Mrs. Boyd?”

Molly’s smile, along with the shake of her head, told him much. “She’s in bed, for now, asleep. One thing I’ve learned today . . . those with the most knowledge about medicine make the least cooperative patients.”

He frowned. “She didn’t get out of bed, did she?”

“She tried, the stubborn thing. Once with Elizabeth this morning, and another time with me this afternoon. She said she needed to get to her chores. I told her Charlie Daggett was seeing to things.” Molly sighed. “She hardly got as far as the bedroom door. It must have hurt pretty badly, though, because she asked for laudanum afterward.”

Rand rubbed the knotted muscles in his neck. If Rachel had torn those sutures . . . He’d warned her not to get out of bed, and of the dangers of putting weight on her leg before it had time to heal properly. Perhaps he needed to warn her again, in more graphic detail this time.

“Looks like it’s been a long day.” Molly’s expression held both understanding and concern. “From what James tells me, it’s been a busy one for you. Come on back. I’ve got coffee on the stove.”

He followed her to the kitchen, where her daughter, Jo, lay nestled in a basket on the table. He brushed a finger against Jo’s cheek, pleased when the baby gurgled and reached for his hand— and made contact on her first try. Good hand-eye coordination. She’d been born prematurely but was progressing well, and was a beautiful child.

“Thank you.” He accepted the steaming cup and took a sip. “
Mmmm . . .
that’s good.”

Molly claimed the chair closest to the baby. “One of the most important things I’ve learned since becoming the sheriff ’s wife is to always have a pot of coffee on the stove in case company drops by, no matter how late in the evening.”

Rand returned her smile, admiring Molly’s gracious spirit. He knew only too well that Molly and James didn’t have much “company” dropping by. Molly McPherson had gotten a rocky start to life in Timber Ridge, and people in town were still reluctant to fully accept her, especially since she and James had married. In truth, she hadn’t made the best choices upon her arrival, but in his estimation, she’d more than paid for those mistakes and was working to bring good from them—if people would let her.

He updated her on Ben Mullins’s unchanged condition, the Tuckers’ two children, and the three miners who had shown up at the clinic with similar symptoms—thankfully, none of them as serious as Paige Foster’s. He’d left word with James about where he’d be and had also tacked a note to the clinic door. He’d needed to check on Rachel—or that’s what he told himself. Truth to right, he
wanted
to check on her.

He stood and reached for his bag. “The boys are here, I take it?”

She nodded. “Asleep in their room. I’m staying the night, and Elizabeth will be back in the morning.” She reached for his empty cup. “I left a lamp burning on the hallway table.”

Knowing the layout of the house, Rand made his way toward Rachel’s bedroom, oil lamp in hand. He stopped outside Mitchell and Kurt’s bedroom and peered inside the dark room, a familiar sense of shame creeping up on him. No light had to be left burning on a bedside table for these boys.

“Dr. Brookston?” a whisper came. “Is that you?”

Rand smiled. “Yes, Mitchell,” he whispered back. “It’s me.”

The rumple of sheets, followed by the soft pitter-pat of feet on a wooden floor, and Mitchell appeared. “You’re here to check on Mama?”

“I am.”

“You want me to help you? I will, if you want.”

“I think your mama would prefer for you to get a good night’s rest instead. But I’ll come and get you if I need any help, how’s that?”

Mitchell’s chest puffed out.

“You and your brother feeling all right tonight?” Not knowing whether anyone had told them about the typhoid, Rand chose not to say anything specific, but he wanted to make sure they weren’t getting sick.

Mitchell nodded matter-of-factly, and his countenance took on a more mature depth. “Mama’s going to get better . . . right?”

Rand knew he might be imagining it, but he sensed Kurt was awake too, and listening. “Yes, your mother’s going to be fine. Her leg will be sore for a few days and she needs to rest, but she should heal completely.” As long as she stayed off that leg, which he intended on making perfectly clear to the woman. “You get on back to bed now.”

Mitchell turned, then did a direct about-face. “I’m glad you’re her doctor. If I ever get sick, I want you to be my doctor too.”

Rand gave the boy’s hair a good tousle. “You’ve got yourself a deal, buddy.”

Mitchell stuck out his hand, and Rand gripped it tight enough to let the boy know he meant every word.

The door to Rachel’s room announced his arrival with a creak. The soft glow of lamplight illumined the dark, and Rand winced when he saw Rachel stir. She awakened, blinking, her eyelids heavy.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered from where he stood, not wanting to frighten her. “I didn’t mean to awaken you.”

She lifted her head and squinted, then yawned and lay back down. “That’s all right. Come on in. . . .”

He set his satchel on the floor by the dresser. “How are you feeling?”

She took a moment to answer, shifting in the bed as though taking inventory. “Sleepy. My back hurts, and my leg feels like you tried to saw it off. Other than that, I’m just dandy.”

He laughed, not having expected that response. “I think laudanum’s improving your sense of humor. I should have prescribed it months ago.”

She smiled again, groggy.

He motioned to the pitcher on the dresser. “Would you like a drink of water?”

“Yes, please.”

“With or without laudanum?” he asked in all seriousness.

“Without . . . but ask me again later.”

Enjoying this more relaxed side of her, he slipped a hand beneath her neck as she drank. Her skin was warm, and he hoped his hand wasn’t too chilled. If it was, she didn’t say anything.

He needed two commitments from her before he left, and before administering another dose of medicine—he needed her agreement to assist him with Ben’s surgery, and her promise to follow his medical advice without question.

He knew which would be the more difficult to obtain.

“Thank you.” She wiped the edges of her mouth. “What time is it?”

“A little after midnight. I meant to come by earlier, but I had other patients to see.” As soon as the words were out, he wished he could take them back. The way he’d said it made it sound as if she was one of many, instead of the one he’d been wanting most to see. “What I meant was—”

“I know what you meant.” She took a deep breath and gave it slow release, her eyes closing. “My father was a doctor too. Remember?”

Rand stared, welcoming the muted flicker of the oil lamp and the fact that Rachel wasn’t looking at him.
“My father was a doctor
too.”
So much said in so few words, and her tone . . .

Bitter
best described it.

He’d known her father was a doctor. What he found so disturbing was what else her seemingly innocent statement told him, far more than she’d likely intended to reveal. Sorting through the tangle of emotions she’d just laid at his feet, Rand got the feeling that the seed of who this woman was, or at least a determining factor in who she had become, lay rooted in that statement about her father.

Something else became clear. His being a physician—something he’d hoped might eventually enable him and Rachel to find common ground—would likely wind up having the exact opposite effect.

Rachel wished she could take back her last statement.

Not that what she’d insinuated about her father wasn’t true, but it was inappropriate to speak ill of the dead. And that she would do so—of her father, no less—spoke volumes about her. By no means had her father been perfect, but neither had he been all bad. He had possessed a
few
redeeming qualities, among the others that stood out most vividly in her memory. But having those memories, those opinions, was one thing. Speaking them aloud was another.