Within My Heart (26 page)

Rand waited as Tolliver continued to stare. The man’s expression never changed.

Finally, the slightest frown appeared. “So am I to understand that Ben Mullins’s heart actually stopped beating? And that you started it again?”

That was all Tolliver had gotten out of everything he’d said? “I only did what I was trained to do.”

Tolliver scoffed. “Your modesty is a blemish on your profession.” He rose and walked around his desk. “I built this resort with one thing in mind, Doctor. Excellence,” he said quietly. “Everything at Colorado Hot Springs Resort is of the finest quality and of the latest invention. You were impressed with the Health Suite, I take it?”

Rand nodded, not liking that Tolliver wasn’t answering his question.

“How could you not be? I fashioned it after a surgical wing at Boston General.”

Growing impatient, Rand sought to steer the conversation back to his request. “Ben’s chances for a successful surgery and full recovery are greatly increased if I conduct the procedure here. My clinic in town is—”

“Antiquated? Grossly inadequate?” Tolliver asked.

“Not as well equipped or as clean was what I was going to say.”

Tolliver smiled. “One and the same.”

The irony of the moment wasn’t lost on Rand. Brandon Tolliver was the exact kind of man who had eventually influenced him to decline all of the positions offered in those hospitals back east. Self-seeking, manipulative, and controlling, men like Tolliver relished keeping others under their thumb, and that was one place Rand would never be again. Not when it came to his patients, their health and their lives.

Tolliver moved back behind his desk, sat down, and picked up the fountain pen. “I appreciate you coming all the way out here to talk to me this morning, Dr. Brookston. And after carefully considering your request”—he began writing—“my answer . . . is no.”

Rand stepped forward. “You can’t be serious. After all that Ben Mullins has done for you in recent months?” He thought of what Lyda had told him. “Ben has personally loaded and unloaded your shipments, no telling how many times. He’s arranged for countless special orders on your behalf. I’ve seen him in the—”

“I know this is important to you, Dr. Brookston.” Tolliver looked up. “The only thing we have to determine now is
how
important.”

Rachel couldn’t stop staring. No matter how many evenings she stood in this very spot and watched, it felt like her first time. Leaving her cane by the door, she crossed the porch and eased down to sit on the top step, her attention fixed on the snow-covered steeples of the Rockies. She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, certain in this moment that heaven must exist just beyond the golden orb sinking steadily behind the lofty spires.

A longing took hold deep inside, one both fresh and ancient, familiar yet unfathomable. Regardless of all that had happened in the past two and a half years, she had so much to be thankful for.

She’d received word from Mr. Fossey that the board had approved her request for more time,
and
for more money. But the advance was only half the amount she’d requested, and the note carried a higher rate of interest. She’d signed the agreement, knowing she had little choice. Now to make good on that promise on paper, just like the promise she’d made to Thomas in her heart.

Her gaze was drawn to the thinnest line of purple-gray sky that separated the edge of day from approaching night, and for a brief moment she almost believed that, if she sat still enough, if she looked closely enough, she might just catch a fleeting glimpse of eternity.

The scene reminded her of a photograph Elizabeth had taken not long ago. And while part of her was grateful people who had never visited these mountains were given the opportunity to share in this land’s beauty, she also knew that no photograph would ever capture it completely. She hoped Elizabeth’s pregnancy was progressing well and wished she could share that journey with her friend. But the distance Elizabeth and Daniel lived from town made that impossible. Rachel felt a prick inside her—as did her relationship with Daniel.

“Dr. Brookston hasn’t come yet?” Door slamming behind him, Mitch dropped down beside her on the porch step, already in his nightshirt.

Welcoming the company, Rachel cuddled Mitch close, sharing his warmth and anticipating his disappointment. “Not yet. And remember what I said at dinner. . . . He may not be able to come after all.” And likely wouldn’t, if her past experience with doctors proved correct. Not that Rand would intentionally go back on his word, but she knew how overcrowded a doctor’s schedule could get.

“He’ll come.” Mitch nodded. “He said he would.”

“I know that’s what he said, Mitch, but doctors get very busy, and their patients always come bef—” She caught herself, realizing she was speaking of Rand . . . while picturing her father. Rand said he would stop by that afternoon to discuss the procedure for Ben’s surgery scheduled two days hence, and she’d made the mistake of mentioning his visit to the boys. A tad disappointed that Rand hadn’t come, she was more put out with herself for having said anything. “If Dr. Brookston doesn’t come tonight, we’ll see him tomorrow.”

When Rand told her about Brandon Tolliver saying yes to his request, she’d hardly believed him. From her brief dealings with Mr. Tolliver—and knowing how he’d given James such a difficult time during the resort’s construction—she wouldn’t have figured the man to have a compassionate side.

Rand had seemed pleased with Tolliver’s decision, but something else weighed on him—she could tell. She’d also sensed he hadn’t wanted to talk about it. So she hadn’t pushed.

“Mama, kids at school are saying Paige Foster’s gonna die.”

Rachel winced. Children had so few boundaries when it came to speaking about such things. “Paige is still very sick. Dr. Brookston says she got the worst case of it. Her fever is gone, and though she’s still weak, that doesn’t mean she’s going to die. We just need to continue to pray and ask God to make her well.”

Mitch nodded, staring out across the mountain peaks as she’d done moments earlier. “But that doesn’t mean He will. Right?”

Rachel felt a stab near her heart and ran a hand through her son’s hair, the sunset giving the strands a fiery glow. “I’m choosing to believe, with all my heart, Mitchell, that God
is
going to heal Paige. But . . . if she doesn’t get well, it won’t be because God
can’t
heal her. It will be because”—oh, how she wished she could give him a different answer—“for some reason we won’t understand, and that will be most difficult for her parents, and us, to accept . . . God will have decided, in His wisdom, to take her home instead.”

Her boys knew what she meant when she used the word
home
. That was how she’d described where Thomas had been since the day of his passing.

The front door creaked open behind them, and without turning, Rachel indicated for Mitch to scoot over. At the same time, she extended an arm to Kurt. “Come join us!”

Kurt claimed the empty space beside her without getting too close. Rachel gave his knee a quick squeeze and tried to be satisfied with the fact that he didn’t pull away.

“Why does the sky do that?” Kurt pointed.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Turn all red and orange. ’Cause some nights it doesn’t.”

Digging deep in her memory, she came up woefully short of any scientific explanation, though her father would have had one. “I tend to think it’s because God likes to remind us of how creative and powerful He is. And of how beautiful heaven must be.” The colors on the horizon seemed to change by the second, red fading to orange, and orange to a dusky gold.

Mitch looped his arm through hers. “Do you think Papa can see us?”

How often she’d wondered that herself, at times praying he could. Then at other times . . . “I’m not sure. . . . I think he knows we miss him very, very much. And I think he also knows we’re doing all right.”

Mitch seemed to soak up that answer, while his brother still wore a perplexed look.

Mitch fingered one of the buttons on the sleeve of her shirtwaist. “Do you remember that one time when he took us up to the waterfall and we had that picnic? And the chipmunks got into the cookies?”

“Yes, I do.” Rachel laughed along with him, remembering several of those picnics they’d taken with the boys. And some more intimate ones, without. Noticing Kurt wasn’t smiling, she gently nudged him. “Papa carried you on his shoulders, all the way up there and then back down, remember? He offered to carry you too”—she looked at Mitch—“but you said you were big enough to walk on your own.”

“I coulda walked on my own if I’d wanted,” Kurt murmured, sending Mitch a challenging look.

Not wanting to start the “back and forth” between them again— she’d already arbitrated a heated round over dinner—she hurried to think of something to say, but was spared the task when the romp of horse’s hooves signaled an approaching rider.

She recognized him, even in the fading light, sitting tall and easy in the saddle.

According to James, for three generations Rand’s family had owned a cotton plantation some miles north of Nashville. Yet here was Rand Brookston, in the wilds of Colorado, a doctor, and not a boll of cotton in sight. She wondered how his family had felt about that, his father specifically.

Rand reined in by the porch, and the boys hopped down to the bottom step, eager to meet him. He greeted them each by rumpling their hair while sneaking quick tickles to their ribs. Mitch laughed, halfheartedly dodging Rand’s efforts, while Kurt only smiled, staring up at him, his expression more hopeful than exuberant.

Hand on the porch rail, Rachel stood, treasuring the moment, yet not completely.

She couldn’t explain why, especially after Rand had been so kind to her and the boys, but—seeing the scene now—a part of her almost wished he hadn’t shown up. As she watched him walk up the stairs, his gaze steady on hers while he still kidded with her sons, the reason became uncomfortably clear.

And the problem was with
her
, not him.

The tiniest spark lit inside her, the slightest flicker, and it dawned on her what it was—anticipation at seeing him again, followed by a flood of questions she wanted to ask. Had he eaten dinner yet or not? She half hoped he hadn’t so she could fix him a plate. What about the patients he’d seen that day, and his diagnosis for each, and how he planned on treating them? What about the shipment of medicine he’d been waiting on for days now? Had it arrived? Not to mention the—

A cool wind of warning blew through her that had nothing to do with the breeze coming off the mountains. Chilled, she turned and reached for her cane, aware of Rand’s attention.

One step shy of the porch, he paused and removed his hat. “I’m sorry I’m late.” A smile hovered at the edges of his mouth, almost there, yet not quite, his expression one of sincere regret. “Patients,” he said softly, near eye level with her. “But I guess you already knew that.”

She remembered what she’d said to him about her father having been a physician, and read assumption in his face. He thought she was comparing his lateness as a doctor with the many nights her father had been late. He was right, of course—at least that was part of all that had been going through her mind. She just wished he wasn’t so discerning a man. She looked away.

Maybe she could tell him the hour had grown too late and that the boys needed to get to bed for school in the morning, which they did. She could suggest they meet tomorrow at his clinic to discuss Ben’s—

Mitch grabbed his medical bag. “I’ll carry this inside.”

“I’ve got your hat.” Kurt didn’t wait to be asked but snatched the hat from Rand’s fingers, fast on Mitch’s heels.

Rand laughed, looking at his empty hands. “Quite the little hosts you’ve got there.”

“Yes . . .” She smiled. “They can be.”

His smile faded. He watched her in a way that made her wonder if he knew all she was feeling. “Is something wrong? Other than my being woefully late.”

“Not at all.” She glanced at her boys waiting inside the open doorway, Rand’s hat and bag in their grips, expectation on their faces, and common courtesy forced her hand. “Come inside, please.”

She led him to the front room and gestured to the couch. “Won’t you have a seat?” Aware of the forced brightness in her voice, she tried to sound normal, but couldn’t. She also noticed Rand wasn’t sitting. “I need to get the boys to bed. Then we can get straight to business.”

“But, Mama . . .” Kurt dropped Rand’s hat in the chair. “You said I could have some more chicken. You promised!”

Mitch nodded. “You did, Mama. I heard it.” He pivoted to Rand. “Mama made fried chicken tonight. There’s lots left. Do you want some?”

Before Rand could respond, Mitch retrieved the covered plate from the kitchen and plunked it down on the table beside the sofa. “It’s good and crispy.”

“We got half a potato left too,” Kurt said. “And biscuits! You can have some milk with them. You want some milk?”

Rachel’s face went warm. Her boys were better hosts than she was. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston, forgive me. I should have asked if you’d—”