Within My Heart (34 page)

He turned to follow her gaze, and saw Paige Foster’s father walking straight toward him, emotion straining the lines of his face.

26

R
and steeled himself as Graham Foster strode toward him, fists clenched tight. He pictured Foster’s sweet daughter and knew he’d done everything he could for Paige. Yet in moments like this,
everything
still felt like not enough. Without shifting his focus, Rand reached beside him and urged Rachel back a few steps.

“Dr. Brookston—” Breathing heavily, Foster moved in close, staring hard.

Rand’s gut twisted tight. No matter how many times he’d faced this situation, it never got easier. Especially when it involved children, and parents who felt about doctors the way Graham Foster did. Rand wished Rachel and the boys didn’t have to see this. “Foster . . . I’m—”

The man grabbed him by the shoulders. “Thank you, Doc”—his voice broke with a sob—“for savin’ my daughter.” Foster embraced him hard, then just as quickly, stepped back.

It took Rand a minute to react, the news sinking in, his body still braced for a blow. “She’s eating? She’s getting better?”

Foster smiled, his chin quivering. “The girl’s about to strip our cupboards bare. Her momma can’t seem to keep her full.”

Rand let out a quick breath, emotion burning his eyes. He gripped Foster’s forearm and squeezed it tight, a shudder of relief and gratitude moving through him. As did the whisper of a profound stillness.
Thank you, Lord . . . for healing her.

Foster’s laughter drew him back, as did Rachel’s presence beside him.

Foster removed his hat, nodding Rachel’s way. “Paige woke up yesterday afternoon late, and asked her momma for some biscuits and gravy. We weren’t sure what to think of it at the time, but she ate that and has been eatin’ ever since. Gettin’ better by the hour. She even got up from bed this morning and sat at the table with us for a little while.”

Rachel beamed. “We’re so happy for the news, Mr. Foster. Please give Paige and your entire family our love.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll do that.” Foster briefly looked away, his expression sobering. “Dr. Brookston . . . as you know, I’ve never put much stock in doctors and what they had to say. I guess I was pretty clear on that from the outset.”

Rand let his grin answer for him.

“I just want you to know . . . I’m grateful to you, sir, for healing my daughter.”

Rand smiled. “I didn’t heal your daughter, Foster. God did that. All I did was help a little. And it was an honor to work alongside Him.”

Foster considered him for a long moment, then nodded. “Mel Lester, that crusty old cuss . . . He’s been after me for over two years to sell him my prize hog. But I wouldn’t do it.” He stuck out his hand. “Until now.”

Rand saw the envelope but didn’t take it.

“I heard you’ve been tryin’ to find a place in town, Doc. A place where you can have a proper clinic. Where you can take folks in and care for them when they’re sick.”

Rand eyed him.

The man smiled. “Harold Welch is worse than an ol’ banty hen when it comes to gossip. He told me about that building of his next to the Mullinses’ store. Said you’d been after him to sell it to you, but some fella new to town came in and snapped it up at top price.”

Rand felt Rachel’s attention shift to him and wondered what she was thinking.

Foster glanced downward. “What I’m giving you won’t buy no clinic, Doc. But it’s a step closer to one.” Earnestness sharpened his features. “Take it, please . . . as thanks for what you’ve done for me and my family.”

Rand finally accepted the envelope, feeling unworthy of its contents, whatever the amount. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Foster. I appreciate this more than you know. And I give you my word, it’ll go toward a new clinic.”

Still staring at the envelope after Foster left, Rand felt a touch on his arm and turned. If ever he’d seen loving pride in someone’s eyes, he saw it in Rachel’s now.

“You’re making such a difference in people’s lives, Rand. And in this town.”

He covered her hand on his arm, reliving what it had felt like to work alongside her during Ben’s surgery. “And so could you, Rachel.” Even before the furrow in her brow, he wanted to kick himself. He winced. “What I meant is that you could make a difference in the same way. In relation to medicine. You’re already making such a difference, Rachel. But it’s evident how much you enjoy—”

She held up a hand, her expression surprisingly smooth, absent of anger. “I know what you meant,” she said softly. “I
do
. And I’m grateful for the sentiment, but . . . I’ve got my own responsibilities. I’ve got the ranch to run and the boys to think of.” It almost sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. “And I’ve got plans.” She lifted her chin. A trace of defensiveness—or maybe it was protectiveness—crept into her tone. “Mr. Westin and I are meeting this week to discuss a business undertaking.”

Rand didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “A business undertaking?”

She nodded.

“Just what kind of
undertaking
did Westin propose?”

She gave him an indulgent look, one he imagined Kurt saw often. “He suggested I look into purchasing a new breed of cattle. From Scotland.”

His first instinct was to smile. The second was to track down Westin and demand an explanation. Instead, he tried for a pensive look. “Cattle from Scotland?”

She nodded again, but her eyes narrowed as though she doubted his sincerity. “He said they’re bred for the highlands, for bitter winters. They’ll be able to withstand the cold here better than the herd I have now.” She huffed. “I can’t take another winter like the last two. I’ll have no cattle and no ranch left.”

Rand weighed his options. He wasn’t privy to Rachel’s personal finances, but Timber Ridge was a small town, and just as news about him traveled, so did news about her. In addition to Charlie Daggett’s subtle comments now and then, he’d heard rumor that her ranch might be in trouble. He had a hard time believing she wanted to spend the rest of her life working cattle. It didn’t fit with the woman he knew.

“This new breed,” he said, knowing to tread carefully. “Is that what this dinner with Westin is about?”

She smiled in a way that made him want to shield her from anything, or anyone, that would ever try to do her harm.

“Yes, that’s what our dinner this week is about. And the dinner before . . .” She tilted her head. “That was simply a coincidence. The boys and I decided to go to Miss Clara’s, and Mr. Westin arrived at the same time and invited us to join him.” She gave a gentle shrug. “That’s all.”

Enjoying a measure of relief, he still had a hundred other questions he wanted to pose. But he didn’t feel at liberty—first, because it was none of his business, and second, because he was fairly certain Rachel would interpret those questions as insinuations that she wasn’t capable of making a decision for herself. And purposefully alienating this woman was the last thing he wanted to do.

He seemed to do that easily enough without trying.

Rand repositioned the stethoscope on Ben’s chest. “May I check your abdomen?”

“No need to ask, Doc. You’ve already seen everything I got. More than once.” Though Ben’s expression held no trace of humor, his tone hinted at a little.

Smiling more on the outside than in, Rand lifted up Ben’s shirt. Lyda had gone into town after lunch to check on things at the store again, and he was glad she’d gotten away for a while. She rarely left her husband’s side, and the stress of recent weeks was beginning to show.

Two days ago, with Rachel’s assistance, he’d completed draining Ben’s lungs. The procedure had gone without complication this time, and Rachel hadn’t seemed nearly as nervous. With patients in town needing tending, he’d had to leave for a while, so she’d stayed with Ben for the afternoon. Two resort guests had stopped by the clinic, one needing a powder for a headache, the other a curative for an upset somach. In his absence, Rachel had taken care of both. And if her recounting of the events was any proof, she’d enjoyed every minute.

He gently probed Ben’s abdomen, watching for the least sign of discomfort.

Ben winced.

“Does it hurt there?” Rand asked.

“No, your hands are just cold.”

Rand shook his head. “Lyda’s right, you know—you’re an ornery old coot.”

Ben laughed softly. “I’m gonna miss you too, Doc.” His smile faded. “If missin’ is somethin’ we’re allowed to do in the hereafter.”

The raw truth of Ben’s statement caused a knot to twist tight at the base of Rand’s throat, and he thought about the warning a mentor had given him years ago, about getting too close to his patients. “I’m going to miss you too, Ben.” Rand waited to speak until certain his voice would hold. “You’re a good man. One of the finest I’ve ever known.”

Ben’s lower lip quivered. “Well . . . that’s kind of you to say, Doc.” He sniffed. “But that just goes to show you haven’t gotten out much.”

They both laughed and Rand claimed the chair beside the bed. A parcel of time passed between them, quiet and unhindered. Rand had grown to enjoy these times with Ben. Sitting together and talking, or sometimes just sitting. Somehow, during the course of recent days, his prayers for Ben had changed. He found himself asking God to give Ben and Lyda a peace, a comfort, in the unseen bends of the road ahead. It wasn’t that he didn’t pray for healing anymore. He did. But it sure seemed that healing—on this side of eternity, anyway—wasn’t part of the Great Physician’s plan.

Still, Rand couldn’t ignore the physician within himself and the obligation he felt to do everything he could for his patient. “In another three or four days, Ben, maybe sooner if your strength improves, Rachel and I can do the procedure again and draw that fluid off your lungs.”

Ben shook his head. “I’m grateful for what you did, but I’m not doing that again. I told you that early on, remember?”

Rand had expected this response. “Yes, I remember. I’ve just been hoping you would change your mind. We know this procedure will work for you, that it gives you relief, and that it
will
buy you some more time. I know Lyda’s in favor of it.”

Ben’s lack of response sounded overloud in the silence.

Rand leaned forward in his chair, further softening his voice. “I understand your decision, Ben, and I’d never seek to encourage you to do something against your will. But as your physician, I feel an obligation to advise you of every option available.”

Ben looked toward the mountains, and Rand did too, praying for wisdom and discernment. For them both.

Eventually, Ben turned back. “Time is somethin’ I’ve had a lot of in recent days, Doc. Time to think, time to look at life. And I think that, in the end, no matter what we do, God decides.”

Rand waited, not sure what he meant.

Ben shifted on the bed. “Seems to me that God keeps us each here until we’ve finished whatever it is He has for us to do. Then He calls us home.” Peace settled over Ben’s features, even as his eyes grew misty. “And seein’ as the Almighty hasn’t let me down yet, I guess I’m all right with that.”

Hasn’t let me down yet . . .
Rand bowed his head, in awe that Ben could still say that in light of losing his children as he had. But still, he struggled. The doctor in him had a hard time accepting Ben’s decision not to take advantage of every possible medical intervention. A creak brought his head up.

Rand saw Lyda standing in the doorway, just out of Ben’s sight. Tears traced her cheeks, so much love in her eyes that he felt an ache in his gut. An ache that only made Ben’s choice that much tougher to accept.

27

A
ren’t you ready yet?” Kurt sighed and slumped across the foot of the bed.

“In a minute. Be patient, please.” Rachel coerced a wayward curl into place, securing it with a silver comb. She’d rushed through her chores and already had the wagon hitched and ready out front, wanting to have that done before she got dressed. She stepped back from the mirror and studied her reflection, wondering where the vivacious young woman who once stared back at her had gone.

She frowned at the dark stain encircling the hem of her skirt, same as all her others. No matter how much she brushed or washed, the remnants of dirt and mud remained. All part of living in such a rugged place, she knew. Still, there were times she longed for paved streets and indoor plumbing, and a hem unstained by six inches of muck.

She pictured the women she’d seen at the resort, refined and elegant, hair arranged in stylish fashion, their dresses trimmed in expensive lace, and—she smirked—not a smudge of manure anywhere on them.

“You don’t think Miss Clara will run out of biscuits before we get there, do you?”

Reaching for her shawl, she smiled at Mitch’s question. His tone was less whiny than Kurt’s, but both communicated the same thing—they were impatient to leave. And so was she. For the most part.

Rand had said this was only dinner. But it felt like something more. Maybe if she wasn’t so eager to see him again. . . .

With the boys behind her in the wagon bed, Rachel guided the rig down the mountain toward town. Her teeth jarred together as the wheels bumped and jolted over deep winter ruts. Repeated days of thawing and refreezing left clawlike ribbons in the road, and she kept one eye on the boulders situated high above them as she navigated the narrow pass. Occasionally, during the spring melt, rocks would lose their grip on the mountain and come tumbling down.