Within My Heart (7 page)

Ben cradled an arm beneath his head. “I take it by your silence you don’t agree with my suggestion.”

Rand stretched out his legs, appreciating the chance to do so. “I make it a strict rule, Ben, not to argue with patients who have heart conditions.”

Ben chuckled, then coughed and struggled to catch his breath.

“Deep breaths. Slow and steady,” Rand urged softly, watching for signs of a recurring episode.

Exhaling, Ben held his chest and made a face. “I’m about as tired . . . and
sore
”—he managed a chastising look that Rand knew better than to take personally—“as I can ever remember. But a good night’s rest should remedy that, I think.”

A good night’s rest?
Rand glanced at Lyda and Rachel still huddled together in the hall, their voices hushed, and decided to take advantage of the private moment with his patient.

“Ben,” he said softly, “your heart stopped beating a moment ago. Getting a good amount of rest will aid in regaining your strength . . . but rest isn’t going to
remedy
this. I’d be doing you a great disservice if I allowed you to believe that the condition of your health is anything other than grave.”

Ben’s expression grew reflective, and his smile came easily, too easily, and seemed out of place considering the news he’d just been given. Ben opened his mouth as though to say something, then glanced toward the door, where Lyda stood watching them from the threshold.

“Rachel’s gone to check on her boys,” she said, gesturing. “They’ve been waiting up front for her all this time, the sweet things.” Her look turned tentative. “How are you feeling, honey?”

Ben raised his head a little more. “Good. A mite tired, but a lot better compared to a few minutes ago.”

She gave a soft laugh, love for him shining in her eyes. “I’m so glad. And grateful.” She directed the latter to Rand. “How does a glass of tea sound to you both? Dr. Brookston, if I remember from Christmas dinner, you’re partial to my sweet tea.”

“That I am, ma’am. I’d appreciate a glass. Thank you.”

Lyda’s steps faded down the hall and Ben heaved a sigh, lowering his head back to the floor. Beads of sweat trickled down the side of his temple.

“You’re feeling
good
?” Rand asked, eyeing him and knowing better.

Ben’s eyes closed. His expression turned sheepish. “All my life, Doc,” he whispered, “I’ve had what you might call a . . .
peculiar
rhythm to my heart. Same as my father, and his father before him.” He shrugged. “A little twinge here and there. A pain every now and then. The episodes—that’s what the doctor back east labeled them when I was younger . . .” He glanced back at the door. “I’ve had them all my life. Lyda knows I used to be troubled by them, but I haven’t wanted to bother her with it for a while now.”

Already guessing the answer, Rand asked the obvious question. “Exactly how long is
a while
?”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “The last eight years or so.” He rubbed his forehead, then his eyes.

“Does your head ache?”

“No, it’s fine.”

Somehow Rand knew he wasn’t being completely truthful. “I’ve got willow bark at the clinic. I’ll bring some by as soon as we get you situated at home.”

Staring up at the ceiling, Ben sighed. “I’d be much obliged, Doc.”

The moment stretched long, its silence hindered only by a clock’s steady
ticktock
drifting toward them from somewhere down the corridor. Rand wasn’t bothered by the silence. Quite the contrary. He had matters he wanted to discuss, and early on in life he’d learned that remaining quiet often lent the greater advantage. None too surprisingly, he learned so much more that way.

“My wife,” Ben finally said, his voice tender, “she worries about things enough as it is. Especially after what happened to our children.”

Ben looked over at him, and though he hadn’t asked a question, Rand sensed one. He recalled what Esther Calhoun had once told him when he’d stopped by to check on her as she was suffering from a bout of bursitis. Mrs. Calhoun, a widow for eighteen years as she reminded him every time he visited, had a kind nature and knew everything about everybody who attended church in Timber Ridge. She’d shared the heartbreaking story of the Mullinses’ children, which happened long before he’d come west.

Rand met Ben’s steady gaze and nodded, wishing now that he’d said something to Ben and his wife about their children before today. But the moment had never felt right, and everyone knew it wasn’t proper to speak of the dead to loved ones left behind, unless invited. Still, that excuse felt flimsy when faced with the gut-wrenching truth in Ben’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Ben,” he whispered. “It must have been horrible for you and Lyda.”

“I appreciate that, Doc.” Ben’s voice hovered somewhere above a whisper. “Lyda and me . . . we both still carry a burden inside us over it. Always will, I guess. Some hurts don’t heal, even given time. But hers . . .” His jaw muscles corded tight. “Hers is different. It’s harder to bear in a way, I think. Which is saying an awful lot, because at first, right after it happened . . . there were days I thought I’d die from the weight of it all. Days when I wanted to.”

Ben winced, but Rand sensed the ache he felt wasn’t from his heart. Not from his physical heart, anyway.

Rand worked to loosen the tangle of emotion lodged in his throat.

“What I’m trying to say, Doc, is that I’d be obliged if you’d keep the worst of what’s going on with me between the two of us. Just for a while. I’ll tell my wife, soon, when the time is right.” Ben sniffed at unshed tears. “What happened today is due to my own foolishness. I’ve been overdoing things here at the store. I knew better and I did it anyway. I’m not a young man anymore.” He shook his head. “Haven’t been for some time. But I know now what all this work is costing me, and I won’t push myself like that again.”

Rand didn’t doubt the sincerity of Ben’s request, but what the man was asking went against everything within him. “It’s long been my belief, Ben, that when a husband or wife has an illness, especially something as serious as a heart condition, it’s best for them to share the prognosis with their spouse. So they can have support, a helpmeet.” He measured his next words. “And also . . . so their spouse will be able to prepare for the future.”

Ben didn’t flinch. Not even a little.

The clock down the hall ticked off the seconds.

“You ever been married, Doc?”

Ben’s voice was gentle, but Rand felt the subtle jab. “No . . . I haven’t.”

“You ever loved a woman so much that you’d gladly give every last ounce of your strength to make sure she’s cared for? To make sure she knows without a doubt that her life has made a difference, even if it didn’t turn out like she thought it would?”

Feeling less like the physician and more the patient, Rand shook his head. “No, Ben,” he whispered. “I haven’t.”

“You ever held a woman in your arms through the night and knew—” Ben’s voice gave way. He took an unsteady breath, his lower lip trembling. “And knew you were holdin’ everything you ever wanted? Or ever would want?”

Rand didn’t respond this time. He knew Ben already knew the answer.

“I just need some time, Doc. That’s all I’m asking for. I’ve known this day was coming. Granted, I didn’t expect it to come so soon. . . .” He arched his back, no doubt weary of the hard wood floor.

“I’ll get someone in here to help us move you.” Rand started to rise, but Ben caught his arm.

“I never knew my grandfather, Doc, but I heard the stories. And I watched my father die the same way. A little bit at a time and leaving my mother with too many mouths to feed.”

The responsibility pressing on Rand earlier as the sole physician of Timber Ridge took on a viselike grip. He should have insisted Ben come to him sooner. “If I’d known about your condition, Ben, I would’ve done everything I could to keep this from happening.”

Ben’s sigh came out in a chuckle. “That’s just it, Doc. I’m sure you’re a fine physician. One of the best, from what I hear.” He nodded toward the hallway. “And that’s from Rachel Boyd’s own lips, which is praise that doesn’t come lightly, in case you haven’t figured that out already. But unless you can find a way to put a new heart in this old body of mine, then, as I see it . . . there’s not much else to be done.”

For the first time the thinnest sheen of fear clouded Ben’s eyes, though his steady tone belied it. Yet on closer observation, Rand wondered if he was mistaken. Perhaps it wasn’t fear. Perhaps Ben was simply coming face-to-face with his own mortality, something every man or woman did eventually. Rand remembered that sobering moment in his own life, and a reverent shudder stole through him.

He wanted to argue with Ben, try and change his mind. But he’d been caring for people long enough to recognize a mind set on something, and Ben’s mind was set firm.

“You’ve got fluid pooling around your lungs, which is complicating your condition. There’s a procedure I can perform, a surgery, to remove some of that fluid,” Rand whispered, deciding now wasn’t the time to mention that he’d never performed that particular surgery by himself. “It will buy you more time. And as your condition worsens, as it will,” he added gently, “I can keep you comfortable. With proper care, that could mean several weeks. Maybe even months. There’s no way to know for sure.”

“Or it could mean days,” Ben said, looking up at him. “Remember, Doc, I’ve seen this play out before.”

Wishing now that he’d studied more about the heart instead of focusing on obstetrics, Rand gave a single nod. “The digitalis will help, but without removing the fluid”—if his prognosis was correct—“the chance for a longer term holds far less hope.”

“When would you do it? The surgery, I mean.”

“I’d want you to rest up, get some of your strength back. But we’d do it as soon as possible.”

Ben’s expression went solemn.

Feeling helpless and loathing that feeling, Rand studied the plank floor, combing through years of experience and training in search of other possible remedies, only to have medical science dismiss each as futile.

“Take it easy there, Doc. . . .” Ben reached over and briefly placed a hand on Rand’s arm. “I can feel your mind working all the way over here, and it’s tuckering me out.”

Despite feelings of frustration and inadequacy, Rand smiled. He searched for a response and came up short.

“Buy me however much longer you can, Doc. That’s all I’m asking. And don’t tell me to go lie down in a bed and wait to die. I won’t do it. Not when I stand to lose everything I’ve worked for all these years. All I’ve got is tied up in this store. My goal is to make sure my wife is well taken care of when I’m gone, and I aim to see that goal met.”

The clamor of footsteps sounded from down the hallway, and Ben cleared his throat. His demeanor noticeably brightened.

Not yet finished with their conversation, Rand realized that his patient apparently was. “I will not lie to your wife,” he said quietly.

“And I’m not asking you to,” Ben answered. “All I’m asking for is time to get my business in order. And to prepare Lyda for the truth. There’s a way to tell a woman something, and a way not to, Doc. I want to do this the right way.”

Rand stared ahead, uncomfortable with the way things were being left. Lyda deserved to know the truth about her husband’s condition, but Ben needed to be the one to tell her. With reluctance, Rand finally nodded, and Ben’s features relaxed in gratitude and relief.

Lyda rounded the corner, glasses of tea balanced on a tray, and with two familiar redheads in tow. The boys’ expressions held apprehension, revealing they’d been told about Ben’s circumstance, at least as much as they could grasp at their age. Rand stood and readied himself for their mother’s return, determined to deliver a flawless apology to her this time.

But Rachel Boyd was nowhere to be seen.

6

T
he second-story bedroom above the mercantile was tidy enough, even with boxes and crates stacked high on a far wall, but a hint of dust and disuse tainted the air. Rachel deposited the fresh bedding in the rocker by the door and crossed to the window. Bracing her hands on either side, she gave the window a good push. It refused to budge. On her third try the paint-peeled wood finally relented and edged up with creaking complaint.

Brushing the dust from her hands, she looked out across the town of Timber Ridge and welcomed the chilled breeze.

She breathed deep, willing a calm she didn’t feel, despite having time to regain her composure since Rand Brookston’s thorough dressing-down. She fingered a crack at the corner of the window.
Dressing-down
was probably too harsh a term for his comment. But still, her body heated again just thinking about the encounter.

Everything she’d suspected about the “good doctor” was true— despite what James had told her. Her brother had a knack for reading people, but he’d read this one wrong. People revealed their true natures under pressure, and Rand Brookston had certainly revealed his. He was short-tempered, demanding, and had an arrogance about him that all but dared a person to contradict him. Just like her father.

She stripped the bed, yanking the rumpled sheets off and shaking the pillows out of their cases.

Rand Brookston was handsome, she guessed, in an aristocratic sort of way, which she’d never personally found appealing. And despite his explanation, she still couldn’t erase the image of him opening the bedroom door at the brothel from her mind. The guilty look he wore, the provocative gleam in the eyes of the young woman lying on the bed.

And there was something else. . . .

On certain occasions when she’d been in his company, she’d caught him staring at her—as he’d been doing today. She could be wrong, but she’d gotten the feeling there might be interest on his part, and
interest
was the last thing she wanted to encourage. When she’d married, she’d done her best to choose a man who was the exact opposite of her father, and that relationship with Thomas had been the sweetest of her life.

But one thing she
was
interested in knowing about Rand Brookston was how he’d restarted Ben Mullins’s heart.
If
indeed that’s what he’d done. Doctors often overstated their roles in healing, taking credit where little to none was due. One of the less-than-desirable character traits of her father, among other traits she didn’t care to dredge from memory.