Within My Heart (9 page)

If something happened to Lady and her calf—Rachel cringed inwardly, a barrage of
what ifs
crowded close, tempting her to worry—it would be one more confirmation of her inability to provide for her family.

That was one reminder she didn’t need.

Reaching for strength beyond her own, she determined not to borrow trouble that wasn’t yet on her doorstep. She cleared her throat. “Mitchell, we need to be leaving, son. Lyda—” She reached for Lyda’s hands, aware of the silent protest on Mitch’s face. “The boys and I are heading home, but I’ll try and come back later this evening.”

Lyda shook her head. “There’s no need for you to do that. Ben and I will be fine. Dr. Brookston said he’ll sit with him while I finish up things with customers downstairs. Then Angelo might come over later if we need more help. Besides”—Lyda glanced toward the window—“more snow’s coming, bringing bitter cold, and I . . . I don’t want you out on a night like this.”

Even if Lyda hadn’t squeezed her hand, Rachel would have caught her meaning, and her thoughts turned again to Ben and Lyda’s children. As hard as losing Thomas had been, she could not fathom the pain of losing her children.

“Mama?” Mitchell paused by the footboard, his expression both expectant and cautious. “Dr. Brookston said he’d give me a ride home later, if it’s all right with you. That way, I could stay and keep checking Uncle Ben’s heart to make sure he’s okay.”

Rachel’s throat corded tighter, same as her nerves. She forced herself to look at Dr. Brookston. “That’s most kind of you, Doctor. But, Mitchell”—she returned her focus to her son—“I need you to come with me now. Lady has gotten out of the barn, and I could use your help at home.”

Mitch’s head cocked to one side. “But how did she get . . .” His expression darkened. “It’s Kurt’s fault, isn’t it? I told him not to—”

Rachel held up a hand. “Now’s not the time. Please go downstairs with your brother and wait out back for me in the wagon. I’m following right behind you.”

“Yes, ma’am. . . .” The firm set of Mitch’s mouth told her he wasn’t happy, but as usual, he did as she bade.

Rachel sidestepped Rand Brookston and leaned down to place a kiss on Ben’s stubbled cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you both. Maybe I’ll bring some of that potato soup you like.”

Ben sighed, looking overtired. “We’ll look forward to your visit, but don’t you go to any trouble.”

“Go to trouble . . . over you?” Rachel shook her head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Ben covered her hand on his shoulder, and Rachel felt a fresh swell of emotion. She knew enough to know that his condition was serious. What she didn’t know was how long he had left.
Don’t take
him, Lord. Not yet. Please . . . for Lyda and the boys.
And for herself too, but it felt less selfish to ask on behalf of others.

“Mrs. Boyd?”

Hearing Rand Brookston’s voice, Rachel straightened and smoothed a hand over her skirt, wondering if her smile looked as brittle as it felt. “Yes, Dr. Brookston?”

“If you have a moment, ma’am, I’d like to speak with you.” He motioned toward the hallway.

Eager as she was to get home, she preceded him into the empty hallway. Perhaps he wanted to speak with her about Ben. If that were the case, she wanted to hear what he had to say—and she had a question or two for him as well.

She was surprised when he pulled the door almost closed behind them.

He shifted his weight, suddenly developing an interest in the wooden planks beneath his boots. “Mrs. Boyd, I . . .” He seemed at a loss to know what to do with his hands—odd for one so skilled with the scalpel. “I want to offer an apology for my earlier behavior. The situation with Mr. Mullins was extremely tense, and I . . .” He shook his head. “I took my frustration out on you. I’m sorry. I was out of line. Your assistance in getting the medicine here was nothing short of exemplary. I . . . hope you’ll forgive me.”

Rachel stared. An apology? She hadn’t expected this. The way he stammered and wouldn’t look her in the eye—it was almost enough to convince her that she truly
had
misjudged him. What she found equally unexpected was how much she wanted that to be true. “I’m grateful for your apology, Dr. Brookston. And . . . kindly accept it.”
I think. . . .

“Thank you.” He exhaled, and a shy smile tipped one side of his mouth. “It wouldn’t do to have the sheriff ’s sister upset at me, now, would it?”

With great effort, Rachel maintained her poise, the tinge of disappointment bitter at the discovery. So that was it. Rand Brookston didn’t want to be on her brother’s bad side. She should have known. She turned to go, then paused, seizing the opportunity. “Dr. Brookston, would you answer one question for me, please?”

His expression sobered. “Yes, ma’am. Anything.”

“Lyda stated that you
restarted
Ben’s heart.” She lowered her voice. “But we both know that’s impossible.”

He glanced at the door, then stepped farther down the hall, motioning for her to follow. She did.

“In the past, Mrs. Boyd, when a person’s heart had ceased to beat, you’re right,” he whispered, “it was considered impossible to restart the heart muscle. It’s still considered so by many. But, with recent research on external chest compression, we—”

“External chest compression?” she repeated, hearing the wariness in her own voice, as well as the flicker of curiosity.

He nodded. “The procedure involves delivering a series of rhythmic applications of pressure on the lower half of the sternum, like this”—he positioned his hands, one atop the other, demonstrating— “until a heartbeat is achieved again.
If
it can be. I have a paper in my office published not two months ago that I’d be happy to loan to you, if you’re interested in reading more about it.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that.” While she welcomed knowing more about this new procedure, learning about Ben’s current condition was more important. “But tell me . . .” She gestured toward the bedroom door. “What’s your prognosis for Ben? And please don’t try to spare my feelings. I may not be a physician, but I know from personal experience that when a person suffers from a heart ailment, their future is . . . tenuous.” She paused, not wanting to voice her next thought. “I’m thinking he has perhaps a year,” she whispered, watching for his reaction. “Maybe a little less?”

Before he said a thing, she read the answer in his eyes.

He looked away. “The amount of time remaining for a patient in this situation is dependent on many factors. It’s hard to—”

“That’s all right,” she whispered, understanding. She already had her answer.

The bedroom door opened and Lyda walked out. “Ben needs a chamber pot,” she whispered, her smile tired but laced with relief. “Too much of that tea, I guess.” She left the door open, and Rachel caught a glimpse of Ben on the bed, arms resting on his chest, eyes closed. Not a comforting image.

“Mrs. Boyd,” Dr. Brookston said softly, “if you’d like to stay longer, you’re more than welcome to—”

She shook her head. “It’s urgent that I get home. My best heifer is due to drop anytime and she’s wandered off.” She decided not to share Charlie Daggett’s
other
news.

A spark flickered in Rand Brookston’s gray eyes. “I’m well versed in animal husbandry, ma’am. Just ask Harvey Conklin. I helped deliver twin foals for him last month. If you need my services, I’d be happy to—”

“No.” She held up a hand. “But thank you all the same.”

A scuffling noise sounded on the stairs, just beyond the first turn in the staircase, and was followed by a quick staccato of boot steps—
two
sets of boots. She didn’t have to guess whom they belonged to. Such behavior from Kurt wasn’t surprising, but Mitchell . . . She looked back and saw a slight frown on Rand’s face, then realized it mirrored hers. She quickly smoothed it. “Your offer is most kind, but I’m certain I can manage well enough on my own.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, Mrs. Boyd,” he said, his accent deepening, by his design, without question. “My offer wasn’t rooted in my estimation of your inability, ma’am, but rather in a sincere desire to be of assistance.”

Surprised at his ability to muster such charm, she weighed his statement, which was, again, so direct. She allowed the hint of a reluctant smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, bothered by how much his affirmation meant to her, “but we’ll be fine.”

She bid him a hasty good-night and took the stairs as quickly as the narrow passage allowed.

A half hour later, Rachel pulled the wagon to a stop in front of their cabin, only to remember she’d never stopped by the bank on her way home. She sighed. Every day she got further and further behind.

Snow-laden clouds veiled the rocky peaks, hanging low in ominous tufts of steel gray and purple. A pale winter sun sought refuge behind them, and for the briefest of seconds, its waning light illuminated the approaching storm. She scanned the horizon, taking it in. She might have thought the scene beautiful if she hadn’t experienced firsthand how damaging the snowfall and bitter cold could be to her livelihood.

She sent the boys on inside and guided the wagon and team into the barn. Fifteen minutes later, she strode back to the cabin, not wanting to waste another minute of daylight.

She shrugged into Thomas’s old work coat, welcoming its thick layers, and reached for her rifle by the front door, spotting Thomas’s rifle beside it, exactly where it had been since James brought it back to her—along with the news of Thomas’s death.
Not now . . . Don’t
do this now.
She didn’t have the time, nor the energy, to deal with the flood of memories.

Or to think about the man responsible for Thomas no longer being with her.

“Boys, there’s enough ham and beans for your dinner, and milk in the icebox to share. Once you’ve eaten, do your chores in the barn, then come directly back inside the house. The temperature outside is dropping, so don’t dawdle. And wear your coats and gloves. Do you understand me?”

Both boys nodded.

“Then go on to bed. And use your extra blankets. I’ll build a fire when I get back.” She hated leaving them, but she had no choice. Besides, they were accustomed to being left alone. Owning a ranch meant working whatever hours the ranch demanded, and this ranch was a hard taskmaster. Especially for a woman alone.

Until last spring, she’d managed to employ two ranch hands, and James had helped when he could. But the loss of cattle these last two winters had stripped her budget to the bone. As it was, she owed Charlie Daggett a month’s wages and had promised to pay him this week.

She paused at the door and looked back at Mitch and Kurt.

There were moments, like this one, when she wondered if pursuing this dream—Thomas’s dream for the ranch—was worth it. Swallowing the mounting doubt, she squared her shoulders. “Take care of each other while I’m gone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She raised a brow. “And no arguing.”

She strode to the barn, carrying with her the image of her boys standing there in the hallway. They were so young and innocent, yet already acquainted with loss.

Picturing the scene of a cougar’s recent kill, she checked to be sure her rifle was loaded and that extra shells were still tucked in her coat pocket. Then she saddled Chaucer, Thomas’s horse, and set out toward Crowley’s Ridge just as the first snowflakes fell.

7

A
cloth-covered tin, complete with bow, sat wedged against the clinic door alongside a large burlap bag tied tight with string. Both were dusted in snow. Rand bent to pick them up, already guessing who the tin was from—and hoping he was wrong.

Once inside, he shouldered the clinic door shut, but not before the snow and wind burrowed their way in behind him. Cold and tired, back muscles aching, he deposited his satchel in the chair by the door and laid the burlap bag and tin on the examination table.

Glancing again at the burlap bag, he wondered at its contents. It was sure heavy enough. After lighting an oil lamp, he untied the bag to reveal a smoked ham. He read the letter tucked inside and a wave of gratitude overtook him.

With eleven mouths to feed, not counting their own, Mathias and Oleta Tucker could scarcely afford to part with this meat, but for him to refuse it would be considered an insult. Six of their children had been ill with the croup and required medicine, yet all eleven had signed the note thanking him. Oleta had added a line along the bottom explaining, again, that she wished they possessed the money to pay him instead.

Staring again at the Tuckers’ form of payment, Rand’s gratitude deepened.

A smoked ham wouldn’t help toward the down payment on a new clinic—same for live chickens, jars of homemade jams, and varied men’s clothing from widows’ closets—but he knew what a cost this ham represented to Mathias and Oleta. And he’d known what he was getting into when he came west to such an isolated town . . . for the most part, anyway.

Money certainly wasn’t the reason he’d decided to become a doctor. He fingered the frayed edge of the well-worn burlap bag. No matter how much wealth a man acquired, it could always be taken away. What a person was left with after the money was gone—that was what mattered most.

Even so, he wished he could provide the people of Timber Ridge with a proper clinic. This old place was fine enough for him to live in. He didn’t need anything fancy. But his patients . . . They deserved better. He intended to stop by and speak with Harold Welch again about the vacant building next to the Mullinses’ store. Maybe enough time had passed that Welch would reconsider his offer, low as it was. The building needed a fair amount of work, but it was large, with several rooms, excellent for a clinic. Welch was asking an exorbitant amount, more than Rand could afford, but maybe if he upped his offer a little, and if Welch agreed to let him pay over time . . .

Buying that building was risky with income being so sporadic. But he’d learned long ago that a life lived without risks pretty much wasn’t worth living. Life rewarded courage, even when that first step was taken neck-deep in fear.

His gaze slowly shifted to the tin. He hesitated, giving it a long stare before giving the bow a sharp tug.