Within My Heart Page 12

  Mitch reached for the older stethoscope Rand had left for him on the bedside table. One of the brass ear tubes was cracked, but with patience, a slight heartbeat could still be detected.

  “Go ahead and check my heart, Mitch,” Ben said. “See if it’s still workin’. ”

  Mitch tossed Ben a smile but set about fulfilling the request. Kurt looked on, watching carefully. And Rand got the feeling that though Kurt sometimes appeared more detached, aloof, the boy was as attentive and as bright as his older brother.

  Rand met Lyda on the way downstairs. “I was just coming down to see you, ma’am.”

  Lyda paused on a lower step, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Charlie Daggett was helping her in the store, but Rand could see the tension behind her smile. And he read the question in her eyes the second before she gave it voice.

  “How is my husband doing, Dr. Brookston?” She peered up, eyes wide and trusting.

  Rand had delivered painful news to family members before, but something about this situation felt different, and he’d promised Ben he could be the one to tell her. Yet the rugged hope in Lyda’s eyes made this conversation an even greater challenge. Had Ben even mentioned the possibility of surgery to Lyda yet? He doubted it. “He’s not as well as I’d like for him to be, Lyda.” He chose his words carefully. “There’s a . . . procedure I can perform that will ease the pain he’s experiencing and help him breathe easier.” Which was true. It just wasn’t the entire truth. “I’d like to proceed as soon as possible.”

  “A procedure?” She grimaced. “Have you spoken with Ben about it?”

  He nodded.

  “Did he say yes?”

  He nodded a second time.

  She looked down at her hand on the stair rail and fingered her wedding band. “Is it dangerous?” she whispered, looking up. The tears in her eyes made them appear even bluer.

  “It’s not without risk, Lyda. But I believe the benefits to your husband warrant the risks in this instance.”

  Her lips pressed together, Lyda nodded fragile acceptance. “All right, then. . . . We’ll do whatever you think is best, Dr. Brookston.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. How alike Ben and Lyda were, in their love and concern for each other, and in their faith and belief in him. Rand promised himself he would do his best not to let them down.

  He only hoped God had the same plan.

  After passing along the envelope, with Ben’s request, to Charlie Daggett, Rand waited in line at the counter, wanting to see whether another shipment of medicine had arrived for him from Denver. He prayed it had, but chances were slim since he’d just received a shipment last week. His supply of digitalis was low. Dangerously so, with Ben’s present condition.

  The store was busy for a Monday afternoon. Patrons filled the aisles. Lyda had already arranged for extra help, and Jean Dickey, a woman who assisted them on occasion, caught Rand’s eye as she boxed up items for another customer. “Dr. Brookston, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I need to see if another shipment arrived for me. From Denver, I hope. It’ll be a box about this size.” He gestured with his hands. “And the word fragile will be stamped on the side.”

  Nodding, she deposited the customer’s money in the cash drawer, thanked him with a smile, and then searched the shelves beneath, and the ones behind. “It’s not up front here, Dr. Brookston, but let me check in the storeroom for you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dickey.” Rand waited, purposefully standing to the side so as not to be in the way of browsing patrons.

  “Have you been the doctor here in Timber Ridge for long, sir?”

  Rand turned in the direction of the deep-timbered voice, having no trouble determining its owner. A mountain of a black man stood behind him. The man extended his hand, his white teeth brilliant against his dark complexion.

  Rand shook his hand, feeling more the size of Mitch or Kurt by comparison. “I’ve been in Timber Ridge for about two years, but I’ve been practicing medicine for almost eight.”

  The man’s smile spread wider, as if Rand had said something funny. “A doctor I knew, long time ago now, he used to tell his patients he ‘practiced medicine,’ and that he’d be practicin’ the rest of his life because there was so much to learn.”

  Rand laughed. “I feel the very same way. No matter how much I learn, there’s always more to—”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston.” Jean Dickey returned empty-handed. “But we haven’t received another shipment yet.”

  Rand sighed. That meant no more digitalis. “Would you mind sending word the moment it arrives, Mrs. Dickey? It contains medicine I’m needing, and it’s crucial I get it as soon as it comes in.”

  Thanking her, he nodded a brief good-bye to the man behind him and was nearly to the door when he heard someone call his name.

  “Dr. Brookston . . .” The black man approached, his expression tentative. “I didn’t mean to overhear just now. . . .” He took a step closer. “My name’s Isaiah, sir. I don’t know if I can be of any help to you, but on the chance I can, I thought it best to say something. You’re needing medicine?”

  Rand studied him, then nodded, somewhat skeptical.

  He followed Isaiah outside to a wagon loaded with furniture. On closer inspection, Rand found the furniture to be of highest quality, carved with painstaking detail and exacting craftsmanship. He admired an especially handsome cabinet, already imagining how well his instruments and supplies would fit inside. But he didn’t have the funds. “Did you make all of this, Isaiah?”

  “Yes, sir, over the past winter. My wife, Abby, and I”—he pointed to a dress shop across the street where Rand assumed his wife had disappeared into—“we’ve taken to traveling come spring. We’ve already sold a few things this trip. I was waiting to meet with Mrs. Mullins inside. Her husband and I exchanged letters some time back. Mr. Mullins, he told me he’d take some pieces for his store here. Said he thought they could sell them.”

  Rand laughed. “I’ll say they could. Most of the furniture in this area is roughhewn from lodgepole pine. But this . . . You certainly have a gift.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Isaiah reached inside the wagon and withdrew a pouch. “What I said inside, about the doctor . . . Doc Lewis was his name. He was a good man. I worked alongside him for years. He taught me about making poultices and remedies, showed me which herbs to pick and what they cured. I don’t know what you’re needing, but if I have it, it’s yours.”

  Rand didn’t know what to say, or whether he could even trust this man’s claims. He wasn’t very familiar with herbs native to this part of the country, but he knew digitalis when he saw it. “Foxglove is what I need, if you have any. It also goes by the name of—”

  “Digitalis.” Isaiah’s gaze grew thoughtful. “Your patient has a weak heart.” It wasn’t a question. Isaiah pulled out a small envelope from within the pouch. “I don’t have much, Dr. Brookston. But like I said, it’s yours if you want it.”

  Rand peered inside the envelope, then took a tiny pinch and touched the tip of his tongue. He smiled, his skepticism melting away. This man was a godsend. “I’m happy to pay for this, Isaiah. If you’ll come with me to my clinic, I’ll—”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Doc Lewis never charged one penny for all he taught me, so I don’t take any money for the herbs.” He grinned. “But if you’re wantin’ some furniture, I’m ready to bargain.”

  “I wish I could.” Rand shook his hand, thanking God for bringing this man to this town, and at just the right time. He knew it was no coincidence. “Perhaps if you’re back through here sometime in the future.”

  Isaiah nodded. “You can count on it, Doc.”

  Still smiling, and having replenished Ben’s supply of medicine, Rand continued down the boardwalk, filling his lungs with the cold mountain air. Azure blue framed the snow-laden peaks soaring high above the town, while a late afternoon sun bathed them in an iridescent glow. Photographs of these mountains were exquisite but would n
ever replace standing in their shadow. The camera’s shades of gray didn’t do justice to the brilliant colors of this land.

  He pulled the collar of his coat closer about his neck and glanced down at the leather duster he wore. He’d never owned such a coat before, and never thought he would. But he had to admit—even though it was a tad roomy through the middle, he was growing accustomed to it.

  He was almost back to his clinic when he spotted Brandon Tolliver rounding the corner at the far end of the street, headed his way. Not wanting to deal with the owner of the new resort and whatever it was he wanted, Rand ducked into the nearby bakery— and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  11

  Dr. Brookston! I’ve been looking for you.” Judith Stafford closed the distance between them, gloved hand outstretched. “In fact, I just left your clinic.”

  “Miss Stafford.” Rand took brief hold of her hand while managing a discreet step backward. “What a surprise.”

  “Indeed! And a pleasant one at that.” Her soft laughter bubbled over. “I left word for you with . . .” She frowned as though trying to remember something.

  “Angelo?” Rand supplied, guessing the reason for her hesitancy.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I left word with Angelo that I needed to see you.”

  “You’re not ill, I trust.”

  “No, I’m quite well. Thank you for asking.” Her eyes lit. “I stopped by your clinic because I’m concerned about two of my students—Benjamin and Paige Foster. They started coughing this morning and only worsened as the day went on. When I checked their foreheads this afternoon, they were both warm to the touch.” Her brows arched. “Knowing how swiftly sickness can spread, I thought it wise to dismiss a little early and . . . let you know about it.”

  Catching the subtle change in her tone, Rand wished he’d made that small step backward a bit larger. As for the Foster siblings being ill, he knew most childhood fevers simply ran their course. But to be safe, he still wanted to examine the children. “Do you know if Benjamin and Paige went straight home?”

  “I instructed them to do just that.”

  “Thank you, Miss Stafford, for being so conscientious. I’ll call on the family this evening.” With a nod, he turned. But a touch on his arm drew him back.

  “Perhaps you’d like for me to accompany you, Dr. Brookston? As the children’s teacher, I feel an obligation as well as a responsibility to—”

  “That won’t be necessary, Miss Stafford. But thank you just the same.”

  Disappointment clouded her expression. Her gaze lowered.

  Realizing he’d come across as abrupt, Rand searched for something to say that would soften the rejection. He didn’t want to encourage Miss Stafford’s attentiveness, yet he didn’t want to be rude.

  Mindful of other patrons in the bakery, he kept his voice low. “I appreciate your offer, but I wouldn’t want to risk your health, Miss Stafford . . . in the event that what the children have is infectious.”

  Her features sharpened with concern, then smoothed as she exhaled a delicate sigh. “How thoughtful of you, Doctor.” She stepped closer. “While at your office earlier, I happened to see you’ve been enjoying the treat I left for you.”

  Her voice took on a singsong quality that might have sounded sweet, even delightful, if his feelings for her were of a more tender nature. As it was, he found himself wishing he’d let Brandon Tolliver get ahold of him instead. “Yes . . . the cookies. Thank you, ma’am. They were delicious. As always.”

  “And they’re your favorites.”

  Nodding, he didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d only eaten one. Angelo and his sisters had polished off the rest.

  “And . . . did you read my note?”

  He swallowed. “Ah . . . yes, I did. Your sentiments were most . . . enlightening.” Enlightening hardly described them. What she’d written . . . He grew uncomfortable again just thinking about it.

  Since moving to Timber Ridge, Judith Stafford had made no attempt to hide her interest in him, which was flattering in one sense. She was a bright, attractive woman. Intelligent, capable, well thought of in the community, and, from all accounts, a gifted teacher. She possessed many admirable qualities. The problem was, he simply didn’t return her . . .

  The irony of his next thought stopped him cold.

  Was this how Rachel Boyd felt about him? The realization stung, and put things into perspective for him with sharp-edged—and deflating—clarity. Eager to leave now more than ever, he made a show of checking his pocket watch. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Stafford, I have an appointment to keep. I appreciate your concern and dedication to your students, and I’ll call on the Fosters later this—”

  The young teacher glanced past him out the front window, frowning. At the same time, Rand heard someone calling his name. He turned to see a crowd gathering in the street, and when he spotted the man who was yelling for him, he rushed outside to the boardwalk. “Deputy!”

  Deputy Willis searched the boardwalk, his focus quickly finding its mark. “Dr. Brookston! Sheriff needs you at the jail right away!”

  Rand set out behind the deputy, running to keep up, his thoughts darting to the recent saloon shooting, then to the fatal coal mine explosion a month ago in which three miners were killed when an open flame ignited a pocket of flammable gas. The explosion brought the tunnel down.

  Winded from the run, Rand reached the stairs to the sheriff ’s office two strides behind the deputy and followed him inside.

  James McPherson met them at the door that led to the cells in the back. Concern weighted his expression. “It’s Rachel,” he said, and gestured for him to follow.

  Rand rounded the corner and saw her lying on a cot in the first jail cell. She shivered despite the coat she wore, and her eyes were clenched tight. “What happened?” he breathed, then saw how she was clutching her leg.

  “She’s hurting something awful where the heifer kicked her the other day.” McPherson nodded toward the deputy. “Thanks, Willis, for finding him for me.” McPherson waited until the young deputy returned to the front office and closed the door behind him. “I told her to come see you, Doc.” He bent and caressed the crown of his sister’s head. “But she thought it was just a bruise. She showed up here about ten minutes ago, all but passed out in the wagon.”

  Rachel’s eyelids fluttered open. She started to rise. “I need to find the boys. . . .”

  Rand gently touched her shoulder. “Your sons are fine, Mrs. Boyd.” He deposited his bag on the floor and shrugged off his duster. “They’re at the store with Ben and Lyda. I just left them.” He draped the long coat over Rachel’s body, and her eyes slipped closed.

  She shuddered. “Th-thank you. . . .”

  Outside the row of empty jail cells, at the far end of the hallway, Rand spotted a potbellied stove. “Can you get a fire going, Sheriff? We could use a little warmth in here.”

  “Consider it done, Doc.”

  Rand pressed the palm of his hand against Rachel’s forehead— she felt warm.

  “Your hand is cold,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No . . .” She shook her head, her chin quivering. “It feels good.”

  He cupped her face and smiled when the gesture earned him a grateful sigh. “How long has your leg been hurting?”

  She swallowed. “Since it happened, but . . . it’s gotten worse today.”

  Rachel Boyd . . . He shook his head to himself, remembering the copy of The Handy-Book of Husbandry he’d seen in the barn stall the morning he’d delivered Lady’s calf. His estimation of her had only risen over time, especially in the past few days as he’d seen her interact with Ben and Lyda, and had spent more time in her company. But he wondered . . . Had she been this determined and willful before her husband died? Or was this part of how she’d learned to cope? To survive without him?

  No question, she was a Southern woman through and through, and like a lot of Southern women, when push came to shove, she h
ad a will of iron that cut straight through the sugar and sweetness. As his mother might have said, and proudly so, “She’s a woman to be reckoned with, son.” Rand sighed. What he wouldn’t do to have Rachel Boyd be open to a little reckoning with him.

  His next question was absurd, but propriety demanded he ask. “Would you permit me to examine your injury, Mrs. Boyd?”

  She looked up at him. “Yes, but . . .” She briefly glanced away. “I’m . . . wearing stockings.”

  It took him a moment to understand what she was implying. She would need to remove her stockings in order for him to examine her—he glanced around—and a jail cell hardly afforded the privacy they needed.

  Sheriff McPherson returned with an armful of wood, and Rand met him in the hallway and explained the situation, knowing Rachel would feel more comfortable with her brother carrying her than him. “So if you could help me move her to the clinic, Sheriff, I’d be obliged.”

  Fifteen minutes later, James McPherson carried his sister into the clinic, and Rand directed him toward his bedroom as he retrieved a bottle and cup from the medicine shelf. James lowered her to the bed and Rachel sat down on the mattress.

  Rand poured and held the cup to her lips. “It’s laudanum.”

  She accepted without hesitance but made a slight face.

  Rand commiserated. “Wish I could make it taste better.” He raised the cup again, but she turned away. “It will help ease the pain,” he encouraged. “I think you’ll be glad you took it.”

  She shook her head, frowning. “I’ll be fine.”

  Believing differently, he placed the bottle and cup aside. “Do you need help removing your undergarments?”

  “No.” She glanced back at the bed. “May I lie down here?”

  He’d planned on moving her to the examination table in the front room, where it was warmer, but this would do. “Yes, that’ll be fine. Whatever is easiest for you.”

  She started unbuttoning her coat.