Within My Heart Page 19

  Rachel frowned, a little hurt by that comment. She used to make fresh biscuits every morning. Now she baked a batch on Sunday and hoped the biscuits would last through the week. Which, with two boys, they never did.

  “Please, Mama.” Mitch took hold of her hand. “We haven’t been to Miss Clara’s in a long time.”

  Torn, Rachel focused on a point down the street. A hot dinner at Miss Clara’s sounded heavenly, but she couldn’t justify spending the money with her finances so lean and with the cupboards stocked at home. She looked at Rand, thinking of yet another reason that this dinner might not be the best idea. She told herself again that she could be imagining it, but there were moments, like this one—when he looked at her the way he was looking at her now— when she wondered if he wished there was something more to their friendship than . . . well, friendship.

  But that “something more” was not something she welcomed.

  19

  Rand was certain he’d won Rachel over to his dinner invitation and could already taste Miss Clara’s buttery mashed potatoes, which would taste even better with these three joining him. Each time he was with Rachel, he grew fonder of her. And though it hadn’t been easy, he thought he’d done a good job of keeping those feelings under wraps—which was best, considering she’d yet to give him any real encouragement on that front.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a dip of her chin, “but the boys and I should really be heading back to the ranch.” Mitch and Kurt groaned. A quick arch of Rachel’s brow quieted Mitch, but Kurt’s scowl took deep root. “We have chores to do, boys, and there’s plenty to eat at home. But we thank you, Dr. Brookston, for—”

  “But he said he’d pay,” Kurt insisted, taking hold of Rand’s sleeve. “Didn’t you?”

  Knowing better than to encourage a disagreement, Rand motioned down the boardwalk, more disappointed than Mitch and Kurt combined. “Boys, before you head home, would you mind running down there and seeing if the newspaper office is still open? Your mother and I will meet you there in a minute.”

  With a long face, Mitch held out Rand’s medical bag.

  But Rand shook his head. “If you don’t mind carrying it on down there for me, I’d appreciate it.” He rubbed his shoulder, feigning a grimace. “Gets heavy lugging that thing around all the time.”

  Mitch pumped the bag up and down as if it were a barbell. “I don’t think it’s heavy at all.”

  Smiling, Rand dug into his pocket for a nickel, already seeing the dark glare Kurt aimed at his brother. “Kurt, would you mind picking me up a copy of the paper, if Mrs. Ranslett has any left?” He dropped the coin in Kurt’s outstretched palm and would’ve sworn the boy grew an inch, though traces of his scowl lingered.

  Mitchell and Kurt raced down the boardwalk, Kurt’s shorter legs pumping to keep up.

  Rand started to speak, then noticed Rachel’s thoughtful focus following her sons. Not wanting to interrupt, he watched the boys and wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like if he’d had a brother. If his parents had given birth to another son. A son who wouldn’t have “forsaken his birthright,” as his father had referred to Rand’s decision to become a doctor. A son who would have wanted to stay and inherit the family business.

  The family business . . .

  That made him think of Ben selling a share of the store. Rand sighed. So Westin was the man responsible for purchasing Timber Ridge’s future clinic out from under him. Still frustrated over what had happened, Rand couldn’t fault the man, not when he really thought about it. Because that meant Edward Westin was also responsible for providing a more secure future for Lyda Mullins, which was what Ben was living for. Quite literally.

  With a wave of his hand, Rand drew Rachel’s attention back. “I hope you’re not upset that I sent the boys down there,” he said quietly. “I wanted the chance to speak with you. Privately.”

  “On the contrary.” She blinked. “I thank you for respecting my wishes. And . . .” Her voice grew softer. “I have something I’d like to say to you too.”

  Rand got the feeling this conversation might not turn out the way he’d hoped. “Ladies first, then.”

  A blush crept into her cheeks. “Offering to treat us to dinner was very kind of you, Rand,” she said quietly, and he liked the sound of his name on her lips. “But I’m the one who owes you. I’m ashamed to admit”—she winced—“that I hadn’t given a single thought to paying you for all you’ve done for us, until . . .” Her gaze dropped to his coat and she briefly touched the front of it. “But I will. I give you my word I’ll pay you for your services. For delivering the calf, for taking care of my injury. I just need some time to . . . get the funds together.”

  If this woman was trying to endear herself to him, which Rand was sure she wasn’t, she could not have done a better job. “You don’t owe me a thing, Rachel. It was my pleasure to do those things.”

  Her polite smile said she didn’t believe him. Then her pretense faded. Genuine enthusiasm took its place. “I know what I can give you. Beef!” She hesitated. “You do like beef, don’t you?”

  He couldn’t keep from laughing. “Yes, I like beef. Very much.”

  “I need to slaughter another cow for me and the boys, and as soon as I do that, I’ll give you a side of beef.”

  This woman . . . “I truly appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I have no place to store a side of beef.” Seeing her excitement wane, he got an idea. “But I love roast beef, with those little potatoes on the side.” He leaned in as though they were in cahoots together. “How about I trade you one side of beef for one roast, cooked by you, and eaten at your table?”

  Watching her weigh the proposition, he hoped Rachel Boyd would never try to play poker. He could read her like a copy of the Timber Ridge Reporter. And he could see that he’d scared the woman to death. Grappling with how to salvage the moment, he watched her take a tiny step backward. She arranged a refined, ladylike smile on her pretty face.

  “All right,” she said, nodding once.

  Shocked, he smiled. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. One roast, cooked by me. Eaten at my table.”

  “With those little potatoes,” he added, hoping to coax that dry look she sometimes gave him. He wasn’t disappointed.

  Next morning, Rand set out for the resort before seven o’clock, eager to speak with Tolliver about Ben’s surgery. He made a detour by the Fosters’ cabin on the way, wanting to check on Paige. The young girl’s fever had finally subsided, but as was often the case with typhoid, ravages from the disease had left her fatigued and malnourished. Cautiously hopeful and wishing he had a better prognosis, he gently told Mr. and Mrs. Foster that things could still go either way. He hadn’t missed the look of “I told you so” in Mr. Foster’s somber expression.

  He’d stayed up late into the night grinding herbs for Paige and his other typhoid patients—one batch to be mixed with hot tea, the other to be combined with milk to make poultices for those with fever. He’d filled pouches for each of his eight patients, including Tolliver’s employee. It was remarkable more people hadn’t gotten sick. Folks who had never spoken to him before about medical issues were stopping him in the street now, asking questions about simple health issues. And he couldn’t have been more pleased to answer.

  He dismounted in front of the main hotel, already tired. He tugged off his gloves and handed the reins, along with a coin, to the stableboy. A different lad than before. Grinning, the boy led the mare toward the stalls.

  Rand took the flagstone walkway to the wraparound porch, taking in the beauty of the Maroon Bells in the distance.

  The hotel lobby was quiet. The employee behind the elaborate reception desk was assisting a patron, so Rand skirted quietly around the side, not wanting to take the chance of being stopped.

  Down the hallway in the restaurant, silverware clattered against china and a low buzz of conversation seeped into the corridor. As he passed the open double doors, he glanced inside, then
slowed his steps. He marveled again at the extravagance of the resort and of its patrons. White linen tablecloths and fine china and crystal, even at breakfast.

  But he wouldn’t have traded any of this for the deal he’d made with Rachel. One roast, made by her, eaten at her table. Glad he’d thought of the compromise, he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes!

  He continued down the empty hallway to Tolliver’s office, praying the man was in a generous mood this morning. He raised his fist to knock—

  “I don’t care what you think is best, Miss Valente!”

  Rand paused at the harsh voice coming from Tolliver’s office.

  “I don’t pay you to think! I pay you to do what I tell you to do!” A loud crash sounded, like glass shattering. “Is it so difficult to remember to pick up the telegrams each day and bring them to me? Because if it is, I’ll find someone else capable of doing it.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tolliver,” a feminine voice answered. “I just—”

  “This telegram arrived last Wednesday, Maria. Five days ago! And I have to hear about its contents from some yokel in town.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  A harsh laugh. “You’re right—it won’t! Or you’ll be back in that kitchen with the rest of your sisters.”

  Tense seconds ticked past. Rand felt his own chest burning. The audacity of that pompous— The door latch turned, and he stepped to one side.

  “Will there be anything else, Mr. Tolliver?” the woman asked.

  “No. Not unless you care to enlighten me on your other areas of incompetence.”

  The door opened and out stepped the young woman who had assisted him last time. Head bowed, obviously flustered, she closed the office door and hurried down the hallway, never looking his way.

  Watching her, Rand felt a pang of remorse remembering how he’d snapped at Rachel that day in the storeroom. He hadn’t been as condescending as Tolliver just now, but his actions had been just as wrong. He wasn’t catching Tolliver in a good mood, if there was such a thing, but his request couldn’t wait. He knocked on the door.

  A not-so-muted curse filtered from the office. “What is it now, Maria?”

  Rand entered and was halfway into the room before Tolliver looked up from his desk.

  Tolliver groaned. “I told you, Doctor, I’m not delaying the grand opening of this hotel. None of my other workers have come down sick, and I’ve spent too much—”

  “I’m not here about the typhoid, Mr. Tolliver.” Though I’m touched, as would be your employees—or guests, for that matter—at your concern, he wanted to add but didn’t, considering his purpose in coming.

  Exhaling, Tolliver pushed back from his desk. “Then you must be here to gloat, Dr. Brookston. Is that it? If so, go ahead and get it over with.” He retrieved a file from a cabinet behind his desk. “I have a resort to run.”

  Rand gave a humorless laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m here on a professional matter.”

  Tolliver stilled, suspicion hardening his stare. “So . . . you haven’t heard that Dr. Rochester recently declined the position he accepted with the resort over a year ago.”

  Rand’s gaze went to the telegram now in Tolliver’s grip, and the situation came into clearer focus. “You mean the distinguished Dr. Newton Rochester from Boston General?” he asked, trying to capture a hint of the tone Tolliver had used when introducing Rand to the resort’s Health Suite.

  Tolliver responded with a glare.

  “Sorry.” Rand raised a hand in mock truce. “No, I hadn’t heard. I realize that must put you in a very difficult position. I hope you’re able to fill the position soon.”

  While he couldn’t bring himself to feel sympathy for Tolliver, he was aware that the resort, with its hot mineral springs, was touted in advertisements as being a place of healing. Handbills described guests as “partaking of the waters under a physician’s care” to help rejuvenate achy joints and ligaments and relieve back and neck pain. But Dr. Rochester’s failure to keep his word wasn’t Rand’s problem. He shifted his weight, sensing the timing was as right as it would ever be.

  “If you have a moment, Mr. Tolliver, I’d like to discuss a matter of great—”

  “Would you consider accepting the position, Dr. Brookston?”

  Rand blinked, then heard himself laugh, expecting Tolliver to do the same. But he didn’t. Was the man serious? Rand slowly shook his head. “Ah . . . no. But thank you, Mr. Tolliver,” he said, amused. He perused the well-furnished office and spotted the shattered remains of a wine decanter on the floor in the corner. Evidence of Tolliver’s temper, no doubt. “I appreciate the offer, but I already have a practice.”

  This time it was Tolliver who looked amused. “Yes, I’m aware of your . . . practice in town, Doctor.”

  Reminding himself again of why he was here, Rand said nothing.

  “You do fine work, Dr. Brookston. I mean that in all seriousness. And I should know.” He smirked. “You’ve sutured more of my employees than I care to count.”

  “I’ve sutured forty-seven of your employees, to be exact. And I did care enough to count.” Rand savored Tolliver’s look of surprise, but even more, the subtle hint of respect in the man’s unwavering stare.

  “Are you certain I can’t interest you in the position here, Doctor? There’s nothing that will change your mind?”

  Rand shook his head. “I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing.” Well, that wasn’t completely true. He wanted to do so much more as the doctor of Timber Ridge, and it seemed as if the door might finally be opening for that to happen. Folks were becoming more receptive to his medical advice. Now if he could just find a way to provide a proper clinic in which to care for them. But working at a place like the resort wasn’t an aspiration, and certainly not for a man like Brandon Tolliver.

  Merely nodding, Tolliver crossed the room to the three-tiered paned window that framed a breathtaking view of the Rocky Mountains. His gaze fixed on some unknown point, his eyes narrowed. “Graduated first in your class, with the highest honors the College of Physicians in Philadelphia could bestow. You were offered a prestigious fellowship to practice at St. Mary’s Hospital in New York, which you declined.”

  Rand stared, wordless.

  “You were offered the head of obstetrics at Mercy Hospital in Philadelphia. . . .” Tolliver turned and looked back. “But again, you said no. And forgive me, Dr. Brookston, but a man like myself has to wonder why such a talented physician with so many opportunities open to him would choose to come to a place like Timber Ridge.”

  20

  Rand had no idea how Tolliver knew so much about him. Not that it mattered. “The real question here, Tolliver, is why you would go to such great lengths to learn so much about me.”

  Tolliver walked to his desk and sat down. “Don’t flatter yourself, Brookston. I hardly went to great lengths. A telegram or two and the information was at my fingertips. Nevertheless, I pride myself on knowing my counterparts.”

  Rand raised a brow.

  “Oh yes, I consider you a peer, Doctor. One of the very few here in Timber Ridge, in fact.”

  Rand laughed inwardly, knowing Tolliver meant that as a compliment in his own twisted way. Could the man be more arrogant? Checking the clock on the mantel, Rand saw the morning slipping past. He had medicine to deliver to patients and a question yet to be posed. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Tolliver, so may I come straight to the point about why I came to see you this morning?”

  Tolliver tilted his head in acknowledgment.

  Rand considered how to best frame his request and decided the direct approach would be most effective. “Ben Mullins needs an operation. He recently experienced heart failure, but he’s beginning to regain his strength. However, he’s suffering from pleural effusion.” He tried to gauge Tolliver’s reaction so far but couldn’t get a good reading. “Fluid is collecting on his lungs, and it needs to be removed. I’m asking for your permiss
ion to use your facilities to conduct the procedure. I need to do it as soon as possible, within the week is my preference. Following the operation, Ben will need to recuperate here for a couple of days, maybe more depending on how the procedure goes and how he progresses. Then I’ll arrange to have him moved back home.”

  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.”