Within My Heart Page 24

  “Not long enough, I’d daresay.”

  She laughed and smoothed the sides of her hair. “Is it that bad?”

  His expression turned decidedly intimate. “Not at all. But I know you, Rachel Boyd. You never rest when there’s work to be done. You scrubbed the surgery room clean and put it to right, along with all the instruments and medicine. You wiped down every counter and table in sight. You made files for the patients I saw today.” He shook his head. “You even penned a list of the supplies we used for Ben’s surgery”—he pulled a loose sheet of paper from the journal—“so that I’d know what needs to be replaced.” He held her gaze. “You’re very thorough, which is a trait I admire. Very much.”

  She probably should have been uncomfortable at his close attention. But strangely, she wasn’t. He’d noticed everything she’d done, down to the last detail, and it made her feel . . . special. Appreciated.

  “Thank you,” she said, sensing their conversation was at a crossroad. Coaxing a carefree smile, she chose the less serious path. “Remind me never to try and sneak something by you, Dr. Brookston.”

  “On the contrary, I wish you would.” A mischievous gleam lit his eyes. “You must know by now . . . I enjoy a challenge.”

  Outwardly, she laughed off his playfulness. But inwardly, she felt herself softening toward him even more, despite knowing it would be safer if she didn’t. The look in his eyes, the subtle flirtation, made her pulse beat a little faster. He reached to the side, and only then did she notice the silver tea service on the table adjacent to them.

  He poured a cup and handed it to her with a wink. “I have connections in the kitchen.”

  She sipped, the fragrant steam wafting from the cup. Orange and cinnamon spice. Delicious. “Very good connections, I’d say.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and she knew something was on his mind. She also knew it was late, they were both tired, and she needed to get home to the boys. Apparently Charlie Daggett hadn’t come by for her yet, so she had time. And something in Rand’s expression invited her to stay, which was exactly what she wanted to do.

  She grew warmer by the second and blamed it on the tea. But glancing over the rim of her cup at the man seated across from her, she knew that wasn’t true. “The amount of fluid you extracted from Ben’s lungs,” she said, not so artfully steering the conversation away from the more personal. “I sensed that wasn’t what you were expecting. From that one side, anyway.” It remained to be seen if the right lung held as much.

  The faint narrowing of his eyes hinted at Rand’s acknowledgment of what she was doing. He took a drink of tea. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but it was what I suspected. The more fluid that collects in the pleural cavity, the graver the patient’s prognosis. We don’t know why the fluid collects.” He sighed as though the not knowing frustrated him. “But excessive fluid always portends the latter stages of a disease. Be it heart failure, or tuberculosis, or one of a hundred other illnesses for which the cause remains elusive.” He set down his cup, his gaze confined to the floor, his shoulders bearing that invisible weight she’d witnessed before. “There’s still so much we don’t understand. So much we still can’t do.”

  She leaned forward in her chair in an effort to regain his attention. “But doctors are learning more every day, Rand. You said so yourself when we were preparing for Ben’s surgery.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Take the typhoid outbreak, for example,” she said.

  His gaze lifted.

  “Eight people have come down with typhoid since the outbreak. Only eight! And no deaths so far. That’s unheard of. Shortly before you came to Timber Ridge, thirty-seven people died from typhoid in a town not far from Denver. But that kind of tragedy isn’t going to happen here . . . because of you. It’s the truth,” she said quickly, seeing him shake his head in disagreement. “The article you wrote for the newspaper, the instructions about what causes typhoid and what precautions to take to prevent contracting it . . .” She arched a brow, trying to draw a smile from him. “As Sir Francis Bacon once wrote, ‘Knowledge is power.’ ”

  That earned her a laugh. Rand’s gaze moved over her face and turned serious. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “For what?”

  “For being here now. With me.”

  His bluntness caught her off guard. She knew full well what he was referring to, but she wasn’t ready for her heart to go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She took another sip of tea and sat straighter in her chair. “I’m glad I was here too. I’m grateful you asked me to assist you.”

  His slow-coming smile said he saw through her ploy. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  She bit her lower lip, resisting the overpowering urge to look away. “I know,” she whispered, her heart beating double time now. “But it’s what I need for you to mean.”

  Understanding moved in behind his eyes, only managing to draw her closer to him, while also confusing her further. She suddenly empathized with how he sometimes felt closed in, and the openness of the room, the warm glow of lamplight, did nothing to calm her. On the contrary, it felt as if everything she was thinking and feeling—and fearing—lay fully exposed. “It’s getting late. I need to get home.” Yet she couldn’t move.

  “Isn’t Charlie supposed to come by for you?”

  She nodded, slowly coming undone inside. The vulnerability in his eyes wasn’t helping.

  Rand stood, his movements measured and thoughtful, as if she were a doe that might bolt at any second. He knelt beside her chair. “Rachel . . .”

  She shook her head, hearing the tenderness in his voice. She cared for him more than she should, more than she’d allowed herself to admit before this moment. But the thought of opening more of her life to him, of opening her heart, set something trembling deep inside her. She feared, once it started, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  “Look at me,” he whispered. “Please . . .”

  She shook her head again. “I . . . I can’t.”

  “Sure you can.” His hand covered hers clasped tightly in her lap, and gently, patiently, he wove his fingers, so warm and sure and purposeful, between hers. “You were looking at me easily enough just a minute ago.” His hand tightened around hers. “You’re shaking.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Rachel drew in a breath.

  He turned her hand over and kissed her open palm—once, twice—and she forgot how to breathe. Didn’t he know what he was doing to her? Couldn’t he tell?

  Gathering her wounded resolve, she finally did as he asked and looked at him—then wished she hadn’t. His unguarded desire roused her own, and the woman inside her ached for him. Not for a man, any man, but for him. And not only in the way of a woman with a man, but in the way that two halves made a whole, as God intended.

  A shiver stole through her. She couldn’t do this again—risk giving herself to someone else only to lose them. She wouldn’t survive another—

  He leaned forward, slowly enough that she could have turned her head away if she’d wanted to. But, God help her, she didn’t want to. He kissed her temple, her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, his breath warm and spicy like the tea, and Rachel felt the wall she’d carefully built to protect her heart melt in a puddle at her feet.

  He stilled, his face so close to hers, his unspoken question filling the silence.

  Measuring the cost of her answer, she drew back slightly. Disappointment shone in his eyes. But when she touched his face, and traced his lips, her hand still trembling, his disappointment faded and eager longing took its place.

  He kissed her, feather soft at first, his lips a whisper of a promise against hers. He awakened desires she’d known were still there, but she had forgotten their raw strength. His stubbled jaw was rough against her skin, but she welcomed the maleness of his touch. A hunger dawned inside her and she drew him closer. His kiss tasted like cinnamon, his lips eager against hers, and when h
e deepened the kiss, their—

  He suddenly pulled back.

  She opened her eyes. It took her a second to focus, and when she saw his look of surprise, it struck her. She’d been the one to deepen the kiss, to pull him closer. She, the grieving widow who had worked so hard to keep him at arm’s length, and had made certain he knew it. Her face went hot. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

  He exhaled, smiling. “Please don’t say that, because I’m certainly not.” He cradled the side of her face. “It’s just that—”

  She held up a hand, praying he wouldn’t say anything else. “I understand.” She stood, and he did likewise. “I should go.”

  He reached out. “Rachel, please, let’s just talk for a—”

  Out in the main room of the Health Suite, she grabbed her coat, careful not to make a noise that would awaken Ben and Lyda in the next room. Rand helped her with her coat, and she fumbled with the buttons in the dim light of an oil lamp on the far wall. Finally giving up, she grabbed her scarf and reticule.

  Rand beat her to the door and placed his palm firmly against it. “Rachel,” he whispered, leaning close behind her. “Don’t run away like this.”

  Hand on the latch, she bowed her head, tears coming fast.

  He stroked her hair. “I’ve wanted that to happen for so long. I’ve dreamed about kissing you like that.” His laughter was soft. “I was just a little surpris—”

  “I loved my husband.” She looked up at him. “I loved Thomas with all my heart.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then drew her against his chest. She clung to him, holding on to him the way she used to hold on to Thomas.

  Rand kissed the crown of her head. “I know you loved him. No one will ever question that, Rachel. I will never question that.”

  “When he died,” she whispered, “I thought I would die with him.”

  His arms tightened around her. “And if I’d been here, I would have done everything I could to save him.”

  Eyes closed, she felt the hard lines of his body against hers. He felt so different from Thomas, yet she fit him perfectly, just as she had her husband.

  A knock sounded on the door. She stiffened and Rand let go of her.

  Guessing who it was, Rachel wiped her cheeks and gave the latch a turn. “Good evening, Mr. Daggett.” Her voice sounded almost normal.

  Charlie tipped his hat. “I’m ready to go when you are, ma’am. I’ve got the wagon out front.”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be right out.” Waiting until he’d walked on, she pushed the door almost closed again, then looked up. The right words wouldn’t come, and she had no time to search for them. She reached for Rand’s hand and held it in hers. “Thank you . . . for understanding. And for today. It meant more to me than you know.”

  He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching again. “Ben was right,” he whispered. “As was Thomas. You have a gift, Rachel. And I’m honored to work alongside you, which we’ll need to do again as soon as Ben’s able. The remaining fluid needs to be extracted, but I’m thinking it’ll be at least two or three days before we can attempt that again. I’ll let you know.”

  Riding home beside Charlie, who was unusually quiet, Rachel revisited the events of the day, prayed for Ben and Lyda, and considered what had happened with Rand. They’d crossed a line from friendship to something much more, and it would be hard—if not next to impossible—to go back again. Some lines, once crossed, were forever erased.

  By the time she slipped into her gown and into bed, cradling the extra pillow against her chest, she knew going back wasn’t an option. Nor did she want to. Yet a part of her resisted and told her to shore up her heart, to keep it safe and protected.

  She lay in the darkness, in the bed she’d shared with one man, and tried to imagine sharing it with another. Rand Brookston was so different from Thomas. And he was a doctor—gifted and intelligent, yet not at all like her father, as she’d first thought. It wasn’t a question anymore of whether she cared for Rand. Or whether she could someday grow to love him. The question wasn’t could she. But rather, would she allow herself to?

  She closed her eyes, wondering if she already had. . . .

  She drew the covers up tighter about her chin, staving off a shiver that came from somewhere deep inside. From nowhere, Mr. Fossey’s counsel returned. “Have you considered the possibility of remarriage? . . . If not in a match of the heart, then perhaps one of friendship?”

  She snuggled deeper beneath the covers, the well-intentioned counsel playing over and over in her mind. Remembering how Rand had held her, kissed her, how moved she’d been by him, she knew she could never again look upon him as simply a friend. And he’d made it quite clear he desired much more. Oh, how much safer and simpler a path this would be if it wasn’t a match of the heart. If she chose to say yes to him, then what of the ranch? What of her pledge to give the boys the life Thomas had wanted for them?

  She willed sleep to come and silence the questions, yet they came. Why would she choose to risk her heart again knowing only too well the cost such a choice could demand from her?

  For a second time.

  25

  How long has your throat been hurting, Miss Stafford?” Rand retrieved a tongue depressor from a tin on his overcrowded medicine shelf, then a dentistry mirror from a nearby drawer.

  “It started this morning. . . .” Situating herself on the patient table, the young teacher winced. “And it’s only gotten worse as the day’s gone on.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” He bent slightly. “If you’ll open your mouth for me, please, I’ll take a look.”

  “I didn’t see you at church yesterday, Doctor. I hope you weren’t ill?”

  Rand straightened. “No, not at all. I was about to leave for services, in fact, when a patient stopped by. By the time we were through, church was already over.” He stole a glance at the clock on the wall.

  He hadn’t seen Rachel since Saturday night at the resort, following Ben’s surgery. He’d planned on catching a few moments with her yesterday afternoon following church, but since that hadn’t happened, he’d hoped to see her in town today. Yet chances for that were growing slim as the day wore on. He wanted to speak with her about assisting him with the remainder of Ben’s procedure, tentatively set for the end of this week, given Ben was strong enough. Though Rand doubted that would be the case. The heart episode had weakened him considerably. Brandon Tolliver wasn’t pleased with the extension of Ben’s stay in the Health Suite, but that was the least of Rand’s concerns.

  Rand motioned with the tongue depressor. “If you’ll open your mouth, Miss Stafford, I’ll take a quick look.”

  She smiled. “It wasn’t anything serious, I hope.”

  He blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

  “The patient yesterday . . . I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

  “Oh no. Just routine. Now”—he indicated with a nod—“if you’ll open your mouth, please.”

  She licked her lips, tipped back her head, and did as he requested.

  He slid the wooden depressor onto her tongue, then with the aid of the long-handled mirror, examined the back of her throat. “There doesn’t seem to be any redness or irritation.” He angled the mirror toward her tonsils. No irritation there either. He stepped back, instruments in hand. “Does it hurt when you swallow?”

  She nodded. “Yes, on occasion.” As though to prove her point, she swallowed, grimacing as she did. Then she smoothed a hand over her bodice. “Are you planning on attending the spring festival?”

  Rand looked back, beginning to doubt the veracity of the woman’s complaint of a sore throat. “Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought. I couldn’t even tell you when it is.”

  “June sixteenth,” she said quickly. “It was just announced in the paper this morning. It will be my first time to attend.” Her laugh sounded more like that of a schoolgirl than a teacher. “I’m going to bake the molasses cookies you like so much and enter them
into the baking contest.”

  Rand forced a smile. Already aware of Miss Stafford’s interest in him, he grew decidedly more skeptical of her motivation for stopping by the clinic. He would check for one more symptom, then would chalk this office visit up to a social call.

  He glanced at the clock again, making sure she saw him this time. “I’ve got another appointment in town, but I’d like to check for swollen lymph nodes, just to be sure. If you’d unfasten just the top two buttons of your dress, please . . .” He tossed the tongue depressor into the trash pail and put the mirror aside to be washed, then rinsed his hands in the washbasin and turned back. “Sometimes, when there’s soreness in the—”

  Miss Stafford’s shirtwaist lay open, far more than the requested two buttons, exposing a corset cinched so tightly it was a wonder the woman could breathe. A lace chemise stretched taut over her bosom, and the rise and fall of her chest was sharply exaggerated.

  With effort, Rand kept his focus on her eyes, and nothing else. Yet her gaze told him little, her expression neither overly demure nor excessively bold. Debating, he quickly decided to err in favor of a misunderstanding, however much he doubted that probability.

  He palpated the sides of her neck, then the underside of her throat, feeling for the least sign of swelling. But the only swelling he could find afflicting Miss Judith Stafford at the moment would be remedied if she would simply cut the ties on that corset.

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Miss Stafford, but I’m not finding any symptoms that cause concern. Since this just started this morning, let’s give it a week or so to clear up. In the meantime, I do have something that might help.” He turned away. “While you situate your clothing, I’ll get some tea leaves you can brew when the soreness is bothersome.”