Within My Heart Page 30

  Rand kept an eye on Ben, recognizing the sedating effects of the laudanum and watching for anything unusual that might indicate a problem.

  “Hey!” Mitch rose up on his knees, pointing skyward. “There’s Orion!”

  Rand felt a nudge in his ribs and caught Rachel’s smile. His attention immediately swung to Kurt. He knew the boy would be frantically searching the night sky, not wanting to be outdone by his older brother. And sure enough, Kurt stared up, tongue doubled between his teeth, eyes darting this way and that. Feeling for him, Rand began to pray. Not just that Kurt would find a constellation he knew, but that he would discover that certain something within himself that all boys needed to find before they could begin to realize who they were, as well as the man they would grow to be.

  Kurt’s face lit. “I see it! I see the Big Dipper!”

  Rand nodded his approval, wishing God answered all his prayers so quickly.

  They reached town and Charlie slowed the horses’ pace. It soon became apparent why.

  Bordering Main Street and leading all the way to the Mullinses’ store were oil lamps, spaced at regular intervals, burning bright in the night, casting a warm glow across the snow. It looked like a scene from a painting.

  “What on earth?” Lyda said, rising up to look. She nudged Ben, who did the same.

  “Oh . . .” Ben sighed, blinking. “Would you look at that. . . .”

  Rachel leaned forward. “People heard you were coming home tonight, Ben, and they wanted to do something special for you. It’s their way of welcoming you back.”

  The closer they got to the store, the more people were gathered on the boardwalk, James and Molly among them, little Josephine in James’s arms. Josiah and Belle Birch and their son, Elijah, waved and called out greetings as the wagon passed, as did countless others.

  “Good to see you back, Mr. Mullins! We’ve been missin’ you!”

  “Hurry up and get back behind that counter, Ben!”

  “We love you, Ben! You too, Lyda!”

  Lips pinched tight, chin quivering, Ben raised his hand and waved. Lyda leaned into him and slipped her arms around his waist.

  With Charlie’s help, they got Ben inside and upstairs, taking time to let Ben see the renovation the store had undergone. “Wonderful,” he whispered, taking everything in. “Just like I pictured it.”

  Ben groaned as Charlie laid him into bed. He held his chest as Rand checked his pulse. Shallow. Erratic. Rand administered more digitalis and supported Ben’s head as he drank, telling himself again that he’d made the right choice in bringing Ben home. “The person dying gets to choose.” Seeing the silent affirmation in Rachel’s pained expression helped.

  Lyda took the empty cup and set it aside, staying ever close by her husband.

  “I know”—Ben struggled for breath—“what you’re thinkin’, Doc. And . . .” He shook his head. “You stop it . . . right now. If you’d said no to bringin’ me home, I . . .” He grimaced. “I woulda had to call you out, son. Like I said I would. Remember?”

  Rand gripped Ben’s hand, willing the digitalis to act quickly. “Of course I remember. Why do you think I said yes?”

  Eyes closed, Ben smiled.

  Moments passed and his breathing evened, though his inhalation still sounded congested and moist. At least his pain had eased. For now.

  Rand leaned closer, wanting Ben to hear. “That scene outside a few minutes ago, when we drove up . . . I’d think that would make a man look back on his life and realize what a fine job he’s done with the time God gave him.”

  Eyes still closed, Ben gripped Rand’s hand tighter, a tear slipping from the corner of his eye.

  Later, with Ben resting comfortably, Rand made a trip to the clinic for more medicine. His latest shipment had finally arrived from Denver, but several of the bottles had broken in transit, and the vendor sent smaller quantities than he’d ordered. So his supplies were running low—again.

  When he returned to the store, it was nearing eleven o’clock. He found Lyda reading a story to the boys, one nestled on either side of her. The boys yawned, their eyelids heavy.

  Lyda paused from reading. “Rachel’s upstairs with Ben,” she said softly. “She insists that she and the boys are going to stay the night, but . . .” She shook her head. “I’ve encouraged her to take them on home and get some rest.” She patted each of the boys on the leg, smiling as they stared up at her. “These sweet boys have already said good night to their uncle Ben.” She looked back at Rand, her weary smile fading.

  She didn’t have to voice the question. Rand understood without her saying a thing, and wished he had the answer. “I don’t know,” he whispered, then reached down and pinched the toe of Mitch’s boot, then Kurt’s. “Did you boys give your uncle Ben a good hug tonight?”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered.

  “But not too hard, like you said,” Kurt added.

  Nodding, he rose, seeing Lyda’s tears, feeling his own. As much as he loved Ben, he hoped for Ben’s sake that it wouldn’t be long, and knew that Lyda would begin to hope the same, as it soon became more and more difficult for Ben to breathe.

  He climbed the stairs, each boot step heavier than the last. He placed the pouch of medicine on the hallway table and took a moment to gather his emotions, knowing he needed to be strong. For Ben, for Lyda. For everyone.

  The door to Ben and Lyda’s bedroom was slightly ajar, and as he reached to open it farther, he saw Rachel seated on the edge of the bed, her back to him, speaking to Ben in a halting whisper. He couldn’t hear what she said, but judging by the fatherly way Ben lifted a hand to her cheek, he gathered it was a private moment and stepped back into the hall.

  “I’ll tell him, honey.” Ben’s voice was gentle, yet held unwavering certainty. “He already knows, I’m sure. But I’ll tell him.”

  Rachel whispered something else Rand couldn’t quite make out, and then he heard the soft tap of her boots. He stepped farther back into the hall, not wanting her to think he’d been standing there listening, even though he had. Or had tried.

  The door opened. Her face was wet with tears. Seeing him, she quickly wiped them away. “I think the boys and I are going to stay. We’ll make pallets downstairs in the—”

  “Rachel . . .” he whispered, shaking his head.

  Her face crumpled, and he pulled her to him. Her arms came around his waist.

  “There’s nothing else you can do tonight.” He stroked her back, kissed the top of her head. “Go on home and get some rest. I’ll be here.”

  She took a hiccuped breath, then finally nodded. “We’ll be back in the morning. First thing.”

  He tipped her chin up and kissed her forehead, lingering, praying, wondering what message she’d given to Ben. And if it was meant for him.

  32

  Her shoulders burning from exertion, Rachel thrust the pitchfork into the hay, hefted the load, and lugged it to the last stall. The first hint of morning shone through cracks in the plank wood as she heaved the feed over the stall with more force than necessary. The horse whinnied and stamped, but Rachel paid the animal no mind. She shoved the pitchfork back on the nail and grabbed the mallet from the workbench as irretrievable moments ticked past.

  She should have been with Ben and Lyda at that moment instead of taking care of her confounded animals—she hammered the layer of ice on the water barrel—on her blasted ranch—shards went flying—that she’d never really wanted Thomas to—

  The mallet slipped from her grip and sailed into the air behind her, hitting the barn wall with a crash. Rachel bit back harsh words as angry tears rose.

  She sucked in a breath and dragged her fingers through her hair, slowly exhaling, her breath fogging white. What was she doing? She looked around the barn. Was this what she wanted to do with the rest of her life? She clenched her jaw, remembering what Ben had said last night. “Don’t be afraid of being happy again, Rachel.” She brushed away a tear, sick of the conflict inside her, wanting to be tr
ue to Thomas while also being honest with herself.

  During the night, she’d awakened and decided that she would ask Ben what he thought about her selling the ranch—right now, as it was, before she bought the cattle from Mr. Westin’s colleague. Ben had known Thomas, and Thomas had confided in him, apparently more than she’d realized at the time. Ben would give her an honest answer and good counsel. He always had. But she needed to hurry. If there was one thing she knew, time wasn’t guaranteed. And Ben didn’t have much left. He’d told her so last night. He’d said he could feel the days slipping away.

  Chores done, for the morning at least, she retraced her path through the snow back to the house and was halfway up the porch stairs when she saw something from the corner of her eye. Someone coming up the road. Her brain registered who it was first, and then it registered with her heart. She grabbed the porch railing, her legs losing strength. She shook her head, unable to catch her breath.

  In the moment Rand’s arms came around her, she knew it didn’t matter whether death came suddenly, without warning, or whether it came slowly, giving you time to memorize the sound of its footsteps and the hollow cadence of its march. Whichever way death came, and however much she believed that the grave held no lasting victory, the same terrible rending tore down deep inside, severing what was from what would never be again.

  At least, not here on this earth.

  Lyda sat in the rocker, staring at the now-empty bed, weeping. Not in a wailing way, but in low, lonely sobs that were somehow even worse. Rachel set the cup of hot tea on the dresser beside her.

  Rand had stopped by James and Molly’s on the way out to her ranch and had told them about Ben’s passing. James had been by some time ago and, with the help of Deputy Willis, moved Ben’s body to Rand’s clinic as Rand requested.

  Rachel knelt and took hold of Lyda’s hands. “I’ll see to all the details. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Lyda gestured. “His suit . . . It’s in the chifforobe. And his tie is in the top drawer.” Her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, she took a deep breath, held it for the longest time, and then gave it release. “One of the last things he said to me was . . .” She pressed her lips together, fresh tears coming. “ ‘I feel like there’s a big surprise comin’. ’ ” She said it the way Ben might have, then smiled softly. “I told him he was right, that there was. He asked me, ‘Reckon what it might be?’ And I said . . .” Her gaze lowered to the bed as though she could still see Ben lying there. “I said I couldn’t tell him . . . or else it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  Rachel smiled, and held tighter to Lyda’s hands.

  Lyda dabbed her eyes with one of Ben’s handkerchiefs. “I told him that . . .” She sniffed. “That when he saw Jesus, to run for Him with everything he had . . . and that I’d be right behind him . . . soon enough.” She looked upward, another low sob breaking through. “And I think that’s what he did.”

  Rachel laid her head in Lyda’s lap. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her chest tight with grief.

  Lyda stroked her hair. “He’s with them now. . . .”

  Rachel nodded, knowing whom she meant.

  “I like to think our sweet children were waitin’ right there for him, for their papa, soon as he crossed over.”

  Rachel lifted her gaze. “I’m sure they were.”

  Lyda’s expression held such tenderness. “Right beside your Thomas.”

  Rachel bowed her head and saw Lyda pull something from her pocket.

  “Here,” Lyda said softly, holding out her hand. “Ben wanted to have this buried with him.”

  Rachel took the suede pouch. She’d seen it before and knew what it contained—the ball and jacks that had belonged to their son. Even now, Lyda fingered their daughter’s hair ribbon in her hand.

  “Reckon I’ll save this,” Lyda whispered, “and have it buried with me when my time comes.”

  Unable to answer, Rachel nodded.

  For the longest moment, neither of them spoke. They sat together in the silence, each knowing what the other was feeling.

  “I’m all alone now,” Lyda whispered, her hands starting to tremble. She pressed a palm to her midsection. “My family’s all gone. First our little Andrew and sweet Ellie Grace. And now Ben.”

  Rachel looked up. It had been years since she’d heard Lyda speak her son’s and daughter’s names aloud. She covered her hand. “You’re not alone, Lyda. We’ll be here for you—the boys and me. And I’ll never forget Andrew and Ellie Grace. Or Ben. I’ll remember them with you forever. I promise.”

  And then it occurred to her—Ben was home with Thomas now, and Ben had promised to give him her message. Which meant . . . without a doubt now, Thomas knew.

  “I appreciate your help with this, James. I couldn’t have done it without you.” Rachel closed the door to the back room of the clinic and followed her brother down the hallway, hoping Rand would return before the undertaker arrived. He’d been gone all day. Sally Brewer’s labor, her first, was apparently taking longer than they’d hoped.

  “Thank you for asking me.” Her brother’s smile was typical James—warm, caring, ever strong. “I consider it an honor. Ben and Lyda have always seemed like family.”

  Rachel agreed, but she was glad to have this part behind them. She’d pressed Ben’s suit and tie earlier that afternoon, as Lyda requested. And though they looked handsome on him, it just didn’t look like Ben to her. She would always picture him with that white apron cinched about his waist, his winsome smile at the ready.

  James ran a hand over the medicine chest they’d given Rand. “This looks good in here.”

  “Yes, it does. It’s nice to see it being used again.”

  “And by another doctor, no less.” A discerning look moved in behind his eyes, one she knew quite well.

  Aware of how easily he read her, Rachel picked up a book Rand had left on the hearth and studied the cracked binding. The Science of Cardiac Health and Healing. The pages were dog-eared, notes scribbled in the margins. No telling how many times he’d read and reread this volume.

  “He’s not like our father,” James said softly behind her. “But I’m sure you know that by now.”

  She thumbed the pages of the book, vowing to read it, and relishing the scent of aged ink and paper, and the fact that Rand had held it. “Yes, I do.” She could ask James the reason behind his and Rand’s meeting days back, but in her heart, she knew. And besides, James wouldn’t divulge a thing. Honor was his middle name. She returned the book to its place.

  “Rand Brookston is a fine man.” She turned to face her brother. “He’s kind and caring and intelligent, and a gifted physician. And while I truly appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

  “I’m not trying to do anything, Rachel. I promise.” Sincerity marked his words. “I just want you to know where I stand where he’s concerned. I loved Thomas like a brother. But I know he’d want you to be happy, and to move on. For your sake as much as the boys’. ”

  Rachel lowered her gaze, fingering the edge of her sleeve. “I realize that.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. And I think that’s part of your problem.”

  She lifted her head, surprised at the bluntness in his tone. “My problem?”

  He gently tweaked the tip of her nose the way he’d done when they were younger. “That was a poor choice of words on my part. I apologize. I’m only saying what I think Thomas would want me to say, Rachel, if he were listening in on our conversation right now. And I think he’d want me to tell you that he wants you to be as happy as you can be on the road God’s marked out for you . . . which may look very different from the road you and Thomas were traveling together.”

  He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, then ducked to be eye level with her. “Are we still on speaking terms?”

  She smiled up at him, thanking God for such a wise brother. How would she and the boys have gotten through these past two and a half years without him? “Yes. But it’s against my better judg
ment.”

  He grinned, then glanced at the clock, his expression sobering. “Want me to stay until Carnes gets here?”

  Rachel pictured the town’s undertaker—such an odd little man—and almost said yes, then thought of Molly back at the ranch with baby Jo, and Mitch and Kurt. “No, I’m fine. Rand should be back any time.” And would be exhausted from no sleep last night and a full day of doctoring.

  Once James left, she began straightening up. Heaven knew, there was plenty to clean in this place, though Rand wasn’t at fault. Having witnessed his regimen for cleanliness, she understood that now. She found an old rag and began dusting, anything to keep busy.

  She’d spent most of the day with Lyda, and seeing Lyda hurting the way she was brought back so many memories. None of them good. But instead of dwelling on that and on Ben being gone, Rachel determined to recall as many good memories of Ben as she could. That’s what Ben would have wanted.

  One immediately sprang to mind and she bit her lower lip, remembering the time Ben had traded out the jar of cherry jawbreakers for hot cinnamon ones. He’d laughed so hard when seeing the boys’ eyes water and mouths pucker. . . . She smiled, teary at the memory.

  She straightened a stack of books on an end table and dusted beneath them, then noticed Rand’s Bible lying on the edge of the chair. An embroidered bookmark peeked from the pages, and she opened to the marked passage. Rand had bracketed a set of verses and written something in the margin. She recognized his handwriting. Lord, grow within me such a faith. Echoing that sentiment, she thumbed the pages of Scriptures and paused when one page in particular snagged her attention.

  Its passages were underlined, some more than once, and the edges of the page were crinkled from repeated handling. She smiled when realizing what psalm it was. One of her favorites.

  “Whither shall I go from thy spirit?” she read more from memory than from the printed text. “Or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. . . .” Her eyes went to a portion of Scripture that Rand, she assumed, had underlined twice. “If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from—”