Maybe it was his self-assurance that she found so off-putting, or the confident manner in which he carried himself. Or the way women watched him when he strode down the boardwalk, or how they fawned over him after church services or at social gatherings. When it came down to it, if someone asked her why she felt the way she did about him, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them in definitive terms.
She only knew that he was a physician, as her father had been, which was enough to make her want to keep her personal distance.
“Mama!”
About to latch the front doors, Rachel heard the familiar voice and peered through the glass to spot Mitchell running toward her full force, Kurt fast on his heels.
Mitchell skirted the crowd on the boardwalk and skidded to a stop, his thin chest working hard. “Uncle James had some”—he pushed the words out between heavy breaths—“sheriffin’ to do, so he sent us . . . here to stay with Uncle Ben and . . . Aunt Lyda ’til you came.”
Rachel brushed the hair from his eyes. “That’s fine, that’s fine. Catch your breath, the both of you.” Mitchell had taken to calling Ben and Lyda “uncle and aunt” some time back, and Kurt had quickly mimicked him, which delighted Ben and Lyda. “Come on inside. Quickly.” She waved them through the open door, not missing the perturbed looks from patrons banned to the boardwalk. Pretending not to notice, she closed the door and reached for the lock, then gave an exasperated sigh. It locked by key. A key she didn’t have time to look for.
Out on the boardwalk, a kind-looking older gentleman stepped forward. With a quiet nod, he turned his back to the door as though understanding that she needed someone to stand guard. She didn’t know him from Adam so wasn’t comfortable leaving the store in his hands, but what else could she do?
“Boys, I need to go check on Uncle Ben in the back room. He took sick this afternoon. I want you to keep watch and make sure no one comes inside. Tell them the store is closed for a little while. Is that clear? But if Angelo comes, let him in immediately.”
Mitch nodded.
Kurt didn’t. “Miss Stafford doesn’t like me, Mama. She’s always eyein’ me funny and tellin’ me that I’m a—”
“Kurt, I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Yeah . . . but she won’t let me—”
Rachel held up a finger, an accustomed throb beginning in her left temple. “We’ll talk about this tonight. Tonight! ” she reiterated when Kurt opened his mouth again.
Mitchell pulled something from his coat pocket and Kurt’s scowl deepened. “Miss Stafford gave this to me after school, Mama. She said it was her second note this week. She told me to make double sure you got this one.”
This one? Miss Stafford hadn’t sent her a note this week.
But the frown on Kurt’s impish face said differently. Defiance hardened the blue of his eyes, and Rachel felt as though someone had knocked the wind from her. Defeat washed through her, scathing her confidence. Somewhere during the past two and a half years, she’d lost her hand with her younger son. She had no idea why he behaved the way he did now and was at her wits’ end to know what to try next.
Mitchell leaned close. “Miss Stafford didn’t look happy,” he whispered, his expression mirroring maturity beyond his ten years. His brow raised in a way reminiscent of his father. “I told her you were busy with the ranch and with calving, and would come as soon as you could.”
Moments slipping past, Rachel nodded, feeling an all-too-familiar burning in her eyes. Mitchell, ever the older brother and peacekeeper, was the “man of the house” now. At least that’s what he’d told her not too long ago. Too much to bear for one so young.
“Thank you, son.” She took the note and slipped it into her pocket unread. “We’ll deal with this tonight, Kurt.” And she would. But right now, his misbehavior paled in comparison to what was happening in the back—which was where she needed to be right now!
“Would it be all right if we got something to eat, Mama?” Mitch asked.
Kurt nodded. “You didn’t give us enough lunch and we’ve been starvin’ ever since.”
They’d eaten the last of the bread at breakfast, so there hadn’t been any to include in the boys’ lunches, but she’d given them extra ham and cheese. Plenty for lunch. This was simply Kurt’s way of punishing her. For what, she didn’t know. “You may get a cookie from the jar on the counter. But only one,” she said, aiming the warning at Kurt, who let out a whoop and took off for the other side of the store.
Mitch stared up, watching her closely, as he always did. “Is Uncle Ben bad sick, Mama?”
She worked to mask her fear. It was so hard to hide things from Mitchell. Just like his father. “Dr. Brookston is with him right now, and I’m sure that—” The words everything will be fine wouldn’t come. Not when staring into Mitchell’s stark blue eyes and knowing that he knew—already, at so young an age—what the death of a loved one felt like, and how permanent it was. At least for this life. “I’m confident Dr. Brookston is taking good care of him, so don’t you worry.”
Mitch nodded, but his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. He glanced over at his brother. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t, and that he only has one cookie so he won’t spoil his dinner.”
Rachel brushed a swift kiss to his forehead and carried his “little-boy scent” with her as she hurried down the aisle. How much longer would he let her do that? Love on him that way without shying away like Kurt already did. How could two sons born to the same parents, only two years apart, be so different from each other? And how would she ever manage to be both father and mother to them?
Once past the curtain, she heard Lyda’s soft weeping and slowed her steps. A hand to her stomach did nothing to ease the sickening quiver.
Neither Dr. Brookston nor Lyda acknowledged her presence when she reached the doorway of the storeroom. She stood, silent, watching as Rand Brookston listened to Ben’s chest through his stethoscope. Ben’s eyes weren’t open, but she thought she heard a sliver of air wheeze past his parted lips, and a trickle of relief passed through her own.
“Keep speaking to him, Mrs. Mullins,” Rand Brookston whispered, his voice tense. “Let him hear the sound of your voice.”
Perspiration dampened the back of Rand’s shirt and the taut set of his shoulders mirrored his anxiety. Rachel wished she’d arrived sooner to help him. Not that she knew anything, medically speaking, that he didn’t.
Lyda leaned close to frame Ben’s face with her hands. “Ben Everett Mullins, y-you listen to me and you listen good.” Her voice held a sternness that might have sounded convincing if not for her tears. “Your heart stopped, Ben, but the good doctor here got it started back up again. You’ve been given a second chance, my love, but you’re going to have to fight.”
Started his heart back again? Rachel stared at Ben, at the labored rise and fall of his chest, as Lyda’s meaning gradually took hold, then her focus shifted to Rand Brookston.
She’d heard talk of doctors attempting to restart a patient’s heart, but that’s all it was—talk. Once a person’s heart stopped, life was over. Everyone knew that. Some things, once damaged, were beyond mending. Unbidden, the memory of Thomas’s shredded, blood-soaked shirt clouded her vision and she blinked hard to clear it away.
Had Rand Brookston really managed to do the impossible? Her respect for the man’s abilities deepened even as her personal misgivings about him remained unchanged.
Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and she turned to see Angelo coming through the curtain, envelope in hand. If she read his smile right, he’d found the—
“This is your definition of shortly, Mrs. Boyd?”
Rachel turned back, surprised by the curtness in Rand Brookston’s tone. And in his expression. Heat rose to her face. Her mouth moved but no words would come. “I’m . . . sorry. It took longer than I thought to get the patrons to leave.”
Rand rose to his full height, stethoscope dangling in his grip. “I could have u
sed your assistance.” The intensity in his eyes deepened. “I thought I made that clear.”
His manner was polite, yet direct, and Rachel glanced at Ben, then at Lyda, whose attention, thankfully, was focused on her husband. Shame filled her. If her delay had threatened Ben’s life in any way . . . after everything Ben and Lyda had done for her. The thought alone made her ill, and the sense of defeat from moments earlier returned with a renewed vengeance.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston,” she whispered. “If I can be of help now, I’ll—”
“I need medicine.” He motioned to Angelo, who had come along beside her. “I’m glad you’re here, Angelo. I’d like for you to accompany Mrs. Boyd to my office, please. Check the shipment from this morning first, then the shelves. The medicine will be in an envelope labeled either digitalis or foxglove. Time is crucial, so—”
“I have it here, sir.” Angelo held out an envelope. “It was in the shipment, at the bottom.”
Rand stared. “But . . . how did you know I would need this?”
Angelo motioned. “Mrs. Boyd, she told me to look for it, sir . . . when she came looking for you.” The young man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “She wrote down the words. See? She asked me to meet you here.”
Rachel’s face burned. She should have felt vindicated at Angelo’s admission, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up, even when she sensed Rand Brookston wanting her to. She bit her lower lip and fought back tears.
She was being beyond silly, responding like a cowering child. And to Rand Brookston, of all people. It was foolishness! She was a grown woman. And a mother!
But she felt like a girl again, standing before her father outside one of his patient rooms—scolded and embarrassed—having tried to anticipate his request but without success, and after having tried so hard to please him. Her chest tightened with emotion. How could childhood memories of a parent still hold such sway when adult memories of that same person cast an altogether different light?
And why did she still feel as though she were lacking? She had been right this time! She’d chosen the correct medicine. Yet she felt like a disappointment. As though she’d failed, one more time, to meet not only her own expectations, but someone else’s as well.
4
Rand wished Rachel would look at him. Her unshed tears barbed his conscience, and rightfully so. He’d been short with her, speaking out of frustration with himself and fear of what could have happened to Ben Mullins. Of what could still happen . . . “Mrs. Boyd, I . . . I didn’t mean to—” Her hands, clenched tight at her waist, only encouraged the knot of guilt twisting his stomach. “Believe me when I say that I . . . What I mean to say is that . . .”
What he wanted to say but couldn’t was that he’d behaved like a complete and unmitigated—
“Excuse me, I’ll get a cup of water for the medicine,” she said quietly, then spun on her heel and strode down the hallway.
He started to follow, then decided it might be best if he didn’t. Clearly she was hurt. But the swiftness of her stride said she was also riled. And with good reason. He hadn’t meant for his remark to come out like it had.
He shot an apologetic look at Angelo, who stood quiet, watchful. “I shouldn’t have spoken to Mrs. Boyd in that manner, Angelo,” Rand offered quietly. “Or to you either. I’m sorry.”
The boy smiled and gave a conciliatory nod. “What you do . . . it is important, Dr. Brookston. Your work is hard. You carry a weight, in here”—he patted his chest—“because of it.”
Rand often had to remind himself that Angelo was just a youth. Only fifteen, Angelo had endured more hardship than most boys his age and had the wisdom to prove it. Undaunted admiration filled the boy’s eyes, and while Rand appreciated his support, Rand also knew that he owed Rachel Boyd an explanation and an apology. An explanation as to why she’d found him at the local brothel with a woman posed provocatively on a bed, and an apology as to why he’d just behaved like an arrogant jackass.
Angelo glanced past him to Mr. and Mrs. Mullins. His dark brows pulled together. “Is Mr. Mullins going to be all right, sir?” he whispered, leaning closer. “Mrs. Boyd said there might be something wrong with his heart.”
Rand nodded, aware that Lyda was probably listening, though she was still speaking to Ben in hushed tones, encouraging him to waken. “Mrs. Boyd was right in her assessment, but I’m doing everything I can to make sure Mr. Mullins recovers.” Even as he said it, he knew the journey from this moment to that one would be long, and would depend upon so many factors—most of which were beyond his control.
“Mr. Mullins will be fine, sir. I am sure of this.” Angelo’s expression turned politely conspiratorial. “He has the finest doctor caring for him. I should know.”
Rand felt the compliment reverberating inside him as he watched the boy disappear down the hallway and through the curtained doorway. Angelo’s recovery from the beating he’d endured last fall was remarkable, as was his attitude about it. Recalling the event, Rand felt his stomach sour. In the weeks of recuperation following, Angelo had expressed hopes of becoming a doctor one day—a dream Rand thought possible. The boy was sharp minded and learned quickly, and he possessed a compassionate heart that served him well when ministering to people in pain.
Rand planned on writing his colleagues back east about the possibility of Angelo serving as an apprentice in one of their practices. The boy’s Italian heritage would be a deterrent to some, but once the doctors witnessed Angelo’s aptitude and ability, those possessing more open minds might be willing to consider him. And they wouldn’t be disappointed.
Rand took a deep breath and held it, then gave it slow release.
He knew what it was like to be a young man and have no say in your future, to have everything planned out and decided by others before any other options had been explored. And he was determined to give Angelo the chance that he himself had finally been given. Life was too brief to spend it doing something you didn’t love. Better to discover what God had created you for, and do that with your whole heart.
A low moan drew him back, and a rush of emotion bolted through him as Ben Mullins struggled to open his eyes. Rand moved closer and knelt. “Mr. Mullins . . . it’s nice to have you back with us, sir.”
Blinking, Ben stared between him and Lyda, then squeezed his eyes tight, as if trying to make sure that what he was seeing was real. He rubbed his chest and winced, his breath ragged.
Rand gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’re going to be sore for a few days, sir. I’m sorry, that’s my fault.”
Ben looked confused, but Lyda pressed a kiss to her husband’s forehead and narrowed her eyes at Rand, smiling. “Don’t you dare apologize, Dr. Brookston. You . . .” Her voice faltered. “You just gave me back my life.”
Hurried steps filled the hallway, and Rachel rounded the corner. She scooted into the storeroom behind Lyda and held out a cup of water to Rand, not meeting his gaze.
“Thank you.” He mixed the dried foxglove leaves with water and held the cup to Ben’s lips, supporting the man’s head. “This is digitalis, Mr. Mullins, a medication used to treat arrhythmia—a heartbeat with an irregular or abnormal rhythm, like yours.” He tipped the cup as he spoke, taking care not to spill the contents. “Due to Mrs. Boyd’s excellent foresight, it was here exactly when we needed it.” Along with the proffered olive branch, Rand tried again to snag Rachel’s attention, to no avail.
Ben drained the cup, taking in gulps of air between swallows. He let out a sigh. “Thank you, Dr. Brookston. And thank you, Rachel.”
“Yes.” Lyda turned. “Thank you, Rachel, for all you’ve done. And as for you, Ben Mullins . . .” She fingered the graying hair at his temple. “You frightened years off my life. Years I didn’t have to spare.”
Ben offered a weak smile. “I’ve always told you I’m going to be the first to go, woman. Maybe now you’ll believe me.”
Lyda shook her head and gently swatted his arm, but Rand caught a fl
icker of dread in her eyes, a hint of the future she was imagining. A future without her husband.
“You ought not say such things to your wife, Ben.” Rachel smiled as she said it, but truth permeated her tone. “And for the record, you frightened years off the lives of both of us.” She touched his arm. “How are you feeling now?”
He exhaled, his eyes fluttering closed. “Like I almost died.”
“You almost did,” Lyda whispered.
Ben opened his eyes and stared, frowning.
“Your heart stopped, honey.” Lyda’s expression softened, her tone revealing she’d told him this before. She indicated Rand with a nod. “Dr. Brookston here got it started again.” Her hand trembled against his cheek. “He saved your life.”
Ben blinked, and his focus slowly shifted. “Is that so, Doc?”
Rand answered with a steady gaze, grateful that Lyda understood the gravity of the situation. Informing a husband or wife that their spouse had a life-threatening health condition such as Ben’s was oftentimes harder than telling the patient himself. People like Ben and Lyda Mullins tended to worry more about those they would leave behind than about themselves.
Ben pursed his lips and a wry smile crept over his face. “Guess this means you’ll be wanting all those medical supplies of yours delivered free of charge now, huh, Doc?”
Rand laughed softly. “That thought hadn’t crossed my mind, Mr. Mullins. But now that you mention it . . .”
With a soft smirk, Ben gestured. “Speaking of orders, two more cases of lamp oil came in for you this morning. All I can say is you must be doing some mighty lengthy reading at night, Doc.”
Rand laughed again but knew, with good reason, that it didn’t sound as natural this time. “I like to keep a good supply on hand for surgeries. The lighting in my clinic isn’t too good.”
Ben nodded and started to push himself up.
“No, sir.” Rand urged him back down. “Please stay where you are. Let’s give the medicine a few more minutes to take effect.” He positioned the stethoscope over Ben’s heart. “I know it’s going to hurt, but try to take some deep breaths for me.”
Within My Heart Page 4
