Within My Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  “Would you bring another load of wood to the porch, please?” She massaged her leg, eager to get it elevated again. “I’d be most grateful. And, Mr. Daggett . . .”

  He turned back.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you . . .” She knew she was borderline prying and hoped he wouldn’t mind the personal inquiry. “How is Miss Matthews these days? I haven’t seen her in town recently.” Nor had she seen the two of them together in a while.

  Warmth didn’t creep into Charlie’s face as it usually did when Miss Matthews’s name was mentioned. “Miss Lori Beth’s in fine health, ma’am. Real fine. And you’re kind to ask after her. She always tells me to give you and your boys her best.”

  Though Rachel was happy to learn Lori Beth was in good health, Charlie’s reaction was telling, and she wondered whether it had anything to do with his heavier drinking. Everyone in town knew about Lori Beth Matthews—Timber Ridge wasn’t that large a place—but Rachel had come to like her very much. She deeply respected the woman’s courage. “Lori Beth’s a very nice person, Mr. Daggett.”

  He nodded, looking away. “I’m lucky to have her for a friend.”

  A friend? Rachel smiled and peered at him from the corner of her eye, trying to tease a smile from him. She usually could. “I’ve gotten the definite impression that you and she were more than just friends.”

  Charlie looked away, shifting his weight, looking decidedly less comfortable by the second. “It’s gonna be dark soon, ma’am. I’d best see to the animals.”

  Rachel cringed inside. “Forgive me, I’m sorry if I—”

  “No harm done, Miss Rachel.” Charlie looked up, his eyes more serious—and sadder—than she could remember. “Sometimes it just takes a while for a man to see the truth. But I’ve seen it . . . And Miss Lori Beth deserves a lot better than the likes of me.”

  9

  Why don’t you let me ride for Doc Brookston? I could be back with him within the hour.”

  Reining in, Rachel shook her head, doing her best not to wince as she dismounted. “Thank you for your concern, James. But I’m fine.” She took deep breaths and held on to the saddle horn until she was certain she had her balance. Pain shot up and down her leg. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. “All he’ll advise is to elevate my leg and keep cool compresses on the wound.”

  “Which you’re not doing.” James gave her an older-brother look and followed her into the barn.

  “Which I am doing . . . when time allows, and which I’ll have more of this evening, thanks to you for helping me round up the strays.” Already looking forward to the cool compresses on the bruise, she led Chaucer to his stall and reached to unstrap the saddle, but James beat her to it.

  “Go on inside and get some rest. See to the boys. I’ll do this.”

  Part of her wanted to argue, but the greater part of her didn’t. Not with the way her leg was hurting. “Thank you, James. For everything. I appreciate you coming out today.”

  “My pleasure.” He unsaddled Chaucer, a conspiratorial smile stealing across his face. “I have to admit . . .” He paused and took a deep breath. “I’ve missed this place.”

  She laughed and settled herself against a stool, enjoying the time with him. She saw him in town often enough, but moments like this when they could talk, just the two of them, were rare these days. “Yes, the smell of manure and sweaty horse holds such appeal. Not to mention the endless work and scant profit.”

  Laughing softly, he began at Chaucer’s neck and moved the curry brush in a circular motion over the horse’s hair to loosen the dirt. “I’m serious. I was telling Molly last night that I was looking forward to getting back out here. Then when you and the boys weren’t at church this morning, she encouraged me to come on out and check on you.” He sighed. “I’m glad I did. I love the feel of this place. Being in the open air, working with the cattle, seeing the new bulls . . .” He gestured toward Gent, the bull that Lady had given birth to, in the opposite stall. A second heifer had given birth earlier that morning—another bull—and, thankfully, it had been an easy birth. The bull remained as yet unnamed by the boys, which suited Rachel fine. Best they not get too attached.

  “Well, you’re welcome out here anytime. Molly and Jo are too.” She glanced back toward the cabin, hoping what she was about to say would come out right. “I miss you, James. Part of me wishes Molly would’ve moved out here with us after you were married— instead of you moving into town. I mean . . . not permanently.” She shrugged, seeing surprise in his expression. “Just for a little while. I would have liked that. But . . .” She sat up straighter and tossed him a wink, not wanting to give the impression that she wasn’t managing things well on her own. “You needed your space with your new wife and precious little daughter. And it’s good for the boys and me to be on our own again.” She purposefully deepened her smile. “We’re doing fine, and I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  “Thanks, Rach.” James paused from his brushing. “I don’t know how you made it through. . . .” He briefly bowed his head. “Already, I can’t imagine life without Molly.” He looked her way, his expression going tender. “Having Molly in my life, being married now . . . It’s given me a better understanding of what you must have gone through in losing Thomas.” He shook his head. “I . . . I just can’t imagine.”

  Rachel held his gaze and let the silence between them say what words couldn’t. She was reminded again of how much she had relied on her brother’s strength and support when Thomas had died. She and James had always been close, but the time he lived with her and the boys had brought them closer.

  She wanted to discuss the financial standing of the ranch with him, get his opinion on decisions she faced, but she knew him well enough to know that if she admitted her plight, he would feel obligated to do anything and everything he could to help her. And he had a wife and a daughter now. He was no longer first and foremost her older brother. He was a husband, a father, and a sheriff. His life was his own, and it was crowded enough.

  She stood to leave, gritting her teeth against the stiffening pain in her leg. She’d never known a bruise could hurt so much. James had turned back to his task, not noticing. Just as well.

  “Rachel?”

  Almost to the door of the barn, she looked back to see him standing in the opening of the stall, the expression on his face hard to decipher.

  “I’m going to ask Deputy Willis to add his name to the ballot for sheriff.”

  She stared, not understanding. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because Mayor Davenport is buying up votes for his candidate all over town. And also because”—hesitance crept into his tone— “in the past couple of months, people have started to express doubt about whether they want me to continue in the position.”

  Sensing what James wasn’t saying aloud, Rachel’s thoughts turned to Molly. There was no question in Rachel’s mind that God had directed Molly’s path to Timber Ridge last year, even though Molly, by her own admission, hadn’t perfectly followed God’s path for her life. What person had? Molly had asked everyone’s forgiveness for what she’d done and had worked to mend relationships. All of that was in the past now, for Rachel anyway. She just wished people would be as forgiving about Molly’s mistakes as they were about their own. But some folks seemed bent on making Molly pay. And, evidently, making James pay too.

  “You’re the only sheriff Timber Ridge has ever had. Of course people still want you.”

  He eyed her, his response saying he wasn’t so sure. “I’d rather give people another option, just in case. Dean Willis is a good man. He’s honest and fair, and I know for a fact that Mayor Davenport doesn’t have Willis in his back pocket like he does Bart Shaker— though Davenport tried hard enough. Willis stood up to him. Davenport’s also managed to delay the election. He’s already received approval from the town council, so the balloting won’t take place until this summer. He wants more time to get his man in place, is my guess.”

  Rachel wouldn
’t put anything past Mayor Davenport. The man was a snake. James had stood up to the mayor’s underhanded ways and backroom dealings and had publicly called him out, more than once. Davenport wanted nothing more than to have James out of his way. Still, she knew this town could have no better sheriff than her brother.

  “When it comes down to it, James, I believe people will vote for the best man. And I believe that’s you.”

  His sigh held reservation but also what sounded like a measure of acceptance, maybe even peace. He shifted his weight. “Daniel and Elizabeth were at church this morning,” he said a little too casually, watching her a little too closely, and Rachel felt her defenses rise. “Daniel asked about the boys. And about you.”

  “Please . . .” She shook her head, not wanting their time together today to end on a dissonant note. “I’m too tired for this today, James.”

  “Rachel, this has gone on long enough between you and Daniel. He wants to make things right. And frankly, he’s tried. It’s you who can’t seem to—”

  “Thomas is dead!” she said with more force than intended. Weariness moved through her. Tears rose.

  He heaved a sigh. “Despite what you think, Daniel is not responsible for what happened. Thomas decided to go hunting that morning. On his own. He wasn’t ready. Daniel had said he’d go with him anytime. But you know as well as I do that once Thomas decided something, nothing could change his mind.”

  Deep inside, Rachel felt the inexplicable urge to flee—from James, from the conversation, from the accountability he was forcing upon her. But she made herself stay, knowing he would only pursue her if she tried to retreat. She let out a held breath. “How many times must we have this conversation . . . ?”

  “As many times as it takes until you see the truth.” He stepped closer. “I don’t understand why you’re so intent on laying the blame at Daniel’s feet. It doesn’t seem that there’s anything to forgive him for, but if there is . . . can’t you at least try?” His gaze leveled with hers, and her mouth went dry at the boldness of his stare, at the unwavering love and sense of justice it held.

  How could her brother be right about so many things and be so completely off the mark about this? But he was wrong. She knew it. He just couldn’t see it because of his love for his childhood friend. She had loved Daniel too, and had tried to forgive him. But whenever she thought of Daniel, when she remembered how Mitch and Kurt used to go on about his hunting escapades in front of Thomas . . .

  “Uncle Daniel can track anything in these mountains. He can hunt anything too! He’s the best hunter in all the Rockies. I want to grow up to be just like him!” All the keepsakes Daniel brought back hadn’t helped either—animal pelts, snakeskins, antlers . . . How was a father supposed to compete with such adulation? And why should he have been made to?

  “I know you mean well, James, but . . . I need for you to leave this alone. Please.”

  “You said something to me, Rachel, one night not long after Thomas died, about how you wished you could go back and live that last morning with him over again. Do you remember saying that? Do you remember what you meant?”

  She did remember. Only too well. She also knew that nothing could change the past. What was done was done. James could do nothing to alter it, neither could this conversation, and neither would his trying to mend things with Daniel. “You said something to me too, James, last fall. You told me I was trying to fix things between you and Molly. Do you remember saying that?” she said, using the same tone he just had.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw.

  “You told me, ‘This isn’t something you can fix.’ ” She swallowed. “Well . . . this isn’t something you can fix either. So, please . . . leave it be.”

  Not wanting the time with him to be ruined, she forced a brightness to her manner, knowing full well he would see through the pretense. “Thank you again for coming by, and for helping me with the strays. I’ve missed your company . . . very much.”

  Disappointment shadowed his features. He fingered the bristles of the brush. “I’ve missed you too. You sure you’re doing all right?”

  Somehow she held her smile. “Absolutely,” she whispered, not trusting her full voice.

  He looked around the barn. His gaze lingered near the workbench, and she wondered whether he could picture Thomas standing there as easily as she still could. The image of her late husband came, and she cherished it, but time had diminished the pain of his passing.

  “What you and Thomas built here together, Rach . . . It’s special. Thomas really loved it. He told me so . . . many times. He’d be proud of how you’re carrying on, and of how you’re doing this for your boys.”

  Conviction stung, and Rachel summoned fresh courage to bolster her confident façade. “Thank you, that means a lot. This ranch was his dream,” she said softly, the next words threatening to stick in her throat. “And mine.”

  “Ranching can be a challenge, Mrs. Boyd. Especially in this part of the country. But you don’t need me to tell you that, now, do you?” Mr. Fossey paused as though searching for his next words, his expression one of compassion. His bushy gray brows knit together as the clock on the mantel behind him sliced off the seconds.

  Muted conversation from the bank lobby drifted through the closed office door, and Rachel wondered whether Mr. Fossey’s secretary could overhear their exchange. She hoped not. Yet if what Mr. Fossey had told her a moment ago held true—she felt a humorless laugh—it was only a matter of time before everyone in Timber Ridge would know about her predicament. I’m sorry, Thomas. . . .

  She shifted in the chair, the ache in her leg nearly unbearable.

  Since last night, the wound on her thigh had turned purplish black. The poultices she’d applied hadn’t eased the swelling or discomfort, and routine chores were next to impossible. Wriggling her toes sent pain shooting up into her back and made walking excruciating. Even seated and still, she could feel the blood pulsing hot through the bruise. She’d finished the last of her willow bark tea yesterday and would have taken laudanum for the pain last night, if she’d had any. She’d honestly thought it was just a bruise.

  Now she wondered. . . .

  She eyed her grandfather’s cane resting against the arm of her chair and felt a subtle stirring inside, a yearning for days past, when she was younger and life was simpler. Or perhaps those days only seemed simpler in the remembering.

  “Your late husband, God rest his soul,” Mr. Fossey continued, warmth softening the lines wreathing his eyes and mouth, “was a fine man. Thomas managed his accounts with this bank in an exemplary manner, just as you have done.” He raised a hand, as though reading her thoughts. “Yes . . . you have been late in repaying your loan, but you’ve also kept me apprised of your circumstances. You informed me your payment would be delayed, which makes my responsibility in answering to the bank’s shareholders a much easier task.”

  Rachel looked down at her gloved hands. “You’re kind to offer, Mr. Fossey. With the death of Thomas’s prized bull, I’ve lost the income I would have gained from leasing him to neighboring ranches this spring.”

  “And I know you were counting on that money.” Mr. Fossey’s tone reflected regret. “That bull came from fine stock.”

  Rachel nodded. For the integrity of her own herd’s bloodline, she knew she couldn’t have bred the bull to her cows again. But losing the potential income from the bull as a herd sire, along with the loss of cattle she’d sustained in the previous two winters, placed her finances in dire straits.

  Her gaze slowly lifted to the letter lying faceup on his desk, a letter she’d penned last night after comparing her bills to the ever-decreasing balance in her bankbook. “Regarding my request for more money, and time in which to repay it . . . do you think the board will give it consideration?”

  Gilbert Fossey pushed back from his desk, and Rachel tried not to interpret his distancing himself as a bad omen, telling herself it wasn’t a deliberate act on his part.

  “I assure
you the board gives every lender’s request serious consideration. They’ll be fair in their final rendering. But keep in mind, Mrs. Boyd . . . these men are not philanthropists. They invest their money in order to receive a return on that investment, as you pledged to them at the outset of your loan.”

  Rachel nodded, trying to appear confident while feeling as if she were treading water. Perhaps her request wasn’t such a good idea after all. Perhaps she was only prolonging the inevitable, getting in over her head. Still, she couldn’t simply give up. Not when giving up meant she would be forced to sell half of her land, and not when recalling all she and Thomas had sacrificed through the years. “I understand completely.”

  Mr. Fossey opened his mouth, then closed it again, giving obvious consideration to whatever thought occupied his mind. “Mrs. Boyd, would you permit me an observation? A most personal one that runs the risk of overstepping the bounds of propriety?”

  She stared, completely trusting this man yet not knowing where he was leading.

  “Rest assured that my observation issues from the heart of a friend, and not as an employee of this bank. And that it comes with the deepest respect for your late husband.”

  Now Rachel guessed what he was going to say.

  As though knowing she’d read his mind, he smiled. “Have you considered the possibility of remarriage? I know . . . for a fact,” he said, his tone confident, “that there are successful, wealthy men in this town who would court you on a moment’s notice, if you would but give them one look of encouragement. Surely one of them would suit you. If not in a match of the heart, then perhaps one of friendship. Not that you would marry for money, of course, but the fact is, the chances of retaining ownership of your ranch would be greatly improved were you married.”

  Rachel returned his kind look, not the least offended. She knew of many marriages built on an alliance of wealth or family name. It wasn’t uncommon. “I’d be lying to you, Mr. Fossey, if I said I’d never entertained that thought. But Timber Ridge is a small town, and I believe I’ve already met every man in the county.”