Rand walked into the room feeling as if he’d traveled sixteen hundred miles in three small steps. If he didn’t know better, he could have been standing in the hospital in Philadelphia, in the private wing where distinguished patients were treated. Spacious shelves lined with medicine bottles and supplies covered one wall. Two doors opened to his right. One led to a small room with an examination table—a surgical room and a fine one. Narrow horizontal windows had been placed at regular intervals, inches below the ceiling line to allow for daylight while still maintaining privacy. The next room looked similar to the first, but with a hospital bed, for recovery, he presumed. Tolliver had thought of everything.
He heard the door close behind him. At the same time, he spotted an older gentleman sitting off to his left before a fireplace in a cozy nook.
The gentleman rose from a wingback chair, laying his book aside. “Dr. Brookston?”
Rand nodded, closing the distance. “Yes, that’s right.” They exchanged a handshake, Rand already examining the man—who didn’t show the slightest appearance of being sick, much less of having typhoid fever.
“I’m indebted to you for agreeing to see me, Doctor, and so quickly. Sometimes I wait for hours to see my personal physician in New York. Guess a man has to come west to find a doctor who considers his patient’s time equal to his own.” A sheepish look crossed his face. “Forgive me. I’m Edward Westin, newly arrived to your wonderful community and currently a guest in Mr. Tolliver’s hotel.”
Rand nodded a second greeting, still at odds with Tolliver and wondering why this man needed a doctor. He searched his memory for why his name sounded so familiar, and came up blank. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westin. I’ll help you in whatever way I can. Though, I must say”—Rand softened his observation with a raised brow— “for being in need of a physician, you appear quite fit to me.”
Westin’s demeanor was friendly and not at all assuming. “I appreciate that diagnosis, Doctor. I guess I’ll have to blame it on the fresh mountain air or maybe the change in altitude.” He glanced away, his smile fading by a degree. “To be honest, I feel better than I have in a long time. Except for this pain in my shoulder.” Grimacing, he angled his neck and massaged his right trapezius. “I was climbing yesterday and must have pulled something. It’s been hurting ever since. I mentioned it to Mr. Tolliver last night at dinner, and he insisted on sending for you this morning.”
“Did he?” Rand nodded, smiling, careful to keep his tone even. “Well, why don’t we move on in there”—he gestured to the examination room—“and see what the problem might be.”
For the moment, he would tend his new patient, then take care of Brandon Tolliver.
As Rand finished the examination, it struck him where he’d seen the man’s name. Edward Westin was the name on the envelope Ben Mullins had given him, and that he’d passed on to Charlie to deliver to the hotel. Riddle finally solved—but another niggled into place. Why was Ben Mullins writing to Edward Westin? Not that it was any of Rand’s business.
“You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Westin.”
“Please, call me Edward.”
Rand nodded and reached for a sheet of paper and fountain pen on a nearby desk. “You said that yesterday was your first time climbing. Are you customarily this active?”
“I used to be, but . . . I haven’t been in the last couple of years.”
Rand sketched a rudimentary drawing of the shoulder and back muscles and how they connected. “Muscle pain can be attributed to several different things: simple muscle pain from overstress, muscle tears, bruising, or a more significant injury.” Rachel suddenly came to mind, an image of her lying on the bed in her room, her bruised but shapely thigh exposed in the soft lamplight, and Rand lost all train of thought.
He blinked to clear his mind of the image. Without success.
All he could see was her giving those tiny little buttons on her nightgown a subtle check when she’d caught him staring overlong, and then the way she’d looked at him in the mirror when he’d called her by her given name.
He felt Edward Westin staring. What had he been saying to the man? Thankfully, the picture he’d drawn provided a point of reference. “Most of the time,” Rand continued, clearing his throat, “in cases such as this, you’ve simply overextended the muscle. You’ve pushed your body beyond what it was prepared for. Time and rest should heal it. Although the tendons surrounding the shoulder are susceptible to deterioration, and do weaken with age.”
Westin finished buttoning his shirt, a ghost of a smile appearing. “So what you’re saying, Doc, is that I’m getting old.”
Rand laughed. “What I’m saying is that these bodies of ours weren’t designed to last forever. You’re in excellent health, Edward, especially for a man of fifty-six.” He’d been surprised to learn Westin’s age at the outset of the examination. He would have guessed younger. As a precautionary measure, he alerted Westin to the typhoid outbreak.
“Thank you for the warning, Doctor. And I’ll take it to heart. I contracted typhoid as a younger man, so I know what you’re up against. If my understanding is correct, that makes me less susceptible to getting it again.”
Rand nodded. “That’s true. Still, it’s good to be mindful.” He returned the pen to the desk. “There’s no reason why you can’t be out climbing again in a couple of weeks. Just take it easy until then. Ask a hotel clerk to bring you a warm towel tonight—that should help with the discomfort. And be sure to stretch your muscles like I showed you before you set out again.”
Before they left the room, Rand looked around a final time, knowing Dr. Newton Rochester of Boston General would not be disappointed. Only then did he see a detailed framed drawing of the human body on the wall, all organs and muscles labeled. He sighed to himself. And he couldn’t even afford to give Timber Ridge a proper clinic.
He followed Edward into the hallway.
“Dr. Brookston, thank you again. I appreciate your coming all the way out here.”
Rand accepted Edward’s handshake and came away with a five-dollar bill. He shook his head. “This is too—”
“You spent nearly an hour in there with me. You took time to explain things my doctor in New York never did. I want to show my gratitude.”
Thanking him, Rand reluctantly pocketed the bill, which would help provide more medicine. They walked together toward the lobby. “Do you plan on being in Timber Ridge long, sir?”
“I do indeed. In fact . . .” Edward paused. “This may sound premature, but I hope to live the rest of my days in these mountains, in this town.” He lowered his gaze. When he raised his head again, his eyes were misty. “My wife, Evelyn, saw a painting of Colorado a few years back. . . . She wanted to see it for herself, so badly. But I was busy traveling around the country at the time, building railroads. Almost three years ago, Evelyn became ill. Out of the blue. All her life she was healthy.” He clenched his jaw. “We were married for thirty-six years, and she was gone in six months.”
Rand briefly gripped his arm. “I’m so sorry, Edward.” He shook his head at a hotel clerk, indicating they were fine, as she passed them in the hallway.
After a moment, Edward sniffed. “Are you married, Doctor?”
“No . . . I’m not.”
“I highly recommend it, if you find the right woman,” Edward said, regaining his composure. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“Is that so?” Rand laughed, wishing he shared that confidence. “Did you and Evelyn have children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. They both have children and lives of their own now. I didn’t want to leave them at first, and on the way out here I wondered if I’d done the right thing in coming. But they insisted, knowing how much their mother wanted it. And I’m glad I did.” He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the lobby. “The paintings and photographs don’t do this land justice.”
They talked for a few more minutes, until Rand spotted Brandon Tolliver’s office. “Edward, it
was a pleasure to meet you, sir. Take care of that shoulder. And your next two doctor visits are on me.”
Waiting until Westin was out of earshot, Rand knocked on Brandon Tolliver’s door.
No answer.
He knocked again, his frustration returning when he thought about how Tolliver had manipulated him into coming out here.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston, but Mr. Tolliver isn’t in his office.”
Rand turned to see the same hotel clerk who had passed them in the hallway earlier. Immaculately dressed, she was young and pretty, and of course, Italian. “Do you know when he’ll be back? It’s urgent that I speak with him.”
“He had to leave the premises, but he asked me to extend an invitation to you to stay for lunch as his guest. I’ll show you the way to the dining room.”
Rand shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t spare the time.”
“Mr. Tolliver anticipated as much.” She smiled. “So I had a plate prepared. If you’ll come with me, I’ll get it for you.”
If it were Tolliver voicing the offer, Rand would have flatly refused. However, this young woman seemed eager to help, and he didn’t want her to bear the repercussions of his refusal, should there be any.
Waiting inside the kitchen doorway, Rand stared at the rows of brand-spanking-new cast-iron stoves and thought of how much Miss Clara would enjoy cooking in a place like this.
“Here you are, sir.”
He accepted the covered plate from the clerk with thanks and was nearly to his wagon when he glimpsed an older man weaving an unsteady path toward him. A gardener at the resort, if Rand wasn’t mistaken. Rand paused. The man’s eyes were glassy, his shirt damp with sweat.
“Medico,” the older man whispered, his face flushed and glistening. “Medico, per favore,” he pleaded, just before he collapsed.
17
I appreciate you and Kurt meeting me here, Mrs. Boyd. And I apologize for the wait. Monday afternoons are always hectic.” With an abbreviated sigh, Judith Stafford settled into her desk chair.
Rachel offered an understanding smile, hoping to mask her nervousness. “I was in town anyway, so it was no bother. I’m grateful for the time you set aside to meet with us.”
Miss Stafford straightened the stack of books on her desk, then the row of pencils. “With so many students under my tutelage, my schedule is demanding. But I’m finding that, on the whole, working with the students here in Timber Ridge is very rewarding.” She cut a narrow look at Kurt. “With students who actually have a desire to learn.”
Rachel felt a pinch in the comment but knew that, with Kurt’s recent misbehavior—and what they were here to talk about today— it was deserved. She so wanted this meeting to go well and was willing to do anything to help the situation improve. That included getting her relationship with this young woman on surer footing. “I hope you’re enjoying living here, Miss Stafford. It’s quite different from Dallas, I suppose.”
“Oh yes, very different. But I’m feeling at home here now, despite some rough patches along the way.” She sneaked another look at Kurt.
Rachel sensed all wasn’t forgiven and forgotten, and she couldn’t blame Miss Stafford for still being upset about the outhouse incident. Kurt must be presenting quite a challenge for the first-time teacher. She quelled a sigh. He was a challenge for her, and she was his mother!
Miss Stafford leaned forward, pencil in hand, and looked down at an open file on her desk. Rachel made a discreet attempt to read it as well, but couldn’t.
“Are you aware, Mrs. Boyd”—Miss Stafford lifted her head— “of your son’s most recent breach of conduct?”
Rachel’s gaze went involuntarily to the wood-burning stove in the corner, and her face went warm. “Yes, ma’am, I am. He told me he . . . placed a book inside the stove, and that it was burned.”
Miss Stafford’s gaze slid to Kurt, then back. “Did he tell you which book it was that he placed into the stove?”
Rachel blinked. When she’d finally wrangled the truth out of Kurt, she’d been so angry she hadn’t stopped to clarify details. Mitch hadn’t seen Kurt put the book into the stove, and apparently none of the other students had either. Or if so, no one was talking. She cleared her throat. “I’d assumed it was his textbook. The one assigned to him.”
Miss Stafford slowly shook her head. With a less-than-friendly smile, she pulled open a side drawer and withdrew a charred object. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, as if it were a dead rat. “Your son put my grade book into the fire . . . after he earned a failing mark on an assignment.”
Rachel swallowed, staring at what once might have been a book. She wanted to look at Kurt to see his reaction, but Miss Stafford was watching her so closely she felt as though she were the guilty party, as if she were the one being disciplined. And something didn’t make sense. After Kurt had earned a “failing mark”?
When Molly taught this classroom last fall, Rachel clearly recalled her sister-in-law say that Kurt had finished strong in his studies, despite having given Molly some tense moments during class. Remembering the incidents with the mouse and the snake, Rachel cringed.
But burning Miss Stafford’s grade book . . . That had more serious ramifications than anything he’d done before.
Her thigh began to ache. Every muscle in her body was taut. A thousand thoughts flitted through her mind, foremost of which was that none of this would be happening—with the ranch, with Kurt—if Thomas were still alive.
Kurt had been barely six years old when Thomas died, and Thomas had merely to give Kurt a stern look and the boy toed the line. But her stern looks went ignored, her threats unheeded. Even the paddlings she’d given him—that hurt her far more than they hurt him—yielded no noticeable change.
“Mrs. Boyd . . .”
Rachel lifted her gaze to see Miss Stafford wearing a surprisingly thoughtful look, her hands clasped before her on the desk. It occurred to her then how very young a woman Judith was. And how pretty, with her brunette hair swept back in a stylish lace chignon. And how snug she wore her shirtwaists.
“Be assured, Mrs. Boyd, I’ll continue to be as patient as I can be with your son. But his behavior must show improvement.” A brief glance included Kurt in the warning. “Molasses on the drawer pulls of my desk and making faces at the other children in class is disruptive. Making inappropriate noises that boys often make in order to draw attention to themselves is disturbing. But burning something . . .” Miss Stafford frowned. “That’s another issue entirely. I’ve spoken with a member of the town council, and we feel that—”
“Pardon me?” Rachel said before she could stop herself. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “You spoke with a member of the town council, about my son, before speaking with me?”
Judith Stafford sat taller, traces of thoughtfulness now gone. “As the teacher in Timber Ridge, I report to the town council. If I’m experiencing problems with a child—”
“Then you should speak with the child’s parent first,” Rachel said with a calmness she didn’t feel.
“Which I did.” Miss Stafford’s mouth curved in a tight smile. “As you will recall, I’m sure.”
Rachel pressed her lips together—embarrassed, ashamed . . . and furious. Both with Miss Stafford for the liberties she’d taken, with Kurt for his antics, and with herself for not having better control of her son. She could well imagine which member of the town council Miss Stafford had spoken with. Mayor David Davenport, a close personal friend of Judith’s aunt and uncle who lived in town. She felt sick inside.
If LuEllen Spivey, Judith’s aunt and the biggest gossip in town, got wind of what Kurt had done with Miss Stafford’s grade book . . .
“Kurt, wait for me outside in the wagon, please. And close the door on your way out.”
Still shaking, Rachel guided the wagon into town, aware of Kurt’s furtive glances but not trusting herself to say anything to him. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she felt people wa
tching her as she drove by. Mayor Davenport knew about Kurt burning Miss Stafford’s grade book. . . .
She squeezed her eyes tight. She needed to tell James. Mayor Davenport had caused her brother such trouble, what with James moving in with her and the boys after Thomas died, and Kurt’s misbehavior in school last fall, which had endangered Molly and led to her being injured, which then filtered back to the town council and led straight back to James.
Just as it would again.
She took a deep breath. Davenport would attempt to use this situation against James too, in the upcoming sheriff ’s election.
She brought the team to a stop in front of the store, and Kurt immediately jumped from the bench seat. As she carefully climbed down, the sharp pain in her leg reminded her of Rand’s restrictions. He’d declared her well enough to walk, with limitations she intended to heed. Another week of healing, he’d said, and she should be strong enough to walk without assistance. But still needing some support, she retrieved the cane from beneath the bench seat, and when she looked up, she saw Kurt waiting for her by the team. Odd, he usually ran on ahead. Of course he wanted to know what had happened with Miss Stafford, but she had no intention of discussing it right now.
She picked a path toward the boardwalk, mindful of the mud and muck. The warmer temperatures in recent days were welcome, especially with May still a week away, but the melting snow combined with deposits from animals was not.
“Mama?”
She managed the two steps up to the boardwalk, wishing for a handrail. “Yes, Kurt?”
“Do I . . .” Hands in his pockets, he stared at his feet. “Do I still go to school?”
She couldn’t see his face, so couldn’t tell whether he hoped her answer would be yes or no. “Yes, of course you still go to school. Why?”
He licked his lips. His little shoulders rose and fell. “I just wondered.”
Wishing she could bend down to be eye level with him, she gently urged his chin upward. To her surprise, he didn’t pull away. “Miss Stafford is giving you another chance. But, Kurt, you must respect your teacher.” She glanced at a woman passing by and pasted on a “How do you do?” smile that lasted all of three seconds.
Within My Heart Page 17
