Within My Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  Rand eyed the rustic hand-hewn mantel before them, taken aback by how much the heart could remember, even when the mind couldn’t. He couldn’t recall the exact nuances of his sister’s face, nor that of her infant daughter, but he recalled with painful accuracy the rending feeling of separation at their passing. His feelings had mirrored those Marietta had described to him after she’d knelt by his graveside the evening following the Battle of Nashville.

  Aware of Rachel’s stare, he pulled his thoughts back. “My younger sister . . . Marietta,” he whispered, a lifetime of memories accompanying the name. “She died while giving birth to her first child . . . a daughter, who died not long after.”

  A soft gasp. “I’m so sorry, Rand.”

  He ran his thumb along the smoothed edge of the mantel, where wood had given way to a knife’s sharp edge, and imagined Thomas Boyd doing much the same as he’d fashioned it for his home. “I was already a year into my medical training at the time and hadn’t yet decided which area of study interested me most. When Marietta and her baby died, my decision became clear.” He winced, recalling the events leading up to his sister’s and niece’s deaths. “Marietta’s baby came early and her body wasn’t prepared to deliver the child.” He stared down at the cold hearth. “The doctor didn’t know how to perform a—”

  “Cesarean delivery . . .” Rachel nodded, her voice falling away.

  He nodded.

  A moment passed before she spoke again. “Last fall . . . when I helped you deliver little Jo . . .” She shook her head. “That must have been so painful, so frightening. Yet you didn’t look it in the least.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “I was scared to death . . . on the inside.” Oh, how he wished he could tell her the truth about his reaction tonight. He felt as if God himself were opening a door for him to do just that, and yet Rand couldn’t bring himself to walk through.

  Aware of the lengthening silence and of the condition of Rachel’s parlor, he gestured to the sofa and pillows. “I’ll straighten things up before I leave.” He took a step and something crunched beneath his boot. Looking down, he felt a fresh wave of regret. He held out an arm to make sure Rachel didn’t step in the shards of glass. “Did I do this?”

  “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll clean it up.”

  He knelt and picked up one of the larger pieces of broken glass. Or crystal, he decided on closer inspection. “I’m sorry, Rachel.” He hoped it wasn’t something Thomas had given her.

  “It’s all right.” She bent down.

  “No . . . it’s not.” Renewed shame cut through him. Somehow, he had to learn to conquer his fear. He’d lived too long within its grip. “Was this special to you?”

  “No,” she answered, a second too late for it to have been the truth. “It was just a vase.”

  “I’ll replace it.”

  She briefly touched his arm. “You don’t need to, Rand.”

  “I want to,” he said softly, seeing the trust in her eyes and wishing he’d had the courage to tell her the whole truth.

  22

  Saturday morning came early and Rand awakened well before sunrise. He’d slept hard, exhausted from the events of the day before. Even with the oil lamp burning on the table in the corner, it took a few seconds for his surroundings to register. He was at the resort, in the physician’s quarters in the Health Suite, and Ben’s surgery was scheduled in four hours.

  The fog of sleep gradually cleared, and his lingering embarrassment over what had happened at Rachel’s home resurfaced. She’d been more than understanding, but he still cringed when he thought of how foolish he must have appeared to her.

  Both dreading and eager to see her again, he rose and dressed. The headache that accompanied his panic attacks had subsided yesterday afternoon, which was good. He needed to be clearheaded and sharp for Ben’s procedure.

  After checking on Ben and Lyda, who were still asleep in the patient-convalescing room, he slipped down to the kitchen to see if he could scrounge up some breakfast. He wasn’t hungry but knew it might be his last chance to eat for several hours.

  The kitchen was already bustling with cooks and servers, the clank of pots and pans an orchestra all its own. Within minutes of his request for black coffee and plain toast, one of the cooks presented him with a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, sausage, and fried potatoes, with a couple of griddle cakes placed artfully to one side.

  Rand’s eyes widened. “Grazie, signora.”

  The older woman smiled. “I am the one to thank you, Dr. Brookston. You helped my brother, Fernando.”

  He nodded. He’d visited Fernando, the resort gardener who had contracted typhoid, several times in Little Italy. “He’s still improving, I hope?”

  The woman smirked. “Too much, his wife says. She say he is bossing everyone around at home again. And eating everything he can.” She shrugged in that carefree manner of Italian women. “I tell her it is better him bothering her there than bothering me”—she spread her arms and gestured proudly—“in my kitchen.”

  Rand grinned, seeing the twinkle in the woman’s eyes. He held up the plate. “Thank you again.”

  She patted his arm, leaning close. “I fix Signore and Signora Mullins something to eat, sí? ”

  Rand matched her conspiratorial tone. “I’m sure Signora Mullins would appreciate something. But nothing for Signore Mullins this morning. Maybe later tonight.”

  She nodded. “You do the surgery today? On his lungs?”

  Word sure got around in this little town. “Yes, that’s today.”

  “You will do good job. I know it already.” She threw a stern glare at one of the servers standing watching them until the young girl moved out of earshot. “I hear you are working for Signore Tolliver now.” Her knit brow said she hoped it wasn’t true. “You will no longer be doctor for Timber Ridge . . . and for us?”

  Rand wanted to throttle Brandon Tolliver. Tolliver had given his word he wouldn’t tell anyone about their agreement for at least a week, and it had barely been four days since they’d shaken hands on the deal—however reluctantly on Rand’s part. It was only temporary, until Tolliver found someone to take the position full time, and Rand still needed time to tell some people about it. Namely, Rachel. “I’m still the doctor for Timber Ridge. My working with the resort is part-time, and it’s only temporary.”

  She looked up at him with those dark eyes and nodded. “Sí,” she said softly. “I hope that is true.”

  “It is. So don’t worry. If you or your family get sick, you still send for me.” He winked as he left the kitchen, not blind to the question in her eyes, but he knew what he was doing. Being allowed to perform Ben’s surgery at the resort was worth whatever inconvenience it caused him personally.

  The surgical instruments alone made his agreement with Tolliver worthwhile, but the facilities . . . highest quality all around. And there was a bonus reason he’d said yes to the agreement. With what Tolliver agreed to pay him, even if it was just for a few weeks, he could purchase new supplies, replenish dwindling pharmaceutical items, and still have a small amount left over that he could put toward renovating another building in town—once one became available.

  No sooner did he think of the building he’d lost than he saw Edward Westin speaking with Rachel in the lobby. Westin casually touched her arm, the briefest gesture, in no sense inappropriate, but still . . .

  Rand paused, watching, and experiencing an unwelcome twinge of jealousy. He hadn’t known they were acquainted.

  “Dr. Brookston!” Edward spotted him and waved him over. “Good to see you again.”

  Sneaking a look at Rachel, who acknowledged him with a smile, Rand shook his hand. “Same to you, Edward. How’s that shoulder feeling these days?”

  Westin made a show of working the joint back and forth. “It hasn’t felt this good in ages.” Westin leaned in toward Rachel with a familiarity that confirmed this wasn’t their first meeting. “As I was telling you last evening, Mrs. Boyd, I hi
ghly recommend Dr. Brookston’s services. If you have any ailments, he’s your man.”

  Rachel’s smile deepened, though it lacked its usual warmth. “Yes, I’m aware of Dr. Brookston’s expertise. Timber Ridge is lucky to have him. Or was . . . before he began working for the resort.”

  Rand nearly dropped his plate. A scalpel to the gut would have been more subtle. Rachel’s expression invited him to correct her, and he wished he could. “I was going to tell you. . . .” He caught himself, and included Westin in his nod. “I was going to tell everyone. I just made the decision this week,” he added quickly. “It’s only part-time. And short-term. Until Mr. Tolliver can find a replacement.”

  Rachel nodded, her disappointment palpable. “News travels fast in Timber Ridge, Dr. Brookston.”

  Westin nodded. “I learned that the day I arrived. Speaking of . . .” He turned to Rand. “I read in this morning’s paper that you’re operating on Ben Mullins today. Removing fluid from his lungs?” His features reflected wonder. “It’s amazing what you fellas can do these days.”

  Rand gulped. “You . . . read about the surgery in the newspaper?”

  Westin withdrew a copy from the inside of his suit coat. “You can have mine. I’m finished with it.”

  To Rand’s marginal relief, he realized it was a copy of the Colorado Hot Springs Resort Weekly, not the Timber Ridge Reporter. Then he glimpsed the bolded oversized print on the front page, right under the Special Edition banner—NEW RESORT HOSTS REVOLUTIONARY SURGERY—and he felt the pressure building in his temples.

  Westin motioned to the front desk. “More copies are available from the concierge, in case you need them. Tolliver told me over breakfast that, starting today, he’s making the paper available in town too. He’s mighty proud of what you’re doing, Doctor.”

  Rand felt ill.

  “Miss Rachel?” Charlie Daggett appeared beside them, looking rather sheepish holding a woman’s reticule. “You forgot this in the wagon, ma’am.”

  Rachel checked her arm, then shook her head. “Thank you, Mr. Daggett. I was in such a rush to get here this morning. . . .”

  Tipping his hat, Charlie turned to leave, but Rand caught the quizzical look he gave Westin. “Mr. Daggett—” He touched Charlie’s coat sleeve, knowing that if these two men hadn’t yet met, they needed to, considering their future connection at the store. He made the introductions, welcoming the shift of attention. “Mr. Daggett is the hardest working man in Timber Ridge, Westin. There’s nothing he doesn’t know how to do.”

  Westin nodded. “So I’ve heard from Mr. and Mrs. Mullins. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Daggett. The Mullinses speak very highly of you. They tell me you’re their most valuable worker.”

  Charlie ducked his head. “I think right highly of them too, sir.”

  Westin eyed him. “Charlie Daggett . . . Your name sounds familiar to me for some reason. Any chance our paths have crossed before?”

  Charlie gave an affable grin. “I’ve worked all over Colorado and Wyoming, sir. I ran freight wagons in Cheyenne, then worked at the stockyards in Denver. Then at a hog farm over in . . .”

  Still listening to Charlie, Rand chanced a look at Rachel, eager for a moment alone with her. She wasn’t looking at him, but he sensed she knew he was looking at her.

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Daggett, that this is my first venture west.” Westin smiled. “I spent the bulk of my years cooped up back east, building the iron road.”

  “You . . . you worked on the railroad, sir?” Charlie’s jovial manner faded a shade.

  Wanting to avoid any misunderstanding for Charlie about Westin’s position with the railroad, Rand jumped in. “Mr. Westin was an executive with Union Pacific for . . .” Rand looked to Westin.

  “Sixteen years,” Westin supplied. “But I’ve been in railroading all my life.” He took a peek at his pocket watch, then gripped Charlie’s hand again. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Daggett. It might take a while, but I’ll remember where I’ve heard that name.” He gave a confirming wink. “I hate to take my leave of you fine people, but I need to get to my next appointment.”

  “So do I,” Charlie added, doffing his hat and leaving as quickly as he’d come. A bit paler too, Rand noticed.

  Rand gauged Charlie’s abrupt departure, curious, then felt a touch on his arm.

  “One last thing, Doctor,” Westin said. “I want you to know just how much I appreciate all you’re doing for Ben Mullins, and I’m not the only one. You don’t have to be in Timber Ridge long to realize what fine folks Ben and Lyda Mullins are and what they mean to this town. You have a lot of people praying for the operation this morning. Count me among them.”

  He turned to Rachel. “And, Mrs. Boyd, thank you again for the pleasure of your company at Miss Clara’s last evening. And that of your boys. Kurt’s as cute as he can be, and that Mitch . . . sharp as a whip.”

  Rand caught the brief discomfort in Rachel’s expression before she smoothed it away.

  Westin’s departure left an awkward silence, and Rand chanced another glance at Rachel, who wasn’t looking at him. So she’d accepted a dinner invitation from Edward Westin while refusing the same from him? His morning kept getting better and better.

  “Should we prepare for the procedure, Doctor?”

  Looking at her, Rand frowned. “Rachel, please don’t call me—”

  “Not here,” she whispered, and smiled at two older couples sitting nearby looking their way, obviously eavesdropping. “Why don’t you take me to see Mr. and Mrs. Mullins? I’d love to visit with them both before we begin.”

  Rand nodded, struggling to conceal his frustration. “It’s this way.”

  As they passed the restaurant, he handed his untouched plate to a server. Once they reached the door to the Health Suite, he stopped Rachel with a touch, taking advantage of the moment alone. “Rachel, I was going to tell you the other night—about my taking the position here. The only reason I—”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation, Rand.” Her laugh was airy. “I’m not your mother, after all. I was simply surprised to learn the news. I’d gathered your goals as a physician ran along . . . other lines.”

  “They do run along other lines. That’s what I’m trying to tell—”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Brookston?”

  Rand looked up to see Brandon Tolliver’s personal assistant walking toward them, portfolio in hand. Summoning patience long depleted, he turned to her. “Yes, Miss Valente?”

  Smiling, she handed him a sheet of paper. “Here’s your patient roster for the day, sir.”

  Rand scanned the sheet. “I don’t understand. What is this?”

  “It’s your schedule for the day. I have listed the guests who have requested to see you, along with each of their ailments.”

  Rand quickly counted. Eleven guests, and eleven different “concerns,” ranging from an ingrown toenail to a slight ache in the left forefinger to excessive freckling across the bridge of the nose. These were their ailments? He looked up again, half expecting to see Miss Valente smiling, as though this were some sort of joke. And she was smiling, but apparently this was no joke.

  Rachel smiled too, but in an “I told you so” kind of way.

  He blew out a breath. Per his agreement with Tolliver, he would see guests about health issues on a part-time basis, and he aimed to keep his word. But he had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be the kind of arrangement he’d anticipated.

  “Thank you, Miss Valente.” He pulled his pocket watch from his suit coat. “It will be two o’clock before I’ll be able to start seeing these guests. I’ll be with Ben Mullins until that time.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine, Doctor. I’ll see to it that the appointments are arranged at thirty-minute intervals.”

  Rand quickly did the math, taking into account the severity of the guests’ concerns. Excessive freckling . . . “Why don’t we make that fifteen-minute intervals. I believe that will be more than sufficient.”

  With a bounc
e in her step, Miss Valente retraced her path down the hall.

  Rachel reached for the door latch to the Health Suite, but Rand covered her hand on the knob. “Rachel, as I was saying . . . the reason I took this job—”

  “I told you, Rand—”

  He pressed two fingers against her lips, exasperated. “If you’d be quiet for two seconds straight and let me get this out . . .”

  He expected the raised brow, but not the sly smile that accompanied it. Her lips were incredibly soft against his fingertips and enticed his imagination, which needed no encouragement when it came to this woman. And her blue eyes—he had to smile—her blue eyes held a no-nonsense look that told him her indulgence had its limits. Though tempted to see what those limits were, he resolved to save that for a more appropriate time.

  He removed his hand. “The reason I agreed to this arrangement with Tolliver was because he gave me no choice. He wasn’t going to let us perform the surgery here if I didn’t agree to help out in the short term. And we both know how much greater Ben’s chances are for a successful surgery and recuperation here at the resort rather than at my clinic, and certainly rather than in the bedroom above the store.”

  Satisfied he’d at least told his side of the story, he reached for the doorknob, wondering if she’d still consider him a fool for making the agreement with Tolliver.

  As the door opened, she brushed her hand against his on the brass latch. “Thank you, Rand,” she whispered, “for letting me know that. And for using the word us when referring to performing the surgery, even though we both know it’s you.”

  23

  Rachel held the cannula between her fingers, careful not to touch the sharp tip of the hollow needle. Despite Rand’s instructions on this procedure and her poring over his notes and illustrations, she still felt some anxiety over what they—or rather he—were about to do. Rand had been generous to include her in the “us” reference earlier, but she was under no delusion about who was performing the intricate procedure. Nor did she take lightly the risks involved, however much the benefits of this surgery might outweigh the alternative of doing nothing.