Within My Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  A knock sounded on the door.

  Already knowing who it would be, she returned the Bible to its place and readied herself to face Mr. Carnes, the town’s curious and socially awkward undertaker. She opened the door to a cold rush of wind and snow.

  “Daniel!” She took a quick step back, holding the door steady in the wind. “W-what are you doing here?” She glanced past him, seeing Beau, his dog, but noticing Elizabeth wasn’t with them. Elizabeth’s absence meant no buffer between her and Daniel, a situation she tried to avoid at all costs. “Where’s Elizabeth? Is she all right?”

  “She’s over at the store, with Lyda—and Dr. Brookston.”

  Shoulders hunched against the wind, Daniel seemed reluctant to meet her gaze. Common courtesy dictated she invite him inside, and it took every ounce of courtesy within her to oblige. She gestured, but he hesitated. As if seeking to make his decision easier, a gust of wind and snow barreled around the corner. Daniel stepped inside, Beau following, and Rachel closed the door.

  Dressed in his customary buckskin, rifle in hand, Daniel seemed to fill the room. Rachel had forgotten that about him. He’d always had a powerful presence, even as a younger man.

  “I was bringing Elizabeth into town to see the doctor, but we met up with him on his way back from the Brewers’. He told us about Ben.” Daniel shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know how close you were to him.”

  Though she found it hard to look into his eyes, she forced herself and nodded. His eyes held such sincerity, such honesty. But after what he’d done to Thomas—his behavior had been so reckless, irresponsible. And had cost her so much. “Is Elizabeth sick? Is it something with the baby?”

  “Dr. Brookston thinks everything is okay. But Elizabeth’s been real tired. She fainted earlier today, and that’s not like her at all, even since she’s been with child.” He removed his hat and held it in his hands. “Dr. Brookston sent me to get some medicine.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

  Reading what Rand had written, Rachel calmed. She recognized what he was likely treating Elizabeth for from the medicine he requested. “I know right where these things are. Wait here and I’ll get them for you.” She worked quickly, knowing the sooner she gave Daniel the medicine, the sooner he would leave.

  It took her a few minutes, but Daniel didn’t move an inch from his spot by the door. Nor did he speak.

  “Here’s everything Dr. Brookston requested.” She handed him the cloth sack, glancing down at Beau, who stayed ever close by his master’s side. “I wrapped it twice, but try not to let it get wet.”

  He opened his jacket and tucked the bundle inside.

  The moment lengthened, and Rachel grew antsy.

  “Rachel, I . . .” He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit of his since childhood. “I just want to say that . . .” He paused and stared at her, eyes beseeching, no words coming, and she glimpsed the shy boy she’d grown up with. The boy who had taught her how to tell the difference between animals’ tracks, who had shown her his best secret fishing holes, and the friend who had eaten at her and Thomas’s table more times than she could count. The friend Thomas had loved. That she had loved. Just as Daniel loved them.

  A frown creased his brow, but it wasn’t anger or frustration she saw in Daniel’s face. It was hurt. Hurt and regret layered so deep that the grief seemed to flow between them without need of words. Maybe it was Ben’s passing and the reminder of the brevity of this life, maybe it was the long hours of day wearing thin into night, but she felt the barrier of blame and judgment she’d harbored and tended since Thomas’s death begin to give way.

  She scrambled to shore it up, reminded of the countless times she’d seen the look of yearning in Thomas’s eyes when his own sons had scampered up to Daniel’s lap, begging Uncle Daniel to tell them, one more time, about his latest adventure. If Daniel hadn’t pushed Thomas to prove himself in front of his sons, then perhaps Thomas would still be—

  The last words Thomas spoke to her came back in a rush. She could imagine him standing there in the doorway of their cabin, could still hear his voice. “Do you not think I can do this, Rachel?” He’d smiled, so kind-natured, loving, always so quick to forgive her—and everyone else. “Have a little more faith in me, honey.” He’d winked. “I love you. I’ll be home before dark.”

  And she never saw him alive again.

  Staring into Daniel’s eyes, reliving that scene, Rachel felt a weight inside her. A truth buried deep, unearthing itself, growing heavier by the second.

  Daniel opened his mouth as if to say something, then swallowed. His lower lip trembled. “I-I’m sorry, Rachel. . . .” His eyes filled. “If I could go back and . . .” He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw cording tight. “If I could go back and do things different, I would.”

  Oh, how many times she’d longed for that very thing.

  Daniel studied the plank-wood floor beneath his boots, giving her time, she knew. But she couldn’t think of anything to say and couldn’t have spoken past the knot in her throat if she’d wanted to.

  He slipped his hat on and opened the door, turning his shoulder into the storm. “Dr. Brookston said he’d meet you here shortly.” With one last look, he left.

  But he took a piece of her heart with him—the jagged, razoredged shard that had broken away the moment James had told her how Thomas had been killed. The shard that had lodged itself deep and impenetrable in her pride and in her desperation to blame someone else for something she’d done. Something she’d thought she could never undo.

  But she’d been wrong. And Ben had helped her to see that.

  33

  Rand closed the clinic door behind him and set his bag on the table, relieved Rachel had left a couple of lamps burning. A fire crackled warm in the hearth and he heard footsteps in the back. Glad to discover she hadn’t left, he saw further evidence of her presence in the clinic—bottles and tins perfectly straight on the shelf, all instruments washed and put away, surfaces wiped down, pristine.

  He exhaled, weary, his eyes burning from too little sleep. Snow was still falling at a steady rate, and the night was frigid. He couldn’t seem to shake this chill.

  He raked a hand over his face and crossed to the hearth, thinking of Ben and how brave a man he was, right until the very end. Which had come faster—mercifully so, one might argue—than any of them had expected.

  Emotion tightened his throat, as it had at unexpected intervals throughout the day. Had he done everything he could for Ben? And to the best of his ability? The questions played over and over.

  And again and again, the answer came back . . . yes.

  He arched his back, stretching the tight muscles and reliving those last moments.

  The chest pains that started without warning, Ben’s heart rate escalating at an unnatural pace, the odd syncopated rhythms of his pulse. Rand closed his eyes. Witnessing the final moments of Ben’s life, with Lyda by her husband’s bedside, hearing their whispered I love yous, reminded him yet again of how precious time was and how quickly life passed.

  “Rand . . .”

  He looked up to see Rachel coming from the hallway.

  “I’m glad you’re back.” Her smile faded slightly. “You look so tired.”

  Wishing he could cross the room and take her in his arms and hold her, just hold her, for a little while—or better, all night long—he drank in the sight of her instead. How quickly he’d grown accustomed to having her in his life, however impermanent the arrangement at present. Something he hoped to change.

  “You’ve been busy.” He glanced around the room. “Thank you for all you’ve done.” He held her gaze, hoping she knew he was referring to more than just her cleaning.

  Her expression warmed. “You’re welcome. How is Lyda? And Elizabeth? Daniel said she’d fainted.”

  “Lyda’s doing all right. I gave her something to help her sleep. And Elizabeth’s fine.” He stretched, his neck muscles tight. “She’s suff
ering from anemia.”

  “Low iron.”

  He nodded. “Brought on by pregnancy. It’s not serious, but it does mean I’ll need to keep a closer eye on her during her remaining time. Lyda’s invited the Ransletts to stay in her and Ben’s home as long as they need to. They’re staying with her at the store tonight. Lyda says she prefers to live there in the upstairs room rather than going home. At least for now.”

  Rachel nodded, understanding.

  “Has Mr. Carnes come by yet?”

  She shook her head, and he proceeded to take off his coat, knowing he still had a job to do before the undertaker arrived.

  “Everything’s taken care of, Rand,” she said softly. “James came by earlier. . . . He helped me.”

  Rand knew it was probably a combination of fatigue and overwork, but his throat tightened with emotion. “You’re really special— you know that?” Her mouth tipped the slightest bit as she looked away. If he was reading her right, and he’d grown fairly adept at that, she was uncomfortable beneath the praise. “Is there anything else I need to do before Carnes arrives?”

  She shook her head and picked up a lamp, motioning for him to follow. “I told Lyda I’d stop by and get her in the morning, for the funeral.” She glanced back. “She’s asked James to do the service.”

  Rand traced her steps down the dimly lit corridor to the storeroom. She opened the door and a cool rush of moist air hit him in the face. The wick of the oil lamp sputtered and teased, and the threat of darkness stopped him cold. Threadbare nerves went taut inside him and a light sweat broke out on his skin. His pulse kicked up a notch.

  The flame flickered and struggled to full flame again—and Rand resumed breathing.

  Rachel raised the lamp high. “Looks like it’s about out of oil. But that’s not a problem.” She smiled softly. “You have enough oil stored up to light the entire town of Timber Ridge.”

  Rand was too focused on breathing to respond.

  She preceded him into the room. “I pressed his suit and tie. It looks real nice, but I’ll always picture him in that apron he used to wear. Lyda asked me to bury this with him.” She held up a tiny pouch. Rand recognized it. Ben had shown it to him. “It belonged to their son. It was Andrew’s—” She turned back. “Rand . . . is something wrong?”

  Still standing in the hallway, he cleared his throat. “No . . .” His hands trembled. “Nothing’s wrong.” He would not do this again in front of her, lose control like he had that night at her cabin. The very thought that he might brought a rush of anger.

  Trying not to focus on the nearly empty lamp in her grip, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was beside her, and then he looked down at Ben.

  The lamplight was dim and the warm glow forgiving, but if he hadn’t known better he might have thought Ben could awaken at any second.

  A scene flashed in his mind, lightning quick and just as blinding. He heard the thud of Jessup Collum’s shovel again and felt the wooden walls of the pine box pressing in. Closer, closer. He blinked, trying to dispel the image and his fears, knowing both were irrational.

  He wasn’t in the grave any longer. He was in the storeroom. With Rachel. And Ben was gone—he wasn’t going to wake up. He’d held Ben’s hand, felt the life drain away. He’d checked for a pulse, at least twenty times, just to be sure.

  He heard Rachel’s voice beside him, but his senses were honed in on the memory that had haunted him for the past twelve years, that had all but controlled him every time darkness fell.

  A touch on his arm jolted him.

  Rachel peered up, concern narrowing her eyes. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

  He pulled away. Oh, God, when will I conquer this? Will I ever? “I’m fine!” His voice came out harsh, unrelenting, and he knew he deserved the bewildered look she gave him.

  A distant knock sounded.

  Rachel glanced down the hallway. “I’m guessing that’s Mr. Carnes.” Her voice was cool, and with good reason.

  He followed her—and the light—down the corridor, but stopped her in the front room, hoping his voice was steadier than his nerves. “I th-think it would be best if I kept Ben’s body here for the night.”

  She stared, her confusion evident. “But . . .” A discomfited look passed over her features. “Everything’s done, Rand. Why would you—”

  A second knock sounded.

  She glanced at the door, then back at him. “I don’t understand what just happened in there. Why you suddenly—”

  “I’ll explain,” he said quickly, his temples throbbing. His fears were illogical, without foundation, yet he couldn’t defy them. “Just let me handle this.”

  Questions weighted her expression, but it was the doubt in her eyes he found most cutting.

  “Please, Rachel,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

  When she didn’t object, he opened the door and winter barged in. He gestured for Mr. Carnes and another man Rand knew by sight but not by name to step inside. Before he closed the door, he glimpsed the wagon pulled up along the boardwalk, a simple oblong pine box in the back.

  Carnes shook the snow from his sleeves. “You ready for us, Doc?”

  “Actually . . .” Rand shook his head, wishing they could have spoken outside, where Rachel couldn’t hear. “I’m not. I’m sorry for the confusion, but I just got back here a few minutes ago. It’s been a long day, and I still have some details to take care of. . . . I need to make final notations regarding Mr. Mullins’s case.” He looked at Carnes as though the man should know what he was referring to.

  It took a second, but Carnes slowly nodded and leaned closer. “Does this have something to do with that surgery you did?”

  Rand hesitated. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Good enough, then.” Carnes reached for the door. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  They left, and Rand turned to find Rachel standing exactly where he’d left her.

  Skepticism lined her face. “What details are left?” she asked softly.

  He took a step toward her, and though she didn’t move an inch, he felt her retreat.

  34

  There are no details left, Rachel.” Rand looked down, uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, but even more with his own deceit. “I just said that so Carnes would leave.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand. You’re the one who asked him to come. What made you change your mind? And why did you lie?”

  “I didn’t change my mind. Not exactly. But I did lie. . . . And I’m sorry.” He sighed, knowing there was no excuse. “I . . . panicked.”

  “Yes, I saw that. I’m still waiting to understand why.”

  “It’s a long story. . . .”

  “Then it’s good that I have the time.”

  Dread filled him. He wished there were a way to explain his reactions that wouldn’t leave him looking smaller in her eyes, foolish and weak. He motioned to one of the chairs before the hearth. “Would you sit with me? Please?”

  She did as he asked.

  He stoked the fire in the hearth and added more logs. Within minutes, the flames burned bright again, warming the front room of the clinic. He sat beside her and leaned forward, realizing where he needed to begin. “Do you remember that night at your cabin . . . when you found me on the porch?”

  “Yes, I remember that night . . . quite well.”

  He shook his head. “Of course you do.” He looked down at his hands. “I told you then that sometimes when I wake up at night, I start to feeling a little closed in.” He winced. “That wasn’t the entire truth.”

  When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head. Her expression was inscrutable, guarded. But most of all watchful, waiting for the truth.

  Memories stirred inside him, and unable to sit any longer, he rose. “Something happened to me the night I got shot.”

  “The night you got your scar. . . .”

  He nodded, fingering the puckered flesh on his neck. “I’m not sure how long
I lay there on the battlefield. Bullets zipping past me, hitting the ground on all sides . . . men falling, moaning, some crying out. But . . . I couldn’t make a sound. I tried to draw breath, but my lungs felt like they were full of holes.” He walked to the window and stared out into the night, the crackle of the fire in the hearth strangely reassuring.

  “I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember . . . I woke up in the surgeon’s tent. I saw a man . . . standing a few feet away. He never looked over at me, but his hands . . . they were stained with blood.” He bowed his head. “It was all over the front of his apron and running down his arms.”

  He grimaced—the memory so clear in his mind, so vivid, even after so many years. He could still smell the chloroform, hear the battle raging outside the tent, and feel the earth tremble beneath each cannon blast.

  “It was the surgeon?” Rachel whispered. “The man who sutured your neck?”

  “Yes.” He took a breath, hoping to cleanse his senses of the sounds and smells of war, but in vain. “After some time passed, and I was well enough, I went searching for him.”

  “You wanted to thank him,” she said, her voice quiet.

  He smiled. “Yes. I wanted to thank him. . . .” He turned to her. “But I also wanted to warn him.”

  She frowned. “Warn him . . . about what?”

  Ignoring his instinct to look away, he held her gaze. “About the dangers of overdosing a patient by administering morphine and laudanum . . . with too much chloroform.”

  She stared. “But he saved your life.” Incredulity colored her tone.

  “Yes, he did. In more ways than one. And when I finally found him, I told him how grateful I was. But I also had to tell him . . .” Needing to feel a support beneath him, Rand sat down again. “I had to tell him about the mistake he’d made.”