Within My Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  “Hold on, Rachel, it’s coming,” Lyda whispered, eyes lifted heavenward. “It’s coming. . . .”

  Rachel waited, breath held, feeling her world tilt and her heart begin to fract— A second shot sounded, shattering the silence, followed by a third, and a fourth. . . .

  38

  Are you certain you want to do this, Rachel? I’m sure there’s someone else out there who’d be willing to—”

  “Please, Rand, let me stay. Let me do this.” She brushed a kiss against Kurt’s dirt-smudged cheek. Kurt didn’t move. Not that she expected him to with the chloroform Rand had administered. “I want to be here. And anything you need, I can do. I give you my word.”

  He searched her eyes until he seemed satisfied. “All right.” He picked up the needle from the table by her bedside, dawn streaming in through the window at his back. “I’m going to start at the base of the gash and suture upward. He won’t feel a thing as long as you continue to administer the chloroform. I’ll let you know when I’m almost done.”

  Rachel nodded, one hand cradling the top of Kurt’s head, the other the chloroform-doused cloth. She shivered, still chilled to the bone from the long night of waiting outside on the porch, praying for her boys to come home. Kurt lay on his side on her bed, covered in a blanket, and Rand knelt behind him. She watched Rand work, as much as she could from her perspective, and prayed for them both, as well as for Mitchell, who was resting, warm and safe, in his bed down the hallway, cuts and bruises the worst of his injuries.

  “Kurt called out for you,” Rand said softly. “When we were in the cave.”

  Rachel’s heart clenched tight. “Really?”

  He nodded, his focus intent on his task. “Never doubt how much he loves you. Never . . .”

  She brushed a lock of red hair from Kurt’s temple and felt his soft breath on her hand. There were so many questions she wanted to ask Rand about what had happened, but there hadn’t been time. When he and Daniel had brought the boys back to the house, it was clear Kurt bore the most serious injury. She’d washed her hands, but his blood still stained the front of her dress.

  From what little Daniel had told her, she’d learned that Rand had climbed down a tunnel into utter darkness in order to rescue her son. Entering the cave had to have been hard enough for him, but the tunnel . . . She couldn’t imagine, not with what he’d been through.

  She stared at him, watching his movements, watching his hands—hands crafted by God to do precisely what he was doing— and she couldn’t deny her overwhelming love for him. “Don’t be afraid of being happy again, Rachel,” Ben had said to her. And she wasn’t. Not anymore.

  “You’re a brave man, Rand Brookston.”

  His eyes narrowed as he completed another suture. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you could have felt my heart pounding. I was scared to death down there, Rachel.”

  “But you went anyway,” she whispered, feeling the reprise of tears. “Which makes you even braver.”

  Though he said nothing, his expression reflected gratitude.

  “You’ve given me my life back.” She sighed. “In so many ways.”

  His attention still focused on his task, the smile ghosting the corners of his mouth said plenty.

  She recognized the change in Kurt’s breathing pattern and held the cloth lightly over his nose and mouth until it evened out again. In less than an hour, Rand had the wound sutured, and she helped him bandage it. Kurt looked especially small and fragile lying there on the bed, his head swathed in white.

  Rand rinsed his hands in the basin of water on the dresser and reached for a towel. “He lost some blood but not as much as he might have, considering it’s such a deep gash. His cooler body temperature actually worked for him in that regard, stemming the blood flow.” He laid the towel aside. “He’s going to be fine, Rachel. He’s going to have a whopping headache for a few days, and a scar on the back of his head he can boast about to his children. But I see no evidence of injury that would cause any ongoing challenge to him. He’s a resilient little boy. Very much like his mother.”

  Grateful beyond words, she placed another kiss on Kurt’s forehead and then tucked the blanket around his shoulders, knowing it would be a while before he awakened. She took hold of Rand’s offered hand and let him pull her up beside him. Not waiting, she went straight into his arms, and he held her.

  “Tighter,” she whispered into his ear, wanting him to chase away every chill, every uncertainty.

  “With pleasure,” he whispered, and obliged.

  She held on to him, shivering, the warmth from his body seeping into hers. The flicker of desire he’d lit within her not long ago fanned into flame, and she drew back enough to see him. She cradled the side of his face. He pressed a kiss to her palm and she felt the sensation all the way to her toes.

  “May I ask you a question?” she whispered, looking at his mouth, remembering what kissing him had been like.

  “Anything.”

  “How can you be so warm when I’m still so cold?”

  His subdued laugh held boldness. “I know one sure way to warm you up.” He didn’t hesitate in the least. Not this time. His lips moved over hers as if the two of them had done this together a thousand times before. Gentle, tender at first, he wasn’t the least bit uncertain. And when he deepened the kiss, she couldn’t resist a smile, and felt him do the same.

  “I love you,” he whispered, searching her eyes. “I have for a long time.”

  She ached inside for him. Not only with physical desire, but with the desire to give herself fully to him, as he wanted her to, as she wanted to, without the underlying fear of losing him someday. Of being left alone. He must have read the fear in her eyes because he kissed her again, so long and so thoroughly that when he finally broke the kiss, she was breathless and could hardly stand.

  “I want to marry you, Rachel Boyd. I want to be a father to your sons. And I promise . . . I will never leave you. Not of my own will. I’ll be here with you, beside you, for the rest of my life. Or for the rest of yours. . . .”

  She read sincerity in his expression and understood what he was saying. And yet . . . “I love you too,” she whispered, feeling the beat of her heart. And of his. “But . . .” She gave a little shrug. “I’m still scared.”

  A roguish smile tipped one side of his mouth. “Which, to use your logic, will just make you even braver, right?”

  Smiling, she drew his face down to hers and kissed him, savoring the man he was and the gift she’d been given for the second time in her life.

  His hands moved down her back, wonderfully possessive in their quest, and pressed her closer against him. “I’m going to take that as a yes to my proposal, Mrs. Boyd,” he whispered.

  “Did you know my papa, Doc Brookston?”

  Rand stilled at Kurt’s question, grateful they were almost done with the examination. He’d removed the sutures a month ago, and the wound on Kurt’s head was healing nicely. Rand reached for the jar of sugar sticks on the shelf behind him. “No, Kurt, I didn’t. Your papa was already in heaven when I came to Timber Ridge.”

  A look of consternation crossed Kurt’s face. Rand opened the jar and Kurt withdrew a piece of candy.

  “Grape?” he asked.

  Kurt nodded.

  Rand chose the same. “Grape’s my favorite too.”

  Kurt’s smile was more easily won these days, but Rand still sensed there was something on the boy’s mind, as he had during their last few visits. What was bothering Kurt, he didn’t know. But he thought he’d narrowed it down. It had something to do with Thomas, he was almost certain, and he’d shared as much with Rachel. She’d dropped Kurt off earlier, saying she’d come back for him, but Rand arranged for her to meet them later, wanting this time together with Kurt. Alone.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  Kurt hopped off the table.

  He let Kurt set the pace down the boardwalk, enjoying the warmth of a July sun.

  Kurt peered up. “Is yo
ur papa in heaven too?”

  “Yes, he is. He went to heaven several years ago. Before you were even born.”

  “Were you a boy, like me?”

  Rand felt a tenderness inside at the question. “No, I was already grown up.”

  Kurt didn’t say anything to that, but Rand could feel the boy’s wheels spinning. With forethought, Rand steered their path toward Miss Clara’s, where they claimed a table over on the side beneath the shade of the tree. Miss Clara brought them glasses of lemonade, cool and tart, and kept refilling them to the brim.

  Rand watched as Kurt downed his third glass. “What do you remember about your papa, Kurt?”

  Kurt wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Mitch says Papa used to take us on picnics. Mama says my legs got tired and Papa had to carry me on his shoulders, but I think I walked. Like Mitch.”

  Rand leaned forward. “What else do you remember?”

  The boy studied the tabletop for a moment, as though it might hold the answer. “Mitch has a hat that Papa used to wear. Mama gave it to him. And sometimes Mama wears his old trousers beneath her skirt.” He grinned, but it was short-lived.

  Rand scooted his chair a little closer. “What do you remember about your papa, Kurt? Not something that Mitch remembers, or that your mother remembers. But something that’s all yours.”

  Kurt frowned. His lips pulled tight. And as hard as he seemed to try, he couldn’t hold back the tear that eked out the corner of his eye. He swiped it away, an all-too-familiar scowl darkening his face.

  His heart breaking, Rand grew more certain than ever about what troubled this little boy. “It’s not your fault that you don’t remember anything about your papa. You were too young, Kurt. It doesn’t mean you loved him less just because you can’t remember things about him.”

  “But Mama and Mitch . . . they both remember. They talk about him sometimes, and . . .”

  “And it makes you feel bad that you can’t remember the same stories.”

  Kurt’s brows pinched together. “Mama acts like I should remember. She’s even said I should. But I don’t.” A single, begrudging tear rolled down his cheek. “I can’t e-even remember what his face looked like.”

  Rand knelt before him. “Is that why you sometimes misbehave? Because you’re angry that you can’t remember? And maybe you’re even a little angry with your mama for making you feel as if you should?”

  Kurt studied him as though trying to gauge whether or not he was being tricked. Then he gave a little shrug, so reminiscent of his mother. Finally, he nodded and bowed his head.

  Rand urged his face back up. “Can I tell you something, Kurt? Something that I know for sure?”

  Kurt blinked, eyes wide and watchful.

  “I know for a fact that your mama loves you and that your papa loved you very much too. And your mama would never want you to feel bad for not remembering him. Just like your papa wouldn’t. Do you believe me?”

  Again, Kurt stared, then nodded, his little chin quivering before giving way to the tears he fought to hold back.

  Rand hugged him, and to his joy, Kurt’s arms came tight about his neck. “Let me tell you something else, son,” Rand whispered. “We’re going to make lots of new memories together. You and me, and your mama and Mitch.”

  Kurt drew back. “ ’Cuz you’re gonna be my new papa.”

  They’d talked about this before, so Rand knew he wasn’t asking a question. “Yes, I am. And I can hardly wait for us to go fishing and to catch bugs, and—”

  “And look at them under your microscope?”

  Rand tousled his red hair. “You bet we will. I give you my word on that.”

  After considering for a moment, Kurt nodded and dried his eyes with his sleeve.

  They finished their lemonade, and as they headed toward the store, their steps lighter, Rand saw Rachel coming up the street. Her bright expression said she’d already spotted them and—guessing by her smile—she had news of some kind. Apparently good news.

  “Mama, Doc Brookston and I had lemonade. At Miss Clara’s. Just us!”

  She brushed a kiss to his forehead, and Rand was pleased when Kurt didn’t pull away. Rachel shot him a secretive look saying she was too. “That’s wonderful. And I’ve got another treat. . . . Aunt Lyda’s waiting for you inside with Mitch. She has a cookie for you, if you’re still hungry.”

  “Cookies too?” Kurt ran on ahead.

  Rachel followed him with her gaze. “I take it you two had a good time together?”

  “Very. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but first give me your news.”

  She eyed him. “Who said I have news?”

  He gave her a droll look. “We may not be married quite yet, but I know when you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  “Oh, all right.” She smiled and pulled an envelope from her reticule. “Mr. Westin gave me this just a few minutes ago. It’s from the files of the Union Pacific Railroad. As he said, I think it explains a lot.”

  Rand opened it and read the letter. It took a moment for the information to sink in. “No wonder Charlie’s name sounded familiar to him. Have you shown this to Charlie yet?”

  She shook her head. “I wanted us to go together. I know he’s at the store right now. I just saw him.”

  “Let’s go, then. This kind of news can’t wait.”

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Did you have a chance to meet with Mr. Tolliver this morning?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  Rand smiled. “And you’re now looking at the former not-so-prestigious physician for the Colorado Hot Springs Resort.”

  Rachel squeezed his arm, grinning. “How did you finally manage that?”

  “It seems Brandon Tolliver is suffering from a severe sore throat and is in need of medical attention.”

  “And since you’re the only doctor within a fifty-seven-mile radius . . .”

  He grinned. “We’ll be operating on him next week.”

  She came to a halt. “No . . .” Humor laced her voice. “You’re kidding me.”

  He laughed. “I’m not. We’re performing our first tonsillectomy together. And the best thing is . . . Brandon Tolliver won’t be able to say a word for at least a week.”

  They found Charlie in the back room of the store, unloading a wagon. Rachel glanced at the storeroom as they passed, and remembered Ben. So much had happened since that day. . . . She pulled the envelope from her reticule and wondered, as she had when first reading its contents, if Ben was somehow assisting God in orchestrating this moment for Charlie Daggett. And for her too.

  “Miss Rachel.” Charlie hefted an oversized crate off his shoulder and onto the floor with a thud, then wiped the sweat from his brow. “Doc.” He nodded, glancing between the two of them. “If it’s medicine you’re here for, Doc—” He pointed. “It’s right here. Just unloaded it.”

  Rand ran a hand over the box. “Thanks, Charlie. But Rachel and I are here to speak with you about something else.” He motioned to some chairs outside the back door, where a cool breeze issued. “If you have the time.”

  Looking between them, curiosity evident, Charlie lumbered out the back door and claimed a chair. He reached into his coat pocket for something—Rachel could easily guess what—then glanced at her and seemed to think better of it.

  “Charlie,” she began softly, having discussed with Rand how best to approach the topic. “Do you remember the day when Edward Westin told you that he thought your name sounded familiar to him?”

  Fear crept into Charlie’s expression, just as Rand said it would.

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “I don’t know that man. And he don’t know me.”

  He started to rise, but Rachel took hold of his hand and urged him back down. “There’s a reason your name sounded familiar to him. It’s because he’d heard your name before. Many years ago. When he worked at the railroad.”

  “The same railroad you worked at, Charlie . . .” Rand
laid a gentle hand on Charlie’s arm. “Where you were employed as a brakeman . . . the night the accident happened.”

  Charlie’s breathing grew heavy. He looked first at Rachel, then at Rand. “H-he . . . told you?” His lips formed a thin, guilty line. “You know what I done?”

  Rachel withdrew the letter from the envelope. “Mr. Westin gave this to me just this morning. He wanted to speak to you himself about it, but thought it would be better coming from us.”

  Charlie glanced at the piece of paper, then bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve asked God a thousand times over to forgive me.” He stared at his hands. “But I know He can’t. Not after what happened. All those people . . . all those lives . . .”

  Rachel held out the letter. “You need to read this, Charlie. It will make things a lot clearer for you.”

  Charlie just stared ahead, as though seeing something she couldn’t. “Things are already clear enough, Miss Rachel. I remember every face. Every name. I still hear the sounds of the railroad cars plowin’ into each other.” His jaw tightened, but his mouth still trembled. “I carry that night around inside me. I always will. It’s my punishment.”

  Rachel started to urge the letter in front of him again, but Rand caught her eye.

  He shook his head and took the letter from her hand. “Would you permit me to read this to you, Charlie?”

  And then it struck her. . . . Rachel winced at her own thoughtlessness. Charlie Daggett didn’t know how to read. No wonder he’d never read about the account of events in the newspapers.

  “The letter’s addressed to you, Charlie. . . . To Mr. Charles Wesley Daggett. It’s dated November 26, 1868.”

  Charlie bowed his head as though about to receive a life sentence.

  “ ‘On behalf of the Union Pacific Railroad,’ ” Rand continued, “ ‘I wish to convey our deepest apologies and most sincere regrets over any anguish we have caused you since the railroad incident that occurred last fall.’ ”

  Charlie’s head stayed bowed, but Rachel sensed a keenness in his attention.

  “ ‘After a thorough investigation of the accident, we have concluded that the events leading to the accident on the night of December 15, 1867, were due in total to faulty equipment in the braking system, and not in any part, as was previously judged, to your personal error.’ ”