Beyond This Moment (28 page)

She drifted on a wave, only to awaken sometime later, a voice calling to her from far, far away.

21

r. Whitcomb ... with you now. Can you-" I

Molly blinked. The voice, broken and fragmented, floated toward her in a fog. She tried to keep her eyes open and couldn't. Fire had replaced the ice in her veins and something mercifully cool touched her forehead.

"It's Dr. Brookston, and I need you to ... if you can ... to respond:"

The thud of her heartbeat pulsed hot in the tips of her fingers and in the bottoms of her feet. "Yes;' she finally managed. "I ... hear you:' But why did he sound so far away?

A cool rush of air swept over her body. She sat up, but not of her own volition. She felt herself being lifted, then carried. Her head bounced with each step, growing heavy. When she couldn't hold it up any longer, she let her chin slump forward on her chest. If only he would let her sleep. She was so tired. She just needed to sleep.

"Dr. Whitcomb, this is not going to be pleasant. But, I assure you, it's necessary."

He was carrying her. But to where?

Her answer came when icy cold water hit her body. She sucked in a breath. Her eyes flew open. Dr. Brookston still held her, but they were standing in the middle of the stream! What was the man think-

The water suddenly rose to chin level, and she tightened her hold around his neck as a million tiny pins pierced her all at once. She shivered, her teeth chattering.

"Your fever spiked, Dr. Whitcomb:" He rose to his full height, taking her with him, and she felt the muscles in his arms tightening. "I checked your temperature one minute ... it was fine. The next, you were burning up. Now, hold still:'

He went down a second time, and again the pins stuck everywhere the water hit. She opened her mouth to say something and water splashed in. But she welcomed the cold against her throat.

She lost count of how many times Dr. Brookston repeated the dunking. She knew how to swim, but if he had let go of her, she would drown. Her arms and legs felt as if they were tethered to weights that would drag her under. She wasn't certain she could even stand.

Finally, he started toward the shore, and as the waters receded, Molly became conscious of her wet gown. As a physician, the man was no doubt accustomed to seeing ... certain things. But doctor or no doctor, she still laid an arm across her chest and was glad when the cabin came into view.

"Thank you ... I think, Dr. Brookston;' she whispered, shivering again.

"You're welcome, Dr. Whitcomb:" A smile warmed his voice. "The sheriff tracked me down, and I came right away. He had an emergency in town but said he'd be here as soon as possible:" He opened the door and carried her inside. "You were sleeping when I arrived. You still had a fever, but it wasn't high. I went to get fresh water for compresses, and when I came back, you were having a seizure:" He set her down by the side of the bed. "It was a febrile seizure, one relatively common with high fevers. But still ... you gave me a good scare:"

"Then I'd call us even" She returned his smile and glanced down at her gown.

"Where do you keep your nightclothes, ma'am?"

She gestured. "In the third drawer there."

He withdrew her a gown and laid it on the bed. "Can you manage this on your own?"

Molly nodded, uncertain whether she could or not but determined to die trying.

"I'll be outside. Call me when you're ready for me to come back in"

As soon as the door closed, she unbuttoned the first few buttons and pulled the wet gown over her head. It landed in a puddle on the floor. Her skin was like gooseflesh, all prickly and raised. She reached for a blanket crumpled at the foot of the bed and rubbed it over her arms and legs, then squeezed the excess moisture from her hair.

Looking down at her body, she paused.

The slight mound in her belly was noticeable, but only at this stage of undress. It fit perfectly beneath the palm of her hand, and if she didn't know better, she would have thought she'd simply gained a little weight. She would be able to conceal her condition for a few more weeks. But the dress she'd borrowed from Rachel was plenty snug, as was her own black gown. She would need to address that issue soon enough.

Along with others ...

She slipped the fresh gown over her head and began buttoning the front. Dr. Brookston would be able to answer many, if not all, of her questions about the coming months-the progression of the baby's growth, the changes in her own body, what to expect as the time of birth drew near. But could she trust him to keep a confidence? She needed to tell the town council, and she would. In time. First, she had to prove her worth as a teacher. And heaven knew, the past week hadn't been testament to that.

No, now wasn't the time to tell anyone yet. If she started having problems, such as bleeding or discomfort, she would confide in the doctor. But not yet.

A knock sounded on the door. "Are you all right, Dr. Whitcomb?"

"Yes. I'm nearly done." Shivering, she slipped the final button through its paired hole and crawled back in bed, welcoming the chance to lie down again. "Come in:"

Dr. Brookston entered with his black bag and claimed the same chair James had sat in earlier. The doctor had a decidedly different manner about him than James. It wasn't anything she could put into words, but if she'd seen photographs of each man sitting in that chair, even not having met them and even if they'd been identically dressed, she would've known which was the doctor and which was the sheriff.

Rand Brookston was about James's age, and hers, she guessed-and handsome. Dark-haired with chiseled, almost aristocratic features, he was considerably younger than any physician who had tended her. His youth wasn't a cause for discomfort, however. He exuded a confidence coupled with an approachability that made a person almost instantly at ease in his presence. His bedside manner resembled that of a dear family friend more than a studied medical professional.

Brookston felt her forehead, then her cheeks. "Considerably cooler" He nodded. "Very good. How are you feeling?" He reached for his bag and withdrew a stethoscope.

"Weak and tired, but better than before:" Simply being in bed again encouraged her eyes to close, but her feet ... Her feet were freezing again.

Dr. Brookston leaned close. "I'd like to ascertain the strength of your heart and lungs:"

She nodded, and he unbuttoned the first few buttons on her gown.

Only then did Molly notice the scar on the lower left side of his neck. Long healed, the gash appeared to have been deep, telling from the pucker of gathered skin, which disappeared behind his collar.

"Have you ever taken laudanum, Dr. Whitcomb?"

"Yes, sir. When I was younger I took it for headaches:"

"Headaches?"

"I read a great deal as a child. Our doctor said the headaches were due to"-she remembered the physician's explanation verbatim-"the overexertion of my eyes, and the strain to my delicate female acumen due to excessive inculcation:'

Dr. Brookston laughed. "Sounds like one of my old medical school professors. He was forever referring to the female gender as the weaker sex. And unfortunately, he meant it in every way." He moved the stethoscope to various places on her chest, listening. "When, in my experience;' he said, his eyes narrowing the slightest bit, "I've found quite the opposite to be true:"

"Where did you attend school, Doctor?"

"The College of Physicians in Philadelphia."

She raised a brow. "Impressive:" Anyone in her circle who attended school in the North was either from a wealthy family-wealthy before the war, anyway-or was a person of considerable intelligence. Or both. Looking at Rand Brookston, she guessed he was both.

His suit was tailor-made, expensive-looking, but his frayed collar and the worn seams of his dark trousers revealed another chapter in his story. If he had been born into a life of privilege, that wealth had parted ways with him some time ago.

"Impressive hardly describes me, ma'am. However, you, Dr. Molly Whitcomb"-he said it with a dash of Southern formality that made her smile-"are most impressive. Both on paper and in person. Or perhaps I should say `in the paper. " He pulled down the bottom lid of each of her eyes and peered close. "Mrs. Elizabeth Ranslett included a very nice article about you before you arrived."

"Yes, I've heard about that, but I have yet to see it:" Rachel said James had saved it for her. She would remember to ask him. A wave of fatigue hit her, and she looked forward to going back to sleep.

Dr. Brookston laid aside his stethoscope and gently probed her throat, then moved to the sides of her neck. "Have you experienced any vomiting?"

"No. It all started with a tickle in my throat earlier this week. I had a headache, then the sneezing started, and the sore throat and fever:"

"And I assume you pushed on through, hoping it would go away?"

She heard the gentle reprimand in his voice and nodded.

"Have you been drinking plenty of fluids?"

"Hot tea earlier in the week, then mostly water:"

"And your appetite?"

"I've been hungry but ... I haven't felt well enough to get out of bed to fix anything. Sheriff McPherson brought me a piece of apple pie earlier, and I ate that."

"From Mrs. Spivey?"

She smiled. No matter this town's growth, Timber Ridge was still a small community. "Yes, and it was delicious:"

"Best I've ever had:" He gave a playful wince and glanced upward. "Let's just hope my dear mother's not listening, God rest her soul:"

Molly laughed, liking the man more and more.

He finished his examination and eased back into the chair beside the bed. "So, Dr. Whitcomb ... are there any medical conditions you need to tell me about, ma'am?"

Thinking she detected a certain tone in his voice, Molly searched his face but found nothing revealing in his expression. She smoothed a hand over the top of the blanket and vowed not to lie. "Let's see ... I'm thirty-one years old. I broke my arm when I was twelve, climbing a tree, trying to keep up with the boys in my neighborhood. But other than that, I've been quite healthy all my life. And I haven't ever had this bad of a cold before:'

Dr. Brookston's gaze remained steady, compassionate. He leaned forward. "This is more than simply a cold, Dr. Whitcomb. It's a strain of virus, similar to influenza but, thankfully, without the intestinal ravages on the body. Healing is usually much quicker." He looked down at his hands. "Unfortunately, there can be ... consequences to a fever as high as yours was.

It felt as if the world began to spin a little slower.

Molly knew she wasn't imagining the tone in his voice this time. Nor the concern in his gaze. "W-what kind of consequences are we speaking about?"

He covered her hand on the blanket. She knew he intended it to be a comforting gesture, but it had the exact opposite effect on her. And a split second before he spoke, she read the truth in his eyes.

"What concerns me most, Dr. Whitcomb ... is the child you're carrying. And how this fever may have affected him or her."

22

oily stared up at Dr. Brookston, a hundred questions blurring her mind. How did he know? Would he keep her secret? Would he feel compelled to tell the town council? But only one question was of utmost concern at the moment. "How might this fever have affected my baby?"

He kept his hand atop hers on the blanket. "First of all, let me reiterate that I said may have affected your baby, Dr. Whitcomb. Remember, just because a fever can cause problems doesn't mean that it will:" His sigh hinted at frustration. "Unfortunately, there's still much we don't know about the development of a child inside a mother's womb. What we do know is that there is a direct correlation between the mother's health and the child's:"

"Meaning that my baby suffered the same high temperature that I did?"

He shook his head. "Not as direct as that, necessarily. God's design in a woman giving birth to a child is nothing short of a miracle:" Subtle awe swept his face. "Studies have proven that there seem to be ... safeguards in place. A mother will suffer the effects of say ... a certain medicine or even poison, and yet the child within her remains unharmed. Then there are other instances when a mother carries her child for the full term with no complications whatsoever-no illnesses, no fevers-and yet the child is born with certain ... challenges."