Within My Heart (31 page)

No arguing the fact—the Colorado Hot Springs Resort catered to the rich and privileged. She looked around the pristine clinic, all crisp and white, the shelves of bottles and tins bearing familiar names, the medical instruments with recognizable, but also slightly different, updated looks. And she couldn’t help but compare it all to the muck and mire of the ranch. She ran a finger over the work-worn calluses lining her palms.

Running a ranch wasn’t the life she would have chosen on her own, but it
was
the life she and Thomas had chosen together, and she was still determined to make a success of it. She just needed help figuring out how to do that, especially since she’d guaranteed Mr. Fossey that, come fall, she’d be caught up on her loan payments.

James and Molly, who were at the cabin with Mitch and Kurt today, had invited her and the boys over for lunch soon. James had inquired again about the ranch and she’d decided to run some ideas by him, see what he thought.

It seemed her cattle simply weren’t strong enough to make it through the bitter months of freezing temperatures. Sickness and cold were picking them off one by one, same as those on other ranches. Except the other ranches were larger, more profitable, and employed numerous ranch hands. They could absorb the losses far better than she could. Maybe James would have some ideas, but if he attempted to come to her rescue, she would simply be firm about wanting to handle things herself.

Rand checked on Ben several times throughout the afternoon, and each time she sensed concern in his guarded manner. Throughout the day, Lyda never left Ben’s side. She seemed to anticipate his needs before he could voice them.

A server from the restaurant delivered dinner at six o’clock sharp, and Rachel dined with Lyda and Ben in the patient recovery room, where the couple would stay for however long it took Ben to recuperate. She kept Rand’s plate covered as his appointments ran long. When Ben and Lyda decided to retire early, she checked Ben’s temperature again, watchful for the least sign of fever that often set in following surgery. But his temperature remained normal and the places on his back where Rand had inserted the needle showed no irritation.

Bidding them good night, Rachel closed the door to their room, then limped across the suite to the physician’s quarters. Exhausted, her leg aching, she sank into a chair and leaned her head back, watching through the window as the sun bathed the mountains in hues of gold and red. She smiled, knowing now why the sky turned those colors. She wondered if the boys were staring at the sunset too. She was eager to get home to them.

She yawned, closing her eyes. Charlie Daggett had agreed to escort her home but had indicated it could be after nine o’clock before his work at the resort was done. A few minutes rest would do her good, but only a few. . . .

24

R
achel awakened to lamplight and the soft scratch of fountain pen on paper. She stirred, seeing the world beyond the window now bathed in darkness, and not one but
four
oil lamps illuminating the physician’s quarters. The fountain pen went silent.

“Good evening,” Rand whispered, looking at her from the chair opposite hers, pen in hand. A journal of some sort rested on his thigh. “You looked so peaceful, I hated to wake you.”

Rachel smiled and sat up straighter, stretching. Napping was heavenly, and something unaccustomed. It gave her peace of mind to know the boys were with James and Molly until she returned home. Mitch and Kurt were loving the company, no doubt. She glanced at the number of lamps adorning the room again, remembering the night Rand had fallen asleep in her parlor, and how shaken he’d seemed when she found him outside on the porch.
“I wake up,”
he’d said,
“and can’t remember where I am. I get to feeling a little closed in
sometimes.”
She guessed the extra lamps made sense. By nature, Rand was a man who liked to be prepared. But still,
four
? She yawned, deciding not to comment. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Not long enough, I’d daresay.”

She laughed and smoothed the sides of her hair. “Is it that bad?”

His expression turned decidedly intimate. “Not at all. But I know you, Rachel Boyd. You never rest when there’s work to be done. You scrubbed the surgery room clean and put it to right, along with all the instruments and medicine. You wiped down every counter and table in sight. You made files for the patients I saw today.” He shook his head. “You even penned a list of the supplies we used for Ben’s surgery”—he pulled a loose sheet of paper from the journal—“so that I’d know what needs to be replaced.” He held her gaze. “You’re very thorough, which is a trait I admire. Very much.”

She probably should have been uncomfortable at his close attention. But strangely, she wasn’t. He’d noticed everything she’d done, down to the last detail, and it made her feel . . .
special
. Appreciated.

“Thank you,” she said, sensing their conversation was at a crossroad. Coaxing a carefree smile, she chose the less serious path. “Remind me never to try and sneak something by you, Dr. Brookston.”

“On the contrary, I wish you
would
.” A mischievous gleam lit his eyes. “You must know by now . . . I enjoy a challenge.”

Outwardly, she laughed off his playfulness. But inwardly, she felt herself softening toward him even more, despite knowing it would be safer if she didn’t. The look in his eyes, the subtle flirtation, made her pulse beat a little faster. He reached to the side, and only then did she notice the silver tea service on the table adjacent to them.

He poured a cup and handed it to her with a wink. “I have connections in the kitchen.”

She sipped, the fragrant steam wafting from the cup. Orange and cinnamon spice. Delicious. “Very
good
connections, I’d say.”

He stared at her for a moment, and she knew something was on his mind. She also knew it was late, they were both tired, and she needed to get home to the boys. Apparently Charlie Daggett hadn’t come by for her yet, so she had time. And something in Rand’s expression invited her to stay, which was exactly what she wanted to do.

She grew warmer by the second and blamed it on the tea. But glancing over the rim of her cup at the man seated across from her, she knew that wasn’t true. “The amount of fluid you extracted from Ben’s lungs,” she said, not so artfully steering the conversation away from the more personal. “I sensed that wasn’t what you were expecting. From that one side, anyway.” It remained to be seen if the right lung held as much.

The faint narrowing of his eyes hinted at Rand’s acknowledgment of what she was doing. He took a drink of tea. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped for, but it was what I suspected. The more fluid that collects in the pleural cavity, the graver the patient’s prognosis. We don’t know why the fluid collects.” He sighed as though the not knowing frustrated him. “But excessive fluid always portends the latter stages of a disease. Be it heart failure, or tuberculosis, or one of a hundred other illnesses for which the cause remains elusive.” He set down his cup, his gaze confined to the floor, his shoulders bearing that invisible weight she’d witnessed before. “There’s still so much we don’t understand. So much we still can’t do.”

She leaned forward in her chair in an effort to regain his attention. “But doctors are learning more every day, Rand. You said so yourself when we were preparing for Ben’s surgery.”

He didn’t respond.

“Take the typhoid outbreak, for example,” she said.

His gaze lifted.

“Eight people have come down with typhoid since the outbreak. Only
eight
! And no deaths so far. That’s unheard of. Shortly before you came to Timber Ridge, thirty-seven people died from typhoid in a town not far from Denver. But that kind of tragedy isn’t going to happen here . . . because of you. It’s the truth,” she said quickly, seeing him shake his head in disagreement. “The article you wrote for the newspaper, the instructions about what causes typhoid and what precautions to take to prevent contracting it . . .” She arched a brow, trying to draw a smile from him. “As Sir Francis Bacon once wrote, ‘Knowledge
is
power.’ ”

That earned her a laugh. Rand’s gaze moved over her face and turned serious. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “For what?”

“For being here now. With me.”

His bluntness caught her off guard. She knew full well what he was referring to, but she wasn’t ready for her heart to go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She took another sip of tea and sat straighter in her chair. “I’m glad I was here too. I’m grateful you asked me to assist you.”

His slow-coming smile said he saw through her ploy. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She bit her lower lip, resisting the overpowering urge to look away. “I know,” she whispered, her heart beating double time now. “But it’s what I need for you to mean.”

Understanding moved in behind his eyes, only managing to draw her closer to him, while also confusing her further. She suddenly empathized with how he sometimes felt closed in, and the openness of the room, the warm glow of lamplight, did nothing to calm her. On the contrary, it felt as if everything she was thinking and feeling—and fearing—lay fully exposed. “It’s getting late. I need to get home.” Yet she couldn’t move.

“Isn’t Charlie supposed to come by for you?”

She nodded, slowly coming undone inside. The vulnerability in his eyes wasn’t helping.

Rand stood, his movements measured and thoughtful, as if she were a doe that might bolt at any second. He knelt beside her chair. “Rachel . . .”

She shook her head, hearing the tenderness in his voice. She cared for him more than she should, more than she’d allowed herself to admit before this moment. But the thought of opening more of her life to him, of opening her heart, set something trembling deep inside her. She feared, once it started, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Please . . .”

She shook her head again. “I . . . I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” His hand covered hers clasped tightly in her lap, and gently, patiently, he wove his fingers, so warm and sure and purposeful, between hers. “You were looking at me easily enough just a minute ago.” His hand tightened around hers. “You’re shaking.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Rachel drew in a breath.

He turned her hand over and kissed her open palm—once, twice—and she forgot how to breathe. Didn’t he know what he was doing to her? Couldn’t he tell?

Gathering her wounded resolve, she finally did as he asked and looked at him—then wished she hadn’t. His unguarded desire roused her own, and the woman inside her ached for him. Not for a man, any man, but for
him
. And not only in the way of a woman with a man, but in the way that two halves made a whole, as God intended.

A shiver stole through her. She couldn’t do this again—risk giving herself to someone else only to lose them. She wouldn’t survive another—

He leaned forward, slowly enough that she could have turned her head away if she’d wanted to. But, God help her, she didn’t want to. He kissed her temple, her cheek, then the corner of her mouth, his breath warm and spicy like the tea, and Rachel felt the wall she’d carefully built to protect her heart melt in a puddle at her feet.

He stilled, his face so close to hers, his unspoken question filling the silence.

Measuring the cost of her answer, she drew back slightly. Disappointment shone in his eyes. But when she touched his face, and traced his lips, her hand still trembling, his disappointment faded and eager longing took its place.

He kissed her, feather soft at first, his lips a whisper of a promise against hers. He awakened desires she’d known were still there, but she had forgotten their raw strength. His stubbled jaw was rough against her skin, but she welcomed the maleness of his touch. A hunger dawned inside her and she drew him closer. His kiss tasted like cinnamon, his lips eager against hers, and when he deepened the kiss, their—

He suddenly pulled back.

She opened her eyes. It took her a second to focus, and when she saw his look of surprise, it struck her.
She’d
been the one to deepen the kiss, to pull him closer. She, the grieving widow who had worked so hard to keep him at arm’s length, and had made certain he knew it. Her face went hot. “I’m sorry,” she gasped.

He exhaled, smiling. “Please don’t say that, because I’m certainly not.” He cradled the side of her face. “It’s just that—”

She held up a hand, praying he wouldn’t say anything else. “I understand.” She stood, and he did likewise. “I should go.”

He reached out. “Rachel, please, let’s just talk for a—”

Out in the main room of the Health Suite, she grabbed her coat, careful not to make a noise that would awaken Ben and Lyda in the next room. Rand helped her with her coat, and she fumbled with the buttons in the dim light of an oil lamp on the far wall. Finally giving up, she grabbed her scarf and reticule.

Rand beat her to the door and placed his palm firmly against it. “Rachel,” he whispered, leaning close behind her. “Don’t run away like this.”

Hand on the latch, she bowed her head, tears coming fast.

He stroked her hair. “I’ve wanted that to happen for so long. I’ve dreamed about kissing you like that.” His laughter was soft. “I was just a little surpris—”

“I loved my husband.” She looked up at him. “I loved Thomas with all my heart.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, then drew her against his chest. She clung to him, holding on to him the way she used to hold on to Thomas.

Rand kissed the crown of her head. “I know you loved him. No one will ever question that, Rachel.
I
will never question that.”

“When he died,” she whispered, “I thought I would die with him.”

His arms tightened around her. “And if I’d been here, I would have done everything I could to save him.”

Eyes closed, she felt the hard lines of his body against hers. He felt so different from Thomas, yet she fit him perfectly, just as she had her husband.

A knock sounded on the door. She stiffened and Rand let go of her.