Within My Heart (32 page)

Guessing who it was, Rachel wiped her cheeks and gave the latch a turn. “Good evening, Mr. Daggett.” Her voice sounded almost normal.

Charlie tipped his hat. “I’m ready to go when you are, ma’am. I’ve got the wagon out front.”

She smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be right out.” Waiting until he’d walked on, she pushed the door almost closed again, then looked up. The right words wouldn’t come, and she had no time to search for them. She reached for Rand’s hand and held it in hers. “Thank you . . . for understanding. And for today. It meant more to me than you know.”

He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching again. “Ben was right,” he whispered. “As was Thomas. You have a gift, Rachel. And I’m honored to work alongside you, which we’ll need to do again as soon as Ben’s able. The remaining fluid needs to be extracted, but I’m thinking it’ll be at least two or three days before we can attempt that again. I’ll let you know.”

Riding home beside Charlie, who was unusually quiet, Rachel revisited the events of the day, prayed for Ben and Lyda, and considered what had happened with Rand. They’d crossed a line from friendship to something much more, and it would be hard—if not next to impossible—to go back again. Some lines, once crossed, were forever erased.

By the time she slipped into her gown and into bed, cradling the extra pillow against her chest, she knew going back wasn’t an option. Nor did she want to. Yet a part of her resisted and told her to shore up her heart, to keep it safe and protected.

She lay in the darkness, in the bed she’d shared with one man, and tried to imagine sharing it with another. Rand Brookston was so different from Thomas. And he was a doctor—gifted and intelligent, yet not at all like her father, as she’d first thought. It wasn’t a question anymore of whether she cared for Rand. Or whether she could someday grow to love him. The question wasn’t
could
she. But rather, would she allow herself to?

She closed her eyes, wondering if she already had. . . .

She drew the covers up tighter about her chin, staving off a shiver that came from somewhere deep inside. From nowhere, Mr. Fossey’s counsel returned.
“Have you considered the possibility
of remarriage? . . . If not in a match of the heart, then perhaps one
of friendship?”

She snuggled deeper beneath the covers, the well-intentioned counsel playing over and over in her mind. Remembering how Rand had held her, kissed her, how moved she’d been by him, she knew she could never again look upon him as simply a friend. And he’d made it quite clear he desired much more. Oh, how much safer and simpler a path this would be if it wasn’t a match of the heart. If she chose to say yes to him, then what of the ranch? What of her pledge to give the boys the life Thomas had wanted for them?

She willed sleep to come and silence the questions, yet they came. Why would she choose to risk her heart again knowing only too well the cost such a choice could demand from her?

For a second time.

25

H
ow long has your throat been hurting, Miss Stafford?” Rand retrieved a tongue depressor from a tin on his overcrowded medicine shelf, then a dentistry mirror from a nearby drawer.

“It started this morning. . . .” Situating herself on the patient table, the young teacher winced. “And it’s only gotten worse as the day’s gone on.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He bent slightly. “If you’ll open your mouth for me, please, I’ll take a look.”

“I didn’t see you at church yesterday, Doctor. I hope you weren’t ill?”

Rand straightened. “No, not at all. I was about to leave for services, in fact, when a patient stopped by. By the time we were through, church was already over.” He stole a glance at the clock on the wall.

He hadn’t seen Rachel since Saturday night at the resort, following Ben’s surgery. He’d planned on catching a few moments with her yesterday afternoon following church, but since that hadn’t happened, he’d hoped to see her in town today. Yet chances for that were growing slim as the day wore on. He wanted to speak with her about assisting him with the remainder of Ben’s procedure, tentatively set for the end of this week, given Ben was strong enough. Though Rand doubted that would be the case. The heart episode had weakened him considerably. Brandon Tolliver wasn’t pleased with the extension of Ben’s stay in the Health Suite, but that was the least of Rand’s concerns.

Rand motioned with the tongue depressor. “If you’ll open your mouth, Miss Stafford, I’ll take a quick look.”

She smiled. “It wasn’t anything serious, I hope.”

He blinked. “Beg your pardon?”

“The patient yesterday . . . I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

“Oh no. Just routine. Now”—he indicated with a nod—“if you’ll open your mouth, please.”

She licked her lips, tipped back her head, and did as he requested.

He slid the wooden depressor onto her tongue, then with the aid of the long-handled mirror, examined the back of her throat. “There doesn’t seem to be any redness or irritation.” He angled the mirror toward her tonsils. No irritation there either. He stepped back, instruments in hand. “Does it hurt when you swallow?”

She nodded. “Yes, on occasion.” As though to prove her point, she swallowed, grimacing as she did. Then she smoothed a hand over her bodice. “Are you planning on attending the spring festival?”

Rand looked back, beginning to doubt the veracity of the woman’s complaint of a sore throat. “Honestly, I hadn’t given it much thought. I couldn’t even tell you when it is.”

“June sixteenth,” she said quickly. “It was just announced in the paper this morning. It will be my first time to attend.” Her laugh sounded more like that of a schoolgirl than a teacher. “I’m going to bake the molasses cookies you like so much and enter them into the baking contest.”

Rand forced a smile. Already aware of Miss Stafford’s interest in him, he grew decidedly more skeptical of her motivation for stopping by the clinic. He would check for one more symptom, then would chalk this office visit up to a social call.

He glanced at the clock again, making sure she saw him this time. “I’ve got another appointment in town, but I’d like to check for swollen lymph nodes, just to be sure. If you’d unfasten just the top two buttons of your dress, please . . .” He tossed the tongue depressor into the trash pail and put the mirror aside to be washed, then rinsed his hands in the washbasin and turned back. “Sometimes, when there’s soreness in the—”

Miss Stafford’s shirtwaist lay open, far more than the requested two buttons, exposing a corset cinched so tightly it was a wonder the woman could breathe. A lace chemise stretched taut over her bosom, and the rise and fall of her chest was sharply exaggerated.

With effort, Rand kept his focus on her eyes, and nothing else. Yet her gaze told him little, her expression neither overly demure nor excessively bold. Debating, he quickly decided to err in favor of a misunderstanding, however much he doubted that probability.

He palpated the sides of her neck, then the underside of her throat, feeling for the least sign of swelling. But the only swelling he could find afflicting Miss Judith Stafford at the moment would be remedied if she would simply cut the ties on that corset.

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Miss Stafford, but I’m not finding any symptoms that cause concern. Since this just started this morning, let’s give it a week or so to clear up. In the meantime, I do have something that might help.” He turned away. “While you situate your clothing, I’ll get some tea leaves you can brew when the soreness is bothersome.”

Without waiting for her response, he walked to the bookshelf on the far wall, briefly glimpsing her profile in a mirror. With a petulant pout, she frowned and began buttoning her shirtwaist, removing all doubt from his mind as to her intentions.

Busying himself with
searching
for the tea, he waited an appropriate time before returning. “Here we are.” He placed the colored tin beside her on the table. “Brew two teaspoons with hot water. And you may take it as often as needed.” He offered his hand as she negotiated the footstool to the floor, then noticed her fingers.

She tugged her hand away.

He frowned. “I’m sorry, Miss Stafford, but did you—”

“It’s nothing.” She gathered her reticule and reached for the tea.

He’d only caught a glimpse, but her fingers looked discolored. Bruised perhaps? “Did you catch your hand in a door? If you’d like for me to look at—”

“It’s nothing like that.” Her cheeks flushed. “It’s . . .” Her lips firmed. “One of my students thought it amusing to paint my desk drawer pulls with ink this afternoon.” She yanked her sleeve farther down. “I
failed
to see the humor.”

Rand didn’t doubt that for a minute, seeing her annoyance. He worked at curbing a grin. “Rubbing alcohol does wonders in removing ink. But be sure and use lotion afterwards. The alcohol is very drying.”

A smile warmed her frustration. “Why, thank you, Dr. Brookston. That’s so kind of you to—”

A knock at the door interrupted them, and Rand couldn’t reach for the latch fast enough.

“Mr. Daggett!” Rand shook Charlie’s hand, discreetly pulling the man inside—no easy task. “What can I do for you?”

Charlie eyed him, then Miss Stafford. “I’m just makin’ deliveries.” He handed Rand an envelope. “I got somethin’ out in the wagon. It’s from Miss Rachel.”

“From
Rachel
?” Rand followed Charlie to the door. What would she be sending him?

Charlie spoke over his shoulder. “She said it’s her way of sayin’ thanks. Somethin’ about you lettin’ her help with the surgery and her thankin’ you for it. I’m guessin’ it’s all in the note there.”

Rand spotted something large and rectangular in the wagon bed, wrapped in a blanket. He smiled, thinking again of the moment he and Rachel had shared in the—

Then he felt it—the heat of Miss Stafford’s attention. He hadn’t forgotten she was there. Not exactly, anyway. He’d simply been distracted. Hurt lined Judith Stafford’s face, her focus on the envelope in his hand.

Stepping back inside, he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. “My apologies, Miss Stafford.” He sensed she was awaiting further explanation but felt no compulsion to offer such. “I do hope you get to feeling better very soon.”

The hurt in her eyes slowly melted away. A cool, flat stare took its place. She walked past him to the door, looked out at the wagon, then back at him. “How fortunate that Mrs. Boyd, or
Rachel
. . . has such a love for medicine, and that you hold her in such high regard.” A smile tipped her mouth but didn’t alter the displeasure in her eyes. “However, I can’t help but wonder”—she stepped past him onto the boardwalk—“if perhaps her time might be more wisely spent at home, disciplining her younger son.”

Miss Stafford cut a path across the street and disappeared around the corner, leaving Rand staring.

He thought of Kurt, then of Miss Stafford’s desk drawer pulls, and saw the prank playing out all too clearly in his mind.
That
boy . . .
Remembering what it was like to be Kurt’s age and how tempting it was to do anything that might draw a laugh, he almost smiled. Yet he couldn’t. Not while knowing that Rachel would see nothing amusing about her son’s latest antic, and not while he himself had a growing concern over Kurt’s misbehavior.

“Hey, Doc, could you grab the other end of this?”

Rand blinked and glanced back at the wagon, and couldn’t believe his eyes.
Rachel Boyd . . . you sweet woman.

Rand dismounted, already hearing the laughter and conversation coming through an open window. He checked his pocket watch again and winced. He was more than an hour late, and he knew how Rachel felt about his not showing up on time. They’d probably finished lunch by now—and he was famished. He looped the mare’s reins over the rail and took the stairs by twos up to James and Molly McPherson’s front porch.

The first week of May had delivered on its promise of spring, and he loosened his tie a little at the collar before knocking. When James had invited him for Sunday lunch a few days ago, he’d added, with a telling grin, that Rachel and the boys would be present. Rand appreciated being included in the family gathering, but more than anything, he was eager to be in Rachel’s company again and to thank her for her gift.

Their paths still hadn’t crossed in town, and it had been over a week now. He’d delayed the reprisal of Ben’s surgery until the coming week, pleased with Ben’s progress but not wanting to push things. He’d kept expecting—hoping—to see Rachel in town or when she’d visited Ben and Lyda at the resort, but they always seemed to have just missed each other.

He wondered now whether coincidence had dictated that, or if perhaps Rachel had helped it along.

She’d been uncomfortable after they’d kissed—that was evident.
“I loved my husband.”
That was an admission he would never doubt, and always cherish. It told him so much about her, about the woman she was. For so long, he’d admired her from afar, and now to think that she cared for him . . .

If she
was
avoiding him, for whatever reason, he planned on putting an end to that today.