Within My Heart (4 page)

The proprietress huffed, trailing him down the hallway. “Three weeks! That’s absurd! Out of the question! Do you have any idea how much money I’ll lose if she doesn’t—”

“Patricia is ill and
highly
contagious to her clients. As you, no doubt, are already aware.” Rand turned at the door and watched Miss Bailey’s already ruddy complexion turning an even deeper crimson. “Should you choose to ignore my advice, madam, I’ll visit every saloon and gaming hall in this town and will let the men know—in detail—what they can expect to get if they visit Patricia before that three weeks is up. Or perhaps you’d prefer a total quarantine?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Get out,” she whispered. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

Rand obliged her request and strode to the wagon. “This is exactly what we agreed upon, Miss Bailey,” he called back, stowing his medical bag beneath the seat. “I’m seeing to the health of these women and to the welfare of Timber Ridge. If you don’t like it—take it up with Sheriff McPherson.” He couldn’t help his thigh brushing against Rachel’s when he settled beside her on the narrow bench seat. He also didn’t miss how she attempted to put space between them, trying unsuccessfully to remedy that.

A flick of the reins and the mare responded. The buckboard started forward with a jolt. “Was Mr. Mullins conscious when you left him?”

Rachel shook her head. “No.”

“How would you classify Mr. Mullins’s pulse when you checked it?” Based on their brief interactions prior to today, he was certain she would be able to answer the question.

“Faint, and erratic. All signs of arrhythmia are present. Either that”—she grimaced—“or heart failure.”

Feeling precious time slip past, Rand urged the mare to a faster trot.

Reins taut, he took the next corner more sharply than usual, grateful the side street was empty. “Did you think to tell Mrs. Mullins not to move her husband? In the event of a weakened heart muscle, keeping the patient immobilized is of vital importance due to—”

“The likelihood of increased trauma should the patient be moved.” She tossed him a sideways glance. “
Yes
, Dr. Brookston, I gave Lyda Mullins that instruction. It also occurred to me to tell her to keep her husband’s head elevated, which aids the body’s circulation, especially when the heart is under stress.”

Wordless, Rand faced forward again, feeling very much put in his place. “My apologies, Mrs. Boyd, if it sounded as though I were insinuating that you—”

“No offense was taken, Doctor. After all”—her lips curved in a tight smile—“I’m not a trained physician . . . as are you.” She spoke the words nicely enough, her Southern accent sweet as honey, but her clenched jawline hinted at her truer feelings.

His male intuition, however deficient and untried when it came to the female gender, told him it was best to leave her statement untouched. Yet—he’d made a misstep somewhere, a serious one, and he wanted to remedy it. “Please let me assure you, Mrs. Boyd, that I regret my presence at the brothel today as much as you do.”

She turned and looked up at him, her expression one of surprise. And disappointment.

“Though not for the reason you might think. My being there today was purely of a medical nature, however much it might have appeared otherwise. I regret that you had to come looking for me. And
there
, of all places.”

Her features softened. For a brief instant. Then her polite but distant poise returned.

Years of medical instruction and clinical practice had prepared him for the challenges of being a doctor, specifically in the sciences related to the female body and reproduction. But the ability to decipher the workings of a woman’s mind . . . He sighed to himself.
That
science remained a mystery.

Yet one thing was indisputable. Any hope he’d entertained of gaining Rachel Boyd’s interest—especially after today—was futile.

The Mullinses’ store came into view, and he narrowed his thoughts and began praying, as he always did, first for his waiting patient, then for himself.
Lord, give me wisdom and discernment . . .
and the courage to act.

He brought the buckboard to a stop and jumped out, not surprised when Rachel didn’t wait for his assistance. He heard her close behind him as he took the stairs leading up to the boardwalk.

Patrons milled about inside the store. A small group of them gathered by the curtain leading to the storerooms in the back, whispering among themselves. They dispersed when they saw him approaching. Rand paused and turned back to Rachel. “If you could—”

“Take care of things out here, Doctor.” She nodded. “Then I’ll join you in the back shortly.”

“You read my mind, Mrs. Boyd. Thank you.” He welcomed her assistance. Last December, she’d aided him in an emergency delivery and surprised him by proving to be a skilled surgical assistant. He was grateful for her medical knowledge. Not missing how intent she seemed on looking anywhere but at him, Rand slipped through the curtained doorway, mindful of prying eyes.

“Mrs. Mullins?”

“We’re . . . back here,” came a weak voice.

He rounded the corner to see Lyda nestled beside her husband on the floor of a storage closet. Tears streaked her face, and as Rand searched for signs of life in the pallor of Ben’s face, his own chest squeezed tight.

He removed his coat and knelt beside them in the cramped quarters, pulling his stethoscope from his bag. “Rest assured, Mrs. Mullins . . .” He unbuttoned Ben’s shirt. “I’m going to do everything within my ability to help your husband.” He pressed the bell-shaped chest piece over the older gentleman’s heart.

Nodding, Lyda sat upright and wiped her cheeks.

“Has he been unconscious since he first collapsed?”

“Yes.” She sniffed. “But at least I can feel him breathing now. For a while there I wondered if he was going to—” A shudder completed her unfinished thought.

Rand adjusted the ivory earpieces and listened, careful to keep his expression smooth and unreadable. Rachel’s assessment had been accurate.
Faint
and
erratic
aptly described the storekeeper’s pulse.

He moved the stethoscope, listening to the distant thud echoing faintly in his ears before moving the instrument again. With aid of his pocket watch, he timed the intervals between the irregular half beats slipping in and around the already stuttered rhythm, wishing Mrs. Boyd were there to help him. “To your knowledge, has your husband experienced any light-headedness in recent days? Or pain in his chest?”

“No.” She stared at Ben, her lips a tremulous line. “At least he never said anything to me about it.” She cradled the side of her husband’s face. “But Ben has never been a complainer.”

Rand gently probed Ben’s abdomen, then reached down and pulled up one of his patient’s pant legs. “What about any swelling in his legs or ankles?” He saw the answer to his question before Lyda Mullins opened her mouth.

“Ben had me draw him another warm salt bath one night last week.” She took an unsteady breath. “His ankles were swelling up again something awful. Another shipment, a big one, came in for the grand opening of the new resort next month. Charlie Daggett was working out at Rachel Boyd’s ranch for the afternoon, so Ben unloaded it by himself. I told him to wait for Mr. Daggett to come the next morning, but he wouldn’t.” She shook her head. “Ben said Mr. Tolliver needed it right away.”

Mention of Tolliver and the new Colorado Hot Springs Resort reminded Rand about Brandon Tolliver’s “urgent” request to meet with him. Rand had found the note—the second in as many days— nailed to his clinic door when he’d returned home last evening. He had no idea what Tolliver wanted, but since no reference of a medical nature was mentioned, he’d laid the note aside, in no hurry to meet with the man. His general rule of thumb was to remain neutral about folks he didn’t know well enough yet, but Brandon Tolliver seemed bent on testing that long-held principle.

With a sigh, Lyda brushed back a lock of her husband’s thinning hair. “Later that night Ben said something about how the two of us were getting older, and we laughed.” With a weak smile, she looked up, her eyes full of question—and dread.

Rand managed what he hoped was a reassuring look, then leaned down. “Mr. Mullins?” He waited. “Mr. Mullins . . . can you hear me, sir?” Watching for any response, Rand reached for his bag and felt around inside. He’d put a pouch of digitalis in there two days ago, just before he—

Mrs. Willets.
He winced.

He’d given the last of the medicine to Loretta Willets yesterday morning when she’d complained of palpitations and shortness of breath. Over a month ago he’d ordered more, but it still hadn’t arrived. Ben Mullins would need that medication when he came to.

Rand stifled a groan, angry at himself for not being better prepared and frustrated over how long it took to get supplies freighted up the mountain. The country had a railroad connecting east to west, but it still took an eternity to get medicine delivered to Timber Ridge. As soon as Rachel Boyd joined them—where in heaven’s name was she?—he would send her to his office with instructions to check this morning’s—

“Dr. Brookston, is something wrong?”

Concern in Lyda’s voice drew him back, and Rand saw his own fear and frustration reflected in her expression. With effort, he worked to smooth the tension from his brow and his tone. “No, ma’am,” he said softly. “I’m simply . . . ascertaining your husband’s condition.”

She nodded, not looking convinced.

He inched the stethoscope higher, toward the upper chamber of Ben’s heart, resolving to keep his emotions better contained. Not that he desired to appear perfect or as if he had all the answers, but wavering on a decision, showing signs of hesitation or uncertainty, could undermine his relationship with a patient, which could potentially sway them from following his advice. Which could cost lives.

He adjusted the earpieces again to filter out extraneous noise and worked his way downward, listening to Ben’s lungs. What he heard settled like a weight inside his own chest.

He’d never seen Ben Mullins as a patient, but he remembered Ben complaining of indigestion in recent weeks. Twice he’d encouraged the man to come see him about it, but Ben had laughed in that easy manner of his and attributed the tightening in his chest to too much fried chicken.

Using his sleeve, Rand wiped the sweat beading his brow. He hadn’t said anything further to Mr. Mullins at the time, not wanting to force the issue—or his services, if they weren’t desired. But perhaps if he had, he could’ve diagnosed Ben’s heart condition before it reached such an acute stage.

Rand considered the possible diagnoses and swiftly settled on one, his decision made easier, painfully so, by the telling
whoosh
coming through the stethoscope. His responsibility as physician to the people of this town—and to this good man lying on the floor before him—bore down hard.

For two years he’d lived and worked in Timber Ridge, yet he had failed to build what he would term a “respectable practice.” Oh, he’d treated scores of people since arriving, had delivered babies. And with the construction of the new resort and with mining operations close by, there was no end to suturing gashes, binding wounds, and setting bones. Thanks to Sheriff McPherson’s assistance, he’d even managed to gain the town council’s support to conduct fitness examinations on the schoolchildren last fall. But he still felt as if people didn’t completely trust him as a doctor, that they didn’t see the importance of being under a doctor’s care.

They’d accepted him into their town, made him feel welcome enough. But for the most part, they only called on him when they were either bleeding to death or knocking on death’s door. Like now. There was so much he wanted to teach these fine people about living a healthier life. So much illness that could be prevented if folks would only listen to—

Rand went absolutely still inside, realizing that the weakened heartbeat thudding faintly in his ears only a second ago had done the same.

His own heart fisted tight.

He repositioned the stethoscope, searching for a pulse, straining to hear something. Anything. A hundred possibilities flew through his mind as he pressed his fingers against the underside of Ben’s jaw.

No, God . . . Please don’t do this to me. Not again . . .

Knowing what he had to do, yet never having done it himself, Rand felt his insides knot up. Hands trembling, he made a fist and positioned it directly over Ben Mullins’s heart, remembering the first time he’d seen a colleague perform this procedure.
Barbaric
was the word that had come to mind then.

He raised his arm.

Lyda gasped. “What are you do—”

Rand brought his fist down directly over Ben’s heart.

“No! Dr. Brookston, don’t!” Lyda cried.

She tried to block his efforts, but Rand caught hold of her wrists. “Mrs. Mullins, your husband’s heart has stopped. If I don’t do something, he’s going to die!” Saying the words made it even more real, and fear threatened to paralyze his confidence as deeply buried memories clawed their way to the surface.

Suddenly all he could see was Marietta’s face.

Her lithe form on the table before him, her crying in soft guttural moans, reaching out to him with one hand while cradling her swollen belly with the other. Remorse stung his eyes as he pictured his sister’s sweet face, and that of her child.

He let go of Lyda Mullins, his choices clear. He had no idea whether what he was attempting would save Ben Mullins’s life or not. The procedure certainly wasn’t without risk, nor was it without its naysayers. But doing nothing would seal Ben’s fate without question. Sometimes taking a risk was the best choice.

And sometimes it was the only choice.

“Mrs. Mullins, I can restart your husband’s heart. I know I can. But you’re going to have to let me do this. You’re going to have to trust me.”

Her face drained of color. “All right,” she whispered, voice thin as a reed.

Rand checked again for a heartbeat. Finding none, he rose up on his knees beside Ben. He fit his hands one atop the other over the sternum, straining to recall exactly how he’d seen this demonstrated two years earlier.