Within My Heart (41 page)

He exhaled, weary, his eyes burning from too little sleep. Snow was still falling at a steady rate, and the night was frigid. He couldn’t seem to shake this chill.

He raked a hand over his face and crossed to the hearth, thinking of Ben and how brave a man he was, right until the very end. Which had come faster—mercifully so, one might argue—than any of them had expected.

Emotion tightened his throat, as it had at unexpected intervals throughout the day. Had he done everything he could for Ben? And to the best of his ability? The questions played over and over.

And again and again, the answer came back . . . yes.

He arched his back, stretching the tight muscles and reliving those last moments.

The chest pains that started without warning, Ben’s heart rate escalating at an unnatural pace, the odd syncopated rhythms of his pulse. Rand closed his eyes. Witnessing the final moments of Ben’s life, with Lyda by her husband’s bedside, hearing their whispered
I love you
s, reminded him yet again of how precious time was and how quickly life passed.

“Rand . . .”

He looked up to see Rachel coming from the hallway.

“I’m glad you’re back.” Her smile faded slightly. “You look so tired.”

Wishing he could cross the room and take her in his arms and hold her, just hold her, for a little while—or better, all night long—he drank in the sight of her instead. How quickly he’d grown accustomed to having her in his life, however impermanent the arrangement at present. Something he hoped to change.

“You’ve been busy.” He glanced around the room. “Thank you for all you’ve done.” He held her gaze, hoping she knew he was referring to more than just her cleaning.

Her expression warmed. “You’re welcome. How is Lyda? And Elizabeth? Daniel said she’d fainted.”

“Lyda’s doing all right. I gave her something to help her sleep. And Elizabeth’s fine.” He stretched, his neck muscles tight. “She’s suffering from anemia.”

“Low iron.”

He nodded. “Brought on by pregnancy. It’s not serious, but it does mean I’ll need to keep a closer eye on her during her remaining time. Lyda’s invited the Ransletts to stay in her and Ben’s home as long as they need to. They’re staying with her at the store tonight. Lyda says she prefers to live there in the upstairs room rather than going home. At least for now.”

Rachel nodded, understanding.

“Has Mr. Carnes come by yet?”

She shook her head, and he proceeded to take off his coat, knowing he still had a job to do before the undertaker arrived.

“Everything’s taken care of, Rand,” she said softly. “James came by earlier. . . . He helped me.”

Rand knew it was probably a combination of fatigue and overwork, but his throat tightened with emotion. “You’re really special— you know that?” Her mouth tipped the slightest bit as she looked away. If he was reading her right, and he’d grown fairly adept at that, she was uncomfortable beneath the praise. “Is there anything else I need to do before Carnes arrives?”

She shook her head and picked up a lamp, motioning for him to follow. “I told Lyda I’d stop by and get her in the morning, for the funeral.” She glanced back. “She’s asked James to do the service.”

Rand traced her steps down the dimly lit corridor to the storeroom. She opened the door and a cool rush of moist air hit him in the face. The wick of the oil lamp sputtered and teased, and the threat of darkness stopped him cold. Threadbare nerves went taut inside him and a light sweat broke out on his skin. His pulse kicked up a notch.

The flame flickered and struggled to full flame again—and Rand resumed breathing.

Rachel raised the lamp high. “Looks like it’s about out of oil. But that’s not a problem.” She smiled softly. “You have enough oil stored up to light the entire town of Timber Ridge.”

Rand was too focused on breathing to respond.

She preceded him into the room. “I pressed his suit and tie. It looks real nice, but I’ll always picture him in that apron he used to wear. Lyda asked me to bury this with him.” She held up a tiny pouch. Rand recognized it. Ben had shown it to him. “It belonged to their son. It was Andrew’s—” She turned back. “Rand . . . is something wrong?”

Still standing in the hallway, he cleared his throat. “No . . .” His hands trembled. “Nothing’s wrong.” He would not do this again in front of her, lose control like he had that night at her cabin. The very thought that he might brought a rush of anger.

Trying not to focus on the nearly empty lamp in her grip, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was beside her, and then he looked down at Ben.

The lamplight was dim and the warm glow forgiving, but if he hadn’t known better he might have thought Ben could awaken at any second.

A scene flashed in his mind, lightning quick and just as blinding. He heard the thud of Jessup Collum’s shovel again and felt the wooden walls of the pine box pressing in. Closer, closer. He blinked, trying to dispel the image and his fears, knowing both were irrational.

He wasn’t in the grave any longer. He was in the storeroom. With Rachel. And Ben was gone—he wasn’t going to wake up. He’d held Ben’s hand, felt the life drain away. He’d checked for a pulse, at least twenty times, just to be sure.

He heard Rachel’s voice beside him, but his senses were honed in on the memory that had haunted him for the past twelve years, that had all but controlled him every time darkness fell.

A touch on his arm jolted him.

Rachel peered up, concern narrowing her eyes. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

He pulled away.
Oh, God, when will I conquer this? Will I ever?
“I’m fine!” His voice came out harsh, unrelenting, and he knew he deserved the bewildered look she gave him.

A distant knock sounded.

Rachel glanced down the hallway. “I’m guessing that’s Mr. Carnes.” Her voice was cool, and with good reason.

He followed her—and the light—down the corridor, but stopped her in the front room, hoping his voice was steadier than his nerves. “I th-think it would be best if I kept Ben’s body here for the night.”

She stared, her confusion evident. “But . . .” A discomfited look passed over her features. “Everything’s done, Rand. Why would you—”

A second knock sounded.

She glanced at the door, then back at him. “I don’t understand what just happened in there. Why you suddenly—”

“I’ll explain,” he said quickly, his temples throbbing. His fears were illogical, without foundation, yet he couldn’t defy them. “Just let me handle this.”

Questions weighted her expression, but it was the doubt in her eyes he found most cutting.

“Please, Rachel,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

When she didn’t object, he opened the door and winter barged in. He gestured for Mr. Carnes and another man Rand knew by sight but not by name to step inside. Before he closed the door, he glimpsed the wagon pulled up along the boardwalk, a simple oblong pine box in the back.

Carnes shook the snow from his sleeves. “You ready for us, Doc?”

“Actually . . .” Rand shook his head, wishing they could have spoken outside, where Rachel couldn’t hear. “I’m
not
. I’m sorry for the confusion, but I just got back here a few minutes ago. It’s been a long day, and I still have some details to take care of. . . . I need to make final notations regarding Mr. Mullins’s case.” He looked at Carnes as though the man should know what he was referring to.

It took a second, but Carnes slowly nodded and leaned closer. “Does this have something to do with that surgery you did?”

Rand hesitated. “Something like that, yes.”

“Good enough, then.” Carnes reached for the door. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

They left, and Rand turned to find Rachel standing exactly where he’d left her.

Skepticism lined her face. “What
details
are left?” she asked softly.

He took a step toward her, and though she didn’t move an inch, he felt her retreat.

34

T
here
are
no details left, Rachel.” Rand looked down, uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, but even more with his own deceit. “I just said that so Carnes would leave.”

“But . . . I don’t understand. You’re the one who asked him to come. What made you change your mind? And why did you lie?”

“I didn’t change my mind. Not exactly. But I did lie. . . . And I’m sorry.” He sighed, knowing there was no excuse. “I . . . panicked.”

“Yes, I saw that. I’m still waiting to understand why.”

“It’s a long story. . . .”

“Then it’s good that I have the time.”

Dread filled him. He wished there were a way to explain his reactions that wouldn’t leave him looking smaller in her eyes, foolish and weak. He motioned to one of the chairs before the hearth. “Would you sit with me? Please?”

She did as he asked.

He stoked the fire in the hearth and added more logs. Within minutes, the flames burned bright again, warming the front room of the clinic. He sat beside her and leaned forward, realizing where he needed to begin. “Do you remember that night at your cabin . . . when you found me on the porch?”

“Yes, I remember that night . . . quite well.”

He shook his head. “Of course you do.” He looked down at his hands. “I told you then that sometimes when I wake up at night, I start to feeling a little closed in.” He winced. “That wasn’t the entire truth.”

When she didn’t respond, he lifted his head. Her expression was inscrutable, guarded. But most of all watchful, waiting for the truth.

Memories stirred inside him, and unable to sit any longer, he rose. “Something happened to me the night I got shot.”

“The night you got your scar. . . .”

He nodded, fingering the puckered flesh on his neck. “I’m not sure how long I lay there on the battlefield. Bullets zipping past me, hitting the ground on all sides . . . men falling, moaning, some crying out. But . . . I couldn’t make a sound. I tried to draw breath, but my lungs felt like they were full of holes.” He walked to the window and stared out into the night, the crackle of the fire in the hearth strangely reassuring.

“I must have passed out, because the next thing I remember . . . I woke up in the surgeon’s tent. I saw a man . . . standing a few feet away. He never looked over at me, but his hands . . . they were stained with blood.” He bowed his head. “It was all over the front of his apron and running down his arms.”

He grimaced—the memory so clear in his mind, so vivid, even after so many years. He could still smell the chloroform, hear the battle raging outside the tent, and feel the earth tremble beneath each cannon blast.

“It was the surgeon?” Rachel whispered. “The man who sutured your neck?”

“Yes.” He took a breath, hoping to cleanse his senses of the sounds and smells of war, but in vain. “After some time passed, and I was well enough, I went searching for him.”

“You wanted to thank him,” she said, her voice quiet.

He smiled. “Yes. I wanted to thank him. . . .” He turned to her. “But I also wanted to warn him.”

She frowned. “Warn him . . . about what?”

Ignoring his instinct to look away, he held her gaze. “About the dangers of overdosing a patient by administering morphine and laudanum . . . with too much chloroform.”

She stared. “But he saved your life.” Incredulity colored her tone.

“Yes, he did. In more ways than one. And when I finally found him, I told him how grateful I was. But I also had to tell him . . .” Needing to feel a support beneath him, Rand sat down again. “I had to tell him about the mistake he’d made.”

Her eyes narrowed. She watched him, her expression keen.

“Following the surgery, after he sutured my wound . . . I didn’t wake up. And he never detected a heartbeat.”

Her brow furrowed tight. She shook her head. “I don’t understand. . . . He never detected a heartbeat?” Her laugh was brief, frustrated. “You’re here. You’re alive.”

As delicately as he could, Rand searched for a way to fill in the missing piece for her. “He didn’t send me to a hospital after the surgery, Rachel. He sent me to City Cemetery, there in Nashville.”

Seconds passed, ponderous and heavy.

The subtlest of shadows crossed her expression. She blinked. Her lips moved before the words were formed. “Are y-you saying that . . .”

“I was buried on December seventeenth, just hours after the battle ended.”

Her hand went to her stomach. “But . . .” She took a stuttered breath. “How is that possible?”

“A series of mistakes,” he said quietly, having been over the reasons so many times, on so many nights. “The combination of medicines and the loss of blood slowed my heart rate to a point where it was no longer detectable. And the setting didn’t help either. The surgical tents were chaotic. Too many men, too few doctors. The battle was still being fought all around, and the Federal Army bearing down hard on us.”

Silent tears slipped down her cheeks. “You’re excusing what that man did to you?”

“That man . . .”
Rand warmed at her coming so quickly to his defense. “No, I’m not excusing what he did. And neither did he. I’m just allowing room for understanding how the mistake was made. I guess that’s been part of how I’ve dealt with it through the years.”

For the longest time, she stared into the fire, her cheeks wet with tears. When she looked up again, the aversion and hesitance in her eyes revealed her question before she asked it. “How did they . . . find you?”

“The gravedigger, a man named Jessup Collum, had tended that cemetery for years. As he did right up until the day he died. . . .” Speaking of Jessup brought a tenderness despite the harshness of the accompanying memories. “People thought he was a little
touched
because he did some strange things at times, but he had a way about him.”

Rand stared into the glow of the flame as Rachel listened, never interrupting. He spoke of that night, of Jessup telling him how he’d tied the string around his wrist, and of hearing the bell. He told her things he’d never told another soul, things he never thought he’d speak aloud. And when he finished, feeling strangely unburdened, he dried tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed.