Within My Heart (5 page)

Using his own weight for leverage, he pressed down, then let up, pressed down, and let up, silently counting as he did, aware of Lyda’s body flinching each time he started a compression.

Stethoscope positioned again, he listened. Still nothing. Perhaps the naysayers were right. . . .

As quickly as the thought came, he banished it, but another nipped its heels. What if he was performing the procedure incorrectly? After all, he’d never done it before.

His nerves worn thin, sweat slicked his body. Rachel had said she’d join him back here
quickly
, but apparently they had different definitions of the word.

With Lyda looking on, her expression fluctuating between agony and disbelief, Rand repeated another compression, praying with each downward thrust, then leaned close again, listening through the earpieces, willing for God to grant his petition.

He knew God could heal with a thought. He also knew, only too well, that sometimes God chose not to. Rand rose up again, clasped hands positioned over Ben’s heart. If he had anything to say about it—and he did—he was going to make sure that
this
time, God made the right choice.

3

P
lease make your way outside to the boardwalk.” Rachel hurried the patrons toward the front doors, frustrated at their lethargic pace. Herding cattle was faster than this. “There’s been an emergency and we need to close the store temporarily.” She glanced toward the back room, wondering what was happening, when— from the corner of her eye—she saw an older teenage boy loitering in the corner, one hand hidden inside his unbuttoned coat.

Her instincts told her he was up to no good, but she didn’t have time to confront whatever he might have done. She ushered him toward the open doors.

At one time, she’d known almost everyone living in Timber Ridge, at least by face. But those days were long past. Every day, it seemed, more people arrived in Timber Ridge, enticed west by the lure of gold.

She’d never seen most of these people before and didn’t know them well enough to trust them alone in the mercantile. Not with what James had told her about the increase in theft. Ben and Lyda had been victims of thieves themselves—boots and clothing gone missing, staple items unaccounted for in the ledger. And though Lyda had never said anything outright, Rachel had gotten the impression that money was tight for them these days too.

She peered through the store’s front window, trusting Mitch and Kurt had made it safely to the jail and watching for Angelo, Dr. Brookston’s assistant, hoping to see him coming with the medicine. “As soon as possible, Mr. and Mrs. Mullins will reopen the store.” Even as she said it, she prayed it would be true. That
both
Ben and Lyda would be opening the doors again.

She trusted Rand Brookston to do all he could for Ben. Having witnessed the doctor’s skill firsthand, she knew Timber Ridge was fortunate to have such a gifted physician. Still, something about him grated on her, and she knew she hadn’t done a good job of disguising those misgivings. She regretted her curt response moments ago in the buckboard when he asked her if she’d given Lyda the proper instructions. She sensed from his confused expression that he hadn’t meant to sound condescending. Even though he had . . .

Maybe it was his self-assurance that she found so off-putting, or the confident manner in which he carried himself. Or the way women watched him when he strode down the boardwalk, or how they fawned over him after church services or at social gatherings. When it came down to it, if someone asked her why she felt the way she did about him, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them in definitive terms.

She only knew that he was a physician, as her father had been, which was enough to make her want to keep her personal distance.

“Mama!”

About to latch the front doors, Rachel heard the familiar voice and peered through the glass to spot Mitchell running toward her full force, Kurt fast on his heels.

Mitchell skirted the crowd on the boardwalk and skidded to a stop, his thin chest working hard. “Uncle James had some”—he pushed the words out between heavy breaths—“sheriffin’ to do, so he sent us . . . here to stay with Uncle Ben and . . . Aunt Lyda ’til you came.”

Rachel brushed the hair from his eyes. “That’s fine, that’s fine. Catch your breath, the both of you.” Mitchell had taken to calling Ben and Lyda “uncle and aunt” some time back, and Kurt had quickly mimicked him, which delighted Ben and Lyda. “Come on inside. Quickly.” She waved them through the open door, not missing the perturbed looks from patrons banned to the boardwalk. Pretending not to notice, she closed the door and reached for the lock, then gave an exasperated sigh. It locked by key. A key she didn’t have time to look for.

Out on the boardwalk, a kind-looking older gentleman stepped forward. With a quiet nod, he turned his back to the door as though understanding that she needed someone to stand guard. She didn’t know him from Adam so wasn’t comfortable leaving the store in his hands, but what else could she do?

“Boys, I need to go check on Uncle Ben in the back room. He took sick this afternoon. I want you to keep watch and make sure no one comes inside. Tell them the store is closed for a little while. Is that clear? But if Angelo comes, let him in immediately.”

Mitch nodded.

Kurt didn’t. “Miss Stafford doesn’t like me, Mama. She’s always eyein’ me funny and tellin’ me that I’m a—”

“Kurt, I don’t have time for this right now.”

“Yeah . . . but she won’t let me—”

Rachel held up a finger, an accustomed throb beginning in her left temple. “We’ll talk about this tonight.
Tonight!
” she reiterated when Kurt opened his mouth again.

Mitchell pulled something from his coat pocket and Kurt’s scowl deepened. “Miss Stafford gave this to me after school, Mama. She said it was her second note this week. She told me to make double sure you got this one.”

This one?
Miss Stafford hadn’t sent her a note this week.

But the frown on Kurt’s impish face said differently. Defiance hardened the blue of his eyes, and Rachel felt as though someone had knocked the wind from her. Defeat washed through her, scathing her confidence. Somewhere during the past two and a half years, she’d lost her hand with her younger son. She had no idea why he behaved the way he did now and was at her wits’ end to know what to try next.

Mitchell leaned close. “Miss Stafford didn’t look happy,” he whispered, his expression mirroring maturity beyond his ten years. His brow raised in a way reminiscent of his father. “I told her you were busy with the ranch and with calving, and would come as soon as you could.”

Moments slipping past, Rachel nodded, feeling an all-too-familiar burning in her eyes. Mitchell, ever the older brother and peacekeeper, was the “man of the house” now. At least that’s what he’d told her not too long ago. Too much to bear for one so young.

“Thank you, son.” She took the note and slipped it into her pocket unread. “We’ll deal with this tonight, Kurt.” And she would. But right now, his misbehavior paled in comparison to what was happening in the back—which was where she needed to be right now!

“Would it be all right if we got something to eat, Mama?” Mitch asked.

Kurt nodded. “You didn’t give us enough lunch and we’ve been starvin’ ever since.”

They’d eaten the last of the bread at breakfast, so there hadn’t been any to include in the boys’ lunches, but she’d given them extra ham and cheese. Plenty for lunch. This was simply Kurt’s way of punishing her. For what, she didn’t know. “You may get a cookie from the jar on the counter. But only one,” she said, aiming the warning at Kurt, who let out a whoop and took off for the other side of the store.

Mitch stared up, watching her closely, as he always did. “Is Uncle Ben
bad
sick, Mama?”

She worked to mask her fear. It was so hard to hide things from Mitchell. Just like his father. “Dr. Brookston is with him right now, and I’m sure that—” The words
everything will be fine
wouldn’t come. Not when staring into Mitchell’s stark blue eyes and knowing that he knew—already, at so young an age—what the death of a loved one felt like, and how permanent it was. At least for this life. “I’m confident Dr. Brookston is taking good care of him, so don’t you worry.”

Mitch nodded, but his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. He glanced over at his brother. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into anything he shouldn’t, and that he only has one cookie so he won’t spoil his dinner.”

Rachel brushed a swift kiss to his forehead and carried his “little-boy scent” with her as she hurried down the aisle. How much longer would he let her do that? Love on him that way without shying away like Kurt already did. How could two sons born to the same parents, only two years apart, be so different from each other? And how would she ever manage to be both father and mother to them?

Once past the curtain, she heard Lyda’s soft weeping and slowed her steps. A hand to her stomach did nothing to ease the sickening quiver.

Neither Dr. Brookston nor Lyda acknowledged her presence when she reached the doorway of the storeroom. She stood, silent, watching as Rand Brookston listened to Ben’s chest through his stethoscope. Ben’s eyes weren’t open, but she thought she heard a sliver of air wheeze past his parted lips, and a trickle of relief passed through her own.

“Keep speaking to him, Mrs. Mullins,” Rand Brookston whispered, his voice tense. “Let him hear the sound of your voice.”

Perspiration dampened the back of Rand’s shirt and the taut set of his shoulders mirrored his anxiety. Rachel wished she’d arrived sooner to help him. Not that she knew anything, medically speaking, that he didn’t.

Lyda leaned close to frame Ben’s face with her hands. “Ben Everett Mullins, y-you listen to me and you listen good.” Her voice held a sternness that might have sounded convincing if not for her tears. “Your heart stopped, Ben, but the good doctor here got it started back up again. You’ve been given a second chance, my love, but you’re going to have to fight.”

Started his heart back again?
Rachel stared at Ben, at the labored rise and fall of his chest, as Lyda’s meaning gradually took hold, then her focus shifted to Rand Brookston.

She’d heard talk of doctors attempting to restart a patient’s heart, but that’s all it was—talk. Once a person’s heart stopped, life was over. Everyone knew that. Some things, once damaged, were beyond mending. Unbidden, the memory of Thomas’s shredded, blood-soaked shirt clouded her vision and she blinked hard to clear it away.

Had Rand Brookston really managed to do the impossible? Her respect for the man’s abilities deepened even as her personal misgivings about him remained unchanged.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway, and she turned to see Angelo coming through the curtain, envelope in hand. If she read his smile right, he’d found the—

“This is your definition of
shortly
, Mrs. Boyd?”

Rachel turned back, surprised by the curtness in Rand Brookston’s tone. And in his expression. Heat rose to her face. Her mouth moved but no words would come. “I’m . . . sorry. It took longer than I thought to get the patrons to leave.”

Rand rose to his full height, stethoscope dangling in his grip. “I could have used your assistance.” The intensity in his eyes deepened. “I thought I made that clear.”

His manner was polite, yet direct, and Rachel glanced at Ben, then at Lyda, whose attention, thankfully, was focused on her husband. Shame filled her. If her delay had threatened Ben’s life in any way . . . after everything Ben and Lyda had done for her. The thought alone made her ill, and the sense of defeat from moments earlier returned with a renewed vengeance.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston,” she whispered. “If I can be of help now, I’ll—”

“I need medicine.” He motioned to Angelo, who had come along beside her. “I’m glad you’re here, Angelo. I’d like for you to accompany Mrs. Boyd to my office, please. Check the shipment from this morning first, then the shelves. The medicine will be in an envelope labeled either
digitalis
or
foxglove
. Time is crucial, so—”

“I have it here, sir.” Angelo held out an envelope. “It was in the shipment, at the bottom.”

Rand stared. “But . . . how did you know I would need this?”

Angelo motioned. “Mrs. Boyd, she told me to look for it, sir . . . when she came looking for you.” The young man pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “She wrote down the words. See? She asked me to meet you here.”

Rachel’s face burned. She should have felt vindicated at Angelo’s admission, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up, even when she sensed Rand Brookston wanting her to. She bit her lower lip and fought back tears.

She was being beyond silly, responding like a cowering child. And to Rand Brookston, of all people. It was foolishness! She was a grown woman. And a mother!

But she felt like a girl again, standing before her father outside one of his patient rooms—scolded and embarrassed—having tried to anticipate his request but without success, and after having tried so hard to please him. Her chest tightened with emotion. How could childhood memories of a parent still hold such sway when adult memories of that same person cast an altogether different light?

And why did she still feel as though she were lacking? She had been right this time! She’d chosen the correct medicine. Yet she felt like a disappointment. As though she’d failed, one more time, to meet not only her own expectations, but someone else’s as well.

4

R
and wished Rachel would look at him. Her unshed tears barbed his conscience, and rightfully so. He’d been short with her, speaking out of frustration with himself and fear of what could have happened to Ben Mullins. Of what could still happen . . . “Mrs. Boyd, I . . . I didn’t mean to—” Her hands, clenched tight at her waist, only encouraged the knot of guilt twisting his stomach. “Believe me when I say that I . . . What I mean to say is that . . .”

What he wanted to say but couldn’t was that he’d behaved like a complete and unmitigated—

“Excuse me, I’ll get a cup of water for the medicine,” she said quietly, then spun on her heel and strode down the hallway.