Within My Heart (10 page)

As he unfolded the checkered cloth, an envelope slipped from its folds and onto the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he glimpsed his name penned in fanciful script on the front. Even in the dim light, he recognized the handwriting and heaved a sigh, feeling more exhausted now than he had seconds earlier.

He lifted the edge of the cloth and a sweet aroma rose to greet him, answering his earlier question. Molasses cookies, his favorite, filled the tin—all perfectly round, identical in size, and sprinkled with sugar. They’d be delicious too, just like before. Only he didn’t quite have the appetite for them at the moment.

He turned the envelope in his hand to view the elegant wax seal on the back bearing the initials
J.E.S.
, and then he laid the unopened envelope aside.

Rand lit a fire in the main room, in the only hearth the former cobbler’s shop boasted, and knelt to feed the flame, relishing the warmth. Angling his head from side to side, he worked to loosen the tightness, knowing he never should have catnapped in that rocker at the Mullinses’ tonight. He’d be paying for that for the next few days.

The clock on the wall read half past one, and outside the wind howled around the north corner of the building, finding every traitorous fissure in the log and chinking.

He stretched, feeling the chill gradually leave his bones, and peered through the window into the darkness beyond. The snow came heavier now, slanting down in sideways sheets. If this kept up, he’d have a four-foot drift against his door come morning.

He hadn’t felt comfortable leaving Ben and Lyda earlier in the evening and had opted to stay, insisting that Angelo head home before the storm worsened. Little Italy, the growing community of Italian immigrants just outside of Timber Ridge, was a good half-hour walk from town, and that was in good weather. Angelo’s mother and three younger sisters would be waiting on the young man to help care for the animals and make ready for the snowfall.

Rand looked around the clinic, seeing with fresh eyes the blatant lack of homey touches, the absence of anyone waiting for him. A twinge of envy heightened his fatigue.

He would have been hard-pressed to pin a reason on exactly why, but he hadn’t wanted to come back to his cabin tonight. Something about being in Ben and Lyda’s company was comforting, made him feel as if his presence in Timber Ridge mattered.

That
he
mattered. And not only for his skills as a physician.

For the hundredth time, he debated whether to ride out to Rachel’s ranch to see if he could help with the heifer due to calve. If it were anyone else in Timber Ridge, he would have already been there without a second thought. But not with Rachel Boyd. He didn’t feel the usual “open door” when it came to her.

Her father had been a physician, as he’d learned from her older brother, which explained where she’d received her medical training, however informal. That initial discovery had given him hope that they might actually share their knowledge with each other and establish some common ground between them. But the only ground they’d shared so far could best be described as painfully polite.

Yet remembering the way she’d looked up at him tonight before she’d taken off down the stairs, that half smile on her face . . . He was almost tempted to hope that there might be a possibility for something more. But in the clarity of the present moment, he knew better.

Changing clothes in the back room, he recalled Mitchell Boyd’s interest in the stethoscope. Typically quiet and reserved, from what few times Rand had observed the boy, Mitchell had shown a more inquisitive nature this afternoon. The questions he asked revealed a keen mind.

Watching Mitchell, Rand had gained the impression the boy didn’t miss much. He’d also gotten the feeling that Rachel didn’t want her older son spending much time around him. He sighed, knowing he could be wrong on that count. But he didn’t think so.

In the main room, he stoked the fire in the hearth and banked the flames so they’d burn slow and steady through the night. As he did every evening, he recorded in a ledger the patients he’d seen that day, the diagnosis, medications administered, and plan of treatment. He thumbed back through the pages, reading name after name and recalling many of the faces.

Stacks of medical volumes claimed the majority of his wall space in the tiny back bedroom, and he searched through them until, finally, he found the desired title. Then he crawled between the icy sheets with book in hand.

He read for a while, until he realized he’d skimmed the same paragraph four times over, each with lessening comprehension. Yawning, he laid the thick volume on the floor and turned onto his side, staring at the flame flickering orange within the smoke-browned glass of the oil lamp.

With an air of leisure he did not possess, he reached to turn down the lamp, silently assuring himself, over and over, as he did each night, that this would be the night. A single rotation of the tiny metal knob would extinguish the quivering flame on the end of the oil-soaked wick, and darkness, innocent and powerless, would lie quiet over the room.

It was easy. Any child could do it.

But—Rand stared at his hand, loathing its tremor—he could not.

He closed his eyes, fighting to summon the courage, telling himself the darkness was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing existed in the darkness that wasn’t there in the light. He knew that. So why was his heart hammering against his ribs?

Then he smelled it. The cool, musty scent of moist earth.

It filled his nostrils, and in his mind, the tip of his boot touched something hard and immovable. The air became thinner, stealing his breath, pressing closer. He opened his eyes only to have darkness flood them full, complete and utter black. Invisible walls closed in. A stuttered thud, like the sound of a fading heart, filled his ears. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe—

He bolted upright in bed, trembling, eyes wide, his breath coming hard.

The faint glow from the oil lamp on the bedside table arched in a golden halo across the quilt, and like a parched man gulped water, he drank it in, lungs burning. He stared at the footboard, his vision blurring, then drew up his knees and rested his head in his hands, waiting for his heart to return to a normal rhythm.

A moment passed, followed by another, and another, and finally he lay back down, still shaking. He pulled the quilt over his chest, fending off a familiar and scathing shame. “Maybe tomorrow night,” he whispered, drawing his hand back beneath the covers. He reached deep into memory for words God had etched onto his heart years ago, and he repeated the verses of Scripture, over and over, willing their promise to take deeper hold.

He found comfort in the repetition and in knowing he’d filled the oil lamp on his bedside table full that morning, as he always did. But he could still hear the dull thump of Jessup Collum’s shovel hitting the lid of the thin pine box.

“Maybe you should’ve let Dr. Brookston come to help, Mama. Instead of telling him no like you did.”

Kneeling beside Mitch in the cramped barn stall, Rachel pushed damp strands of hair from her face, surprised at the tender challenge in her son’s voice—and at her lack of a suitable response. Avoiding his appraising stare, she adjusted the lantern and pushed up the sleeves of Thomas’s worn leather coat, checking to see if the calf was presenting itself.

She exhaled. No progress yet. And Lady’s water sack had ruptured over an hour ago.

First light of dawn fingered its way through timeworn cracks in the barn walls, and pale yellow streaks illuminated swirling specks of dust and dirt that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. Glad to have her older son beside her, Rachel shivered against the cold, grateful the snowfall was finally slacking. Kurt had either fallen back to sleep after she’d awakened him or was still nurturing a grudge about their planned meeting with the schoolteacher. Judging from his attitude before going to bed hours earlier, she guessed the latter.

On the bright side, he was sleeping through the night again. The bad dreams that had plagued him following Thomas’s passing, then again briefly a couple of months ago, were something she hoped they would never relive.

Mitch attempted to stroke Lady’s neck, but the heifer reared her head and let out a high-pitched bawl. “I heard Dr. Brookston offer to come last night,” Mitch continued, his breath puffing white in the chilled air. Ever persistent, he tried again to stroke Lady, and succeeded, but the heifer watched him, her dark eyes bordering on panic. It was a dread Rachel shared. “If you’d said yes to him”— Mitch’s gaze met Rachel’s and held fast—“then he’d already be here. Now . . . when we need him.”

Knowing Mitch was right only added salt to Rachel’s already wounded pride, and she struggled not to show how much the truth of his observation stung.

Well into the night, she and Charlie Daggett had searched for Lady in the biting wind and snow until they’d nearly abandoned any hope of finding her. Without Charlie’s help, the soon-to-be mother and her calf would have perished in the storm. But thanks to the man’s keen eye and familiarity with backwoods trails, the first-time mother and baby stood a chance.

Her fingers numb with cold, Rachel dipped a rag into a bucket of warm, sudsy water. She lingered a few extra seconds, relishing the warmth, then washed the cow’s backside as Thomas had taught her to do. She’d assisted him with births before and was familiar with what to expect.

Problem was, this birth wasn’t following the normal progression.

She doused the rag in the bucket again and squeezed out the excess water, her attention snagging on the book half hidden in the hay. She frowned. She’d scoured the book earlier in an attempt to find a resolution to Lady’s predicament, but the usually helpful
Handy-Book of Husbandry
she’d purchased last year had proven to be not so handy this time.

Still feeling Mitchell’s attention, Rachel shot him what she hoped was a confident look. When anticipating this birth in recent weeks, she’d imagined it would be an event she and the boys would share— alone. Something that would draw them closer together. Admitting she needed Rand Brookston’s assistance, especially after refusing it so soundly only hours before, left a bitter aftertaste.

Yet not as bitter as the thought of losing Lady, or her calf. Or of not fulfilling her graveside promise to her husband.

“Mr. Daggett should be back anytime with Dr. Brookston, Mitch. I’m certain the doctor has delivered his share of calves. He’ll know exactly what to do.” Which she feared didn’t describe Rand’s perspective of Ben’s situation. But, in all fairness, what could Rand Brookston do for a failing heart?

“Later this morning,” she continued, arranging a smile, “we’ll all head into town and check on Uncle Ben. You can tell him and Aunt Lyda all about Lady’s—”

The heifer suddenly bellowed and rocked from side to side, her eyes wild. The animal lunged forward, attempting to stand, and Mitch stumbled back, narrowly escaping her sharp hooves. Lady let out a high-pitched whine. Rachel scrambled to hold her down, uncertain of what might happen if the heifer gained her footing at this stage of birth. She couldn’t remember this happening the times she’d assisted Thomas.

Leveraging her weight against Lady to keep her down, Rachel took care not to apply too much pressure on her distended belly. Mitch took a bold step forward, his intent clear.

“No, Mitchell!” She spoke through gritted teeth. “Stay back.”

“But why, Mama? I can help!”

“No! It’s too dangerous. I don’t want you to get hurt.” Lady tried again to stand, and Rachel pushed down harder, mindful of the animal’s thrashing. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Mitch inching forward yet again. “Mitchell Thomas! I said to—” Lady struggled against the constraint and Rachel fought to maintain hold. “I said stay where you are!”

Her muscles burning from overexertion and fatigue, Rachel didn’t let up. And gradually, finally, the heifer calmed. But the expectant mother’s pitiful moans indicated her time was drawing close.

Rachel sank to her knees, her legs and arms limp. She couldn’t do this alone, and she wouldn’t risk the boys getting hurt. As much as she’d wanted to deliver Lady’s calf without Rand’s help, she couldn’t wait for him to arrive.

A rustling behind her drew her attention.

Mitchell stood staring down at her, his spine ramrod straight, his shoulders squared. He appeared much older and taller from her perspective, and Rachel saw so much of Thomas in her son’s look and manner.

“You act like I’m still a little boy, Mama.” Mitch’s voice was quiet and even, like Thomas’s. “But I’m not.” A hint of unaccustomed defiance glinted in his eyes, but the sheen of unshed tears proved more telling. “I can do more than you think I can.”

Rachel stared up, feeling her lungs constrict. Her son’s earnestness to prove himself felt achingly familiar, and a pang of regret cut through the layers of woven memories, pulling her back to the last conversation she’d had with her husband. To the last time she’d seen Thomas alive. She closed her eyes against the unwelcome echo of her own voice and tried to shut out the thoughtlessness of what she’d said.