Within My Heart (11 page)

“Are you certain you’re ready to do this, Thomas? By yourself?
Alone?”
The way he’d looked at her, a mixture of disappointment and hurt. He’d known she hadn’t meant it the way it had come out—he’d said as much standing there in the doorway that morning.

Rachel swallowed against the invisible cord tightening around her throat. He had known for certain . . . hadn’t he? That she hadn’t said it with the intention of hurting him. But it
had
hurt him.

Almost two and a half years had passed, but she could still see the shadow of disappointment in her husband’s eyes, even when he’d assured her that he was fine. She made a fist, recalling the chill from the frost-covered windowpane as she’d pressed her hand against it, watching him saddle Chaucer and ride out. A distant pain began to thrum inside her chest. What she wouldn’t do to turn back time and relive that moment.

If only she’d known that would be the last time she’d see him alive. . . .

She blinked to dispel the memory and was greeted by her older son’s piercing gaze. “Mitchell,” she whispered, seeing the unspoken question in his blue eyes. She worked to find her voice. “Son, I . . . I know you’re not a little boy anymore. But I need you to understand something. Something very important, something you’ll understand as you get older. You’re so precious to me. Both you and Kurt are. And if anything ever happened to either of you, I don’t know what I’d—”

“
Nothing’s
going to happen to us. You worry too much, Mama. Papa said so.”

Rachel shook her head, her smile tremulous. “You say that, honey, that nothing’s going to happen, but none of us knows what might—”

Lady keened and jerked forward, writhing, and a knifelike stab sank deep and hard into Rachel’s thigh. Rachel sucked in a breath and fell backward, knocking over the bucket of water. She rolled onto her side, clutching her thigh, unable to breathe as pain sliced to the bone.

“Mama!” Mitch appeared above her. “Mama, are you all right?”

Resisting the roil of nausea rising inside, Rachel gasped for air as the thick pine beams of the rafters above swam in and out of her vision. “I’m fine, honey,” she lied, not wanting to alarm him.

She reached down to where Lady had kicked her. She slipped a hand beneath her coat and ran a shaky hand over her upper thigh. Her skirt was wet, and the once-warm water caused a chill. But she didn’t think the injury had broken skin. Grimacing, she gritted her teeth, aware of Lady staggering, struggling to stand again.

The heifer let out a primal cry just before her hind legs buckled. Lady fell back into the straw and rolled onto her side. Rachel barely managed to move in time. Something wasn’t right. Maybe the calf wasn’t positioned correctly. Or perhaps it was too large for a first-time mother. She’d heard of that happening before.

“Mama, what should we do?”

Rachel took hold of Mitch’s arm, wincing. “Help me up, honey. Hurry!”

With his assistance, she struggled to her feet and clutched the side of the stall, her head fuzzy.
So foolish . . .
She hadn’t been paying attention. But better Lady kick her than Mitch or Kurt.

The muffled pound of a horse’s hooves sounded outside, followed by the telling crunch of boots on hay. Rachel glanced up, relieved . . . then had to look up a second time, unable to make what she saw match with what she’d expected to see.

8

G
ood morning, Mrs. Boyd . . . Mitch. How’s our soon-to-be mother faring?”

Rachel could only stare as Rand strode toward them. Dressed in a weathered rawhide duster and matching Stetson, Rand Brookston looked far less like a citified Eastern physician and more like a Colorado-born-and-bred mountain man, dark stubble of a beard and all. Still feeling slightly off-balance, she was tempted to ask him if he was on his way to a gunfight, but refrained. She’d never seen him look so . . .
rustic
before.

Perhaps this was his attempt to fit in better with the locals. Whatever his reasoning, the transformation was unexpected—as was its effect on her.

“Mama’s hurt, Dr. Brookston!” Mitch pointed. “Lady just kicked her.
Hard!
”

Rand paused beside them in the stall. His gaze moved downward. “You’re hurt, Mrs. Boyd?”

Rachel held up a hand, gripping the side of the stall to steady herself. “I’m fine.” Though the throbbing in her leg argued otherwise.

He stepped closer. “Is it your ankle? If you’ll allow me to—”

“My ankle is fine. I can tend myself later. I’d prefer that you see to my heifer.” She gestured. “Her calf is coming, and I . . . I believe something’s very wrong.” She nodded toward Lady to emphasize her point, hoping Rand would follow her lead.

He didn’t.

She had no difficulty deciphering the look he gave her because it was one she gave often to Kurt when he made a suggestion she had absolutely no intention of following.

Rand’s attention dropped to where she held her leg. He looked pointedly back up at her. Telling by the faint shadows beneath his eyes, he’d gotten little, if any, sleep since they’d last parted. “Mrs. Boyd, if you’re injured, my primary obligation, as you know, is to see to—”

“Dr. Brookston.” She tried again, seeing the gray of his eyes darken. He wasn’t a man who took kindly to being interrupted. It wasn’t something she liked either. “This heifer and her calf are very important to me—to my ranch. My primary obligation, at the moment, is to them.”

He looked as if he were about to say something. Then his gaze flickered to Mitch and he closed his mouth.

Rachel could well imagine what his response might have been if they’d been alone. She’d gotten a tiny taste of this man’s forthrightness and wasn’t eager to repeat the experience, especially in front of her son. “Please, Doctor”—she summoned her most respectful tone—“I’m asking you to see to my heifer and her calf . . . while there’s still time.” A wave of weakness washed through her, and her fingers tightened on the rough wood.
“Please,”
she added, her voice a whisper.

He stared for a long moment. Then with an almost imperceptible nod, Rand laid aside his medical bag, shed his coat and hat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. He removed a large brown bottle from his satchel and proceeded to rub a clear ointment over his hands and forearms, then knelt beside Lady. With an ease that bespoke experience in working with animals, he wasted no time in his examination.

Rachel had witnessed countless births in her lifetime—both of babies and livestock—but Mitchell hadn’t, and the boy’s attention was riveted to the doctor’s ministrations. Thomas had allowed the boys to attend a handful of births—after all, they were going to be ranchers like their father. But never had the animal giving birth been so special or loved, and Rachel found herself wondering if she’d made a mistake.

Perhaps letting Mitchell watch this particular birth wasn’t such a good idea.

“How long ago did her water break?” Rand asked, his hands moving in slow, arching circles over Lady’s distended abdomen. He pressed on her belly and Lady answered with a definitive kick, but his swift reflexes spared him a fate similar to Rachel’s.

Seeing his reaction only worsened the ache in Rachel’s leg—and in her pride. “At least an hour and a half ago. She tried to stand up, but I managed to keep her down. It wasn’t easy.”

Rand rose and rinsed his hands and arms in the barrel of icy water outside the stall, then dried them on a rag, saying nothing. Rachel studied his expression, reading no trace of disapproval in his features but sensing it all the same.

Her gaze lowered, and she saw it—

The jagged scar edging a path down the lower left side of his neck and disappearing beneath his open collar. She’d seen it before but never this close up and with his shirt collar unbuttoned. Judging by the length of the scar and the puckered skin, the wound had been deep, and whoever stitched it had not been gifted with the needle. Not like Rand Brookston was.

His expression turned guarded, and realizing he’d caught her staring, she quickly looked away. Much like she’d caught him doing the previous evening. Well, turnabout
was
fair play, wasn’t it?

“The calf is in a posterior-facing position, Mrs. Boyd. It needs to be turned.”

She didn’t respond for a moment, the seriousness of the situation setting in. “But you can do that, can’t you? Turn the calf, I mean.”

“I can try. But I’m going to need some help.” His attention shifted to Mitch. “Mitchell, are you up to the job?”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir!” He took a confident stride forward.

Rachel grabbed at Mitch’s shoulder, missed, and nearly lost her balance. “Doctor, if you need help, I’ll be happy to assist you.” She put weight on her right leg and it gave beneath her. Rand reached out to help but she caught herself in time. She straightened, pain shooting up and down her leg, and she worked to hide how much it hurt. “I’d prefer that Mitch not assist you with this. I-I’ll do it instead.”

Rand leveled his gaze. “Mrs. Boyd—” He glanced at Lady, then back again. “I can’t do this alone. And while I
always
welcome your assistance, ma’am . . . judging by the flush of your face, the fact you can hardly stand, and the way you’re favoring that leg . . .” His gaze lifted from her eyes. “Add to that the way you’re perspiring . . .”

Rachel reached up to find her forehead damp, despite the morning’s chill.

“. . . I’m guessing you’re in quite a bit of pain right now and in no condition to assist with anything.” He retrieved a coiled rope from a peg and fashioned a makeshift harness—in half the time it would have taken her, and with superior results. “So . . . I’ll see to your heifer and her calf first, as you’ve requested me to do. Then I’ll be obliged to tend your injury.”

Hearing the implied bargain, and none too eager to have Rand Brookston viewing her thigh, Rachel purposefully held back an agreeing nod. She had another idea. “Will Mr. Daggett be joining us soon?”

Rand’s tired smile was briefly lived. “That’s doubtful.” He looped the harness over Lady’s head. “The boardwalk in front of the Mullinses’ store is piled high with snow. He’s helping Lyda dig out so she can open up. Folks are needing supplies.”

At the mention of Lyda opening the store, Rachel realized she hadn’t yet inquired after Ben.

“I give you my word, Mrs. Boyd.” Rand’s voice mirrored the confidence in his eyes. “I’ll be careful.”

Instinctively, she knew he was referring to Mitch and something inside her softened toward him at his reassurance. Knowing she had no alternative, she nodded a hesitant approval and Mitch hurried to take his place beside him.

“I won’t get hurt, Mama. I promise.”

Rachel couldn’t find her voice, so simply nodded again.

“I need you to grip the rope tight, Mitchell. Right here. Hold it firm and steady. I’ll tell you when to pull. And stay on your haunches, like this”—Rand demonstrated, sitting in a squatted position—“so you can move quickly when you need to. Not
if
you need to, but when. She’s going to kick. They always do. So you have to be ready.”

Mitch nodded, stealing a glance in Rachel’s direction. Rachel’s face went warm.

“Now”—Rand smoothed a hand over Lady’s muzzle—“normally after a heifer’s been in labor this long, the calf is ready to be born and the mama’s lying down. But sometimes, when the calf is large, it’ll take more time. I think that’s part of Lady’s problem. So in situations like this, we need the heifer to stand and move around. Most times they’ll try to stand themselves, but if not—”

Rachel cringed, realizing she’d made the wrong decision. Again. To Mitchell’s credit, he didn’t give her away.

“—then we need to help her. As I said, Lady’s calf is posterior-facing, which means—”

“It means it’s coming out backwards.” Mitch stroked Lady’s neck. “I read about it in Mama’s book.” He indicated the book that lay half buried in the straw.

Her embarrassment now utterly complete, Rachel threw the traitorous
Handy-Book of Husbandry
a glare.

Positioning Mitch at Lady’s head, Rand moved to the opposite end. “You and I are going to try and help Lady to turn the calf herself, Mitchell. Most times, the heifer’s body will do the work if given the chance. Sometimes it won’t. But you don’t ever want to force a calf in this position to turn.”

“It could hurt it?” Mitch asked, holding on to the rope like a lifeline.

Rand’s expression went solemn. “It could hurt them both.”

Rand wished he’d followed his instincts and ridden out to the Boyd ranch during the night. He would’ve seen what was happening early on and could have given the calf more time to rotate before entering the birth canal. As it was, the heifer’s birth was progressing rapidly. They still had time. Though not much. “When I count to three, Mitchell, I want you to pull hard on the rope. I’m going to push from this end. You ready?”

Tongue doubled between his front teeth, Mitch nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“One . . . two . . . three!” Rand pushed, watchful of Lady’s hooves but even more so of Mitchell’s footing, and of Rachel standing close beside him.

The heifer didn’t budge. She did kick again, however, and Rand narrowly missed a hoof.