Within My Heart (18 page)

Walking could be more challenging than she’d thought. . . .

Footsteps came from the hallway, and she peered past the partially open bedroom door, expecting Mitch or Kurt to come running in.

“I know, I feel that way too,” a voice whispered, followed by soft, stuttered sobs. “I’d just spent so much time h-hoping—”

Elizabeth.

Unable to make out the remainder of what she said, Rachel felt her chest clench tight. Rand must have given her and Daniel more disappointing news. She ran a hand over her abdomen, hurting for her friend and remembering what it felt like to carry a life inside her, to feel that child growing and moving. She and Thomas had hoped for more children, but two healthy sons . . . That was a lot to be thankful for. Especially now.

The door edged open with a squeak, and Elizabeth paused at the threshold. Her eyes went wide. “Rachel Boyd! What do you think you’re doing? Dr. Brookston gave express orders for you to rest! He said you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

Rachel gave her a weak smile, touched by her protective nature. Even from several feet away, she saw Lizzie’s red-rimmed eyes and knew she’d guessed correctly about the discouraging news. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” she whispered, nodding toward the hallway. “I couldn’t help but overhear just now.”

Lizzie’s features clouded.

Rachel motioned for her to come in and reached for her hand, eager to reassure her. “I don’t know what Dr. Brookston told you, but contrary to what some people think, doctors aren’t infallible. And they don’t know everything. The body has ways of healing itself . . . I know. It took two years for me to conceive the first time with Mitch. Though, granted, it seemed like an eternity at the time, praying and waiting.”

Lizzie seated herself on the bed and looked down at the quilt, fingering the patchwork pieces Rachel had sewn from Thomas’s shirts following his death. “It
has
felt like we’ve been waiting for a long time, I admit. I’m sorry if I sounded like I was complaining yesterday.”

“You’ve never sounded that way to me. Ever.”

“I’m glad, because . . . according to Dr. Brookston”—a smile blossomed on Lizzie’s pretty face—“we’ve been patient long enough. Come December or January, Daniel and I will be having a child.”

Rachel stared. Her gaze flitted to where Lizzie rested her hand on her stomach, and she let out a squeal. Rachel hugged her tight, imagining all that lay in store, and so grateful this woman had come into her life. The first time she’d seen Lizzie, almost two years ago— Elizabeth
Westbrook
, at the time—standing in the general store, looking so confident and businesslike, she’d been drawn to her. Yet she’d doubted whether such an educated, successful woman would view friendship with her as something worthy of pursuit.

But despite being opposites in many ways—and holding such differing opinions of Daniel—she and Elizabeth had fast become friends.

Rachel gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re going to make a wonderful mother.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid that remains to be seen. I can’t even get children to sit still for a photograph.”

Rachel waved off the comment. “You’ll do just fine. You’ll see.”

Smiling, Elizabeth rose. “Thank you. Now, we need to get you back to bed and get that leg elevated. Doctor’s orders!”

Ignoring the gentle admonishment, Rachel glanced toward the hallway. “Speaking of children, I guess mine are in school?”

Elizabeth’s expression turned questioning. “You don’t remember our conversation earlier this morning?”

Rachel cast a playful glance at the bottle of laudanum on the bedside table, and Lizzie cocked her head as though to say she understood. Then her humor faded.

“Mitch and Kurt didn’t go to school today, Rachel. None of the children did. Yesterday, Benjamin and Paige Foster came down with fever, so Miss Stafford dismissed classes early. Late last night, after seeing you home and settled, Dr. Brookston rode out to check on them.”

Rand was here?
That was another detail Rachel didn’t recall. “How are the Fosters’ children? Have you heard anything?”

Lizzie hesitated, as though reluctant to voice her thoughts. “Charlie Daggett came from town a few minutes ago. And, mind you, this is just a rumor. He hasn’t seen Dr. Brookston yet to confirm it. But . . . Charlie told me that folks are saying it’s influenza.”

13

R
and smoothed the hair from Paige Foster’s forehead, feeling heat radiate from her skin. Severe headache, muscle pain, malaise. Similar symptoms to influenza but with two major differences in this case—the intestinal ravages on the body and the rose-colored spots dotting the upper abdomen.

Fairly confident in his diagnosis, Rand knew there was only one way to be certain.

Ten-year-old Paige was in worse condition than her older brother, who lay sleeping on a pallet in the corner of the bedroom. She was lithe and fragile, and had a sweet disposition to match.

She drew in labored breaths through parched lips. Her eyes fluttered open. It took a moment for her to focus. “Thank you . . . Dr. Brookston,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around the piece of stick candy.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. There’s more where that came from as soon as you’re feeling better.” He checked her pulse. Slightly elevated, but that was to be expected with the high fever.

He heard Mrs. Foster in the next room, preparing soup her daughter hadn’t requested, nor that she would likely eat. Not in her current condition.

The hour had to be approaching noon. His jacket lay across the room with his pocket watch tucked inside, but he was too tired to retrieve it.

Rand sank down in a chair by the bed and rested his head in his hands. He’d been up most of the night and needed to get back to town to check on Ben and Rachel, and whoever—and whatever— else might be waiting for him at the clinic.

He stared at the little girl in the bed before him, considering the labored rise and fall of her chest, and wishing he had better facilities in which to care for his patients, more reliable methods for receiving medications. And—the greatest luxury of all—more opportunity to educate the people of Timber Ridge about proper hygiene and nutrition.

The weight of responsibility he’d felt when crouching over Ben Mullins, trying to get Ben’s heart restarted, returned with a force that sucked his breath away and pulled him back to a moment years past.

“You care too much about your patients, Dr. Brookston,” the head of medicine at a New York City hospital had admonished. “You must learn to keep a proper distance, emotionally. You must view patients through the framework of science, learning all you can during the course of treatment and then building on that knowledge for future patients. We want to encourage when needed, comfort as we can. But you’ll never grow to be the physician I know you can be—that I already see in you—if you persist in caring about them in such a personal manner.”

Rand exhaled, knowing that if Dr. Bellingham could see him now, he would not approve—just as the venerated physician hadn’t approved of the choices Rand had made following medical school, or of his decision to come to Timber Ridge.

He ran a hand through his hair, hoping Rachel would follow his orders of complete bed rest. His conveniently “forgetting” to send her cane home with her would greatly increase those odds. It was imperative she stay off that leg for three to four days, at a minimum, in order to give the incision time to heal, as he’d explained to her last night. Her wound was more serious than she’d let on, and the sutures more invasive than he’d originally thought they would be.

But there was another reason she needed to heal quickly, one she didn’t even know about yet—he needed her assistance with Ben’s surgery.

Pulling his thoughts back, Rand probed the slender column of Paige’s throat. “Tell me if I press on a place that hurts worse than the others, all right?”

She nodded.

He palpated the back of her neck and shoulders, then checked her arms and legs. The rash hadn’t spread, not yet, at least. Hoping to coax a smile, he gave her cute little button nose a tweak. “How about there?”

She sighed a tired giggle.

Anticipating her next reaction and already regretting it, Rand pressed on her belly, under her rib cage, and literally felt the confirmation to his diagnosis.

Paige let out a gasp and drew up her legs. “That hurts bad,” she whimpered, tears edging from the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry, honey.” Rand cradled the side of her face, so small and warm against his palm. “I won’t do it again.” He didn’t need to. He’d seen the symptoms before, and seeing them again dredged up memories he preferred remain buried.

Unsummoned, haunting images of Confederate camps returned, one after another. The rows of filthy tents, tattered and beaten down, like their occupants. All these years later, the memory of the stench was still thick—the grounds littered with refuse and rubbish, heaps of manure and offal only steps away from where the men slept. For every grave he’d dug for a fellow soldier struck down by bullets, he’d dug three more for one struck by disease.

Typhoid being among the most devastating.

The bedroom door opened behind him, and heavy boot steps rang hollow on the wood floor. They stopped abruptly at his back.

“I need a word with you, Brookston.”

Rand turned and adjusted his gaze slightly upward to meet the solemn stare of Graham Foster, Paige’s father.

“Look, Papa . . .” Paige held out her hand, the candy sticky in her palm. “See what Dr. Brookston gave me?”

Graham Foster’s gruff demeanor softened ever so slightly. “That’s real good, darlin’. ” He patted his daughter’s arm as though he feared she might break. “I’ll be right back. I just need to talk with the doctor for a minute, all right?”

She looked from him to Rand, her uncertainty clear.

Foster inclined his head toward the hallway and Rand followed, surprised when Foster strode through the kitchen and toward the front porch. Helen Foster stood by the stove, watching as they passed.

Once outside, Foster stopped short. “Just so we’re clear, Brookston”—he stood close—“my wife believes in doctors . . . I don’t. If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t be here.” A bead of sweat trailed down Foster’s forehead and into his eye. He didn’t blink. “All doctors are good for is promisin’ things they can’t deliver. They feed you full of their concoctions with one hand, while robbin’ your pockets with the other.” He moved closer. Rand felt the heat of his anger. And fear. “I won’t have you fillin’ my wife’s head with notions that aren’t true. I’ve seen this sickness before.” He swallowed, his eyes hardening. “I know what it does.”

Rand stood his ground, sharing the man’s fear, though unable to show it. “I’ve seen it too, Mr. Foster. I know how to treat it and I know how it spreads. And I’m not going to give you false hope. I believe your son will be fine, but your . . .” Rand saw the glisten of emotion rise in Foster’s eyes. “But Paige,” he continued, voice soft, “is very ill. Still, I’ll do everything I can for her, and you don’t need to pay me a thing.”

An hour later, Rand guided his mare down the mountain trail leading from the Fosters’ cabin into town, feeling the weight of Graham Foster’s love for his family, and also of his distrust. Rand intended to do everything he could to earn the man’s confidence but feared that might not be possible in this case.

He rode on, intending to check on Ben first and then stop by the sheriff ’s office to see McPherson—to let him know about the typhoid fever. But as he neared the main thoroughfare, he heard a low thrum, like the sound of water rushing over rocks. And when he rounded the corner, he reined in sharp.

A horde of people surged in and out of the Mullinses’ store, pushing and shoving their way across the crowded boardwalk. Guiding his horse through the fray, Rand spotted Lyda standing in the doorway of the store, her back to the street, arms outstretched.

People rushed past her, their arms loaded with goods.

A burly, unkempt-looking man—a miner, judging by his coat and dungarees—exited the store, holding as much as he could carry. Lyda attempted to stop him, and Rand watched in disbelief as the man shoved her back, nearly knocking her off her feet.

Rand leapt from his horse, keeping Lyda in his focus. She somehow gained her balance and pursued the man, grabbing hold of his shirtsleeve. “You need to pay for those!”

The man shrugged her off again, and Lyda would have fallen if a gentleman hadn’t come to her aid. Rand headed straight for the miner, cutting a path through the human maze.

Rifle shots shattered the chaos, and Rand came to a skidding halt. As did everyone else. The blasts thundered off the mountain range and echoed back across town. People turned in all directions, searching the street, clinging to what they held.

“Everybody stay right where you are!” James McPherson stepped to the boardwalk, rifle in one hand, the other resting on the pistol holstered at his hip. His gaze moved to the miner who’d strode past Lyda, and the aim of his rifle followed suit.

Rand felt the heat of McPherson’s indignation from where he stood.

Apparently the miner did too, because the man shifted the items in his arms, looking decidedly less belligerent than moments before. “I told that woman there”—the miner nodded toward Lyda—“to put this on my credit.”

McPherson looked at Lyda, who shook her head.

McPherson cocked the rifle. “The lady says that’s not the way of it, friend. So why don’t you head on back in there and settle up with her. Then you and I can settle our account over at the jail.”

“But, Sheriff,” another man said, “we heard about the influenza. We need these supplies!”

A young woman moved closer, baby on one hip, a sack of flour on the other. “Once people start gettin’ sick, Sheriff, the stages won’t come through. How are we supposed to feed our—”

Rand stepped forward. “It’s
not
influenza!”

James’s attention shot to him, and his eyes narrowed as if he wished he knew what Rand was about to say. Then he gave a subtle nod.

Rand stepped to the boardwalk alongside James. “It’s not influenza,” he repeated, “and there’s no need to panic. There
is
need for precaution, however—”