Within My Heart (45 page)

“Did you know my papa, Doc Brookston?”

Rand stilled at Kurt’s question, grateful they were almost done with the examination. He’d removed the sutures a month ago, and the wound on Kurt’s head was healing nicely. Rand reached for the jar of sugar sticks on the shelf behind him. “No, Kurt, I didn’t. Your papa was already in heaven when I came to Timber Ridge.”

A look of consternation crossed Kurt’s face. Rand opened the jar and Kurt withdrew a piece of candy.

“Grape?” he asked.

Kurt nodded.

Rand chose the same. “Grape’s my favorite too.”

Kurt’s smile was more easily won these days, but Rand still sensed there was something on the boy’s mind, as he had during their last few visits. What was bothering Kurt, he didn’t know. But he thought he’d narrowed it down. It had something to do with Thomas, he was almost certain, and he’d shared as much with Rachel. She’d dropped Kurt off earlier, saying she’d come back for him, but Rand arranged for her to meet them later, wanting this time together with Kurt. Alone.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

Kurt hopped off the table.

He let Kurt set the pace down the boardwalk, enjoying the warmth of a July sun.

Kurt peered up. “Is your papa in heaven too?”

“Yes, he is. He went to heaven several years ago. Before you were even born.”

“Were you a boy, like me?”

Rand felt a tenderness inside at the question. “No, I was already grown up.”

Kurt didn’t say anything to that, but Rand could feel the boy’s wheels spinning. With forethought, Rand steered their path toward Miss Clara’s, where they claimed a table over on the side beneath the shade of the tree. Miss Clara brought them glasses of lemonade, cool and tart, and kept refilling them to the brim.

Rand watched as Kurt downed his third glass. “What do you remember about your papa, Kurt?”

Kurt wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Mitch says Papa used to take us on picnics. Mama says my legs got tired and Papa had to carry me on his shoulders, but I think I walked. Like Mitch.”

Rand leaned forward. “What else do you remember?”

The boy studied the tabletop for a moment, as though it might hold the answer. “Mitch has a hat that Papa used to wear. Mama gave it to him. And sometimes Mama wears his old trousers beneath her skirt.” He grinned, but it was short-lived.

Rand scooted his chair a little closer. “What do
you
remember about your papa, Kurt? Not something that Mitch remembers, or that your mother remembers. But something that’s all yours.”

Kurt frowned. His lips pulled tight. And as hard as he seemed to try, he couldn’t hold back the tear that eked out the corner of his eye. He swiped it away, an all-too-familiar scowl darkening his face.

His heart breaking, Rand grew more certain than ever about what troubled this little boy. “It’s not your fault that you don’t remember anything about your papa. You were too young, Kurt. It doesn’t mean you loved him less just because you can’t remember things about him.”

“But Mama and Mitch . . .
they
both remember. They talk about him sometimes, and . . .”

“And it makes you feel bad that you can’t remember the same stories.”

Kurt’s brows pinched together. “Mama acts like I should remember. She’s even said I should. But I don’t.” A single, begrudging tear rolled down his cheek. “I can’t e-even remember what his face looked like.”

Rand knelt before him. “Is that why you sometimes misbehave? Because you’re angry that you can’t remember? And maybe you’re even a little angry with your mama for making you feel as if you should?”

Kurt studied him as though trying to gauge whether or not he was being tricked. Then he gave a little shrug, so reminiscent of his mother. Finally, he nodded and bowed his head.

Rand urged his face back up. “Can I tell you something, Kurt? Something that I know for sure?”

Kurt blinked, eyes wide and watchful.

“I know for a fact that your mama loves you and that your papa loved you very much too. And your mama would never want you to feel bad for not remembering him. Just like your papa wouldn’t. Do you believe me?”

Again, Kurt stared, then nodded, his little chin quivering before giving way to the tears he fought to hold back.

Rand hugged him, and to his joy, Kurt’s arms came tight about his neck. “Let me tell you something else, son,” Rand whispered. “We’re going to make lots of new memories together. You and me, and your mama and Mitch.”

Kurt drew back. “ ’Cuz you’re gonna be my new papa.”

They’d talked about this before, so Rand knew he wasn’t asking a question. “Yes, I am. And I can hardly wait for us to go fishing and to catch bugs, and—”

“And look at them under your microscope?”

Rand tousled his red hair. “You bet we will. I give you my word on that.”

After considering for a moment, Kurt nodded and dried his eyes with his sleeve.

They finished their lemonade, and as they headed toward the store, their steps lighter, Rand saw Rachel coming up the street. Her bright expression said she’d already spotted them and—guessing by her smile—she had news of some kind. Apparently good news.

“Mama, Doc Brookston and I had lemonade. At Miss Clara’s. Just us!”

She brushed a kiss to his forehead, and Rand was pleased when Kurt didn’t pull away. Rachel shot him a secretive look saying she was too. “That’s wonderful. And I’ve got another treat. . . . Aunt Lyda’s waiting for you inside with Mitch. She has a cookie for you, if you’re still hungry.”

“Cookies too?” Kurt ran on ahead.

Rachel followed him with her gaze. “I take it you two had a good time together?”

“Very. I’ll tell you about it in a minute, but first give me your news.”

She eyed him. “Who said I have news?”

He gave her a droll look. “We may not be married quite yet, but I know when you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

“Oh, all right.” She smiled and pulled an envelope from her reticule. “Mr. Westin gave me this just a few minutes ago. It’s from the files of the Union Pacific Railroad. As he said, I think it explains a lot.”

Rand opened it and read the letter. It took a moment for the information to sink in. “No wonder Charlie’s name sounded familiar to him. Have you shown this to Charlie yet?”

She shook her head. “I wanted us to go together. I know he’s at the store right now. I just saw him.”

“Let’s go, then. This kind of news can’t wait.”

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Did you have a chance to meet with Mr. Tolliver this morning?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Rand smiled. “And you’re now looking at the
former
not-so-prestigious physician for the Colorado Hot Springs Resort.”

Rachel squeezed his arm, grinning. “How did you finally manage that?”

“It seems Brandon Tolliver is suffering from a severe sore throat and is in need of medical attention.”

“And since you’re the only doctor within a fifty-seven-mile radius . . .”

He grinned. “We’ll be operating on him next week.”

She came to a halt. “No . . .” Humor laced her voice. “You’re kidding me.”

He laughed. “I’m not. We’re performing our first tonsillectomy together. And the best thing is . . . Brandon Tolliver won’t be able to say a word for at least a week.”

They found Charlie in the back room of the store, unloading a wagon. Rachel glanced at the storeroom as they passed, and remembered Ben. So much had happened since that day. . . . She pulled the envelope from her reticule and wondered, as she had when first reading its contents, if Ben was somehow assisting God in orchestrating this moment for Charlie Daggett. And for her too.

“Miss Rachel.” Charlie hefted an oversized crate off his shoulder and onto the floor with a thud, then wiped the sweat from his brow. “Doc.” He nodded, glancing between the two of them. “If it’s medicine you’re here for, Doc—” He pointed. “It’s right here. Just unloaded it.”

Rand ran a hand over the box. “Thanks, Charlie. But Rachel and I are here to speak with you about something else.” He motioned to some chairs outside the back door, where a cool breeze issued. “If you have the time.”

Looking between them, curiosity evident, Charlie lumbered out the back door and claimed a chair. He reached into his coat pocket for something—Rachel could easily guess what—then glanced at her and seemed to think better of it.

“Charlie,” she began softly, having discussed with Rand how best to approach the topic. “Do you remember the day when Edward Westin told you that he thought your name sounded familiar to him?”

Fear crept into Charlie’s expression, just as Rand said it would.

Charlie’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “I don’t know that man. And he don’t know me.”

He started to rise, but Rachel took hold of his hand and urged him back down. “There’s a reason your name sounded familiar to him. It’s because he’d heard your name before. Many years ago. When he worked at the railroad.”

“The same railroad you worked at, Charlie . . .” Rand laid a gentle hand on Charlie’s arm. “Where you were employed as a brakeman . . . the night the accident happened.”

Charlie’s breathing grew heavy. He looked first at Rachel, then at Rand. “H-he . . . told you?” His lips formed a thin, guilty line. “You know what I done?”

Rachel withdrew the letter from the envelope. “Mr. Westin gave this to me just this morning. He wanted to speak to you himself about it, but thought it would be better coming from us.”

Charlie glanced at the piece of paper, then bent forward, forearms resting on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ve asked God a thousand times over to forgive me.” He stared at his hands. “But I know He can’t. Not after what happened. All those people . . . all those lives . . .”

Rachel held out the letter. “You need to read this, Charlie. It will make things a lot clearer for you.”

Charlie just stared ahead, as though seeing something she couldn’t. “Things are already clear enough, Miss Rachel. I remember every face. Every name. I still hear the sounds of the railroad cars plowin’ into each other.” His jaw tightened, but his mouth still trembled. “I carry that night around inside me. I always will. It’s my punishment.”

Rachel started to urge the letter in front of him again, but Rand caught her eye.

He shook his head and took the letter from her hand. “Would you permit me to read this to you, Charlie?”

And then it struck her. . . . Rachel winced at her own thoughtlessness. Charlie Daggett didn’t know how to read. No wonder he’d never read about the account of events in the newspapers.

“The letter’s addressed to you, Charlie. . . . To Mr. Charles Wesley Daggett. It’s dated November 26, 1868.”

Charlie bowed his head as though about to receive a life sentence.

“ ‘On behalf of the Union Pacific Railroad,’ ” Rand continued, “ ‘I wish to convey our deepest apologies and most sincere regrets over any anguish we have caused you since the railroad incident that occurred last fall.’ ”

Charlie’s head stayed bowed, but Rachel sensed a keenness in his attention.

“ ‘After a thorough investigation of the accident, we have concluded that the events leading to the accident on the night of December 15, 1867, were due in total to faulty equipment in the braking system, and not in any part, as was previously judged, to your personal error.’ ”

Charlie drew in a sharp breath.

Rand paused in the reading. “The letter goes on, Charlie, explaining what they found wrong with the braking system, but what they’re saying . . . what they ruled all those years ago, was that accident wasn’t your fault. In no way were you responsible for the deaths of those sixty-eight people. You did everything right that night. It was the people who designed the braking system who made the mistake, however unintentional. Not you. You are not at fault. You were never at fault.”

Charlie’s massive shoulders shook for a full moment before deep sobs finally broke through. Rachel held him on one side, while Rand sat close on the other, and as if looking into a mirror, she saw herself and the needless guilt she’d carried after Thomas’s passing. Much like the burden Charlie had been carrying within himself. But for years now, what a price he’d paid. . . .

Edward Westin had asked to meet with Charlie after they were done, to tell him about the financial settlement the railroad had offered to him after he’d been unjustly accused and fired from his job. Mr. Westin had been in contact with railroad officials and had arranged for interest to be added to the tidy sum indicated in the letter that Rand had yet to finish. Money wouldn’t come close to alleviating the pain Charlie had been through, but it
would
help in rebuilding his future.

She and Rand sat with him for the next hour, talking, praying, and she felt God pouring a balm of grace over Charlie’s wound that ran over into her own, bringing healing and hope.

The night before Ben died, she’d asked him to tell Thomas that she was sorry for what she’d said to him their last morning together, before he’d left to go hunting. She hadn’t known it at the time, but Rand overheard a part of that conversation. When he’d asked her about it and she explained, Rand had echoed Ben’s sentiments—that he knew Thomas had already forgiven her. “But how can you be so sure?” she’d asked. He’d taken her hand and pressed it against his heart. “Because I know the kind of woman you are. A man couldn’t love you like I do, and like I believe Thomas did . . . and not know what’s within your heart.”

Watching Rand now, thinking of the days ahead, working alongside one another, his being a father to her boys, she grew to love him, her future husband and partner, in every way, even more.

E
PILOGUE

S
EPTEMBER
17, 1877

R
achel checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, knowing it was almost time. She was more nervous about today than she knew she should be. For Rand as well as herself. Her gaze lowered to the table beside her, and she fingered the delicate curves of the crystal vase he had given her last night. An early wedding present, he’d said, to replace the one he’d broken. It was exquisite, and so like the one from her mother.