Within My Heart
Page 2
Tears rimmed Lyda’s eyes. Her hands shook. “We were . . .” She looked away and Rachel felt a pinch of guilt. “We were . . . kissing, and the next thing I knew Ben was clutching at his arm.” Panic thinned her tone. “He acted like he couldn’t catch his breath, and then he . . .” She bit her lower lip as tears spilled over. “He just went down.”
Rachel closed her eyes and concentrated on finding a pulse, wishing she had her father’s old stethoscope. “Has anything like this happened to Ben before?”
Lyda shook her head and nudged her husband’s shoulder with a trembling hand. “Ben,” she whispered, “can you hear me?”
Fingertips pressed against the underside of his wrist, Rachel stilled. There—finally, she felt something. A pulse. Thready and shallow. Too much so. “He needs Dr. Brookston,” she whispered, touching Ben’s brow to find it cool and clammy. “I’ll go find him. You stay here.”
Lyda reached for her hand. “You know what’s happening . . .”
It wasn’t a question and Rachel didn’t answer. Before Timber Ridge boasted a physician of its own, she’d served as midwife to women in town. She’d also treated wounds and sewn up her share of cuts and gashes. People rarely called on her since the doctor arrived—maybe an expectant mother every now and then—but she had a fairly good idea of what was happening to Ben. Yet she wasn’t about to state it aloud. It would only add to Lyda’s worry, and her assumption could well be wrong. She wasn’t a trained physician, after all. Medical schools were for men, not women.
“The important thing, Lyda, is that Ben is breathing and I can feel a pulse. Whatever you do, don’t move him. If he comes to while I’m gone, make sure he doesn’t try to get up. That’s very important.” She reached for a towel on a shelf, rolled it up, and gently slid it beneath Ben’s head. “And keep his head elevated until I get back with the doctor.” She stood.
Lyda stared up, fresh tears rising. “Is he . . . going to be all right?”
Rachel knelt again, on the verge of tears herself. At forty-nine, Ben Mullins was almost twenty years her senior—Lyda was half that. Yet in recent years the older couple had become almost like parents to her. Ben treated her much like a father would and was like an uncle to her sons. Lyda was a trusted friend and filled the role of an indulgent aunt to the boys, which included sneaking them candy in church when they were younger, and occasionally even now. Yet Rachel still couldn’t bring herself to answer Lyda’s question.
She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “Did you hear what I said? About making sure Ben stays still and about keeping his head elevated?”
Shadows of realization darkened Lyda’s eyes. “Yes,” she choked out, nodding. “I heard. It’s just that—” She drew in a ragged breath. “Rachel . . . he’s all I have now. I can’t lose him too.”
A horrible, suffocating wave of grief hit Rachel all over again. Only it wasn’t from memories of Thomas. She knew that pain only too well. This was different, and it tore at her heart. She reached for Lyda’s hand and gripped it tight, remembering a bitter wintry night eight years ago. A night she and Lyda had spoken of only a handful of times since.
Filling her lungs, she worked to steady her voice, the image of Ben and Lyda’s children, their expressions so peaceful, so precious, even in death, making that nearly impossible. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the haunting images remained. “I’m going to go find the doctor—he’ll know what to do. I won’t be long, I promise.”
Lyda nodded, her expression communicating what words could not. “Thank you, Rachel. And please . . . hurry.”
Rachel ran the short distance to the doctor’s clinic and entered without knocking. Angelo Giordano stood at a worktable inside, pestle in hand. “Angelo—” She paused to catch her breath, the chilled mountain air still burning her lungs. “Is Dr. Brookston here?”
The young man shook his head. “The doctor . . . he is at—” He lowered his head. “He is away, Mrs. Boyd.” Though his Italian accent was thick and his word choices careful, Angelo Giordano’s diction was flawless. “But if maybe . . . I could be of help—”
“I need Dr. Brookston, Angelo! I think Ben Mullins is having heart failure.”
The boy’s dark eyes went wide.
Rachel hurried to a bookcase crammed with bottles and metal tins, each neatly labeled. But the shelves were cramped, and numerous tins sat stacked on the plank-wood floor gathering dust. She scanned the labels, finding them a challenge to read in the poor light and with the containers stuffed in as they were. She exhaled. Could Dr. Brookston not afford a proper cabinet for his medicine? “Do you know if the doctor has any foxglove? It’s a plant—an herb. It’s used with patients who have heart ailments.”
“I do not know, ma’am,” Angelo said, joining her in the search.
Rachel shoved a tin aside to view another behind it, and a bottle of laudanum slipped off the shelf. She tried to catch it, but the bottle hit the floor with a crack and shattered, splattering laudanum and sending glass shards in all directions. She bit back a harsh word. “I’m sorry, Angelo. I didn’t mean to break—”
“Dr. Brookston will not be angry.” The boy reached for a rag. “I will clean it.”
Her panic mounting, Rachel spotted two wooden crates in the corner, but they held only bottles of lamp oil. Enough to last for an entire year! What did anyone need with that much oil? An unopened box on the examination table drew her attention.
Angelo gestured. “It is new medicine. It came today. That is why I am here. Maybe I should—”
She nodded, anticipating what he might say next. “Yes. Go through that box—quickly please, Angelo—and look for anything that has either of these words on it.” She grabbed the fountain pen and a piece of paper from Dr. Brookston’s desk and scribbled a note. She already knew firsthand from having assisted Dr. Rand Brookston last fall that he was an exemplary surgeon—she only hoped he was as conscientious about keeping medications ordered and in stock.
She pressed the paper into Angelo’s hand. “Now, do you have any idea where the doctor might be? Who he was going to see?”
Angelo blinked, glancing downward.
“Angelo, please! There’s little time.”
Wincing, the young man reluctantly met her gaze. “He spoke of going to . . . to Miss Bailey’s.”
Rachel frowned, confused. “Miss Bailey’s . . .”
He nodded once. “The woman, she has a house over on—”
“I know where Miss Bailey’s house is.”
Angelo swallowed and the sound was audible. “The doctor . . . sometimes he sees to the . . . boarders who live there.”
Rachel felt the furrows in her brow. Boarders wasn’t exactly the word she would have chosen to describe the women who lived under Miss Bailey’s roof. Regardless, she needed the doctor, and if that’s where he was, for whatever reason, then that’s where she would go. “As soon as you find either of the items listed on that sheet of paper, bring them as quickly as you can to the mercantile, to the back storeroom. Will you do that, please?”
Angelo nodded, his chest puffing out. “Yes, Mrs. Boyd. If what is on this paper is in this box, I will find it. I will bring it.”
She thanked him and took off down the boardwalk at a run.
The April air was brisk, burning her lungs. It held the promise of more snow, and Rachel pulled her winter shawl tighter around her shoulders, wishing she hadn’t left her coat at the store. A gust of wind disturbed the layer of fresh-fallen snow lining the rooftops and sent it swirling downward.
Winter wouldn’t leave the Rockies for at least another month, maybe two, and she prayed the cold wouldn’t cost her more cattle than it already had, or the calves due to drop any day. But especially the calf belonging to Lady. She’d bought Lady a year ago, her first major investment for the ranch, and a good one, for a change.
She turned at the next street. Thankfully, foot traffic on the boardwalk was scarce.
School hadn’t dismissed yet but soon would—and she wouldn’t
be there to meet the boys, or to have that visit with their teacher. When she didn’t show, she knew Mitchell and Kurt would walk to James’s office and wait there until she arrived. The boys loved their uncle James and never complained about visiting the sheriff ’s office, but she worried about what they saw and overheard there. Still, some days it couldn’t be helped.
Only last fall had she begun to allow Mitch and Kurt to walk to school on their own again. She still accompanied them in the wagon as far as Ben and Lyda’s store each morning, unable to stomach the thought of them walking the distance from the ranch like they once had. Not after what had happened to Thomas, and with the recent reports of cougar sightings.
Winded, she struggled to maintain the hurried pace, her breath puffing white. Winter-shrouded peaks towered high above Timber Ridge and drew her gaze upward as thoughts of Ben pressed close. The rush of her pulse pounded hard in her ears.
If only Ben’s heart could beat half as strong . . .
If Ben had a history of heart weakness, he’d never mentioned it. Neither had Lyda. And Rachel felt certain they would have, given her closeness to them.
A left at the next intersection led her into a part of town she didn’t usually frequent. Saloons and gaming halls lined the thoroughfare. Even midday the smell of liquor was potent. She spotted Miss Bailey’s establishment at the end of the street and made a beeline for it, wondering how she knew which building it was. She couldn’t recall being told. It was simply one of those places everybody in town knew of, but most folks—at least in her circle—never spoke about.
Two women lazed against the railing of the wraparound porch, talking, dressed in a manner ill-advised for the cold and that might have been shocking had Rachel been naïve about their occupation. But she wasn’t, and she raced up the porch stairs, the unease over having to visit a place like this paling in comparison to her concern for Ben. She never broke stride. “I’ve come to get Dr. Brookston. It’s an emergen—”
The woman on the left, a blonde, stepped directly into her path, blocking the door.
Rachel stopped short.
“I think you mean Rand, don’t you?” the woman said, looking her up and down and smiling, though not in a friendly way. “That’s what we all call him.” She crossed her arms over her chest and her ample cleavage lifted to threaten the already strained buttons of her thin shirtwaist. “He’s inside, visiting with one of the girls. And I don’t think he’ll take kindly to being interrupted.” She gave a throaty laugh. “I know Patricia won’t. She’s been waitin’ for this all week.” She tossed a wink at the woman beside her.
“Visiting with one of the girls.” Fairly good at reading people, Rachel knew when she was being goaded. She had no qualms about the doctor seeing to the health of these women. Her father had been a physician, and she respected a physician’s oath to care for the sick, regardless of person or circumstance. Yet Dr. Brookston’s coming here, to this place, and his apparent familiarity with these women . . . Such behavior hinted at arrogance. An arrogance with which she was only too familiar when it came to men of his profession.
An arrogance that often led to their downfall.
“Like it or not—” Rachel squared her shoulders, finding boldness when picturing Lyda cradling Ben—“Dr. Brookston’s visit here is about to be cut short.” She pushed past the woman, yanking her arm free when the blonde grabbed hold. Once inside, she hustled to close the door and flipped the lock into place, knowing it wouldn’t buy her much time.
The women pounded on the glass-paned door behind her, yelling obscenities. Surely the building had a back door, so Rachel knew she was only prolonging the inevitable, but she didn’t need long.
The sickeningly sweet smell of perfume hit her full in the face. That, and stale liquor. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
Laughter drifted down from the second floor, giving hint as to where she should begin her search. She hurried up the spiral staircase. The garish red carpet muted her boot steps. She instinctively reached for the handrail, then held back, thinking better of it.
Oversized oil paintings covered the walls, detailed in their renderings and advertising the services bartered in this place. After her gaze collided with a particularly graphic “portrait,” she kept her eyes averted, but couldn’t block out the disturbing memories that came with being inside a place like this. Not that she’d ever been inside a brothel before—
But her father had. On numerous occasions. With many women. For many years.
For the thousandth time, she questioned why doctors considered themselves more highly than they ought, more immune to weaknesses in character and less prone to fault—when based on personal experience, with few exceptions, she’d found quite the opposite to be true.
She reached the second-story landing, and the gravel of male voices blended with female laughter to paint a plurality of mental images Rachel tried in vain to block out. She looked down the long hallway. So many doors . . . and they were all closed.
The rush of footsteps sounded from downstairs. “She must have gone up there!”
Time running out, Rachel pounded on the first door.
2
Rand helped the young woman to a sitting position, ignoring how she held his hand a tad too long. What he had to tell Miss Bailey downstairs would not go over well. Not when it meant her best girl wouldn’t be working for a while. But for Patricia, “working” wasn’t an option, and he had a fairly good idea of how to ensure Miss Bailey’s compliance. He crossed the room to wash his hands.
“Will it hurt like this for long, Doc?”
“For a few days, I’m afraid.” He dried his hands on the clean towel he carried with him in his medical bag, hearing what sounded like pounding from down the hallway. Probably another fight, which would likely result in someone else needing to be sutured, same as the last time he was here. “I’ll give you a salve to use and some herbs to be mixed with hot tea. Drink it twice daily, morning and night, until the herbs are gone.” He packed his equipment back in his bag, aware of the young woman’s continued stare.
Patricia would never be mistaken for subtle, but the way she perched on the edge of the wrought-iron bed—one leg drawn up beneath her while the other dangled off the side—was particularly unladylike. And held purpose.
“You’re gonna say no again, Doc, because right now I’m ailin’. But maybe later, when I’m better . . .” Her shapely leg swung from side to side, keeping time with the clock’s pendulum on the opposite wall. She patted the bedcovers beside her. “Miss Bailey wouldn’t need to know. Nobody would. And I wouldn’t charge you either.” She fingered the lace ties of her shirtwaist, a pouty smile rising. “I guess you could say I have a softness for Southern men.”
Rand rolled down his shirtsleeves, seeing more challenge in the woman’s eyes than softness. “No . . . thank you, Patricia. As always.”
Her sharp exhale said she’d anticipated his response.
While he struggled with physical desires, only one woman in the town of Timber Ridge had ever made him look twice. Actually, more than twice. But since she’d never indicated the least interest in him—had done quite the opposite, in fact—he’d set his interest aside. Or was trying.
The pounding in the hallway grew closer, as did the muffle of angry voices.
Patricia gave a petulant sigh, seemingly unfazed by the altercation on the other side of the door. “Don’t you ever long for the pleasure of a woman, Rand? Or wish that instead of listening to my chest through that fancy earpiece of yours, that you could—”
“I’m informing Miss Bailey that I don’t want you entertaining clients, Patricia, for at least three weeks.” Rand delivered a straightforward gaze that silenced any rebuttal. He reached for his suit jacket. “And before you return to work, I want to examine you again. To make sure you’re well.”
Huffing, she finally dropped the alluring façade. “Miss Battleaxe won’t agree to me taking three weeks off and we both know it.”
“Get your hands off of me!” a female voice insisted from the other side of the door.
Rand wasn’t personally familiar with the women who worked here, but something in this particular woman’s tone told him she wasn’t one of Miss Bailey’s girls. Why would such a woman be—
A pounding on the bedroom door brought him full around.
“Dr. Brookston! Are you in there?”
“He’s busy,” Patricia called out, laughing and tossing him a playful wink as she struck a seductive pose on the bed.
Throwing her a look of warning, Rand reached for the door. But it opened before he could turn the latch. Stunned, he swallowed. Or tried to. “M-Mrs. Boyd, what are you—”
“We need you! It’s Ben Mullins. He just collapsed!” Her expression fierce, Rachel Boyd struggled against a hard-looking blonde on one side and a shirtless miner on the other.
The blonde gave her arm a jerk. “We told her she’s not supposed to be up here!”
The miner smiled. “Fine by me if she’s—”
Rand caught hold of the man’s wrist. “Let go of her. Now.”
Smirking, the miner complied. The woman did too, daggers in her eyes.
Rachel shrugged them off and gave the blonde a dark look. “I can’t be sure about Ben, Doctor, but—” She spoke quickly, breathless. “I think it’s his heart.”
Rand grabbed his bag. “Where is he?”
“At the store. In the back. Lyda’s with him.” Her gaze slid past him, and suspicion slipped into her eyes.
Able to guess how Patricia was still positioned on the bed, Rand stepped into Rachel’s line of sight, blocking her view. But her conclusions were easily read in her expression. He needed to clarify his purpose in being here, but now wasn’t the time. “How long ago did this happen?” He indicated for her to precede him down the hall.