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.
<
br /> 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.
“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
Good 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 . . .”
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