Within My Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  At the table in the corner, Rand prepared the topical anesthetic— his measurements exact, his movements deft and certain. Gratitude wafted through her again. Not only was she witnessing this surgery, a slice of history for Timber Ridge, she was privileged to assist with it and to help Ben and Lyda in some small way.

  She scooted the stool Rand had obtained for her closer to the examination table and sat down, glad to rest her leg. She couldn’t believe Edward Westin had mentioned having dinner with her and the boys at Miss Clara’s last night. The look on Rand’s face had been enough to make her want to dig a hole and crawl inside. Yet the circumstances of the dinner hadn’t been what she could clearly see Rand was thinking, and she intended on telling him exactly that as soon as they had another moment alone.

  Ben was seated on the side of an examination table that could be raised and lowered by turning a crank, and he leaned forward on a tall padded table, shirtless. Rachel had been surprised when Rand told her he would perform this procedure with Ben in a seated position. “The pressure in the lungs when fully inflated,” Rand had explained, demonstrating as he’d sat on her sofa in the parlor, “combined with the pull of gravity will force the fluid to gather at the base of the pleural space, thereby making it easier to extract when the patient is in an upright position.”

  After studying Rand’s drawings of the lungs and discussing the surgical steps, it made perfect sense.

  Ben wore a pair of loose-fitting drawstring trousers that Rand had found in one of the many well-stocked cabinets in the main room. No wonder Rand had been determined to have the surgery at the resort. This facility was beyond her imaginings. And though she still didn’t like the idea of Rand working for Brandon Tolliver, even temporarily, she understood why he’d said yes. She would have done the same thing.

  Standing before Ben, Lyda touched his face with tenderness born only of a well-aged love. “You know what I’ve told you every single day of our marriage,” she whispered, her voice fragile.

  Ben looked at her, his eyes mirroring the love in hers, his expression a mixture of apprehension and nervous hope. “And you know what I’ve told you right back.”

  Lyda leaned down and kissed his cheek, then whispered something into his ear. She drew back and looked at Rand. “Please come and get me as soon as you’re through.” Her eyes glistened. “To tell me that everything went well.”

  Only then did Rachel see it—the yellow flowered hair ribbon in Lyda’s grip. Once bright, the fabric was now faded and frayed around the edges. It had been years since she’d seen it, though she’d never once doubted that Lyda still carried it with her, and always would. Just as she was certain Ben still carried the suede pouch with a wooden ball and twelve metal jacks.

  Rand put an arm around Lyda’s shoulders. “Ben will be fine.” His voice was confident, reassuring. “I’m hoping this procedure will lessen his orneriness, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  Lyda smiled, a smidgen of relief showing. “That’s all right.” She squeezed Ben’s hand. “I don’t mind a little orneriness. Not when it comes with the rest of him.”

  Rand accompanied Lyda outside and returned, closing the door behind him. “Shall we begin?”

  Ben shifted on the table. “I don’t think you want me answering that, Doc.”

  Rachel noticed the slight tremor in his hands and rose to briefly cover them with hers. “You’re in good hands,” she whispered, thinking both of God’s hands and also of Rand’s. The trusting smile Ben gave her was one she would carry with her forever.

  Rand leaned down and looked Ben squarely in the eyes. “I appreciate your trust, Ben, and I won’t let you down. The only thing you need to concentrate on, as we talked about before, is breathing when I tell you to breathe, and holding your breath when I tell you to hold it. We’ll be done in no time.”

  Ben nodded and focused at the door through which Lyda had exited, and Rachel felt his love for his wife. And she wondered . . . what it must be like for him, knowing he was close to the end of his life? At least his life on earth. Everyone died. That was a given. But not everyone was warned of death’s approach. And she wondered whether knowing was better, or worse. She decided the former, based on the regrets she had with Thomas, wishing she’d had the chance to talk to him one last time.

  Rand placed Ben’s arms on the chest-high table positioned in front of him so that Ben was leaning forward, his back slightly arched. “Is that comfortable for you?” At Ben’s nod, Rand moved around behind him and gave Rachel a thoughtful look, his shoulders lifting as he took a breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.

  The poultice mixture he’d applied on two small areas of Ben’s back a half hour earlier were still moist. With a fresh cloth, he wiped one of the spots clean. He lightly pressed the tip of the hollow needle against Ben’s skin. “Tell me when you feel something.”

  Seconds ticked past.

  Ben turned his head to one side. “Well, go ahead, Doc. I’m not gettin’ any younger just sittin’ here.”

  Rachel smiled at the playful sarcasm in Ben’s voice. She mentally reviewed the details of the surgery and the illustrations Rand had drawn depicting the various steps. He would insert the needle into the outer sac that encased each lung, the place where the fluid gathered, being careful not to puncture the lungs. To do so would cause the lungs to collapse—the greatest risk involved in the surgery itself, besides the possibility of developing a fever.

  With expert focus, Rand inserted the tip of the needle just below the skin, then paused. “All right, Ben, no sudden movements. I want you to take some normal breaths, like we discussed a few minutes ago. Yes, good, just like that. After I start counting, you’re going to feel a slight sense of pulling or pressure in your chest. Tell me if you start to feel faint or if you have any shortness of breath, or if you need to cough. Because I must remove the needle from the pleural cavity before you do. That’s imperative. Do you understand?”

  “I gotcha, Doc.” Ben kept breathing as he’d been instructed.

  Rand gave Rachel a nod, and she readied the apparatus in her hands, the instrument Rand told her he’d designed for this procedure. “I’ll count to ten,” he said. “On the count of two, Ben, hold your breath. On the count of ten, exhale. It’s that simple.”

  “You sure you can count that high, Doc?”

  A tiny smile eased the tension in Rand’s expression. “Mrs. Boyd is here. She’ll keep me on track. Here we go. . . .” He briefly closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, then opened them again. Needle positioned, he slid it in farther. “One . . . two, hold your breath”— Rand leaned in as though every sense available to him was honed on that needle’s progress—“three . . . four . . .”

  He held the needle still and signaled to Rachel. She began pulling back on the plunger portion of the syringe, which was attached to a small bottle, which was affixed via a narrow tube to the hollow needle. The science behind the apparatus was simple yet amazingly clever. As she pulled back on the plunger, the suction created a vacuum effect inside the bottle and pulled the fluid from the outer sac encompassing the lung.

  “Steady,” Rand whispered to her, nodding his approval. “Six . . . seven—”

  Fluid filtered through the tube and into the bottle at a surprising rate, faster than Rachel had expected. Which, according to what Rand told her during their discussion the other night, indicated a greater amount of fluid present. Which wasn’t good.

  “Nine”—he signaled for her to stop and then pulled the needle back—“Ten, and exhale now, Ben.”

  Ben did and coughed hard. He took some rattled breaths.

  “You all right?” Rand leaned around to look at him, hand on Ben’s shoulder.

  “Sitting still like that was a mite harder than I thought it would be.” He coughed again. “But I’m fine. Did you get anything, Doc?”

  “We sure did.” Rand held up the bottle for him to see.

  Ben’s eyes widened. “Well . . . what do you know. No wonder I’m havi
ng such trouble breathing.”

  “Mrs. Boyd performed the extraction herself.” Rand looked over at her. “And she couldn’t have done a better job.”

  Rachel beamed, despite knowing his praise was overly generous. “I had the easy part. And, Ben, you did wonderfully,” she added, grateful for the chance to be a part of the process, to be helping. She couldn’t quite define what it was she was feeling in that moment, but whatever it was, it felt wonderful. A kind of wonderful she hadn’t felt in a long time. If ever.

  “As soon as you’ve gained your breath, Ben, we need to do that again on the same side. Did you feel any discomfort?”

  Ben shook his head. “Just felt like something was tugging on me from the inside a little. Didn’t hurt, though.”

  They withdrew two more syringes full of fluid from the left lung, then moved to the right and proceeded to do the same. Rachel glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes had passed. Lyda must be worrying something awful. She started to ask Rand if she could step out and give Lyda an update when he straightened, stretching his back muscles.

  “Twice more on this side, Ben, and we’ll be done.” Perspiration beaded Rand’s brow, and Rachel dabbed it dry, remembering having done the same for her father. Rand thanked her for the simple gesture—something she couldn’t remember her father ever doing.

  Ben took a deep breath. “I think I can already feel the difference, Doc. You’re pretty good at this.”

  The three of them laughed. They had this procedure down to a routine now, and as Rand counted to ten again, Rachel pulled back on the syringe, slow and steady.

  “Five . . . six, almost done.” Rand nodded to her, indicating all was well. “Seven . . . eig—”

  Ben’s upper body jerked hard as he tried to stifle a cough, and couldn’t. Rand gripped Ben’s shoulder and pulled the needle from his back, but judging by the dread in Rand’s eyes, Rachel knew something had gone wrong. She grabbed the needle from him as he reached for Ben.

  Rand held him as Ben gripped his left arm. “Rachel! The digitalis!”

  She knew right where it was. Rand had insisted they have everything at the ready, so the digitalis was already mixed. She held the cup to Ben’s mouth. Ben drank in noisy gulps, sounding as though he might choke on it.

  “Is it his lung?” she asked, thinking the needle had punctured it.

  “I don’t think so,” Rand said. “I think it’s his heart.”

  Ben grimaced, his face twisted in pain, then he suddenly went limp. Rachel went cold inside. Oh, God, no. Not yet.

  Rand pressed two fingers against the underside of Ben’s throat. “Help me lay him back.”

  She slipped an arm about Ben’s waist, her leg already aching from the added pressure, and helped reposition Ben on the examination table. “What can I do?”

  “Talk to him,” Rand said, reaching for his stethoscope.

  She leaned close to his ear. “Ben, stay with us, please. It’s not time for you to go yet.” She felt Rand watching her as he listened to Ben’s chest. She grabbed Ben’s hand and squeezed it tight. “You did so well during the surgery. You were so brave.” She swallowed the emotion rising in her throat. “This procedure is going to give you more time . . . just like you wanted.” She looked up at Rand, praying to God she wasn’t lying.

  “His heartbeat is weak but steady.”

  Ben’s eyes suddenly shot open. He sucked in a noisy breath.

  “Ben!” Rachel drew closer. “Can you hear me?”

  He blinked, his eyes glassy, as though he wasn’t sure where he was. “How could I not hear you . . . with you screamin’ in my ear.”

  Laughing, she kissed his stubbled cheek, unable to speak.

  Rand checked Ben’s eyes, pulling down on each lower lid. “So much for the procedure helping your orneriness, Ben Mullins.”

  Ben smiled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh, Doc. . . . It hurts too much.” He looked around, as though just remembering where he was. “What happened?”

  Rand removed the stethoscope from his ears. “From what I can tell, you had another heart episode, less serious than last time, thank God. But still . . .” He looked at Rachel, concern lining his features. “Administering the digitalis so quickly helped, I’m sure. Thank you for being here . . . Mrs. Boyd.”

  Rachel glimpsed far more than gratitude in his eyes. “My pleasure,” she whispered, feeling braver in the moment than she would have if they’d been alone.

  Ben reached up and gently patted the side of her face. “Thomas would be so proud of you, Rachel. He always said you had a gift for doctoring.”

  Silently questioning, she knew Ben wasn’t a man given to exaggeration. “You mean . . . ?” She firmed her lips to keep them from trembling. “You’re saying that Thomas . . . he said that to you?”

  “He sure did, honey. More than once. You didn’t know?”

  She closed her eyes and tasted the salt of tears on her tongue. Thomas had paid her countless compliments in their marriage, but never that one, and she didn’t have to think long to come up with the reason why. She sniffed and chanced a look up, and felt her breath steal away.

  In the space of a blink, she read every unguarded emotion in Rand’s face. Gratitude, pride, relief, humility—and a depth of desire so intense it reached inside her and set to flame that tiny flicker of a spark she’d worked so hard to shelter.

  That afternoon, as Rand saw guests from the resort in the first patient room, Rachel tended to Ben and Lyda in the other and tidied up the surgical area. It had been years since she’d worked in a setting resembling this one. And in an odd but good way, it felt like coming home. Even if this “home” was only temporary.

  Rand had made the decision not to continue the procedure on Ben’s right lung, and she agreed wholeheartedly in light of what had happened. That meant Ben would be staying at the resort longer than planned and that they would complete the procedure in a few days, which Ben wasn’t thrilled about. Lyda, on the other hand, seemed relieved that Rand insisted on keeping him there.

  Rand’s voice carried as he met with patients, and Rachel noted the conversational tone he used when speaking with them. Almost as if they were sitting across a table, sharing a cup of coffee. No wonder people opened up to him like they did. More than once, she laughed to herself at the ailments the guests were seeing him about. A woman complaining about the wrinkles on her neck, a man concerned about his thinning hair . . .

  No arguing the fact—the Colorado Hot Springs Resort catered to the rich and privileged. She looked around the pristine clinic, all crisp and white, the shelves of bottles and tins bearing familiar names, the medical instruments with recognizable, but also slightly different, updated looks. And she couldn’t help but compare it all to the muck and mire of the ranch. She ran a finger over the work-worn calluses lining her palms.

  Running a ranch wasn’t the life she would have chosen on her own, but it was the life she and Thomas had chosen together, and she was still determined to make a success of it. She just needed help figuring out how to do that, especially since she’d guaranteed Mr. Fossey that, come fall, she’d be caught up on her loan payments.

  James and Molly, who were at the cabin with Mitch and Kurt today, had invited her and the boys over for lunch soon. James had inquired again about the ranch and she’d decided to run some ideas by him, see what he thought.

  It seemed her cattle simply weren’t strong enough to make it through the bitter months of freezing temperatures. Sickness and cold were picking them off one by one, same as those on other ranches. Except the other ranches were larger, more profitable, and employed numerous ranch hands. They could absorb the losses far better than she could. Maybe James would have some ideas, but if he attempted to come to her rescue, she would simply be firm about wanting to handle things herself.

  Rand checked on Ben several times throughout the afternoon, and each time she sensed concern in his guarded manner. Throughout the day, Lyda never left Ben’s side. She seemed to anticipate hi
s needs before he could voice them.

  A server from the restaurant delivered dinner at six o’clock sharp, and Rachel dined with Lyda and Ben in the patient recovery room, where the couple would stay for however long it took Ben to recuperate. She kept Rand’s plate covered as his appointments ran long. When Ben and Lyda decided to retire early, she checked Ben’s temperature again, watchful for the least sign of fever that often set in following surgery. But his temperature remained normal and the places on his back where Rand had inserted the needle showed no irritation.

  Bidding them good night, Rachel closed the door to their room, then limped across the suite to the physician’s quarters. Exhausted, her leg aching, she sank into a chair and leaned her head back, watching through the window as the sun bathed the mountains in hues of gold and red. She smiled, knowing now why the sky turned those colors. She wondered if the boys were staring at the sunset too. She was eager to get home to them.

  She yawned, closing her eyes. Charlie Daggett had agreed to escort her home but had indicated it could be after nine o’clock before his work at the resort was done. A few minutes rest would do her good, but only a few. . . .

  24

  Rachel awakened to lamplight and the soft scratch of fountain pen on paper. She stirred, seeing the world beyond the window now bathed in darkness, and not one but four oil lamps illuminating the physician’s quarters. The fountain pen went silent.

  “Good evening,” Rand whispered, looking at her from the chair opposite hers, pen in hand. A journal of some sort rested on his thigh. “You looked so peaceful, I hated to wake you.”

  Rachel smiled and sat up straighter, stretching. Napping was heavenly, and something unaccustomed. It gave her peace of mind to know the boys were with James and Molly until she returned home. Mitch and Kurt were loving the company, no doubt. She glanced at the number of lamps adorning the room again, remembering the night Rand had fallen asleep in her parlor, and how shaken he’d seemed when she found him outside on the porch. “I wake up,” he’d said, “and can’t remember where I am. I get to feeling a little closed in sometimes.” She guessed the extra lamps made sense. By nature, Rand was a man who liked to be prepared. But still, four? She yawned, deciding not to comment. “How long have I been asleep?”