Without waiting for her response, he walked to the bookshelf on the far wall, briefly glimpsing her profile in a mirror. With a petulant pout, she frowned and began buttoning her shirtwaist, removing all doubt from his mind as to her intentions.
Busying himself with searching for the tea, he waited an appropriate time before returning. “Here we are.” He placed the colored tin beside her on the table. “Brew two teaspoons with hot water. And you may take it as often as needed.” He offered his hand as she negotiated the footstool to the floor, then noticed her fingers.
She tugged her hand away.
He frowned. “I’m sorry, Miss Stafford, but did you—”
“It’s nothing.” She gathered her reticule and reached for the tea.
He’d only caught a glimpse, but her fingers looked discolored. Bruised perhaps? “Did you catch your hand in a door? If you’d like for me to look at—”
“It’s nothing like that.” Her cheeks flushed. “It’s . . .” Her lips firmed. “One of my students thought it amusing to paint my desk drawer pulls with ink this afternoon.” She yanked her sleeve farther down. “I failed to see the humor.”
Rand didn’t doubt that for a minute, seeing her annoyance. He worked at curbing a grin. “Rubbing alcohol does wonders in removing ink. But be sure and use lotion afterwards. The alcohol is very drying.”
A smile warmed her frustration. “Why, thank you, Dr. Brookston. That’s so kind of you to—”
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Rand couldn’t reach for the latch fast enough.
“Mr. Daggett!” Rand shook Charlie’s hand, discreetly pulling the man inside—no easy task. “What can I do for you?”
Charlie eyed him, then Miss Stafford. “I’m just makin’ deliveries.” He handed Rand an envelope. “I got somethin’ out in the wagon. It’s from Miss Rachel.”
“From Rachel?” Rand followed Charlie to the door. What would she be sending him?
Charlie spoke over his shoulder. “She said it’s her way of sayin’ thanks. Somethin’ about you lettin’ her help with the surgery and her thankin’ you for it. I’m guessin’ it’s all in the note there.”
Rand spotted something large and rectangular in the wagon bed, wrapped in a blanket. He smiled, thinking again of the moment he and Rachel had shared in the—
Then he felt it—the heat of Miss Stafford’s attention. He hadn’t forgotten she was there. Not exactly, anyway. He’d simply been distracted. Hurt lined Judith Stafford’s face, her focus on the envelope in his hand.
Stepping back inside, he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. “My apologies, Miss Stafford.” He sensed she was awaiting further explanation but felt no compulsion to offer such. “I do hope you get to feeling better very soon.”
The hurt in her eyes slowly melted away. A cool, flat stare took its place. She walked past him to the door, looked out at the wagon, then back at him. “How fortunate that Mrs. Boyd, or Rachel . . . has such a love for medicine, and that you hold her in such high regard.” A smile tipped her mouth but didn’t alter the displeasure in her eyes. “However, I can’t help but wonder”—she stepped past him onto the boardwalk—“if perhaps her time might be more wisely spent at home, disciplining her younger son.”
Miss Stafford cut a path across the street and disappeared around the corner, leaving Rand staring.
He thought of Kurt, then of Miss Stafford’s desk drawer pulls, and saw the prank playing out all too clearly in his mind. That boy . . . Remembering what it was like to be Kurt’s age and how tempting it was to do anything that might draw a laugh, he almost smiled. Yet he couldn’t. Not while knowing that Rachel would see nothing amusing about her son’s latest antic, and not while he himself had a growing concern over Kurt’s misbehavior.
“Hey, Doc, could you grab the other end of this?”
Rand blinked and glanced back at the wagon, and couldn’t believe his eyes. Rachel Boyd . . . you sweet woman.
Rand dismounted, already hearing the laughter and conversation coming through an open window. He checked his pocket watch again and winced. He was more than an hour late, and he knew how Rachel felt about his not showing up on time. They’d probably finished lunch by now—and he was famished. He looped the mare’s reins over the rail and took the stairs by twos up to James and Molly McPherson’s front porch.
The first week of May had delivered on its promise of spring, and he loosened his tie a little at the collar before knocking. When James had invited him for Sunday lunch a few days ago, he’d added, with a telling grin, that Rachel and the boys would be present. Rand appreciated being included in the family gathering, but more than anything, he was eager to be in Rachel’s company again and to thank her for her gift.
Their paths still hadn’t crossed in town, and it had been over a week now. He’d delayed the reprisal of Ben’s surgery until the coming week, pleased with Ben’s progress but not wanting to push things. He’d kept expecting—hoping—to see Rachel in town or when she’d visited Ben and Lyda at the resort, but they always seemed to have just missed each other.
He wondered now whether coincidence had dictated that, or if perhaps Rachel had helped it along.
She’d been uncomfortable after they’d kissed—that was evident. “I loved my husband.” That was an admission he would never doubt, and always cherish. It told him so much about her, about the woman she was. For so long, he’d admired her from afar, and now to think that she cared for him . . .
If she was avoiding him, for whatever reason, he planned on putting an end to that today.
He peered through the window and knocked again, harder this time, recalling the way she’d responded to his kiss. . . . He blew out a breath, wishing he’d reacted with more tact. But when she’d—
The front door opened, and Rand’s vivid thoughts screeched to a halt. Staring up at Rachel’s older brother, he was grateful James McPherson couldn’t read his mind. “McPherson . . .” They shook hands. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Not a problem, Doc. Come on in.” James motioned him through the doorway. “The women had about given up on you, but I still held out hope. However waning . . .”
Catching McPherson’s sarcasm, Rand smiled.
“How’s Ben doin’ this morning? And Lyda . . . Is she still holding up all right?”
Rand nodded. “He’s improved a little, though not as much as I’d like. It’ll help if we can get the rest of that fluid off his lungs. Lyda’s strong, but this is weighing on her.”
With a thoughtful look, McPherson clapped him on the back. “I’m glad God brought you to Timber Ridge, Doc.”
“I am too, Sheriff.” Rand followed him down the hall. “Sorry again to be late, but there was a situation at the resort this morning, and I had to—” Rounding the corner, Rand saw Edward Westin seated next to Rachel at the kitchen table. His thoughts derailed. Making matters worse, it looked as though they’d already finished eating. And he saw no empty place setting at the table. “I, ah . . .” He forced a pleasant countenance. “I had to see to the situation before I could leave.”
The prettiest smile lit Rachel’s face, which did his heart—and flagging enthusiasm—some good. Until he questioned whether that smile was for him, or whether it had been there before he arrived, for Westin.
“Dr. Brookston.” Molly jumped up from her seat. “I’m so glad you’re able to join us. We waited lunch for a while, then assumed you’d been called away by a patient. Here—” She moved a platter containing the half-eaten carcass of a hen from the table to the stove, revealing a fifth place setting, between Molly and Westin.
His appetite somewhat diminished, Rand accepted the chair James passed to him and squeezed in. “Thank you,” he said, taking his seat, wondering if he could possibly feel more awkward and ill at ease. “Again, my apologies for being late.” He tried to catch Rachel’s attention, wanting her to know he truly did regret his late arrival, but she was laughing at something Westin had apparently said. He glanced around, seeing
little Josephine, the McPhersons’ daughter, asleep in a crib, yet saw no sign of Mitch or Kurt. He waited for a break in the conversation. “Where are the boys?”
Rachel motioned, her gaze skittish. “They’re on the back porch . . . playing with a train Mr. Westin so kindly gave to them.”
Westin waved off the inferred thanks. “It’s just something from my days at the railroad. I’ve got grandchildren about their age. I figured the boys would enjoy it.”
Rand nodded, struggling with a sense of possessiveness he told himself was unwarranted, yet becoming more certain by the second that Rachel was avoiding him. Endless appointments with patients—both those at the resort and in town—had kept him busy the past week, and he’d found it nearly impossible to keep up.
But if he’d known this was the reception he would get, especially after what they’d shared, he would’ve been on her doorstep that very first night. Still, what reason did she have to be acting so evasive? His attention slid to Westin. Could it be that . . . No. He immediately dismissed the idea. Westin was nearly old enough to be her father. And yet, the man had taken her and the boys to dinner. . . .
“You weren’t at church this morning.”
Rachel’s comment brought him back, and the faint concern in her voice lent him hope.
“A guest at the resort, an elderly gentleman, was experiencing chest pains.” He smiled his thanks to Molly, who spooned mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Turns out his heart is completely fine,” he added quickly, noting their looks of concern. “It was indigestion. Courtesy of all the rich food he’s been eating at the resort’s restaurant.”
Everyone smiled, nodding.
Molly doled out generous portions of baked chicken, green beans, and corn bread slathered with butter alongside the potatoes. “I’m afraid everything’s gotten cold, Rand. Would you like for me to warm your plate? It won’t take but fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Rand held on to his plate when she reached for it. “No, no, this is fine. It looks delicious. Thank you.” He loaded his fork with mashed potatoes and took a bite, determined to eat quickly. Maybe then he could find an excuse to get Rachel alone to ask her what was going on.
Edward leaned forward, reaching for his glass of tea. “From what Mrs. Boyd tells me, Dr. Brookston, and from what I’ve personally witnessed, you’re single-handedly responsible for avoiding an all-out epidemic in Timber Ridge.”
Rachel averted her gaze, looking as though she’d been caught doing something she would have preferred to have kept secret.
Rand shook his head. “Not at all. The sheriff here”—he nodded toward McPherson—“along with the editor of the paper, worked hard to get the critical information out to everyone. After all . . . as Sir Francis Bacon once wrote, ‘Knowledge is power.’ ”
The surprising twinkle in Rachel’s eyes, coupled with the brief intimacy in her expression, bolstered Rand’s determination to get to the bottom of whatever was going on.
“How’re your patients doing?” McPherson asked. “The ones with typhoid?”
Rand felt a sobering. “One of the miners who contracted the disease died a couple of days ago—an older gentleman. As for everyone else, they’re all on the mend . . . except for Paige Foster.” He paused, knowing this news would affect them more because everyone knew the Fosters. “Paige is over the typhoid and isn’t contagious any longer, but she’s not regaining her strength. As of two days ago, she’s still not eating much.” And if she didn’t start eating soon, he knew she likely wouldn’t recover. “I’m going to ride out to check on her again this afternoon.” He hoped for a chance to ask Rachel and the boys to accompany him. Maybe seeing a couple of schoolmates would do Paige some good.
He was relieved when the conversation continued without him. The food tasted good, even cold, and he took the chance to pray for Paige and her parents again—especially her father, Graham— knowing that Graham would hold him personally responsible if Paige didn’t make it. But he knew he’d done everything he could for the little girl. She was in God’s hands now. . . .
Like the stinging end of a whip, his last thought burned inside him. She is in God’s hands now.
He stared, unseeing, at his plate, reminded of something Rachel had said to him. “Do you have any idea, Rand, how arrogant that makes you sound?” Though he heard the conversation and laughter being parried back and forth around him, he felt a profound stillness inside him. And though he sat firm in his chair, inwardly he went to his knees. Paige has always been in your hands, Lord. Whether you choose to heal her or not. I know that is true. And you are always the one to heal—I’m merely an instrument in your hands. He’d known that too. He swallowed.
But he knew it even better now.
Over the next hour, Westin entertained them with lively tales from his career with the railroad, and Rand actually enjoyed it. He got the impression the man had lived an interesting life. Amid the laughter and comments, Rand watched Rachel and caught her sneaking looks at him. Each time their eyes met, he grew less bothered by Westin’s unexpected presence. Rachel’s dress, a delicate shade of violet, brought out the intensity of her blue eyes, and he welcomed the chance to admire her. And didn’t mind her seeing him do it.
“I wish I hadn’t waited so long to retire from the railroad. I should’ve come west years ago . . . when Evelyn first wanted to. While she was still alive.”
Westin’s somber acknowledgment drew Rand’s renewed sympathies. The faces around the table revealed understanding, and he gathered everyone knew about Westin’s late wife.
“I had a chance to retire a few years back,” Westin continued, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the tablecloth. “But I didn’t. I thought we had plenty of years ahead of us, my wife and me.” His soft sigh revealed regret. “But I’ve learned in these latter years that life passes all too quickly. If you have something you want to do, and God opens a door for you to do it, then you need to walk through that door. Don’t hesitate. Don’t wait. Because you may not get another chance. It’s like what you talked about in your sermon this morning, Sheriff.”
Rand glanced across the table. McPherson had preached today? He regretted having missed church even more now. And he fully agreed with Westin’s advice. He thought about what Ben—and Thomas Boyd—had said about Rachel’s gift for doctoring. Seeing the contemplative look on her face, he guessed she was weighing Westin’s counsel too. What he wouldn’t have given to know her thoughts.
He wouldn’t dare admit it to anyone, but he’d be lying if he said he’d never imagined her taking up medicine alongside him, their being partners, in every way. She had the ranch to run, he knew, but he’d gotten the impression it wasn’t her first love, by any means. Not compared to medicine. And judging from vague comments Charlie Daggett had made, he guessed the ranch was proving to be none too profitable.
“Evelyn would have loved Timber Ridge.” Westin’s tone, and countenance, had brightened. “She would have loved all of you too.”
“And I’m sure we would have loved her as well.” Rachel briefly patted Westin’s arm. “Very much.”
The silence lengthened. The boys’ laughter drifted in from the back porch and helped mellow the moment.
Molly stood and started gathering plates. “I’ve got cherry pie staying warm in the oven. Who’d like some coffee?”
Hands went up around the table.
Later, with the pie devoured and the afternoon stretching on, everyone pushed back from the table and stood. After thanking James and Molly for the meal, Rand followed Rachel outside—right behind Edward Westin.
“Dr. Brookston, do you need help delivering any more calves?” Mitch asked, coming alongside him.
Rand laughed. “I’m sure I will soon enough. I’ll send for you and your brother, I promise.” He winked at Kurt, who wasn’t far behind them, and was rewarded with a mischievous grin. Tempted to ask the boy how school had gone that week, Rand refrained, not about to bring up the incident with the ink. He turned to see Rachel
shaking hands with Westin.
“I’d be most appreciative of that, Mr. Westin,” she said with enthusiasm. “Any evening this week would be fine.”
Any evening this week? Rand didn’t care for the spark of jealousy inside him, yet he couldn’t help it either. Grateful when Westin took his leave, he waited for James and Molly to go back inside, then accompanied Rachel to her wagon. James and Molly’s home, a modest rented clapboard house—as old as the Rockies and about as cold in the winter, according to James—was centered in town, not two blocks off Main Street, and with the warmer weather, townspeople were out walking in droves.
Rachel nodded a greeting to a couple passing by, then turned back to him, a carefully arranged smile on her face. “It really was nice to see you again, Rand. I’m glad you were able to join us.”
He stared, knowing he was doing a poor job of hiding his frustration. Sincerity marked her voice, yet her manner was so formal. Aware of the boys in the back of the wagon, arms propped on the side, watching and listening, he chose his words carefully, knowing he wasn’t exactly playing fair. “Thank you, Rachel. It was nice to see you all too. Maybe we could do this again. Say, dinner one night this week . . . any evening would be fine.”
Color rose in her cheeks. The boys cheered.
She looked down for a moment, then back up. Gone was the façade. A pleading quality had replaced her smile. “I’m . . . not sure I can do this,” she whispered, pressing her lips together. “I’m sorry.”
Her transparency swept aside every trace of frustration. Rand didn’t have to ask what she meant. He knew, and he felt responsible. She was scared to death of what was happening between them. He’d moved too quickly. He shouldn’t have kissed her.
In the same breath, what she’d said took on new meaning. She was scared of what was happening between them. Meaning . . . something was happening, not just for him, but for her too. Curiosity about Westin and her association with him tangled with his thoughts, but he decided the moment was crowded enough.
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