Have you experienced any more pain? Any tightness in your chest?” Rand eased down on the side of Ben’s bed, stethoscope in hand.
Ben shook his head. “Nothing to complain about. Main thing is I just can’t seem to catch my breath. Walking from here to there . . .” He pointed to the chamber pot in the corner and gave a frustrated sigh. “You’d think I’d walked a mile.”
Nodding, Rand listened to his lungs, mindful of how closely the older man was watching him. “What about urination? You all right in that department?”
“No problem there, Doc.” Ben chuckled. “But then, you said I had too much fluid in me.”
Rand didn’t even attempt to return the humor, and Ben’s smile slowly faded. Rand glanced over his shoulder, making certain they were still alone. He kept his voice low. “Have you spoken with her yet?”
For the longest moment, Ben didn’t answer. His gaze rested on the bedcovers. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m gettin’ worse . . . aren’t I?”
Rand fingered the stethoscope in his hand. “Yes . . . I’m sorry. The fluid continues to accumulate around your lungs.” He sighed. “We don’t know why, but it sometimes happens with people who have heart problems.”
Ben took a labored breath, not all that deep, and gave it slow release. “All right, then . . .” Resolve deepened the lines of his face. He pushed himself up in the bed. “Let’s do that surgery, Doc. Whatever it is you’re wanting to do, as soon as you want to do it. But after that . . .” Finality settled heavy over his body, his shoulders bearing the brunt. “After that, I’m done. It’s not that I don’t trust you or that I don’t respect all the things you learned from that fancy doctors’ school back east. But I’m of the mind that a man does what he’s able to, and then if God wants to step in and change things, He can. And if He chooses not to, well . . .” His eyes met Rand’s. “Then I guess I’ll be all right with that too.”
Ben’s tone was unmistakable. He preferred for God to step in, just as Rand did. What Rand needed Ben to know was that, as his physician, he planned on doing some stepping in himself. “I’ll need an assistant for the surgery. If you’re agreeable, I’ll speak with Mrs. Boyd today about helping me.”
“She’s as good a nurse as they come.”
“Better than most, actually,” he said, rising and reaching for his bag. He was already anticipating what Rachel’s response would be when she learned about the procedure. If she hadn’t heard of external heart compression yet, he doubted she’d heard of the surgery he planned. Nor did he think she’d agree to help him without strong reservations.
Yet this surgery was his only chance of buying Ben a little more time.
He’d looked for her at church yesterday, but she wasn’t there. Neither were the boys. He kept picturing her limping around the stall as she had on Friday morning. Remembering how she refused to let him examine her, he silently added headstrong to the woman’s lengthening list of attributes.
“Before you go, Doc . . .” Wariness flitted across Ben’s features. “Exactly how do you plan on gettin’ this fluid out of me?”
Rand summoned his most confident and comforting expression. “I’ll administer a topical anesthetic, so don’t worry—you won’t feel a thing.”
Ben nailed him with a you-know-better-than-to-try-that-with-me look. “About the only time I ever worry is when a man doesn’t give me a straight answer to a straight question.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Rand sat on the edge of the bed again. “For this particular procedure, the patient sits upright and leans on a table with their back exposed.”
“You mean I’ll be awake? I heard doctors give people bein’ operated on something to make them go to sleep.”
Rand smiled. “Yes, for some procedures, but not this one. The patient needs to be awake because it’s imperative that they hold their breath for short periods of time so the lung isn’t pierced. I’ll clean the area on your back before inserting the needle.”
“Needle?” Ben winced.
“You won’t feel a thing, I promise. There will be very little discomfort. After inserting the needle, I’ll draw out the—”
“Hang on there, Doc.” Ben squeezed his eyes tight. His face lost some of its color. “You can stop right there. If you don’t, I might just change my mind.”
Rand smiled, and in a gesture that might have felt awkward before the past few days, he reached for Ben’s hand. He gently gripped it as if the two of them were shaking on a deal. “I give you my word, Ben, I wouldn’t perform this procedure if I didn’t believe it will be successful . . . and that it will buy you more time. It’ll give you some relief too, help you breathe easier.” He held Ben’s attention, wanting to reassure him, while also hoping his friend wouldn’t ask him how many times he’d performed the surgery. “One more thing . . .”
Ben briefly squeezed his hand before letting go. “I know,” he said softly. “I’ll tell her.”
Hearing his sincerity, Rand didn’t press the issue.
“Can you do me a favor, Doc?” Ben pulled out an envelope tucked inside a book by his pillow. “Would you ask Charlie Daggett to run this out to a guest at the resort? It needs to get there this afternoon, if possible.”
“I’ll ask him on my way out.” Rand tucked the envelope in his coat pocket, then checked the pouch of digitalis he’d given to Ben after his first episode. He frowned. Ben had been using it faster than he’d expected.
A ruckus outside the door portended rapid knocking, and before either he or Ben could respond, the door burst open.
Mitchell and Kurt Boyd raced into the room, breathless.
“I’m gettin’ to Uncle Ben first!” Kurt yelled.
“But I get to check his heart. ’Cause I know how to do it and you don’t!”
Rand jumped up and intercepted the boys at the foot of the bed. “Whoa there, fellas!” Arms outstretched, he secured them—one in each arm—surprised at how much stronger Kurt seemed than his older brother. “Didn’t Aunt Lyda warn you to be quiet around Uncle Ben?”
Mitch nodded. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston.”
Kurt blinked, cookie crumbs clinging to the edges of his mouth.
“Didn’t she?” Rand repeated, directing the question solely at Kurt.
Kurt’s glare held challenge—and deliberate calculation. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.
His stare steady, Rand waited.
“I’m sorry,” the boy murmured, looking away.
Rand released them and gave Kurt’s shoulder a quick pat. “You can visit for a few minutes, but do it quietly. And no bouncing on the bed.”
He watched the boys approach the bed with fresh caution. Rachel Boyd sure had her hands full. How the woman could run a ranch and raise two sons . . . It tired him out just thinking about it. And yet . . .
He grabbed his bag and his coat, knowing better than to give in to the regret rising inside him. He’d chosen his path in life. His professors in medical school had been married, but it was different back east—civilized, more orderly, doctors had set schedules. He spent most of his days running from home to home, back and forth across Timber Ridge, up and down winding mountain trails caring for the ailing, at the townspeople’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. Why he’d ever tried to gain Rachel Boyd’s attention, he didn’t know. Life was full of choices, and he’d made his long ago.
Still—his grip tightened on the leather handle—moments came when a man was forced to look at his life . . . and wonder.
He checked his pocket watch, needing to be on his way. He had an appointment with a patient this afternoon, and it was an appointment he was eager to keep.
Mitch reached for the older stethoscope Rand had left for him on the bedside table. One of the brass ear tubes was cracked, but with patience, a slight heartbeat could still be detected.
“Go ahead and check my heart, Mitch,” Ben said. “See if it’s still workin’. ”
Mitch tossed Ben a smile but set about fulfilling the request. Kurt looked on, watching carefully. And Rand got the feeling that though Kurt sometimes appeared more detached, aloof, the boy was as attentive and as bright as his older brother.
Rand met Lyda on the way downstairs. “I was just coming down to see you, ma’am.”
Lyda paused on a lower step, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Charlie Daggett was helping her in the store, but Rand could see the tension behind her smile. And he read the question in her eyes the second before she gave it voice.
“How is my husband doing, Dr. Brookston?” She peered up, eyes wide and trusting.
Rand had delivered painful news to family members before, but something about this situation felt different, and he’d promised Ben he could be the one to tell her. Yet the rugged hope in Lyda’s eyes made this conversation an even greater challenge. Had Ben even mentioned the possibility of surgery to Lyda yet? He doubted it. “He’s not as well as I’d like for him to be, Lyda.” He chose his words carefully. “There’s a . . . procedure I can perform that will ease the pain he’s experiencing and help him breathe easier.” Which was true. It just wasn’t the entire truth. “I’d like to proceed as soon as possible.”
“A procedure?” She grimaced. “Have you spoken with Ben about it?”
He nodded.
“Did he say yes?”
He nodded a second time.
She looked down at her hand on the stair rail and fingered her wedding band. “Is it dangerous?” she whispered, looking up. The tears in her eyes made them appear even bluer.
“It’s not without risk, Lyda. But I believe the benefits to your husband warrant the risks in this instance.”
Her lips pressed together, Lyda nodded fragile acceptance. “All right, then. . . . We’ll do whatever you think is best, Dr. Brookston.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. How alike Ben and Lyda were, in their love and concern for each other, and in their faith and belief in him. Rand promised himself he would do his best not to let them down.
He only hoped God had the same plan.
After passing along the envelope, with Ben’s request, to Charlie Daggett, Rand waited in line at the counter, wanting to see whether another shipment of medicine had arrived for him from Denver. He prayed it had, but chances were slim since he’d just received a shipment last week. His supply of digitalis was low. Dangerously so, with Ben’s present condition.
The store was busy for a Monday afternoon. Patrons filled the aisles. Lyda had already arranged for extra help, and Jean Dickey, a woman who assisted them on occasion, caught Rand’s eye as she boxed up items for another customer. “Dr. Brookston, what can I do for you, sir?”
“I need to see if another shipment arrived for me. From Denver, I hope. It’ll be a box about this size.” He gestured with his hands. “And the word fragile will be stamped on the side.”
Nodding, she deposited the customer’s money in the cash drawer, thanked him with a smile, and then searched the shelves beneath, and the ones behind. “It’s not up front here, Dr. Brookston, but let me check in the storeroom for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dickey.” Rand waited, purposefully standing to the side so as not to be in the way of browsing patrons.
“Have you been the doctor here in Timber Ridge for long, sir?”
Rand turned in the direction of the deep-timbered voice, having no trouble determining its owner. A mountain of a black man stood behind him. The man extended his hand, his white teeth brilliant against his dark complexion.
Rand shook his hand, feeling more the size of Mitch or Kurt by comparison. “I’ve been in Timber Ridge for about two years, but I’ve been practicing medicine for almost eight.”
The man’s smile spread wider, as if Rand had said something funny. “A doctor I knew, long time ago now, he used to tell his patients he ‘practiced medicine,’ and that he’d be practicin’ the rest of his life because there was so much to learn.”
Rand laughed. “I feel the very same way. No matter how much I learn, there’s always more to—”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston.” Jean Dickey returned empty-handed. “But we haven’t received another shipment yet.”
Rand sighed. That meant no more digitalis. “Would you mind sending word the moment it arrives, Mrs. Dickey? It contains medicine I’m needing, and it’s crucial I get it as soon as it comes in.”
Thanking her, he nodded a brief good-bye to the man behind him and was nearly to the door when he heard someone call his name.
“Dr. Brookston . . .” The black man approached, his expression tentative. “I didn’t mean to overhear just now. . . .” He took a step closer. “My name’s Isaiah, sir. I don’t know if I can be of any help to you, but on the chance I can, I thought it best to say something. You’re needing medicine?”
Rand studied him, then nodded, somewhat skeptical.
He followed Isaiah outside to a wagon loaded with furniture. On closer inspection, Rand found the furniture to be of highest quality, carved with painstaking detail and exacting craftsmanship. He admired an especially handsome cabinet, already imagining how well his instruments and supplies would fit inside. But he didn’t have the funds. “Did you make all of this, Isaiah?”
“Yes, sir, over the past winter. My wife, Abby, and I”—he pointed to a dress shop across the street where Rand assumed his wife had disappeared into—“we’ve taken to traveling come spring. We’ve already sold a few things this trip. I was waiting to meet with Mrs. Mullins inside. Her husband and I exchanged letters some time back. Mr. Mullins, he told me he’d take some pieces for his store here. Said he thought they could sell them.”
Rand laughed. “I’ll say they could. Most of the furniture in this area is roughhewn from lodgepole pine. But this . . . You certainly have a gift.”
“Thank you, sir.” Isaiah reached inside the wagon and withdrew a pouch. “What I said inside, about the doctor . . . Doc Lewis was his name. He was a good man. I worked alongside him for years. He taught me about making poultices and remedies, showed me which herbs to pick and what they cured. I don’t know what you’re needing, but if I have it, it’s yours.”
Rand didn’t know what to say, or whether he could even trust this man’s claims. He wasn’t very familiar with herbs native to this part of the country, but he knew digitalis when he saw it. “Foxglove is what I need, if you have any. It also goes by the name of—”
“Digitalis.” Isaiah’s gaze grew thoughtful. “Your patient has a weak heart.” It wasn’t a question. Isaiah pulled out a small envelope from within the pouch. “I don’t have much, Dr. Brookston. But like I said, it’s yours if you want it.”
Rand peered inside the envelope, then took a tiny pinch and touched the tip of his tongue. He smiled, his skepticism melting away. This man was a godsend. “I’m happy to pay for this, Isaiah. If you’ll come with me to my clinic, I’ll—”
Isaiah shook his head. “Doc Lewis never charged one penny for all he taught me, so I don’t take any money for the herbs.” He grinned. “But if you’re wantin’ some furniture, I’m ready to bargain.”
“I wish I could.” Rand shook his hand, thanking God for bringing this man to this town, and at just the right time. He knew it was no coincidence. “Perhaps if you’re back through here sometime in the future.”
Isaiah nodded. “You can count on it, Doc.”
Still smiling, and having replenished Ben’s supply of medicine, Rand continued down the boardwalk, filling his lungs with the cold mountain air. Azure blue framed the snow-laden peaks soaring high above the town, while a late afternoon sun bathed them in an iridescent glow. Photographs of these mountains were exquisite but would never replace standing in their shadow. The camera’s shades of gray didn’t do justice to the brilliant colors of this land.
He pulled the collar of his coat closer about his neck and glanced down at the leather duster he wore. He’d never owned such a coat before, and never thought he would. But he had to admit—even though it was a tad roomy through the middle, he was growing accustomed to it.
He was almost back to his clinic when he spotted Brandon Tolliver rounding the corner at the far end of the street, headed his way. Not wanting to deal with the owner of the new resort and whatever it was he wanted, Rand ducked into the nearby bakery— and immediately wished he hadn’t.