Later that night, after checking on Ben, Rand climbed the stairs to Rachel’s unlit cabin, bone cold and weary, feeling every hour of lost sleep. He rapped on the door, and made himself wait a full ten seconds before knocking a second time. The moonless night draped the covered porch in shadows, and though his heart didn’t race the way it usually did when he was alone in bed and the memory returned, he breathed easier when blessed lamplight illuminated the darkened window.
Molly McPherson peered through the curtain before lifting the latch. “Dr. Brookston.” She motioned him inside.
“Dr. McPherson.” He returned the professional courtesy to the former college professor, glad to be out of the cold and wind.
“How’s Mrs. Boyd?”
Molly’s smile, along with the shake of her head, told him much. “She’s in bed, for now, asleep. One thing I’ve learned today . . . those with the most knowledge about medicine make the least cooperative patients.”
He frowned. “She didn’t get out of bed, did she?”
“She tried, the stubborn thing. Once with Elizabeth this morning, and another time with me this afternoon. She said she needed to get to her chores. I told her Charlie Daggett was seeing to things.” Molly sighed. “She hardly got as far as the bedroom door. It must have hurt pretty badly, though, because she asked for laudanum afterward.”
Rand rubbed the knotted muscles in his neck. If Rachel had torn those sutures . . . He’d warned her not to get out of bed, and of the dangers of putting weight on her leg before it had time to heal properly. Perhaps he needed to warn her again, in more graphic detail this time.
“Looks like it’s been a long day.” Molly’s expression held both understanding and concern. “From what James tells me, it’s been a busy one for you. Come on back. I’ve got coffee on the stove.”
He followed her to the kitchen, where her daughter, Jo, lay nestled in a basket on the table. He brushed a finger against Jo’s cheek, pleased when the baby gurgled and reached for his hand— and made contact on her first try. Good hand-eye coordination. She’d been born prematurely but was progressing well, and was a beautiful child.
“Thank you.” He accepted the steaming cup and took a sip. “Mmmm . . . that’s good.”
Molly claimed the chair closest to the baby. “One of the most important things I’ve learned since becoming the sheriff ’s wife is to always have a pot of coffee on the stove in case company drops by, no matter how late in the evening.”
Rand returned her smile, admiring Molly’s gracious spirit. He knew only too well that Molly and James didn’t have much “company” dropping by. Molly McPherson had gotten a rocky start to life in Timber Ridge, and people in town were still reluctant to fully accept her, especially since she and James had married. In truth, she hadn’t made the best choices upon her arrival, but in his estimation, she’d more than paid for those mistakes and was working to bring good from them—if people would let her.
He updated her on Ben Mullins’s unchanged condition, the Tuckers’ two children, and the three miners who had shown up at the clinic with similar symptoms—thankfully, none of them as serious as Paige Foster’s. He’d left word with James about where he’d be and had also tacked a note to the clinic door. He’d needed to check on Rachel—or that’s what he told himself. Truth to right, he wanted to check on her.
He stood and reached for his bag. “The boys are here, I take it?”
She nodded. “Asleep in their room. I’m staying the night, and Elizabeth will be back in the morning.” She reached for his empty cup. “I left a lamp burning on the hallway table.”
Knowing the layout of the house, Rand made his way toward Rachel’s bedroom, oil lamp in hand. He stopped outside Mitchell and Kurt’s bedroom and peered inside the dark room, a familiar sense of shame creeping up on him. No light had to be left burning on a bedside table for these boys.
“Dr. Brookston?” a whisper came. “Is that you?”
Rand smiled. “Yes, Mitchell,” he whispered back. “It’s me.”
The rumple of sheets, followed by the soft pitter-pat of feet on a wooden floor, and Mitchell appeared. “You’re here to check on Mama?”
“I am.”
“You want me to help you? I will, if you want.”
“I think your mama would prefer for you to get a good night’s rest instead. But I’ll come and get you if I need any help, how’s that?”
Mitchell’s chest puffed out.
“You and your brother feeling all right tonight?” Not knowing whether anyone had told them about the typhoid, Rand chose not to say anything specific, but he wanted to make sure they weren’t getting sick.
Mitchell nodded matter-of-factly, and his countenance took on a more mature depth. “Mama’s going to get better . . . right?”
Rand knew he might be imagining it, but he sensed Kurt was awake too, and listening. “Yes, your mother’s going to be fine. Her leg will be sore for a few days and she needs to rest, but she should heal completely.” As long as she stayed off that leg, which he intended on making perfectly clear to the woman. “You get on back to bed now.”
Mitchell turned, then did a direct about-face. “I’m glad you’re her doctor. If I ever get sick, I want you to be my doctor too.”
Rand gave the boy’s hair a good tousle. “You’ve got yourself a deal, buddy.”
Mitchell stuck out his hand, and Rand gripped it tight enough to let the boy know he meant every word.
The door to Rachel’s room announced his arrival with a creak. The soft glow of lamplight illumined the dark, and Rand winced when he saw Rachel stir. She awakened, blinking, her eyelids heavy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered from where he stood, not wanting to frighten her. “I didn’t mean to awaken you.”
She lifted her head and squinted, then yawned and lay back down. “That’s all right. Come on in. . . .”
He set his satchel on the floor by the dresser. “How are you feeling?”
She took a moment to answer, shifting in the bed as though taking inventory. “Sleepy. My back hurts, and my leg feels like you tried to saw it off. Other than that, I’m just dandy.”
He laughed, not having expected that response. “I think laudanum’s improving your sense of humor. I should have prescribed it months ago.”
She smiled again, groggy.
He motioned to the pitcher on the dresser. “Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, please.”
“With or without laudanum?” he asked in all seriousness.
“Without . . . but ask me again later.”
Enjoying this more relaxed side of her, he slipped a hand beneath her neck as she drank. Her skin was warm, and he hoped his hand wasn’t too chilled. If it was, she didn’t say anything.
He needed two commitments from her before he left, and before administering another dose of medicine—he needed her agreement to assist him with Ben’s surgery, and her promise to follow his medical advice without question.
He knew which would be the more difficult to obtain.
“Thank you.” She wiped the edges of her mouth. “What time is it?”
“A little after midnight. I meant to come by earlier, but I had other patients to see.” As soon as the words were out, he wished he could take them back. The way he’d said it made it sound as if she was one of many, instead of the one he’d been wanting most to see. “What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant.” She took a deep breath and gave it slow release, her eyes closing. “My father was a doctor too. Remember?”
Rand stared, welcoming the muted flicker of the oil lamp and the fact that Rachel wasn’t looking at him. “My father was a doctor too.” So much said in so few words, and her tone . . .
Bitter best described it.
He’d known her father was a doctor. What he found so disturbing was what else her seemingly innocent statement told him, far more than she’d likely intended to reveal. Sorting through the tangle of emotions she’d just laid at his feet, Rand got the feeling that the seed of who this woman was, or at least a determining factor in who she had become, lay rooted in that statement about her father.
Something else became clear. His being a physician—something he’d hoped might eventually enable him and Rachel to find common ground—would likely wind up having the exact opposite effect.
Rachel wished she could take back her last statement.
Not that what she’d insinuated about her father wasn’t true, but it was inappropriate to speak ill of the dead. And that she would do so—of her father, no less—spoke volumes about her. By no means had her father been perfect, but neither had he been all bad. He had possessed a few redeeming qualities, among the others that stood out most vividly in her memory. But having those memories, those opinions, was one thing. Speaking them aloud was another.
And voicing them in front of the well-mannered, proper, and always dignified Dr. Rand Brookston—she sighed inwardly—that constituted an even greater offense.
Not caring for the silence in the room or the way Rand was staring at her, Rachel gave the buttons on her nightgown a discreet check, then pushed herself up in the bed. She needed to use the chamber pot but wasn’t about to ask him for assistance with that.
“Here, let me help you.” He came behind her and arranged the pillows to better support her back.
Seeing him up close, Rachel noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. The dark stubble on his jawline was becoming the norm, it would seem, as were his rumpled clothes and the way his bow tie hung loosely about his neck. Yet something about him made her look twice. And something about the way he looked back at her, lingering close a second or two longer before he straightened, made her look away.
“Thank you,” she said softly, smoothing the bedcovers, the ache in her back already lessening. “You look tired.”
He ran a hand across his face and sighed. “I could use some shut-eye about now, as my grandpappy used to say.”
Hearing the endearment in his tone, she started to ask him about his grandfather, wanting to know more, and then caught herself. It was one thing to discuss medical issues with him. It was another to invite conversation on more personal topics. Best stick to the medical.
He knelt and studied the framed photograph on her bedside table. “Elizabeth took this?”
“Yes. Last year.” She loved that picture of her boys.
“How did she manage to keep them still for that long?”
“Bribery,” she answered, surprised at how much she enjoyed his spontaneous laughter.
“I use a similar tactic.” He stood and glanced toward his bag. “I’ve got a sugar stick with me. You want one?”
She did but shook her head no. She didn’t really know why.
He walked to his bag and pulled one out. “Sometimes it’s all right to simply say yes and accept the gift.” He handed it to her.
Surprised at being so easily read, she took it and smiled.
He studied her for a moment. “My spies tell me you tried to get out of bed today.”
The comment caught her off guard. She bristled slightly at the mild reprimand, and at the fact that either Molly or Elizabeth had tattled on her. Yet remembering her indebtedness to this man, she summoned patience, and pulled the candy from her mouth. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Doctor. Truly, I do. But . . . I have a ranch to operate and a family to raise. I’m afraid I don’t have the luxury of lying abed right now.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw, and oddly enough, seeing it enabled her to further sweeten her disposition. “But don’t worry, I’ve had sutures before. I won’t push past my limits, I assure you.”
The steadiness of his stare became unnerving, and she looked away first.
He walked to the corner, where she thought he was going to take a seat in the straight-back chair. Instead, he picked it up and plunked it down backward on the floor beside her, and straddled it.