Rand stood by the window in the bedroom, feeling for Ben as the silence lengthened. Ben seemed hesitant to meet his wife’s gaze, much less answer the question she’d just asked him. Rachel sat in the rocker a few feet away, her head bowed. Rand was grateful she’d stopped by when she did. She’d comforted Lyda in a way he never could. And once again he found himself in awe of the weaker sex, of their quiet, formidable strength.
Rachel looked up and their eyes met. What was she thinking about? Her husband, Thomas, perhaps? Was she putting herself in Lyda’s place and remembering what it had felt like when she’d learned of his death?
Propped up in bed, Ben was situated with pillows behind his back, and his breath came heavy. “I didn’t tell you before now, Lyda, because . . . I didn’t want to add to your worry. You’ve been”—the wheeze in his lungs worsened—“worrying enough about the store in recent months.”
Lyda shook her head. “I don’t care about this store, Ben. I care about you.” Lyda’s struggle to accept the truth about Ben’s condition was etched in the lines on her face. And her desire to be brave, in the firm set of her shoulders. But her eyes . . . Despite her questioning Ben, her eyes were filled with only love for her husband, and that love spilled down her cheeks. “You said . . .” The words caught in her throat. “You said the benefits of this surgery are worth the risks.”
Realizing she was addressing him, Rand stepped closer. He shot Ben a look, having discussed this with him earlier, along with deciding the date for the surgery. “That’s right—I believe they are.” The quiet of the room encouraged a softer voice. “I wish I could give you guarantees, but I can’t. I can tell you that if we don’t do the surgery, the fluid will continue to gather around Ben’s lungs, increasing the stress to his heart at a more rapid rate.” He pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. “The biggest risk involved is surgical fever. It’s a fever that can set in anywhere from three to five days following the operation. We don’t know the cause, and not everyone develops it.” He leaned forward. “I don’t want to mislead you. Anytime the body is opened by an incision, no matter how small, it’s serious. But I wouldn’t recommend this procedure if I didn’t believe it would be successful. And that it will give Ben more time.
“And there’s something else you need to know.” He hesitated, not second-guessing what he was going to say next—what he’d already told Ben this afternoon—but wishing someone with more experience could perform the operation instead of him. Time didn’t allow for a colleague to travel from back east, if he could even find one willing to make the journey. Most had tried to talk him out of coming to such a place as Timber Ridge. From his peripheral vision, he saw Rachel’s head come up. “I haven’t performed this procedure before. Not by myself.”
Lyda blinked, then looked at Ben.
“I’ve assisted,” Rand said. “Once.”
“And what was the outcome?” Rachel asked, her voice stronger than he had expected.
“As I told Ben earlier today, the patient’s health was critical, like his. But the gentleman was five years younger.” Rand saw the question in Lyda’s eyes common to anyone who’d just been told their spouse was terminally ill. “The gentleman lived for four months following the surgery,” he answered softly.
Lyda swayed slightly on the bed, and summoned a brave expression as truth peeled back another layer of her future.
With a laugh, Ben shook his head. “But I’m bettin’ he wasn’t as ornery an old cuss as I am.” Even if his humor hadn’t fallen flat, the misty look in his eyes would have betrayed him.
Rand smiled for Ben’s benefit, noting that the women weren’t. He saw Ben’s coughing fit coming on and held Ben’s shoulders as Lyda assisted him with sips of water. After a moment, Ben regained his breath.
“I’d like to perform the procedure this week,” Rand said quietly, anticipating Rachel’s surprise. To her credit, she nodded and gave him a look that promised further discussion.
He’d thought the scenario through many times and had discussed it with Ben this afternoon. He intended to ask Brandon Tolliver if he could perform the operation in the surgical room at the resort. Ben’s health was stable enough to make the three-mile trip out there, then following a brief recovery period, to make the trip back home.
The resort’s facilities were far superior to his makeshift clinic and greatly increased the likelihood of the surgery’s success and of Ben’s recovery. Other than the gardener who had shown symptoms of typhoid last Friday, no one else at the resort had reported having fever. But numerous patients had been in and out of his clinic in town. He could scrub the place for a month and it still wouldn’t be as clean—or as well-equipped—as Tolliver’s medical suite.
For the past year, Ben Mullins had bent over backward to accommodate Brandon Tolliver’s special “rush” shipments. If Tolliver had a scrap of decency in him, which was debatable, the man would grant the request.
Sensing Ben and Lyda needed time alone, Rand stood. Rachel did likewise.
“Before you go,” Ben said, glancing up, then quickly down again. “There’s one more thing I need to get said.” He looked as if he might take hold of Lyda’s hand, and then pulled his hand back, apparently deciding against it. “What I need to say is that I’ve . . .” He swallowed, looking more apprehensive by the second.
Lyda scooted closer. “Honey, what is it? Are you feeling worse?” She touched his forehead.
Ben pulled away. “No, I . . .” Worrying the edge of the quilt, he sighed. “I’ve sold the store.”
It took Rand a moment to decide whether Ben was serious or not. When he realized he was, he looked at Lyda to see her reaction. The shock on her face mirrored his own. Rachel’s too.
Lyda stammered. “I . . . I don’t understand. What do you mean you’ve sold the store?”
“Not all of it. Only a part.” Ben sat up straighter. “You still own fifty-one percent, so you have what Gilbert Fossey calls controlling interest.” He formed the semblance of a grin. “Not that you haven’t already had that for years.”
Lyda squeezed her eyes tight, as though not wanting to hear, and Rand couldn’t fault her reaction, not on top of everything else she’d learned today. Yet he couldn’t fault Ben either, understanding the man’s underlying motivation.
Ben’s smile faded. “I promised to take care of you, Lyda. I pledged to . . .” Ben’s chin trembled. “I knew you’d tell me not to do it, honey. But . . . I won’t leave you lacking. Not like my father left my mother.” He shook his head, his jaw clenching tight. “I won’t do it.”
Lyda opened her eyes. “Who did you sell to?”
“He bought the building next to us, Lyda. He’s going to expand the store, just like you always talked about wantin’ to do. Remember?”
“Who, Ben? Who did you sell to?” she repeated.
Rand leaned forward, eager to hear the answer to that question himself—who had purchased the building that he had dreamed would one day house his expanded clinic?
“You met him the other night. The man who I said wanted to talk to us about carrying some newfangled stovetop ovens, like the stores do back east. He and I did talk about that,” he added quickly. “But then we moved on to other things . . . once you left. He just moved to Timber Ridge. His name is Edward Westin.”
Rachel felt a tweak of guilt over her eagerness to leave the confines of the store and the weight of emotion in the upstairs bedroom, if only for a while. She limped to the edge of the boardwalk, welcoming the crisp, cool air. Her leg ached, but only a little, and a late afternoon sun warmed her face.
Drinking in the routine rhythms of life around her, she closed her eyes, one hand on the stair rail, and prayed for Ben and Lyda and what lay ahead for them. The horse-drawn carts and wagons plodded their way up and down the street, snippets of indistinct conversation drifting toward her from passersby. The aroma of baking bread, coming from either the Boldens’ bakery or Miss Clara’s cafe, made her mouth water with hunger.
Ben had sold a portion of the store . . . and to Edward Westin! Mr. Westin’s arrival in Timber Ridge made more sense now, as did his business with Mr. Fossey. Rachel opened her eyes and looked up at the sign hanging above her head—Mullins General Store—and still couldn’t believe Ben had made that decision without Lyda.
And yet, she could.
How often had she wished that Thomas would have left her and the boys in better financial standing? The very thought felt dishonoring to his memory, yet that wasn’t her intent in the slightest. If Thomas had known he was going to die, he would have prepared better. She knew that about him. Ben did have time to prepare, and his decision was an act of love.
She’d told Lyda as much a moment ago when they’d spoken in the hallway, alone. But Lyda couldn’t see that right now, she was too close to the grief and shock, and Rachel didn’t blame her.
“Rachel.”
Hearing her name, she turned.
Rand strode toward her in that weathered duster of his, Stetson in hand, looking more like a gunfighter than a physician, and she wondered . . . was he as good with a rifle as he was with a scalpel? Intrigued by that question, she glimpsed Mitchell hot on his trail, toting Rand’s medical bag, and Kurt behind him, hurrying to keep up.
Rand came alongside her. “How’s your leg?”
“It’s fine.”
He eyed her. “That means it hurts, but you’re not going to admit it.”
She smiled, aware of the way his eyes lit when she did. She looked away, trying to remember exactly when he’d lost his annoying, arrogant edge. She could still recall it, though, and pledged to remind herself of it each time she entertained the thought she was entertaining right now—of how handsome a man he really was.
He slipped his hat on. “I’m grateful you came along when you did, with Lyda and Ben. I appreciate your being there. They did too. Ben told me as much when you and Lyda were in the hallway. And I’m sorry, I hadn’t seen you to tell you about setting the date for the procedure.”
She waved a hand. “Whenever it’s scheduled, I’ll be there. Just let me know when you settle on the day, so I can arrange for Molly to keep the boys.” She touched her leg. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand the whole time, though.”
“I’ll have a stool for you. I’m going to ask Brandon Tolliver if he’ll let us use the medical facilities at the resort.”
She frowned. “You think it would be better to do it out there?”
He gave her an odd look. “Have you seen the resort yet?”
She gave a short laugh. “No, but I know that man has caused more problems for this town than he’s worth. As well as problems for my brother.”
His expression was a mixture of humor and concern. “Granted, Tolliver’s not the most—”
“Dr. Brookston?”
They turned.
“Mrs. Calhoun!” Rand greeted the elderly widow walking toward them and slipped an arm around her thin shoulders. “Good to see you, ma’am.”
The woman snuggled into his embrace, then drew back and looked him up and down—twice—tears pooling in her eyes. “You’re wearing it,” she whispered, running a hand along the sleeve of his coat. “And you look so handsome in it too. My Edgar would be so proud. A doctor, wearing his coat and hat.” She sniffed. “It was just like looking at him again, coming down the boardwalk and seeing you standing there.”
Rachel looked at Rand, then at Mrs. Calhoun, the pieces coming together. Mrs. Calhoun winked in her direction and rubbed the boys’ heads.
Rand fingered the lapel of the duster. “I appreciate your giving them to me, ma’am. They’ve kept me a lot warmer than that old dress coat and hat I brought from Tennessee.”
Mrs. Calhoun beamed. “You would’ve frozen for sure.” She patted his chest. “I’m beholden to you for coming by every week to check on me, and for bringing my medicine. I already have another of Edgar’s shirts washed and ironed for you.” She winked again. “A token of my thanks.”
“Token of my thanks . . .” Touched by Mrs. Calhoun’s generosity, Rachel also cringed, barely hearing the rest of the conversation. How could she have forgotten? She hadn’t paid Rand anything, much less even offered. Not for delivering the calf, not for what he’d done for her leg, not for the numerous times he’d stopped by the house to check on her since. And she’d considered him rude!
After a few moments, Mrs. Calhoun bid them good afternoon. Rachel did likewise, watching the woman walk away while silently rehearsing, over and over in her mind, an apology to Rand. No matter what she came up with, it all sounded trite and—
“Can we, Mama? Can we?”
“Please, Mama?”
Feeling the tugs on her skirt and seeing the wide-eyed hope in both her boys’ eyes, Rachel knew she’d missed something.
Rand peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat. His expression held mischief. “Should I take that as a yes or a no?” His eyes narrowed. “For dinner,” he added, his mouth tipping in a wry grin.
“Dinner?” she repeated.
He nodded. “If my memory holds right, Miss Clara serves pork chops and mashed potatoes with gravy on Mondays.”
“With biscuits,” Kurt added. “And not cold ones either.”
Rachel frowned, a little hurt by that comment. She used to make fresh biscuits every morning. Now she baked a batch on Sunday and hoped the biscuits would last through the week. Which, with two boys, they never did.
“Please, Mama.” Mitch took hold of her hand. “We haven’t been to Miss Clara’s in a long time.”
Torn, Rachel focused on a point down the street. A hot dinner at Miss Clara’s sounded heavenly, but she couldn’t justify spending the money with her finances so lean and with the cupboards stocked at home. She looked at Rand, thinking of yet another reason that this dinner might not be the best idea. She told herself again that she could be imagining it, but there were moments, like this one—when he looked at her the way he was looking at her now— when she wondered if he wished there was something more to their friendship than . . . well, friendship.
But that “something more” was not something she welcomed.