Rand closed the clinic door behind him and set his bag on the table, relieved Rachel had left a couple of lamps burning. A fire crackled warm in the hearth and he heard footsteps in the back. Glad to discover she hadn’t left, he saw further evidence of her presence in the clinic—bottles and tins perfectly straight on the shelf, all instruments washed and put away, surfaces wiped down, pristine.
He exhaled, weary, his eyes burning from too little sleep. Snow was still falling at a steady rate, and the night was frigid. He couldn’t seem to shake this chill.
He raked a hand over his face and crossed to the hearth, thinking of Ben and how brave a man he was, right until the very end. Which had come faster—mercifully so, one might argue—than any of them had expected.
Emotion tightened his throat, as it had at unexpected intervals throughout the day. Had he done everything he could for Ben? And to the best of his ability? The questions played over and over.
And again and again, the answer came back . . . yes.
He arched his back, stretching the tight muscles and reliving those last moments.
The chest pains that started without warning, Ben’s heart rate escalating at an unnatural pace, the odd syncopated rhythms of his pulse. Rand closed his eyes. Witnessing the final moments of Ben’s life, with Lyda by her husband’s bedside, hearing their whispered I love yous, reminded him yet again of how precious time was and how quickly life passed.
“Rand . . .”
He looked up to see Rachel coming from the hallway.
“I’m glad you’re back.” Her smile faded slightly. “You look so tired.”
Wishing he could cross the room and take her in his arms and hold her, just hold her, for a little while—or better, all night long—he drank in the sight of her instead. How quickly he’d grown accustomed to having her in his life, however impermanent the arrangement at present. Something he hoped to change.
“You’ve been busy.” He glanced around the room. “Thank you for all you’ve done.” He held her gaze, hoping she knew he was referring to more than just her cleaning.
Her expression warmed. “You’re welcome. How is Lyda? And Elizabeth? Daniel said she’d fainted.”
“Lyda’s doing all right. I gave her something to help her sleep. And Elizabeth’s fine.” He stretched, his neck muscles tight. “She’s suffering from anemia.”
“Low iron.”
He nodded. “Brought on by pregnancy. It’s not serious, but it does mean I’ll need to keep a closer eye on her during her remaining time. Lyda’s invited the Ransletts to stay in her and Ben’s home as long as they need to. They’re staying with her at the store tonight. Lyda says she prefers to live there in the upstairs room rather than going home. At least for now.”
Rachel nodded, understanding.
“Has Mr. Carnes come by yet?”
She shook her head, and he proceeded to take off his coat, knowing he still had a job to do before the undertaker arrived.
“Everything’s taken care of, Rand,” she said softly. “James came by earlier. . . . He helped me.”
Rand knew it was probably a combination of fatigue and overwork, but his throat tightened with emotion. “You’re really special— you know that?” Her mouth tipped the slightest bit as she looked away. If he was reading her right, and he’d grown fairly adept at that, she was uncomfortable beneath the praise. “Is there anything else I need to do before Carnes arrives?”
She shook her head and picked up a lamp, motioning for him to follow. “I told Lyda I’d stop by and get her in the morning, for the funeral.” She glanced back. “She’s asked James to do the service.”
Rand traced her steps down the dimly lit corridor to the storeroom. She opened the door and a cool rush of moist air hit him in the face. The wick of the oil lamp sputtered and teased, and the threat of darkness stopped him cold. Threadbare nerves went taut inside him and a light sweat broke out on his skin. His pulse kicked up a notch.
The flame flickered and struggled to full flame again—and Rand resumed breathing.
Rachel raised the lamp high. “Looks like it’s about out of oil. But that’s not a problem.” She smiled softly. “You have enough oil stored up to light the entire town of Timber Ridge.”
Rand was too focused on breathing to respond.
She preceded him into the room. “I pressed his suit and tie. It looks real nice, but I’ll always picture him in that apron he used to wear. Lyda asked me to bury this with him.” She held up a tiny pouch. Rand recognized it. Ben had shown it to him. “It belonged to their son. It was Andrew’s—” She turned back. “Rand . . . is something wrong?”
Still standing in the hallway, he cleared his throat. “No . . .” His hands trembled. “Nothing’s wrong.” He would not do this again in front of her, lose control like he had that night at her cabin. The very thought that he might brought a rush of anger.
Trying not to focus on the nearly empty lamp in her grip, he forced one foot in front of the other until he was beside her, and then he looked down at Ben.
The lamplight was dim and the warm glow forgiving, but if he hadn’t known better he might have thought Ben could awaken at any second.
A scene flashed in his mind, lightning quick and just as blinding. He heard the thud of Jessup Collum’s shovel again and felt the wooden walls of the pine box pressing in. Closer, closer. He blinked, trying to dispel the image and his fears, knowing both were irrational.
He wasn’t in the grave any longer. He was in the storeroom. With Rachel. And Ben was gone—he wasn’t going to wake up. He’d held Ben’s hand, felt the life drain away. He’d checked for a pulse, at least twenty times, just to be sure.
He heard Rachel’s voice beside him, but his senses were honed in on the memory that had haunted him for the past twelve years, that had all but controlled him every time darkness fell.
A touch on his arm jolted him.
Rachel peered up, concern narrowing her eyes. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”
He pulled away. Oh, God, when will I conquer this? Will I ever? “I’m fine!” His voice came out harsh, unrelenting, and he knew he deserved the bewildered look she gave him.
A distant knock sounded.
Rachel glanced down the hallway. “I’m guessing that’s Mr. Carnes.” Her voice was cool, and with good reason.
He followed her—and the light—down the corridor, but stopped her in the front room, hoping his voice was steadier than his nerves. “I th-think it would be best if I kept Ben’s body here for the night.”
She stared, her confusion evident. “But . . .” A discomfited look passed over her features. “Everything’s done, Rand. Why would you—”
A second knock sounded.
She glanced at the door, then back at him. “I don’t understand what just happened in there. Why you suddenly—”
“I’ll explain,” he said quickly, his temples throbbing. His fears were illogical, without foundation, yet he couldn’t defy them. “Just let me handle this.”
Questions weighted her expression, but it was the doubt in her eyes he found most cutting.
“Please, Rachel,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
When she didn’t object, he opened the door and winter barged in. He gestured for Mr. Carnes and another man Rand knew by sight but not by name to step inside. Before he closed the door, he glimpsed the wagon pulled up along the boardwalk, a simple oblong pine box in the back.
Carnes shook the snow from his sleeves. “You ready for us, Doc?”
“Actually . . .” Rand shook his head, wishing they could have spoken outside, where Rachel couldn’t hear. “I’m not. I’m sorry for the confusion, but I just got back here a few minutes ago. It’s been a long day, and I still have some details to take care of. . . . I need to make final notations regarding Mr. Mullins’s case.” He looked at Carnes as though the man should know what he was referring to.
It took a second, but Carnes slowly nodded and leaned closer. “Does this have something to do with that surgery you did?”
Rand hesitated. “Something like that, yes.”
“Good enough, then.” Carnes reached for the door. “We’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
They left, and Rand turned to find Rachel standing exactly where he’d left her.
Skepticism lined her face. “What details are left?” she asked softly.
He took a step toward her, and though she didn’t move an inch, he felt her retreat.