Within My Heart by Tamera Alexander

expression sobered. “Yes, ma’am. Anything.”
    “Lyda stated that you restarted Ben’s heart.” She lowered her voice. “But we both know that’s impossible.”
    He glanced at the door, then stepped farther down the hall, motioning for her to follow. She did.
    “In the past, Mrs. Boyd, when a person’s heart had ceased to beat, you’re right,” he whispered, “it was considered impossible to restart the heart muscle. It’s still considered so by many. But, with recent research on external chest compression, we—”
    “External chest compression?” she repeated, hearing the wariness in her own voice, as well as the flicker of curiosity.
    He nodded. “The procedure involves delivering a series of rhythmic applications of pressure on the lower half of the sternum, like this”—he positioned his hands, one atop the other, demonstrating— “until a heartbeat is achieved again. If it can be. I have a paper in my office published not two months ago that I’d be happy to loan to you, if you’re interested in reading more about it.”
    “Yes, I’d appreciate that.” While she welcomed knowing more about this new procedure, learning about Ben’s current condition was more important. “But tell me . . .” She gestured toward the bedroom door. “What’s your prognosis for Ben? And please don’t try to spare my feelings. I may not be a physician, but I know from personal experience that when a person suffers from a heart ailment, their future is . . . tenuous.” She paused, not wanting to voice her next thought. “I’m thinking he has perhaps a year,” she whispered, watching for his reaction. “Maybe a little less?”
    Before he said a thing, she read the answer in his eyes.
    He looked away. “The amount of time remaining for a patient in this situation is dependent on many factors. It’s hard to—”
    “That’s all right,” she whispered, understanding. She already had her answer.
    The bedroom door opened and Lyda walked out. “Ben needs a chamber pot,” she whispered, her smile tired but laced with relief. “Too much of that tea, I guess.” She left the door open, and Rachel caught a glimpse of Ben on the bed, arms resting on his chest, eyes closed. Not a comforting image.
    “Mrs. Boyd,” Dr. Brookston said softly, “if you’d like to stay longer, you’re more than welcome to—”
    She shook her head. “It’s urgent that I get home. My best heifer is due to drop anytime and she’s wandered off.” She decided not to share Charlie Daggett’s other news.
    A spark flickered in Rand Brookston’s gray eyes. “I’m well versed in animal husbandry, ma’am. Just ask Harvey Conklin. I helped deliver twin foals for him last month. If you need my services, I’d be happy to—”
    “No.” She held up a hand. “But thank you all the same.”
    A scuffling noise sounded on the stairs, just beyond the first turn in the staircase, and was followed by a quick staccato of boot steps— two sets of boots. She didn’t have to guess whom they belonged to. Such behavior from Kurt wasn’t surprising, but Mitchell . . . She looked back and saw a slight frown on Rand’s face, then realized it mirrored hers. She quickly smoothed it. “Your offer is most kind, but I’m certain I can manage well enough on my own.”
    “Of that, I have no doubt, Mrs. Boyd,” he said, his accent deepening, by his design, without question. “My offer wasn’t rooted in my estimation of your inability, ma’am, but rather in a sincere desire to be of assistance.”
    Surprised at his ability to muster such charm, she weighed his statement, which was, again, so direct. She allowed the hint of a reluctant smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, bothered by how much his affirmation meant to her, “but we’ll be fine.”
    She bid him a hasty good-night and took the stairs as quickly as the narrow passage allowed.
    A half hour later, Rachel pulled the wagon to a stop in front of their cabin, only to remember she’d