Within My Heart by Tamera Alexander Page B

to pay him instead.
    Staring again at the Tuckers’ form of payment, Rand’s gratitude deepened.
    A smoked ham wouldn’t help toward the down payment on a new clinic—same for live chickens, jars of homemade jams, and varied men’s clothing from widows’ closets—but he knew what a cost this ham represented to Mathias and Oleta. And he’d known what he was getting into when he came west to such an isolated town . . . for the most part, anyway.
    Money certainly wasn’t the reason he’d decided to become a doctor. He fingered the frayed edge of the well-worn burlap bag. No matter how much wealth a man acquired, it could always be taken away. What a person was left with after the money was gone—that was what mattered most.
    Even so, he wished he could provide the people of Timber Ridge with a proper clinic. This old place was fine enough for him to live in. He didn’t need anything fancy. But his patients . . . They deserved better. He intended to stop by and speak with Harold Welch again about the vacant building next to the Mullinses’ store. Maybe enough time had passed that Welch would reconsider his offer, low as it was. The building needed a fair amount of work, but it was large, with several rooms, excellent for a clinic. Welch was asking an exorbitant amount, more than Rand could afford, but maybe if he upped his offer a little, and if Welch agreed to let him pay over time . . .
    Buying that building was risky with income being so sporadic. But he’d learned long ago that a life lived without risks pretty much wasn’t worth living. Life rewarded courage, even when that first step was taken neck-deep in fear.
    His gaze slowly shifted to the tin. He hesitated, giving it a long stare before giving the bow a sharp tug.
    As he unfolded the checkered cloth, an envelope slipped from its folds and onto the floor. Bending to retrieve it, he glimpsed his name penned in fanciful script on the front. Even in the dim light, he recognized the handwriting and heaved a sigh, feeling more exhausted now than he had seconds earlier.
    He lifted the edge of the cloth and a sweet aroma rose to greet him, answering his earlier question. Molasses cookies, his favorite, filled the tin—all perfectly round, identical in size, and sprinkled with sugar. They’d be delicious too, just like before. Only he didn’t quite have the appetite for them at the moment.
    He turned the envelope in his hand to view the elegant wax seal on the back bearing the initials J.E.S. , and then he laid the unopened envelope aside.
    Rand lit a fire in the main room, in the only hearth the former cobbler’s shop boasted, and knelt to feed the flame, relishing the warmth. Angling his head from side to side, he worked to loosen the tightness, knowing he never should have catnapped in that rocker at the Mullinses’ tonight. He’d be paying for that for the next few days.
    The clock on the wall read half past one, and outside the wind howled around the north corner of the building, finding every traitorous fissure in the log and chinking.
    He stretched, feeling the chill gradually leave his bones, and peered through the window into the darkness beyond. The snow came heavier now, slanting down in sideways sheets. If this kept up, he’d have a four-foot drift against his door come morning.
    He hadn’t felt comfortable leaving Ben and Lyda earlier in the evening and had opted to stay, insisting that Angelo head home before the storm worsened. Little Italy, the growing community of Italian immigrants just outside of Timber Ridge, was a good half-hour walk from town, and that was in good weather. Angelo’s mother and three younger sisters would be waiting on the young man to help care for the animals and make ready for the snowfall.
    Rand looked around the clinic, seeing with fresh eyes the blatant lack of homey touches, the absence of anyone waiting for him. A twinge of envy heightened his fatigue.
    He would have been hard-pressed to pin a reason on