Within My Heart by Tamera Alexander

eyes, even when he’d assured her that he was fine. She made a fist, recalling the chill from the frost-covered windowpane as she’d pressed her hand against it, watching him saddle Chaucer and ride out. A distant pain began to thrum inside her chest. What she wouldn’t do to turn back time and relive that moment.
    If only she’d known that would be the last time she’d see him alive. . . .
    She blinked to dispel the memory and was greeted by her older son’s piercing gaze. “Mitchell,” she whispered, seeing the unspoken question in his blue eyes. She worked to find her voice. “Son, I . . . I know you’re not a little boy anymore. But I need you to understand something. Something very important, something you’ll understand as you get older. You’re so precious to me. Both you and Kurt are. And if anything ever happened to either of you, I don’t know what I’d—”
    “ Nothing’s going to happen to us. You worry too much, Mama. Papa said so.”
    Rachel shook her head, her smile tremulous. “You say that, honey, that nothing’s going to happen, but none of us knows what might—”
    Lady keened and jerked forward, writhing, and a knifelike stab sank deep and hard into Rachel’s thigh. Rachel sucked in a breath and fell backward, knocking over the bucket of water. She rolled onto her side, clutching her thigh, unable to breathe as pain sliced to the bone.
    “Mama!” Mitch appeared above her. “Mama, are you all right?”
    Resisting the roil of nausea rising inside, Rachel gasped for air as the thick pine beams of the rafters above swam in and out of her vision. “I’m fine, honey,” she lied, not wanting to alarm him.
    She reached down to where Lady had kicked her. She slipped a hand beneath her coat and ran a shaky hand over her upper thigh. Her skirt was wet, and the once-warm water caused a chill. But she didn’t think the injury had broken skin. Grimacing, she gritted her teeth, aware of Lady staggering, struggling to stand again.
    The heifer let out a primal cry just before her hind legs buckled. Lady fell back into the straw and rolled onto her side. Rachel barely managed to move in time. Something wasn’t right. Maybe the calf wasn’t positioned correctly. Or perhaps it was too large for a first-time mother. She’d heard of that happening before.
    “Mama, what should we do?”
    Rachel took hold of Mitch’s arm, wincing. “Help me up, honey. Hurry!”
    With his assistance, she struggled to her feet and clutched the side of the stall, her head fuzzy. So foolish . . . She hadn’t been paying attention. But better Lady kick her than Mitch or Kurt.
    The muffled pound of a horse’s hooves sounded outside, followed by the telling crunch of boots on hay. Rachel glanced up, relieved . . . then had to look up a second time, unable to make what she saw match with what she’d expected to see.

8
    G ood morning, Mrs. Boyd . . . Mitch. How’s our soon-to-be mother faring?”
    Rachel could only stare as Rand strode toward them. Dressed in a weathered rawhide duster and matching Stetson, Rand Brookston looked far less like a citified Eastern physician and more like a Colorado-born-and-bred mountain man, dark stubble of a beard and all. Still feeling slightly off-balance, she was tempted to ask him if he was on his way to a gunfight, but refrained. She’d never seen him look so . . . rustic before.
    Perhaps this was his attempt to fit in better with the locals. Whatever his reasoning, the transformation was unexpected—as was its effect on her.
    “Mama’s hurt, Dr. Brookston!” Mitch pointed. “Lady just kicked her. Hard! ”
    Rand paused beside them in the stall. His gaze moved downward. “You’re hurt, Mrs. Boyd?”
    Rachel held up a hand, gripping the side of the stall to steady herself. “I’m fine.” Though the throbbing in her leg argued otherwise.
    He stepped closer. “Is it your ankle? If you’ll allow me to—”
    “My ankle is fine. I can tend myself later. I’d prefer that