Brandon Tolliver greeted them on the porch stairs, looking every bit the exclusive resort host. “Welcome, Dr. Brookston.” He offered his hand, and Rand shook it. “I’m honored you’ve come for a visit. Perhaps you’ll let me give you a tour of our facilities this morning.”
Tour of the facilities? Rand stared, thinking again of what Tolliver had written in his note. “I’m sorry, but I thought I was requested because one of your—”
Tolliver’s grip tightened around his hand, and Rand caught his host’s subtle glance at nearby patrons. A woman standing poised by the marble fountain in the front courtyard smiled invitingly, inclining her head in Rand’s direction, as did two other women with her. Rand smiled in return, finally understanding what Tolliver was doing. He valued discretion as well, up to a point.
“Mr. Daggett.” Tolliver’s gaze shifted to Charlie’s mud-clad boots, then trailed the large tracks marring the flagstone walkway. The smile that already wasn’t reaching his eyes dimmed further. “Do you have the papers I requested?”
Charlie shifted his weight. “Yes, sir, Mr. Tolliver. I’ve got ’em right here.” He looked down. “Sorry about the mess, sir. I’ll get it cleaned right up.”
“That would be appreciated.” With a curt nod, Tolliver gestured for Rand to follow him.
Rand did so, grudgingly, feeling for Charlie and disliking Tolliver more by the second.
Inside the lobby, Rand was tempted to stare at his surroundings— which rivaled, if not surpassed, the exterior of the hotel—but he didn’t want to give Tolliver the satisfaction.
Without exception, every employee was Italian. Though Rand was thankful the newly arrived immigrants had secured employment, something not everyone in Timber Ridge could say, he already knew Tolliver wasn’t the most generous, nor the fairest, employer.
He transferred his medical bag from one hand to the other, eager to examine his patient and praying he, or she, wasn’t sick with typhoid. While he didn’t care much for Tolliver, he did care about the guests in this hotel. One person contracting typhoid in this setting would be even more serious than in town because the guests here ate from the same kitchen and drank from the same water source. Not to mention the close confines the guests shared in the hot springs.
If even one guest or employee became ill with the fever, or was already sick . . .
Tolliver paused in the lobby. “Perhaps you truly would enjoy a tour of the resort, Doctor. I believe it would render you even more impressed than you currently are.”
“While I’m grateful for your hospitality”—Rand lowered his voice—“perhaps it would be most prudent if you’d take me to see the guest you wrote me about.”
Tolliver’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled. “You’re right, of course. Let’s begin in the Health Suite, shall we?”
The Health Suite . . . That had an interesting ring to it.
Rand followed Tolliver down a spacious hallway. Polished hardwood floors gleamed beneath his dusty boots. He sidestepped a Persian rug and thought of his precious mother, God rest her soul. How many times, in younger years, had he tromped all over her nice rugs without a second thought. And how often in recent years had he wished he could go back and relive moments with her. His father too, despite the differences they’d had.
Tolliver paused by a door bearing a placard with the name Health Suite. Beneath it was a second placard. Dr. Newton Rochester. Tolliver’s hand rested on the door latch. “Thank you for filling in at the last minute, Dr. Brookston. The resort’s private physician, the distinguished Dr. Newton Rochester, is scheduled to arrive before the grand opening. You’re familiar with Boston General, I presume?”
Rand nodded, aware of Tolliver’s tone. “Of course.” Boston General was the most prestigious teaching hospital in the country. But then, that was Tolliver’s point.
“I can see you’re a man dedicated to his profession, Dr. Brookston. I appreciate that. I also appreciate your responding so quickly after you received my note this morning. . . .”
Rand couldn’t be certain, but he didn’t think he was imagining Tolliver’s hint of displeasure. Most likely the man was frustrated at his lack of response to earlier requests for a meeting. Under the circumstances, and seeing how Tolliver had treated Charlie Daggett, Rand felt no obligation to apologize. He glanced down the hallway to make sure they were alone. “What symptoms has your guest been experiencing, Mr. Tolliver? And when did they first appear?”
Tolliver turned the polished latch. “I believe those questions would be best answered by the guest, Doctor. But perhaps when you’re done, we could meet to discuss your findings. My office is down the hallway.” He opened the door and motioned for Rand to precede him.
Rand walked into the room feeling as if he’d traveled sixteen hundred miles in three small steps. If he didn’t know better, he could have been standing in the hospital in Philadelphia, in the private wing where distinguished patients were treated. Spacious shelves lined with medicine bottles and supplies covered one wall. Two doors opened to his right. One led to a small room with an examination table—a surgical room and a fine one. Narrow horizontal windows had been placed at regular intervals, inches below the ceiling line to allow for daylight while still maintaining privacy. The next room looked similar to the first, but with a hospital bed, for recovery, he presumed. Tolliver had thought of everything.
He heard the door close behind him. At the same time, he spotted an older gentleman sitting off to his left before a fireplace in a cozy nook.
The gentleman rose from a wingback chair, laying his book aside. “Dr. Brookston?”
Rand nodded, closing the distance. “Yes, that’s right.” They exchanged a handshake, Rand already examining the man—who didn’t show the slightest appearance of being sick, much less of having typhoid fever.
“I’m indebted to you for agreeing to see me, Doctor, and so quickly. Sometimes I wait for hours to see my personal physician in New York. Guess a man has to come west to find a doctor who considers his patient’s time equal to his own.” A sheepish look crossed his face. “Forgive me. I’m Edward Westin, newly arrived to your wonderful community and currently a guest in Mr. Tolliver’s hotel.”
Rand nodded a second greeting, still at odds with Tolliver and wondering why this man needed a doctor. He searched his memory for why his name sounded so familiar, and came up blank. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westin. I’ll help you in whatever way I can. Though, I must say”—Rand softened his observation with a raised brow— “for being in need of a physician, you appear quite fit to me.”
Westin’s demeanor was friendly and not at all assuming. “I appreciate that diagnosis, Doctor. I guess I’ll have to blame it on the fresh mountain air or maybe the change in altitude.” He glanced away, his smile fading by a degree. “To be honest, I feel better than I have in a long time. Except for this pain in my shoulder.” Grimacing, he angled his neck and massaged his right trapezius. “I was climbing yesterday and must have pulled something. It’s been hurting ever since. I mentioned it to Mr. Tolliver last night at dinner, and he insisted on sending for you this morning.”
“Did he?” Rand nodded, smiling, careful to keep his tone even. “Well, why don’t we move on in there”—he gestured to the examination room—“and see what the problem might be.”
For the moment, he would tend his new patient, then take care of Brandon Tolliver.
As Rand finished the examination, it struck him where he’d seen the man’s name. Edward Westin was the name on the envelope Ben Mullins had given him, and that he’d passed on to Charlie to deliver to the hotel. Riddle finally solved—but another niggled into place. Why was Ben Mullins writing to Edward Westin? Not that it was any of Rand’s business.
“You can put your shirt back on, Mr. Westin.”
“Please, call me Edward.”
Rand nodded and reached for a sheet of paper and fountain pen on a nearby desk. “You said that yesterday was your first time climbing. Are you customarily this active?”
“I used to be, but . . . I haven’t been in the last couple of years.”
Rand sketched a rudimentary drawing of the shoulder and back muscles and how they connected. “Muscle pain can be attributed to several different things: simple muscle pain from overstress, muscle tears, bruising, or a more significant injury.” Rachel suddenly came to mind, an image of her lying on the bed in her room, her bruised but shapely thigh exposed in the soft lamplight, and Rand lost all train of thought.
He blinked to clear his mind of the image. Without success.
All he could see was her giving those tiny little buttons on her nightgown a subtle check when she’d caught him staring overlong, and then the way she’d looked at him in the mirror when he’d called her by her given name.
He felt Edward Westin staring. What had he been saying to the man? Thankfully, the picture he’d drawn provided a point of reference. “Most of the time,” Rand continued, clearing his throat, “in cases such as this, you’ve simply overextended the muscle. You’ve pushed your body beyond what it was prepared for. Time and rest should heal it. Although the tendons surrounding the shoulder are susceptible to deterioration, and do weaken with age.”
Westin finished buttoning his shirt, a ghost of a smile appearing. “So what you’re saying, Doc, is that I’m getting old.”
Rand laughed. “What I’m saying is that these bodies of ours weren’t designed to last forever. You’re in excellent health, Edward, especially for a man of fifty-six.” He’d been surprised to learn Westin’s age at the outset of the examination. He would have guessed younger. As a precautionary measure, he alerted Westin to the typhoid outbreak.
“Thank you for the warning, Doctor. And I’ll take it to heart. I contracted typhoid as a younger man, so I know what you’re up against. If my understanding is correct, that makes me less susceptible to getting it again.”
Rand nodded. “That’s true. Still, it’s good to be mindful.” He returned the pen to the desk. “There’s no reason why you can’t be out climbing again in a couple of weeks. Just take it easy until then. Ask a hotel clerk to bring you a warm towel tonight—that should help with the discomfort. And be sure to stretch your muscles like I showed you before you set out again.”
Before they left the room, Rand looked around a final time, knowing Dr. Newton Rochester of Boston General would not be disappointed. Only then did he see a detailed framed drawing of the human body on the wall, all organs and muscles labeled. He sighed to himself. And he couldn’t even afford to give Timber Ridge a proper clinic.
He followed Edward into the hallway.
“Dr. Brookston, thank you again. I appreciate your coming all the way out here.”
Rand accepted Edward’s handshake and came away with a five-dollar bill. He shook his head. “This is too—”
“You spent nearly an hour in there with me. You took time to explain things my doctor in New York never did. I want to show my gratitude.”
Thanking him, Rand reluctantly pocketed the bill, which would help provide more medicine. They walked together toward the lobby. “Do you plan on being in Timber Ridge long, sir?”
“I do indeed. In fact . . .” Edward paused. “This may sound premature, but I hope to live the rest of my days in these mountains, in this town.” He lowered his gaze. When he raised his head again, his eyes were misty. “My wife, Evelyn, saw a painting of Colorado a few years back. . . . She wanted to see it for herself, so badly. But I was busy traveling around the country at the time, building railroads. Almost three years ago, Evelyn became ill. Out of the blue. All her life she was healthy.” He clenched his jaw. “We were married for thirty-six years, and she was gone in six months.”
Rand briefly gripped his arm. “I’m so sorry, Edward.” He shook his head at a hotel clerk, indicating they were fine, as she passed them in the hallway.
After a moment, Edward sniffed. “Are you married, Doctor?”
“No . . . I’m not.”
“I highly recommend it, if you find the right woman,” Edward said, regaining his composure. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“Is that so?” Rand laughed, wishing he shared that confidence. “Did you and Evelyn have children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. They both have children and lives of their own now. I didn’t want to leave them at first, and on the way out here I wondered if I’d done the right thing in coming. But they insisted, knowing how much their mother wanted it. And I’m glad I did.” He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the lobby. “The paintings and photographs don’t do this land justice.”
They talked for a few more minutes, until Rand spotted Brandon Tolliver’s office. “Edward, it was a pleasure to meet you, sir. Take care of that shoulder. And your next two doctor visits are on me.”
Waiting until Westin was out of earshot, Rand knocked on Brandon Tolliver’s door.
No answer.
He knocked again, his frustration returning when he thought about how Tolliver had manipulated him into coming out here.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston, but Mr. Tolliver isn’t in his office.”
Rand turned to see the same hotel clerk who had passed them in the hallway earlier. Immaculately dressed, she was young and pretty, and of course, Italian. “Do you know when he’ll be back? It’s urgent that I speak with him.”
“He had to leave the premises, but he asked me to extend an invitation to you to stay for lunch as his guest. I’ll show you the way to the dining room.”
Rand shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t spare the time.”
“Mr. Tolliver anticipated as much.” She smiled. “So I had a plate prepared. If you’ll come with me, I’ll get it for you.”
If it were Tolliver voicing the offer, Rand would have flatly refused. However, this young woman seemed eager to help, and he didn’t want her to bear the repercussions of his refusal, should there be any.
Waiting inside the kitchen doorway, Rand stared at the rows of brand-spanking-new cast-iron stoves and thought of how much Miss Clara would enjoy cooking in a place like this.
“Here you are, sir.”
He accepted the covered plate from the clerk with thanks and was nearly to his wagon when he glimpsed an older man weaving an unsteady path toward him. A gardener at the resort, if Rand wasn’t mistaken. Rand paused. The man’s eyes were glassy, his shirt damp with sweat.
“Medico,” the older man whispered, his face flushed and glistening. “Medico, per favore,” he pleaded, just before he collapsed.