Page 29 of Choices of the Heart

“And if you had one room in your infirmary that wasn’t furnished, he wouldn’t see that?”

“He’s a good person,” Burke said, “but he’s accustomed to a finer way of life.”

“He’s arrogant?” Sophie asked.

“No. He’s not.” Burke kept at his work, turned a bit away from her. “But I worry a little that he wouldn’t see the people here in a generous light. If his first impressions can be positive, he’d be more likely to approve.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “The problem isn’t thathe’san elitist, it’s thatyouare.”

That stopped him in the middle of moving an armful of straw. He met her eye with a look of utter confusion.

“You’re perfectly fine being part of this community, taking care of them, feeling a part of them until someone more impressive sees you. The very thought of that has you reassessing them. You’ve evaluated them in light of your friend’s success and have deemed them an embarrassment.”

“That’s not it at all,” he insisted.

“Then why are you avoidingthemin order to do work meant to impresshim?”

“Having this done will help them.”

“Feeling like their doctor’s ashamed of them won’t help at all.”

He stood, almost like a man at a mark. “I’m not ashamed of them,” he said, his voice quiet and his tone a little uncertain.

“Then why do you care what this visiting doctor thinks?”

“I don’t want to be a failure,” he said. “Everyone at that medical school was convinced I would be. I didn’t have the education they did. I didn’t have their backgrounds or a family who cared what happened to me. I didn’t even have a real name. The years I was there were spent listening to people predicting that I would fail. I don’t want them to be right.”

“Do you feel like a failure?” she asked.

“More often than I care to admit.”

She released her hold on the fabric of the bed tick and moved closer to him. “In the eyes of this town, Burke, do you think you are a failure?”

He shrugged and didn’t say anything.

“Have you listened when they talk about you? They are overwhelmed with gratitude for you and the work you do and the lives you save. To them, you are so far from a failure that they would probably be shocked to hear you say that. They may not be ‘important’ like the people in Chicago, but you are important to them. And until you decide that success can look different from what you imagined in Chicago, no amount of furnishings are ever going to be enough.”

“Sophie!” Eliza’s voice echoed from the back of the inn. They both turned and looked that way. “Lydia’s hoping you’ll come dance with her.”

“Tell her I’m coming.” Sophie looked back to Burke. “You are working so hard to impress someone you haven’t seen in years and, in doing so, are neglecting the people who make this a home for you. That is a rare thing, Burke Jones. Don’t throw it away.”

“…you are avoidingthemin order to do work meant to impresshim…”

“…feeling like their doctor’s ashamed of them won’t help at all…”

“…until you decide that success can look different from what you imagined in Chicago, no amount of furnishings are ever going to be enough…”

Sophie’s words didn’t merely stay with Burke over the following days, they pierced him.

Burke didn’t want to believe he was ashamed of the good people of the Hope Springs valley. He admired them in so many ways. He was grateful to them for giving him this practice when he had lost all hope of building one.

When Ryan Callaghan, a member of the extended O’Connor family, had come across Burke, he had been working as a clerk in a mercantile, having come west on the promise of a job that had not materialized. Burke had all but abandoned the career he had worked so hard to prepare for. Without references, without knowing for certain he was good at what he did, Burke was given a chance. And though it had been rough going the first little while, he had found a home here.

Why, then, was he doing just as Sophie had insisted and working so hard to make this place seem like what Alexander would expect it to be? Why was he trying so hard to change things, to hide the struggle he’d had?

His assessment of himself fluctuated widely as he pondered those questions. Sometimes he was convinced that he was, in fact, embarrassed of the place where he worked. Sometimes he felt, with sadness, he was every bit as arrogant as she had claimed he was. But most of the time, he couldn’t escape the hard truth that he, who had overcome every obstacle, who had fought for every opportunity he had, was terrified. And he had been terrified his whole life.

He remembered all too well the predictions of his failures, the insistence even while he was still at the orphanage that a child with nothing to recommend him wasn’t going to amount to anything. Those long-ago words of cruelty dogged his heels because, deep down inside, he feared they might still prove true.

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