“Sorry, not right now. They’re only equipped to handle one patient at a time. You fainted, and that could be a—”
“From the shock of seeing my brother like that. Please,” she said, pushing away the monitor line the tall newcomer was attempting to attach to her. She would stand up and walk to the vehicle without their help if they were going to be so obstinate. She scrambled to her knees, hand to the ground to retain her balance.
“Okay,” said Preston’s boss, obviously a trifle irritated now. “We’ll help you to the ambulance. Just hold on, will you? I’d take you myself, but I don’t have a car right now.”
She allowed the men to help her to her feet, and glanced down at the dressing on her arm. Obviously someone knew what he was doing.
She blinked at the white of the dressing as her vision seemed to waver. So maybe she wasn’t as strong as she’d hoped. She guessed she’d let these men help her to the ambulance, where she would sit quietly in the corner until they reached the hospital.
Chapter Three
Graham stepped down the western corridor of the emergency department of Clark Memorial Hospital, south of town. Even at four in the morning, more than half the treatment rooms were filled and the staff was kept hopping with everything from chest pain to broken arms to the unusual occurrence of a knife wound.
There were also the more common cases of croupy children and upset tummies. The emergency department was a way station for all the area’s unwell, no matter how minor or serious the condition.
He entered the third treatment room on the right and found Willow lying on the bed, her face pale. A monitor was connected by wires to her chest. It beeped in steady rhythm.
She looked up as he entered, and her eyes widened. They were blue-gray, large, fringed with long dark lashes. She had her brother’s bone structure, though more delicate and refined. There was a watchfulness about her—an almost fearful tension.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m fine—just waiting to hear about Preston’s condition. They’re working on him in the trauma room, and they refuse to let me in there.”
“I just spoke with him and with Dr. Teeter, the E.R. doc,” Graham said. “Preston’s stabilized. X-rays confirmed multiple rib fractures and a pneumothorax. They actually have him in CT now.”
She raised her head and tried to sit up. Graham pressed a button to raise the bed for her. “He’s in good hands, Willow, and he’s asking about you. I’ve assured him you’re fine. Try not to worry. Dr. Teeter is pretty busy right now, so it may be a while before he can see to your arm himself, so we’ve decided—”
“Hold it a minute.” She lifted her unhurt arm. “Why is it you know so much more about my brother’s care than I do? And how do you know my name?”
“Preston and I are friends. He’s told me about you.” Though Preston hadn’t mentioned the firm point of his sister’s charmingly dimpled chin, or the vulnerable look in her dark-lashed eyes. “He said you’re an ICU nurse.”
“I used to be.” There was a hint of bitterness in her voice. “That still doesn’t tell me why you’ve been allowed to speak with him and I haven’t.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll see if that can be arranged as soon as he returns from CT. In the meantime,” Graham said, “please allow me to apologize for behaving like a total fool earlier.” Now that he had a chance to observe her more closely, he couldn’t believe he’d mistaken her for the reporter.
Whereas Jolene had closely cropped straight hair, so black it reflected blue lights, this woman had dark curls with a sheen of polished mahogany, the same shade as her brother’s hair. She looked younger than Jolene by about ten years, though Graham knew that Preston’s little sister was only two years younger than Preston. Since Preston was one year younger than Graham, that would make Willow thirty-six.
Graham gestured toward her right forearm, still wrapped with gauze. “Why don’t we see about getting your wound taken care of while we wait for Preston?”
“We?” She blinked up at him, and that firm chin rose a few millimeters. “Mister, who are you?”
Again he could have kicked himself. Graham, you moron, first you bully her, then you scare her to death and now you’re ordering her around like… “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself much sooner. I’m Dr. Graham Vaughn, and besides being the jerk who mistook you for an unsavory local reporter, I’m the only surgeon here right now who has admitting privileges in this hospital and is also available to show immediate attention to your arm.”
She stared at him for a full five seconds. “You’re kidding.”
“No. This is a busy place, and you’d be wise to take treatment when you can get it.”
Her eyes narrowed only slightly, but he could still see the wariness in those blue-gray depths.
“As I said, Dr. Teeter has his hands full,” he said.
She rested her head back against the pillow and closed her eyes. “I still have almost four hours to get sutures, and I’d like to be available in case they tell me I can see my brother.”
“The six-hour rule only applies to wounds not prone to infection,” Graham said.
“I’ll take my chances just a little longer, if you don’t mind.”
Time to treat her like a frightened patient, because that was exactly what she was right now, and he’d added to her fears. “If I had sliced my arm open on a broken—what, window?—and then exposed it to all the dust and grime and debris at a fire site, I don’t think I would want to push the golden hours past their limit.”
Her eyes opened again. “You’re really a surgeon?”
He grimaced at the lingering doubt in her expression. “You can ask the staff, if you’d like. Would you let me take a look at your arm? I promise not to bite. I’ll even try to get you one of the popsicles our nurses hand out to children who have been especially good during the suturing process.”
Her scowl would have withered a sumo wrestler.
He couldn’t suppress a smile. She fully shared Preston’s self-sufficient personality trait. “Please let me help you, Willow. Your brother is a good and trusted friend, and those are often hard to come by. I’m not going to jeopardize my friendship with him by hurting his baby sister, I promise. And I also promise to have you sewn up and ready to see him by the time he’s able to see you.”
Her response was a reluctant, heartfelt sigh. “Fine, then. Do your worst.”
He grimaced. Not exactly the response he’d have hoped for, considering the circumstances, but if he had just gone through what she’d endured tonight, he doubted he’d be at his charming best, either. Time to make this lady’s life a little easier.
Willow winced and stifled a cry of pain. She watched Dr. Vaughn stop and reach for a bottle of sterile saline solution, which he poured over the adhered bandage.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should be able to get the rest off without any more discomfort.”
She waited, noting with surprise the depth of the wound. He was right—it did need sutures soon. A nurse had already set up a sterile tray and assisted with the anesthetic and suture material, then left him to his work as she rushed to more emergencies.
This place resembled downtown Kansas City in Friday-evening rush hour. Why was it that some of life’s worst catastrophes happened in the wee hours of the morning, when help was hardest to find?
He adjusted the overhead light to get a better look at her arm. She couldn’t help noticing, for the first time, that he’d changed into surgical scrubs.
The guy wasn’t really a jerk. She could tell that. In fact, he was probably a nice guy. Preston was a good judge of character. Graham Vaughn was even a nice-looking man with short, sandy-brown hair that had some silvering along the temples and eyes the color of rich toffee, with lines of friendliness around the perimeters. Preston hadn’t bothered to mention his boss was a surgeon—he had, however, mentioned that he was single.
And she’d snapped at Preston for even hinti
ng, in any way, that she would be interested in whether or not a man was single, since she didn’t consider herself to be single.
She was a widow, and there was a big difference between being a widow and just being single. That fact was brought home to her nearly every night, when she discovered that her heart was still broken into splinters, and every morning, when she awakened alone.
“The edges of the wound are a little jagged, but still pretty well approximated.” Dr. Graham Vaughn reached for a package of sterile, cotton-tipped swabs, startling her from the preoccupation that caught her so often in its grasp. “I’m going to explore the wound now. This could hurt some.”
She braced herself. “Go for it.”
He lifted one edge of the wound and inserted the sterile swab.
Willow caught her breath and stiffened.
After a quick probe, he removed the swab. “The cut extends to the subcutaneous fat, but the fascia over the muscles appears intact. I don’t think there’s any tendon injury or deep nerve or blood vessel involvement. Of course, I still need to check for that possibility.”
He started his neurovascular exam by gently pinching each of her fingers, taking special care to also pinch the web space between her thumb and first finger, as well as check her pulse. “I’m screening for any sensory damage to any of the three major nerves that could have been damaged. Can you feel everything okay? Nothing feels dull to my touch?”
“Everything feels fine,” she said. In fact, it felt better than fine. The man now focused so intently on her injury was a different man from the one who had come striding across the lawn, yelling at her.
Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been yelling.
“Preston says you come from Kansas City,” the doctor said, his kind gaze flitting over her with apparent interest. “Which hospital did you work in?”
“Truman,” she said, touching each finger to thumb as Graham now turned his attention toward searching for any motor damage to the nerves. “But as I said, I’m not working now.”
“You came down here for a rest?” He indicated for Willow to spread her fingers apart.
She performed the maneuver without difficulty. “Something like that.”
He looked up at her with a brief question in his eyes, then refocused on his work. He had her flex her wrist, then her thumb, then each finger individually as he carefully observed the wound, looking for any evidence of a cut tendon.
Willow liked his thoroughness.
“Your brother loves you very much, and I know he’s been worried about you these past few months.”
She grimaced. How much had Preston told this man? “They say the grief process can take between two and four years. My husband died twenty-three months ago, Dr. Vaughn. It still isn’t an easy subject to discuss.”
He nodded, obviously already aware of her situation. “I’m sorry—believe me, I understand. Though I’m not a widower, I was plunged very reluctantly into the single world again after years of marriage. It’s been three years for me, and I still haven’t recovered.”
She looked up at him with interest. Why was he telling her this? Was he just trying to hold a conversation to keep her mind off the pain? Pretty heavy discussion to hold with a complete stranger.
“Dr. Vaughn, I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know what my brother told you about me, but he tends to be a little overly protective.”
“Please call me Graham,” he said. “Now, I’m going to numb the wound before I begin to clean it.” He started to remove his gloves, obviously to change to sterile gloves.
“No, I’m a big girl.” There were times Willow would have much preferred physical pain over the emotional pain she’d battled for so long. “You don’t need to numb it until you start sewing.”
He looked at her. “Are you sure? It can be very uncomfortable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, but as soon as you think it’s becoming too painful, you let me know and we’ll take the pain away.”
In spite of his gentle technique, Willow had to grit her teeth as he cleansed the wound, and she nearly asked for the anesthetic.
“Preston’s been an answer to a prayer for me,” Graham said as he worked.
“Hope you didn’t tell him that,” Willow said. “He probably wouldn’t appreciate the designation.”
Graham nodded. “He definitely isn’t interested in talking about spiritual things, is he?”
“No.”
“And you?”
“If you’re asking if I’m a Christian, yes, but don’t expect me to burst into song about the everlasting joys of living the spirit-filled life.”
He gave her a look of inquiry, and she shook her head. How could she explain, without getting too maudlin, that she and God weren’t exactly on speaking terms at this time? According to the books on grief written by the experts, she should be past that stage of the process. She’d left those books back in Kansas City. They were useless to her now.
“How was Preston an answer to prayer for you?” she asked, hoping to deflect the attention from herself.
“He and I met a few years ago at a weekend seminar on real estate investment, at Chateau on the Lake here in Branson. I discovered Preston wanted to work with rentals while he learned the business and earned the money that would make it possible for him to invest in his own property. I, on the other hand, needed to invest money immediately and needed a manager for my properties.”
“He worked as an accountant and financial adviser in Springfield for ten years after graduating from SMSU,” Willow said. “Then he got bored.”
“Well, he doesn’t have a problem with that now,” Graham assured her. “In fact, until tonight, I was pretty sure he was having the time of his life.”
“What are your renters going to do about a place to stay?” she asked.
“I’ve already made some calls, and they have rooms at a condominium down on Lake Taneycomo until they can return to their lodge. Preston’s cabin was the only building destroyed.”
“Any idea what caused the fire?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had time to worry about that. I’ve had my hands full with other things. Though the cabin was a few years old, I had it checked out before I purchased it, and it was in good shape structurally.”
“My uncle was a fireman before he retired,” she said. “He told me once that the investigation begins as soon as the first fireman arrives on the scene.”
“What first alerted you and Preston to the fire?”
“I saw a light outside. When I stepped out the back door I smelled something pungent, like turpentine or some kind of fuel. Then I smelled the smoke.” She paused, remembering. “When I reached the front, there were streaks of fire shooting toward the house across the lawn.”
He didn’t pause in his movements, but she felt, rather than saw, his sudden, startled interest. “Streaks?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking at the time about fuses. You know, like to a bomb.”
“Has anyone from the fire department or police department contacted you?”
“Yes, as soon as I arrived here with Preston, there was someone here to talk to me. I told him what I’m telling you.”
“I’ll have a talk with them. For now, you just relax.” After cleansing the site and setting up for sutures, Graham changed into sterile gloves and picked up the syringe filled with anesthetic solution to numb the wound.
He completed a two-layer closure in less than ten minutes.
After wiping the wound one last time with a saline-soaked swab, he invited Willow to examine the finished job. She nodded with admiration. The guy was good.
Graham removed his gloves and excused himself.
Willow laid her head back and closed her eyes in silent, automatic prayer for her brother’s life.
A moment later she heard a quiet footfall and jerked upright, eyes snapping open. A man in the doorway looked slightly familiar. In his mid-thirties, he had curly dark hair, a long face and warm, friendly brow
n eyes.
“Everyone okay in here?” he asked, taking a step closer to the bed.
“There’s just me, and I’m fine,” she said, frowning at him. Then she placed him. “You’re Rick Fenrow. Apartment Three B, right? Did you know about the fire?”
“Yes, I heard. You’re Preston’s sister, aren’t you?” He had a low tenor voice, with a northern accent.
“That’s right. I didn’t know until tonight that you worked here.”
“I haven’t been here that long. Did you know another tenant, Carl Mackey, works part-time at the hospital, as well? He’s in the pharmacy. The way things are looking tonight, we could have the whole complex here by the time the sun rises.”
“The fire hadn’t spread to the lodge when I left,” she assured him.
“That’s what the fireman told me. It’s a relief, too. Everything I own is in that place.”
“Are you a nurse?”
“Orderly. I usually work on the floor, but they were extra busy tonight, so I got called down here.” He looked at the chair that held her pajamas. “Caught you off guard, did it?”
“I’d say.”
Rick held up a hand. “I’ll be right back.” He winked and left the room. Moments later he came back, carrying a set of green scrubs. “These should fit.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“And don’t worry about Preston—he’s one tough guy. He’ll get through this just fine.”
“Have you seen Mrs. Engle?”
“She’s in some pain, but they’ve already called an orthopedist. She’ll be okay.” He patted her foot, then turned and left the room.
Less than thirty seconds later Graham returned to Willow’s treatment room. “Preston’s ready to see you before they take him to surgery.”
Holding her hospital gown with her good arm, she eagerly followed him into the trauma room, where Preston had been prepped for surgery. Blood infused through one of the two IVs in his arms, and a well-taped chest tube protruded from the left side of his chest, ending in an underwater seal device standing on the floor.
Preston’s upper chest and forearms had reddened; his skin was mildly blistered. EKG electrodes, an automatic blood pressure cuff and a fingertip pulse oximetry unit all connected him to a portable monitoring unit, which beeped with steady rhythm.
Fair Warning Page 3
