by Lisa Jackson
Please, God, help me—
Pain ricocheted up her spine, and somewhere in the distance she heard the roar of rushing water. Closer as she rolled, faster and faster, out of control, her skin bleeding, the world spinning.
But far above she caught a glimpse of him standing high above her, a black figure in the night, looking down.
Waiting.
For her to die.
CHAPTER 4
Trace O’Halleran was pissed.
In fact, he was pissed as hell as he drove ten miles over the speed limit from Evergreen Elementary School, where he’d picked up his kid; now they were on their way to the clinic for X-rays as Eli had been hurt on the playground.
Someone hadn’t been watching his boy, and once Trace was assured that Eli was all right, that someone had some serious explaining to do!
“Hang in there, buddy,” he said to his son, who was seated beside him in his battered old pickup.
Eli nodded and sniffed, either fighting tears or a nasty cold that had been hanging on for about a week.
Squinting through the windshield as the first flakes of snow swirled to the ground, Trace followed the steady stream of traffic that drove down the hillside known as Boxer Bluff to the section of town spread upon the banks of the Grizzly River.
Eli, all of seven, cradled his left arm, which was already in a splint and a sling compliments of an overworked school nurse, whose advice was, “He needs to see a doctor. I’ve already called the clinic on A Street, so you shouldn’t have to wait, like you might at Pinewood Community or St. Bartholomew’s. Have the arm x-rayed. I don’t think it’s broken, but there could be a hairline fracture. The clinic has a lab. While you’re there, you might have the doctor check his ears and throat. I ran his temp, and he’s got a bit of a fever—a hundred and one.”
Trace hadn’t argued against driving to the hospital. Once, he’d sat in the emergency room at St. Bart’s for five hours before anyone could look at his mangled hand, the result of his wedding ring getting caught on a cog of his combine machine when he’d been harvesting wheat. The combination harvester and thresher had nearly torn his arm off before he’d been able to shut it down. Even after saving his arm, he’d almost had to have his ring finger amputated. In the end his finger had been saved, but the nerve damage had been severe enough that he’d lost any feeling in that finger. He’d decided then and there he’d never wear the wedding band again. It hadn’t really mattered, anyway. Leanna, Eli’s mother, had already had one foot out the door.
No, Trace didn’t want his kid to sit on the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room at St. Bartholomew Hospital, if he could avoid it. They’d start with the clinic, the same damned low-slung building that had been servicing patients for nearly seventy years. Of course, over its life span, the building housing the clinic had been remodeled several times.
Trace’s own father had taken him to the place nearly thirty years earlier, after he’d been bucked off Rocky, the spirited bay gelding that his father had taken in trade for three head of cattle. Rocky had once been a rodeo bronc, and when Trace, at nine, had tried to ride him, some of the gelding’s old fire had resurfaced and he’d sent Trace flying. The result was a concussion and old Doc Mallory’s advice after a quick examination. “For the love of Mike, boy, use the brain God gave you and stay off wild horses!”
Now Trace glanced over at his son, who, cradling his injured arm, was staring out the window.
Eli’s small jaw was set; his eyes were red from the tears he wasn’t about to shed. His breath fogged against the passenger window, which was already smudged with nose prints from their dog, Sarge, a mottled stray who’d shown up half starved the year before. Part Australian shepherd, part who knew what, the dog had become part of their little family. Today, when Trace received the call from the principal of the school and took off for his truck, Sarge had galloped after him, then had stood at the gate, disappointed, when Trace told the dog, “Next time.” Despite the cold, and the fact that the shepherd could get into the warmth of the barn, Sarge would probably be waiting at the gate when they got home.
As if he felt his father’s gaze upon him, Eli muttered, “I hate Cory Deter! He’s a jerk.”
“Cory do this to you?”
Eli lifted a little shoulder.
“Come on, bud. You can tell me.”
Doodling in the foggy glass with the index finger of his good hand, Eli coughed, winced, then said, “He pushed me. We was on the jungle gym, way up top, and he just hauled off and pushed me.”
“And you fell.”
“Yeah.”
“Where were the teachers?”
“Under the covered area.” He slid a glance over his shoulder. “Miss Wallis wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t ask about her,” Trace said with more bite than he’d meant. He flipped on the wipers.
“I know.” Again the shrug.
Trace felt like an idiot. What had he been thinking, going out with his kid’s teacher last year? It had been a mistake, and he’d known it from the second she invited him to dinner. He’d told himself that it was because of Eli, that she wanted to discuss his son and the trouble Eli was having in school, but Trace had known better, sensed it.
And yet he’d gone out with her four times. Well, five, if he included that last night of their final argument after trying to rekindle something that had never really sparked.
He’d only ended up disappointing everyone involved, himself included.
He sighed. Jocelyn Wallis had thought she could be the woman to heal the scar left by Eli’s mother walking out on them. She hadn’t believed Trace when he’d told her he wasn’t interested in a relationship, that he was okay raising his kid alone.
She wasn’t the only one. Eli couldn’t seem to forget the few times that his father had been with his teacher.
Yep, he’d made a royal mess of things.
Now his son said, “She wasn’t at school today.”
“Miss Wallis? Doesn’t matter. Someone was. Someone had playground duty.”
“Mr. Beene was on duty ’cuz Miss Wallis wasn’t there. He’s a substitute.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“It wasn’t his fault,” Eli assured him. “It was that stupid butt Cory Deter!”
“I know you’re mad, but no name calling, okay?”
“But he is.” Eli swiped at his nose with the sleeve of his jacket and set his jaw again. “He’s a stupid butt.”
“C’mon, Eli. It’s not nice to talk about someone like—”
“He pushed me!”
“And that was wrong,” Trace agreed equably.
“Yeah, it was!” Eli glared at him, offended his father didn’t seem to grasp the gravity of Cory Deter’s actions.
“Okay, so maybe he is a stupid butt.”
Eli relaxed a bit.
“Just keep it between us, okay?” Trace pointed a finger at Eli, then swung it back toward himself, repeating the motion several times. “Our secret.”
“Everybody already knows he’s a butt.”
“Okay, whatever. You don’t have to say it again.”
“But Becky Tremont and her friend Tonia, they laughed at me.” Eli’s face was suddenly flushed with color. Embarrassment. Even at seven, what girls thought mattered.
“Don’t worry about them,” Trace said. “Hang in, okay? We’re almost there.” They reached the bottom of the hill just as the railroad crossing signs flashed and the alarms clanged, and Trace gritted his teeth as a train with graffiti-decorated boxcars and empty flatbeds sped past. Traffic backed up behind the crossing bars.
Come on, come on, he thought, frustrated with anything that slowed them down. He was worried about his son, wondered how badly he was hurt. “We’re almost there,” he said again and patted a hand on Eli’s small shoulder.
Eventually the train passed, and they, along with a snake of other vehicles, were allowed to pass. One more stoplight and they’d be at the clinic.
“Got an emergency,” Heather said as she poked her head into Kacey’s office. “Eli O’Halleran. Seven years old. Hurt on the playground. The school called his father and sent him here.”
“He’s a patient?” The name didn’t ring any bells with Kacey. Seated at her desk, she’d just opened a container of blueberry yogurt for lunch. She hadn’t had a chance to catch her breath since the minute she’d walked through the door to exam room two. Elmer Grimes, her first patient of the day, had taken up more than his allotted time with her. She’d been running late ever since.
“Eli O’Halleran hasn’t been in before. The boy’s pediatrician was Dr. Levoy over in Middleton.”
“And he retired last year.” Kacey nodded, already pushing the yogurt container aside. She’d received several referrals from patients who hadn’t been happy with Levoy’s replacement, and though she was a GP, rather than a pediatrician, she’d spent a lot of time in pediatrics in medical school. She liked kids and had considered going back and specializing in pediatrics, but then all hell had broken loose in her personal life and she’d decided to return to Grizzly Falls.
“The school sent him here rather than over to St. Bart’s as we’re closer,” Heather said, mentioning the nearest hospital. “They came in about five minutes ago, and I’ve already taken all his insurance and personal information. I’ve also got a call into Levoy’s office, requesting the boy’s files.” She offered a knowing grin. “I figured we could squeeze him in before the afternoon patients. That you wouldn’t turn him away.”
“All right, let’s take a look at him.” Kacey pushed her chair away from the desk.
“He and his dad are in exam three. I’ve set up his preliminary info on the computer.”
“Good.” Kacey was already slipping her arms through the sleeves of the lab coat she’d just shed. She’d gotten used to having her life interrupted at the most inopportune of moments. All part of the job of country doctor. “You said you talked to someone at the school?”
“The nurse, Eloise Phelps.” Heather peeled off toward the front desk as Kacey made her way to the examination room, tapped lightly on the door, and pushed it open.
She found a slim boy sitting on the examination table. With a shock of unruly dishwater blond hair, he was white-faced, blinking hard against tears and sniffling as he cradled his left arm, which was supported by a sling.
His father, expression grim, stood next to the exam table.
Dressed in battered jeans, plaid shirt, and worn boots, which were a staple around this part of Montana, he was tall, maybe six-two, with a rangy build and wide shoulders. A day or two’s worth of dark hair covered a square jaw, and he stared at her with deep-set, angry eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked about to spit nails.
“I’m Dr. Lambert,” she told the boy and, glancing at the chart on the laptop Heather had left, added, “You must be Eli.”
The kid nodded and pressed his lips together. He was trying to be brave and, she guessed, might be more scared than hurt.
“Trace O’Halleran.” The cowboy introduced himself, extending his hand, his gaze focused on the name tag on her lab coat, which read: DR. ACACIA LAMBERT. His hand was big. Calloused and strong. His face was tanned, weathered from the sun, his brown hair showing streaks of blond, again, she assumed, from hours outside. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, his jaw hard, his nose appearing to have been broken at least once, probably twice, and he couldn’t scare up the ghost of a smile. “I’m Eli’s dad.”
She shook his hand, then let it fall. “So, what happened?”
“Playground accident,” Trace said. “Tell her,” he said, prodding the boy gently.
“I got pushed off the jungle gym.” Anger flared in the boy’s brown eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me about it while I look at your arm? That’s okay, right?”
Eli glanced at his dad, who nodded. “I guess.”
After quickly washing her hands at the small sink located in the room, she dried them with a paper towel, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she stepped closer to the boy. Gently, she removed the sling and splint, some cotton padding, and a small ice pack, all the while watching as he blanched even further. “Hurts, huh?”
Eli couldn’t speak but nodded, his eye filling with tears, which seemed to embarrass him further.
“So how did the accident happen?”
“Cory Deter pushed me off the jungle gym.” Eli was blinking rapidly now, and his jaw tightened. “He’s a jerk!”
“Well, I guess so, if he did this,” she agreed. “So, then what happened?”
“I fell! And ... and I put my hands out like this . . .” He extended his arms, winced, and sucked in his breath. His left arm fell back to his side as he turned ashen again.
“Okay, so you broke your fall by stretching out your arms.” She was nodding. “When?” She glanced at the dad.
“Don’t know exactly,” Eli’s father said. He was staring at her hard, as if trying to figure her out. “I got the call about forty minutes ago, so I assume it was right after it happened.”
“Okay.” She said gently to Eli, “Now, I’m gonna need to take a look at your arm a little more closely. Okay?”
From beneath his beetled eyebrows, the boy glared up at her suspiciously.
“It’s okay,” his father said, placing a big hand over the kid’s, but his expression was as concerned as his son’s.
“ ’Kay,” Eli finally said.
Gently she examined the boy. Testing his movements, running her fingers along the muscles and joints, watching his reaction. All the while, Trace hovered.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” she said finally, “but we can’t be sure without X-rays. There’s always the chance of a stress fracture.”
A muscle in Trace’s jaw worked. “That’s what the nurse at the school said, and she also said he was running a fever. He’s had a cold he hasn’t been able to shake.”
“Since you’re here,” she said to Eli, “let’s double-check that temp, then take a look at your throat and maybe your ears.”
Reluctantly, Eli agreed. His temperature was 100.1, his lymph nodes were slightly swollen, his eardrums were red, and his throat was so inflamed, she swabbed it to check for strep. “Looks like you probably need some antibiotics,” she said. “I’m betting your throat is pretty sore.”
“Really sore.” Eli bobbed his head emphatically.
Trace frowned. “You didn’t say anything.”
“Didn’t hurt before,” his son said.
“It can come on fast. Looks like a double ear infection, and I’m betting on strep throat,” Kacey said to Trace before moving her gaze to his son. “But you, Eli, should feel better in a couple of days,” she promised. “So, now, let’s get an X-ray of that arm, okay? The lab is in the next building.” She turned to her laptop and made a note, then said to Trace, “You can take him over there and have the X-rays taken. They’ll send them over, and I’ll look at them. It won’t take long. We’ll meet up here again, after I check them. If I think you should see an orthopedist, I’ll let you know and set up an appointment with Dr. Belding in Missoula. Or whomever you want.” She offered a reassuring smile, which wasn’t returned. “I’ve worked with Dr. Belding. She’s good.”
Trace nodded curtly. “Thanks.” To his son, he said, “Let’s go, bud.”
Heather appeared with the request forms for the lab just as Trace was helping Eli from the examination table. “Do you need anything else?” she asked Kacey.
“I think we’re okay. Thanks.”
As Heather returned to her desk, Kacey handed Trace the request forms, then, to make the boy feel more at ease, said to Eli, “Look, I know a shortcut, so I’ll walk you over. Is that okay?” She smiled at Eli. “Just in case your dad gets lost.”
“He won’t! He was an Army Ranger.”
Trace snorted and held the door open. “That was a few years back.”
“But you were!” Eli insisted.
> “Back in the Dark Ages,” he admitted as they headed through a series of short hallways and out a back door, where the wind knifed through her lab coat and snow was collecting in the planters.
“Right here,” she said, holding her coat closed with one hand while hurrying down the short walkway. Before she could reach the door, Trace pulled it open and waited for her and his son to walk inside.
The heat was blasting, of course, Christmas music drifting down the hallways.
“Okay, from here on in, you’re on your own,” she said as she dropped them off with one of the lab technicians. “I’ll see you in about an hour, after we get the X-rays back.”
“Got it,” he said, and when his eyes met hers, she saw something dark and undefinable in his gaze.
Just your imagination.
Maybe Trace was just worried about his boy, but there was something more to the guy’s reaction, an undercurrent of distrust that seemed out of line with the situation, almost as if he didn’t trust her. Or maybe it was doctors or the medical profession in general. Not that she had time to worry about his hang-ups, whatever they were.
She and Randy, her nurse, spent nearly an hour with other patients: Cathy Singer was dealing with adult acne; two kids came in with flu symptoms; Kevin Thomas’s mother was certain he had head lice as there had been a case at school; and even Helen Ingles, having apparently found a replacement babysitter for her nephew, returned to have her own health and diabetes monitored.
An hour after being sent to the lab, the O’Hallerans were back in exam room three with the X-rays, which proved there was a small fracture in Eli’s left ulna. “Looks like we’re going to need a cast,” she told father and son as she showed them both the tiny hairline fracture in the bone. “So you can have your pick of colors. Pink or blue.”
“Pink?” Eli looked stricken. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “No way!”
“Blue it is,” she said with a grin as Randy found the appropriate colored kit from a supply closet and helped her apply the cast. For his part, Eli was a trooper, didn’t flinch too much, tried to be as stoic as his father.
