Long Ride Home

by Boeshaar, Andrea

  Copyright

  ISBN 1-58660-745-6

  Copyright © 2004 by Andrea Boeshaar. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®.niv®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  One

  Friday, June 13. . .

  As Lara Donahue penned the date in the departmental log, she shook off the inkling of impending doom. She’d never been a superstitious person. She liked black cats, walked under ladders, and had cracked her share of mirrors. Nothing horrible ever happened to her, and she didn’t believe in bad luck. As a Christian, she acknowledged God’s will.

  So why did she feel so. . .unsettled?

  As if in reply, her black digital pager squawked out several high-pitched beeps. Lifting it off the scuffed walnut desktop, Lara pressed one of the gadget’s four front buttons. A message from Paramedic Base appeared on its tiny screen.

  FFL. 29 YR OLD MALE THROWN FROM HORSE.

  UNCONSCIOUS. PULSE 85. BP 170/90.

  GCS 13. ETA 20 MIN.

  Lara grimaced. FFL—the Flight-For-Life helicopter—was flying him from the accident site, and the last line of the electronic page indicated their estimated time of arrival to be twenty minutes. The guy must be in bad shape.

  Thrown from a horse. . .

  Oddly, Lara felt an immediate interest in the new patient. She considered herself a horse lover—had been since junior high school. Now she volunteered at The Regeneration Ranch and taught physically challenged kids how to ride. It was something she looked forward to doing one Saturday out of every month.

  Lara replaced the pager on her desk and continued logging the patients she’d cared for today. Like poor, old Mr. Drummond. He was an eighty-six year old who obviously had difficulties caring for himself. After a nasty fall down his front porch steps, the older gentleman had been taken by ambulance to County General’s emergency department, or “ED.” The nurses discovered his personal hygiene was deplorable, his clothes filthy, and his matted white hair infested with head lice. After Mr. Drummond was washed, examined, and diagnosed in good health, aside from his bruised hip, Lara found him a clean shirt and a pair of trousers in the boxes of donations in her office. Next, she implemented his transfer to the neighboring mental health complex where he’d be evaluated further and enrolled in various social programs that might preserve his independence.

  Lara ceased her journaling long enough to wish she could take Mr. Drummond home with her. He seemed like such a sweet man. He said his son and two daughters lived too far away to care for him. He was lonely. . .

  She shook herself for the second time. What an absurd idea. Of course, she couldn’t take home a complete stranger—and she wouldn’t. Nevertheless, some cases broke her already bleeding heart.

  Lara logged another patient before glancing at her wristwatch. The accident victim would be arriving any minute. As a hospital social worker, she was assigned to the trauma team, which also included a surgeon, residents, nurses, an x-ray tech, chaplain, and registrar, and she was expected to be present when Flight brought in the patient.

  Leaving her office, Lara fastened her pager to her skirt’s belt, then she headed for the trauma room located on the far side of the emergency department. Walking through the bustling “arena,” the center part of the emergency department, Lara passed the nurses’ station. It was an area squared off by gray, faux-marble counters used for writing orders, prescriptions, and documenting in patients’ charts. Desktops had been installed inside the parameter and ran along all four of the half-walls. At the helm sat two unit secretaries who answered ever-ringing phones, entered lab and x-ray orders, and paged specialists on call. Outside the emergency room was a four-bed observation unit, with the trauma room positioned catercorner to it. Just down a short hallway to Lara’s left, ambulances pulled into the garage, or ambulance bay, and critical patients could be wheeled through the doors and right into the trauma room. Not-so-critical persons went into ER. When Flight brought in patients, its staff used the nearby service elevators. Everything was set up perfectly, as County General was a “Level One” trauma facility.

  As Lara entered the trauma room, residents and nurses were suiting up in fluid-resistant, disposable gowns, masks, and plastic goggles. The ER doctor and chief neurosurgeon sat in the back, ready to make the necessary calls. Many of the nurses wore lead vests to protect themselves from the harmful rays of the portable x-ray machines. But Lara had no need for a vest. She’d learned to stay out of the way.

  Her leather-bound portfolio tucked into the crux of her arm, she found a place to stand and wait for Flight. Within moments, the signal came that the helicopter had landed, and minutes later, the unconscious patient was wheeled in.

  Doctors and nurses went to work at once, cutting away clothes and checking vital signs. Lara hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the patient, which wasn’t at all uncommon. One of the Flight staff handed the registrar the patient’s driver’s license, and the young woman hurried away to create an account number, wristband, and plastic plate that would be used to stamp up other paperwork and labels for lab work.

  Lara opened her portfolio and began to write down specifics on her yellow legal pad.

  “This is Kevin,” the flight nurse said loud enough for all to hear. A petite woman with short, strawberry blond hair, she wore a blue jumpsuit and spoke in a commanding voice. “He’s with a rodeo going on in Waukesha County right now, and he was thrown from a horse.”

  Lara frowned as the name struck a familiar chord in her memory. She’d known a guy named Kevin who competed in the rodeo circuit. They’d grown up in the same neighborhood, and he’d been the one who sparked her love for horses when she was thirteen years old.

  That awkward time in her life flashed across her mind, and Lara recalled her pudgy frame traipsing after tall, blond, and extremely cute Kevin Wincouser, who patiently taught Lara everything he knew about riding and grooming horses. He hadn’t been required to spend time with her—he was four years older, on the football team, and popular with all the girls in school. But since their parents were well acquainted, attended the same church, and lived in the same neighborhood, Kev was kind enough to show Lara “the ropes,” so to speak.

  Eighteen months later, a year after his parents were tragically killed overseas, Kev took off for the excitement of the rodeo, and his younger brother moved in with an aunt and uncle in a neighboring state. That was over a decade ago, and nobody had seen the Wincouser boys since.

  This couldn’t be the same guy. . .

  Danielle, the registrar, returned and handed Lara the driver’s license along with a sticker on which the patient’s account number, medical record number, and date of birth had been printed.

  “There are some folks in the lobby asking about this patient,” she told Lara. The attractive African-American woman handed off the rest of her paperwork to the ER technician. Pausing near La
ra again, she added, “I told ’em you’d be out in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Holding up the driver’s license, Lara looked at the patient’s name. Her heart sank. It was him! Kevin Wincouser!

  Oh, Lord, I can’t believe it. . .

  She glanced across the room where medical personnel still assessed Kevin’s injuries. She felt numb and in shock. Nevertheless, Lara knew she had to be a professional despite the sudden personal angle in this situation. She forced herself to concentrate on the team’s ongoing evaluation and take notes. Minutes later, Kevin was wheeled off for a CT scan, and the trauma room emptied out.

  Collecting herself, Lara made her way over to the neurosurgeon. “What’s your initial diagnosis, Dr. LaPont? The patient has friends and/or family members in the lobby, and I’ll have to tell them something.”

  “Well, we’re obviously looking at a head injury,” the physician said. He towered over Lara by nearly a foot, and the way he combed his straight dark brown hair forward gave the specialist a somewhat ominous appearance. “I won’t know for sure until I get the CT results.”

  “All right, I’ll relay that message.”

  Closing her portfolio, Lara headed for the lobby. She feared the worst for Kevin. He might have suffered a brain injury. Would he ever be the same? Many times, head injury patients never fully recovered, although Lara couldn’t help but be hopeful. Medical advancements had come a long way.

  And, of course, the Lord was able to do exceeding, abundantly, and above, in the way of healing. The Kevin Wincouser Lara once knew had been a committed Christian, although his dedication to the Lord seemed to have waned after his parents’ deaths. Had Kevin ever renewed his faith?

  Making her way back through the arena, Lara’s mind whirred with questions. She wondered if Kevin had married. Was his wife among the people waiting for an update on his condition? She steeled herself, planning what to say and what not to say.

  Lara reached the emergency department’s waiting area and walked down the center aisle until she came to a small cluster of people. To her right, she spotted a clown dressed in dusty denims and a red, white, and blue striped shirt. His face had been painted with colorful makeup, and on his head, he wore an over-sized Stetson. He was juggling for some kids who cackled at his antics. The lobby suddenly looked like the circus had come to town.

  Make that the rodeo.

  “Any of you here for Kevin?” Lara asked, careful not to use his last name and violate patient confidentiality laws.

  The clown ceased his act, and two cowboys stood along with a woman. Turning to face Lara, she stepped forward. Petite and slender, wearing blue jeans that were as snug as a second skin, she tossed her head, sending a thick lock of auburn hair over her shoulder.

  “Mackenzie Sabino.” She extended her right hand. “I’m with Kevin. Are you the doctor?”

  “No.” Lara took her hand in a quick, polite introductory greeting. “I’m a social worker. I just wanted to give you a brief update. The doctor will be out shortly, and he can give you more details.” Lara pointed to a door at the end of the waiting room where they could speak in private. “Please follow me.”

  Lara drew a set of keys from her skirt pocket and unlocked the door to the “quiet room.” It was a place where friends and relatives of trauma victims could sit and talk—sometimes cry—and not be gawked at by the general public.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soda?”

  The redheaded female whirled around. “Look, Miss Who-ever-you-are, I don’t want anything except news about Kevin, got it?”

  “Whoa, Mac, take it easy,” one of the cowboys said, grabbing hold of her elbow and reining her in. “This little lady’s just tryin’ to be nice.”

  The woman raised a doubtful brow.

  Lara felt herself tense. “I apologize. I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Lara Donahue.” She met the other woman’s intense gaze but kept her voice low and even. Wife, fiancée, or maybe just a friend, Mackenzie Sabino was probably sick with fear over Kevin’s well-being. Everyone handled stress in a different way. Lara had learned that much in the last two years on the job. “Mr. Wincouser is having a CT scan right now. Once the results come back, the neurosurgeon will discuss them with you.” Lara tipped her head. “Are you his wife?”

  “Possibly.”

  The clown laughed, a deep, jolly sound. “In your dreams, Mac.” He chuckled once more, and the two cowboys joined him.

  “Shut up, you guys.” Mac whirled on her heel and walked several feet away from them.

  “She’s Wink’s rodeo sponsor,” the clown informed Lara.

  “Wink?” Lara frowned in confusion.

  The cowboy grinned. “Yeah, that’s what we call him.”

  “Oh. . .I see.”

  Lara chastened herself for feeling relieved to learn the woman wearing the tight jeans and snobbish demeanor wasn’t Kevin’s wife. Kevin’s taste in women wasn’t any of Lara’s business. Sponsor or wife. . .why should she care? She hadn’t even seen him in over a decade.

  Except she’d practically grown up with the Wincouser boys. Lara couldn’t help feeling worried about Kevin.

  Forcing herself back into her professional mode, she lowered herself onto the plaid sofa. She opened her portfolio and took out a pen. “Would you mind telling me what happened today? How did the injury occur?”

  Mackenzie gave her an indignant look. “He got bucked off a horse. What more is there to tell?” She raised her arms in exasperation.

  “Aw, Mac, take it easy, will ya?” the second cowboy said, taking a seat in a tan leather armchair adjacent to Lara. He appeared to be younger than the other two men. His blondish brown hair was shaved in the classic crew-cut style. “Wink is a two-time world champion bareback rider, and he was riding as good as ever today. Stayed on the bronc for the entire eight-second ride. But the horse must have calmed down some, and Wink relaxed enough so when the horse started bucking again, Wink flew off like a rag doll.”

  Lara grimaced, imagining the scenario.

  “He didn’t stay on for eight seconds,” Mackenzie Sabino spat with sarcasm. “He fell off just before the buzzer.” She cursed. “And now with this injury, he’s going to be out points and money.”

  Lara’s mouth fell open, knowing Kevin stood to lose so much more.

  “Don’t mind her,” the other cowboy said with a little smile. He sat down and held his black, wide-brimmed hat between his knees. His face was tanned, and his hair was the color of cherry wood. “Mac’s mouth tends to run faster than her mind.”

  “Oh, quiet,” she snapped. “I don’t need you making excuses for me.”

  “Someone’s gotta do it,” the younger cowboy mumbled under his breath.

  “I heard that, Jimmy.”

  The clown took the chair beside the quipping cowboy and grinned at Lara. “So how is Wink really doing? C’mon now. You can tell us.”

  “I honestly don’t know. The doctor is waiting for the CT scan results.”

  “Do you have a business card, Honey?” the older of the two cowboys asked.

  Taken aback by the way she’d been addressed, Lara glanced at the man across from her, noting for the first time his very rugged appearance. From the tips of his well-worn boots to his daring, brown-eyed gaze, he seemed every inch the classic cowboy. She suspected he called every woman, “Honey.”

  Lara pulled a card from her portfolio and wondered if the guy didn’t believe she was whom she claimed. After handing it to him, he seemed to study it for several long seconds before dropping it into the breast pocket of his white pinstriped shirt.

  “This is a very nice hospital,” the clown remarked.

  Lara sensed he was attempting polite conversation, so she did the same. “We take very good care of our patients h
ere.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  The other cowboy with the cropped hair cleared his throat. “You mentioned a neurosurgeon. . .that doesn’t sound too good.”

  “The neurosurgeon is part of the trauma team that responds to head injuries.”

  “See, Jimmy, just a formality,” the clown said.

  Mackenzie Sabino had taken to pacing the carpeted floor behind Jimmy and the clown. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to have to cancel the television interview for tomorrow,” she muttered, “and after I worked so hard to get Wink on that local morning show too.”

  Lara’s pager chirped, and she snatched it off her belt and read the phone number on the screen. 8745. She recognized it as the trauma room’s extension.

  “Excuse me while I make this call.” She stood and smiled at the clown and cowboys before crossing the room and plucking the receiver from the wall phone. She dialed the number, and after two rings, one of the nurses answered her call.

  “Dr. LaPont is taking the head injury patient to surgery. He started to go downhill in CT, and it looks like he’s got a head bleed.”

  Lara closed her eyes as regret filled her soul. “All right. I’ll let his friends know it might be a long night.”

  “Good. And let them know that after surgery, he’ll go to the NICU.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Lara hung up the phone. Pivoting, she at once became aware of the curious faces staring back at her.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but. . .Kevin. . .he’s on his way to surgery right now. He’s got what we call a subarachnoid hemorrhage or, in simpler terms, some bleeding in his brain. The neurosurgeon will go in and—”

  “Brain surgery?!” Mackenzie shrieked. “He’ll be nothing but a. . .a vegetable! He’ll never ride again!”

  “Oh, now, calm down, Mac,” the clown said. “It’s not like they’re doing a lobotomy. Surgeons can perform amazing things nowadays. Wink’ll be back to his old self in no time.” He turned and gave Lara a wide, white-painted smile. “Isn’t that right?”