Hideaway

“What’s in the syringe?”

“A coagulant to stop the flow.” He rewrapped the syringe and set it on the top of his dresser.

“Nobody told me,” Dane said.

“Not a lot of people know.”

“How could you keep something like that a secret?”

“You don’t believe me?” Again, that expression of irritable impatience, thick brows lowered over eyes narrowed with disappointment.

“I didn’t say that.”

Gavin sat on the chest in front of the window that overlooked the barn. “About two years ago my old doctor died, and nobody took his place. The guy was in his eighties, only had a few patients. My prescription for this stuff’s always refillable, so I didn’t go to a new doc for a while. When I did, he never said anything about sending him my old records. I guess they kind of got lost.”

“That’s dangerous, Blaze. You need to take responsibility for your own health care now. What would happen if you ran out—”

“What’d you call me?”

Oh, no. He’d done it again.

“You called me Blaze.”

“Happy birthday. Why didn’t your mother tell the social worker about your condition?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t—”

“There you go again.” Blaze shook his head and gestured toward the bed. “You want to sit down and let me tell you a few facts of life?”

“I want to know where Clint can get a copy of your medical records.”

Blaze unwrapped a paper towel from around his wrist. “See? The stuff’s already working. No big deal.”

“It’s a big deal when we don’t know—”

“Thing is, I didn’t figure they’d let me come to the ranch if they knew I was a bleeder. You know, working with the animals can be a little tricky sometimes. But I’ve got this—” his voice wavered “—this need to be around….” He swallowed and studied the wound on his wrist.

“It’s okay,” Dane said. “I think I understand. You probably worked with your father a lot in his practice.”

“All the time.”

“You lived in Rolla?”

“Edge of town. Saw my mother maybe three times after the divorce was final, and maybe six times before that. Until Dad died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“About what? That my own mother doesn’t want me? Not your fault. You ever put any ice on that thigh?”

“I will.”

“Sure. You gonna kick me out?”

“You got any other secrets you need to tell me?”

“I’m not an arsonist.”

“That’s no secret.”

“I don’t think I’ll make it at school.”

Dane eased himself onto the bed at last, groaning at the increased soreness of his leg. “Why not?”

“Don’t read too well.”

“You need glasses?”

“I’ve got good vision, I just can’t catch on to reading.”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“How’re you going to do that?”

“Has anybody ever suggested you might have a learning disability?”

“All my life.”

“Your father could have helped you—”

“Don’t you say anything about my father,” Blaze snapped. “He got dumped by the same woman who dumped me. He did the best he could, but he was busy.”

“Maybe you need to learn a different way to process information.”

“I process just fine—I just can’t read the letters.”

“Backward? Maybe if we played with that a little.”

“Maybe you should just use me here on the ranch to take care of the animals. Maybe that’s all I need to do. I could just be a ranch hand here on the place.”

“I didn’t bring you here to work. I brought you here to take care of you. That means you get an education.”

Blaze hooked his thumbs into his belt loops. “I’d like to see you try.”

“You’d better believe I will.”

Hothouse flowers saturated the atmosphere, nauseating Cheyenne as she slid into the pew beside her mother. Organ music threaded through the gloom of the church, trickling over her like black oil, punctuated by her mother’s quiet sobs. She felt oppressed by the crowd in this auditorium, though she knew the outpouring of kindness by so many should give her comfort.

But nothing could give her comfort. Some evil entity had gut-kicked her, and it amazed her that she was still breathing.

Kirk sat across the auditorium, wiping his face with a white handkerchief. In a haze of pain this past weekend, Cheyenne had tried twice to contact him. No response. Her parents had called his number three times yesterday. No answer. No matter what had transpired before now, he must be hurting horribly.

Cheyenne’s fingernails sank into the flesh of her hand. Could he be hurting worse than she was? She had lived with the nightmare of seeing her beloved baby sister—her only sibling—wheeled into the ER mangled and bloody. She had plunged her hands into the blood, had fought desperately for Susan’s life. She had lost.

If not for the overwhelming support of extended family—aunts, uncles, cousins—Cheyenne wouldn’t be able to handle this day, or her parents’ grief. Or her own.

Mom hadn’t stopped crying since she and Dad arrived yesterday. Dad looked closer to seventy than fifty-six.

A young minister sat on the stage behind the podium, fidgeting with his tie.

Someone touched Cheyenne on the shoulder. She looked up to see Ardis Dunaway standing in the aisle, her dark eyes peering through bifocals with deep compassion.

“How’re you holding up, hon?”

Cheyenne nodded. She still wanted to die. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done to help these past few days.”

“Don’t you even worry about that.”

Not only had this dear friend taken care of her when she collapsed the day of Susan’s death, but Ardis and Jim had been the ones to call Kirk in and tell him about Susan—a task Cheyenne would traditionally have undertaken.

Ardis leaned closer. “Have you spoken to Kirk at all?”

“He won’t communicate.”

“And so we still don’t know why she was driving under the influence—”

“Please.” Cheyenne felt the stab of fresh pain. “Does it matter, anyway? She’s dead, and no amount of fact finding will bring her back. The wreck wasn’t her fault, according to the police report. That’s all I need to—”

“I’m sorry, honey, of course you’re right.” Ardis squeezed her shoulder, then indicated the crowded church. “Look, I know you don’t believe in all this, but I hope it comforts you to know that Susan was very well loved.”

“My sister found…comfort here, apparently,” Cheyenne said.

“She’s receiving more comfort now than she ever received here on earth.”

Cheyenne nodded, too overwhelmed to argue. She respected Ardis’s faith even though she didn’t share it.

Ardis squeezed Cheyenne’s shoulder and returned to her seat several rows back.

The organ music drifted to silence. The deep baritone voice of a soloist echoed through the auditorium—waxing poetic about gardens and dew and talking with the Son of God.

Cheyenne focused her attention on the closed casket and the picture of her laughing sister, whose life hadn’t been lived long enough for her to ever be complete.

At the cemetery, the funeral director escorted Cheyenne beneath the canopy to the seat next to her brother-in-law.

He edged away from her, his firm features set.

She endured the minister’s attempt at consolation as he eulogized her sister.

He meant well, but he didn’t know Susan the way she did.

She took her mother’s hand and held tight, forcing away the memories of Friday. Almost every night, she dreamed of the blood. She dreamed of Susan’s battered body. She relived that horrible time over and over in her head.

The pastor finished his eulogy and said a prayer, then reached for Kirk’s hand. “She was a precious soul,” he said softly. “We’ll miss her so much, but I know it’ll be nothing compared to what you’re going through.”

Kirk’s tears looked real, the pain on his face unrehearsed. It reflected Cheyenne’s own loss.

For one unguarded moment, she felt the kinship. As the pastor stepped away, Cheyenne touched Kirk’s arm. “We’re both going to miss her,” she whispered.

He jerked away, turning on her with the swiftness of a striking snake. “How are you going to live with yourself, knowing you killed your own sister?”

The viciousness of his words, his voice, sent a sting of shock through her. “How can you say that? I did everything I could to—”

“Save it for the jury.” He turned his broad back to her and stood.

Cheyenne stood at the foot of the casket, barely heeding the voices that surrounded her as she watched Kirk shaking the hand of the funeral director. He waved and nodded to others, like a gracious party host.

He looked aside and caught her watching him. His expression hardened.

She stepped backward and stumbled.

“Cheyenne? Are you okay?” Uncle Chester caught her by the elbow.

She felt a wash of dizziness. “I’m not sure.”

Mom rushed to her side. “Chey? What’s wrong? Are you sick again?”

“No, I…I’ll be okay.” How could he blame her? She’d done all she could do. She would gladly die herself, if only it would bring Susan back.

But nothing would bring Susan back—and Cheyenne didn’t know how she’d be able to bear it.

Chapter Five

Susan’s face floated into Cheyenne’s vision, interrupting a perfect in-house nap. The dark brown eyes were lit with humor, the classically high cheekbones glowed with health.

“I want to see you again, Chey.” Her soft voice floated through the darkness. “Make sure to come—”

With a cry, Cheyenne plunged from the dream, startled awake by its vividness.

She gasped, tugging the comforter around her shoulders. “Susan!”

The telephone beside the twin-size bed beeped at her.

“Leave me alone.” She turned away from the sound, covering her ears, desperate to catch another glimpse of the dream, to hear that sweet voice again.

Another beep, and the speaker came alive. “Dr. Allison? Hello?” A male voice. Tom, the R.N. on duty.

She turned and snatched up the receiver. “Yes?”

“Dr. Allison, I’m sorry to wake you. Are you okay?”

No. She cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a patient with chest pain.”

“I’ll be there.” She disconnected and looked at the bedside clock. Six-thirty on Saturday, April 2. Exactly a month since…

How many dreams did that make now, thirty or so?

How much longer could she function this way? She felt the sting of tears as she reached for her stethoscope. “Oh…Susan.”

She quick-stepped to the ER and found Tom waiting for her at the central desk.

“Vitals?” she asked.

“Arlene’s in the room doing the patient assessment.”

Cheyenne selected a T-sheet and placed it on a clipboard on her way to the cardiac room. She stopped in the doorway and caught the faint scent of body odor.

The patient had black hair…olive skin…dark eyes…

Cheyenne’s clipboard clattered to the floor.

Arlene looked up from the monitor. “Doctor, are you okay?”

Stop this! It isn’t Susan.

“Doctor?”

“Yes. Sorry.” Cheyenne picked up the clipboard and looked at the patient again. Not Susan. Of course it wasn’t Susan. Get a grip!

“H-Hello, I’m Dr. Allison.”

The patient watched her closely, and Cheyenne realized Arlene was still staring at her from the other side of the room.

“Arlene, is something wrong?” she asked.

The nurse shook her head slowly.

Cheyenne questioned the patient, did an exam and ordered a drug screen, all the time aware that the nurse continued to watch her a little too closely. It rankled.

While she waited for the test results to come back, Cheyenne sat down at her workstation and struggled with the memories. As she often did, she planned to drive to the cemetery with a bouquet of flowers from the grocery store.

And then she would sleep through the day. After that, she had vacation for two weeks, which she desperately needed.

She checked her mail slot in the E.R. callroom. There were the typical copies of old lab reports and hospital memos, a request for her to stop by her director’s office before she left on vacation.

No problem, she could do that. Jim had a shift today. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had plans to do anything but sleep. With the physician shortage in the past few weeks, she’d worked several extra shifts in March, half of them nights. It kept her occupied, but it also kept her tired, especially combined with the insomnia caused by her frequent nightmares.

Jim walked past her desk. “You ready to talk to me in a few minutes?”

“Let me finish up a patient and I’ll be there.” He was obviously serious about something. Might as well see what it was.

Dane heard the familiar crunch of gravel announce the arrival of a macho engine. Opening the barn door, he saw the big red pickup floating in a cloud of dust, and the mayor of Hideaway behind the steering wheel.

This was not the best possible morning for Austin’s kind of company, but then, Dane couldn’t think of a time when he would welcome this man. Too much ugly history came between them.

With a final glance at Willy and Blaze hovering over the cows in the milking room, Dane strolled from the barn and ambled up the incline toward the house, catching a whiff of dust in his nostrils. They could use a good rain. In fact, he wouldn’t mind if the sky chose this time for a cloudburst.

Austin Barlow lit from his truck like some cowboy hero alighting from his trusty steed. Minus the hat, for once. At forty-two, Austin had a full head of auburn hair with barely a streak of white, while at thirty-eight, Dane knew his silver-blond hair was already more silver than blond. His beard had even more snow in it. His father had been the same way.

“Morning, Austin.” Dane reached out a hand, bracing himself for the man’s exaggerated grip. He didn’t wince when his knuckles squeezed against each other. “Breakfast will be ready in about thirty minutes. It’s our Saturday special—”

“No time for that today, Gideon, we’ve got other things to worry about.” The man loomed a little too close and tall, a sure bet he had conflict on his mind.

Dane suppressed a groan. At six feet even, he was barely an inch shorter than the mayor, but he’d never learned to intimidate quite so well. “Time for a cup of coffee?”

“I need to know where your boys were last night.”

Not this again. “All snug in the house as soon as the milking was done.”

“You know that for sure? You have padlocks on all your outside windows?”

Don’t react. “I have squeaky floorboards, and I’m a light sleeper. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, Austin?”

The mayor kicked at a rock with the pointed toe of his boot and gestured across the lake toward the town of Hideaway. “Someone set a boat afire on the new dock last night.”

Dane sniffed the air. He’d caught the scent earlier, but several neighbors heated with wood stoves and fireplaces, so he’d thought nothing of it. “Was anybody hurt?”

Austin shook his head. “Edith Potts called the county sheriff this morning—she found her cat lying on the front porch, shot through the side.”

That was even more disturbing. In spite of Austin’s suspicions, the fire could have been an accident. The cat could not.

“Know anybody who’d do those things?” Austin’s gaze combed the outskirts of the ranch.

“Not a soul.”

“What about that new boy you got last month? Black kid with that stupid mop-head hairdo. What do you know about—”

“I know where Gavin was last night, Austin. Don’t try to drag my kids into—”

“Didn’t I hear somebody calling him Blaze? I hear he’s not doing too well in school.”

“He’s just settling in.” Temper, Dane. Control the temper or suffer the consequences. “I’ve told you before, my kids aren’t delinquents.” They were just unwanted teenagers who’d fallen between the cracks in the social system.

“Yeah? How long were you in the hospital when your kid Bruce Wickman ran over you with the tractor?”

“That was seven years ago,” Dane said curtly. “He was here by mistake.” Bruce was still a touchy subject between them. One of several.

“How do you know your little Blaze isn’t a mistake?”

From the corner of his sight, Dane saw “little Blaze” walking up the hill with Willy—all five feet ten inches of brawn. Time to get rid of this joker before tempers flared or feelings got hurt.

“Austin,” Dane said, forcing an edge to his tone, keeping his voice low, “I appreciate your coming out to check on us, but your fears are unfounded. Why don’t you wait until the sheriff checks out the source of the fire before you start pointing fingers in our direction again?”

“Don’t blow me off like—”

“It seems I remember you were the most outspoken against the new boat dock. If the sheriff knew that, he might be more likely to check you out.”

“You know I wouldn’t—”

“And didn’t you and Edith Potts have some heated words a few weeks back about her property line?” Most of the time Austin Barlow was easy to handle. He hated bad press.

“Hi, Mr. Barlow,” Willy called.

Austin turned and looked the boys over, nodded, then turned back to Dane.

“Thanks for coming by, Mayor.” Dane opened the truck door and stepped back. “Sorry you can’t stay for breakfast.”

Dr. Jim Brillhart was seated behind his minuscule desk in the director’s office by the time Cheyenne arrived.

She slumped into the empty chair across from his desk. “So, what’s up, Jim?”

He hesitated for a full second before unfolding his long legs from their cramped position. He stepped around the desk. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Ardis brought some doughnuts. I know you like the chocolate-iced ones.”

Cheyenne studied his expression. “No, thanks. I’m not really hungry right now.” Something was making Jim edgy. “Is everything okay?”

He closed the door and returned to his chair, folding himself beneath the desk once more. “I noticed you’re scheduled for two weeks of vacation. Going anywhere special?”

Please don’t tell me you need me to work. “I hadn’t made any plans. Why?”

“I was just checking your records, and you have an anniversary date coming up next month.”

That had to be it. He wanted her to work. “Yes, and I haven’t had a vacation for a year.”

“Exactly.” He tapped the tip of a pen on the desk, watching the movement of his hand.

“Is there some trouble covering the shifts?” It wasn’t as if she had something special planned.

He stopped tapping. “I don’t need you to work.” He straightened and scooted forward, still looking at the pen. “In fact, if you haven’t used up the four weeks before your anniversary date, you’ll lose what you don’t take, according to company policy.”

“I was afraid of that, but I just couldn’t find the time….”

“I have a proposition for you. I would like you to take all four weeks, starting now. In addition, I’d like you to take additional leave time.”

“Additional?” She tried to read his expression. “Why?”

He met her gaze, held it, sighed. “You need it.”

“I’m doing fine. I don’t—”

“I heard about your episode this morning. It’s obvious to me and to the staff that you’re still struggling with your sister’s death.” His words tumbled over one another. It was well-known to the staff that their director hated confrontation.

“I dropped a clipboard, for Pete’s sake. Big deal.”

“Arlene said you were shaking visibly.”

Cheyenne made an ostentatious show of looking at her watch. “It’s been barely forty-five minutes since that happened. Arlene sure didn’t waste any time.”

“And the fact that this annoys you tells me you’re still being affected by grief over Susan’s death, because I know you, Chey. You don’t get rattled that easily.” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward to place his elbows on his desk. “Face the facts. You had a devastating experience, and you haven’t been given the time to deal with it. I’m giving it to you now.” He held up an April schedule. “I’ve already removed your name.”

Cheyenne stiffened. “Over a silly little incident this morning? You can’t be serious.”

“That kind of thing has happened more than once in the past month.”

“Three times. Yes, Jim, I know that. I’ve had some trouble sleeping, but don’t you think that’s normal after a loss like mine?”

“Sure. It’s perfectly understandable after what you went through, and you need time to deal with the loss. You’re one of our best doctors, Chey, and your emotional health is important to everyone here, including your future patients. You know how quickly ER docs burn out.”

“Save the lecture, I’ve heard it all before.” This was crazy. How could he do this to her? “Are you telling me I can be replaced that quickly? We’re already working a doc short.”

“Another Missouri ER is closing near Saint Louis. The physicians there will be out of a job in two weeks.”

“Why is it closing?”

“The hospital couldn’t afford the increase in their insurance rates. Three of their docs are looking for temporary work, and I plan to grab them up and use them as much as possible. That’ll give all of us a break. The rest of us will hold out until they come on board.”

“Jim, I don’t need that much time off.”

He gestured to a stack of files on the far right corner of his desk. “Your quality control reviews have not been impressive lately.”

That hurt. She hadn’t seen the reports for this past month. “I’ve worked fifty percent more shifts than last month, Jim. All of us are a little tired.”

“I saw your patient this morning,” he said. His voice was soft, sorrowful.

“Which one?”

“The one with the chest pain. Crosby. The one who looked like Susan.”

“But I did everything appropriately. I did a cardiac workup and EKG and she was fine.”

“Chey, did you even consider a pulmonary embolis?”

“No, why would I? She was young—”

“She had multiple risk factors. She was a smoker, she took birth control pills.”

“Yes, but—”

“She was wearing an air stirrup splint.” He dropped the pen onto the desk and leaned back, as if he wanted to cross his legs but didn’t have room beneath the dinky desk. “She’d been practically immobilized for three days with a badly sprained ankle. I did a D-dimer test on her.”

Cheyenne’s thoughts froze. “The result?”

“Positive.”

She gave herself time to recover from the blow. “The woman was having a pulmonary embolis?”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry, Jim. I—I told you I’m not sleeping well.” The woman could have died! If Jim hadn’t seen that ankle brace…

“You’re not focusing, Cheyenne. That isn’t like you. Your tragedy is way too fresh. For your own good and the patient’s, I have to consider you an impaired physician and take the necessary steps to help you.”

“Impaired! Jim, I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t have a drug—”

“The problem is, the last place a physician’s struggle ever shows up is at work. You must be going through some nasty stuff at home.”

She nodded, her mind still reeling with shock.

“It took you three weeks to recover from your flu. You worked sick during that time. I want you to take some sick leave.”

“But I’m not—”

“End of discussion. I’m sorry. Why don’t you go see your parents? Florida should be nice this time of year.”

Cheyenne slumped in her chair. “They wouldn’t know what to do with me.” She heard the plaintive sound of her own voice. “Okay, I’ll take off. The whole four weeks.”

“Eight, with an option for more the minute you request it, but give us enough notice to line our people up. And remember, we’ll have third year residents available in July.”

“July?” He was trying to get rid of her. “No, Jim. You can’t do—”

He held up a hand. “You don’t understand what I’m doing yet. Trust, me, Chey, I’ve been there. It took me twelve months to recover from burnout eight years ago. It nearly ruined my marriage and destroyed my family. I don’t want that to happen to you.”