Fair Warning

After giving her information to the dispatcher, she returned to the injured woman and knelt at her side. “Mrs. Engle, I don’t want to move you if I can avoid it.” As a former ICU nurse, Willow knew the damage that could be done if she tried to lift an injured patient.

She pulled a thick comforter from the bed and settled it beside Mrs. Engle. If the situation became desperate, she could wrap the comforter around the lady and pull her as gently as possible to safety. For now, however, that could wait.

The shriek of the siren drew closer.

Sharp tongues of fire stabbed the night sky, reflecting its fury across the surface of the lake as Graham rushed up the hillside from the boat dock. Emergency lights flashed red in the treetops in concert with the flames. A siren accompanied the crackle and hiss of the burning building.

The first fire truck pulled into the lot, and its crew rushed to connect to the hydrant. Unfortunately, it seemed Preston was correct about the firefighting personnel and equipment being spread thin tonight.

Graham glanced at the sky out of old habit from his E.R. days. Superstition or not, it had always been his experience that more chaos reigned on nights with a full moon. Tonight, however, the moon formed a crescent against the blackness of the western horizon. He’d have to blame something else for the tragedies taking place in the Ozarks this early April Fool’s morning.

He cut across the lawn at the far corner of the complex and caught movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to catch sight of a tall, slender woman with black hair stepping from the entryway of Four A, Esther Engle’s place.

The last time he’d seen that silhouette, the woman had been holding a camera, flashing pictures of a crime scene at a local music theater. Jolene Tucker called herself a photojournalist, and she passed up no opportunity to see her byline in a local paper. She had her finger on every pulse of gossip in the Branson community, but how had she managed to beat the fire engines here?

Though Graham had seen her only from a distance, he’d heard horror stories about the trouble she caused her hapless victims in her weekly gossip column.

Graham switched directions and marched toward her. She had no right to be here. Her presence endangered not only her, but any others who might feel called upon to remove her from harm’s way. What was she doing inside his building?

To his amazement, when the woman caught sight of him through the darkness she gave him a frantic wave and started toward him across the yard. “Sir, are you with the fire department? I could use some help with—”

“Where’s your camera?” he snapped.

She slid to a stop on the grass and stared at him through the smoky murk. “What are you talking about? Why aren’t there more emergency personnel here? There’s no time to—”

“Ms. Tucker, you’ve got some gall coming into a situation like this,” he said without breaking his stride. He reached for her arm. “You’re on private property. My property, and I want you off within the next ten seconds or I’ll give the police a call.”

She took a step backward, evading his grasp. “But you don’t understand. There’s a—”

“I don’t want to hear it. If you want to complain, just write it up in one of your columns.” He led her from the yard. “This place is dangerous, and you need to leave. It’s an insurance risk.”

She jerked away from him. “Insurance? That’s all you’re worried about?” She scrambled back across the dark lawn toward Esther Engle’s front door. “There are still people who need help. Mrs. Engle’s fallen in her apartment and we need a stretcher—”

“I’ll take care of Mrs. Engle,” he said, rushing after her. “You hightail it on home for once. Your nose for news doesn’t belong here.” He thrust his thumb in the direction of the parking lot. “Out!”

She gave a long-suffering sigh and did as he told her this time. “You’ll get Mrs. Engle?”

“That’s where I’m headed right now.” He saw Blaze and Dane, Taylor and Nathan running up the hill and commandeered Taylor’s help—Taylor Jackson was a tough Ranger with the heart of a paramedic. Often it seemed necessary to utilize the full range of Taylor’s skills on the field when responding to accidents.

The fire seemed to have limited itself to Preston’s cabin, though it could easily spread to the utility building east of the lodge. Graham prayed it would go no farther. When he’d refurbished the lodge, he’d made sure the building was above code. Now he would see if the additional efforts paid off.

Baffled and incensed by the behavior of the manhandling owner, who seemed to be confusing her with someone he knew, Willow waited until he and another man entered Mrs. Engle’s front door. She stepped gingerly from the gravel to the grass to protect her feet, and rushed toward the small crowd of people who had left the shelter of the gazebo to watch the firemen spraying the flames. Another siren wailed through the trees. An orange-and-white ambulance arrived on the scene, pulling to a stop at the edge of the lot.

Willow waved at the driver and directed the crew toward Mrs. Engle’s apartment when they stepped from the vehicle. Finally more help had arrived.

“Has anyone here seen Preston?” she asked Carl Mackey, who lived in the apartment below Sandi Jameson’s.

The older man pointed toward the shed. “I thought I saw him headed in that direction just before the fire truck arrived. Figured he wanted to move the gasoline tank before it blew with the rest of the building.”

“He didn’t come back out?”

Carl shrugged. “Nope, and we called for him.”

She heard the shouts of the firemen above the snap and pop of the flames and the sizzle of water from the fire hoses. No way would her brother go into that mess. He was brave and strong, but he wasn’t foolish, and he didn’t have a death wish.

Carl stepped to Willow’s side. He wore bright orange flannel pajamas, and his hair stuck up in all directions. “Young lady, you’ve got a nasty wound.” He gestured to the bloodstained towel around Willow’s arm. “Why don’t we get that seen to? I grabbed my car keys on the way out the door, and I can get you to the hospital before—”

“Thanks, Carl, but I’ve got to find Preston.” Willow rushed back across the shadows of the front yard. “Preston!” she called. “Has anyone seen my—”

A strong, firm arm caught her from behind and swung her around. She looked up into the angry face of the same jerk who had yelled at her before.

“You don’t listen well, do you, Jolene?”

She yanked away from him. “Look, bud, you may be the owner of this place, but I’m not Jolene, whoever that might be, and if you don’t get out of my face I’m going to kick you!”

The man’s expression froze, mouth open mid-rant. He blinked at her, looked down at her torn, mud-and-grass-stained pajamas.

“Where’s Preston?” Willow demanded. “Have you seen my brother?”

The expression of dismay on his face was priceless. For a fraction of a second she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Yet another explosion rocked the earth. Willow gasped, then turned instinctively in the direction of the sound, toward the building behind the burning cabin.

“It’s the utility shed!” a fireman shouted. “It’s collapsing.”

“Preston was headed in that direction!” Willow cried as another fire truck rumbled into the ruckus. Oh, dear God, no. Not Preston!

Graham grabbed the panicking woman before she could run across the lawn to the shed, and wasn’t surprised when she fought him. So this was the gentle sister of whom Preston had so often spoken.

“We’ve got to get him out of there!” the frantic woman cried.

“The firemen are doing that.” He gestured toward the two men in fire gear, who were already forcing back the flames and entering the inferno.

Preston’s sister—what was her name…something about a tree…Rowan? No, Willow. That was it. Willow struggled from Graham’s grasp, and as she pulled away a red-and-white towel unwound from her right forearm. Blood gushed from a deep injury in the flesh above her wrist.

“Hold it right there,” Graham said, feeling like an idiot as well as a bully. Why hadn’t he noticed this sooner? “You need medical attention.” He reached for her arm.

She pushed away from him. “I need to see about my brother first. Is everyone evacuated?”

“Mrs. Engle was the only one left. Blaze has her dog.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “Blaze?”

“It’s the name of a friend. The dog’s in good hands,” he said gently. “I’m telling you, that wound is actively bleeding.”

She placed her hand over the cut and turned again toward the fire. “And I’m telling you that I want to see about Preston.”

Graham caught sight of Taylor Jackson, who had just finished helping the attendants load Mrs. Engle into the waiting ambulance. “Jackson!” He waved to catch the attention of the tall man with a stern and caring expression, who had followed Graham, Dane and Blaze from Hideaway in his own boat.

“What’s up?”

“Over here. I’ve got a patient for you. Is there another ambulance on the way?”

“Yep, ETA of three minutes or less,” Taylor said as he hefted his backpack of medical supplies over his shoulder and carried it toward them. When he reached them, he frowned at Willow’s arm and gave a soft whistle. “Looks like the E.R.’s going to be hopping tonight.”

Willow gasped, then gave a weak, horrified cry. Graham looked up to see the two firemen carrying a limp man between them through the smoking, flaming shed. Preston.

His sister fainted. Graham caught her, then lowered her to the ground so she could lie flat. “Get a pressure dressing,” he said over his shoulder. “And start an IV. She might have lost too much blood.”

Taylor already had out a handful of four-by-four gauze pads. He placed them onto the bleeding gash and wrapped it tightly with gauze dressing with the swiftness of an expert.

“That should hold it until we can get it sutured,” Graham said, checking her pulse. It was fast, but that could be from a rush of excess adrenaline. As he checked her more closely, he noticed her skin wasn’t cool or clammy to the touch, and she had a good capillary refill.

“She doesn’t appear to be in shock. Did you bring a cardiac monitor on the boat?” he asked.

Taylor nodded. “I prepare for the worst.”

“Let’s check her out, just in case.”

Willow moaned and shifted. “No. I’m okay,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying above the roar of activity around them.

“Let us be the judges of that. You’re not in any position to complain,” Graham said.

She raised her good arm, blinking against the light of the arriving ambulance as she pushed away from Graham. “No monitor and no IV. I need to get to Preston. Where is he?”

Willow had endured enough of this pushy man’s attitude. She caught sight of the firemen loading a gurney into the back of the ambulance and saw a man with a blackened face turn toward her and open his eyes.

It was Preston. He was alive and awake. She had to get to him.

“We should call an ambulance for you, as well,” the pushy man said.

“There’s no reason why I can’t ride with Preston, is there?”

“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

G raham 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 hinting, 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.