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Critical Praise for
HANNAH ALEXANDER’S
Novels

SOLEMN OATH

“ Solemn Oath absolutely hit the ball out of the park. Hannah Alexander is going to have a hard time writing fast enough to keep up with reader demand.”

—Debi Stack

SACRED TRUST

“Alexander is great at drawing the reader into her story line and keeping them hooked until the resolution of the plot.”

— Christian Retailing

A KILLING FROST

“Running dialogue and a few twists will keep romantic suspense fans coming back for more.”

— Publishers Weekly

DOUBLE BLIND

“Native American culture clashes with Christian principles in the freshly original plot.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

GRAVE RISK

“The latest in Alexander’s Hideaway series is filled with mystery and intrigue. Readers familiar with the series will appreciate how the author keeps the characters fresh and appealing.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

FAIR WARNING

“The plot is interesting and the resolution filled with action.”

— Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Solemn Oath
Hannah Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

We wish to thank Joan Marlow Golan and her

excellent staff for giving us this opportunity to share

our books with a new reading audience.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Questions for Discussion

SOLEMN OATH

Prologue

L eonardo the lion lay cold in his cage. Splotches of rusty red-brown stained his coat around a bullet wound in his right side, and a grown man’s sobs echoed against the concrete wall that protected Leonardo’s inner sanctum.

Cowboy Casey knelt beside his pet, forehead pressed against the stained velvet shoulder, tears dampening the tawny fur. “My friend…why?”

With callused fingers he tested the stiffness of the lion’s well-fed ribs. Rigor mortis. The killer had probably struck before dawn, when Cowboy was taking his autumn load of exotic animals to the station for shipment.

“Who would do a thing like this? What kind of a cruel…” Cowboy knew the answer before the question completely formed in his mind. The muscles in his jaw hardened, and his teeth ground together as he fought against a sudden, overwhelming rage. “Berring!”

He exhaled an angry gush of air and jerked to his feet to pace across the cage. Of course Berring. Two weeks after that madman had moved into the neighboring farm this summer, a gaping hole mysteriously appeared in the bison pasture fence. Thank goodness for three brave buddies with herding skills.

Berring had also called the sheriff out twice in the past month with some wild-haired story about Leonardo roaming the woods at night. The sheriff knew better, and so did every farmer in Knolls County. Cowboy had never put his neighbors in danger from the powerful animals he raised on his ranch.

He pivoted and walked across to hunker down once more beside the big cat. Leonardo had been his most faithful pal for the past four years, in spite of the roughhousing that had gone too far and sent him to the E.R. a few times. It wasn’t Leonardo’s fault he had jaws with the impact of a backhoe.

And it wasn’t his fault a crazy man had been turned loose with a gun.

“He won’t get away with it, my friend,” Cowboy said as he grabbed up his hat and strode from the cage.

Off-duty fireman Buck Oppenheimer stepped through the front entrance of his favorite convenience store, the Pride of Knolls. He unfolded a ten-dollar bill to pay for his gasoline, looking around for Roxie, the regular weekday clerk. The place was deserted.

“Hey, Rox!” His voice carried over the tops of tightly packed shelves toward the back of the store. “Put your cigarette out and get back to work. Break’s over!”

He grinned to himself, waiting for her usual sharp comeback. He and Roxie had an ongoing rivalry about who could give the best insult. Roxie usually won, because Buck had been raised to treat all women like ladies. And Roxie was no lady.

There was no reply, but sure enough, he did smell smoke. He always smelled smoke in here. All the old farmers ignored the signs plastered by management on the windows and the front of the counter, and Roxie was the worst offender of the bunch. She always stated proudly that she’d been smoking two packs a day for fifty years, and management could fire her if they wanted. She’d been here for the past ten years. Truth was, management was scared of her.

But sixty-year-old Roxie didn’t come plunging through the squeaky swinging doors from the back the way she always did. Buck listened for the sound of a toilet flushing or of Roxie shuffling boxes around in the back. Could be she hadn’t heard him come in.

“Roxie?” He sniffed again and noticed that the smoke was stronger.

And different…sharper.

“Roxie!”

A faint popping, rushing, cracking sound reached him, then a heavy thump…and a muffled cry that sounded like a tomcat meowing.

A wisp of smoke slithered into the shopping area between the twin stockroom doors.

“Help!” came the tomcat’s voice again. It was Roxie.

Buck ran out the door and the few feet back to his truck. He radioed for backup, then grabbed his fire-resistant jacket and his ax and raced back in through the swinging doors into the storage area. Bright tongues of flame raced along a stack of cardboard boxes that surrounded a smoking barbecue grill in the far corner.

“Roxie, where are you?” he shouted, covering the lower part of his face with his arm to protect his lungs from the heat and smoke.

“Help me! I’m in here with the fire extinguisher!” The thumps came from his right, on the other side of a solid wooden door that led to a smaller storage room. “This door’s stuck again, and it’s getting smoky in here! Hurry!”

“Stand back, Rox, I’m going to force it open.”

“Who’s out there?” she demanded. “Buck, that you?”

“Yes, stand back!”

He knew there wasn’t a whole lot of room in there to move around, much less stand back. He rammed his shoulder against the door and bounced hard against it. “Is it unlocked?”

“Of course!”

He shoved again, this time putting his full muscle-builder’s weight against it, but he bounced from the wood once more as a slice of pain streaked down his right arm. He coughed at the thickening smoke.

The fire quickened with sudden life. Snapping heat puckered his flesh, and the smoke twisted and bunched around him as if it were alive. He struggled not to breathe too much of the dark thickness. He stood back from the door, raised his ax and slammed the blade into the wood above the knob. Roxie squealed. When he plunged forward with his shoulder this time, the door splintered and gave way with him and he tumbled in.

“Hurry!” Roxie shouted. “There’s a barbecue grill that could—”

A loud sound like the boom of a cannon reached them, and the wall beside them imploded. Sudden, sharp pain pierced Buck’s chest just before he grabbed Roxie, threw her beneath him, and fell over her. A shelf of paper towels toppled onto them as another blast hit.

Through the blackness and heat and smothering smoke, he heard the welcome sound of a siren. His friends would come through.

Downtown Knolls, Missouri, held the picturesque quality of one of those postcards they sold in the ancient Ben Franklin store on the northeast corner of the square. Early autumn barely touched the lush growth of maple and oak trees with kisses of gold and rust. The three-story brick courthouse in the center of the square rose up from its broad landscape of green grass and evergreen hedge like a graceful sculpture. Across the street Arthur and Alma Collins stepped out of Little Mary’s Barbecue with their sandwiches and home fries.

“I never could figure out how they can say the food is homemade when the café isn’t home to anybody,” Alma chattered to Arthur, her dark gold, naturally wavy hair reflecting the sun’s warm rays. Her eyes held the same golden glow, highlighted by a gleam of anticipation as they ambled across the street toward the courthouse lawn. Their destination was a group of picnic tables settled deeply beneath the shade of the trees, where the rest of their tour group gathered.

“I mean, they make the buns at the café, don’t they?” Alma stepped over the curb, taking care to walk on the sidewalk and not the grass. “Not at home in their own kitchens. They should say ‘made from scratch’ or somethin’. I tried to explain that to a waitress while you were orderin’, but I don’t think she appreciated it.” The deep, warm tones of Alma’s voice betrayed the Southern heritage of her parents and mingled in an interesting way with the Spanish accent she and Arthur had both picked up during their years of missionary service in Mexico.

Arthur couldn’t suppress a grin at his wife. This tour was a rare treat for both of them, but especially for Alma. Where they lived there were no antiques stores, no modern grocery stores, no medical care. They didn’t even have electricity in the small village where they’d been building a new church for the past year. Alma had worked hard alongside him, loving the people who struggled just to feed their children, teaching them safer cooking habits and hygiene as she told them about the new life they could find in Christ.

“Where do you want to go after we eat?” he asked. “We have a whole afternoon to explore before we load onto the vans again.”

Alma’s smile broadened. She laid a hand on Arthur’s arm. “There’s an antiques shop down a block from the secondhand bookstore, and I know Phyllis and Shirley wanted to see if they—”

A squeal of tires from the street behind her cut off her words. Her eyes widened in alarm as she spun around, instinctively reaching for her husband.

Arthur gasped at the sight of a big black Plymouth careening around the corner of the square, going clockwise on the one-way, counterclockwise street. The car hit the curb and jumped it with a squeal of springs, rumbling toward them with evil intent.

“Oh my goodness…Arthur, look out!”

Arthur grabbed Alma’s shoulders and jerked her toward him.

He caught sight of a dark head slumped over the steering wheel just before the front tires dug into the lawn. Alma screamed as the heavy bumper slammed into the backs of her legs and thrust her against Arthur. A confusion of tearing pain and terrified cries collided with jumbled bits of sky and ground. Picnic tables and people scattered across the broad lawn.

Everything ended abruptly with the crash of metal against concrete.

Cowboy saw the gleam of dark steel from the barrel of the .22 rifle just before it exploded with fire and sound, ripping into his right upper arm and shoving him sideways with the force of its blast. He cried out with pain and surprise as his body slammed against the front porch railing.

Berring, greasy haired and scowling, slung the screen door wide open and followed the gun out onto the porch. “Get off my property or I’ll blow that arm off next time!” he growled in a voice that could cut tin cans in two with its gritty depth.

Blood oozed out between Cowboy’s fingers as he gripped the bullet wound. He gaped at the man. Cold shock washed through him as he stared at Leonardo’s murderer—and maybe his own.

Sharp, angry pain raced through his arm and shoulder. He stumbled backward down the steps of the porch. Berring raised his gun, took aim again and fired a booming shot that sent a bullet whizzing past Cowboy’s left ear.

Cowboy pivoted and plunged into the thicket of woods beside the littered front yard. This was crazy! Things like this didn’t happen in Knolls. He stumbled over roots and limbs, twisted his foot in a hole but caught himself and kept running.

Berring’s voice came closer. “How does it feel, zookeeper?” The machine-gun fire of laughter followed. “How does it feel to be afraid? Why don’t you turn around and face me like a man?”

Another shot rang out, along with the wicked thud of tearing wood and the crackle of footsteps through briars and poison ivy. Cowboy tripped through a thicket of gooseberry bushes and danced across oak tree roots to keep from falling on his face. A bullet whisked barely an inch over his head before he could straighten again. For a desperate second he considered turning and facing his attacker and trying to wrestle the rifle from him, but the sudden sound of a John Deere tractor echoed through the trees.

Yes! He remembered! Old Mr. Gibson was plowing his south twenty today.

Cowboy plunged from the protective stand of forest and ran across the unbroken ground, waving his good arm. Mr. Gibson caught sight of him and casually waved back, then frowned and stopped his tractor as Cowboy drew nearer.

“What happened this time, Jacob?” the old farmer called out. “That lion try to eat you again, or did one of those ostriches finally get a kick at you?”

“Berring shot me.” Barely breaking stride, Cowboy leaped onto the tow bar behind the big back wheels of the small farm tractor. “Can you get me to the hospital? And we’d better call the sheriff. That man’s dangerous!”

Mr. Gibson blinked at Cowboy, then something caught his attention from the edge of the woods. Cowboy cast a panicked glance over his shoulder and saw the maniac run out of the forest shadow and stop to stand at the edge of the field, glaring at them, rifle tucked beneath his left arm.

Mr. Gibson didn’t ask any questions, just pulled back the clutch and steered the tractor out of the field. “Guess the plowin’ can wait.”

Chapter One

K nolls Community Hospital, settled within the autumn-dusted elegance of a Knolls residential section, gave new arrivals the impression of serenity with its pink granite two-story structure and thick evergreen landscaping. The emergency and outpatient areas formed a wing jutting out from the building westward, looking like an arm reaching out to welcome patients in. Two hundred fifty health-care personnel, food service and housekeeping providers and office workers earned their living here. They gave quality care to up to sixty patients on the floor. Family physicians’ offices clustered close, circling the main structure in a large section of acreage. The hospital administrator, Mrs. Estelle Pinkley, ruled with the firm hand of a hardheaded, hard-nosed grandmother, whom almost everyone in the county knew and loved.

Dr. Lukas Bower, the unwilling temporary director of Knolls Emergency Department, depended on Mrs. Pinkley to help him handle staff and make executive decisions. In the meantime he took every opportunity to convince her that he was a doctor, not an administrator. If the future of Knolls Community Hospital depended on his interdepartmental skills, the jobs of two hundred fifty people stood in the shadow of death.

Today, however, the third Monday in September, Lukas gave even less thought than usual to paperwork and verbal sparring. The ambulance radio had just blared out the news of a bad accident involving a car and a tour group down on the square. At least five people, including the driver of the car, were being brought in, several of them serious.

Lukas released the switch that had sent his voice over the radio to the paramedic on scene and turned with growing restlessness to locate his staff. Judy, the slender secretary with short salt-and-pepper hair, sat at the computer and spoke on the telephone to a patient who had been treated and released last night.

Lukas picked up his own phone at his workstation at the large oblong central E.R. control counter and dialed Surgery. He told the nurse to keep a surgery suite open until he knew for sure if it would be needed. He hung up and turned around to find Lauren McCaffrey, RN, stepping back into the E.R. from an early lunch break. Good. He needed her.

Lauren stopped to joke with one of the housekeepers, peered over Judy’s shoulder to see what was on the computer screen, then glanced over at Lukas. She caught sight of his expression, and her characteristic smile disappeared.

“What’s up, Dr. Bower?” She hurriedly stashed her purse beneath the desk and tied her long blond hair back into the ponytail she wore for work.

“Accident coming in,” he said. “Several injuries. Apparently a group of pedestrians took on a car with a drunk driver.”

She nodded. “Why does stuff like this always happen at lunchtime? I’ll go make sure the trauma rooms are ready, and I’ll break out the gear for the staff.”

“Thanks, Lauren. Has Claudia gone to lunch?”

“Yes, but she may be back in the break room. I think she brought her lunch today.” Lauren shook her head as she turned and walked toward the trauma rooms. “Mrs. Pinkley’s a smart lady,” she called over her shoulder. “I bet she knew double nursing coverage would increase business.”

Lukas looked over to find the secretary off the phone. “Judy, would you please call upstairs for an extra nurse, and then contact Dr. Richmond. She’s medical backup for today, and I need her.”

“You sure?” Judy asked, peering at him over her reading glasses. “I talked to her secretary a few minutes ago, and they’re up to their eyeballs in walk-ins over there at the clinic.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, but it looks like we have some bad ones coming in.” He turned toward the trauma rooms to make sure Lauren had all the gear the staff would need.

He knew Mercy Richmond’s practice was doing well, and he was glad for her. She had worked hard for it, she was a caring doctor and she deserved a break after long years of struggle. He hated to overwhelm her today. A busy Monday could keep her occupied long after clinic hours were over.

Times like this were why Lukas needed to hire more help, and he needed to do it as soon as possible. The growth of this progressive Ozark town of ten thousand would be reflected in the use of the hospital. They had to be prepared, and like it or not, the E.R. was his responsibility. The problem was, he’d never hired anyone before. Thanks to Mrs. Pinkley’s erroneous faith in him, he was jumping into the directorship with both feet. He might drown.

So far Lukas was the first and only full-time physician in this department. The family practice docs affiliated with the hospital picked up hours on nights and weekends, but they were getting tired of the extra load, especially as the opportunities dwindled for sleep during night shifts. Lukas knew that firsthand, because when someone didn’t come in, he usually got stuck with the extra shift. Last night was a case in point, and today was a bad day to be sleep deprived.

“Dr. Bower, I have a call for you,” yelled Judy from the central desk.

When he turned to look at her, she pointed toward his workstation and motioned for him to pick up his phone. He groaned. It was probably Dorothy Wild again. She got a power rush as director of the quality assurance program, and she flaunted it at every opportunity. Once, she had even gone so far as to coordinate a disaster drill just to test Lukas. This time she was probably calling to complain because he hadn’t okayed the stack of charts she’d given him last week. Or maybe Medical Records was calling to scream at him because he hadn’t written a diagnosis on a patient before ordering lab tests.

Medicare and Medicaid and health plans were making it harder to practice medicine with the good of the patient in mind instead of the glorified buck. Health-care providers often found themselves in a Catch-22 situation. Doctors and hospitals were under increasing pressure to eliminate “unnecessary” tests, yet were provided no protection from litigation if omission of one of these “unnecessary” tests resulted in a missed diagnosis. It was crazy. And medical costs were still on the rise. If Lukas were in charge of the insurance programs, he wasn’t sure what he would do about it.

He picked up the receiver. “Yes.” His voice was clipped as he imagined Dorothy Wild on the other end of the line.

“Doctor?” It was an unfamiliar woman’s voice, shaky with tears, and Lukas immediately regretted his curt tone. “You’ve got to help us. Our little boy just swallowed some stuff, and I don’t know how much—” her words tumbled over themselves, threatening to spiral out of control “—and we don’t know what to do, and we’re too far away to—”

“Hold it, wait, calm down.” Lukas kept his own voice soft. He glanced toward the entrance to see if the ambulance had arrived yet. The bay was still clear. He turned back. “What did your little boy swallow?”

He heard the muffled sound of a hand over the receiver, heard the woman’s panicky voice, and then the sound cleared as the hand was removed.

A man’s voice, high-pitched with near panic, as well, came across the line. “Hello? This is Craig Chapman. My wife’s not doing too well right now.” He stopped and took a breath. “I was winterizing the car out in the garage, and our three-year-old drank some of the antifreeze while my back was turned. It was dripping from his chin when I caught him.”

Some of Mr. Chapman’s tension transferred itself to Lukas. This could be bad. “Do you have any idea about how much he swallowed?”

“No. I hadn’t used the stuff for a few months, and I didn’t pay any attention. I tried to get him to throw it up, but nothing worked.”

“Where do you live?” Lukas asked.

“We’re out by Old Well. You’re the closest hospital.”

Lukas grimaced. Old Well was almost an hour’s drive into the hills over rocky dirt roads.

“What can we do?” Mr. Chapman asked, panic once more filling his voice. “Will this stuff hurt him?”

“It depends on how much he drank, Mr. Chapman. I need you and your wife to stay calm so we can discuss this and help your son as quickly as possible.” Old Well…what was it Lukas remembered about that place? “Do you have any liquor in the house?”

“No, we don’t drink.”

“How about your neighbors? Are you close to a liquor store?”

“We don’t know our neighbors around here yet. We just moved in from Kansas.” The man’s voice grew tighter and higher. “Tell me what to do!”

“Do you have any cooking extracts? Any vanilla?” If there was enough, vanilla extract could save the child’s eyesight due to the high percentage of alcohol. It could even save his life.

He heard the man put the phone down and ask his wife, heard her frantic reply and a small clatter of bottles, and then suddenly remembered who else lived near Old Well. Yes!

Chapman came back on the line. “We’ve got half of a little bottle of vanilla, Doctor. Is that enough? Will that help?”

“Give it to him, but you’ll need more.”

“He’s not showing any symptoms yet. He isn’t acting sick.”

“The symptoms won’t show up for twelve to twenty-four hours.” And then it would be too late. “Mr. Chapman, do you know Emmet and Ruby Taylor? They live out in the hills near you at the edge of Mark Twain National Forest, about two miles from the cemetery by the church at Old Well.” He should know. Ruby Taylor had almost died of lead poisoning from her still a few months ago. The still had been destroyed since then, but Lukas knew Ruby. “Take your son over to their place. Tell them I sent you, and ask for a bottle of their best. They’ll have liquor somewhere.” He prayed that the Taylors were there. They usually were, with their teenage boys and dairy farm, pigs and chickens and rusted-out tireless cars sitting in the front yard.

“You want me to get my little boy drunk?” Chapman asked, a hint of indignation in his voice, as if it had suddenly dawned on him what Lukas was saying.

“I want you to get enough grain alcohol down him to counteract the effects of the antifreeze,” Lukas said. “About three tablespoons of Ruby’s stuff ought to do it, but you don’t want to overdose him, especially since we don’t know how much he’s ingested. Mix some orange juice or something with it so he’ll drink it. Maybe some sugar will kill the taste. Then get him here as fast as you can.”

“Won’t the alcohol interfere with the antidote?”

“In this case, the alcohol is the antidote. Mr. Chapman, the effects can kill him if you don’t treat.” He didn’t want to be cruel, but the man needed to be aware of the serious risks. The sound of a siren echoed through the doors, then the reflection of ambulance lights bounced against the bay entrance. “Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, Doctor. We’ll get him there.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

Lukas hung up and got up to walk out to the ambulance bay just as the EMT threw open the back doors of the van. He stepped over to the foot of the first cot that was pulled out.

The patient was a female in a nonrebreather mask, fully immobilized on a long spine backboard with head blocks. She had a large bore IV in her right arm, and blood splattered her clothing. Blood also concentrated in a dark, thick stain that had seeped through a bandage over her right lower leg, where her jeans had been cut free, and a Harris long traction splint held firm.

“Is this the worst?” Lukas asked.

“Sure is. She looks pretty bad.” The EMT gestured to the other patient, who was still inside the van. “That’s her husband in there.”

Lukas didn’t like the looks of the patient’s right foot—almost white from lack of circulation. She moaned, but her eyes remained closed.

The paramedic stepped out of the back of the van. Connie was a muscular, seasoned professional with short boy-cut blond hair and a chronically serious expression. “Hi, Dr. Bower. This is Alma Collins, forty-five years old. First responders had to free her from between the car and the concrete balustrade of the courthouse.” Her voice remained monotone, a habit she practiced when she worked with patients to keep from alarming them. “She was unconscious on scene, but she’s been coming around since we’ve been en route, and she’s in a lot of pain. She has an obvious open tib-fib fracture, badly mangled leg, no pulse on the foot. Vitals initially on scene, heart rate 115, BP 90 over 60, respiratory rate rapid, with slight improvement following a liter bag of normal saline wide open. She’s received 700 cc’s so far. A lot of bleeding on scene from right lower extremity, but we managed to control it some after we placed the splint.”

“What about the other patient?” Lukas gestured toward the cot still in the van.

“That’s Arthur Collins, the husband,” Connie said. “He has a deep scalp laceration, and it looks like he may have a dislocated or broken right shoulder. He lost a lot of blood from the scalp, but it’s been controlled by direct pressure.”

Lukas reached forward to check Alma more thoroughly while he continued to talk to Connie. “What else is coming?”

“Two more are on their way in the BLS ambulance, and one’s coming in by private car.”

Lukas placed his hands over the sides of Alma’s hips and gave a gentle but firm squeeze. There was no reaction of pain. Good. He would get a film on it, but if she didn’t have a pelvic fracture, it would be a lot easier for her. As Connie continued with the report, Lukas helped her rush the patient through the doors and into the first trauma room, leaving the EMT and E.R. tech to handle Alma’s injured husband.

“Judy, get a chopper on standby,” he called over his shoulder as he and Connie transferred Alma to the exam bed. “And let Lab know we’ve got stat blood work for them.” He turned to Lauren, who had come in behind them. “Start another IV, and draw blood for a stat trauma panel.”

Alma’s pupils reacted briskly, and her breathing, though a little fast, was even. Her eyes remained open after he checked them. She moaned again, and Lukas bent toward her. “Mrs. Collins, I’m Dr. Bower, the E.R. physician here.” Because Connie’s businesslike manner could sometimes make a patient feel cut off from human support, he injected even more tenderness than usual into his own voice. “Can you hear me?”

Physical pain etched itself in the lines of the woman’s face. Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes…Hurts bad…Can you help me?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but I need to do a quick check and ask you some questions. Do you have any drug allergies?”

She attempted to shake her head.

“Please don’t move your head or neck until we know how badly you’re hurt. Just tell me yes or no.”

“No.” Her voice shook with the effort to control her reactions.

“Good. I know your right leg hurts. Do you have pain anywhere else?”

“My head.” Her chin quivered. “I think I hit my head.”

“Were you knocked out?”

“I think so. Arthur?” She stretched out the fingers of her right hand as if to free herself, but she was constricted by the backboard. “Where’s Arthur? Is he okay?”

“I haven’t checked him, but he seems to be doing okay. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

“I can’t tell.” She grimaced. “My leg hurts so bad. Please!”

Lukas turned to find Lauren securing the second IV tube with tape. “Get me a pressure, and if that’s okay, give Mrs. Collins 2 milligrams of morphine, slow IV push. And add 12.5 milligrams of Phenergan. I don’t want to risk the morphine nauseating her.” He looked at the open tib-fib fracture just below the knee, then moved down to look at Alma’s right foot. He still didn’t like what he saw. It was cool to the touch, white, and when he checked for a pulse on top of the foot, he found none. The capillary refill was very sluggish. He had to get this woman to a vascular surgeon fast if he wanted to save her leg.

Lord, guide me. Touch her through me. Give her the comfort I can’t.

He stepped to the hallway and called, “Judy, launch that chopper, then order me a c-spine, chest, pelvis and right tib-fib and ankle X-rays. Have you heard from Dr. Richmond yet?”

“Yes, she’ll be here shortly. She said she had to finish with a really sick patient.”

Lauren straightened from Alma’s bedside. “Dr. Bower, the pressure’s good. Want me to do the morphine?”

“Yes. Run the second IV at 200 cc’s per hour. I want her kidneys well hydrated to prevent damage. I’ll be back in a moment. I need to go check on her husband.” He called out to Claudia to help him and stepped into the next room, where the techs and Connie were transferring Arthur from cot to bed.

Arthur, too, was on a long spine board, with a c-collar and head blocks to keep him as immobile as possible. Blood had seeped through the gauze and Ace bandage the attendants had used to stop the bleeding from an obvious scalp laceration.

Claudia, chunky and motherly and expert with patients, stepped into the room behind Lukas and immediately began her assessment while Lukas talked to the attendants.

“Connie, you said there was a lot of blood loss. How much would you estimate?”

“At least a unit, maybe two,” came the paramedic’s monotone again. “The first responders said he wasn’t answering their questions, but when we arrived he was alert and oriented and asking about his wife. He grew very agitated when he saw her leg. His pressure was a little low, but it came up with a fluid bolus.”

Claudia turned from her assessment and nodded. “BP’s 122 over 79, heart rate’s 110.”

Lukas nodded. Not bad. “Okay, get me a second IV.” He stepped to the head of the bed and introduced himself to Arthur Collins.

“How’s Alma?” the man asked. “My wife…she looks so bad. She’s—”

“She’s very worried about you,” Lukas said. “We’ve given her morphine to help control her pain, and we’re running tests now to assess her injuries. How about you, Mr. Collins? Where do you hurt?”

The man closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to focus for a few seconds on his own symptoms. “Call me Arthur. We’re Arthur and Alma. My right shoulder and my scalp took a beating, but please take care of Alma first. Her leg looks so bad, Dr. Bower. Can you help her?”

“We’re going to fly her to Springfield for vascular and orthopedic surgeons to take care of her. I’ve already ordered an Air Care helicopter.” Lukas took out his penlight. “I’m going to check your pupils right now.” He shone the light into the man’s worried eyes. “Are you having any trouble with blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Nausea or vomiting?”

“No. When will the helicopter be here?”

Lukas turned off the light and put it in his pocket. “Shouldn’t be too long, less than thirty minutes. Arthur, it’s very important that I know if you’re having any nausea. We have you strapped down and on your back, and that can spell trouble if you’re sick. We don’t want to risk letting you develop aspiration pneumonia.”

“I had a little trouble before I got here, but I’m fine now.”

Lukas studied the man’s expression for a moment, trying to decide if he was just trying to divert help and attention back to his wife. “Have you eaten?”

“No, Alma and I didn’t get a chance. Where are you taking her in Springfield?”

“Cox South, unless you have a preference.”

“Cox is fine. Is there room for me in that helicopter?”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but we’ll need to keep you here for a while.”

Lukas turned to Claudia and ordered blood work and X-rays. “Are the other patients here yet?”

“Yes, they came in just a couple of minutes ago. Lauren didn’t want to leave Alma, so a nurse from upstairs is doing the new assessments. They don’t look too bad.” She leaned toward the patient and placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Mr. Collins, the people from your tour group are here, and they asked us to tell you they’re holding a prayer service out in the waiting room.”

Some of the tension left Arthur’s face, and he sent her a grateful half smile. “Thank you. Will you tell Alma? And, Dr. Bower, will you let her know I’m fine? She worries about me so much.”

“Apparently the feeling is mutual. I’ll reassure her.” Lukas squeezed Arthur’s arm, then went back into Trauma One to find the X-ray tech setting up films, and Lauren taking Alma’s blood pressure again.

“She’s doing better, Dr. Bower.” Lauren glanced at the clear plastic bag hanging from the IV pole. “But she’s still in a lot of pain. Her blood pressure is okay, and she’s responsive. The liter of fluid is almost in.”

“Cut her rate down to 50 cc’s per hour—just enough to keep the IV open. That’ll hold her until she gets to Springfield. Keep the second IV at 200 cc’s per hour.”

The X-ray tech slid a cartridge into the Stryker bed, which was a newly purchased, state-of-the-art setup for the trauma room. “Dr. Bower, I’m ready to shoot.”

Lukas and Lauren stepped out of the room while the tech shot the films, and from the hallway they could see the bustle and activity of a suddenly full waiting room and ambulance bay. As Claudia had said, a group of casually dressed people stood in a circle in the corner of the waiting room and held hands, heads bowed.

The EMT from the Collinses’ ambulance passed by them in the broad hallway, saw Lukas and stopped. “They brought in the drunk driver who hit everybody, Dr. Bower. He’s crying, talking to everybody who walks by, but nobody knows what he’s saying. Sounds like he’s speaking Spanish. The police are here, and they’re itching to haul him in. They’re really ticked.”

Lukas shook his head. “They can’t have him until we’ve checked him out, and that’ll be a few minutes. We’ll need an interpreter. I’ll ask Judy to call one in.” He turned to Lauren. “Repeat Alma’s morphine dose, two milligrams every five minutes, and let me know if her pressure drops or if she develops depressed respirations. And tell her Arthur is okay.”

Lauren nodded. “I’ll reassure her.”

The tech left the room, pushing the portable X-ray machine.

As Lauren went back in to recheck Alma, Lukas walked to the central desk. “Judy, would you please call a Spanish interpreter?”

“Did it already,” Judy said without looking up from her keyboard.

He reached into a drawer and drew out a consent form for Arthur to sign so they could transfer Alma. “Has the chopper called yet?’

Judy’s fingers still didn’t break stride. “No, but I should hear from them any time.”

“When they call, let them know her vitals are stable, but she has a class-one limb threat to her right lower extremity.”

No answer. The sound of the clattering keyboard stilled suddenly.

He glanced up to find the secretary staring toward the entrance, and when he looked, he saw Jacob Casey—Cowboy to most of the citizens of Knolls—come stumbling through the glass doors, aided by an older man in bib overalls. Somewhere, Cowboy had lost his hat.

“Oh no, not again,” Judy said softly.

Lanky, weathered Cowboy was such a frequent visitor in this E.R., Lukas wondered how the forty-three-year-old man had survived his occupation. He’d been kicked, gouged, bitten and knocked senseless on that exotic animal ranch of his—he believed in personal contact with his bison, zebras, lions and whatever else he raised on his three hundred acres of reinforced paddocks. Scars on several areas of his hard-bodied frame attested to his dedication.

Today blood covered Cowboy’s upper right arm and splattered his chest and back. The left arm of his long-sleeved denim shirt had been ripped off and tied over his upper right arm in a crude attempt at a pressure dressing.

Lukas pushed back from the desk and got up to help. “Cowboy, what happened this time?” He took a closer look at what appeared, surprisingly, to be a bullet wound. “Has Leonardo started bearing arms?” Everybody knew the rancher wouldn’t touch a gun.

Cowboy shook his head as he allowed his helper to transfer his leaning weight to Lukas.

“The neighbor shot him,” the farmer said. “He chased Cowboy clear out of the woods into my field with a rifle. I saw it myself. Didn’t take the time to call the sheriff. Guess we oughta call him now, huh, Doc?”

“No need, the police are already here doing an accident report. Would you please go tell them about this? They’ll want to check it out and take your statement.”

The man nodded, then patted Cowboy on his bare good arm. “Don’t you worry, Jake, I’ll take care of it.”

Lukas helped Cowboy to exam room five. “How many times did the guy shoot you?”

“Once.” Cowboy grunted as Lukas lowered him to sit on the bed. “Lost some blood. The guy’s crazy.”

“Is that the one who moved onto that farm next to yours, then started complaining about the smell of the animals? I heard about him.” Lukas removed his patient’s shirt and then helped him lie back. “How much blood do you think you lost?”

“Maybe a pint.” Cowboy’s deep voice thickened with pain as the shirt came off. “No time to measure.”

Lukas stepped out into the hallway and called for a nurse, then returned to the bedside. He made a quick check of airway, breathing and circulation, then listened to Cowboy’s heart. Not bad, a little fast, but understandable under the circumstances. The left wrist had a strong pulse, and the fingers were warm and healthy.

When the relief nurse from upstairs stepped into the room, Lukas gave immediate orders for an IV and a trauma panel, then repeated his check on Cowboy, this time on the arm that had been shot. To his relief, it looked good. “Okay, Jake, I’ll regret this, but give my hand a firm squeeze.” He braced himself for the man’s well-known iron grip, but it didn’t come.

Cowboy grimaced again, the lines of his face deepening as his color faded. “Hurts to squeeze. Is it bad?”

“Not as bad as it could have been.” Lukas pulled on a pair of sterile gloves and reached for a packet of 4x4s. He removed the makeshift bandage and saw no active bleeding. He found the entrance and exit wounds. “What did he shoot you with?”

“Looked like a .22 rifle, almost point-blank. Just up and shot me in cold blood, the same way he did—”

A young steel-faced policeman pulled back the curtain and stepped into the room. “Dr. Bower? Do you mind if we interrupt? The sooner we talk to Cowboy, the faster we’ll be on the guy’s trail.”

Judy came in behind the policeman. “Dr. Bower, we just got a call from the fire department. They’re bringing in two more patients.”

Lukas shook his head in frustration. The day was exploding like popcorn in a microwave. Why did everything have to happen at once?

The secretary continued, “The nurse with Air Care just radioed us, and they’ll be here in a few minutes to pick up Mrs. Collins.”

“Thanks, Judy.” Lukas ripped open one of the sterile packs of 4x4s and a roll of elastic gauze, then regloved and dressed the wound. He looked over at the policeman. “Officer, you can do your interview now. Looks like I’ll have my hands full.” He turned and followed the secretary out of the room. “Judy, I need a right shoulder X-ray in five, and he’s going to need a surgical consult. Is Dr. Wong on call? He usually is when Cowboy gets hurt.”

“Yes, Dr. Wong’s the lucky guy today.” Judy grinned at him. “Cowboy won’t want a surgeon, he never does. Dr. Mercy will be here soon.” Her expression turned serious. “One of the patients they’re bringing in is our part-time EMT, Buck Oppenheimer. He got hurt in a fire.”

“Buck! How bad?”

“Haven’t heard yet. There was an explosion at the Pride of Knolls out by P Highway, and his buddies are bringing him in so he won’t have to wait for an ambulance. I sure hope he’s okay, and I hope his wife doesn’t kill him when she finds out he played hero again.”

Lukas nodded, then went in to check on Alma again and read her X-rays. There were no pneumothorax or rib or pelvic fractures, but the X-ray of her right tib-fib confirmed his worst fears. Both bones of the lower leg were shattered. If the blood vessels and nerves were as badly damaged as the bone, they would be doing an amputation in Springfield instead of a vascular and orthopedic repair.

Someone cried out in Spanish in one of the rooms, and Lukas hoped the interpreter would arrive soon. That patient was the one who reportedly had driven the car into Arthur and Alma’s tour group.

One of the most frustrating things in emergency medicine was treating those responsible for the pain and suffering of others—and one of the most difficult things to do was to have compassion for everyone involved.

Lord, give me strength and wisdom. Give Alma and Arthur Your peace, and use me as a vessel of healing. And, Lord, would You please slow things down a little?

Chapter Two

I f this was another disaster drill, Mercy Richmond was going to make someone pay dearly. She kept her white lab coat on to protect the pink-and-blue bunny scrubs she wore underneath—her family practice consisted mostly of women and children. After apologizing to the six long-suffering patients in her waiting room, she marched out the front door and down the block toward the hospital.

Mercy’s stomach growled. Monday afternoon was the worst time to get called out. There’d been no time for lunch. Everyone in this town of ten thousand must have developed strep, flu or pneumonia over the weekend. She shouldn’t have agreed to be E.R. backup today. Her patient volume had increased to the point that she was going to have to stop seeing new patients or start keeping the office open an extra day a week.

This spring she might have considered that possibility, but she’d won custody of her eleven-year-old daughter a few months ago, and she wanted to spend more time at home with Tedi. Since she no longer had to make two house payments, two car payments, and cover the bills her ex-husband had run up, she didn’t need the income she made from E.R. shifts. She hoped Theo never got out of that detox unit in Springfield. Her life was going so well with him out of the way…and with Dr. Lukas Bower taking more of an interest in her and in Tedi. Everything was looking good.

As she stepped across the parking-lot curb and strode toward the E.R. entrance, the distant, thrusting rhythm of a helicopter in flight reached her for the first time. She noticed that the landing pad on the parking lot had been cleared of cars.

Okay, so this time it probably wasn’t a drill.

She looked down. That probably wasn’t fake blood on the concrete, either. In the back rooms of her clinic, she had never been able to hear the ambulances when they pulled into the E.R. Always before, she had considered that to be a good thing. Today, though, she could have used a little warning.

She rushed through the sliding glass doors to find the waiting room filled with people in various stages of fluster. A patient with a splinted arm was being helped inside by a friend. The buzz of voices and the aura of worry greeted her like a familiar coworker. A group of three middle-aged women and two elderly men stood in the west corner by the vending machines with their hands clasped, praying.

That happened a lot around here. It didn’t matter what you thought about God the rest of the time, when you faced life and death in the emergency room, you begged Him to give you another chance. Mercy had done it herself when her own daughter nearly died from a life-threatening allergic reaction to a bee sting—she who had always prided herself on her self-reliance. She’d even considered herself an agnostic until Lukas Bower exploded into her life last spring with his gentle humor, strong compassion for others and his vibrant faith. Nothing in her life had been the same since.

A moan and a tormented shout reached her from one of the exam rooms, but she couldn’t understand the words. The mingled scents of antiseptic, body odor and diesel exhaust from the ambulance bay drifted through the room.

“Thank goodness, Dr. Mercy,” Judy called from the emergency desk. She pulled off her reading glasses and picked up a clipboard with a T-sheet already attached. Her short salt-and-pepper hair spiked out on the right side, where she’d been keeping her ink pen tucked behind her ear. “Dr. Bower’s in Trauma One trying to save the leg of a lady who got hit by a car. Her husband’s in Trauma Two in stable condition, and the guy who hit everybody is in exam room three.” She shoved the clipboard across the desk. “There’s lots more, but Dr. Bower wanted you to see about the man in Two. Name’s Arthur Collins, and he’s really upset about his wife. They just took him off the backboard. Nice guy. Never complains about his own pain. Wish my husband treated me like that.”

Mercy took the chart, then paused as the patient in Three—or so she presumed—shouted something again. The words were slurred, and they sounded Spanish. She raised a brow at Judy. “Who did you say that was?”

Judy waved a dismissive hand. “That’s the drunk driver who hit them. He drove right up onto the courthouse lawn and mowed over a bunch of people from a tour group. He doesn’t even speak English.”

“Has he been checked?”

“Dr. Bower ordered some tests and a trauma panel, but they’ve been busy with the other patients, and nobody’s gotten to him yet except to put him on oxygen.”

“Get to him.”

Judy shrugged. “Okay, but I hope we can find somebody who can speak Spanish. So far the translator hasn’t come in.”

The thumping of the helicopter rotors grew louder as the Air Care helicopter descended to the landing spot outside, the loud whomp-whomp-whomp of the rotors vibrating the windows.

“Oh, good, they’re here for Alma Collins,” Judy said.

“How many patients do we have, and how many more are coming?” Mercy asked, glancing at the T-sheet.

“We’ve got six in and two more coming that I know about, but Dr. Wong’s on his way over to take care of our favorite exotic-animal rancher.”

“Cowboy’s hurt again?”

“He sure is. His neighbor shot him.”

Mercy wasn’t sure she’d heard the secretary correctly. “ Shot him! ”

Judy shook her head. “Nobody’s going to tell me human beings aren’t meaner than any other mammal. Looks like we’ll all be busy for a while.”

Mercy suppressed a sigh. “Call my office, then. Tell Josie to do a triage and find out who really needs to see me today. Let her know what’s going on here. She’ll have to send some people home.”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Mercy. They’ll come in here looking for you if they have to.”

Mercy carried her clipboard into Trauma Room two, where Claudia Zebert, a stout fifty-year-old RN with twenty-five years of E.R. experience, took the blood pressure of a slender forty-seven-year-old man in a pressure turban. The view box on the wall held two shots of a dislocated right shoulder. Not broken. That made things a lot easier.

Mercy stepped up to the exam bed. “Mr. Collins? I’m Dr. Mercy Richmond. My patients call me Dr. Mercy, and you just became one of my patients.”

He looked up at her with troubled hazel eyes. “Dr. Mercy…that’s a good name for a doctor.”

“My father was a physician, and he named me. When I got my license, our shared last name confused patients, so we both started using our first names. We were Dr. Cliff and Dr. Mercy.” Were . Dad was dead now.

“You can call me Arthur. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m so worried about my wife that I’m not very good company.”

“I understand, Arthur. Your wife is in good hands. Dr. Bower is one of the best.”

Claudia reached down and squeezed his left arm. “See there, Arthur, I told you Dr. Bower will take good care of Alma.” The nurse’s brisk, familiar manner almost always calmed frightened patients. She gestured toward the turban. “We need to get this fixed up and get that shoulder back in shape so you can be there for Alma. The helicopter’s here now to pick her up and take her to the trauma center in Springfield.”

Arthur caught his breath and reached up toward the side of the bed, as if he might try to get out. “I don’t want her to go alone.”

“There’s no room in the helicopter for any passengers, but she won’t be alone once she gets up there,” Claudia soothed. “I saw half your tour group climbing into one of the vans to drive up and meet her there. The rest are staying here to pray for you. They seem like good people.” She squeezed his arm once more before leaving the room to check another patient.

Mercy read Claudia’s notes on Arthur, then did her own assessment. He was a little tachycardic from blood loss, but IV fluids were already running into his uninjured left arm, and his pressure was already rising. Good sign. His heart would slow down naturally.

Another shout reached them from the next room, and Arthur laid his head back against his pillow and sighed. “That poor man’s sure hurting. Can you do something for him?”

Mercy frowned. She had heard the drunk driver had no obvious injuries. “Someone will be getting to him as soon as possible.”

“He’s not drunk, you know.”

Mercy looked up from her chart and studied Arthur’s green-gold eyes. “How can you tell?”

“I speak Spanish. Alma and I are missionaries in Mexico. He’s making some sense. He’s saying over and over again how sorry he is, and that he doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs.”

Mercy didn’t comment. She heard that a lot.

“He’s also confused and hurting,” Arthur added.

“Isn’t he the man who hit you and your wife?”

Arthur nodded, then worry marred the fine features of his face once again. “My wife…I wish I could be with her.”

A light, warm baritone voice reached them from the doorway. “I came over to give you an update, Arthur.”

Mercy silently caught her breath and let the calm strength of that familiar voice settle over her like a blanket. She and Arthur both looked up at the same time to see Lukas Bower walking in to join them, his trauma shield in place over his gray framed glasses. His short brown hair was disheveled as usual. Lukas stood a couple of inches taller than Mercy’s five feet eight. In her eyes he had grown at least a foot since she had first met him last spring. Her gaze met his, and she smiled. The smile he returned was only for her, and the brilliance of it heated her cheeks. One of the nurses had told her once that when she entered the E.R., Dr. Bower’s face looked as if he’d just received a special gift.

He stepped up to the bed, his blue eyes calm and reassuring behind the glare of glasses and shield. “Arthur, your wife is awake and talking, and she’s worried about you. I told her you’d be fine.”

Arthur raised a hand toward him. “Will you let me see her before they take her away? Please. I want to talk to her a second. I just want to tell her I love her.”

Lukas looked at Mercy, then looked back at Arthur and nodded. “I think we can do that. They’ll be wheeling her out in just a moment, and we’ll roll you into the hallway and let you rendezvous with her there. No, don’t try to get up. We don’t want you bleeding on us again before Dr. Mercy can get you stitched and get that shoulder fixed.” He gestured to Mercy and laid a hand on her arm briefly. She released the brake on the exam bed, and together they rolled the bed out into the open space as the flight nurse and paramedic wheeled Alma past.

At the sight of Alma’s bandaged and IV-tubed body, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears once again. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Hi, sweetheart. I love you. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she cried softly, “I can’t believe this is happenin’. I’m just so glad you’re alive. For a while, I thought…”

The flight nurse placed a gentle hand on Alma’s shoulder. “Mrs. Collins, we need to get you into the helicopter now.”

Alma nodded. Arthur drew his hand back, then kissed his fingertips and reached out and touched Alma’s cheek with his hand. “I’ll be praying with every breath.”

Mercy allowed Lukas to help her push Arthur’s bed back into the room. “Thanks, Lukas.” She laid a hand on his arm, as she had found herself doing often lately without even thinking about it, as if a physical connection to him might anchor their friendship more securely. “Lukas, Arthur doesn’t think the man who hit them is drunk. He also says the man’s in pain.”

Lukas turned his attention to Arthur. “What kind of pain? Where? We’re waiting for the interpreter to arrive, and we can’t communicate with him. My college Spanish died of disuse.”

Arthur wiped leftover tears from his face. “I speak Spanish. Why don’t you let me try to talk to him? I can—”

“We need to take care of you,” Mercy said. “We’ll get an interpreter.”

Arthur looked up at her and sighed. “Give him a chance, Dr. Mercy. What if he’s hurt worse than I am?” He raised his voice enough to be heard over the din of the E.R. and spoke a few phrases in Spanish, then winced, as if the extra exertion and sound hurt his head.

There was no reply.

He repeated the phrases, and seconds later he received an answer. He looked back at Mercy. “It’s his mouth.”

Mercy glanced sharply at Lukas. “A fracture from impact?”

Lukas shrugged, his attention focused on their patient. “Arthur, we aren’t going to hold you liable as an interpreter, but will you please ask him if he had the pain before the wreck?”

Arthur did so, and they all understood part of the answer. “ Sí .” Lukas and Mercy did not understand the remainder of the words, but the expression on Arthur’s face told them it was significant.

“Does toothache medicine make you drunk?” Arthur asked them.

“How much toothache medicine?” Mercy asked.

Arthur asked the man, then interpreted. “He’s used a bottle today.”

Mercy caught her breath and turned to Lukas. “That could be—”

“Dangerous.” Lukas spun out of the room. “Judy,” he called to the secretary, “I need a stat ABG in Three.” He rushed to the next room. “Lauren, would you help me?”

“Is the man in trouble, then?” Arthur asked Mercy. “Can’t you just push my bed into his room the way you took me out to see Alma?”

“No need.” Mercy stepped out the door, saw Claudia at the desk and motioned to her before turning back to her patient. “Dr. Bower knows what tests to give, what drugs to use.” She studied Arthur’s expression. He had shown no resentment toward the person who had injured him and his wife. “We need to take care of you now.” She pulled on some sterile gloves and a face shield. “Claudia,” she said as the nurse walked into the room, “I need 2 milligrams of Versed and 25 of Demerol, slow IV push. Then have X-ray bring over some wrist weights. Arthur, we’re going to try to reduce your shoulder dislocation with the prone method. We’ll give you some medication for the pain, then we’ll turn you over on your stomach and drop your right arm over the side of the bed with some weight on your wrist.” She unwrapped the elastic bandage while Claudia carried out her orders, collecting and administering drugs and ordering the weights.

The wound in Arthur’s scalp was deep and star-shaped with no active bleeding. Mercy cleaned it with some peroxide. “How did you get this, Arthur? Do you remember?”

“I think I hit the corner of a concrete balustrade, but I don’t remember actually doing that, just waking up beside it.”

She probed the wound with her gloved finger, felt him jerk. “Sorry, Arthur. I’m checking for any rough surfaces, making sure there are no obvious deformities. I don’t feel any, but I’ll get a CT later.” She cleaned it a little more, then stepped back to allow Claudia to prep the site.

Five minutes later the weights arrived and Claudia had the wound ready for stitching. Arthur was groggy, feeling a lot less pain than he had been before. He groaned a couple of times when Mercy and Claudia turned him over and placed the padded weights on his wrist as his arm hung down over the side of the bed.

Mercy watched his profile as she prepared to anesthetize the wound site. “How long have you and Alma been married?”

He barely winced when the needle first touched his flesh. “Twenty-seven years. We got married as soon as Alma graduated from high school.” His voice was only slightly muffled, since Mercy had taken the pillow out from under his head to keep his neck from stretching backward too far. “We knew what we wanted to do from the time we were in junior high, so we couldn’t see any reason to wait.”

“You mean to tell me you and your wife knew you wanted to be missionaries to Mexico from the time you were in junior high?” Mercy could tell when the local anesthesia began to work, because he no longer tensed when she touched him.

“Yes, we did. God was calling us there as surely as I’m lying here.”

Mercy took her first stitch. “I don’t suppose you could be involved in medical missions? Somehow you knew that man wasn’t drunk. That was a good call.”

“No, I’m not medical. Sadly, I’ve just seen a lot of drunks.”

“Yeah, so have I,” she murmured. “You obviously have some good friends out in the waiting room.”

“They’re from a group of churches in the state that support our work. We’re here on furlough for three months.” He grew silent for a moment. “Now I wonder if we’ll be returning.”

“Try not to think about that right now. How’s the pain?” Mercy asked. “Do you need more medication?”

“I’m fine. A little woozy. Makes it hard to keep my prayers in focus. It’s a good thing God knows my heart.”

“You and your wife seem to have a very good relationship.” Mercy had found that when she could keep her patients talking about something that really interested them, she didn’t have to use nearly as many pain meds, and everything went smoother.

“That’s because of Alma’s sweet nature. She still treats me with the same consideration and patience she’s always shown. It’s just the kind of person she is.”