Читать книгу Hideaway - Hannah Alexander - Страница 7

The scream of an ambulance bounced through the mauve-and-burgundy corridors of the Missouri Regional Hospital on the west side of Columbia. An elderly man moaned. A baby’s cry stung the air through the center of the eight-room emergency department.

Dr. Cheyenne Allison slipped into the untidy doctor’s call room, closed the door and locked it.

If only she could collapse onto the bed and stay there for a week. Or the whole month of March.

Ordinarily, she could breeze through a twelve hour shift and still have enough energy for a nighttime jog along the Katy Trail. But today, at 2:00 p.m. she already felt as if she’d been on duty for twenty-four hours without a break. In spite of her flu shot, in spite of the antiviral she had begun soon after experiencing the first symptoms, she felt like the framed green-and-purple blob on the wall that some idiot had mistaken for art when this department had been remodeled.

She had a full-blown case of influenza.

Cheyenne sank onto the chair and pressed the left side of her face against the smooth coolness of the desk. If only she could stay here until shift change at seven.

The telephone buzzed above her head. Without opening her eyes, she reached up and punched the speaker button. “Yes.”

“Dr. Allison? How you doing, hon?” It was Ardis Dunaway, the most seasoned nurse in the hospital and a good friend.

“You don’t want to know,” Cheyenne said. “Did you get those orders on bed one?”

“I got ’em. You need to see the baby in five. Fussy, with a fever of 103.7 in triage.”

Cheyenne resisted the urge to request a physician replacement. “I’ll be there. Is the cefotaxime hanging on Mr. Robb yet?”

“Got it, and the shoulder X-ray on the girl in five.”

“Did I hear an ambulance a minute ago?”

“That’s right, it sped right on past us to University Hospital.”

Good. Why couldn’t they do that with the rest of their patients today? Divert them all to the big boys. It amazed Cheyenne that this place stayed so busy, with two trauma centers only moments away. Apparently, the homey atmosphere here drew them in.

“I’m coming, Ardis.”

Ninety seconds later, wearing a fresh mask to protect her patients from any stray germs, Cheyenne checked out a fussy infant with a red ear. As she used a bulb insufflator to blow air onto the eardrum, the baby’s cries blended with the wail of another siren. Must be a busy day for University and Boone County.

As Cheyenne reassured the mother and comforted the child, the wail outside grew louder.

It stopped. Too close.

When the siren died the baby fell silent, and his mother relaxed noticeably.

Moments later, Ardis stepped to the exam room door. Gone was the motherly grin of the seasoned nurse. “Dr. Allison, we need you in room three.”

“Coming.” Cheyenne patted the mother’s shoulder, jotted a quick order for the nurse and followed Ardis down the hallway. “What’s up?”

“Ambulance brought us a chest pain patient. Twenty-eight years old.”

“Suspected drug abuse?” For someone so young, that was the norm.

“The attendant says it looks more like a panic attack, and I was told she’s been calling for you by name.”

“For me? What’s her name? Did she say why—”

“She won’t give the attendants any information,” Ardis said. “Nobody told her you were here, she just asked for you. I thought you’d want to see her quickly.”

Cheyenne entered the exam room behind the nurse. An ambulance attendant hovered next to the patient with his chart, checking blood pressure as another nurse transferred EKG leads from the ambulance monitor to the hospital’s equipment.

The patient’s trembling hands covered her face. Silky black hair, as dark and glossy as Cheyenne’s, fanned across the pillow.

Cheyenne stepped to the side of the bed and touched the woman’s shoulder gently. “Hello, I’m Dr.—”

The hands fell away.

Cheyenne caught her breath. “Susan?”

Tears dripped down sharply chiseled, honey-tanned cheeks. Cheyenne’s baby sister reached for her.

“Oh, Chey, I’m so scared. My chest hurts. What’s happening?”

Dane Gideon stepped down from the broad front porch of the ranch house, studying the line of dust clouding the atmosphere above the quarter-mile drive that led from the highway. The early March sunlight dazzled nearby Table Rock Lake with shafts of jeweled colors that built a prism around the small village of Hideaway along the opposite shore.

The sound of tires crunching gravel rippled the peaceful silence as the car pulled into the parking area. Dane saw the dark outline of the passenger. The kid had dreadlocks, skin the color of untouched espresso, eyes narrowed with obvious apprehension—the typical mask of disillusionment in a face too young to bear it.

Clint, the social worker who sometimes seemed to haunt this place, parked beneath the bare oak tree and nodded to Dane with a grim smile. He spoke to the passenger. The teenager shook his head and looked away.

Dane read resentment in every movement.

Clint got out of the car, leaving the door open. “We’ve got another reluctant one for you,” he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry back to the car. “Can’t seem to convince him this place’ll be like summer camp.”

Dane grinned. “Or boot camp.”

Clint took Dane’s hand in a firm shake. “Thanks for accepting Gavin. Knew you’d be perfect for him. Good kid.”

The “good kid” flinched, shot a glare at Clint, crossed his arms over his chest.

“His room’s ready,” Dane said. “He’s bunking with Willy.” Clint had escorted Willy here four months ago, under similar conditions.

Richard Cook came striding around the side of the large, two-story house. Apron in place, hair combed back in a wispy gray cap, the older man—who answered only to the surname that also described his job at the ranch—walked across the barely green lawn and nodded to Dane. Willy came rambling up from the barn, obviously curious about his new roommate and—just as obviously—trying not to show it.

Dane grinned at the skinny fourteen-year-old who had taken so well to ranch life. Maybe he would help Gavin settle in.

While the social worker turned to greet Cook and Willy, Dane stepped to the car, slid behind the steering wheel and closed the door.

Gavin breathed with studiously quiet drags, as if the activity caused him pain.

“I’m Dane Gideon.”

Only a short break in breathing rhythm indicated the teenager had heard.

Knowing Clint, Dane surmised that the fifteen-year-old had been filled in on all aspects of his new home, from the duties he would have on this thriving ranch, to the size of the house, to the school he would be attending. No doubt he’d also been given thumbnail sketches of the other “inmates” at the ranch.

With a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the town, Dane allowed himself a moment of doubt. Was he taking on too much this time?

“You going to tell me your name?” he asked the teenager.

The kid’s lips parted, his throat muscles worked, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat and turned to Dane with a garish smile. “Howdy, partner,” came the mocking cadence of his surprisingly baritone voice. “You can call me Blaze. It’s who I am, it’s what I do according to my mama—and mamas never lie, do they?” Bitterness dripped from his words.

“Depends. Did you set the fire?”

The smile sifted from his face like wisps of sand blown from the surface of a rock. “Think I’m stupid? If I say I didn’t, you’ll call me a liar. If I say I did, I’d be lying.”

“Then why don’t we talk about that later? Right now, let’s unload your things and show you around. Your roommate left school early so he could meet you as soon as you arrived. Since this is Friday, you’ll have the weekend to settle in and learn your chores before we enroll you in school.”

The kid’s scowl deepened. “Not going to no school.”

“You don’t have a choice, and neither do I, Gavin.”

“Blaze! My name’s Blaze. It’s what my—”

“You were acquitted.”

“You want to tell me what I’m doing here, then?”

“You wouldn’t be at this ranch if you’d been found guilty of a crime.”

“But I’m not home with my mama, am I?”

It was Dane’s turn to be silent. That was one of the most difficult things he had to deal with here—boys who felt unloved, unwanted.

“You got that straight,” Gavin said. “My mama’s judge and jury on this case. Long as I’m here, my name’s Blaze.”

Cheyenne pressed several facial tissues into her sister’s left hand. “I know it’s scary, Susan, but try to relax so we can get a good reading on your heart. You’re going to be fine. I picked up on the murmur right away—I think it’s your mitral valve problem, but I want to make sure.”

Susan nodded, blinking back tears.

When Cheyenne was in eleventh grade and Susan still in elementary school, Cheyenne had discovered her baby sister’s mitral valve prolapse with her new Christmas present from her parents—a stethoscope. From that time on, Cheyenne had taken Susan’s condition on as a personal responsibility. It was what had motivated her through those first horrendous two years of med school.

She still took that responsibility seriously.

Susan’s hand trembled as she mopped her face with the tissues. “It’s never hurt like this before, Chey.”

“Why don’t you tell me what led up to it? Heavy exercise? Did something happen that upset you?”

Susan hesitated, then nodded, glancing at the others in the room. “I guess you could say that,” she murmured.

Cheyenne respected her sister’s unspoken plea for privacy. She glanced at Ardis, who stood in her usual spot, checking the monitor while the tech from Respiratory handled the EKG machine.

The tech handed the printout to Cheyenne, then disconnected the leads from Susan’s chest. “Want me to leave the machine in here, Dr. Allison?”

“Yes, we’ll do another test after the heart rate slows down and we get rid of the muscle-tremor artifact.” Cheyenne gave her sister a reassuring grin. “It looks good, but we need to find out what’s causing this.”

“I’ve never felt like this before, Chey. I’m sorry to be such a big baby, but it scared me.”

“You’re no baby. Are you sure the pain doesn’t radiate to your jaw or your arm? Nothing in your back?”

“My hands feel tingly.”

“Both of them?”

Susan flexed her fingers. “Yes.”

“That could be from hyperventilation.”

“Is this what they call a panic attack?”

“It could be.” Panic attack would have been Cheyenne’s diagnosis if this were anyone else. But Susan was not one to panic. So what had sent her heart into overdrive?

Susan inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, but they flicked open again when the outgoing EKG tech greeted the incoming radiology tech, who pushed a portable X-ray machine in front of him.

“Susan, we’re going to get a picture of your chest,” Cheyenne explained. “Just relax. You know I’ll take care of you.” She leaned over the bed and held her sister’s gaze.

Susan took another deep breath and lay back, the midnight strands of her shaggy-cut hair splaying across the pillow. She looked up at Cheyenne, dark eyes filled with trust.

Cheyenne squeezed her arm. “You want me to have the secretary call Kirk?”

“No!” Susan’s head raised from the pillow once more. “Please, I don’t want him to know about this.”

“It’s all right,” Cheyenne said. “I won’t call.” She stepped out of the room long enough for the tech to get the X ray of Susan’s heart—just in case. “It’s going to be okay,” she called reassuringly from the doorway.

What was the problem between Susan and her husband?