Читать книгу Cowboy Fever - Joanna Wayne - Страница 8

“STAT. Ambulance en route.”

Dr. Mancini looked up at the male E.R. nurse delivering the news.

“And I so needed this cup of coffee.”

“I know. It’s been murder in here tonight. Must be the full moon.”

“More likely that I volunteered to pull Dr. Cairn’s shift for her.” She took a large gulp of the much-needed caffeine. “Nature of the emergency?” she asked, shifting her brain to work mode.

“Gunshot wound to the head. Critical blood loss. Vitals at life-threatening levels. “

There went her last chance of getting home on time and relieving the nanny tonight. “Any other details?”

“Caucasian male, likely early twenties, picked up in the back parking lot of a bar in the downtown area. Expected arrival …” He glanced at his watch. “Any minute.”

“Alert the nurse assigned to the shock trauma center and also Dr. Evans.”

“I’m on it.”

She was glad Dan Evans was on duty tonight. He was one of the top neurosurgeons in Texas. “Also alert the O.R.,” she called to the departing nurse.

Fatigue was forgotten as she hurried down the halls to the trauma unit. They’d already lost one patient tonight. Hopefully, they’d save this one.

“Dr. Mancini.”

She recognized the voice. Police Detective Harry Cortez, or Dirty Harry, as she’d come to think of him. Not because of his toughness—though she expected he was plenty tough—but because the front of his shirt always bore testimony to his latest meal.

“If you’re here about the patient with the gunshot wound, you’ll have to wait. I haven’t seen him as yet.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have a patient with a gunshot wound?”

“Arriving as we speak, but don’t even think about questioning him until I give you clearance. This is a hospital, not the police station.”

“I’m only doing my job, just like you, Doctor. Besides, I’m here to talk to you about Hank Bateman.”

Mention of the name filled her with disgust. “We’ll have to talk later.”

The squeak of a gurney’s wheels came from near the E.R. entrance. She raced toward the trauma center. The slap of the detective’s street shoes on the tiled floor signaled he was right behind her.

She was sliding her long fingers into a pair of sterile gloves when she heard the detective’s voice outside the examining room.

“Who shot you? C’mon. Name the bastard. He won’t come after you again. I’ll see to it. Just give me the name.”

She walked to the door as the patient was rolled in. She shot a stern warning look at Cortez, and he waved in surrender and backed away.

One look at the patient and her stomach rolled. She should be desensitized by now, but the sight of bloody tissue oozing from the skull was not the kind of thing she’d ever get used to. The victim’s chance of survival was next to zero. The miracle was that he had lived to make it to the hospital.

The young man coughed, and blood mixed with spittle spilled from his lips. His mouth kept moving. He was trying to say something. She leaned in close, but the gurgled murmurings were too garbled to understand.

“I’m Dr. Mancini,” she said as she helped the nurse get him hooked up to the heart monitor. “I’ll try to ease your pain.”

“And I’m Dr. Evans,” the young neurosurgeon said as he joined them.

The patient coughed again, this time choking on the blood.

“Shhh … Shell …”

She leaned in close. “Are you trying to tell me who shot you?”

Before he could nod or mumble a reply, the line on the monitor went flat.

“EITHER YOU GO TO the emergency room by ambulance or I drive you,” Jim Angle said.

Dakota shrugged, but winced as he tried to grab a gulp of bracing air. “I don’t need to see a doctor. It’s just a contusion.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I was wearing my protective vest.”

“You could still have a few cracked ribs. Butch Cobb was wearing a vest in Phoenix.”

All the riders knew about Butch. He’d been one of the best until a fractured rib had punctured his right lung. “A freak accident,” Dakota said.

He lifted a bottle of water to his mouth. His chest protested the movement with such vengeance that he grimaced.

Naturally, Jim noticed.

“You need to be x-rayed.”

“I needed to stay on that bull eight seconds.”

“You don’t always have to play the tough guy, Dakota.”

“Who’s playing? But if it makes you happy, I’ll stop by the emergency room, old man, and get checked out.”

“Watch who you’re calling ‘old man’ or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and haul your sorry ass to the hospital.”

“How about you just collect my bull rope and glove for me?”

“Can do, and then I’m driving you to the hospital.”

“Just what I need, a chauffeur in rodeo-clown makeup.”

What Dakota wanted was a couple of painkillers, a six-pack and a soft bed, but he knew that Jim was right. He should get the injury checked out. If it was something serious, the faster he got it tended to, the better off he’d be.

The nearest hospital was only a ten-minute drive. He’d passed it on his way to the arena tonight. He could easily drive himself. He started unbuttoning his shirt. He had a clean one in his truck and he didn’t want the hospital deciding they had to rip this one off of him.

He almost doubled over from a stab of pain as he shrugged out of the shirt. His chest felt like someone had just whacked it with a two-by-four.

“Get in,” Jim said.

This time Dakota didn’t argue.