Trauma Plan (16 page)

Or overchallenge the disabled nurse?
Riley wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. He thought she couldn’t do it. And didn’t trust her to try.

She cleared her throat. “I’ll go get the Benadryl. Be right back.”

She’d dropped the two pink-and-white capsules into a pill cup when her cell phone rang from where she’d stowed it on the counter. It was the ringtone assigned to her mother. No doubt she’d decided to express an opinion after all, to tell Riley that working at the clinic was a big mistake. Riley grabbed the pill cup and hurried down the hallway toward the exam room, refusing to give in to a sudden threat of tears. Her mother’s timing had always been impeccable.

* * *

Jack watched as Riley gathered her personal things in the clinic kitchen. She looked tired. No, more than that—weary. She’d been quiet since they’d discharged Brianna.

“I’ll go then,” she said, after reaching down to stroke Hobo’s head. “Unless . . .” She looked to where Bandy crouched in the hallway with a whisk broom and dustpan in his calloused hands. “Are you sure I can’t help sweep up, Bandy? I think that gardener left half of someone’s yard on the floor.”

“Nothin’ compared to what I used to track into a house with my bull-doggin’ boots. You don’t wanna know.” Bandy raised his head and winked. “I’ve got this. I’ll have ’er spick-and-span by the time Doc Travis turns down my bed and puts that chocolate bonbon on my pillow. Thoughtful guy, our boss.”

Jack snorted, turned to Riley. “Thank you for staying over until Brianna was ready to go. I appreciate that. And . . .” He watched, distracted, as she pulled the band from her ponytail, letting her silky hair fall to her shoulders.

“It was no problem,” she said, sliding her purse strap over her arm.

Jack blinked, realizing that he’d been staring. “Well, I hope you liked working here . . . that you’ll come back. We can sure use your help.”

Riley stared at him, something in her expression making him sure that she was going to say she’d changed her mind. He started to imagine bulldozers in the parking lot.

“I . . . did like it,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I put my availability on the schedule in your office.” She glanced toward the door. “I’d better be going.”

Bandy stood, meandered through the kitchen with the little cart rolling along behind. “We’ll walk you out. Hobo always insists on seeing the nurses safely to their cars.” He waved his hand, eyes teasing. “Doctors and dentists—on their own.”

Jack smiled, surprised by a strange twinge of . . .
I’m jealous of a dog? Great.

He’d made it back to his office and was reaching for a pile of patient charts when he heard footsteps from the direction of the lobby.

“Forgot my phone in the med room,” Riley explained, passing the office. Her voice was breathless as if she’d jogged the distance from her car.

The enticing scent of peaches swept down the hallway.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said when she returned with the phone. He shrugged. “I think Hobo’s helping Bandy check the corn.”

She hesitated for a moment. “I left my car out front at the curb. Thanks. It’s pretty dark.”

They made small talk as they walked—Hobo, Bandy’s sandwiches, the weather—and Jack thanked her again for volunteering at the clinic, raising his voice over the sounds of traffic on San Antonio Street.

They reached the curb, shadowy despite the streetlamps and blinking construction barricade lights. Jack waited while she pulled the keys from her oversize purse and unlocked the door to her Honda. There was an awkward stretch of silence that he filled hastily with “Drive safe” and “See you later.”

He’d turned, walked a few yards up the dark driveway, when he heard footsteps slamming the sidewalk, a hoarse grunt . . . and Riley’s terrified scream.

12

Another violent jerk on the purse strap pitched Riley forward, threw her off-balance, and sent her careening sideways. Her purse slid from her shoulder a millisecond before her knee buckled and she fell, right hip striking the pavement. Her right cheek hit next, scraping the cement, bringing an instant flash of her assault in the Houston parking garage. Bile rose and she struggled not to retch. A hand grasped at her and she kicked out as hard as she could, covering her head with her arms to protect herself from being choked.
Oh, God, please, not again. . . . Please help me!

Her assailant cursed. It was followed by a loud, guttural shout from the distance.

“Get
off
of her! Let go, or I’ll—”

Riley struggled to sit up, heart thrumming in her ears. “Jack?”

Pounding footfalls, a menacing growl. A loud slam as something—somebody?—hit hard against . . .
my car?
What was happening?
Cell phone . . .

Riley patted the cement desperately, searching for her purse and trying to make out who was where in the darkness. She squinted, trembling, and then saw Jack pinning a man—a teenage boy—against the Honda. Jack’s legs were spread wide, his shoulders hunched, as he curled one big hand into a fist and squeezed the other mercilessly around the boy’s throat. His face twisted with rage as the boy made desperate choking sounds.

“Don’t—” Riley stumbled forward, skidded on her purse, and fell to her knees. “Jack . . . help me!”
Stop killing that boy.

He whirled, his hand leaving the boy’s throat. The boy slid sideways, gulping for air, eyes terrified.

“Jack, please,” Riley begged, holding her breath as he glanced back at the cowering purse snatcher and then in her direction again. “Please.”

He stepped away from the car, started toward Riley.

The boy cut loose, running like the devil was after him.

Riley gave in to tears.

* * *

“I’m carrying you,” Jack told her. “No arguments.” Riley had winced when she tried to stand; he wasn’t about to let her walk. “I’ll get you into the clinic and we’ll check you over more carefully. Put your arm around my neck—hang on; here we go. I’ve got your purse.”

She slid her left arm behind his neck, let the other curl against his chest. He lifted her easily and felt how violently she was trembling. Her teeth chattered, and her hair lay softly against his neck. “Shhh,” he murmured, lips brushing her temple as he climbed the sloping driveway. “You’re safe now.” Her body relaxed only slightly.

“I think I’m . . . okay,” Riley whispered, her voice sounding like it was coming from the bottom of a mine shaft.

That punk . . .
Jack clenched his jaw, sorry he’d had to let the kid go.

“You probably
are
okay,” he agreed, seeing Bandy near the porch. “But let’s make sure.”

“I was out back,” Bandy said, hurrying toward them, his eyes wide with concern. “Hobo started barking—what can I do?”

“Grab the door. I’ll take her to the office.”

Jack carried Riley inside, set her on the couch, then stepped aside to have a look at her. An abrasion marred Riley’s right cheek, and her upper lip on that side had begun to swell. Her lashes were sodden and inky dark against the startling blue of her eyes. She swiped at a fresh tear, took a slow breath.

“Headache?” he asked, kneeling down beside the couch.

She shook her head.

“Okay . . .” Jack reached his hands toward her face but stopped as she flinched. “Sorry. May I check your neck?”

She bit her lower lip, nodded. He slid his palms along the side of her neck, walking his fingers back to her spine, then gently palpated the muscles and bones. “No pain? You didn’t lose consciousness?”

“No pain.” Riley’s chin trembled and she jutted it out stubbornly. “And I was wide awake for the whole miserable thing.” She tried to smile. “I should have tossed him the stupid purse; it’s a cheap knockoff and I never carry credit cards. All I have in there is about three dollars in change, a mascara that’s been dried up for weeks . . . and my ministry cheat sheet.”

Jack raised his brows. “Your what?”

“A list of prayers, I suspect,” Bandy answered, bringing her a blanket. “Right?” He smiled when she nodded. “Might have done that man some good.”

“Prayers?” Jack narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, he’d have needed some if I’d had another few minutes with—”

“He was a purse snatcher,” Riley interrupted, trembling again. “A kid. All he wanted was my purse. I’m okay. I don’t think . . . it’s necessary to . . .” She stared at Jack, face going pale and pupils dilating.

“Right,” Jack said quickly, sensing that talking about the incident was the last thing Riley needed. “We’ll leave that to police.” He glanced up at Bandy.

“Called them.”

“Good.” Jack turned back to continue his exam, careful this time not to touch her without warning—she’d nearly jumped off the couch when he’d tried to examine her neck. Obviously still shell-shocked. And protective, likely, since she’d injured her neck before. If he didn’t know all that, he’d think Riley was afraid of
him
.

* * *

“Bruise, scrape . . . no biggie,” Riley said, walking to the clinic’s kitchen from the bathroom after washing her face and changing into fresh scrubs. “My hip’s fine. See, in working order.” She paused, raised her arms, did a few steps of what might possibly pass for a country line dance . . . and winced.

“Mm-hmm.” Jack tipped his chair back on two legs, crossed his arms. “I’m still willing to have a look, if—”

“No,” she blurted, hoping her face didn’t look as pink as it felt. She joined him at the table.

“Put the green beans back on your cheek.” He handed her the bag Bandy had pulled from the freezer.

“It’s okra,” she said, taking it. She glanced at his phone on the table. “Did the police call back?”

Jack frowned. “No. So I called Rob Melton. He said his officers are tied up with a gang situation. And since you still have your purse and you’re not seriously hurt, he couldn’t pull a man away.” Jack shook his head. “He also implied that maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to have the neighbors see patrol cars here three times in a week.”

Riley nodded, thinking of Vesta’s binoculars. And her parents’ reaction if the incident was made public. “I agree. Really, Jack, I’m okay.”

“I gave a description. And I got a report number. You’re supposed to call when you get home. Meanwhile, they’ll have officers keep an eye out for that . . . kid.”

Jack’s fingers clenched on the table, and Riley thought of his hand around the boy’s throat. The ugly, angry look on his face . . .

He caught her gaze. “I hope you believe me that none of this is normal around here. A man catching fire in the parking lot, that girl dumped on the porch . . . what happened tonight. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to come back, but . . . I want you to, Riley.”

There was a stretch of silence, broken only by the faint sound of gospel music from the direction of Jack’s office.

Riley lowered the okra. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure you did. Not really. I’m rusty, and . . .” She lifted her right palm, cold from the okra bag. She flexed her fingers and sighed. “This hand, my arm . . . I try, but—” Riley stopped short as Jack took hold of her hand.

“Numb?” he asked, his thumb brushing across her skin. His eyes held hers. He turned her hand over, traced his fingertip across her palm. “Can you feel me touching you?”

“I . . .” Riley’s stomach did an elevator drop. She remembered the strength of Jack’s arms as he carried her in from the street. His solid warmth—his heart beating beneath his scrub shirt. Suddenly she could feel his lips brushing her temple as he spoke to comfort her, the soft hair at the nape of his neck against her bare arm, and—

“No,” she said, sliding her hand from his. “I can’t feel that. I mean, barely. Pins and needles, that’s all.” She lifted the soggy vegetable bag. “This needs to go back into the freezer, and I need to go home.” She stood, gathering her things for the second time that night.

Jack followed her down the hallway, shaking his head at the music coming from behind the door to his office. “Bandy’s . . . whatever that is.”

“Ernie Haase & Signature Sound—my mother’s favorite.” She smiled. “Bandy and Hobo like Southern gospel.”

“Well, trust me, Bandy plays it endlessly—but Hobo’s outside. He likes to sleep under the truck. He was a rodeo mutt, never got used to ‘civilized life,’ Bandy says.” Jack grinned. “Though rumor has it our mascot has a thing for Andrea Nichols’s Persian cat.”

“Nichols?” Riley stopped at the front door. “The woman who heads The Bluffs’ action committee?”

“One and the same. Too bad the cat can’t speak at the city council meeting.” Jack rubbed his fingers across his jaw. “Hey, did you make that follow-up visit to Vesta Calder?”

“Yes . . .” Riley hesitated; conversations during chaplaincy visits were confidential. “Her blood sugars have been pretty stable. She looks great. There’ve been some transportation issues, so I’m arranging for a few home health visits.” Riley smiled. “And I learned some things about birds.”