Trauma Plan (7 page)

Riley pushed the thought aside and headed toward the side entrance to the hospital, the route closest to the conference room. She’d load the manikins, left-handed, onto a rolling cart and push them back to the storage closet in the ER. Easy, quick.

She frowned. Unless Rambo Travis had left a mess after suturing himself at the conference room table. It seemed like the incident had happened weeks ago, not hours. And they’d been thrown together twice since.

She’d felt Jack watching her in the chapel as she struggled to prick Vesta’s finger, slide the blood droplet into the monitoring machine. Long, breath-holding moments, while she silently prayed she could do it—and that he wouldn’t notice how hard the simple task was for her. Riley had steeled herself against the real possibility that Jack might be impatient, make some snide criticism. But he didn’t. He’d been quiet, professional . . . completely respectful. And there was something about the way he’d knelt on the floor beside the wheelchair, military boots on the chapel’s carpet, rugged profile silhouetted against the golden glass mosaic with its white dove, his voice so deep and gentle . . . It had taken her by surprise—an intriguing contrast to what she’d seen of him before.

Riley’s lips tightened with irritation. There was no reason to give Jack Travis credit he didn’t deserve. The truth was he hadn’t even bothered to thank her for finding Vesta Calder. Which meant he still had trouble accepting the fact that a chaplain had been useful to a patient who wasn’t “dead or dying.” He made his opinion on that very clear. Fortunately, Dr. Travis had nothing to do with Riley’s plans to return to the ER as triage nurse. And even when she accomplished that—was back in scrubs—she’d have to tolerate him only rarely. According to Kate, Jack worked primarily in other hospitals. And at his clinic, of course. Riley shook her head. She’d heard more than she’d cared to about his handling of that place.

She stepped onto the hospital sidewalk just yards from the door, skirting a sizable flock of grackles. Most of them, as usual, stared ominously at the sky. Waiting for it to fall . . . expecting the worst. Exactly what Riley had been taught all her life.
My entire life.

She walked on, stomach churning as she recalled Kate’s reaction to the idea of her moving back to Houston—giving up nursing:
“Would it be so bad?”

Yes. It would, and—

“Ugh!” Riley sucked a breath through her teeth, whirled away from the door, and stomped her feet on the cement, sending the grackles into a shrieking flurry. Black feathers scraped the air, inches from her face. Frantic yellow eyes glared, but she squeezed hers shut and stood her ground. “Stay away from me!”

“So noted.”

Who . . . ?
Riley blinked, turned back toward the door.

Jack Travis smiled.

6

“You startled me.” The chaplain eyed Jack warily, a hint of color infusing her cheeks.

“I think those birds might say the same.” Jack glanced toward his dusty black Hummer, parked mere yards away. “And looks like my car could prove it—pretty good shelling.” He turned back to her. “Don’t worry; I won’t expect you to wash it.”

Riley crossed her arms. “I wasn’t going to offer.”

“I see that.” Jack shook his head, studied her face for a moment. Blue eyes, dark brows and lashes, the pink flush on her cheeks at odds with the very determined set of her mouth. And with the way she’d just tugged her jacket close, squared her shoulders, and turned—“Hey, wait. Don’t go. I wanted to . . .” Jack cleared his throat. “I want to thank you.”

She turned back, eyes widening.

“For finding my patient,” Jack explained. “She needed those instructions, and frankly, I don’t need any more controversy. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s already been a long day.”

“I saw the news. A film clip of the man on fire at the clinic.”

“Film?” Jack ground his teeth together as he thought of the young man with the camera phone.

“Yes.” Riley stared at him for a moment. “And there was an interview with a woman who claimed to be representing the surrounding neighborhood.”

“Let me guess—she wasn’t organizing a barbecue in my honor.”

The chaplain’s lips twitched toward a smile that didn’t materialize. She met his gaze, expression growing serious. “She was pretty free with descriptions of you, like ‘maverick,’ ‘irresponsible,’ and ‘reckless.’”

“I’m sure,” Jack said, noticing that Riley had planted her hands on her hips. “But that’s only one opinion, so—”

“And then I got an earful from Mrs. Calder’s neighbor.”

Jack groaned. “Do you think Vesta is part of that group? And that’s why she ran off? Because of the campaign against me?”

“I’m not sure. It could have been a trigger. Regardless, she sure didn’t need the added drama of her neighbor’s rant. I defused it as quickly as I could.”

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise.

“I explained that you’d done exactly the right things in treating Vesta’s emergency, that if she hadn’t been fortunate enough to have such skilled care, the outcome could have been . . . well, tragic. And that Alamo Grace Hospital wouldn’t have you on staff if you weren’t more than competent—” her mouth twitched—“and caring, of course.”

“So this neighbor . . .” Jack hesitated, stunned that she’d defended him. “She believed it?”

“Let’s say that she believed
me
—after she realized that she knew my parents. Small world.” Riley shrugged, then glanced down to check her watch. “I’ve got to put some equipment away before I go home. I’ll get a written report to you after I meet with Vesta again. Maybe I can shed some light on her anxiety. All subject to confidentiality, of course.”

“You’re meeting with her?”

“A home visit. As part of our Senior House Calls program.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’ll let you know if I learn anything medically helpful.”

“Okay, then. Good.” He scraped his hand through his hair. “Look, I know we haven’t seen eye to eye on much . . .” He shook his head. “Okay, on anything. But I do appreciate your finding my patient, getting me out of that jam. And I especially appreciate that you went to bat for me with the neigh—” He stopped short as Riley raised her palm.

“Hold it,” she said, her expression intense. “You’ve got that wrong—all wrong. I didn’t find Vesta Calder to help
you
out of a jam. I went looking for her because that poor woman was distraught and frightened enough to yank a needle from her arm and run, bleeding, down the hall to find someplace safe. I was concerned about
her
.”

“I . . .” Jack paused as twin splotches of color deepened on her cheeks.

“Please. I’m not finished.” Riley swiped at an errant strand of her bangs. “The other thing you got wrong is assuming that I ‘went to bat’ for you. I hardly
know
you. And I’ll be honest: what I do know makes me more than a little wary. The reason I smoothed that neighbor’s ruffled feathers was to keep Vesta from being frightened all over again about the quality of her medical care. And because portraying a positive, caring image of Alamo Grace Hospital is part of my job as chaplain. Which I do for the living as well as the dead.” Riley’s lips pursed. “Campaigning for Dr. Jackson Travis
isn’t
my job.”

She punched in the door’s security code and then disappeared into the hospital. Leaving Jack with the feeling that she’d stomped him as handily as she had that flock of stupid birds.

Gilbert DeSoto was propped on the observation room gurney as regally as a king on his throne. Except for the oxygen tubing, slathered burn ointment, and singed-off left eyebrow—which made him look comically off balance.

Gilbert smiled, revealing toothless gums, as Jack approached. “Doc, excuse my flappin’ gums. They took away my teeth. Said they had to watch my mouth for more swelling.” He pointed to a plastic denture cup on the bedside table. “Didn’t stop me from eatin’ pie, though.” He shook his head with a loud murmur of appreciation. “Coconut cream—crust nearly as fine as my own sweet Helen’s, bless her soul. And a double shot of strawberry Ensure.” He pulled a Kleenex from a box and folded it carefully, then slid it between the pages of the small book he’d been reading. “They promised me my teeth before supper. Something with meat. Hope I get to stay.”

Jack smiled, remembering Vesta’s equally eager desire to flee. He grabbed a chair, pulled it close while he scanned Gilbert’s monitoring equipment. Cardiac rhythm—a-fib, which could indeed keep him here for supper—oxygen, blood pressure cuff, IV . . . probably some morphine, considering the pinpoint size of his pupils. And his talkative good humor in the face of considerable pain.

“Glad they’re treating you well, Gilbert.”

“No complaints. They’ve been real kind to an old man who got drunk and set himself on fire with a cigarette he dug outta some trash can.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opened them, they were filled with tears. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble, Doc. You and Bandy and the folks at the clinic have been nothing but good to me. And how do I pay you back? By starting a fire that coulda burned that place of mercy down.”

And still might close it, pal.
“It’s okay, Gilbert. No real harm done. And you’re going to be fine. That’s what matters.”

A tear slid down the man’s face, beading on the burn salve. “Thank you for bein’ there, Doc. One of the medics said you sliced your leg open trying to help me.”

“He exaggerated. Band-Aid, tetanus shot. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get you well and out of here.” Jack smiled. “After supper. Did they get you set up with a place to stay?”

“Got a list of shelters, some new ones. And treatment centers for the booze. Guess they’re obliged to offer that. Been in and out of those places for more than thirty years; I can recite that Serenity Prayer backward. Truthfully, I’m not sure it will ever stick.” He shook his head, tapped the book with his finger. “But that lady chaplain said we never get too old for hope. It was a good thing to hear.”

“Riley came to visit you?”

Gilbert lifted the book. “Brought me this Bible. Beautiful young woman, face like an angel. And you have to admire that she’s here mingling with folks like me. Considering.”

“Considering what?”

“You know. Her family and all. I asked as soon as I saw her name tag.” Gilbert touched a tentative fingertip to his blistered lower lip. “What? You never heard of the Hales?” He raised his brows, one gray, the other no more than a sooty smudge. Then he let out a cackle that exposed his gums, smooth and pink as a newborn piglet. “Hale Ranch and Hardware. That’s her granddaddy. I used to sell his goods from Brownsville to South Padre. Even bowled on the Hale Hardware league for a while. I was pretty good, too—more than a couple of 600 series.” Gilbert raised his thumb. “She got a kick out of hearing that. Then there’s Senator Bascom Hale, the uncle. Grooming him for a future presidential run, I heard. But I don’t always get the latest politics—sometimes my newspapers are wrapped around fish innards.” Gilbert showed his gums again. “Plus Hale & Associates, her daddy’s business.”

“And Hale Medical Foundation . . . those Hales?”

“Yup.” Gilbert nodded. “Lots of cement and steel in that young lady’s family. She could be sipping tea, with her pretty pinkie up, anywhere she wants. But here she is, talkin’ hope to an old man who smells like a burnt corn dog.” He clucked his tongue. “Which reminds me, do you know when this place serves supper?”

* * *

Kate set her bottle of water on the nurses’ station desk and then pressed her hands to her lower back, stretching against its achy stiffness. She would never go two days without her Pilates workout again. A floor full of moving boxes at home was no excuse. Neither was the return of that familiar slogging-through-mud sadness she’d tried so hard to leave behind in California. She hated—despised—its tenacious, cruel attempts to mire her in the past. That part of her life was over. And the way it had ended was for the best.
All of it.

Kate’s throat tightened and she reached for her water. In a couple of hours she’d be off duty, so—

She turned as Jack Travis arrived beside her.

“No need for that second dose of ‘vitamin H,’” he said, referring to the Haldol he’d prescribed for their tank-tossing psych patient. “He’s fairly lucid in there now. And willing to voluntarily admit himself for evaluation.” Jack’s brown eyes crinkled at the edges. “Maybe you’ll get to finish out your shift without any more incident reports, Callison. I’m guessing you don’t welcome them either.”

“Like a scorpion in my shower.” Kate grimaced. “Don’t ask. I’ll never get used to Texas. But I
am
glad Riley’s following up with Vesta Calder.”

Jack’s smile was replaced by an expression Kate couldn’t quite read. Skepticism? She could understand his concern about the role of spiritual support in the chaos of the ER. She still felt that way. Defibrillator paddles first; prayer way down the line. Offered by someone else, not her. Still—“Riley’s good at what she does, Jack.”

“And thus wants to give it up?”

“She wants to practice clinical skills, too. Hands-on patient care. As part of the ER team in the way she was before . . .”
Before that monster broke her neck, nearly killed her.
Kate took a breath. “Before an injury that was beyond her control. It’s not fair. Riley loved being an ER nurse; it’s hard to accept never being able to do that again.” She met Jack’s gaze. “What if something hugely important to
you
was just snatched away?”