Code Triage

by Candace Calvert

  Leigh didn’t want to know. The very last thing she needed was another example of messy relationships. More lies, more excuses. “All I know right now is that I need to check you over,” she said, her tone brittle even to her own ears. “And attend to that chest injury. I’m concerned about your lung. First things first.”

  “Will the police be called?”

  “I would think they’ve already been notified, Mr. Barber. I’ll check for sure.” Riley looked toward the doorway. “I imagine your lady friend wouldn’t be as protective as you were. I’ll stay with you when the officers come, if you like.”

  Leigh glanced at Riley, wondering if her nonjudgmental kindness came from her training as a chaplain, her faith, or simply because she was naive. She was young and from a tight-knit family. Maybe she’d never been on the receiving end of betrayal.

  “You’re the chaplain, right?” Freddie asked Riley, extending his arm so the nurse could start his IV.

  “Assistant chaplain.”

  “Just as good.” He grimaced at the needle stick. “We used to go to church. The wife and I. But it’s been a while. Almost a year. Christmas was the last time. I lied about having an accident that day, too. The truth is, she walloped me with another shoe—high heel with holly berries. Because I got drunk and stayed out all night. Christmas Eve. What was I thinking?” The mask fogged, and sudden tears shimmered in his eyes. “A year from Social Security and I’m still making a mess of my life. It’s probably too late, but I’ve been hoping to find a way to start getting it right. Maybe I could talk with you about that.”

  “I’ll be glad to listen,” Riley said softly. “It’s never too late for hope, Mr. Barber.”

  “Never too late”—she is naive. Leigh finished her exam quickly, checked the monitor, and left the exam room, fighting the beginning of a headache. She’d see what the X-ray showed and make a decision on the chest tube. And meanwhile, she’d have the joy of examining the other half of the shoe massacre.

  She pulled up a chair at the nurses’ station and sighed. The way her day was going, she’d probably end up with the knife-wielding wife on a gurney as well. She wanted to find some humor in it—even imagined for an instant threatening Nick with a riding spur—but the sad fact was that there was nothing funny about it. Somehow, without her consent, she’d joined a pathetic sisterhood. Here she was in a white coat, expected to know all the answers, but she was no different from the woman whose stomach she’d pumped on Friday or the wife who’d yanked off her holiday shoe and clobbered her husband under the mistletoe. Leigh had no answers. Except that the assistant chaplain was wrong. It did get too late for hope. She had reached that point months ago. At least she hadn’t resorted to brandishing a weapon.

  Her breath caught as Sam Gordon crossed the trauma room, glanced in her direction, then exited through the doors leading to the lobby. What . . . why? The only pediatric patient they had was a two-year-old, recovering after a febrile seizure. Doting family, no inkling of abuse. No need whatsoever for a Child Crisis investigator.

  Leigh gritted her teeth. Sam had passed through the ER just to do it. Purely territorial. The old anger swirled, and in an instant she saw a flash of the dream she’d had in her few hours of sleep last night. That Samantha Gordon was dead. No . . . Leigh’s stomach plummeted as the realization struck. I killed her. Again.

  She stood, the headache pounding her skull like a stiletto heel. Dreams meant nothing. The reality was that she had patients to see. And from this minute forward, she was determined to approach the rest of the day as if it was nothing but routine. No matter what happened. A cup of coffee would ease the headache, and in a few hours she’d escape once again to the peaceful respite of Golden Gate Stables.

  “Dr. Stathos?”

  “Yes.” Leigh glanced at the ward clerk.

  “A woman named Patrice called a few minutes ago. She said there’s a problem with your horse.”

  +++

  Sam closed her notebook. “I was hoping to see the baby. I have his latest reports, but I always like to have personal contact.” She saw, once again, the fear in Kristi Johnson’s eyes. And you wish I’d have no contact whatsoever.

  “Finn’s better,” the young mother said, smoothing her son’s crib sheet. “He still has that cough, but he smiled at me. He knows his mama’s here. And you saw Abby,” she continued, “down in the playroom. She’s fine. Ate all her breakfast and asked for more hash browns. She’s already talking about going home.” Kristi’s pupils dilated, but she lifted her chin bravely and met Sam’s gaze. “The power is back on in our apartment, Miss Gordon. Heat and lights. I have fifty dollars’ worth of minutes on my cell phone. My boss is letting me work day shift for the next three weeks. And my girlfriend will be there to babysit. There won’t be another mix-up.”

  Sam hesitated for a brief second, almost allowing herself to imagine someone trying to take Elisa away. Almost, then stopped herself. This was her job. Child Crisis. Emotions could play no part whatsoever. “And the baby’s father? Kurt?”

  “I haven’t heard from him in months. I told you that. He’s part of the past.” Kristi’s expression softened and a faint flush rose high on her cheeks. “I’m changing my life. Meeting new people through my church.”

  Sam raised her brows. “A new man?”

  Kristi cleared her throat. “Nothing serious. But there is someone who’s really nice, really good, you know?” Her expression showed that she regretted her words. Because Sam was the enemy who could never understand something as wonderful as hope.

  “I do,” Sam admitted before she could stop herself. “I do know what that feels like. Meeting a man so different from anyone you’ve ever known.” Nick’s darkly handsome face floated before her eyes. “I understand that it changes everything.”

  Kristi sighed. “He doesn’t know the details about why I’m here. I’m not sure he’d understand. Like I said, he’s different. I’m not at all like the women he’s used to, and—”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Sam blurted. “Don’t sell yourself short. Just because you’ve had some hard times doesn’t mean you have to settle for less than a woman who’s gotten all the breaks.” The image of Leigh Stathos—smug in her white coat, so self-righteous with indignation at her husband’s betrayal—rose in Sam’s consciousness. “You deserve happiness.”

  “I . . . uh . . . thank you,” Kristi said, confusion vying with the fear in her expression. “I guess.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes, fighting painful memories. A mother in prison, an absent father, a brother dead barely a year. And Nick’s face at dawn, confused and so vulnerable with grief. “You go for the happy ending—hear me? Don’t settle for less. There are good guys and bad guys. Get that good guy, Kristi. Make it happen. No matter what it takes. Do it for your kids. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sam closed her briefcase, rose to her feet, and smoothed her pin-striped jacket. She told herself she hadn’t crossed any line with the client, that she’d be back tomorrow and she’d be as tough and immovable as ever. An advocate with no skin in the game. She said good-bye to Kristi and strode down the pediatric hallway, thinking of Elisa’s macaroni butterfly and remembering the anxious look on Leigh Stathos’s face when she’d passed through the ER earlier. Sam smiled. Just a few more days, then things would change. Her time would come; she’d get the good guy. And that happy ending.

  She slowed her pace as she approached the children’s playroom and caught sight of Abby Johnson in competition with a hospital volunteer in an energetic game of Wii. She stopped and walked to the windows, glad she was doing everything to assure this child’s safe future. She watched Abby wave the player’s wand, then hunch over in a fit of giggles. Sam turned as a staff worker in navy scrubs joined her at the window.

  “Looks like fun,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “That little girl deserves it, believe me.”

  “You know her, then?” the staffer asked.
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  “Professionally.” Sam turned to look at him—young, shoulder-length hair, small wedge of a beard. “I’m the Child Crisis investigator handling her case.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “You’re getting her screwed-up family all straightened out.”

  “Trying my best,” she said, after glancing at her watch. “But now I’m officially off duty. Which means I get to go home to my own daughter.”

  “Well . . .” He stared at her for an awkward stretch of time. “That must be very cool.”

  “It is.” She cleared her throat, fighting an irrational chill. “And now I’m on my way.”

  “Me too,” he said, lifting the jacket he’d slung over his shoulder. “Have a good evening with your daughter. Who knows? I’ll probably see you around sometime.” A slow smile spread across his face. He slipped his arms into the gold 49ers jacket, turned, and walked toward the stairway door.

  +++

  “Deep breath, Mr. Barber,” Leigh instructed, after tapping his shoulder to awaken him. The morphine was doing its job. And hopefully the chest tube was too. She’d sutured it into his pleural space, midaxillary line, several inches below his stab wound, with a return of air and a small amount of blood. His oxygen saturation was 100 percent and his other vital signs completely stable. “Mr. Barber?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” he said, eyes fluttering open. He inhaled through his nose. “Hey, Doc.”

  “How’s the pain? On a scale of one to ten.”

  He reached up to touch the oxygen prongs in his nose. “You folks are all about the numbers. I’m okay . . . I mean, three. Only hurts when I laugh.”

  “Good.” Leigh sighed. He wasn’t going to have a lot to laugh about. His wife had been arrested, his indignant girlfriend had called him “Fast Freddie”—among other ugly things—all over the afternoon news, and right now, his eighty-seven-year-old mother was waiting in the chapel. With her pastor.

  He met Leigh’s gaze. “I’m in a world of trouble, aren’t I?”

  “The lung collapse was small and the bleeding fairly minimal. I’m waiting for the radiologist’s report on the second chest film, but I expect we’ll see improvement. Those puncture wounds won’t be a problem—”

  “No,” he interrupted, eyes intense. “I mean my marriage. It’s over, isn’t it?”

  “I . . .” can’t believe you didn’t think of that before. Leigh shook her head. “I can’t answer that. I only know that physically, you should do fine. You’ll stay in the hospital for a few days.”

  “She could have killed us.”

  Leigh fought the memory of her disturbing dream. “Yes. She could have.”

  Fifteen minutes after the end of her shift, Leigh pulled into the graveled lot at Golden Gate Stables, parking beside the familiar green pickup truck, its bed crowded with lockboxes and equipment, cab door reading Ralph Hunter, DVM. A stainless-steel bucket sat on the open tailgate and beside it a neat coil of plastic tubing—stomach tube. Her throat tightened. Frisco’s worse? No, she’d talked to the vet as she was leaving the hospital, and he’d only confirmed the details of Patrice’s message: Her horse hadn’t eaten today, and he’d seemed uncomfortable, restless, nipping at his sides a few times. Early signs of colic. Which could lead to a twisted gut, a true equine emergency, and . . . No, he’s okay. Patrice was being cautious. And that was good.

  She hurried into the barn, preparing herself for the fact that Frisco would be less alert, maybe still showing some vague signs of discomfort. She fully expected that.

  What she didn’t expect was Nick.

  Chapter Nine

  “My name’s still on the card. Emergency contact.” Nick pointed at the weathered phone listings posted on the stall gate. He saw Leigh frown as if she’d missed a critical diagnosis or picked up a blunt surgical instrument.

  Her eyes skimmed over his uniform. “So you dropped everything to rush to the aid of my horse?” She lowered her voice. “You don’t even like Frisco.”

  “I . . .” He stopped himself. It was never about the horse or even all the hours you spent at the stable. It was about you distancing yourself from me. “I called the house. Caroline wasn’t there. And I was nearby on an arrest. Domestic dispute. A stabbing. I think Golden Gate Mercy got the victim.” He gave in to familiar irritation at the skepticism on her face. The defensive parrying they’d been doing for months, like some miserable and awkward dance. “You want to see my report? I’m not following you around, Leigh.”

  She raised her palm. “We got the stabbing victim. I was busy with him when Patrice called. I’m sorry you were bothered.” Her gaze shifted toward the stall, to her horse standing with his head down, eyes closed. “I’ll fix that card, get the information current.”

  Erase me from your life, you mean.

  They both turned as the stable owner approached.

  “Ah,” Patrice said, taking in Leigh’s scrubs, “you came straight from the hospital. I almost called again to say we’d reached your husband and that you didn’t have to hurry.”

  Leigh’s lips twitched. “Nick’s not exactly a horse person.”

  Or a much of a husband. He could hear it in her voice. The irritation prickled again, paired as it always was with a stab of guilt. “She’s right,” Nick said, shrugging. “But thank you for looking out for Leigh’s horse.”

  “You’re most welcome.” Patrice smiled, looking between them. “And I appreciate what you two do every day, looking out for our community, keeping it healthy and safe. You’re quite the pair.”

  Nick managed a smile as Leigh turned to peer into Frisco’s stall.

  “Dr. Hunter’s done a full exam, then?” she asked.

  “Yes. And gave your boy an injection of Banamine for the pain—obviously helping. Ralph’s checking my broodmare right now, but I’ll let him know you’re here and he’ll fill you in. Frisco was good—no biting—and even gifted us with a small pile of manure.” She laughed at the look on Nick’s face.

  Leigh tossed him a tight smile. “Manure’s a good sign with a horse being treated for colic. Means his gut’s functioning.”

  “Oh.”

  Patrice nodded. “And now if we could only perk his appetite.” She peered down the stable walkway. “Maria’s walking around with her bag of carrots. She was so worried about Frisco; you could see it in her eyes. Even without saying a single word.” She looked at Nick. “By the way, apparently I have you to thank for our little angel’s placement here.”

  “Me?” he asked.

  Patrice smiled. “I was talking to the county staff today, and the counselor said she’d learned about our foster care and equine therapy program from you. A Miss Gordon. I told her to come on out, I’d show her around.”

  Great.

  Leigh’s posture stiffened.

  “Anyway, I thank you,” she said, reaching out to touch Nick’s arm. “That girl needs us, and we needed her. Now I’m going to go find our vet. And round Maria up. I swear she’s going to brush the coat right off that donkey.”

  She disappeared, boots clomping down the walkway, and Nick turned to Leigh, prepared for the hostility he was sure he’d encounter. But all she seemed was tired. Faint shadows beneath her lower lashes, dark hair escaping her ponytail, and an expression pinched with worry. About her horse. For the first time he was glad the selfish beast had all of her attention. He didn’t want to talk about Sam.

  “I’ll go, then,” he said. When she didn’t answer, he began walking away. Then stopped, remembering. “Leigh?”

  “Yes?”

  “I promised Harry I’d prune that hedge. Okay if I go by there and do it before it gets dark?”

  “Sure. I’ll be here for a couple of hours. I want to mix up a warm bran mash and see if I can get Frisco to eat it. And Caro’s at work until seven. I guess you won’t bother anyone.”

  Bother. He’d become no more than a bother. “Okay. And you know . . .” He shook his head. “Yesterday was the first time I’d seen much of Caroline since she’s been back. Is she oka
y?” He saw Leigh’s brows rise. “I mean, is she taking her meds? sleeping all right?”

  “She’s taking her medication. She’s keeping her counseling appointments and looking for an apartment. She’s fine—even gone back to teaching some Pilates classes. You don’t have to be concerned.” Leigh glanced toward Frisco as he shifted position in his stall.

  “I’m concerned because I care.”

  “Don’t.” She pinned Nick with a look, and the hostility he’d hoped to escape slashed like a knife. “Don’t say you care. Or do any of this. Don’t.”

  “Leigh . . .”

  “No. Just go prune the hedge. And while you’re there, take the last of your things out of the house. Please.” A tear slid down her cheek, making him ache to hold her. She swept it away, looking even angrier if possible. “The best thing you can do for Caro—for me—is leave us alone.”

  He turned to go.

  “Nick?”

  He glanced back at her.

  “Don’t come here again. This is my place. It’s all I have. You don’t belong here.”

  When he got to the patrol car, Maria was standing silently beside it holding her sack of carrots. And a polished wood horse brush, thick with donkey hair.

  +++

  Riley hunched over the sunny visitors’ table and stared at the rubber ball, willing her fingers to squeeze harder, grip. And imagining them doing so many things that had seemed ordinary less than a year ago: combing her hair, thumbing through the tabs on her study Bible, dropping a coin in a Houston parking meter, or dunking a Gulf shrimp into chipotle sauce. Starting an IV, sponging a feverish child . . . Will I ever be a nurse again?

  She sighed, remembering an exercise she’d been given in physical therapy—reaching into a fishbowl filled with textured objects: glass marble, thumbtack, fingernail brush, feather, popcorn, square of sandpaper, penny, quarter, and seashell. And how she’d struggled to lift each very different object, touched its unique surface, then struggled even harder to identify it with her eyes closed. Completely by feel. She’d made improvement, but who would want a nurse holding a needle when she could barely tell a piece of popcorn from a thumbtack? a woman still too cowardly to walk a flight of stairs alone?