He glanced at the faxed report he’d received this morning and studied the unfocused picture of a sexy blonde in a blue dress. The image had been caught on a security camera as she ran from the scene of the crime last night. The police had lost her trail in a theater-hotel complex a few blocks away when a fire alarm went off. They’d been forced to evacuate the building. Details—and a better picture of the woman—were to follow sometime today.
Since murders were not a common thing in this area of the country, the press would be all over this. It wouldn’t surprise Taylor if the picture of this woman made the front page of the local and regional papers.
He took a sip of his coffee and automatically reached for a cigarette. He had it out of the pack and halfway to his mouth before he caught himself and returned it. He hated these things.
On impulse, he carried the pack to the trash can alongside the trail, squashed the cigarettes as if they were a hand-exercise ball and tossed them in the can. People were murdering each other in Branson, Missouri, the heart of the Bible Belt. He didn’t need any help to put himself in the grave.
Of course, he knew he’d probably break down and buy another pack tomorrow, but it felt good to make this gesture, expensive as that gesture had become lately.
He was just about to drive away, when he received another call, this one more typical for Hideaway. A child had bumped his head this morning, and the parents were concerned about a concussion. Taylor answered the call. He could get to their location in five minutes. Seemed as if he was on a roll with the concussion patients lately.
Karah Lee raised her face to the morning light—the sun had not yet appeared over the tall pine trees that stood sentinel over an outward-facing, redbrick town square. The majority of commerce in this thriving little town concentrated itself on a peninsula of land surrounded by the diamond-blue glitter of Table Rock Lake.
As she stepped across the street from the broad lawn to the sidewalk that encircled the square, she caught sight of the reflection of herself in the front window of the general store next to the brick-front clinic. She grimaced at the same tall woman with flyaway curls of red hair who watched her from the mirror every morning—and whose image she tried to avoid every chance she got.
She had never taken any delight in her appearance. She not only towered over other women, she was also taller than most men, and many of her male colleagues seemed intimidated by her.
This was her first job outside the supervision of the hospital or her trainer, and Karah Lee felt awkward. It wasn’t that she doubted her skills—her grades had always been good, her supervisors and trainers had always given her excellent reviews, and she’d breezed through med school and residency with surprising ease. If only social situations had been so easy.
When she was growing up—and up, and up—Mom had always encouraged her to hold her head high and be proud of her height. Even Dad had told her to “suck it up,” because someday she was going to be a beautiful woman.
So when did “someday” come? At thirty-four, Karah Lee did not feel attractive.
She knew what she looked like. One elderly patient a couple of months ago had called her “handsome,” whatever that meant. At least her facial features were even, and her waist was still slightly narrower than her hips. Slightly.
This morning she wanted to make a good first impression, instead of blurting out the first thing that entered her brain—which was a habit she hadn’t been able to break. People who knew her became accustomed to this tendency, but strangers didn’t always know what to think about her—last night with poor Ranger Jackson being a prime example.
She took a final breath of the sweet, cedar-scented air and pulled open the glass door on the right. The sign on the window beside it stated Hideaway Walk-in Clinic. For Emergencies, call 911.
She walked quietly across the tile floor as the door whisked shut behind her. The clinic brooded in dim silence, not quite open for business this morning. To the immediate right were two vending machines, one with candy and chips and one with drinks; they combined with the row of windows behind her to provide the sole source of illumination at the moment. Another set of doors stood open to an empty, seemingly deserted hallway that held the smell of an old building, scrubbed to a shine with a lemon cleanser.
Voices and laughter reached her from the left, and she turned and glanced through another open door to find a waiting room and reception window. Lights blinked on in the office behind the window as she watched. Good, she wasn’t late.
She took a step in that direction, but then she saw a movement in the shadows at the far side of the vending machines. There was a thump, and a grunt, and she recognized with amusement the posterior section of someone bent forward from the waist, squeezed between the machine and the wall.
She cleared her throat. There was another thump, and a low mutter of words she couldn’t decipher. Definitely male.
“Hello,” she called out to him.
“’Morning,” he said without straightening. Though muffled, his voice sounded deep and youthful.
“We need to call an electrician to get this outlet fixed,” he said. “Dane’d kill me if I tried to do it. The light was blinking when I came in. Is it okay now?”
Karah Lee turned her attention to the steady glow against the potato-chip wrappers. “Looks fine to me.”
“Great, maybe that’ll hold it until they can get over here. I’m glad the pop machine didn’t kick off in the night.” There was a shuffle of feet as he backed out toward her, then straightened to turn. “I’d hate to have to replace all those cans of—” He saw her, and his thick, black eyebrows raised in surprise.
The young guy was obviously in his teens. He had broad, muscular shoulders, ebony skin, and very short, kinky dark hair. He wore green scrubs that matched the color of the cedars outside. As all this registered with her, Karah Lee saw the realization dawn in his expressive brown eyes that he hadn’t exactly greeted her—a stranger—with dignity. He grimaced with dismay.
He recovered quickly and gave her a broad display of straight, even teeth. “Hi, you must be our new doctor.”
Karah Lee nodded and held out her hand. He took it, and she was pleased by the confident grip. “Karah Lee Fletcher.”
“Gavin Farmer, but nobody calls me by my real name. You can call me Blaze.”
She gestured to his clothing. “Are you a nurse or a tech?”
“Tech and chief flunky. I help out here when I’m not in school.” He gestured toward the machines. “I’ve just been placed in charge of potato chips and soda, and I’ve already failed.” He didn’t sound upset about it. In fact, he struck Karah Lee as one of those terminally cheerful morning people who tended to get on her nerves.
“College?” she asked.
His grin broadened with pleasure. “Really? I look like a college kid?”
She nodded.
“Not for another year. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the staff and show you around the place, if they’ll let me.” He led the way across the cozy waiting room toward the reception window where a woman sat with her back to the room, listening to an ambulance radio at the far side of the oblong office space.
“Hey, Jill, look who I found,” Blaze announced as he stepped up to the window. “Our newest staff victim, Dr. Karah Lee Fletcher.”
Without turning around, the woman held her hand up to silence him. She had short hair that resembled a brown football helmet. Karah Lee thought that style had gone out of fashion in the last millennium, but she’d never been one to keep up with fads.
Blaze gave Karah Lee an apologetic glance. “Believe it or not, she’s usually friendly,” he muttered.
“Hush a minute, Blaze,” Jill said, her voice deep and raspy. “I’m waiting for some news.”
He shrugged and leaned toward Karah Lee. “Jill’s our nurse and general troublemaker. And she’s doing secretary-receptionist duties since we don’t have one right now.”
A voice shot over the radio. “N
othing here, Jill. Over.”
She pressed the talk button. “You’re sure about that?” She released the button and glanced over her shoulder at Blaze and Karah Lee. “A friend of mine got a call this morning from Mary Coley, who lives out by the road a few miles from here. Said somebody swerved to miss a deer and ran into a tree last night. That shy ranger, Taylor What’s-his-name, took the call, but he’s tight as a clam and never shares details. You hear anything about a wreck?”
Karah Lee felt a sudden buzz of discomfort.
“Not a peep,” Blaze said. “I want to introduce Cheyenne to Dr. Fletcher before we get too busy to—”
The radio chugged its static over the line again. “…the crew didn’t make any runs to Springfield last night…either dead or alive. Over.”
Blaze gave a long-suffering sigh and stepped forward. “Jill, would you quit playing?” There was a cajoling edge to his voice now. “This is our new doctor. At least say good morning.”
Jill turned from the radio and straightened, grimacing ruefully. “Sorry. Hi, Dr. Fletcher. Nice to meet you. We’ve got a bet going on how many car-versus-animal accident patients we’ll have for the month of June.” She raised her voice, as if speaking to someone in another room. “So far it’s three and I’m winning.”
“Last night doesn’t count until it’s confirmed,” came a slightly familiar voice from down the hallway. “And besides, our bet was on how many patients we received.” The sound of the voice drew closer. “I haven’t seen any patients yet this morning, have you?” The speaker stepped into view, and Karah Lee recognized her new employer, Dr. Cheyenne Allison.
Dr. Allison had hair the color of midnight, cut in a wash-and-wear shag that barely reached her shoulders. She had dark brown eyes and an olive complexion that suggested a Native American heritage. At about five feet seven inches, she had to tilt her head to look up at Karah Lee.
“Oops, you caught us being unprofessional.” Dr. Allison opened the door between the waiting room and the treatment area and stepped out to shake Karah Lee’s hand with the same firm grip Karah Lee remembered from their interview in Branson earlier in the spring.
“Hi, Dr. Allison.”
“Shy.”
Karah Lee frowned.
“Call me Shy. Short for Cheyenne.”
Ah. Chey.
“First order of business,” Cheyenne said, “we’re all on a first-name basis around here, patients, doctors, staff. Some of the older patients like to be called Mr. or Mrs. and they insist on calling me Dr., it makes them feel more secure, but other than that we have a more relaxed office. Call me Chey or Cheyenne.”
“Chey. Fine.” Karah Lee pulled up an office chair and sat down. “I go by Karah Lee. So this is what you do for entertainment around here? Keep tabs on car wrecks?”
Jill and Cheyenne glanced at each other sheepishly.
Blaze chuckled. “Serves you right for betting.”
Jill shrugged. “We’re not betting for money, we’re just competing for one of Bertie’s black walnut pies.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. I’ve got dibs on a goat cheese,” Cheyenne said. “Not black walnut.”
“Ah, that’s right,” Karah Lee said. “I heard you didn’t exactly have a sophisticated palate.”
The gently angular lines of Chey’s face filled with amusement. “Who told you that?”
Jill laughed. “Anybody in town could’ve told her that. Hey, I heard the dummy who caused the accident last night had a cat in the car. Does that count as a patient?”
“No way!” Cheyenne protested. “That’s cheating.”
Karah Lee forced a smile. Time to get this over with. “Since the dummy’s cat suffered fewer injuries than even the dummy herself, I don’t think you can count him as a patient. We might be checking out the dummy later. Depends on how the day goes.”
If she hadn’t been the victim of this unintentional joke, she would have laughed at the expressions of surprise on their faces. Blaze did laugh. Loudly.
She reached up and pushed back her bangs to expose the injury. “Deer ran out in front of me and I swerved and hit a tree. Actually, it was my car that hit the tree. I had sunglasses clipped to the visor, and my head made contact during impact. End of story. My cat’s okay and everything is fine. You got any coffee? I could use another dose of caffeine.”
Static jerked through the ambulance radio and drowned out Jill’s abject apology. A disembodied voice announced the pending arrival of a small child who had slipped and smacked his head against the rocks while chasing a squirrel.
As the radio voice gave specifics, Karah Lee turned to Blaze. “You’d better give me that tour while we’ve still got time.”
Chapter Six
Taylor led the way to the clinic in his truck, checking the rearview mirror to make sure the parents of the injured child were keeping up in their own car. The damage wasn’t bad, but Dr. Allison—who preferred to be called by her first name instead of her title—would probably want to do a suture or two.
The radio buzzed at him again, and he received an updated report about the woman hunt in Branson. For some reason, authorities believed the suspect was still in town. To Taylor, that was stupid. With all the roads that led out of Branson, no murderer was going to hang around to get nabbed by the police.
Taylor switched off the radio as he parked in front of the clinic. He had more important things to take care of right now. Branson could keep its murderers.
Blaze opened the door to the fourth and last exam room. “I’ll never make fun of my patients. If I ever have any.”
Karah Lee glanced at him curiously as she stepped into the room and inhaled the familiar scent of iodine and alcohol. “You’re going to be a doctor?”
“A vet. If I can make the grades. What were you saying about your cat?” Blaze followed her inside. “Did he get hurt in the wreck?”
“He seems fine this morning, but I’d like to have a vet take a look at him.”
“You staying over at Bert’s place?”
“Bert?”
“You know, Bertie Meyer. She and Edith run the Lakeside.”
“Oh, that’s right.” A small town, where everyone knew everyone, just like Karah Lee’s hometown. “Yes, that’s where I’m staying.”
“I can run over there this morning when I get a chance and take a look at him for you. What’s his name?”
“Monster. You already take patients?” She remembered Ranger Jackson telling her about him.
“Right now I’m all Hideaway’s got. My dad was a vet, and I worked with him.”
“So where’s he?”
There was a slight hesitation, then, “He died. My mom and I don’t get along. They were divorced. That’s why I live at the boys’ ranch now.”
“Oh.” There you go, Fletcher, putting your foot in it again. “When did he die?”
“Last year.”
“Oh, man. Sorry. I lost my dad when I was just a little older than you.”
“How’d he die?” Blaze asked.
“He didn’t die. He left.”
It was Blaze’s turned to grimace, and he did it with his whole face, his thick, dark eyebrows drawing close above beautifully expressive eyes. “I think that’d be worse than having him die.”
Karah Lee nodded. “But I don’t think he’d agree.”
Blaze’s grimace lifted.
“So when can you see my cat?”
“Lunch break.”
“Karah Lee?” came her new boss’s voice. “You want to come in here a minute? I need a big, strong, brave patient.”
Karah Lee frowned at Blaze. “Patient?”
He shrugged at her. “Better do what she says. She’s a dead-on shot with pepper spray.”
“I heard that!” Cheyenne called from the other room.
Blaze grinned and rolled his eyes. “I’ll explain later,” he whispered.
After giving a report at the clinic, Taylor left the little boy and his parents in Dr. Allison’s capable care and str
olled back toward his truck, glancing along the sidewalk in both directions as he stepped from the curb. He’d seen no tall woman with red hair in the waiting room, and she was nowhere on the street. No way would he ask about her at the clinic. It was no longer his business.
It wasn’t as if he wanted to run into Karah Lee—she might suspect him of stalking her.
He climbed into the Jeep and glanced toward the front doors of the general store next to the clinic. No, he would not buy another pack of cigarettes.
He was driving west on Hideaway Road, when he saw a late-model white Toyota Camry sedan parked alongside the road beneath a heavy overhang of trees. One man crouched beside the right front tire while another man was bent over, apparently searching through the trunk for something that didn’t seem to be there.
Taylor parked and got out of the truck. “Lose your jack?”
Both men looked up at him. He noticed the motor was still running. “Engine problems?”
The man stooping at the right front tire straightened and hurried around the car toward him. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt, which revealed a tattoo of an eye on his left shoulder. “I’ll say. Thing’s been dying on us all morning, and then this.” He gestured with disgust toward the front, just as a car came speeding around the curve.
Tires squealed on blacktop as the driver caught sight of them and swerved to avoid a collision.
“You say you’ve got a jack?” Tattoo asked. “The one in the trunk’s busted, and it’s a little dangerous here on the road. Trouble is, there’s no shoulder.”
Taylor could only pray a car with a less cautious driver didn’t come barreling around the curve before they could get out of the way. “I’ll get my tools.”
Working as quickly as possible, Taylor helped the guys with their tire and had them on their way within ten minutes.
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