Preston’s upper chest and forearms had reddened; his skin was mildly blistered. EKG electrodes, an automatic blood pressure cuff and a fingertip pulse oximetry unit all connected him to a portable monitoring unit, which beeped with steady rhythm.
Willow noted that Preston’s blood pressure was a little low, his heart rate a little fast, but his oxygen saturation was excellent, and the cardiac monitor showed a strong, steady heartbeat.
“You get yourself into more trouble,” she said loudly enough for him to hear over the mechanical noise.
He opened heavy-lidded eyes. “Sis,” he whispered through his oxygen mask. “You okay?”
“Doing great. What’s up with you?”
Preston sighed, closing his eyes as if he were drifting off. But he opened them again. “Seems the CT scan showed I have a fractured liver, and my spleen’s bleeding.” His voice deepened, sounding as rough as gravel churning in a concrete mixer. “They’re taking me straight to surgery.” His eyes closed again. “Not sure how a person fractures a liver.”
“Well, if anyone can do it, you can,” she said.
“Guess they’ll have to put a cast on it, huh?” His voice drifted to silence. A snore punctuated the mechanical sounds of the room.
The nurse came to wheel him to surgery. Willow turned to find Graham stepping up behind her.
“You’re being released,” he said. “But you don’t have anything to wear out of here except your filthy pajamas or that hospital gown.” He gestured to her attire.
“Rick Fenrow brought me a set of scrubs to change into.”
“He’s on duty tonight? Preston was worried when he couldn’t find him at the lodge. There’s a private waiting room where you can relax until we receive word. You look as if you could use some rest.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly.
“You’re welcome.”
Back in her treatment room, she fingered the soft material of the scrubs and felt a flick of bittersweet memories. Would she ever escape them?
What was she going to do? Everything she had brought with her to Branson had been destroyed in that inferno. Her driver’s license, her credit cards, her checkbook, even her cash were gone. The only thing she owned that had been spared was her car, because it was parked in the carport across the drive. And she didn’t even have her keys.
This was a different kind of nightmare.
Chapter Four
A predawn light touched the western horizon when Graham entered the private room where Willow had been waiting for news about her brother. The lights had been turned off, and only the glow from the hallway and window filtered into the room.
Word had come a few moments earlier that the fire had been contained and the other buildings were out of danger. Now came the tedious duty of cleanup and paperwork. Graham hated paperwork.
He saw Willow lying on the sofa, her breathing soft and even. He hated to wake her. Still, she would want to see Preston.
Graham smiled to himself. He understood the strong bonds of family. His sister was on her way here now. He had high hopes that she could charm Willow, after his gruffness had brought out her iciest response at their first encounter. Though she had thawed considerably once she realized he wasn’t the ogre she’d first deemed him to be, he knew she hadn’t yet warmed completely. Her guard was up. He couldn’t blame her.
For some reason he didn’t want her to be alone right now. In spite of her self-reliance, there was something about her that seemed so…breakable.
Her soft, even breathing stopped for a few moments, then a moan seemed to shake her. Her eyes sprang open. She uttered a cry of such pain that he stiffened, wondering if her arm could be hurting her that badly.
“Willow, it’s okay,” he said.
Her lips parted in obvious alarm. She focused a terrified gaze on him, and he thought she might scream.
“It’s okay,” he said gently. “It’s just me, Graham.”
She shot a quick look around the room, then seemed to realize where she was. “What are you doing here?” she croaked, her voice tense and hoarse.
“Working on my bedside manner.” He noticed she’d changed into the scrubs. “It’s the least I could do after harassing you so mercilessly earlier.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Preston?”
“He’s doing fine, recovering in surgical ICU. I’ve been working on my landlord duties. You have a place to stay, as of right now.”
She blinked, then slumped against the overstuffed arm of the sofa. “Can’t believe I fell asleep,” she murmured softly, as if to herself.
“Bad dream?” Graham ventured.
She blinked again, straightened her shoulders and returned her attention to him as she scrambled out of the depths of the overstuffed sofa. “Nothing new about that.” She winced as she accidentally placed her weight on her injured arm.
“I don’t think you need to stay alone right now,” Graham said.
She stood up, and for the first time he noticed she was nearly as tall as his five feet ten inches, maybe an inch or two shorter. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about that,” she said.
“I have a suggestion.”
She grew still, silent. Again, that wariness. Was this a natural part of her personality or a result of her husband’s death?
“My sister is staying with me in a house down on the lake near Hideaway,” he said. “It’s a large house, so there’s plenty of room for you. When Preston gets out of the hospital, there will also be room for him to stay while he recuperates.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold—or as if the bad dream continued to terrorize her. “How far do you live from this hospital?” she asked.
“It’s a bit of a drive, but—”
“No. I appreciate your concern, Dr. Vaughn—”
“It’s Graham, remember?”
She reached up with slender fingers and rubbed at her eyes again. At this moment she appeared closer to sixteen than thirty-six. “I prefer to stay close in case Preston needs me. Until I can get a new set of keys for my car, I’ll find a room nearby so I can walk.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Graham said. “I’ve already arranged for someone to make a set of keys for you. Everything’s being taken care of, but I wish you would—”
“I’m sorry, Graham,” she said gently as she edged past him and reached for the door. “It’s so kind of you to offer, but you have plenty to keep you busy. I can take care of myself.”
Without waiting for him to argue, she slipped through the door and let it swing shut behind her.
Willow stood by Preston’s bedside and watched the rise and fall of his chest. His mouth hung slack, and the fan of his long black lashes seemed unsinged. His eyebrows hadn’t fared so well, and a blister framed the left side of his face.
Unwilling to awaken him, she watched in silence. I know better than to ask why, Lord. I know I won’t get an answer. But how about a “when”? As in “When will it stop?”
A film of tears blurred her vision.