Fair Warning. Hannah Alexander
so intently on her injury was a different man from the one who had come striding across the lawn, yelling at her.
Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been yelling.
“Preston says you come from Kansas City,” the doctor said, his kind gaze flitting over her with apparent interest. “Which hospital did you work in?”
“Truman,” she said, touching each finger to thumb as Graham now turned his attention toward searching for any motor damage to the nerves. “But as I said, I’m not working now.”
“You came down here for a rest?” He indicated for Willow to spread her fingers apart.
She performed the maneuver without difficulty. “Something like that.”
He looked up at her with a brief question in his eyes, then refocused on his work. He had her flex her wrist, then her thumb, then each finger individually as he carefully observed the wound, looking for any evidence of a cut tendon.
Willow liked his thoroughness.
“Your brother loves you very much, and I know he’s been worried about you these past few months.”
She grimaced. How much had Preston told this man? “They say the grief process can take between two and four years. My husband died twenty-three months ago, Dr. Vaughn. It still isn’t an easy subject to discuss.”
He nodded, obviously already aware of her situation. “I’m sorry—believe me, I understand. Though I’m not a widower, I was plunged very reluctantly into the single world again after years of marriage. It’s been three years for me, and I still haven’t recovered.”
She looked up at him with interest. Why was he telling her this? Was he just trying to hold a conversation to keep her mind off the pain? Pretty heavy discussion to hold with a complete stranger.
“Dr. Vaughn, I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know what my brother told you about me, but he tends to be a little overly protective.”
“Please call me Graham,” he said. “Now, I’m going to numb the wound before I begin to clean it.” He started to remove his gloves, obviously to change to sterile gloves.
“No, I’m a big girl.” There were times Willow would have much preferred physical pain over the emotional pain she’d battled for so long. “You don’t need to numb it until you start sewing.”
He looked at her. “Are you sure? It can be very uncomfortable.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay, but as soon as you think it’s becoming too painful, you let me know and we’ll take the pain away.”
In spite of his gentle technique, Willow had to grit her teeth as he cleansed the wound, and she nearly asked for the anesthetic.
“Preston’s been an answer to a prayer for me,” Graham said as he worked.
“Hope you didn’t tell him that,” Willow said. “He probably wouldn’t appreciate the designation.”
Graham nodded. “He definitely isn’t interested in talking about spiritual things, is he?”
“No.”
“And you?”
“If you’re asking if I’m a Christian, yes, but don’t expect me to burst into song about the everlasting joys of living the spirit-filled life.”
He gave her a look of inquiry, and she shook her head. How could she explain, without getting too maudlin, that she and God weren’t exactly on speaking terms at this time? According to the books on grief written by the experts, she should be past that stage of the process. She’d left those books back in Kansas City. They were useless to her now.
“How was Preston an answer to prayer for you?” she asked, hoping to deflect the attention from herself.
“He and I met a few years ago at a weekend seminar on real estate investment, at Chateau on the Lake here in Branson. I discovered Preston wanted to work with rentals while he learned the business and earned the money that would make it possible for him to invest in his own property. I, on the other hand, needed to invest money immediately and needed a manager for my properties.”
“He worked as an accountant and financial adviser in Springfield for ten years after graduating from SMSU,” Willow said. “Then he got bored.”
“Well, he doesn’t have a problem with that now,” Graham assured her. “In fact, until tonight, I was pretty sure he was having the time of his life.”
“What are your renters going to do about a place to stay?” she asked.
“I’ve already made some calls, and they have rooms at a condominium down on Lake Taneycomo until they can return to their lodge. Preston’s cabin was the only building destroyed.”
“Any idea what caused the fire?”
“Not yet. I haven’t had time to worry about that. I’ve had my hands full with other things. Though the cabin was a few years old, I had it checked out before I purchased it, and it was in good shape structurally.”
“My uncle was a fireman before he retired,” she said. “He told me once that the investigation begins as soon as the first fireman arrives on the scene.”
“What first alerted you and Preston to the fire?”
“I saw a light outside. When I stepped out the back door I smelled something pungent, like turpentine or some kind of fuel. Then I smelled the smoke.” She paused, remembering. “When I reached the front, there were streaks of fire shooting toward the house across the lawn.”
He didn’t pause in his movements, but she felt, rather than saw, his sudden, startled interest. “Streaks?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking at the time about fuses. You know, like to a bomb.”
“Has anyone from the fire department or police department contacted you?”
“Yes, as soon as I arrived here with Preston, there was someone here to talk to me. I told him what I’m telling you.”
“I’ll have a talk with them. For now, you just relax.” After cleansing the site and setting up for sutures, Graham changed into sterile gloves and picked up the syringe filled with anesthetic solution to numb the wound.
He completed a two-layer closure in less than ten minutes.
After wiping the wound one last time with a saline-soaked swab, he invited Willow to examine the finished job. She nodded with admiration. The guy was good.
Graham removed his gloves and excused himself.
Willow laid her head back and closed her eyes in silent, automatic prayer for her brother’s life.
A moment later she heard a quiet footfall and jerked upright, eyes snapping open. A man in the doorway looked slightly familiar. In his mid-thirties, he had curly dark hair, a long face and warm, friendly brown eyes.
“Everyone okay in here?” he asked, taking a step closer to the bed.
“There’s just me, and I’m fine,” she said, frowning at him. Then she placed him. “You’re Rick Fenrow. Apartment Three B, right? Did you know about the fire?”
“Yes, I heard. You’re Preston’s sister, aren’t you?” He had a low tenor voice, with a northern accent.
“That’s right. I didn’t know until tonight that you worked here.”
“I haven’t been here that long. Did you know another tenant, Carl Mackey, works part-time at the hospital, as well? He’s in the pharmacy. The way things are looking tonight, we could have the whole complex here by the time the sun rises.”
“The fire hadn’t spread to the lodge when I left,” she assured him.
“That’s what the