Tying the Knot (37 page)

Anne tried not to gape, but she felt as if she’d been slugged. Noah had tossed her out on her ear without a thank you . . . or an I love you. She blinked back the tears biting her eyes. “Um . . . thanks.” She smoothed her scrubs, dying to ask Katie if Noah was on the bus, heading south . . . taking her heart with him.

How could he just leave? Turn his back on Wilderness Challenge, on his dreams, his kids . . . on her?

Her chin quivered, and she turned away, listening to Katie answer Darrin’s questions about the campers. Of course Noah could leave. She might be wildly crazy about him, but he didn’t love her. What a fool she’d been, declaring her heart. She’d practically taken it out and pinned it to her sleeve for him to wallop. Oh sure, he’d been kind; he’d made her think his feelings mirrored her own. Perhaps she’d mistaken the emotions in his eyes . . . perhaps it had been pity.

Her heart felt like an anvil in her chest. Yes, of course. He’d seen her fall. He’d seen her bleed. Without knowing it, he’d dragged her right into the middle of her fears. Of course he felt guilty. And sorry for her.

Pity. Noah didn’t love her. He was simply trying to shore up her emotions. All those tender looks, those nights sitting in front of the campfire listening to the song of the forest had been nothing more than Standing Bear pep talks.

Good thing she was in a hospital. She felt as if he’d torn her heart right out of her chest and stomped on it.

She turned to Darrin and Katie and interrupted them. “Excuse me. I’m going to go get something to eat.” As if she could put anything in her pitching stomach. But she needed to move around.

She strode out of the room and down the hall, her body stiff and heavy as if moving through mud. At least she hadn’t told Noah she’d follow him into his dreams. At least she hadn’t sacrificed her future for his affection and pity.

She slumped into a chair at the end of the hallway and buried her face in her hands, fighting tears.

“Anne, honey? You okay?” Sandra sat beside her, materializing like an angel. “You look wrung out.”

Anne forced a smile. “You’re looking pretty ragged yourself. What’s this, thirty-six-hour shifts?”

Sandra had bags under her eyes, and her shoulders carried a weight of exhaustion. Even her uniform looked like it had seen better days. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. “I got a catnap at the nurses’ station. But we’re short on nurses and Kelly called in sick this morning.”

“They can’t expect you to stay on.”

Sandra didn’t open her eyes. She just shook her head in a silent editorial.

“Listen, you go and get some sleep. I’ll watch the floor for you.” Anne reached for Sandra’s stethoscope. “I feel fresh, although I may not look it.” Maybe a few hours tending patients would drag her mind off her own fatal wounds.

Sandra leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. Her voice sounded ancient, distant. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. I’ll get my ID badge.”

Sandra closed her eyes as Anne ran down to the lounge, retrieved her badge and keys from her locker, and punched in. On her way back to the ER, she noticed a new picture hanging on the wall, an updated view of the Deep Haven lighthouse. So Garth Peterson hadn’t been lurking around town in pretense while he mugged nurses at night. Anne allowed herself a moment of shame that she’d suspected him.

“Meds are due soon.” Sandra angled her a weary look when Anne returned. “We only have three patients, but you’ll need to do rounds in a few minutes.”

“I can handle it. Let’s do charts.”

Sandra trudged over to the nurses’ desk and grabbed the list of patients and trolley of charts. “Do you still have your keys?”

Anne jangled the keys in her hand and nodded.

“My guess is that they’ll confiscate them after your shift. New policy is to only have one set per floor.” She handed hers over to Anne. “Lock these up, please.”

“Don’t tell me they’re still losing meds?”

Sandra shrugged. “Could be clerical, but Chief Sam has been prowling around like a lion. He thinks there’s a connection between the missing meds and the attacks on nurses.”

Anne tried not to imagine Peterson’s soft hands on thin throats. She obviously had to work on her propensity to falsely accuse strangers. “How is Jenny, by the way?”

Sandra perched her hands on her hips and stretched. “Recovering. But it will take a while for her to shake the emotional wreckage from the attack.” Sandra’s eyes spoke her sympathy. Anne understood too well what kind of road Jenny would have to tread to find her way back to the living.

As Anne went over the patients’ charts with Sandra, the twenty-bed unit became as quiet as a church on Tuesday. Sandra finally crept into an empty room, and Anne made sure the door was closed.

Anne couldn’t escape the feeling of loneliness as she locked up Sandra’s keys, then slouched at the nurses’ station, counting down minutes until rounds. She flipped through the charts: Mildred Larson, recovering from a myocardial infarction; Olin Karlstrom, in for a double bypass surgery. She checked their meds, then went in search of the med cart to fill the orders.

The pharmaceutical closet smelled faintly of antiseptic and plastic. The scent of medical science at its best and worst. So many different drugs. It made Anne both grateful and leery. She never escaped the sense of responsibility when she measured out the medicines. The wrong dose could kill.

She prepared the meds, levered the cart out of the closet, locked the door, and wheeled it down the hall. She knocked in warning, then entered Mrs. Larson’s room. Anne hated to rouse the sleeping woman, but missing her meds would be worse than losing rest. Gently she took the woman’s pulse, recorded it, then slipped on the blood-pressure cuff. By the time she’d recorded the results, Mrs. Larson had groaned and started a litany of complaints.

“Let me get your temperature; then I’ll give you your meds.”

The elderly woman grumbled but opened her mouth.

Anne took her temperature, then handed the woman the small container of pills and some water. Mrs. Larson drank them down with gusto. Anne checked her incision. “I think you’ll be ready to head home soon.”

“I hope so. My bones are weary of being in this bed all day, and I have a garden to tend.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely.” Anne took a peek at the remains of the woman’s lunch, recorded it, then wheeled the med cart to the door. “What do you grow?”

“Tomatoes and squash. Some peppers. The growing season is so short up here, they need all the lovin’ they can get.”

“I’m sure your plants miss you.”

“Best garden I ever had was in north Minneapolis. Just a little inch of land, but my tomatoes grew like weeds. And the zucchini! Couldn’t give them away. Here I barely get enough to make a decent loaf of bread.”

Anne cradled the chart in her arms. The elderly woman’s complexion improved as she talked. “Hmm.”

“The ground’s too cold up here to grow anything decent. I love the north country, but I sure do miss my little patch of garden. Sorry to give that up when I moved here. The tomatoes don’t taste the same.” The woman folded her hands on her blanket. “But I suppose when you choose one thing over another, you always lose something.”

Anne nodded. “I’ll be by to check on you later.” She nearly ran out of the room.

“Whoa, Anne!” Dr. Jefferies caught her shoulders before she plowed into him.

“Sorry.” Anne fought her beating heart and smiled at the doctor. He looked slightly disheveled today, as if he’d been jogging or working outside. His brown hair tangled in a mass, and definite lines etched his usually clear face. Sweat beaded his forehead. His gaze darted past her, down the empty hall, and back. “I need to get into the supply closet. Seems that I left my scrubs at home and I need a new pair.” He smiled, but she noticed the edge of his lips quiver.

“Are you on today?” The chart had listed Dr. Simpson as the doctor on duty, although she hadn’t seen him yet.

Dr. Jefferies nodded quickly. “And I’m late. Can I borrow the keys?”

Anne pulled the keys out of her smock pocket and dropped them in his palm. “I’ll be down in room 102.”

He turned and strode down the hall, around the corner.

Olin Karlstrom quizzed Anne for ten minutes on his upcoming surgery. The poor man looked pasty and she didn’t like the hue of his lips. She took his pulse and made a note to track down Dr. Simpson.

Wheeling the medical cart out of the room, Anne headed toward Darrin’s room. The soft click of a door closing made her pulse jump. She stopped and scanned the hall. Nothing but the ticking of the overhead clock and her own paranoid heartbeat.

She rolled the cart down to Darrin’s room. Katie had the kid in stitches, retelling some story about Bucko wrestling two Duluth packs.

“Time for your meds.”

Darrin shot her a wicked grin and sat up. Anne gave him a mock glare as she took his vitals. “Listen up. After today, your dosages go down. The last thing you need, believe me, is to get addicted to these.” She spilled the pills into his palm and gave him a drink. He sucked them down.

“Are you on duty?” Katie asked.

Anne nodded. “Sandra is whipped. I was going to ask you if you could take Bertha over to my place. My aunt will keep an eye on her until I get home.” She dug into her pocket to grab her house keys, then remembered she’d hooked them onto the floor keys. “Just a second; I’ll run and get them.”

Striding down the hall, it occurred to her that perhaps this moment delineated her future. Working endless shifts—double or single—in this tiny county hospital, taking pulses, administering meds. If she got lucky, she’d land Jenny’s position and her world would expand to doing pregnancy tests and drug screenings at the Indian reservation.

Her heart suddenly weighed a million pounds.

One month ago the thought of living in this peaceful community gave her reason to rise each morning. It pumped hope into her veins, administered the grit to face rehabilitation, and supplied the energy to finish her internship. Nursing was a noble profession, worthy of every ounce of dedication. Hadn’t she been desperately grateful for the nurses attending her while she clawed her way back to health?

But somehow this life dimmed in the face of all she’d seen recently. Shelly, craving for God’s word. Latisha, laughing as she braided Katie’s hair, precious trust rich in her voice. Darrin, crying as he confessed his sins and turned his life over to Jesus.

Spiritual nursing at its best.

The thought of spending her life dispensing the medicine of the gospel to these children sent a charge right to her soul. Never had she felt so alive, so pulsing with hope as she had this past month. Yes, facing these kids had nearly scared her out of her skin, but some sort of spiritual metamorphosis had changed her viewpoint. She’d seen past the tattoos and the body piercing to the aching, wounded souls within.

Perhaps this was how her father had felt that day as they sat at their kitchen table while the sun waxed it golden. His voice had shaken, his eyes alight, his very aura suggesting that they stood at the threshold of a great adventure, a life-altering purpose that would change their lives. And more.

Someone has to go, Anne.

These kids’ souls needed tending from someone who understood their illnesses and the cure. Someone like Noah. Someone like Anne, who’d grown up among them. A street-toughened woman who faced their battles, in their language, and didn’t surrender.

Someone with guts.

Anne marched down the hall with her hands fisted, wishing for the thousandth time that fear didn’t streak through her every time she thought of Minneapolis. Wishing the past didn’t imprison her, locking her away from the ministry she longed to dive into . . . from the man who already swam in those deep, dark waters.

She walked past the nurses’ desk, down the corridor, and had just passed the medical closet when she heard . . . something coming from inside. A breath—no, heavy breathing. In. Out. Quickly.

The memory of the soft click of a door closing made her pause. She stood silently, listening to her heartbeat gather in her ears.

Again, breathing. Then the slap of something landing on the floor.

She grabbed the door handle and pushed it open.

Dr. Jefferies stood in the middle of the room. His brown eyes widened and he held a box of . . . Percocet?

“What are you doing?” Her voice sounded pitifully weak. She frowned at him to compensate.

His mouth opened. No sound fell out. Her heart jumped. This scene suddenly felt so . . . familiar. Perspiration beaded his forehead; his hands trembled.

She moved back.

Then his eyes narrowed. “Come in, Anne. Close the door behind you.”

Yeah, right.
Anne stiffened. Adrenaline pumped through her, and she told herself to run. Instead her eyes fixed on the doctor as he finished stuffing the box into a fanny pack around his waist. “You’re stealing from the hospital.”

His look told her he wasn’t impressed with her assessment. “Come here.”

Her head shook of its own accord. She felt for the door handle behind her with whatever feeling remained in her cold hand.

He took a step toward her. She noticed his pupils for the first time. Dilated. Black as night. He reached into his pocket, his gaze holding her like a steel trap. Her breath caught when a second later he pointed a gun at her nose. “Come here.”

The air whooshed out of her.

No.

Not again.

“Help!” She flung the door open and ran. “Help!” The sound echoed down the sterile hall like a gunshot. “Help!” Her heartbeat thundered out before her.

“Anne!” Dr. Jefferies’s voice came a breath behind her. “Stop.”

Oh, sure.
Anne’s legs couldn’t work fast enough. She rounded the nurses’ station, heading toward the door—

He grabbed her hair.

“Ugh!” The pain speared right into her brain. Down her neck. Into her legs. They buckled and she fell to her knees.

He yanked her hair again. “Get up.”

No.
This was
not
happening to her again. She slammed her fist into his jaw. Pain exploded in her knuckles. “Ow!”