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The Unexpected Hero
Rachel Lee
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Dear Reader,
The idea for this book was born out of my concern for some unsung heroes. We are aware of our combat vets, and the dangers they face. Too often we forget the people they depend on: the medics, nurses and doctors who face the same risks, the same horrors.
I cannot praise enough the military medical people I’ve known, from medics in the field (now there’s heroism), to those who function in field hospitals that are not always safe from attack. They risk their lives to bring relief and healing. I’ve never known a medic, a nurse or a doctor who didn’t also treat civilian casualties whenever they could.
And then there are the hospital ships. One of our greatest gifts to Indonesia after the tsunami was the presence of a hospital ship. We sent her and her wonderful facilities and staff to help the injured and sick, and many of these medical people ventured ashore, despite warnings that they could be targets of warring factions. These people bear scars, too. People who have devoted themselves to one of the highest callings: saving human lives. And they venture into places willingly where few of us would choose to go. God bless them all.
Rachel
RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time. Her bestselling Conard County miniseries (see www.conardcounty.com) has won the hearts of readers worldwide, and it’s no wonder, given her own approach to life and love. As she says, “Life is the biggest romantic adventure of all—and if you’re open and aware, the most marvelous things are just waiting to be discovered.”
To my editor, my agent and the many others
who help bring Conard County to life, from copy editors to cover artists.
She thought it was going to be a good evening. Finally.
Kristin Tate, known to family and friends as Krissie, stood at the nurses’ station and looked out the window across the corridor at a view of purpling Wyoming mountains to the west as the sun settled for the night. It was, she told herself, good to be home in Conard County.
Six years in the navy followed by eighteen months at the VA hospital in Denver had thoroughly killed any taste she had for the so-called excitement of trauma care. If she lived the rest of her life without ever seeing another human being in that kind of condition, it wouldn’t be long enough.
But tonight, her first night on her new job at Conard County’s community hospital, it felt good to be in scrubs and facing a patient load of ordinary illnesses, and taking care of people who would recover.
A review of the charts assured her she would face no major difficulties: a kid with a broken leg in traction by himself in a room. An older man with phlebitis receiving anticoagulants. She’d need to check him frequently. A woman with congestive heart failure who seemed to be recovering nicely as her fluid retention diminished. A gastritis that should be ready to go home in the morning, along with a dehydration case and a man with diverticulitis on IV antibiotics.
Straightforward, likely totally uncomplicated. An easy night of checking up on patients who were getting better. God, what a relief that was going to be.
Julie and Nancy, the two licensed practical nurses sharing her shift, were off down the corridor, beginning to usher visitors out for the night. Both LPNs seemed nice, if terribly young, and she wondered if they were new to the area, or if she had somehow just forgotten them. It was possible. They would have still been kids when she left for nursing school, well beneath her radar.
And all these thoughts, she realized as she looked at the mountains, were thoughts designed to distract her from the familiar antiseptic smells that could so easily cause her to regurgitate memories of horrors best forgotten.
The sound of rapid footsteps drew her attention down the hall.
A man bore down on the nurses’ station looking a bit like a thundercloud. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, a bit rough around the edges, as if he were too busy to worry about things like haircuts and five o’clock shadow. He wore blue scrubs beneath a white coat. As she watched him approach, she saw her two LPNs glance at each other and dart into separate patient rooms. One of those, she thought, somewhere between amusement and impatience.
“Ms. Tate,” he said peremptorily.
She stiffened a bit at his tone, and scanned his name plate: Dr. David Marcus. She’d heard
