“How many patients do we have, and how many more are coming?” Mercy asked, glancing at the T-sheet.
“We’ve got six in and two more coming that I know about, but Dr. Wong’s on his way over to take care of our favorite exotic-animal rancher.”
“Cowboy’s hurt again?”
“He sure is. His neighbor shot him.”
Mercy wasn’t sure she’d heard the secretary correctly. “ Shot him! ”
Judy shook her head. “Nobody’s going to tell me human beings aren’t meaner than any other mammal. Looks like we’ll all be busy for a while.”
Mercy suppressed a sigh. “Call my office, then. Tell Josie to do a triage and find out who really needs to see me today. Let her know what’s going on here. She’ll have to send some people home.”
“Don’t worry, Dr. Mercy. They’ll come in here looking for you if they have to.”
Mercy carried her clipboard into Trauma Room two, where Claudia Zebert, a stout fifty-year-old RN with twenty-five years of E.R. experience, took the blood pressure of a slender forty-seven-year-old man in a pressure turban. The view box on the wall held two shots of a dislocated right shoulder. Not broken. That made things a lot easier.
Mercy stepped up to the exam bed. “Mr. Collins? I’m Dr. Mercy Richmond. My patients call me Dr. Mercy, and you just became one of my patients.”
He looked up at her with troubled hazel eyes. “Dr. Mercy…that’s a good name for a doctor.”
“My father was a physician, and he named me. When I got my license, our shared last name confused patients, so we both started using our first names. We were Dr. Cliff and Dr. Mercy.” Were . Dad was dead now.
“You can call me Arthur. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m so worried about my wife that I’m not very good company.”
“I understand, Arthur. Your wife is in good hands. Dr. Bower is one of the best.”
Claudia reached down and squeezed his left arm. “See there, Arthur, I told you Dr. Bower will take good care of Alma.” The nurse’s brisk, familiar manner almost always calmed frightened patients. She gestured toward the turban. “We need to get this fixed up and get that shoulder back in shape so you can be there for Alma. The helicopter’s here now to pick her up and take her to the trauma center in Springfield.”
Arthur caught his breath and reached up toward the side of the bed, as if he might try to get out. “I don’t want her to go alone.”
“There’s no room in the helicopter for any passengers, but she won’t be alone once she gets up there,” Claudia soothed. “I saw half your tour group climbing into one of the vans to drive up and meet her there. The rest are staying here to pray for you. They seem like good people.” She squeezed his arm once more before leaving the room to check another patient.
Mercy read Claudia’s notes on Arthur, then did her own assessment. He was a little tachycardic from blood loss, but IV fluids were already running into his uninjured left arm, and his pressure was already rising. Good sign. His heart would slow down naturally.
Another shout reached them from the next room, and Arthur laid his head back against his pillow and sighed. “That poor man’s sure hurting. Can you do something for him?”
Mercy frowned. She had heard the drunk driver had no obvious injuries. “Someone will be getting to him as soon as possible.”
“He’s not drunk, you know.”
Mercy looked up from her chart and studied Arthur’s green-gold eyes. “How can you tell?”
“I speak Spanish. Alma and I are missionaries in Mexico. He’s making some sense. He’s saying over and over again how sorry he is, and that he doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs.”
Mercy didn’t comment. She heard that a lot.
“He’s also confused and hurting,” Arthur added.
“Isn’t he the man who hit you and your wife?”
Arthur nodded, then worry marred the fine features of his face once again. “My wife…I wish I could be with her.”
A light, warm baritone voice reached them from the doorway. “I came over to give you an update, Arthur.”
Mercy silently caught her breath and let the calm strength of that familiar voice settle over her like a blanket. She and Arthur both looked up at the same time to see Lukas Bower walking in to join them, his trauma shield in place over his gray framed glasses. His short brown hair was disheveled as usual. Lukas stood a couple of inches taller than Mercy’s five feet eight. In her eyes he had grown at least a foot since she had first met him last spring. Her gaze met his, and she smiled. The smile he returned was only for her, and the brilliance of it heated her cheeks. One of the nurses had told her once that when she entered the E.R., Dr. Bower’s face looked as if he’d just received a special gift.
He stepped up to the bed, his blue eyes calm and reassuring behind the glare of glasses and shield. “Arthur, your wife is awake and talking, and she’s worried about you. I told her you’d be fine.”
Arthur raised a hand toward him. “Will you let me see her before they take her away? Please. I want to talk to her a second. I just want to tell her I love her.”
Lukas looked at Mercy, then looked back at Arthur and nodded. “I think we can do that. They’ll be wheeling her out in just a moment, and we’ll roll you into the hallway and let you rendezvous with her there. No, don’t try to get up. We don’t want you bleeding on us again before Dr. Mercy can get you stitched and get that shoulder fixed.” He gestured to Mercy and laid a hand on her arm briefly. She released the brake on the exam bed, and together they rolled the bed out into the open space as the flight nurse and paramedic wheeled Alma past.
At the sight of Alma’s bandaged and IV-tubed body, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears once again. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Hi, sweetheart. I love you. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
“Oh, Arthur,” she cried softly, “I can’t believe this is happenin’. I’m just so glad you’re alive. For a while, I thought…”
The flight nurse placed a gentle hand on Alma’s shoulder. “Mrs. Collins, we need to get you into the helicopter now.”
Alma nodded. Arthur drew his hand back, then kissed his fingertips and reached out and touched Alma’s cheek with his hand. “I’ll be praying with every breath.”
Mercy allowed Lukas to help her push Arthur’s bed back into the room. “Thanks, Lukas.” She laid a hand on his arm, as she had found herself doing often lately without even thinking about it, as if a physical connection to him might anchor their friendship more securely. “Lukas, Arthur doesn’t think the man who hit them is drunk. He also says the man’s in pain.”
Lukas turned his attention to Arthur. “What kind of pain? Where? We’re waiting for the interpreter to arrive, and we can’t communicate with him. My college Spanish died of disuse.”
Arthur wiped leftover tears from
