Solemn Oath. Hannah Alexander
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about God the rest of the time, when you faced life and death in the emergency room, you begged Him to give you another chance. Mercy had done it herself when her own daughter nearly died from a life-threatening allergic reaction to a bee sting—she who had always prided herself on her self-reliance. She’d even considered herself an agnostic until Lukas Bower exploded into her life last spring with his gentle humor, strong compassion for others and his vibrant faith. Nothing in her life had been the same since.
A moan and a tormented shout reached her from one of the exam rooms, but she couldn’t understand the words. The mingled scents of antiseptic, body odor and diesel exhaust from the ambulance bay drifted through the room.
“Thank goodness, Dr. Mercy,” Judy called from the emergency desk. She pulled off her reading glasses and picked up a clipboard with a T-sheet already attached. Her short salt-and-pepper hair spiked out on the right side, where she’d been keeping her ink pen tucked behind her ear. “Dr. Bower’s in Trauma One trying to save the leg of a lady who got hit by a car. Her husband’s in Trauma Two in stable condition, and the guy who hit everybody is in exam room three.” She shoved the clipboard across the desk. “There’s lots more, but Dr. Bower wanted you to see about the man in Two. Name’s Arthur Collins, and he’s really upset about his wife. They just took him off the backboard. Nice guy. Never complains about his own pain. Wish my husband treated me like that.”
Mercy took the chart, then paused as the patient in Three—or so she presumed—shouted something again. The words were slurred, and they sounded Spanish. She raised a brow at Judy. “Who did you say that was?”
Judy waved a dismissive hand. “That’s the drunk driver who hit them. He drove right up onto the courthouse lawn and mowed over a bunch of people from a tour group. He doesn’t even speak English.”
“Has he been checked?”
“Dr. Bower ordered some tests and a trauma panel, but they’ve been busy with the other patients, and nobody’s gotten to him yet except to put him on oxygen.”
“Get to him.”
Judy shrugged. “Okay, but I hope we can find somebody who can speak Spanish. So far the translator hasn’t come in.”
The thumping of the helicopter rotors grew louder as the Air Care helicopter descended to the landing spot outside, the loud whomp-whomp-whomp of the rotors vibrating the windows.
“Oh, good, they’re here for Alma Collins,” Judy said.
“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