Have Gown, Need Groom. Rita Herron
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issue. “All right. Doctors Bentley and Douglas are with the car victims.”
Hannah tried to steady her voice. “What else do we have?”
“A gunshot wound in three. Man was shot in the posterior. I paged Dr. Hunter but he’s in surgery with a ruptured spleen.”
“Oh, yes, I heard about the shooting on the radio, too.” Hannah reached for his chart. “What are his vitals?”
“Blood pressure’s a little high. EMTs applied a pressure bandage, started a drip. His name’s Jake Tippins.” Tiffany quickly recited his other vital signs. “I suppose you’re aware the shooting occurred at your daddy’s car lot.”
Hannah’s gaze swung up in shock. “No…what happened?”
“Someone tried to steal a car. Our patient caught him.” Tiffany gestured toward the outside waiting area, wiping a pudgy hand across her forehead. “The reporters are calling him a hero. I had to chase ’em away from the ER.”
Hannah silently groaned, felling empathy for the man. The six o’clock news tonight would be full of Hartwell happenings. “Has his family been notified?”
“Man claims he has no family. Didn’t want us to call anyone.”
Once again sympathy for the man filled her. “Okay. I’ll take care of him.”
Tiffany nodded, checking the other charts. “I’ll assist you in a minute.”
Hannah headed to the exam room, then slipped inside. The man lay face down, his head propped on his left hand, his breathing steady as if he’d fallen asleep. Or maybe he was unconscious. She scanned his chart and noted that his vitals were still stable. He’d lost some blood, so he’d probably given in to fatigue. She studied his back, her gaze traveling the length of his long body to where his toes hung off the end of the gurney. He was one of the biggest men she’d ever seen. Thick black hair covered his head, and his wide shoulders and firm, muscular arms attested to the fact the man worked out. Probably lifted weights, or maybe he was a body builder…when he wasn’t selling used cars.
He’d been wearing jeans, but the seat had been cut away. A sheet lay draped across the lower part of his body, and his hand clutched it over his buttocks. She fought a chuckle. Even in sleep, the man still clung to his dignity.
She inched the sheet down and her gaze slid lower to assess his wound. He roused slightly. “Sir, I’m Dr. Hartwell. I’m going to examine you now.”
He mumbled something incoherent, still half asleep. Even so, his fingers momentarily tightened around the sheet. “Relax, Mr. Tippins, I’m not going to hurt you.” She slowly pried his fingers from the material. The paper-thin elastic gloves popped against her wrists as she prepared to do a preliminary exam. Striving to be gentle, she pushed his denim shirt out of the way, removed the pressure bandage then dampened a cotton swab with antiseptic.
He moaned and stirred, his hand swinging around to cover his wound once more. She shook her head as they played tug-of-war with the sheet.
“Mr. Tippins, just lie still please. I have to examine you.”
His head bobbed up and down in concession, but the way his shoulders straightened signaled he’d braced himself for more pain. And his hand tightened around the covers jerking it over his backside again. This was getting ridiculous.
“Uh, Mr. Tippins, I can’t help you if I don’t examine the injury.”
He made a noncommittal noise which sounded faintly like a swear word, then slowly released the back of the sheet and buried his head in his arm. Hannah almost laughed, but caught herself. Poor man, if he was shy, she certainly wouldn’t make things worse by making some silly comment about the location of his injury.
She pressed the area around the bullet wound to measure how deeply it was embedded, putting pressure at different points. The bleeding had stopped, the skin yellow…
“Ow.” He flinched.
“Sorry, Mr. Tippins. I’m almost finished.”
His head bobbed again, and she patted the area with the cotton swab, wiping away the dried blood.
“Great place to get shot, wasn’t it?” His voice rumbled thick and low, almost gravelly. “I feel like Forrest Gump.”
“I can’t think of a good place to get shot,” Hannah said dryly, a smile twitching at her mouth.
“Think I’ll make it?”
He was joking, a good sign. “You’ll be fine.” She tossed the cotton swab into the trash.
“You’re going to have to put me under the knife, aren’t you?”
Hannah sighed. Men could be such babies. Even the big muscular ones. “If you’re asking if the bullet will have to be removed surgically, then yes. It’s embedded a good four to five inches.”
“Will you do the surgery?”
“Yes. If they’re short in surgery I’ll probably assist. We’re a small town facility here.” Hannah heard his sigh and her defenses rose. “Do you have a problem with female doctors, Mr. Tippins?”
“No,” he muttered. “Not as long as they know what they’re doing.”
She stiffened. Was he insinuating she didn’t? “I can assure you I’m well trained. I completed a surgical rotation last month before I joined the ER. I’ll be gentle, too, I promise.”
“Oh, your hands are great, Doc, it’s not that.”
Hannah shook her head, exasperated, finally deciding the pain must be affecting his brain. “Then what is it, sir?”
He exhaled, his body rumbling with his breath. “I just don’t like hospitals, that’s all.”
“Not very many people do,” she said sympathetically. She spotted an unusual-looking bruise and leaned closer to examine it. “Hmm.”
“I hate it when doctors go ‘hmm.’”
Hannah chuckled. “Sorry. It’s nothing really. I noticed a small dark spot. Thought it have been an exit wound but it’s not.”
“Probably a bruise, I went down pretty hard on a tire iron when that creep shot me.”
She peered closer, contemplating thanking him for what he’d done for her father, but suddenly realized the bruise was a small birthmark. A crescent-shaped, quarter-moon birthmark. Right on the arch of his hip.
Her chest tightened—she’d seen that birthmark before. “It can’t be,” she whispered.
His head snapped up. “What’s wrong, Doc?”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud.
He angled his head slightly to look into her eyes and for the first time, Hannah saw his face. “It can’t be what?”
His dark gaze locked with hers, the pupils of his eyes slightly dilated, the unmistakable cleft in his chin hauntingly familiar. Hannah staggered backward, a bolt of heat engulfing her as if an inferno had burst into flames at her feet. She recognized this man. She knew him…intimately. He was the tall, dark handsome man from her erotic dreams.
His heavy-lidded, dark-brown eyes paraded over her, a sliver of need sizzling in the luminous depths. The room began to spin crazily, and the day’s events crashed to a sudden mortifying halt.
Jake Tippins moaned, and she quickly glanced back down to see if he was okay, but the room rocked sideways. Hannah clutched the bedrail to steady herself, but her legs faded into numbness and the spots that danced before her eyes emerged into one big black hole. She’d never fainted in her life, but she recognized the symptoms. Just before she passed out, she tried to warn her patient to roll out of the way.
Chapter Three
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