The Lawman's Honor. Linda Goodnight
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don’t think so. The rain was a deluge and visibility was terrible. I think he probably didn’t see the sharp curve until he was in it.”
“Likely you’re right. He wouldn’t be the first.” Rain trickled off her hat brim. “I didn’t want to get in the way while they were doing the extraction but I stuck my head in. I didn’t notice any alcohol or drug smells, did you?”
“No, nothing like that.” The only smell she recalled was the cologne-scented air freshener dangling from his mirror. “He has a bump on his head.” Suddenly remembering that important detail, she yelled, “Creed, check the left side of his head near the temple.”
“Got it.”
“Was he coherent enough to give his name? Any info about what he was doing out here? Anything at all to help with this investigation?”
In all the excitement, Cassie had forgotten. “He said he was on his way to Whisper Falls to see you. I thought he might be a relative.”
“Me?” The chief’s head spun to the accident and without another word, she stomped toward the SUV and the rough whine of a gas-powered generator. Metal screeched, a high-pitched sound worse than a fork on a plate, as the hydraulic ram slowly pushed the dash away from Heath’s body.
Cassie clenched her back teeth against the noise, fighting a queasy fear about the man’s leg. Praying the rescue wouldn’t damage him more, she trotted to catch up with the police woman. “His name is Heath Monroe. Do you know him?”
“Heath Monroe is my new assistant chief,” JoEtta barked, “if he hasn’t gone and killed himself.”
* * *
“Bust me out of here, Doc.” Heath punched the end icon on his cell phone as the doctor, lab coat flaring out at the sides, breezed into the hospital room. Already this morning, Heath had touched base with Chief Farnsworth and run some digital errands, but being stuck in a Fayetteville hospital felt as confining as a Guatemalan jail cell. To his regret, he’d spent some time there, as well.
“In a hurry to get somewhere?” The doctor tapped a screen on his smartphone and stared at it while they talked. Heath wondered if he was playing fantasy football or reading Heath’s medical reports.
“Yeah, I am.” He was always in a hurry. Criminals didn’t take days off.
Dr. Amil, a short, pleasant-looking physician with white at the temples, stashed the phone in his jacket and unwound a stethoscope from his neck, stuck the ends in his ears and pressed the cold end to Heath’s chest. While he listened to whatever doctors listen for, he asked, “How’s the head?”
“Terrific,” Heath lied. The sucker throbbed with a dull ache and every time he sat up in this humiliating backless gown, he saw spots and felt nauseated. He’d had concussions before. He’d live.
“Any nausea or vomiting?”
Heath huffed. He wanted to roll his eyes but it hurt too much. “I’m all right, Doc. I’ve had worse. Bust me out of here. I have work to do.”
As calm as if his patient wasn’t fidgeting like a six-year-old in church, the doctor removed a penlight from his coat pocket and shined it in Heath’s eyes. “Pupils reactive, equal.” He straightened. “CAT scan was clear, no bleeding. You were lucky. Let’s look at that ankle.”
With a beleaguered sigh, Heath yanked the sheet from his left leg. He was more than lucky. As in all his other close calls, Somebody bigger than him was on duty. “Leg’s just bruised, Doc. Slap a wrap on it and cut me loose.”
Dr. Amil didn’t seem in any hurry to comply. “Just because no bones are broken, doesn’t mean you can get around on this leg, Mr. Monroe. The ligaments and tendons have been sorely stretched as you can tell by the deep purple bruising around the ankle and foot. PT will be up in a while to fit you with a boot.”
Heath audibly groaned. “Please tell me this is a cowboy boot, custom made, fine cowhide. Otherwise, I’m good with a brace.”
The physician chuckled in a flash of white teeth against a swarthy face. “Mr. Monroe, you’re a stubborn man.”
“I’ve been told that. I won’t wear a boot, Doc. Sorry. Don’t bother sending one up. Too bulky. Too restrictive. Bring me a wrap or a brace or something simple and I’ll get out of your hair.”
Dr. Amil studied him for a moment, hand to his chin, assessing. Heath always wondered what went on the mind of someone brilliant enough to be a doctor. Even Sam, his best friend from childhood, now an A-1 cardio-thoracic surgeon in Houston, was sometimes on a different wavelength than the rest of the world.
“You’ll regret the decision unless you stay off this leg for a while. Two weeks at least with gradual weight bearing and activity.”
“Understood.”
“Your injuries are mostly minor, nothing rest won’t cure. X-rays and CAT scan are clear, blood work is within normal limits. No need to keep you here any longer, especially since you have made up your mind to leave us.” He offered a small smile. “But you must take it easy and give your body time to heal.”
“Got it. Time heals all wounds.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Time hadn’t healed some of Heath’s deepest wounds. He’d come to grips with them and moved on, but healed? Not happening.
Troubled by his unusually morose thoughts and figuring he was more concussed than he wanted to admit, Heath squirmed, searching for a more comfortable position. In a hospital bed, he seemed to be constantly sliding downhill. The movement shot pain through his rib cage and ankle and set his head awhirl. Running off the road on his way to Whisper Falls had proven very inconvenient. “My new boss is coming to pick me up. Am I good to go when she gets here?”
He’d made a commitment and he planned to keep it even if he was twenty-four hours late and a little banged up.
“As soon as your paperwork is ready, but as I said, take life easy for a few days. No strenuous activity, no heavy lifting or sports. Avoid alcohol, sleep a lot, and you probably shouldn’t make any important decisions for a few days. The nurse will give you a treatment sheet to take with you. It includes problems to look for. If any symptoms worsen, give us a call.”
“Got it.” He wasn’t going to follow through, but he understood the message. Even though the hospital’s overnight hospitality had been superb, he’d had all of it he could endure.
The minute the doctor exited the small room, Heath hobbled out of bed to get dressed. His head spun, making him lean against the wall until the fog cleared. With wry humor, he wondered if his eyes had crossed. To check, he leaned into the mirror for a look. His beard was scraggly. He rubbed a hand over it, wincing at how sore a man could be from a minor accident. After finding a plastic bag containing his clothes, he limped to the shower, eager to get rid of the humiliating gown. In the mirror, he gazed with fascination at the discoloration on his chest and shoulder. No wonder he was sore. The black eye was pretty entertaining, too.
Sore or not, he couldn’t let this unexpected detour deter him from the job he’d been hired to do. He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for the badge he’d carried every day since he was twelve years old. Running his fingertips over the now-dulled finish and the distinctive Lone Star in the center, he thought of the man who’d given his life to uphold everything this badge stood for. Heath was determined not to let him down.
By the time Chief Farnsworth crashed through the door like a battering ram, Heath had showered and dressed and was sitting in the regulation high-backed uncomfortable chair in the corner of the unit, completely exhausted and furious to be so. The shower had helped clear his head but it hadn’t done much for his aching body.
“Heath Monroe, you’re a heap of trouble. You better live up to your reputation.”
He’d been warned that Chief Farnsworth was tough and blunt. “I plan to.”
She stomped to his chair side and speared