Hideaway. Hannah Alexander
Читать онлайн книгу.
is it closing?”
“The hospital couldn’t afford the increase in their insurance rates. Three of their docs are looking for temporary work, and I plan to grab them up and use them as much as possible. That’ll give all of us a break. The rest of us will hold out until they come on board.”
“Jim, I don’t need that much time off.”
He gestured to a stack of files on the far right corner of his desk. “Your quality control reviews have not been impressive lately.”
That hurt. She hadn’t seen the reports for this past month. “I’ve worked fifty percent more shifts than last month, Jim. All of us are a little tired.”
“I saw your patient this morning,” he said. His voice was soft, sorrowful.
“Which one?”
“The one with the chest pain. Crosby. The one who looked like Susan.”
“But I did everything appropriately. I did a cardiac workup and EKG and she was fine.”
“Chey, did you even consider a pulmonary embolis?”
“No, why would I? She was young—”
“She had multiple risk factors. She was a smoker, she took birth control pills.”
“Yes, but—”
“She was wearing an air stirrup splint.” He dropped the pen onto the desk and leaned back, as if he wanted to cross his legs but didn’t have room beneath the dinky desk. “She’d been practically immobilized for three days with a badly sprained ankle. I did a D-dimer test on her.”
Cheyenne’s thoughts froze. “The result?”
“Positive.”
She gave herself time to recover from the blow. “The woman was having a pulmonary embolis?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry, Jim. I—I told you I’m not sleeping well.” The woman could have died! If Jim hadn’t seen that ankle brace…
“You’re not focusing, Cheyenne. That isn’t like you. Your tragedy is way too fresh. For your own good and the patient’s, I have to consider you an impaired physician and take the necessary steps to help you.”
“Impaired! Jim, I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t have a drug—”
“The problem is, the last place a physician’s struggle ever shows up is at work. You must be going through some nasty stuff at home.”
She nodded, her mind still reeling with shock.
“It took you three weeks to recover from your flu. You worked sick during that time. I want you to take some sick leave.”
“But I’m not—”
“End of discussion. I’m sorry. Why don’t you go see your parents? Florida should be nice this time of year.”
Cheyenne slumped in her chair. “They wouldn’t know what to do with me.” She heard the plaintive sound of her own voice. “Okay, I’ll take off. The whole four weeks.”
“Eight, with an option for more the minute you request it, but give us enough notice to line our people up. And remember, we’ll have third year residents available in July.”
“July?” He was trying to get rid of her. “No, Jim. You can’t do—”
He held up a hand. “You don’t understand what I’m doing yet. Trust, me, Chey, I’ve been there. It took me twelve months to recover from burnout eight years ago. It nearly ruined my marriage and destroyed my family. I don’t want that to happen to you.”
She blinked. This was news. He had three beautiful children, and the youngest was eight.
“But I don’t have a family,” she said softly. Most of her friends worked right here in this department. What was she going to do with herself for two months? What about her nightmares, with no work to distract her from their impact?
She forced herself to stand and walk to the door, hoping she didn’t look as stunned as she felt.
“Chey?”
She turned around, hoping he’d changed his mind.
“You might want to try some grief counseling. I’m speaking to you as a friend, not your boss. We all know how losing Susan—”
“Save it, Jim, you don’t have a clue.” She knew she sounded ungracious, but something in her had snapped, Jim couldn’t imagine her life as a single ER physician, whose schedule was never the same, who could seldom arrange for her own time off to coincide with that of her friends—even less could he understand her grief.
What was she going to do now? How could this day possibly get any worse?
She picked up the next envelope on the mail stack at her work space. She opened it, forgot to breathe.
This was a request for the release of Susan Warden’s medical records to Hodgkin and Long, a legal firm. The request was signed by Kirk Warden.
Cheyenne covered her face with her hands.
Her former brother-in-law had meant his threat at Susan’s funeral. He believed she was instrumental in the death of her own sister.
Was she?
Chapter Six
The smoky aroma of sausage and onions permeated the ranch kitchen and mingled with the chatter of the boys around the extensive breakfast table. Cook knew how to make Saturdays special with a big spread of food.
Dane ate quietly, watching and listening. If Willy and Blaze had any idea what Austin’s visit was about, they didn’t let on as they joked and laughed with the rest.
No way could any of them have sneaked off the property in the wee morning hours. Dane would have known.
Wouldn’t he?
He had good kids. Austin Barlow enjoyed reminding him of that solitary incident when a problem child had slipped through the screening process for the ranch, but nothing like it had happened since.
Seventeen-year-old Jinx leaned toward Dane, his red hair sticking out in fifteen directions. “So what’d he want?”
Dane sipped his coffee. “What did who want?”
“Couldn’t’ve been good,” Willy said from the other end of the table. “The mayor never drives all the way out here just to visit. Notice he didn’t just take his boat across, like the others do. He drove all the way around.”
Dane speared another sausage link as the platter passed by. “Our local vandal is up to more of his activities.”
Jinx put down his fork. Willy rested his elbows on the table. One by one the boys fell silent.
“How would Austin know it’s a him?” Cook demanded. “Could be a her.”
“Anyway,” Dane said, “a boat burned at the new dock. The fire apparently started sometime last night or early this morning.”
Surprise registered on all faces. Tyler and James glanced across the table at Blaze.
“You have a local vandal?” Blaze asked. “Like this is a normal thing?”
“It’s happened before. Dane got his tires slashed last year, and now it seems to be escalating,” Cook said. “We’re right uptown with the big boys. Anybody get hurt, Dane?”
“Austin said no.”
Cook grabbed the empty pancake platter and carried it to the stove for a refill. “Not sure I believe anything that blowhard would say,” he muttered, breaking a house rule against name-calling. Long strands of gray hair fell loose over his right ear, baring his shiny scalp. “You’re the one who