Hideaway. Hannah Alexander
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ago we realized that any success in our efforts to write a readable novel was dependent on the goodwill of many people. Many thanks to Joan Marlow Golan, our editor, whose enthusiasm for this work has been a great encouragement. We also thank our agent, Karen Solem, whose wisdom and sweet spirit have guided us.
Thanks to Lorene Cook (Cheryl’s mom) who continues to put feet to her prayers for us.
Thanks to Ray and Vera Overall (Mel’s mom and dad), who never cease to encourage.
Thanks to our writing families online, ChiLibris and WritingChambers, who touch us from across the country and around the world.
Thanks to Jennifer Whitt, who was willing to allow us to pick her brain for her expertise with dreadlocks.
Thanks to C. J. McCormick, DVM, who lent us access to his vast knowledge of the peculiarities of animals.
Thanks to James Scott Bell, author and friend, who gave us his legal expertise.
Thanks to Jon Suit, former mayor Monett, who was able and willing to tell us far more than we will ever understand about small-town politics.
Thanks to Barbara Warren of Blue Mountain Editorial Service, for the nice slash and repair job, and for the input on gardening.
Thanks to Brenda and Doug Minton, for having a heart for the children most in need—and for having a garden that refuses to grow beneath the walnut trees.
Thanks to Jackie Bolton, who understands the psyche of a teenager—because her own heart is still young.
Thanks to Jack and Marty Frost, who never let up on us to do our best, and who quickly forgive us when we fail, time and time and time again.
Thanks to Jim and Louise Brillhart and Ardis Bareis for allowing us to take your names in vain.
We wish to give credit where it is due, but any mistakes or discrepancies are purely our own.
We earned them, we intend to keep them.
Chapter One
The scream of an ambulance bounced through the mauve-and-burgundy corridors of the Missouri Regional Hospital on the west side of Columbia. An elderly man moaned. A baby’s cry stung the air through the center of the eight-room emergency department.
Dr. Cheyenne Allison slipped into the untidy doctor’s call room, closed the door and locked it.
If only she could collapse onto the bed and stay there for a week. Or the whole month of March.
Ordinarily, she could breeze through a twelve hour shift and still have enough energy for a nighttime jog along the Katy Trail. But today, at 2:00 p.m. she already felt as if she’d been on duty for twenty-four hours without a break. In spite of her flu shot, in spite of the antiviral she had begun soon after experiencing the first symptoms, she felt like the framed green-and-purple blob on the wall that some idiot had mistaken for art when this department had been remodeled.
She had a full-blown case of influenza.
Cheyenne sank onto the chair and pressed the left side of her face against the smooth coolness of the desk. If only she could stay here until shift change at seven.
The telephone buzzed above her head. Without opening her eyes, she reached up and punched the speaker button. “Yes.”
“Dr. Allison? How you doing, hon?” It was Ardis Dunaway, the most seasoned nurse in the hospital and a good friend.
“You don’t want to know,” Cheyenne said. “Did you get those orders on bed one?”
“I got ’em. You need to see the baby in five. Fussy, with a fever of 103.7 in triage.”
Cheyenne resisted the urge to request a physician replacement. “I’ll be there. Is the cefotaxime hanging on Mr. Robb yet?”
“Got it, and the shoulder X-ray on the girl in five.”
“Did I hear an ambulance a minute ago?”
“That’s right, it sped right on past us to University Hospital.”
Good. Why couldn’t they do that with the rest of their patients today? Divert them all to the big boys. It amazed Cheyenne that this place stayed so busy, with two trauma centers only moments away. Apparently, the homey atmosphere here drew them in.
“I’m coming, Ardis.”
Ninety seconds later, wearing a fresh mask to protect her patients from any stray germs, Cheyenne checked out a fussy infant with a red ear. As she used a bulb insufflator to blow air onto the eardrum, the baby’s cries blended with the wail of another siren. Must be a busy day for University and Boone County.
As Cheyenne reassured the mother and comforted the child, the wail outside grew louder.
It stopped. Too close.
When the siren died the baby fell silent, and his mother relaxed noticeably.
Moments later, Ardis stepped to the exam room door. Gone was the motherly grin of the seasoned nurse. “Dr. Allison, we need you in room three.”
“Coming.” Cheyenne patted the mother’s shoulder, jotted a quick order for the nurse and followed Ardis down the hallway. “What’s up?”
“Ambulance brought us a chest pain patient. Twenty-eight years old.”
“Suspected drug abuse?” For someone so young, that was the norm.
“The attendant says it looks more like a panic attack, and I was told she’s been calling for you by name.”
“For me? What’s her name? Did she say why—”
“She won’t give the attendants any information,” Ardis said. “Nobody told her you were here, she just asked for you. I thought you’d want to see her quickly.”
Cheyenne entered the exam room behind the nurse. An ambulance attendant hovered next to the patient with his chart, checking blood pressure as another nurse transferred EKG leads from the ambulance monitor to the hospital’s equipment.
The patient’s trembling hands covered her face. Silky black hair, as dark and glossy as Cheyenne’s, fanned across the pillow.
Cheyenne stepped to the side of the bed and touched the woman’s shoulder gently. “Hello, I’m Dr.—”
The hands fell away.
Cheyenne caught her breath. “Susan?”
Tears dripped down sharply chiseled, honey-tanned cheeks. Cheyenne’s baby sister reached for her.
“Oh, Chey, I’m so scared. My chest hurts. What’s happening?”
Dane Gideon stepped down from the broad front porch of the ranch house, studying the line of dust clouding the atmosphere above the quarter-mile drive that led from the highway. The early March sunlight dazzled nearby Table Rock Lake with shafts of jeweled colors that built a prism around the small village of Hideaway along the opposite shore.
The sound of tires crunching gravel rippled the peaceful silence as the car pulled into the parking area. Dane saw the dark outline of the passenger. The kid had dreadlocks, skin the color of untouched espresso, eyes narrowed with obvious apprehension—the typical mask of disillusionment in a face too young to bear it.
Clint, the social worker who sometimes seemed to haunt this place, parked beneath the bare oak tree and nodded to Dane with a grim smile. He spoke to the passenger. The teenager shook his head and looked away.
Dane read resentment in every movement.
Clint got out of the car, leaving the door open. “We’ve got another reluctant one for you,” he said, loudly enough for his voice to carry back to the car. “Can’t seem to convince him this place’ll be like summer camp.”
Dane grinned. “Or boot camp.”
Clint