A Family For Christmas. Tara Taylor Quinn
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was soft, a bit rough, her mouth barely moving. Almost as though her throat was sore—and her jaw broken. He looked at the sweater zipped up around her neck, wondering if he’d find marks on her throat, too.
Had someone tried to kill her?
Repeatedly? Based on the bruises.
Or was she into something he probably didn’t want to know about?
What if she was the bad guy?
He took off the cuff and pulled a stethoscope out of his bag.
“What’s your name?”
“Cara.”
Pretty sure that a Cara what? would garner him nothing, he nodded. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
Eight years younger than he was.
“I’d like to listen to your heart, if that’s okay with you?”
She nodded slightly, timidly. Not like someone who was contemplating some nefarious deed or getaway.
Not that he’d really know. He spent his life with children. Sick children.
Children he’d been forced to leave behind because he could no longer help them...
Leaving her zipper up, he slid the stethoscope chestpiece under the T-shirt he found under her sweater. Her heartbeat was a little fast—nothing to be concerned about, considering the circumstances. Steady. Clear. Even when she took deep breaths as he instructed.
“Can I feel your abdomen? Check for internal injuries?”
She gave the barely discernable nod a second time. But added slowly, “He doesn’t ever hit me there.”
Simon’s fingers didn’t miss a beat. His heart did. His first guess had been accurate. She’d been beaten.
By a man.
Her husband?
An accomplice?
Someone trying to rob her?
A kidnapper?
“What about your extremities? Where do you hurt?”
She shook her head. Started to sit up. “I need to go,” she said. “My arms and legs are fine. Some bruises, maybe. I fell. But I can walk.”
With gentle hands used to coddling children, Simon urged her back down. Felt around both sides of her jaw bone. There were no obvious fractures.
“I can’t just let you walk away from here,” he told her. “The Hippocratic Oath and all.” He could recite the entire thing.
“It’s no longer binding,” she told him. Talking brought obvious discomfort, based on her small movements and the expression on her face, but didn’t seem to hinder her significantly.
Because she was used to the pain?
He studied her. “You were unconscious when I found you. You should have a CAT scan. And an MRI.”
She closed her eyes. Waited a couple of seconds and opened them again.
“I’m an able adult. If you called an ambulance, I would simply leave before it got here.” She started to sit up again. “I actually think I’ve outstayed my welcome as it is. I’ll just go ahead and...”
She winced as she rose up, and Simon lowered her back to the bed once again, pulling a second pillow behind her head.
“You’ve obviously suffered severe trauma to your head. You could have a brain bleed.” Her speech told him she was educated—and perhaps not suffering from serious brain damage.
“My vision’s not blurred. I’m not slurring my words.”
Her Hippocratic Oath comment came back to him. She was right, of course, about how it was no longer binding. Not everyone knew that. “You a doctor?” he asked. Could explain why she was living on or near an Indian reservation.
“No.”
“You work in the medical field?”
“No.”
The woman had no problem withholding information.
Her pupils weren’t enlarged. They were identical in size. And when he shone his light in her eyes, they both responded normally.
“How bad is your headache?” He wasn’t giving her a chance to tell him she didn’t have one.
“On a scale of one to ten, I’d give it a six.”
Medical professionals commonly asked patients to rate their pain on the one to ten scale. But a scale of one to ten was used so much it was almost cliché, too.
“Who hit you?”
“I’d rather not say.”
He wanted to push. Didn’t want her to leave. Legally, he couldn’t make her stay. He could only call for emergency service and hope that she didn’t get far enough that they couldn’t find her. But she could refuse to go with them even if he did that.
And what if she did manage to escape? And then died out in the wilderness?
“You need to get checked out at a hospital.”
“You think the doctors there are better than you?”
They could see with both eyes. He didn’t speak aloud. For what he was doing there with her...one eye was plenty.
“They have the equipment to do the proper tests,” he told her. He had to advise her. It was his job. His life’s work.
“I’m not going to any hospital.”
She also didn’t try to sit up again.
“So...I’ll make a deal with you,” he told her, talking on the fly. “You agree to let me get you cleaned up, get a good look at you, do what I can here...you agree to let me take your vitals regularly and to watch you for any sign of more serious injury...and I won’t make any calls. For now.”
“Okay,” she said. Closing her eyes again and opening them. “For now.”
She was watching him but looked like the effort to do so was costing her.
He couldn’t help but wonder what she was really thinking. But he was pretty sure it had to do with leaving as soon as she could.
“You can trust me,” he told her. And then, reaching down into his bag, he pulled out his ID, showing it to her.
She read. “Los Angeles Children’s?”
He nodded and was left with the impression that she knew of the place. Los Angeles was a good ten-hour drive from Prospector, with only enough stops to pee and gas up. Did she know someone from there? Or someone who’d been treated there?
“Do you have any other questions?” He couldn’t guarantee he’d answer them, but if he could prove that he wouldn’t hurt her, he’d do his best.
“No.”
He had questions. And wondered if she’d declined his invitation to ask him anything so that he wouldn’t feel free to do the same.
“Who hit you?”
She turned her head.
“You said he doesn’t ever hit you in the abdomen.”
“Nor on the mouth.”
“Your bruises show signs of previous abuse.”
“He gets tense and...”
“Who is he?” Simon was pretty sure he knew. But he had to make sure. Had to know what he was letting himself in for.
What he might have to protect them both against.
He had a hunting rifle with