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Just then a man dressed in scrubs came through the door into the room. He looked surprised to see Trapper and the sheriff there. “What are you doing in here?”
Sheriff Addison replied, “I need to talk to the witness.”
“Not now, sheriff. Who’s he?”
“John Trapper.”
“Oh, well…Sorry, Mr. Trapper.” He glanced at Kerra before going back to them. “She’ll be going in and out for a while yet. You couldn’t trust anything she told you to be sequential, accurate, or thorough. It’ll be at least several more hours before she’s up to being questioned. I’ll have the deputy outside call you when I feel she’s ready.”
“But—”
“With all due respect, gentlemen, I need to examine my patient.” The doctor stood firm.
Glenn Addison didn’t look happy about getting the boot, but he bobbed his head toward her and said good night, then used his hat to motion Trapper toward the door.
Trapper remained motionless, staring at her in that silent and predatory way of his, then turned abruptly and followed the sheriff out without uttering a word. Kerra followed his exit until the door whispered closed behind him. Had that cold and remote man really kissed her? Or had she dreamed it?
“I’m sorry about that.” The doctor moved to the bedside, consulted her chart, then smiled at her through a neatly clipped door-knocker, and introduced himself. “How are you feeling?”
“Was I shot?”
“No. No spinal cord injury, broken bones, or internal bleeding, which is just short of a miracle. You were close to hypothermia, but the EMTs had you back to normal temp by the time you got to the ER. Your left shoulder was dislocated. I hope you don’t remember us popping it back in.”
“No. Thank God.”
“We sent the MRI to an ortho specialist, but several of us here looked at it and didn’t see any damage to the rotator. You have a hairline fracture on your left clavicle. Take it easy with that, no strenuous workouts for six weeks, and it’ll heal on its own.
“You sustained a lot of scrapes and cuts, and we had to dig out some bits of rock and wood splinters. Most were superficial wounds, but one on your right thigh required two stitches. You’re getting IV antibiotics to prevent infection. The worst of it, you took a whack on your head, which gave you a concussion. Is your vision blurry?”
“Yes.”
“It’s temporary. Do you know what month it is?”
“February.”
“Nausea?”
“It comes and goes. As long as I’m lying still, it’s okay.”
“How’s the pain?”
“Not pain, specifically. General soreness and discomfort all over. A headache.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Five.”
“I’ll keep the drip going,” he said, making a notation on the chart. “Any questions?”
“How long will I be here?”
“Couple of days. Tomorrow, we’ll get you up, see if you can make it to the bathroom on your own. Check your head again. I’d like a neurologist to look at the pictures. We’ll know more once he gets back to us, but I think you’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“Do you know anything about my crew? Are they all okay?”
“Anxious about you. They’ve been camped out in the waiting room since you were brought in.”
They’d been traumatized, too, and she knew their concern for her was sincere. But the thought of being swarmed, even by five well-meaning colleagues, was an overwhelming prospect. “Would you please send word out that I’m fine, but—”
