Page 8 of Crow's Haven
She pulls the curtain, flicks on the overhead light, and gestures to the table.
“Set him down gently,” she tells me. “Let me take a look.”
Her eyes flick to mine—not afraid, not nervous—but assessing. Like she knows how to handle panicked fathers and bloodied kids, and maybe even bikers who look like they eat glass for breakfast.
I lower Scout to the padded table, keeping my grip on his good hand.
“Are you one of the doctors?” I ask.
She ignores my question and snaps on a pair of gloves and leans in, lifting Scout’s arm with practiced care.
“I’m going to touch around the joint, okay, sweetheart? I promise you I won’t touch where it hurts,” she says, her eyes on Scout. “You tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop.”
He nods through the tears.
She palpates gently, methodically, watching his face the entire time. I watch her. Her hands are firm, careful and confident. Her voice stays steady, low, reassuring as she says soothing, reassuring things to him. Scout calms under her touch.
She grabs a tongue depressor and an ace wrap from the counter. She immobilizes the arm in less than a minute. Improvised, but damn solid work.
“Are you one of the doctors?” I ask again, more gruffly than I mean to.
“I’ve done this before.”
Before I can press, the door squeaks open.
A deputy strolls in, holding an envelope. Patch’s name is scrawled across the front.
“Got some drug screen swabs for the doc,” the cop says, looking around. “He in?”
The second she sees the badge, her posture shifts and her body language stiffens. It’s subtle, but I notice it. Her shoulders draw in and her chin dips slightly. I watch her eyes flick downward. Her expression doesn’t register fear. It’s more like some kind of avoidance. Maybe she doesn’t like men or just cops. Who knows?
Something cold settles low in my chest.
The deputy leaves without further fuss, probably going to check one of the other rooms for Patch. The moment the door clicks shut, she mutters, “He’ll want to x-ray that. But it’s stable for now.” She peels off her gloves and tosses them.
Before I can reply or thank her, she’s gone.
Scout seems more settled now, so we wait in the exam room. I’m guessing the other doctor or nurse, or whoever she is has gone to get Patch. Finally, ten minutes later Patch barges in, saying, “I came as soon as I got back from lunch. How’s Scout holding up?”
“He’s been better, Doc. I meant to thank your colleague for patching him up. Where did she go?”
Patch looks confused. “It’s just me here.”
Forgetting the woman for a moment I let Patch do his thing. He examined his arm, gave him something for pain and took an x-ray. Scout was a good sport, considering his age, and Patch did a good job of resetting the arm. Luckily, it was what he called a greenstick fracture, meaning the bone hadn’t broken in half. But he still needed a cast.
When we go back out to the waiting room, Evan and Chase are sitting together, flipping through an old magazine. Chase keeps glancing around and the minute he sees us, he jumps out of his seat to race to our side. Scout’s perked up, I’m guessing the shock’s worn off and his arm is more comfortable now it’s immobilized.
The woman’s nowhere to be seen. “We wanted to say thank you to the lady that helped us when we first got here.”
“I don’t have any assistants. I’m rushed off my feet as it is. What did she look like?” he asks.
“Around five six, long dark hair. She was wearing a pantsuit.”
He glances over at his receptionist, who’s looking equally frazzled. “Did Miss Jackson turn up?”
“Yes—” the receptionist starts, then stops. “She was waiting over there.”
She gestures to an empty chair. I start to get a strange feeling. “Who’s Miss Jackson?” I ask.
