Sidelined by injuries from a vicious assault, chaplain Riley Hale is determined to return to her former duties as an ER nurse. But how can she show she’s competent when the hospital won’t let her attempt even simple tasks? Determined to prove herself, Riley volunteers at a controversial urban free clinic despite her fears about the maverick doctor in charge.
Dr. Jack Travis defends his clinic like he’s commander of the Alamo. He’ll fight the community’s efforts to shut its doors, even if he must use Riley Hale’s influential family name to make it happen.
As Riley strives to regain her skills, Jack finds that she shares his compassion—and stirs his lonely heart. Riley senses that beneath Jack’s rough exterior is a man she can believe in. But when clinic protests escalate and questions surface about his past, Jack goes into battle mode and Riley wonders if it’s dangerous to trust him with her heart.
TRAUMA PLAN
By Candace CalvertTyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Candace Calvert
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4143-6111-6Chapter One
"MAN ON FIRE!" What?
Jackson Travis hurled his Army duffel to the floor and charged out the clinic door, his mountain boots pounding the splintered wooden porch. He squinted into the April sun; the parking area was swarming with people. A car swerved toward the San Antonio Street curb, brakes screeching. He vaulted over the porch rail as honks joined a rising barrage of screams and shouts.
"Someone's burning up—quick, film it!"
Jack bolted toward the crowd, clenching his teeth against a whiff of smoke and singed hair—far too reminiscent of his weeks in Kandahar. There was a terrified howl and he pressed forward, impeded immediately by a teenager in a knit cap who wedged in front of him to raise a cell phone overhead.
"Stand back," Jack ordered, familiar anger prickling. He gave the kid two seconds to comply before shoving his shoulder into him. "Let me get by!"
"I called 911," an older African American woman told him, tugging at Jack's uniform sleeve as he passed. "Fire department's coming, sir."
"Good ... thanks," Jack huffed, breaking through the crowd at last. It had been no exaggeration—an elderly man's clothing was on fire. "Hold still! Don't move!"
"Please, God ... help me!" the man begged, flames licking at his stringy, unkempt hair. He staggered backward, wild-eyed, waved his arms, then lost his balance and sat down hard.
Jack was there in a heartbeat.
"Don't move, sir," he repeated, dropping down beside the man—and feeling an immediate jab of pain as his right knee touched the ground. Jack ignored it and went to work, blinking against the smoke and flames as he stripped off his field jacket. "Hang in there. I've got you," he promised, using the camouflage fabric to smother the still-hungry flames. That accomplished, he swaddled the man inside the jacket and eased him to a lying position on the dusty asphalt. "Easy, buddy. Stay still. Let me help you now."
"Okay, ohhh-kay," the man groaned, the last word stretching into a puff soured by cheap wine and bad teeth. His tear-filled eyes studied Jack's face, and then his body relaxed. "It's you. Oh ... bless you for being here."
There was a smattering of claps from the bystanders, but a kid holding a skateboard hooted, "Yeah, well, GI Joe better pray he don't get some ugly disease. You wouldn't catch me touchin' that."
"That"? Jack glared at the boy as sirens wailed in the distance. The call to 911. At least someone had done that for ... Gilbert. Yes. Jack recognized him now. Former hardware salesman. Alcoholic, a smoker with emphysema, and a clinic patient on several occasions. Jack glanced at a nest of smoldering bedding and a grocery basket piled high with empty aluminum cans. On the ground nearby was a broken half-gallon wine bottle, translucent green shards scattered. Probably the reason for the jab in Jack's knee and even more evidence that this homeless man had spent the night on clinic property. Jack cursed under his breath. If word got out, it would be one more item on a long list of complaints that the clinic attracted unsavory elements and depreciated property values.
He turned his attention to the victim, who'd begun to tremble uncontrollably. One of his ears was blistered, the eyebrow and lashes on that side singed: a red flag for risk of airway burns. Had the man inhaled much smoke? No audible wheezing, lips pink ... Jack estimated the man's respiratory rate at thirty, then reached for his wrist: pulse rapid but regular. Panic was probably taking more of a toll than the burns.
"The ambulance is on its way, Gilbert." He made a point of using the man's name, hoping it would make him feel like more than the ugly public spectacle he'd suddenly become. I know how that feels, buddy.
Jack glanced toward the clinic porch, debating carrying the man inside. No staff there yet, and the supply cupboards would be locked. Besides, the paramedics were moments away. They'd get this man on oxygen, transport him to the ER where he belonged. Maybe there weren't more burns than those visible. Hopefully the poor man hadn't been lying here in flames for too long.
Jack fought a searing rush of anger and glared at the gathered crowd, including the kid in the knit cap who'd backed off a few yards but was still avidly filming. All of them were no better than scavengers around a rotting carcass. Two dozen or more people had responded to shouts of "Man on fire!" yet no one had attempted a rescue. Not one person had stepped up.
Jack jabbed his finger toward a man talking on a cell phone, then swept it across the crowd like he was drawing a line in desert sand. "Do something helpful or get out of here! You hear me? What are you, vultures?"
He rose to his feet, fighting an urge to grab one of the gawkers and shake him, just as the engine company first responders pulled to the curb. The siren yelped. A strong hand clapped onto his shoulder from behind.
"Jack, I almost didn't recognize you in uniform. What's going on here?" San Antonio police sergeant Rob Melton surveyed the scene, radio mic squawking on his shoulder. "Fill me in."
Jack grimaced. "I go to Dallas for my Reserve weekend and come back to find a disaster in the parking lot." He glanced down at Gilbert and lowered his voice. "Homeless alcoholic who probably fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand. Set himself on fire." Jack stared at the receding crowd being dispersed by a second police officer. "And he would have burned to a chicken-fried death if your heartless citizens had their way." He sucked a breath through his teeth. "Heartless and gutless. I've got no use for people like that."
Rob's gaze met Jack's, his compassion as evident as the telltale bulk of his body armor. "I hear you, Jack. But there are plenty of decent folks here. If you give them half a chance."
"Yeah, well ..." Jack waved at the firefighter crew making their way with equipment bags in hand. "Over here, hustle! And watch out, there's broken glass everywhere."
Jack stepped back as a paramedic attended to Gilbert. Then he gave a brief report to a young firefighter who'd begun to make notes. "Second-degree burns from what looks like a bedding fire. Mild respiratory distress. Alcohol on board. History of emphysema. Where are you taking him?"
"Alamo Grace Hospital."
"Good. I'll grab my things and follow you in."
"Uh ..." The firefighter's eyes swept over Jack's uniform, settled on his name tape. "We appreciate your offer, Major Travis, but ..."
Rob Melton smiled. "Dr. Travis. He's director of this clinic."
"It's Jack." He extended his hand to the firefighter. "Emergency medicine is my day job. I'm working a shift at Alamo Grace this afternoon."
"Good thing." Rob pointed to Jack's leg. "You're bleeding."
Jack flexed his knee. A warm trickle and mild sting confirmed the observation—a puncture from that broken wine bottle. He'd grab the medical records and close up the clinic. The wound could wait until he got to Alamo Grace. Right now it was far less important than what he'd glimpsed out on San Antonio Street: A trio of news vans. And a white Lexus.
He knew the car. It belonged to the head of the action committee that wanted his clinic torn down. The city council was meeting in three weeks to discuss the neighbors' issues, which boiled down to the fact that they preferred people...
