of minutes following her collapse, she didn’t remember anything except the seemingly endless screaming, the blast of gunfire, the excruciating pain that enveloped her leg and, within seconds, had magnified and was pulsating throughout her entire body. Pain like she’d never experienced before. Dizziness, blurred vision and then, for a blessed minute, numbness took over. Believe it or not, that was what got her moving again.
Numb was bad. Numb meant she was losing too much blood.
She’d looked at Hugh, whose prone body was several feet from where she’d been shot, and had made a decision. But what if she’d been wrong in her assessment? What if...? No. Surely, she’d been correct, that his pallor, unmoving chest and closed eyes meant that Hugh had bled out. Fast. Surely, he was already gone. She hadn’t left a dying man alone, had she?
No. She couldn’t think about that possibility now. Couldn’t.
Unreal. No. Surreal. Impossible that Hugh was dead. Impossible that such violence was happening in her hospital. Impossible that she’d been shot, and that others were hurt and dying around her. Impossible that she couldn’t do her job, what she was born to do, and try to help the injured. The most impossible of all, though, were the loud cracks of gunfire that continued to blast through Juliana Memorial Hospital’s trauma center. When would he stop?
When would someone stop him?
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The voice, solid and sure and offering hope, slipped into the dense fog of Andi’s fear, her panic and disbelief.
“My name is Andrea Caputo and I’m a nurse at Juliana Memorial Hospital,” she said in as crisp and clear a manner as possible. “There is a gunman in the emergency room. He’s—” she cringed and gasped when the sound of another shot pierced her eardrums “—the widower of a patient we lost yesterday, and...and...people are hurt. People are dying. Send help.”
“Help is already there,” the female voice said. “Are you hurt?”
“I am. I think an artery was hit by...by the bullet, but if I can stanch the bleeding, I should be... I...I need to...to—” Words, thoughts...everything trailed off as black edged into Andi’s vision. She blinked, tried to force her brain to function, tried to stay conscious against the promise of painless oblivion. But the pull was just too appealing, and she started to sink.
“Andrea! Talk to me,” the operator said. “What do you need to do to stanch the bleeding? You’re a nurse, right? Walk me through the steps.”
The sharp command served to momentarily bring her to her senses. “I need to... A tourniquet would do it,” she mumbled. “There are supplies here. I just need to...find the strength to get to them. So tired. Just want to close my eyes for a second.”
“I have good news,” the operator said, her voice calm and collected. “The police have everything under control. You’re safe. Where are you in the emergency room, Andrea?”
“Trauma room four. I’m in number four, behind the...um—” what was the word? “—curtain. I’m behind the curtain, on the...um...floor.”
“Stay awake just a little longer, Andrea. Can you do that for me?”
She tried. She really did. But the force of keeping her eyes open and her mind alert proved impossible against the weight of her exhaustion. Soothing warmth surrounded her—a pool of tranquility promising relief—and Andi sighed in surrender and closed her eyes.
Afternoon sunlight, bright and bold, saturated the cerulean sky and cast a golden glow on Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Snuggled in a valley, with the majestic Rocky Mountains standing sentry, the pure beauty of the picturesque city should have, if nothing else, brought a smile to Andi’s lips. It didn’t. Traveling had left her far too exhausted to care.
She craved peace, though, and maybe...just maybe she’d be able to find a grain of that here, miles away from Warwick, Rhode Island, and Juliana Memorial Hospital. Here, in her aunt Margaret and uncle Paul Foster’s home, she hoped to regain everything she’d lost. Mobility in her leg, serenity in her heart, a full night’s sleep without being awakened by nightmares that echoed with the blast of a shotgun and screams of terror. Pleas for help.
Six months had elapsed since the tragedy that had taken four lives—including Hugh’s and the bereaved-husband-turned-crazy-gunman’s—and injured twelve others. One-hundred-and-eighty-odd days had passed since Andi had slipped into unconsciousness in trauma room four, mere minutes before help arrived. Due to the 911 operator, she’d been found quickly.
Surgeries were required to put her shattered bones back together, and an infection had set in, causing muscle damage. If she’d been a tad unluckier, she could have lost her leg. Reports to the police and hospital board were given when she could barely think let alone form the appropriate words. Newspaper, magazine and television reporters had called, asking—almost begging—for interviews. Add in the well-meaning but nonstop flood of family and friends and coworkers offering their love, shock and support...well, getting from one minute to the next had proved a herculean effort. So, yes, she was exhausted. To her very soul, even.
She needed to be somewhere she could heal, inside and out.
Oh, her parents and sister were terrific. Ken and Colleen Caputo were loving, devoted parents, and Andrea’s younger sister, Audrey, was just as wonderful. The Caputo family enjoyed a close relationship, but Andi had needed...space. They were all just trying too hard.
When Aunt Margaret—Andi’s mother’s sister—had called and offered respite in Steamboat Springs, the idea had soothed like a salve on a burn. Andi had accepted instantly, and after an early start this morning and two layovers, she’d finally arrived. Yet, she couldn’t summon the energy to enjoy the beauty of her surroundings. Tomorrow, maybe.
Her aunt had picked her up from the airport, hugged her close and kissed her cheek, and other than asking how she felt, how her flights were, she had stayed mercifully quiet during their drive. The radio, turned to an easy-listening station, played softly in the background. For the first portion of the drive, Andi had closed her eyes, breathed and tried to ignore the throbbing in her leg. The remaining portion, she’d just stared out the window.
Now, as they turned into the long, tree-lined driveway of the large mountain-cabin-style home that Andi had wonderful memories of from a childhood visit, her aunt said, “Here we are, safe and sound. I’ll have Paul get your luggage and take it to your room. Are you hungry?”
“I...guess I’m more tired than hungry,” Andi said, pressing her fingers against her temples. “But a headache seems to be building fast, so maybe—”
“What you need,” Margaret said, releasing the key from the ignition, “is a little food, a big glass of lemonade and a room with no one else in it. Maybe a nap. Don’t worry—” she reached over to pat Andi’s knee “—I’ve warned the rest of the family to stay away until Saturday to give you time to settle in and find your bearings. We’re having a cookout in your honor.”
Bless her aunt for the foresight of holding everyone off. That gave Andi four full days to get used to being here instead of at home. “Thank you. I’m excited, of course, to see my cousins and meet their families, but I’m... Yes, Saturday should be good.” And if it wasn’t, she’d have to make do. Recalling the email she’d received yesterday, she said, “Oh. The physical therapist I’ll be working with here, Ryan Bradshaw, wants to meet tomorrow. Can you give me a ride or...?”
Important, she knew, to get right back on the healing path, but she wouldn’t have minded twenty-four hours of just existing here before jumping back into rehabilitation. Hopefully, tomorrow’s meeting would be more of a question-and-answer session about her treatment up until now. Even though she’d made sure Ryan had received copies of her medical records, he’d have questions. They always did. Sometimes things were missed in the record keeping.
Before Margaret could answer, Paul stepped