Chapter Five
Dallas
Grand hospital’s stafflounge overlooked the emergency department entrance, so Dallas saw the ambulance arrive, lights flashing, with a sheriff’s vehicle hot on its tail. It was nearing the end of his Friday shift and he’d been eating his lunch when the call came in that they had a gunshot wound, so he’d been watching for it.
He dropped his coffee cup in the sink and sprinted for the emergency room, getting there seconds ahead of the paramedics and stretcher. He didn’t recognize the young deputy straggling behind them. The blond man lying semi-conscious on the stretcher was a different matter entirely.
Jesus, Dan.
A switch flipped in Dallas’s head, turning his friend into a patient. He did a quick visual assessment. Dan’s face was pale and his lips and fingernails had begun to turn a faint blue. His skin was cool, but not cold and clammy, which was good news. Hypovolemic shock—early stage.
The paramedic filled him in on Dan’s status. “His deputy already had the bleeding under control when we got there.”
Since the deputy was upright and his color was good, Dallas assumed the blood on his hands and staining his shirt and pantlegs belonged to Dan, meaning he was a secondary concern that the nurses could handle. Two ambulances had been called to the scene, however.
“Where’s the other patient?” he asked.
“Headed straight for Billings. The sheriff shot him in the chest and he had to be airlifted.”
Dallas ordered an IV for Dan, then removed the paramedic’s packing so he could examine the wound. The entry and exit were clean, thanks to a solid point bullet, but it tore through the artery, and already, it was bleeding again. Dan needed a vascular surgeon, which meant a trip to Billings, because there was only so much Dallas could do.
He stabilized his friend, bundled him into the ambulance, then spoke with the deputy to make sure he was okay, and also, to find out how the hell this had happened. When Dan left for work that morning, he’d said he’d be late because he had to make a trip to Billings that afternoon. He likely hadn’t intended to make it by ambulance.
The deputy was young and his hands shook, although his voice was steady. He told Dallas he’d been called to a domestic dispute, but Dan took the call for him because he’d been nervous and Dan knew the family in question. He’d waited at the end of the lane leading up to the house. Then the shooting started. He saw both men go down, called for backup and an ambulance, and drove to the scene to render assistance. The shooter’s wife held pressure on her husband’s wound and the deputy tended to Dan while they waited for help.
“It’s my fault Dan got shot,” the deputy said, sounding miserable.
“Dan is the sheriff. It was his decision to make, not yours. You kept him alive. He owes you for that.”
He sent the deputy home—doctor’s orders—then called Dan’s parents, reassured them their son was going to live, and told them he’d meet them at the hospital in Billings. After that he called Ryan, who took the news with an unsettling calmness that Dallas knew from experience could swing multiple ways.
“Who’s looking after the guy’s family?” Ryan asked.
The question gave Dallas pause.
“I have no idea.” He’d assumed none of the family were injured because they hadn’t been brought to Grand’s outpatient department for treatment, but harm wasn’t necessarily physical.
Ryan knew that better than most.
“Can you make your own way to Billings?” Ryan asked. “Maybe hitch a ride with Dan’s parents? I have something I have to take care of. I’ll meet you there.”
Dallas hit the phone’s disconnect icon with his thumb, relieved. If the shooter’s family needed help, Ryan would see that they got it.
*
Hannah
Hannah didn’t seeor hear from Dallas until he walked into the taproom late Friday night, looking more in need of sleep than a drink.
Or, maybe in need of a drink in order to get to sleep. Earlier, the room had been buzzing with gossip over how Sheriff McKillop had been shot responding to a domestic dispute. Dallas had treated him in the emergency room before sending him off to Billings by ambulance, and if the way he looked now was any indication, he’d taken it hard.
“How’s the sheriff?” someone asked as he skirted their table.
“He’s fine,” Dallas said. “He’ll be handing out parking tickets again before you know it.”
He homed in on the bar in a way that had Hannah’s heart beating fast, but she managed to hand the beer she’d poured to the customer who ordered it without spilling a drop.
He leaned on his forearms and rubbed the top thumb of his clasped hands against the thumb trapped underneath while he waited his turn. It was an odd thing for her to take note of, but he’d held his hands that same way whenever he’d had to deal with Alayna’s new mother-in-law in the days leading up to the wedding. Georgia Campbell could try anyone’s patience, particularly when she intended to have her own way, and Dallas wasn’t immune. It meant he was unsettled. Her nose caught the faint smell of disinfectant. His mussed, shaggy curls hinted he’d had his fingers in them. Repeatedly. Black lashes framed red-rimmed eyes. A vein throbbed at his temple and tension pinched his eyebrows a little closer together.