Under the Mistletoe with John Doe Read Free

Stagecoach Inn.”
    Betsy took another sip of coffee before pouring it down the sink. “What’s the ETA?”
    â€œThree-and-a-half minutes.” Dawn handed Betsy a list of the man’s vitals that had been relayed to the hospital via the radio in the ambulance.
    Betsy glanced at the readings, making note of them, then headed for the triage area.
    Moments later, the automatic door swung open as paramedics rushed the victim into the E.R.
    Showtime, Betsy thought, as she met them partway and began a visual assessment of the patient while they all moved into the exam area.
    Blunt-force trauma. Lacerations and bruises…
    As she moved in closer, she realized that the man had gotten some of his injuries before today. One wound near his hairline already had sutures.
    She guessed them to be about a week old—maybe less.
    A bar fight? she wondered, coming to that conclusion because of where he’d been when he’d gotten this beating. That and the fact that the Stagecoach Inn had had more than its share of scuffles lately, resulting in their hiring an ex-marine as a bouncer.
    She smelled alcohol on the patient, but it wasn’t as though he’d been stewing in it all day, like a lot of the other drunken Stagecoach regulars who ended up in one of the E.R. exam rooms during one of her nighttime shifts.
    â€œWhat happened?” she asked Sheila Conway, the head paramedic, as she ordered lab work and an MRI.
    â€œHe was hit from behind and rolled. No wallet, no cash, no credit cards on him. And he’s completely out of it.”
    His clothing, while bloody, was expensive and stylish. Definitely not the usual patron of the Stagecoach Inn.
    â€œAnyone know his name?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œWhat about his vehicle?” Betsy asked. “Did they check the registration?”
    â€œIf he had a car, it might have been stolen. From what we were told, all the cars in the parking lot have been accounted for.”
    â€œDidn’t anyone know who he is?”
    â€œApparently, he walked in alone, asked about a guy no one recognized, had a beer and left. But he didn’t getfar. Someone hit him with a tire iron and left him in a pool of blood. The bouncer found him and called us.”
    The patient moaned, and Betsy decided to quiz him. They had no idea of his medical history or allergies. Nothing to go on but what they uncovered here and now.
    The police, who’d most likely been called already, would be here shortly. And they’d want to question him, too.
    â€œHi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”
    Another moan. A blink.
    She flashed a light into his eyes, saw his pupils—dilated. She’d be ordering that MRI stat.
    When he looked at her through bloodshot eyes, she said, “I’m Dr. Nielson. Can you tell me what happened?”
    He jerked and stiffened. His eyes grew wide and panicked. “How’s the kid? Is she okay?”
    â€œWhat kid?” she asked, wondering if a child had been in the vehicle that was stolen. She couldn’t imagine someone being so negligent that they’d leave a youngster in the parking lot of a bar. But it happened.
    â€œThe stop sign,” he said. “I didn’t see it… I’m sorry.”
    He was rambling and confused. Did he think he’d been involved in a car accident?
    She studied his pained expression, the raw emotion on his face, the concern in his striking blue eyes.
    â€œYou were robbed outside the Stagecoach Inn,” she said, trying to shake the sympathy that drew her to him and was making it difficult to keep a professional distance. “What’s your name?”
    He stared at her blankly. Then confusion spread across his face. “I don’t know.”
    In spite of the blood and dirt on his brow and cheek, he was an attractive man, and her heart quivered with the realization.
    Get over it, she scolded herself. He was a patient. A victim. And a complete