LITMIR.BIZ

      To my editor, my agent and the many others

      who help bring Conard County to life, from copy editors to cover artists.

       Chapter One

      She thought it was going to be a good evening. Finally.

      Kristin Tate, known to family and friends as Krissie, stood at the nurses’ station and looked out the window across the corridor at a view of purpling Wyoming mountains to the west as the sun settled for the night. It was, she told herself, good to be home in Conard County.

      Six years in the navy followed by eighteen months at the VA hospital in Denver had thoroughly killed any taste she had for the so-called excitement of trauma care. If she lived the rest of her life without ever seeing another human being in that kind of condition, it wouldn’t be long enough.

      But tonight, her first night on her new job at Conard County’s community hospital, it felt good to be in scrubs and facing a patient load of ordinary illnesses, and taking care of people who would recover.

      A review of the charts assured her she would face no major difficulties: a kid with a broken leg in traction by himself in a room. An older man with phlebitis receiving anticoagulants. She’d need to check him frequently. A woman with congestive heart failure who seemed to be recovering nicely as her fluid retention diminished. A gastritis that should be ready to go home in the morning, along with a dehydration case and a man with diverticulitis on IV antibiotics.

      Straightforward, likely totally uncomplicated. An easy night of checking up on patients who were getting better. God, what a relief that was going to be.

      Julie and Nancy, the two licensed practical nurses sharing her shift, were off down the corridor, beginning to usher visitors out for the night. Both LPNs seemed nice, if terribly young, and she wondered if they were new to the area, or if she had somehow just forgotten them. It was possible. They would have still been kids when she left for nursing school, well beneath her radar.

      And all these thoughts, she realized as she looked at the mountains, were thoughts designed to distract her from the familiar antiseptic smells that could so easily cause her to regurgitate memories of horrors best forgotten.

      The sound of rapid footsteps drew her attention down the hall.

      A man bore down on the nurses’ station looking a bit like a thundercloud. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, a bit rough around the edges, as if he were too busy to worry about things like haircuts and five o’clock shadow. He wore blue scrubs beneath a white coat. As she watched him approach, she saw her two LPNs glance at each other and dart into separate patient rooms. One of those, she thought, somewhere between amusement and impatience.

      “Ms. Tate,” he said peremptorily.

      She stiffened a bit at his tone, and scanned his name plate: Dr. David Marcus. She’d heard a new doctor had started since her last visit home, and this must be him. She forced herself to reply pleasantly, “Yes, doctor?”

      “Before we begin, I’d like a few words with you.”

      Okay, Kristin thought, as she followed him to an empty patient room. One of those. Big ego, martinet, wanting everyone to kowtow just so to him. Well, she’d dealt with that kind before. If he was the only thorn on the rose of this new job, she could handle it.

      In the patient room, he tossed down a chart he was carrying on the bed and faced her from the far side. His brows lowered, making him appear angry.

      “Close the door,” he said. No please or thank you. Forcing her face to remain empty of expression, she gave the door a quick tug. On its pneumatics, it swung slowly closed behind her.

      Then, as a result of years of long training in the navy,

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