Fair Warning. Hannah Alexander

now he needed her, and she wasn’t even sure if he would be willing to accept her help, or if he’d try to micromanage her life, even from his hospital bed.

      She realized Ginger was watching her closely.

      “You doing okay, hon?”

      Willow sighed, surveying the jumble of plastic bags and clothing strewn across the bed. “I’m just a little overwhelmed right now.”

      “You didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I think I’ll change back into my comfy duds, repackage this wild outfit and take it back to the Dress Barn. That way I’ll be out of your hair and you can take a nap.”

      Willow looked at the clock. It was after lunchtime, but at last check, Preston had still been sleeping. Maybe a nap would be exactly what she needed. “I think I could use some rest, but I need to get the key and pick up my car.”

      “You don’t have to do any of that right now,” Ginger said, patting Willow’s arm as she rose from the bed. “I’m still full as a tick from that late breakfast, but how about an early supper in a few hours? I’m desperate for some girl talk. I love Graham, but he hasn’t had a lot of time since I’ve returned to listen to my chatter.”

      Willow looked at the clock beside the bed, then nodded. “You’ve got a date. Give me a couple of hours?”

      “I’ll give you three. Try to get some sleep.”

      Graham completed the sutures on a five-year-old child who had run through a window, reassured the little boy’s mother one last time that the wound should heal with very little scarring and handed her a sheet of printed instructions for wound care. He also made an appointment card for her, with the date for suture removal.

      The phone had rung almost constantly since he’d begun the repair, and his assistant had gone to lunch early today to run errands for the clinic. He needed more help.

      He’d thought about asking Ginger to fill in a couple of days a week. As he expanded the clinic—a necessity if he was going to keep up with the needs of so many patients—he would be able to utilize her skills. Right now, however, he needed another volunteer office assistant, someone to answer phones, make appointments, follow up on patient care.

      An additional nurse would be great, as well, and a PA such as Ginger would be a blessing from heaven, especially if Graham had to start moonlighting in the E.R. for income.

      That was a definite possibility after last night. He could lose renters over this. In fact, one of his renters, Carl Mackey, a transplant from up north, often pitched in here when he wasn’t on duty at the hospital.

      As the mother and child left the office, he finished his report on the little boy’s accident, then checked his messages. He had fifteen.

      He should never have come to the clinic today. But then, the woman who had just left the office would have incurred a major bill in the emergency department, particularly since she had no insurance. She could barely afford to keep a roof over her head as it was.

      Winters in Branson could be difficult for people in the service and entertainment industries. The downtime put a lot of people on the unemployment lines between January and March. April and May were often catch-up months for those with financial struggles. Several of the units at the lodge had only recently been occupied by newcomers to Branson.

      Graham rubbed his eyes wearily, then picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the last person to leave a message—the Hollister fire captain.

      Graham had been in close contact with the fire department all morning.

      As the phone rang, he thought again about Preston’s remark that Willow would probably take the fire personally. She seemed like a perfectly sane, capable woman who was obviously wary of strangers. If she truly had experienced attacks from the person who had killed her husband, it would be a little strange if it hadn’t affected her to some degree.

      Preston’s problem right now was his helplessness. Graham would be the one to make the decisions for him in the next few days…maybe even weeks. Those decisions might also affect Willow.

      One of the messages on the machine was from Ginger, informing him that Willow had insisted on securing her own lodging, which was a motel near the hospital.

      It disappointed him, but he wasn’t surprised.

      The phone was answered on the seventh ring. It was the fire captain.

      “Hello, Captain Frederick. Graham Vaughn here. Do you have any good news for me this time?”

      There was a long sigh, then the captain’s deep voice, with nasal twang, came over the line. “Sorry. We knew pretty much from the first arrival that it was arson, Dr. Vaughn.”

      “Graham. Just call me Graham.”

      There was a pause. “Don’t think so, Doc. You operated on my wife four years ago when she had that burst appendix. She was scared spitless, and you took such good care of her it was like she was your own. You’re the Doctor.”

      “Thank you, Captain.”

      “So that’s why I can’t figure out why anybody’d want to hurt your property.”

      Graham closed his eyes. “Neither can I. How was the fire started?”

      “Pretty simple. The perp used the old cigarette-and-matchbook trick. Attach a cigarette to an open book of matches, so the matches will ignite when the cigarette burns down, giving the arsonist time to get away. Looks like the perp took plenty of precaution—used four of these babies, after pouring a stream of lighter fluid from each matchbook to the house, which he had liberally doused with gasoline. It’s no wonder Ms. Traynor smelled the fuel.”

      “Any leads?”

      “Not much to go on right now. My men and women are good, and we’ve got a lot of help on this case, but we haven’t found a culprit yet, only the sighting of a black sedan in the neighborhood sometime before the fire began.”

      “Who saw that?” Graham asked.

      “A neighbor down the road from you, coming home from working a late party.”

      “There are a lot of people with black sedans,” Graham said. “That doesn’t tell us much.” Carl Mackey had a black sedan, as did the Jasumbacks.

      “You’re right, it doesn’t. We’ll check out your renters, of course. We’ve already started the interview process. We did receive a call later this morning about Jolene Tucker. She was run off the road and injured when driving back into town after a trip out to your place for a quick photo shoot just before first light this morning.”

      Graham frowned. He’d known she would show up sooner or later. “Who would have run her off the road?”

      “I can think of a few people who’d like to do it,” the man muttered.

      “Where is she now?”

      “No idea, but she earned herself a trip to the E.R. via ambulance. She had a banged-up leg, was treated and released. She insisted it was deliberate.”

      “Did she get a description of the automobile that ran her off the road?”

      “Sure did,” the captain said. “We even have the vehicle impounded. It was a brown Ford Expedition stolen from a convenience store two blocks from Clark Memorial Hospital earlier this morning because some trusting idiot left his keys in the ignition while he went in to get a cup of coffee. Bet he doesn’t do that again.”

      “So no leads there.”

      “Nope. The police found the vehicle abandoned later, also near the hospital. Might not be any connection to our fire, but we’re checking all possibilities. You can bet the incident will be in tomorrow’s paper. Jolene’s need for attention might even be a good thing right now, if it attracts a witness or two.”

      Graham thought again about Preston’s