Fair Warning. Hannah Alexander

Willow rushed back across the shadows of the front yard. “Preston!” she called. “Has anyone seen my—”

      A strong, firm arm caught her from behind and swung her around. She looked up into the angry face of the same jerk who had yelled at her before.

      “You don’t listen well, do you, Jolene?”

      She yanked away from him. “Look, bud, you may be the owner of this place, but I’m not Jolene, whoever that might be, and if you don’t get out of my face I’m going to kick you!”

      The man’s expression froze, mouth open mid-rant. He blinked at her, looked down at her torn, mud-and-grass-stained pajamas.

      “Where’s Preston?” Willow demanded. “Have you seen my brother?”

      The expression of dismay on his face was priceless. For a fraction of a second she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

      Yet another explosion rocked the earth. Willow gasped, then turned instinctively in the direction of the sound, toward the building behind the burning cabin.

      “It’s the utility shed!” a fireman shouted. “It’s collapsing.”

      “Preston was headed in that direction!” Willow cried as another fire truck rumbled into the ruckus. Oh, dear God, no. Not Preston!

      Graham grabbed the panicking woman before she could run across the lawn to the shed, and wasn’t surprised when she fought him. So this was the gentle sister of whom Preston had so often spoken.

      “We’ve got to get him out of there!” the frantic woman cried.

      “The firemen are doing that.” He gestured toward the two men in fire gear, who were already forcing back the flames and entering the inferno.

      Preston’s sister—what was her name…something about a tree…Rowan? No, Willow. That was it. Willow struggled from Graham’s grasp, and as she pulled away a red-and-white towel unwound from her right forearm. Blood gushed from a deep injury in the flesh above her wrist.

      “Hold it right there,” Graham said, feeling like an idiot as well as a bully. Why hadn’t he noticed this sooner? “You need medical attention.” He reached for her arm.

      She pushed away from him. “I need to see about my brother first. Is everyone evacuated?”

      “Mrs. Engle was the only one left. Blaze has her dog.”

      Willow’s eyes widened. “Blaze?”

      “It’s the name of a friend. The dog’s in good hands,” he said gently. “I’m telling you, that wound is actively bleeding.”

      She placed her hand over the cut and turned again toward the fire. “And I’m telling you that I want to see about Preston.”

      Graham caught sight of Taylor Jackson, who had just finished helping the attendants load Mrs. Engle into the waiting ambulance. “Jackson!” He waved to catch the attention of the tall man with a stern and caring expression, who had followed Graham, Dane and Blaze from Hideaway in his own boat.

      “What’s up?”

      “Over here. I’ve got a patient for you. Is there another ambulance on the way?”

      “Yep, ETA of three minutes or less,” Taylor said as he hefted his backpack of medical supplies over his shoulder and carried it toward them. When he reached them, he frowned at Willow’s arm and gave a soft whistle. “Looks like the E.R.’s going to be hopping tonight.”

      Willow gasped, then gave a weak, horrified cry. Graham looked up to see the two firemen carrying a limp man between them through the smoking, flaming shed. Preston.

      His sister fainted. Graham caught her, then lowered her to the ground so she could lie flat. “Get a pressure dressing,” he said over his shoulder. “And start an IV. She might have lost too much blood.”

      Taylor already had out a handful of four-by-four gauze pads. He placed them onto the bleeding gash and wrapped it tightly with gauze dressing with the swiftness of an expert.

      “That should hold it until we can get it sutured,” Graham said, checking her pulse. It was fast, but that could be from a rush of excess adrenaline. As he checked her more closely, he noticed her skin wasn’t cool or clammy to the touch, and she had a good capillary refill.

      “She doesn’t appear to be in shock. Did you bring a cardiac monitor on the boat?” he asked.

      Taylor nodded. “I prepare for the worst.”

      “Let’s check her out, just in case.”

      Willow moaned and shifted. “No. I’m okay,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying above the roar of activity around them.

      “Let us be the judges of that. You’re not in any position to complain,” Graham said.

      She raised her good arm, blinking against the light of the arriving ambulance as she pushed away from Graham. “No monitor and no IV. I need to get to Preston. Where is he?”

      Willow had endured enough of this pushy man’s attitude. She caught sight of the firemen loading a gurney into the back of the ambulance and saw a man with a blackened face turn toward her and open his eyes.

      It was Preston. He was alive and awake. She had to get to him.

      “We should call an ambulance for you, as well,” the pushy man said.

      “There’s no reason why I can’t ride with Preston, is there?”

      “Sorry, not right now. They’re only equipped to handle one patient at a time. You fainted, and that could be a—”

      “From the shock of seeing my brother like that. Please,” she said, pushing away the monitor line the tall newcomer was attempting to attach to her. She would stand up and walk to the vehicle without their help if they were going to be so obstinate. She scrambled to her knees, hand to the ground to retain her balance.

      “Okay,” said Preston’s boss, obviously a trifle irritated now. “We’ll help you to the ambulance. Just hold on, will you? I’d take you myself, but I don’t have a car right now.”

      She allowed the men to help her to her feet, and glanced down at the dressing on her arm. Obviously someone knew what he was doing.

      She blinked at the white of the dressing as her vision seemed to waver. So maybe she wasn’t as strong as she’d hoped. She guessed she’d let these men help her to the ambulance, where she would sit quietly in the corner until they reached the hospital.

       Chapter Three

       G raham stepped down the western corridor of the emergency department of Clark Memorial Hospital, south of town. Even at four in the morning, more than half the treatment rooms were filled and the staff was kept hopping with everything from chest pain to broken arms to the unusual occurrence of a knife wound.

      There were also the more common cases of croupy children and upset tummies. The emergency department was a way station for all the area’s unwell, no matter how minor or serious the condition.

      He entered the third treatment room on the right and found Willow lying on the bed, her face pale. A monitor was connected by wires to her chest. It beeped in steady rhythm.

      She looked up as he entered, and her eyes widened. They were blue-gray, large, fringed with long dark lashes. She had her brother’s bone structure, though more delicate and refined. There was a watchfulness about her—an almost fearful tension.

      “How are you doing?” he asked.

      “I’m fine—just waiting to hear about Preston’s condition. They’re working on him in the trauma room, and they refuse to let me in there.”

      “I just spoke with him and with Dr. Teeter, the E.R. doc,” Graham said. “Preston’s stabilized. X-rays confirmed multiple rib fractures