She turned and pushed her way through the brush alongside the river. It was hard going, and before long she came to cliffs that rose from the water. She’d have to climb. She looked at the grass, a thick growth filled with dandelions and sweet Williams. What else was in that grass? It was cold…too cold for snakes?

She could leave the riverbank and look for the trail. There might be people on it. Maybe.

But thinking about it, she became concerned for those people. Clancy and Deb could be looking for people, too. Someone innocent who was just out for a morning jog or ride. Someone who wouldn’t know what was happening when Clancy jumped out from the bushes, and with his temper, no telling what he’d do if someone fought him. How could anyone know he was tweeking?

Deb had kept trying to remind Clancy that the two of them would be asleep before long-they were going to crash. She’d mentioned a barn. If they’d been so involved in their argument they hadn’t heard Doriann fall down a collapsing riverbank, what else might they miss?

Would they, maybe, not notice an eleven-year-old kid with wet clothes and red hair following them through the woods?

Oh, shut up, Doriann Streeter! What are you thinking? What’s a kid like you going to do tracking two killers who the FBI can’t even catch? Dumb, dumb, dumb.

But she couldn’t stop thinking it. Since her prayers had been answered so far-she wasn’t dead yet, was she?-then God seemed to be in the prayer-answering mood today.

If Deb and Clancy did fall asleep, according to Aunt Renee, they would crash hard and sleep for possibly days. Do I have the guts to follow them and get my cell phone back? Doriann could lead the police to the criminals and save the day-and maybe other lives.

Aunt Renee says I could be president someday. Wouldn’t this look good on the campaign trail?

Doriann caught her breath. Was she really, truly thinking of following Clancy and Deb? That was suicide!

And yet, if they did find the barn, which was near the road, then Doriann might be able to flag down help at the road. As cool as the weather had become, there probably wouldn’t be a lot of people on the trail today, and she didn’t see any boats on the water, most likely because of all the floating logs from the floods up north.

Could she do it? Should she?

When Jama and Fran entered the surgery waiting room, Tyrell was there, speaking with a tall, familiar-looking man in a lab coat. He had graying hair, a deep, reassuring voice, and when Jama stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his arm, she felt weak with relief. She would trust Dr. Tony George with Monty’s life without a moment of hesitation.

He held a hand out to her. “Jama, I’ve just been telling Mr. Mercer that his father has already received the best of treatment from the transferring facility. Excellent catch diagnosing the aortic tear, Dr. Keith. I take back everything I’ve ever said about the young pups coming out of residency programs today.”

Jama introduced her favorite resident trainer to Fran, then said, “Tony, you’re practicing in Jefferson City now?”

He nodded. “It appears I arrived just in time to proceed with your patient.” His deep, mellow voice had been honed through years to convey comfort and confidence to worried patients and families.

He turned to Fran. “I’ve just been telling your son about a recently developed procedure for a torn aorta that has excellent results with much less invasion and a shorter recovery time.”

Jama looked up and met Tyrell’s gaze, saw the relief in his dusky blue eyes, and nodded, sharing the emotion.

“Your husband was given a CT scan as soon as he arrived,” Dr. George told Fran. “Sure enough, Dr. Keith called his condition right on the money. I’m headed into surgery now. Jama, if you were scrubbed up, I’d let you observe.”

Jama hesitated. “That’s tempting, but I think watching surgery on my foster father might be a little too stressful.”

As Dr. George took his leave, Jama allowed herself to release the tension that had been building since Monty’s collapse this morning.

He would be okay. She found herself breathing deeply for the first time in an hour. Wow.

She’d made the right call. Tony George, one of the best surgeons she knew, was handling the case. All was well.

She stood nodding, grin still in place, while Fran and Tyrell conferred about calls to other family members. Their voices registered, but their words floated in the air, uncomprehended.

Jama needed to withdraw from this scene and collect herself. She felt an almost overwhelming need to take a short walk and absorb the knowledge that she had made the right call. What she really needed was a wide-open valley, or a soundproof room, where she could shout at the top of her lungs. Yeehawwww!

She, Jama Keith, had made a judgment call that saved the life of a wonderful man. It was a moment to savor over and over again.

Fran gave Jama’s arm a squeeze. “I think the time has come for me to buy a cell phone. This adventure today has convinced me. Tyrell, may I borrow yours for a few minutes? I’ll talk to Daniel and the twins.”

“Not a problem, Mom,” Tyrell said. “I called Daniel when I was in the waiting room. He’s standing by to call the twins, then drive here as soon as we fill him in on what’s happening with Dad.”

“I don’t think he needs to do that. You know what your father would say. If Daniel has time to come to the hospital, he has time to help out at the ranch.” She held her hand out to Tyrell for the phone, giving her son a look and a tiny tilt of her head in Jama’s direction.

It was a gesture Jama realized she was not meant to intercept.

Tyrell relinquished the phone, then touched Jama’s shoulder. The power of that touch vitalized her. She willed herself not to respond, either by melting against him, or by stepping away to resist the temptation. Tyrell affected her like that. He always would.

“I bet you haven’t had breakfast,” he said.

“Coffee.” She was floating. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“Which is not breakfast.” He nudged her toward a sign directing the way to the cafeteria.

“Coffee fortified with heavy whipping cream packs a punch.” She fell into step beside him, and allowed herself a smile. She’d done well. As the relief continued to sink in, she would soon become giddy and silly. She knew this from past experience.

“Some fruit and cereal would add-”

“Too many carbs, Tyrell. I’m doing low carbs. Trust me, I’m a doctor, I know what I’m doing.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. How much did you pay attention in nutrition classes?

“Not if you think you need to lose weight.”

She grinned up at him. “Flatterer.” Uh-oh, she felt the giddiness beginning to overtake her senses. Silliness wouldn’t be far behind.

“Numbers don’t lie.”

“What numbers?” she asked.

“The numbers of men who can’t keep their eyes off you. Including me.”

Tyrell was a man who knew how to make a woman feel special, no matter her size, age or appearance. He was most interested in a woman’s heart. It showed in his photography. His family teased him without mercy, because his photographs were often off center, out of focus or badly composed. He took many shots from inside moving cars, where door frames, bug-spattered windshields and telephone wires were more prominent than the breathtaking sunset, the flight of an eagle overhead or a sprig of spring flowers that he’d tried to capture.

Tyrell focused so closely on the beauty he saw, nothing else distracted him.

He used that razor-sharp perception to choose his dates in high school. He could have had his pick of any of the prettiest, most popular girls, but he chose those with particularly kind spirits or sharp intellects, who were often passed over by much less discerning guys in his class.