Tears collected in her eyes, and she had difficulty swallowing. She managed to nod, but the head movement made her dizzy.

“Do you feel up to answering a few questions?”

“I’m still muzzy.” All she felt like doing was closing her eyes and seeking oblivion, and that was very uncharacteristic of her. Struck by a frightening thought, she asked, “Do I have a brain injury?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” the sheriff replied. “Nothing serious. You’re just doped up,” he said and gestured toward the IV. “You took quite a tumble and landed like a rag doll. You recall that?”

“Somebody came down on a rope.”

“A fireman. We weren’t sure until he got down there that you were still alive. We’d been searching for almost an hour, shouting your name.”

As after the hotel bombing, memories of the previous night came back to her in snatches with wide gaps in between. Some were vivid, like how badly her shoulder had hurt, how cold she’d been, while others were foggier.

She remembered lying on her back on the hard ground, the fierce wind, sprinkles of cold rain. She recalled trying to respond to the people shouting her name, but she couldn’t find the strength to raise her voice.

She’d also been afraid that if she signaled her whereabouts, it would seal her doom, that whoever had killed The Major would appear at the top of the ravine and finish her off from that vantage point.

She remembered fearing that she would die in one manner or another, from internal injuries, exposure. Her mother had died catastrophically. Her father’s death was all too recent. The longer she lay there, the greater the possibility she would die. Surely she wouldn’t cheat death a second time.

She was so convinced of that, she became hysterical with relief and thankfulness when rescuers arrived. As they strapped her to a stretcher, she’d begged for repeated reassurance that she had survived. A consoling EMT had pushed a tranquilizing drug into her vein to stop her hysteria.

But now, she felt the scald of fresh tears. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” Sheriff Addison said.

Just then a man dressed in scrubs came through the door into the room. He looked surprised to see Trapper and the sheriff there. “What are you doing in here?”

Sheriff Addison replied, “I need to talk to the witness.”

“Not now, sheriff. Who’s he?”

“John Trapper.”

“Oh, well … Sorry, Mr. Trapper.” He glanced at Kerra before going back to them. “She’ll be going in and out for a while yet. You couldn’t trust anything she told you to be sequential, accurate, or thorough. It’ll be at least several more hours before she’s up to being questioned. I’ll have the deputy outside call you when I feel she’s ready.”

“But—”

“With all due respect, gentlemen, I need to examine my patient.” The doctor stood firm.

Glenn Addison didn’t look happy about getting the boot, but he bobbed his head toward her and said good night, then used his hat to motion Trapper toward the door.

Trapper remained motionless, staring at her in that silent and predatory way of his, then turned abruptly and followed the sheriff out without uttering a word. Kerra followed his exit until the door whispered closed behind him. Had that cold and remote man really kissed her? Or had she dreamed it?

“I’m sorry about that.” The doctor moved to the bedside, consulted her chart, then smiled at her through a neatly clipped door-knocker, and introduced himself. “How are you feeling?”

“Was I shot?”

“No. No spinal cord injury, broken bones, or internal bleeding, which is just short of a miracle. You were close to hypothermia, but the EMTs had you back to normal temp by the time you got to the ER. Your left shoulder was dislocated. I hope you don’t remember us popping it back in.”

“No. Thank God.”

“We sent the MRI to an ortho specialist, but several of us here looked at it and didn’t see any damage to the rotator. You have a hairline fracture on your left clavicle. Take it easy with that, no strenuous workouts for six weeks, and it’ll heal on its own.

“You sustained a lot of scrapes and cuts, and we had to dig out some bits of rock and wood splinters. Most were superficial wounds, but one on your right thigh required two stitches. You’re getting IV antibiotics to prevent infection. The worst of it, you took a whack on your head, which gave you a concussion. Is your vision blurry?”

“Yes.”

“It’s temporary. Do you know what month it is?”

“February.”

“Nausea?”

“It comes and goes. As long as I’m lying still, it’s okay.”

“How’s the pain?”

“Not pain, specifically. General soreness and discomfort all over. A headache.”

“On a scale of one to ten?”

“Five.”

“I’ll keep the drip going,” he said, making a notation on the chart. “Any questions?”

“How long will I be here?”

“Couple of days. Tomorrow, we’ll get you up, see if you can make it to the bathroom on your own. Check your head again. I’d like a neurologist to look at the pictures. We’ll know more once he gets back to us, but I think you’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“Do you know anything about my crew? Are they all okay?”

“Anxious about you. They’ve been camped out in the waiting room since you were brought in.”

They’d been traumatized, too, and she knew their concern for her was sincere. But the thought of being swarmed, even by five well-meaning colleagues, was an overwhelming prospect. “Would you please send word out that I’m fine, but—”

“No visitors. I’ll tell them myself. Doctor’s orders. Best thing for you now is rest.” He switched out the light above her bed. “This may not be the suitable time to say it, but I’m a fan.”

“Thank you.”

“I caught your interview with The Major. It was outstanding.”

“Thank you.”

He patted her knee, said, “See you tomorrow,” and left.

She settled into a more comfortable position. She closed her eyes. But rather than finding comfort in the grogginess that had protected her earlier, panic overcame her with tsunami force.

She was back in the powder room, only a door between her and certain death. Powerless to move. The walls and ceiling closing in. Heartbeats loud against her eardrums.

Recognizing the panic for what it was, she covered her nose and mouth with her hands and willed herself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly. The concentrated breathing staved off hyperventilation. The resultant tingling in her hands and feet subsided.

But her heart continued to race. Her skin broke a terror-induced sweat.

She relived squeezing through the window and the blinding pain when her shoulder hit the ground. She felt the rush of bitter wind as she ran headlong into the dark chased by gun blasts, striking close. She felt again the earth giving way beneath her.

The falling sensation was so real it made her clutch at the sheet, clawing up handfuls of it in an attempt to stop her plummet. But she kept falling and landed hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

Gasping, her eyes popped open.

Trapper was standing at the side of the bed.

Her throat seized up so completely she couldn’t make a sound. Not a peep. Not a scream. She wet her lips, or tried. Her mouth and tongue were dry and her breaths were coming hard and fast.

He picked up the lidded plastic cup of water that had been left for her on the nightstand, held it close to her mouth, and pressed the bendable straw between her lips.

She sipped, then again, then continued to. They didn’t break eye contact until the cup was empty and he returned it to the nightstand.

“Thank you.” Her voice was raspy in spite of the water.

“You’re welcome.”

“Where’s the sheriff?”

“On his way home to catch a few hours’ sleep.”

“Did he send you back here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you came back?”