We are always grateful to our editor, Joan Marlow Golan, and her wonderful staff and colleagues, Krista Stroever, Emily Rodmell, Lee Quarfoot, Megan Lorius, Maureen Stead, Amy Jones and Diane Mosher, for untiring editorial support, marketing and encouragement.
Thanks to our agent, Karen Solem, for great direction and wisdom.
Thanks, again, to Mom, Lorene Cook, for going far beyond the high calling of motherhood to help us in every sort of situation imaginable, whether it be reading, editing, publicity, cooking or catsitting. We love you.
Thanks to Vera Overall, Mother, who always encourages us and shows her pride in her son.
Thanks to Barbara Warren of the Blue Mountain Editorial Service for spotting problems before they become a part of the book.
Thanks to Jerry and Mary Lou Baugher for their love and hospitality, whose experience serving in a Navajo school was a great benefit.
Our deepest debt is to our Lord, who allows us to keep working at playing.
C urved, white wolf fangs gleamed against the blackness of Sheila Metcalfâs closed eyelids. She winced, eyes opening wide as a clipboard slipped from her fingers for the second time in less than an hour. It clattered onto the tile floor of the private patient room of Hideaway Hospital. As the sound reverberated into the hallway, her neck and shoulder muscles knotted with anxiety.
She glanced at the bed, where her patient, Mrs. Mann, remained asleep. At least the commotion had not disturbed her. Sheila only wished she didnât feel so disturbed this morningâ¦so unsettled, with an old, haunting, long-suppressed nightmare threatening, more than once, to follow her into her waking hours.
âHey, girl, whatâs up?â Jill Cooper, slender, dark haired and attractive, strode into the room at her usual brisk pace. She rescued the clipboard from the floor, glanced at it, then gave Sheila a look of concern. âSomething wrong?â
âSorry,â Sheila said. âIâm fumble fingers this morning for some reason.â
âTime for a break.â Jillâs voice was filled with the concern so evident in her gentle blue eyes. With her typical economy of movement, she set the clipboard on the nursing desk, then turned again to Sheila. âWhy are you a fumble fingers?â
âIâm just distracted. I promise Iâm not usually like this.â
âThink I donât know that?â As nurse director of Hideaway Hospital, Jill had every right to question a substitute nurseâs bumbling mistakes, but her concern was warm and personal.
Sheila tried to smile, and knew the result was more of a grimace. She and Jill had known each other since Sheila had fled here to Hideaway with her father twenty-four years ago. The older sister of one of Sheilaâs best friends in school, Jill understood what it was like to live with specters from the past.
Jill took a step closer. âSo whatâs the distraction?â she asked softly. âWant to talk about it?â
Sheila thought about the shadows of memories that never quite materialized, questions that had returned to nag at her after all these years. The fangs. The terror.
âRelax,â Jill said. âWe donât eat nurses for breakfast.â
Sheila forced a smile. The confessions could wait until later. âDr. Jackson tells me differently.â
Jill chuckled. âCall her Karah Lee, and donât listen to a thing she says. I picked on her a little when she first arrived, and sheâll never let me live it down.â Jillâs blue eyes turned serious again. âWhat is it?â
âJust stuff. Iâll get it figured out, donât worry.â
âAll the same, I think you need some downtime. A few minutes to regroup.â Jill reached into the pocket of her scrub top and pulled out a stethoscope. âBesides, Preston Black is in the building.â She said the words with one eyebrow raised, a half grin on her face. âHe wants to talk to you.â
Sheila ran the tip of her tongue along her teeth to keep herself from saying anything. Preston didnât understand the word no.