Page 29 of Whiteout

“Nausea, vomiting, ringing in the ears, sensitivity to light?” Randall inquired, setting the hair he had disturbed back into place.

“No. I had a fever, though.”

“How did you ever find the cabin in that storm?”

Derek and Francie, their gazes homed in on her, looked at Breanna expectantly. She couldn’t tell them the truth, though, could she? “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you remember?” Randall appeared concerned.

“No.”

“Don’t worry. Memory loss, disorientation, and confusion are common after a head injury.” Patting her shoulder, he got up off his haunches. “What do you remember?”

“I went to Hank’s,” she recalled, gazing up at the medic. “They stopped me at the checkpoint and said I had to have chains on my tires. He put them on for me.”

“He’s been asking after you,” Randall said with a smile.

Hank could assure her Sinjin was real, now, couldn’t he? Tell her who he was, where she might find him. Breanna hadn’t dreamt him up. Unless she really was out of her mind.

She smiled back. “His wife makes the best banana cream pie.”

“That she does.” Randall chuckled. “He’ll be glad to know you’re okay.”

“Am I?” she wondered out loud.

Derek threw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her even closer against his side.

“I think you’re going to be just fine, but you have symptoms of a mild concussion, so you need to take it easy. If you get a headache that gets worse or won’t go away, experience any weakness, numbness, vomiting—things like that—we’re going to have to get you to the hospital over in Sacramento, okay?”

“Okay.”

The medic glanced over at Francie, then addressed Derek, “Call me right away if she seems confused or you can’t rouse her. Any unusual behavior.”

“We’ll be sure to keep a close eye on her. Thank you, Randall.”

“Would you like some coffee, honey?” Francie asked, holding onto his forearm.

“I’d love some, but my wife’s holding supper for me.” He patted her hand. “Another time.”

“I’ll see you out then.” Turning to leave with Randall, she glanced back at Derek. “Do you want your dessert in here?”

“Please.”

His arm remained around her shoulders even after they had gone. Shaking her foot, Breanna’s gaze shifted around the room, falling to the pictures on the mantel. She stood and went over to them. “Who are all these people?”

“Your family.” Derek came to stand at her side. He nodded toward an older photo of a striking couple. “Lawrence and Valerie Dalton.”

And the name had a face.

Her father’s parents.

She studied the image, looking for some resemblance to her own. It was hard to tell from the black-and-white photograph.

His fingertips brushed over the frame of a picture of two gentlemen in a boat, one of them proudly holding a prized catch. “My father, Raymond St. John, and your grandfather…I remember that day. They took me fishing with them.” His voice seemed strained. “Both of them are gone now.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her hand brushed over his forearm. “You’re related to the Daltons then.”

“Not exactly, no, but our families have been connected, so to speak, from the very beginning. It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.” Returning the photo to the mantel, Derek turned to look at her. “My father was their attorney. His firm handled everything until he passed.”

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