Face Value

Prologue

With a single hacking cough, Peter Martin hunched his grizzled neck deeper into his yellow slicker and shivered. A wet September day in Abbotsford, British Columbia, had never felt more miserable.

Scowling, he muttered a choice word at Samson, his prize Hereford bull. A red livestock trailer sat with its open door against the narrow wooden loading chute. The dank odor of soggy manure and rotting straw hung over the barnyard.

A couple of jolts with the cattle prod usually had the bull inside the cattle trailer without a problem. Today, Samson had his massive white head pushed against the chute toward Peter, his eyes rolling wildly, his nostrils flaring.

The farmer jabbed him on the rump. "Get up there!"

The bull bellowed and held his ground.

Dropping the prod, Peter stood on the second-to-bottom rail of the fence and gave the animal's meaty side a powerful slap. Samson snorted and lunged into the fence. Peter jumped back just in time. The entire length of posts quivered.

Shaking his head, Peter said, "Watch yourself, old boy. Cash isn't the problem it used to be. Much more of this nonsense and maybe I'll take you to Julien's butcher shop instead of to stud with Harrison's heifers."

Sliding the trailer door shut with a screeching clang, Peter strode into the holding pen and yanked open the gate on the back end of the chute. He coughed again, then said, "Come on back, Boy. If you don't want to go today, you ain't going."

Two white puffs of hot air shot out the bull's wide nose as he swung his head back and forth, touching each side of the chute in rhythm.

Impatient to get back inside the house for a cup of hot coffee, Peter called, "Come on back, you old fool!"

Tossing his short horns, Samson slowly backed down the chute and burst into the holding pen. The bull trotted past the gate, then, suddenly, spun around and charged the man.

Peter Martin's stout legs tangled with the Hereford's cropped horns. In an instant the bull lifted the old farmer and tossed him six feet in the air. He landed hard and flopped on the muddy earth like a beached whale‹trying to suck air into his lungs, struggling to get up‹but his legs refused to move.

He glimpsed a slim figure in red beyond him at the fence. It was his wife's ward. Reaching for her, he shouted, "Amy, help me!"

The girl twisted her long blond hair, her face pale, her mouth tight. She stared at him and didn't answer.

Samson's thundering hooves drowned out his second cry.

Chapter One

The operating room was decorated in soft blue tones, and a Mozart CD played quietly in the background. Dr. Dan Foster leaned over the table to smile into the sun-seamed face of Beth Martin.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Her gray eyes glazed from pre-op medication, a loose grin crinkled Beth's weathered cheeks. "I feel. . .fabulous. What did that nurse give me?" She nodded toward the lithe, green-clad form of Allison Hursley. Allison smiled at the patient as she unrolled a packet of instruments onto a shiny steel tray near the top of Beth's head.

Dr. Foster winked at Beth and said, "It's a trade secret. Ready to go to sleep now?"

Beth nodded. Her green surgical cap crinkled against the pillow. "Make me beautiful again, Danny," she murmured.

Dan glanced across the table at anesthetist Steve Logan who sat on a rolling stool beside Beth's left shoulder. Dr. Logan was a blond tennis-star type minus the tan.

As Dan straightened, Steve leaned closer. His voice had a clear, precise tone. "Mrs. Martin, I want you to count backwards from one hundred, please."

Mumbling, she droned, "One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety. . ." Her voice faded. Beth Martin was out.

Fifteen seconds later, the endotracheal tube slid into place, and Steve switched on the oxygen. With his eyes on the monitor, Steve said, "She's all yours. . .Danny." He glanced at Dr. Foster. "Is she a long-lost auntie or something?"

Squinting slightly, Dan's gaze swept across Beth's lined brow to the deep crow's feet beside her eyes. "Beth's been my bookkeeper for the past three years. She has a habit of making everyone into a relative after she's known them for two weeks."

Allison looked at Beth's face. "I can't believe she's only forty-five."

"Let that be a lesson to you," Dan said. "You are looking at the result of too many hours in the sun. Twenty-five years ago, this woman made the guys do a double take whenever she walked by."

Allison scrunched up her nose. Light freckles sprinkled across her fair cheeks. "She doesn't look like a bathing beauty to me," she said.

"Not now, she doesn't," Dan said. His gloved hands moved across the sleeping woman's face, feeling the muscle structure below the skin. "Beth married a farmer and worked beside him in the fields from dawn to dusk. Believe me, she's earned every one of these wrinkles." He gently tugged the skin to see the effect.

"I take it she's going for the full-meal deal," Steve said.

"Can you blame her?" Dan asked. Picking up a blue marker, he deftly drew a line at the scalp starting behind one ear, over the brow and ending behind the other ear. Allison handed him a syringe filled with epinephrine, and the procedure began.

Dan continued to talk while he worked. He'd performed this same surgery so often that his fingers moved automatically, like someone tying shoes. "The way I see it, Beth deserves a treat. Her husband was Scrooge incarnate. She had to do bookkeeping on the side just to keep herself in decent clothing and to get her hair done every now and then."

With the hands of a delicate artist, he worked the Metzenbaum scissors to loosen the skin from underlying tissues.

"Why's he shelling out money for this operation now?" Allison asked, her words covering the soft beeps of the monitor. "Did he finally get a life or something?"

Dan leaned forward, intent on his work. "He didn't get one. He lost one. Her husband was Peter Martin. He got trampled by his bull a month back." He lifted the instrument and glanced at the nurse. "In spite of all his faults, he carried a decent life-insurance policy. Our dear Beth is pretty well off, and I'm glad for her. She deserves to get her beauty back."

"Speaking of beauty," Steve said, "how's Jessica Meyers?"

Dan paused. "Fine. Why do you ask?"

A knowing chuckle came from behind Allison's mask. Dan ignored her and continued his careful snipping.

His eyes active above his mask, Steve shot a glance at Dan. "No reason. I saw both of you last night. You were sitting at a cozy table for two near the front window of the Glover Street Café. I suppose you were 'counseling' her for post-traumatic stress syndrome. At eleven P.M."

Dan took his time over Beth's left temple. "We met at the hockey game and decided to have a snack." He laid down the scissors. "Look, don't make a case out of it. She went through a very scary experience and has some lingering issues. I do have training in psychology, you know. She needed a friendly ear, and I let her borrow mine."

Steve adjusted a knob. "That friendly ear hasn't hurt your client base any. Cruch is starting to complain about you pulling in all the big names. In the past, high-profile patients have always asked for him."

Dan paused to let the comment register. Jessica Meyers had been the doctor's big break. Two years ago he'd been covering a shift for a friend at Vancouver General Hospital when paramedics rushed Jessica into Emergency. Her face had been mangled in a nasty car accident. At first glance, Dan hadn't recognized the face all Vancouver knew. Using a publicity photo from the TV station, Dan worked miracles that night. Today, Jessica had minor scarring that makeup could hide. Without Dan, her TV career would have been over. And she wasn't shy about spreading that fact around to her friends.

"You shouldn't listen to office gossip," Dan said as he laced the first fine suture. "Last week Dr. Cruch and I had a friendly talk over lunch. We both want this clinic to offer premium care. I told him he could check up on my work anytime."

"You did?" Allison asked.

"Sure. He's the senior surgeon in this clinic. I value his input."

"Yeah, right," Steve said.

"Let me translate that for you, children," Dan said. "I don't need him mad at me, so I thought I'd best be a little humble."

"Now you're speaking English," Steve said.

Twist and pull. Tug and clip. The sutures went in with precision and grace in time with the beeping monitor. Dan's large hands had an easy nimbleness that made him a natural at this type of delicate surgery. Dan Foster was a master craftsman.

"What do you think of the Giant's chances against the Cougars on Friday?" he asked, veering the conversation toward safer topics as he moved down to tighten Beth's sagging neck. The conversation stayed light until the last stitch lay in place.

Pulling off his gloves, the surgeon stepped back, satisfied. "Take her to recovery," he told Allison after she withdrew the tube. "I'll check on her in an hour or so."

Dan left the operating room and entered the empty doctor's lounge. He pulled off his scrubs, bundled them into a ball and slam-dunked them into the laundry hamper. He went to his locker, pulled on his street clothes, and snatched a bottle of pills from his locker shelf, dropping it into his coat pocket.

Two minutes later, he stepped out of the heavy door that barred the public from the surgery wing, on the way to his next appointment. His long legs stretching out, Dan headed down the hall to the three-story office section of the clinic. A portly man dressed in white coveralls held the elevator door open for him.

"Going up, Doctor?"

Dan glanced at the man in the elevator and shook his head. "No thanks, Sam," he said, heading instead to the left toward the staircase. After bounding up three flights to the third floor, he pushed open the solid oak door to his office. He smiled at his receptionist, a brunette with dancing green eyes.

"Hi, Connie," he said, not the slightest bit winded from his jog up the stairs.

Connie smiled. "Your appointment is in Room B."

Dan picked up his office laptop from its shelf, tucked it under his arm, and strode to the examining-room door. He swiped a sheet of paper from a plastic tray bolted there, scanning down the form to glean medical history and other pertinent details. This was the first time he'd seen this girl. Interestingly, she had the same rare blood type as he did: O negative.

He pushed open the door to see a rail-thin girl about fourteen years old sitting rigidly on the short examining table. Her gangly legs barely touched the step at the end of the black table. She had stringy blond hair, and her narrow lips formed a straight line. Lumpy scar tissue covered the right side of her face. The paper said that her face had been burned when she was five years old. Whoever had done the emergency care should have been sued.

Next to the window, a massive woman in a blue polka-dot tent dress draped herself over a blue plastic chair. Her gray hair was pulled tightly into a bun; dark-rimmed glasses framed a round face. She stood when Dan walked in. "Dr. Foster," she said, holding out pudgy fingers. "I'm Marion Burke, Chelsea's foster mother." Dan shook her hand. "Please, sit down," he said. Foster mother? Social services didn't pay for plastic surgery. He glanced at the page again and saw his brother's name listed as the referral. Another charity case, he thought. Cruch will have kittens. Oh well, they'd talk money after he examined the girl.

He held out his hand to the patient. "Hi, Chelsea. I'm Dr. Foster."

She rolled her eyes to look up at him but kept her chin planted firmly on her chest. "Hi," she mumbled and took his hand in a listless grip.

Dan wasn't sure which he was more concerned about, her face or her size. She wore a tight, belly-out T-shirt that showed the clear outline of a few ribs. Chelsea had to be at least ten pounds under weight, a possible sign of an eating disorder.

He placed the laptop on the counter and opened its lid. For the next few minutes, the doctor asked questions and typed information into Chelsea's new file. Finally the history was finished, and he stood up.

"Mind if I take a look at your cheek?" he asked.

Chelsea didn't answer.

Dan gently touched her chin and turned her face to a better angle. Using his penlight, he carefully examined the scarring. He touched the jagged ridges of flesh bordering the burn and ran his fingers along the fiery skin. Other than the burn, she had fine features and should have been a nice-looking girl. But her face was an emergency-room hatchet job followed up by a careless surgeon. Still, Dan could fix it. He'd fixed worse.

"Thanks, Chelsea," Dan said a moment later. "How about taking a seat in the hall while I talk with Marion?"

She slid off the table and shuffled across the white tile to the door. Her fingers lightly around the door handle, she paused and turned toward him. A tear rolled down her scarred cheek. "I don't want to be ugly anymore."

Dan smiled. "Just wait outside."

Chelsea left the room.

He leaned against the examining table and turned to Ms. Burke. "What's her story?" he asked.

Ms. Burke's face tightened with suppressed emotion. "I've had Chelsea since she was five years old. I picked her up at the hospital after she was treated for that burn."

"How did she get it?" Dan asked, moving back to his rolling stool.

Marion's voice sounded stiff. "Her mother was drunk and angry. She branded Chelsea with an iron."

Dan forced his face to remain cool and professional, but inside he seethed.

"That was just the beginning of Chelsea's pain," Marion continued. "Since the first day she stepped into kindergarten, Chelsea has lived with cruel teasing. It's gotten worse since she became a teen. . .so bad that. . . "

"Go on," Dan said.

Marion Burke took a deep breath. "Two weeks ago Chelsea tried to slit her wrists. I caught her just in time." She looked up at him, her face set. "Chelsea and I barely get by from paycheck to paycheck, but if we can work out a payment plan, I'll pay whatever is needed over time. Chelsea needs help."

"Have you asked Social Services for assistance?"

Marion turned up the corner of her mouth. "Oh yeah. All they're willing to do is pay for counseling to help Chelsea cope with her situation. But I'm sorry, counseling just isn't going to cut it."

Dan put his hand to his chin. "I see my brother Mike referred you to me. How do you know him?"

"We go to the same church."

The word "church" struck a sour cord. Though he knew the answer, Dan couldn't resist asking. "Have you asked the church for help?"

Marion bit down on her lip, and her jaw tightened. "Yes."

"And what did they say?"

"The pastor said plastic surgery is controversial and he'd rather not make an open appeal."

Dan smirked. "In other words‹nothing." His saintly Aunt Elinor had the same opinion of plastic surgery and never missed an opportunity to point out he was wasting his God-given talents.

"Oh no," Marion said. "The pastor donated five hundred himself, and he's by no means a rich man. Another two hundred came from an anonymous donor."

That took a bit of wind out of Dan's sails, though he had a pretty good idea his brother was the anonymous donor.

Dan sat on the stool and rolled within a couple of feet of Marion. "Those funds will cover Chelsea's personal expenses during her surgery. You keep it for that."

Marion's jaw dropped. "Really?"

"Yeah," Dan said. "Really."

"Why are you doing this?"

Dan looked at the closed door leading to the waiting room. "I have my reasons." He turned to Marion. "So, who gives her the good news? Me or you?"

"You do it," she said.

Dan opened the door and looked to the left where Chelsea sat in the wide hallway. "Chelsea," he called, "come in, please."

She shuffled into the room, turning her head to hide her face from him as she passed. She'd probably spent every day since her tragedy walking with her face obscured. Dan touched her shoulder, turned her around, and lifted her chin toward him. "What are you doing for the Christmas holidays?" he asked, smiling gently.

She refused to look up at him. "Nothing."

"Good," Dan said. "Because that's when we're going to start working on your face."

Her eyes wide as saucers, Chelsea's gaze met his. "Really?"

"Absolutely," Dan said. "I have to warn you, though. This is going to take some time. I may have to do some grafting and finish the work with a laser. More than likely, with the help of makeup, no one will be able to tell one side of your face from the other when we're through."

Chelsea stared at him, her mouth hanging open.

"My office manager will call you," Dan said. He picked up the laptop and strode out.

Outside, he paused at Connie's desk. "Book the operating room for whenever the kids get out of school for Christmas break. Ask Steve and Allison if they'll volunteer to assist."

"Yes, Doctor," Connie said.

Dan slid his slim computer into its cubbyhole and headed back toward the surgery wing. Beth Martin should be awake by now. He had to check on her. He quickstepped down the stairs and headed for the recovery room.

In the hall outside the recovery room door, Dan saw the back of a slender woman with long, shimmering blond hair. It was Amy Creighton, Beth's ward. At Beth's urging, he'd taken Amy to dinner a few times, but nothing ever came of it.

When he reached her, Amy flinched and jerked around. Fear clouded her blue eyes and drew back her full lips.

Dan touched her elbow. "Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down."

Blushing, she drew away, her face down. Her words came breathy and fast. "I'm sorry, Dr. Foster. I'm a little jumpy, I guess. Maybe I'm worried about Aunt Beth."

Amy had lost her parents in a car wreck fifteen years ago. Peter and Beth Martin had taken her in and raised her. After so much trauma at age thirteen, losing Peter had probably revived old fears.

"Beth's doing fine." Dan told her, smiling. "Once the swelling goes down, she'll be a new lady. You won't be able to hold her back."

"I hope so," she said.

"You've both had a rough time lately. I hope this surgery opens a new chapter for each of you."

"Is it okay if I come in while you talk to her?"

"Please do. You should hear the post-op instructions so you can help her."

"If she'll let me," she said. "You know Aunt Beth; she helps everyone else, but no one helps her."

Dan pulled open the door, and Amy passed through. Closing the door, he turned to see Beth across the room. Six beds lined the walls, but only two were occupied. Beth's narrow bed had its top end elevated to forty-five degrees. Twin ice packs lay on each side of her face.

Dan passed the bed of a Japanese woman whose husband had a video camera going nonstop to catch every angle of her swollen face.

Dan drew near Beth's side. "How are you feeling?" he asked, raising the ice packs for a glance. She looked like a boxer on the losing side of a bout.

Her voice sounded muffled. "Like I've been run over by a tractor."

Gently replacing the ice packs, he said, "You'll have to take it easy for a couple of weeks until the swelling goes down. Come back next Wednesday so I can take a peek at your progress.

The stitches should have dissolved by then." He jotted something on her chart.

"You'll be in some discomfort," he continued. "I'd suggest Tylenol or Advil for pain. Stay sitting up for a couple of weeks, even when you sleep. The worst thing that can happen is for blood to pool under the skin and form a hematoma to distort the work I've done. Use that comfortable old recliner you've got in your living room."

"It's gone," Beth said. "It was Peter's chair."

Dan lifted his eyebrows. Usually a widow held onto her husband's most-loved possessions. Then again, with the way Peter had treated her, his death might have come as a relief.

"We'll get a new recliner," Amy said, saving Beth the trouble of talking.

Dan dug into his coat pocket for the bottle of pills from his locker. "I want you to take this antibiotic as a preventative measure. The directions are on the bottle. You're not taking any other medication, are you?"

"Just allergy medicine," Beth said.

"That won't be a problem." He set the bottle on her stand and glanced at his watch. "You've got my home number if you have any questions."

Beth nodded and let her eyes close.

With a nod to Amy, Dan hurried from the room. Two steps into the hall, Amy called from behind him, "Can I talk to you?"

Just then, Dr. Cruch passed by them. The elderly doctor nodded briefly toward Dan but didn't break his stride as he unlocked a nearby supply room and disappeared inside.

Dan turned his attention to the smooth oval face of the young woman beside him. "What is it, Amy?"

She looked up at him. "Why don't you. . .and um. . .your brother and aunt have Thanksgiving dinner with us?" she asked. "Beth would want me to invite you."

Dan touched the penlight in his shirt pocket. Thanksgiving in the United States was a celebration of American heritage held in late November. In Canada the holiday was held in October and meant to be a time set aside to thank God for his blessings‹though it had long since lost that religious meaning to most people. Still, Dan liked the Canadian version of the holiday; celebrating it in October seemed to stretch out the festive season until Christmas just a bit longer.

"Let's see. Aunt Elinor said something about going away to visit friends for the holiday. That means the choice for Mike and me is frozen dinners alone at home or turkey dinner with you and Beth. And that's a no-brainer. We'll be there."

"Great," she said, her eyes lingering on his face for a moment before turning back to the recovery room.

Smiling, Dan hurried to his next appointment.

About the Authors...

Rosey Dow is the author of the Christy Award-winning mystery Reaping the Whirlwind. Rosey, who with her husband was for many years, a missionary to Granada, has also written Em's Only Chance, Eyes of the Heart, Lisa's Broken Arrow, and Megan's Choice.

Andrew Snaden is a Certified General Accountant who lives on an 80-acre farm in Prince George, British Columbia, Canada. Andrew has written articles for Christian magazines such as ON MISSION, THE EVANGELICAL BEACON, and LIVE. Betrayed is his first published novel. Andrew and his wife have one daughter.

Rosey and Andrew met through an internet Christian writer's group. They are currently working on a romantic mystery about Canadian firefighters. Theirs is strictly an internet relationship. They have never met in person.