Текст книги "Wedding The Highlander"

Автор книги: Джанет Чапмен

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Libby was confused by his reaction. “It’s on the mantel,” she said, heading into the living room. “It’s about two feet long, it’s thick, and it looks very old.”

Daar all but ran over her trying to get to the mantel first.

Libby jumped up onto the bottom hearth to get the stick, but it wasn’t there. She looked down at Daar, who was wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot.

“Well?” he said, excitedly. “Where is it?”

“I—er—it was right here. Michael,” she shouted to the kitchen. “Did you move the stick when you decorated last night? Where did you put it?”

Michael stepped back from the stove to look into the living room. “It wasn’t on the mantel last night,” he said softly.

“Where is it?” Daar repeated, going through the living room and looking in every nook and cranny. He stopped and glared at Libby. “Tell me again exactly what it looked like.

Was it this long?” he asked, holding his hands two feet apart. “And thick, ya say? Did it have burls all through it?”

Libby jumped down from the hearth. “Yes. It was riddled with knots. But I don’t know where it is, Father. The last time I saw it, it was sitting on the mantel.”

“And MacBain knew it was there?” he asked harshly, coming to stand in front of her.

“He saw it when Mary brought it to ya?”

“Y-yes. He’s the one who put it on the mantel.”

Libby followed Daar’s gaze as he stared into the kitchen. Michael was stirring the eggs in the fryimg pan, not paying them the least bit of attention.

“Why are you so frantic about that stick, Father? It’s only an old piece of cherrywood.”

“It’s my staff,” he said softly, his eyes misting and his expression pained. “I lost it more than eight years ago and only realized it still existed five years ago. I’ve been searching for it since then.”

“Your staff?” Libby whispered in awe. “Can it do what your cane can? Like when I held it?”

He shook his head. “Nay, it’s far more powerful than that,” he said in a reverent whisper. “It’s more than fifteen hundred years old. And MacBain knows where it is,” he said, darting a glare toward Michael, then looking back at her, shaking his head. “He’s hidden it from me. He knows the power it holds.”

Libby was growing more intrigued by the minute.

And a mite scared.

“Michael knows you’re a wizard?”

“Of course he does,” Daar said. “Why do ya think he’s hidden my staff?”

“Why?”

“Because, like the MacKeage, he doesn’t want me to have the power.”

“What power?” Libby asked, getting more annoyed and even more confused. “What is he afraid of? And what MacKeage? Do you mean Greylen? What’s he got to do with this?”

Daar snapped his mouth shut and stomped into the kitchen. He picked up his thin cherrywood cane and strode over to the coat pegs. He put on his coat, walked to the door, but stopped and pointed his cane at Michael.

“Ya destroy that piece of wood, MacBain, and I won’t rest until ya’re burning in hell.

Robbie won’t stay a child forever, and then I’ll be free to plague ya.”

He turned and pointed at Libby.

Michael silently stepped between them.

But Daar spoke anyway. “Ya talk him into giving me back my staff, girl, or ya just might be joining him.”

That said, Daar turned and walked out the door, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

Silence settled over the kitchen.

“W-were we just cursed?” Libby whispered, rubbing her arms as she hugged herself against the sudden chill of the room.

Michael turned to her. “Nay. He’s a priest. He’s unable to condemn anyone. People can only do that to themselves.”

“Why won’t you give him his staff back?”

“Because it’s better for all of us if he doesn’t ever get his hands on it. His power is only as good as his staff, and as long as Daar has only that thin cane, we are safe.”

“Safe? Michael, what are you talking about? What are you afraid of?”

He said nothing, only stared at her with deep, unreadable gray eyes. Libby hugged herself tighter, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach. Michael stepped forward, and Libby stepped back. But he reached out and pulled her into his arms, held her tightly against him, and rested his chin on her head.

“I’ll make a deal with ya, lass. When ya’re ready to tell me what happened to that woman and boy back in California, I’ll tell ya why Daar must never get back his power.”

“That’s blackmail,” she muttered into his chest.

“Nay,” he said with a sigh, nearly crushing her. “That’s just how things are. Secrets have no place between us, Libby. As long as they exist, they have the power to hurt us.”

“I can’t… I have to think about it, Michael.”

His arms tightened around her. “Shhh. It’s okay, lass. I can be patient.” He pulled back and smiled down at her.

“But can you?”

“Maybe I won’t wait for you to tell me your secrets,” she said sassily, trying to lighten the mood. “I intend to find out who made my bed, and then I’m going to find out what you and Greylen MacKeage are hiding. I’m a surgeon, remember? We’re very good at putting puzzles together.”

“Then make sure ya put one more piece into your puzzle,” he told her softly, tapping the end of her nose.

“Why would Mary bring the staff to you instead of to me or Greylen?”

And with those cryptic words, Michael kissed her soundly on the mouth, grabbed his jacket off the peg, and headed out the door—closing it softly behind him.

Libby stared at the curtain floating back into place and wondered if their date was still on for tonight. She looked up with a sigh and sighed again when she saw all the stars.

They did go on their date, and over the next two weeks, they spent quite a bit of time together. Libby and Michael and Robbie and John quietly slipped into the comfortable routine of having dinner together every night. Sometimes they ate at Libby’s house, and sometimes Libby went to theirs and cooked.

And every night after dinner, Michael would either stay and help her do the dishes and make love to her, or he’d walk her back to her house and make love to her.

Libby had discovered two things about the man; he really was romantic, and he could keep a secret better than the Pentagon.

It was Thanksgiving morning, and she was no closer to finding out who’d made her bed and even more stymied by whatever else it was that Michael was hiding.

And as much as she hated to admit it, Daar was right. Secrets took energy, both to keep and to uncover. Libby had been going nuts for the last two weeks. The only time she hadn’t been dwelling on what Michael was keeping from her was when they were both naked, in bed, making love.

But, as nice as that was, it wasn’t enough.

And therein lay her dilemma. Michael had the patience of Job. He hadn’t asked her again what had happened in California, and it was confounding to Libby how he seemed to be able to set the problem aside and get on with the business of life.

She’d hunted everywhere for that blasted cherrywood staff and worried that Michael might have destroyed it already. She even caught herself walking into the woods and calling Mary’s name, crazily thinking she actually could talk to the bird. But Mary was keeping to herself lately; only Robbie mentioned seeing her, and even then only on rare occasions.

When she wasn’t trying to uncover Michael’s secret, Libby was dwelling on her own. He might know about staffs and wizards and magical powers—which was mind-boggling in itself—but how would he react if he learned that the woman he’d been messing up the sheets with was a freak?

Fear came to mind. Would Michael fear her? He didn’t seem to be afraid of Daar. But then, he knew Daar was somewhat powerless at the moment and was making damn sure the old priest stayed that way.

Daar hadn’t been back since the morning he’d stormed out in anger. That was fine with Libby; she was a little mad at him herself.

“I hope these taste better than they look,” Kate said, carrying a tray of doughnuts into the Christmas shop. “Their holes closed up, and the glaze soaked right into them.”

“I think we were supposed to let them cool before we dipped them,” Libby said, taking the tray and setting it on the counter.

Her mom had arrived home yesterday. Ian had driven to Bangor to pick up Kate and had joined them for dinner last night at Libby’s. The Scot had “taken a shine” to Kate, according to her mother, who also had admitted to Libby that the feeling was mutual.

Now, there was a match that proved opposites attract.

“Wasn’t it nice of Michael to let you sell your jewelry in his shop?” Kate said, fussing with the necklaces on the bare branch Robbie had cut for them. “And after Christmas, we can see about finally getting your studio opened.”

Libby snorted. “Michael is getting twenty-percent commission and free counter help at the same time.”

“And you’re getting your product seen,” Kate returned warmly. “People are going to grab these up for Christmas presents.” She fingered one of the birds, a bright red cardinal male. “This would be nice with a green velvet blouse. Will you make me one to wear at our Christmas party?”

“We’re having a party?”

Kate turned and frowned. “Of course we are. We’ll invite all the MacKeages, the Dolans, Michael, Robbie, John, and Father Daar.” Excitement lighting her eyes, she walked around the counter, found a pen and paper, and started writing. “Let’s plan the menu. It should be simple and tasteful. Do you think we can get lobster this time of year?” she asked, looking up at Libby. “And when should we have it? Christmas Eve or a few days before?”

“Mom, we’re going to be too busy to have a party. This is Michael’s working season. We

’re going to be in this shop from daylight until after dark every day, including Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Kate said, waving that away. “I can plan a party with my eyes closed.

Now, we’ll need to find a florist.” She stopped suddenly, biting the end of her pencil and thinking. “Would sending invitations in the mail be too uppity? They are our friends. Maybe just asking them would be more personal.”

Libby had learned a long time ago that it was much easier just to go along with her mother when Kate got a bee up her skirt about something. And parties, for Kate, were the thing of friendships.

“Asking them in person would probably be better,” Libby agreed as she returned to decorating the ten-foot Douglas fir Michael had set up in the center of his shop.

It was absolutely beautiful—one of his prize trees, Libby was guessing. One she’d managed to miss with her car. It hadn’t been rigidly trimmed this past summer, and the ends of the branches were soft and curving slightly downward, giving it a natural look.

Libby had never thought much about where Christmas trees came from; she’d just gone to the local sales lot and picked out whichever one caught her fancy. She now knew that it took plenty of work and planning and a good deal of artistry to grow them. And patience—which Michael seemed to have in spades. He’d told her this tree was twelve years old, a long time to wait for a return on an investment. Yes, growing Christmas trees took time, care, worry, and skill, as well as a nurturing instinct.

Michael had plenty of that, too.

God save her, she really was falling in love with him. And just as Grace MacKeage had predicted, he was driving her crazy. But it was such a nice, warm, and fuzzy kind of crazy Libby was all but bursting with joy.

“Oh, here come our first customers,” Kate said excitedly, looking out the window at the car driving up.

A man, a woman, and six kids got out. The children, ranging in age from about ten down to two, hit the ground running, headed for the closest field of Christmas trees. The woman captured the toddler, picked her up, and slowly started after the brood. The man, his expression resigned, came into the shop.

Kate smoothed down her hair and perked up, her smile warm and inviting. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Do you need a saw?”

“I do,” he answered, eyeing Kate suspiciously as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ah, where’s John?”

Kate sobered. “He’s spending the day with the Pottses, and having Thanksgiving dinner with them,” she told him. “We were all worried today might be hard for him… without Ellen.”

The man nodded. “That’s good, then. Ellen was the foundation of this place.” He eyed the doughnuts and frowned, looking back at Kate. “And you would be?” he asked.

“Oh. I’m Kate Hart,” she said, and then waved her hand toward Libby. “And this is my daughter, Libby Hart,” she added.

The man turned, and Libby smiled in greeting.

“Libby Hart?” he repeated. “You the doctor I heard about, living in Mary Sutter’s place?”

Libby wasn’t sure how to respond, so she nodded mutely.

“Are you going to hang out a shingle in town?” he asked. “We’ve been trying to get a doctor here for years now.”

“I-I’m a surgeon, Mr… .?”

His face tinged red. “Sorry,” he said, nodding to both Libby and Kate. “Alan Brewer. I own the welding shop in town.”

“Mr. Brewer,” Libby acknowledged. “I’m not really trained in general medicine. I worked in a trauma center.”

“We got trauma cases here,” he said, suddenly looking even more interested. “Most work in these parts is dangerous, what with the mills and logging operations, not to mention the rugged terrain. I’ve seen it happen that a person’s had to wait more than an hour to be airlifted all the way to Bangor. A few have even died before help arrived.”

Again, Libby didn’t know how to respond. But she’d bet a penny the next time an accident happened, she’d be getting a call. Well, that was okay, she supposed. She couldn’t in good conscience refuse to help when she might be able to save someone’s life.

She probably should think about throwing together a triage kit and carrying it in her truck.

“Here’s the saw, Mr. Brewer,” Kate said, handing it across the counter, smartly saving Libby from having to respond.

“And when you’re done, bring your children in for doughnuts. We have hot cocoa and warm cider for them, too, and coffee for you and your wife.”

“It’ll probably take a while,” he said with a pained sigh, handing his money to Kate and taking the saw. “Last year, we were in the field for nearly an hour. I swear, everyone’s got an opinion on what a tree should look like. I’ll see you a bit later, then. Missus Kate.

Doc Libby,” he said with a nod to each of them, tucking the saw under his arm and leaving to catch up with his family.

“Well, that was… ”

“Awkward?” Libby finished for her mom, groaning heavily. “I guess word’s out that Pine Creek has a new doctor in residence.”

“I’d forgotten what small-town life was like,” Kate said.

“Libby, you know you’re going to get called if there’s a bad accident, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I can see that. Lord, are people going to be calling me Doc Libby now?”

Well, it seemed that they were and that Kate’s reminder of small-town life would be proven true. At least, every other person trooping through the Christmas shop that day

–and there must have been fifty—knew a doctor had moved into town. Heck, people from out of town knew and asked questions, their eyes filled with hope and a good deal of relief.

By closing time, both Libby and Kate were beat ragged from smiling and fielding questions, making cocoa and coffee, giving opinions on customers’ choices of the perfect tree, and apologizing for the sad condition of their doughnuts. And in between all that, Libby had to keep running into the house and basting the turkey, peeling vegetables, and setting the table for their own Thanksgiving feast.

Michael spent his day loading yet three more tractor-trailers with trees headed out of state, so he wasn’t much help to Kate and Libby. Neither was Robbie, who had been given the duty of counting every tree being loaded. And Ian MacKeage, when he wasn’t inside eating doughnuts and teasing Kate, was outdoors, binding the fat Christmas trees and helping to load them on top of cars and trucks so they could be lugged home.

At seven o’clock, they were finally sitting at the table, ready to feast on a twenty-pound turkey, everyone dog tired and hungry as a bear.

And that was when the phone rang, and Kate’s prediction was made a reality, when Michael walked back to the table and quietly told Libby that both Alan Brewer and his oldest son had just fallen off the roof of their house.

Chapter Twenty-two

Libby sat on the passenger sideof Michael’s truck, staring sightlessly at the landscape passing by in a blur, thinking how she was used to dealing with victims after the paramedics had already done their jobs. And although she had gone on many ambulance runs during her training, it had been a while since she’d had to do triage at the scene of an accident.

And dammit, she didn’t have anything to work with.

“What were they thinking, to let a child up on the roof of a house?” she asked for the fifth time. “And I don’t have any equipment. You’re sure they called the ambulance?”

Michael reached over and covered her wringing hands. “Your knowledge is what’s needed. And the ambulance has been called, but it’s forty miles away, coming from the other end of the lake.”

“My knowledge means squat without equipment. What were they thinking?” she repeated.

Michael squeezed her hands and then had to downshift and concentrate on taking the corner without killing them both. He was driving fast but not recklessly.

“Kids grow up quick here, lass,” he said as he shifted and accelerated the truck out of the curve. “We can’t afford to keep them sheltered, or they’ll get into even more trouble as teenagers.” He looked over and smiled. “It’s not wise to wait until a boy’s grown to put a chain saw in his hand for the first time. Or set him on a snowmobile or let him shoot a rifle. We begin young, when we have the advantage of supervision.”

Libby started wringing her hands again. “Ha—has Robbie used a chain saw?” she whispered, fighting back the picture that rose in her mind. “And shot a rifle?”

“Aye, Libby. Under my supervision.”

“But he’s not even nine.”

“If he’s big enough to lift a tool, he needs to know how it works in an emergency.”

“A gun’s not a tool.”

Michael gave her a bit longer, more assessing look, as if he were trying to judge her mood. “But it is a tool, lass,” he softly countered. “Which is why I’ve seen that Robbie knows the business end of a gun. When he was only three, I froze a gallon jug of water and shot it. He was properly horrified when it exploded, to realize what would happen to a person.”

Libby was properly horrified now.

“Libby,” Michael said with an impatient sigh, “Robbie visits friends now that he’s in school. And just about every house in this area has a hunting rifle in it. I need to be sure he understands what could happen if his friend wants to impress him by showing off his daddy’s gun.”

“He should just run like hell and find an adult.”

“He will,” Michael assured her. “Believe me, that was my first rule. We’re here,” he said, pulling into a driveway.

Libby was out of the truck before Michael could shut it off, running to the gathering of people at the side of the house.

Worried, helpless, and relieved stares greeted her, along with Mrs. Brewer, holding her two-year-old daughter, tears running down both of their cheeks.

“Please. Help him,” she whispered hoarsely. “Al-Alan’s hurt bad. I-I think his back is broken.”

Libby immediately put on her reassuring doctor’s face and smiled at Mrs. Brewer. “I’ll do what I can,” she promised, turning away and going over to the small group of people kneeling and standing beside the fallen man.

She quickly scanned the area for a second victim but saw only Alan Brewer. “I was told there were two,” she said to the small crowd. “Where’s the boy?”

“He’s here,” somebody offered, moving to reveal the child. He was sitting up, leaning against a woman, holding his arm cradled against his chest, his face smudged with dirt and tears. Other than a possible broken arm, he appeared okay.

Libby knelt beside Alan Brewer, thankful to see he was conscious. “Alan,” she said, holding his head still when he tried to look toward her. “Tell me where you hurt.”

“His back,” an unseen voice said from among the onlookers.

“I want Alan to tell me. Where does it hurt, Alan?”

“My back,” he repeated gutturally.

“But where on your back? Up by your shoulders or lower, nearer your waist?”

“Low,” he hissed. “And my… my left shoulder,” he growled, closing his eyes.

Libby could see that his left shoulder was dislocated, but it was his back that worried her the most.

“He tried to catch Darren when he slipped,” somebody said, kneeling on the other side of Alan. “But the ladder gave way, and he twisted as they fell in order to protect Darren.

His son landed on top of him.”

Libby assumed Darren was the boy with the broken arm.

“We haven’t moved him,” somebody else said. “That’s the way he landed.”

Libby thanked God for that small miracle, absently nodding. She could see that Alan Brewer was in a lot of pain and starting to show signs of shock. Dammit, where was the ambulance?

Her training was useless without equipment to stabilize him, without IVs, a backboard, and a neck brace. Hell, she didn’t even have a stethoscope to listen for internal bleeding.

Libby cupped Alan’s face and leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. “Just take slow, easy breaths,” she told him softly. “Focus only on me. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“Darren,” he said with a harsh growl.

“He’s fine,” Libby told him, still whispering in his ear.

“He’s sitting up and is fine. Listen to me, Alan. I want you to concentrate on my hands.

Can you feel my hands on your face?”

“Y-yes.”

“They’re going to feel warm. Concentrate on the heat. Let the warmth travel through your body, all the way down your back.”

Libby closed her own eyes, focusing all of her energy on Alan Brewer. Color immediately lit her mind’s eye, a swirling, turbulent mass of black and red and churning blue. Her heart started to beat with pounding throbs, and Libby realized it was Alan’s heartbeat she felt. Pain assaulted her in waves. Tension racked her senses.

“Let me in, Alan,” she whispered. “I can help you.”

The colors swirled in angry chaos, howling through his body and into hers. Alan’s fierce emotions kept lashing out at her, blocking her from reaching his injury. For nearly five minutes, Libby tried to get him to let her in, whispering words of encouragement, entreating him to open his mind. And each time, the colors swirled, and his injury danced just out of her reach.

Strong, warm, powerful, and familiar hands took hold of her trembling shoulders, and Libby renewed her effort. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach Alan’s broken vertebra.

A siren sounded in the distance and slowly drew closer, until it finally came to a sudden halt behind her. Voices penetrated the fog of her mind, and Libby sat back on her knees and let go of Alan’s face.

Michael lifted her to her feet, wrapped his arms around her body, and hugged her.

“Your equipment’s here, lass,” he whispered as he tucked her head under his chin and tightened his arms, as if trying to still her trembling body with his own.

The paramedics, loaded down with equipment, rushed in. And for a full two minutes, Libby became an onlooker—until her training overrode her shock. She pulled away from Michael, knelt down beside Alan, and started issuing orders to the paramedics. But she stopped the minute she realized they were staring at her.

“She’s a trauma doctor,” Michael said with quiet authority, moving to kneel beside her.

And from that moment on, she was, using her years of training to guide the two men and one woman as they all worked as a team to stabilize Alan Brewer. An IV was started; he was carefully placed on a backboard and immobilized, then loaded onto the gurney and placed in the ambulance. Libby spoke on the radio to an attending physician in Bangor and was told a helicopter already had been dispatched.

She gave a few more orders to the paramedics, grabbed one of the medical kits, went over to young Darren Brewer, and knelt in front of him. She smiled and brushed a tear off his dirty cheek. “I’m Doc Libby, Darren. Remember me from the Christmas tree shop this morning?”

He wiped another tear himself and then pointed at his left arm. “I-I fell,” he whispered.

“Can I see where you hurt yourself?” she whispered back. “Your hand makes a good splint, but I think I can make you a better one.”

With worried, pain-filled, and skeptical young eyes, the boy slowly nodded and let go of his injured arm.

Libby smiled at the woman holding Darren. “Why don’t you let Michael take over now?” she suggested. “He’ll hold him steady for me.”

Looking just as alarmed as Darren by Libby’s remark, the woman hesitantly nodded and moved out of the way so Michael could take her place behind the boy.

“What were you doing on the roof?” Libby asked as she used scissors to cut Darren’s shirt carefully away from his arm. “No, let me guess,” she continued, keeping up a steady stream of distracting chatter. “I see Christmas lights hanging off the eave. You were decorating the house, weren’t you?”

He nodded and sucked in his breath the moment she exposed his arm. It was broken between his elbow and his wrist, but the bone hadn’t pierced the flesh.

Libby let out a long and appreciative whistle. “That’s quite a bruise you’ve got there,”

she said in awe, smiling at him. “If it were me, I’d be wailing my head off.”

“You’re a girl,” Darren said.

Libby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I guess that’s why I’d be hollering and you’re not.”

“Is my daddy going to be okay?” he asked, darting a look at the ambulance.

“He’ll be fine, Darren. But he is hurt, so we’re going to keep him in the ambulance until the helicopter gets here.”

“Am—am I going to ride in the helicopter?” he asked.

Libby cupped his face with her hands and shook her head with a rueful smile. “Sorry, chum. Not this time.”

He pulled his gaze away from the ambulance and stared up at her. Libby darted a quick look at Michael and then looked back at the boy.

“Close your eyes, Darren,” she whispered. “And think about something nice. Do you have a pet?”

“I got Bingo,” he said, tightly closing his eyes.

Libby kept one hand on his chin and placed her other hand over the break in his arm.

“And is Bingo a cat?” she asked.

“Naw. He’s a dog. Ow,” he hissed, flinching.

“Shhh. It’s okay, Darren. It’s only heat you’re feeling, not pain.”

“Your hands are really warm,” he quietly agreed, looking down at his arm.

Libby lifted his chin so he would look at her. “I’m not positive your arm is broken, Darren. I’m hoping it’s just a bad bruise. Now, close your eyes again and think about Bingo. Did you get him as a puppy?”

But Libby didn’t hear Darren’s answer if he gave one. Already, her mind’s eye was traveling through his body. She felt his rapid, anxious breathing and his young heartbeat racing with fear. She found his broken bone, pulsing with color, and began to repair it mentally. The break slowly knitted together, the blood vessels stopped leaking, and the swelling eased ever so slightly.

She was just pulling out of his body when Libby noticed something else—an irregularity in Darren’s heartbeat, a backwash from one valve. And so she stopped and concentrated and repaired it while she was there. She opened her eyes, lifted Darren’s chin, and smiled at him.

“You’re a very lucky boy. It’s only a bit bruised,” she said, looking over at Mrs. Brewer, who was now kneeling beside her. “A little Tylenol if he complains,” Libby told her.

“And he’ll be good to go in a day or two.”

“It-it’s not broken?” the woman asked, softly touching Darren’s arm.

“No. The swelling will go down quickly, once we get some ice on it,” she said, taking an ice pack out of the kit, breaking the seal to mix the ingredients, and then carefully placing it over Darren’s arm. “I think he’s more shaken than hurt.”

Some of the tension eased from the woman’s face. “And Alan?” she asked. “He’ll be okay, too?”

Libby nodded. “He will,” she assured her, remembering the injury she had been able to see but hadn’t been able to get near. “He’ll have to go through weeks of rehabilitation, but he’ll be fine in no time.”

“It’s all my fault,” the woman cried, burying her face in her hands. “I bought those damned lights and wanted them put on the eaves.”

Libby wrapped an arm around her. “It’s Karen, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to remember that morning’s introductions.

“Carrie,” the woman corrected, nodding.

“It was no one’s fault, Carrie. It was an accident. And your husband and son are going to be okay. You’ll have a great Christmas.”

The woman took her son in her arms. “Thank Doc Libby, Darren,” she instructed.

Darren eyed her suspiciously. “My arm don’t hurt no more.”

“I’m glad,” Libby said, standing up and closing the medical kit. “And I’m prescribing that you stay off roofs, young man, for at least three years.”

Michael took the kit from her and carried it back to the ambulance, allowing Libby to run ahead and check on Alan. Being strapped to a backboard was uncomfortable all by itself, and the strain of his ordeal showed on his face behind the oxygen mask.

It was another fifteen minutes before the sound of beating helicopter blades finally broke over the tops of the trees. There was a large field next to the Brewers’ house, and people had parked cars and turned on their headlights to illuminate the area. With its own powerful lights flooding the field, the chopper slowly descended, forcing the onlookers to take shelter. Just as it touched down, attendants emerged and ran toward the ambulance.

With her hand placed reassuringly on his chest, Libby climbed down as Alan was lifted out of the ambulance and became part of the parade of paramedics as she shouted an update of vitals to the new arrivals. Just as soon as Alan was placed in the chopper, Libby closed the door and pounded on the side. She then ducked and ran back to the ambulance to avoid being blown away by the downdraft from the blades.

“Do you have someone to drive you to Bangor?” she asked Carrie Brewer. “And someone to stay with your children?”

Carrie nodded, watching the chopper carry her husband away. Finally, she looked at Libby. “Should Darren come with me?”