“You just be ready to jump too.” Presley scrambled back up the slope. “Clear.”

Abby grasped the handle, hoping the door wasn’t locked. She squeezed and the door gave a little. Holding her breath, she carefully pried it open. The lower edge hit the ground and stuck, but she had enough space to wedge herself into the opening. If the truck shifted now, she’d be carried down the rest of the way with it. Flann would never let her hear the end of it. Grinning at the absurdity of the thought, she shouldered into the narrow crevice.

A man in his sixties sagged against the steering wheel, the seat belt holding him upright. The windshield was shattered and his forehead was bloodied in a starburst pattern from the impact.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me? I’m a doctor.” He didn’t move as she pressed her fingertips over his carotid artery. Strong and steady.

A light shone in over her shoulder. Presley with a flashlight. “How is he?”

“Alive.” The light helped and Abby quickly ran a hand over his chest and abdomen. She couldn’t find any signs of external bleeding. “He’s not shocky yet, but he could have internal injuries. Definitely has a closed head injury. He’s alone.”

“What do we do?” Presley asked.

“We can’t get him out of the cab without proper equipment. We could make a spine or back injury worse. Shine the light into the backseat.”

“Good right there?”

“Yes. Just give me a minute.” Abby stretched an arm behind the seat and snagged an old wool blanket from the floor. “Okay—you start back up. I’ll be right behind you.”

She covered him, carefully backed out of the cramped opening, and edged her way up the slope to Presley. Going up was a lot harder than going down and she slipped a few more times. She’d need a shower before she’d be able to see patients. She concentrated on getting back to the top, trying to keep as much dirt and contamination out of her lacerated palm as she could.

Flann leaned against the hood of Presley’s car, shining a light to guide them back. The night had gone black. Her face was mostly in shadow, but Abby could feel the tension radiating from her from ten feet away. Her solid presence chased some of the cold from Abby’s middle, and she realized she was shaking.

“There’s a man down there with a head injury,” Abby said.

“We’re not going to get him out without more help,” Flann said. “You look like you took a fall. You okay?”

“Just muddy.” Abby resisted the ridiculous urge to straighten her clothes and tame her tangled hair. Like it mattered what she looked like just then.

“Get in the car and get warm,” Flann said, her tone gruff. “Pres, you okay?”

“Just wet. If we can’t reach emergency services,” Presley said, “we’ll have to drive the rest of the way into town and find the sheriff or someone else.”

“I hate leaving him here,” Abby said.

“Getting the proper help is the best thing we can do,” Flann repeated. “Come on.” She circled Abby’s waist. “Inside.”

Abby climbed into the car before she realized Flann had directed her into the rear seat. Flann slid in and shut the door, blocking her exit. When Flann’s arm came around her shoulders, she didn’t pull away. The warmth felt good. So did Flann’s body.

“Presley, you good to drive?” Flann asked.

“Fine.”

“Wait.” Abby pressed 911 and prayed for a connection. After what seemed like an interminable period of time, a woman answered briskly.

“Fire rescue, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Dr. Abby Remy. I’m on—” She looked at Flann.

“County Road 54.”

“County Road 54 just east of 71. There’s a red pickup truck off the road with an unconscious driver inside. We need a response team.”

“Is there any evidence of gas leaking or fire?”

“No.”

“Are there any other passengers?”

“No. The driver’s pulse is strong and I didn’t see any evidence of external hemorrhage. How long until a team can get here?”

“I have one on the way. They’ll be there in under five minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Flann said, “Pres, you should go. We can’t do anything here, and we can at the Rivers.”

“Abby?” Presley asked.

“I agree. We need to get to the hospital.”

“Let me see your hand,” Flann said, taking Abby’s wrist as Presley pulled away from the wreck.

“What?” Abby said.

“Your hand is bleeding.”

“Oh,” Abby said. “It’s nothing, just a few scrapes.”

“I’ll check it when we get to the ER,” Flann said.

Abby was too weary to argue. Presley drove slowly through town, detouring around intersections blocked by police and fire trucks. Sirens blared intermittently and emergency vehicles passed them, most headed toward the Rivers, a few out of town. When the hospital on the hill came into view, glowing like a beacon from lights in dozens of windows, Abby sighed with relief.

“It looks like the village was mostly spared,” Flann said quietly. “Power’s out here and there, and the water main on River Road looks like it sprang a leak, but hopefully there won’t be too much more damage. The houses out of town are far enough apart that the twister probably missed most of them. We might’ve gotten lucky.”

Presley turned into the winding drive up to the Rivers.

“I’m not too sure about that,” Abby said, taking in the line of emergency vehicles pulled up in front of the ER. “It looks like we’ve got a full house.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When the kitchen lights came back on, Blake blinked and Margie whooped.

“All right!” Margie jumped up. “Come on.”

Blake followed Margie down the hall into a room that looked like a library, although most of the bookcases were empty. “What are we doing?”

“Getting lamps.”

“Why?” He whispered, although he wasn’t sure why. The whole night resembled one of those movies where a bunch of kids go into the woods and some maniac shows up. Though now that he thought about it, those movies seemed really stupid compared to what had just happened.

“You’ll see. Here.” Margie handed him a desk lamp. “We’ll use these to keep the chicks warm.”

He followed her back to the kitchen, the lamp under his arm. “Do you think these will be enough?”

“As long as the kitchen doesn’t cool off too much,” Margie said.

Blake wiped the sweat from his neck with his arm. The storm hadn’t helped the heat at all. It was worse, the air a heavy thick blanket he could almost feel sitting on his shoulders, even inside. “Not much chance of that.”

“They need to be kept at ninety degrees at this age.” Margie placed her lamp on the floor next to the box and passed Blake the cord. “Put yours on the other side.”

Blake positioned his, plugged them in, and angled the round metal shade so the beam fell into the box. The chicks huddled in one corner in the straw. They were about the size and color of tennis balls. They looked awfully fragile. Blake’s chest tightened. “I wish we had the right stuff for them.”

“It’s just for tonight. The regular lamps aren’t as good as heat lamps,” Margie said, “but it will help.”

Margie filled a saucer with water and placed it in one corner of the box. The small noisy balls of fluff hopped in a scrum over to the dish and pecked at the water.

Blake grinned. Weird that watching chickens, something he’d never given a thought to before, could create a little spurt of happiness. He laughed and didn’t even feel dumb about it. “They’re really cute.”

“Wait’ll they start to molt in a few days. They look so totally alien, half down and half feathers.”

“What about food?”

Margie sighed. “Yeah, I know. The chicken food is in the barn.”

“Oh.” Blake didn’t need to say it. Off-limits.

“Do you think starving chicks constitutes an emergency?” Margie’s blond brows were drawn down, like she was working out a difficult math problem. Or plotting how to avoid getting caught coming in after curfew.

“Well, we can’t let them go hungry.” Blake was okay being stuck inside overnight, especially since he’d given his word on it, and he could live forever and be happy never to get caught in another storm like the one that just tore through, but the chicks… “We didn’t figure them into our decision.”

“The tack room is up at the front of the barn. That part didn’t look damaged.”

Blake walked out onto the back porch. Other than the glow from the kitchen, there were no lights anywhere. The sky was completely black. No stars, no hazy cloud of reflected illumination hanging on the horizon. “Hey, Margie? Isn’t there supposed to be a light over the barn?”

Margie joined him. “Yeah. The line down there must be out.”

“We have the flashlight, right?”

“Yep. What do you think?”

“We promised Flann and my mom we wouldn’t go out, but…” Blake wrestled with the dilemma. “That was about us being safe, right?”

“Right. We didn’t discuss contingencies and emergencies. Flann wouldn’t want us to stay in the house if it caught on fire.”

“I think letting the chickens starve constitutes about the same level of emergency as the house burning down.”

“Totally.” Margie’s eyes sparkled in the slanted light from behind them, and the gold in her hair almost looked like a halo, but her grin was anything but angelic. Her tilted smile said she’d take a risk and not mind facing the consequences. “Flann will kill us if we get hurt.”

“So will my mom.” Blake knew they both knew they’d most likely get grounded and lectured at, which they’d survive, but he hated disappointing his mom. And he didn’t want to look bad in front of Flann. He pictured the little yellow fluff balls and how eagerly they went after the water. They must be hungry. “It’s not raining anymore. What are the chances another one of those twisters will come through?”