As she worked, she was aware that the team had subtly changed. Abigail Remy worked across from her, their hands nearly touching at times—inserting IVs, catheters, and tubes; checking and rechecking the minute-to-minute vital signs for instability or improvement. They’d barely spoken, but she already knew so much about the new ER chief—her focus, her sure movements, her calm and purposeful directions spoke of confidence and intelligence and control. Still, Remy was no surgeon, and a stranger. And she was undoubtedly the harbinger of change. She was taking one of Flann’s jobs, after all, or so it appeared.

Under other circumstances, she’d have been more than happy to make Dr. Remy’s acquaintance. She’d only had a few minutes before entering crisis mode to assess her, but those few seconds had been enough to deliver a one-two punch. Abigail projected a lethal combination of beauty and power in a captivating female package that Flann had never been able to resist. Shoulder-length golden hair, wavy and thick, that could only be completely natural; green eyes so pure Flann could almost smell the spring leaves; and a body even the loose cover gown couldn’t quite conceal, full and curved in all the right places. Anywhere else, any other time, and she would already be thinking about the first date.

Fuck it all. Not this time.

Flann strode to the light box and scanned the row of X-rays: skull, C-spine, chest, belly, arms, legs. Abigail appeared beside her, tilting her head as she studied each one. Even her silence vibrated with cool confidence.

Abigail extended a finger toward the chest X-ray, her subtly manicured nail gleaming with clear polish. “Blunting of the costophrenic angle right there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Flann said. “Lung fields are clear, but that could be blood.”

“You have ultrasound, don’t you?” Abigail asked.

Flann cut her a glance. “We are operating in the twenty-first century here.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Abigail’s smile was thin. So far the resuscitation had gone well, everyone doing their part and all the critical bases being covered. Still, the absence of in-house specialists, especially neurosurg and ortho, was a potential disaster waiting to happen. “Want to get ultrasound to check the belly?”

“Would be quicker if I did a cutdown.”

“If she’s ruptured her diaphragm above the liver, there might not be free blood in the cavity.”

Flann upgraded her opinion of the new ER chief. The term rankled, but she set her irritation aside for now, even if taking orders from a medical doctor was not in her makeup. “Good point.” She looked over her shoulder. “Susie, honey, can you get Terry down here super quick.”

“Sure thing, Flann,” Susan called, and reached for the phone.

“Honey?” Abby murmured.

Flann grinned, perversely glad she’d irritated her just a little bit. “Part of my Southern charm.”

“I didn’t realize you were Southern.”

“Through and through, on my mama’s side.”

Abby blew out a breath. “The charm might be open to question.”

“Give it time.”

Abby laughed reluctantly. “MRI?”

“CAT scan. We’ve been trying to get an MRI suite for a couple of years. You know what they cost.”

“I’ll let Presley know it’s a priority.”

“Presley?” Flann knew exactly who Presley was—her soon-to-be sister-in-law and the new CEO of the SunView Regional Medical Center-New York Division. She wondered how well Abigail knew her.

Abigail gave her a long look. “Presley Worth. I understand she’s marrying your sister.”

“I’ve heard that rumor.” Flann shook her head, still checking the films. “Unless Harper comes to her senses.”

Abigail stiffened. Really, could she be more of an ass? “You don’t approve?”

Flann grinned. Got her again. Remy was fun to tease. “Actually, I do. Harper is really happy, so not for me to point out the error of her ways. How do you know Presley?”

“We’re sorority sisters.”

“Ah. That’s some kind of lifelong secret society kind of thing, right?”

Abigail didn’t bother pointing out she and Presley came from different worlds and had formed a friendship despite that. The ultrasound tech appeared in the doorway, giving her an excuse to escape Flannery’s uniquely irritating company. She’d rarely met anyone so irreverent, arrogant, and she would’ve said insufferable, if there hadn’t been those moments every now and then when Flannery acted against type. When the conceit dropped away, something genuine and surprisingly intuitive snuck through. And now was not the time to be thinking about Flannery Rivers. In fact, anytime would probably be dangerous.

Abby focused on the ultrasound monitor as the tech coated the probe in clear gel and ran it over the young woman’s abdomen.

“Got something here,” the young Hispanic woman noted. She slowed the movement of her probe and gently pressed in small circles over the right upper quadrant of the abdomen.

Abigail pointed. “Right there. Is that a fluid collection above the right lobe of the liver?”

“Mmm,” the tech said absently, outlining the extent of the abnormality with swift, careful strokes of the probe.

She was good.

“What’s your name?” Abigail murmured.

“Teresa Santiago.”

“I’m Dr. Remy—Abby. That’s nice work.”

The tech smiled. “Thank you.”

Flann loomed over Abby’s shoulder. “Probably a small tear in the liver capsule. Fluid in the chest could be an effusion.”

“There might be a rupture,” Abby said. “That might be blood.”

“Terry,” Flann said, “can you get the diaphragm any clearer?”

“I don’t see a tear,” Terry said after a second. “But if it’s small…” She hunched a shoulder. “No, nada.”

“What do you think?” Abigail said. “Wait and watch?”

Flann mulled it over. Her first instinct was to explore the abdomen. She was a surgeon. She always wanted to operate, and in this case, there was good reason. Blunt trauma severe enough to rupture a lobe of the liver could have torn the intestine free from the abdominal wall or ruptured a kidney or the bladder, or lacerated a blood vessel. In the operating room with the belly open, she could check visually, get a look at the diaphragm, and take care of any minor damage before it became life-threatening. If they waited, continued bleeding into the chest could compromise the patient’s respiratory system, and she was already at risk of developing adult respiratory distress syndrome.

“If she’s bleeding,” Flann said, “she could go downhill fast.”

Abby nodded. “Agreed. But an incision in her belly means a longer hospital stay, and”—she went on when Flann made a disparaging snort—“a belly incision is going to make it harder to wean her off the respirator.”

Flann wasn’t used to consulting with anyone other than Harper or her father on medical care. She trusted their judgment as much as her own. She didn’t know Abigail Remy, but everything about her said she was sharp, and Flann’s ego didn’t extend to endangering the patient’s welfare because she couldn’t listen to someone else’s opinion. Compromising, she said, “Let’s get her down to CAT scan, and we can get her belly done after we take a look at her head. As long as her vitals are stable, I’m happy to wait a little while.”

“Good, I agree.”

“Susie,” Flann said, “have you got the CT tech in yet?”

“He just texted from the parking lot. He’ll be waiting.”

“All right,” Flann announced to the room in general, “let’s roll her down.”

Another nurse had joined the team sometime in the midst of the action, and he and Susan prepared the patient for transport.

Abby glanced at the clock. Twenty to eight. “Don’t you have a case?”

“Yeah.” Flann sighed. She hated delaying a patient who’d been waiting days, possibly weeks for surgery. Ira Durkee was already in the holding area, expecting to go to surgery any minute, and now he’d be sitting there for a few more hours. “A colon resection.”

“I can take the patient down,” Abigail said. “If there’s any change, I’ll call up and let you know.”

Flann shook her head. “Can’t do it. If I’m in the middle of my case, I can’t leave.”

“Do you have a resident who can—” Abby took a breath. She really wasn’t in NYC any longer. “Right. No residents. Partner?”

Flann grinned. “I’ve got a great first assistant. But there’s no one else with the hands to handle this if we need to explore.”

“Well, then,” Abby said, “I guess you better let the OR know you’re going to be late.”

*

“Thanks, Mrs. Lattimere,” Margie called, grabbing the stack of books from the checkout desk.

The librarian waved to her from behind her big oak desk tucked into the little alcove behind the counter and smiled. “Enjoy them. See you at the reading circle on Saturday.”

“Sure thing!”

Outside, Margie headed down the flagstone sidewalk toward the bike rack on the other side of the white board fence surrounding the grassy lawn. The town library, a white clapboard building with its square steeple and big, tall windows, was just about her favorite place in town, and she stopped by almost every other day. Her mother had warned her it was going to rain when she’d biked out after breakfast, but the sky looked clear to her. Besides, she’d run out of things to read and had already passed her Kindle allowance for the month, with ten days still to go.

She didn’t really mind the six-mile trip to the library, not when it meant she’d get first dibs on any new books that came in over the weekend. And she liked looking at the books, even the ones she’d already read. There was just something cool about seeing the shelves and shelves of spines, and discovering one she hadn’t read, like unearthing a buried treasure. Mrs. Lattimere had stopped censoring her reading from the adult section a year ago when her father had paid a visit to assure her Margie was capable of choosing her own reading material, including what Mrs. L termed racy titles. Margie smiled, remembering that discussion, especially since she mostly liked the economics and business books. Although she always managed to grab a thriller or a romance that she guessed Mrs. Lattimere considered racy.