2. Prescription For Love

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.”