“Not everyone is a farmer,” Margie said quickly. “My sisters are doctors—well, two of them— and so is my dad.”
“Yeah?” Blake’s face lightened. “So’s my mom.”
“She’ll probably know my sisters, then.” Margie knew a little bit about not fitting in. She had plenty of friends, but she knew she was different too. She didn’t mind being alone, for one thing, and when she said she wasn’t all that interested in dating anyone, even her best friends stared at her as if she was strange. Being different in a totally new place had to suck. “But you could still come to some of the 4-H stuff. You might like it. And a lot of us do it. There’s also a summer softball league, with games two or three nights a week at least. Everybody goes there. And barbecues pretty regularly.” A look of panic crossed his face.
Margie grinned. “It’s better than it sounds. And you know, you’re less than an hour from Albany. There’s good shopping closer than that, and movies not far away. The ice cream stand at the other end of town serves food, and a lot of us hang out there, you know, just to hang. You’ll find plenty to do.”
He looked away. “I guess.”
“Listen, why don’t you call me after you move in. I can take you around, meet some of the kids.” “Okay.”
He didn’t sound like he meant it, and maybe he didn’t want to hang with her. “You know, if you want to.”
Blake hesitated. “I do, yeah. I will. Call.”
Margie rose and scooped up her books. “Okay, then I’ll see you.”
“Wait! Your number?”
She walked backward, calling out the numbers while he punched them into his phone.
He stood up when she reached the gate. He wasn’t as tall as he looked sitting down, about her height with long legs. She bet he’d be great at soccer. He was watching her as if waiting for something.
She pushed through the gate, stopped. “Hey, I really like your haircut.” Blake smiled, and Margie thought again how really cute he was.
CHAPTER THREE
Abby stood behind the CT tech, watching the digital cuts show up on the monitor, scanning the images of the brain as they appeared in cross section, looking for evidence of bleeding or other trauma. Flannery crowded close to her, their shoulders touching. She caught a hint of a woodsy scent that reminded her of long-ago autumn nights and bonfires and crisp cool air. She missed the mountains and hadn’t thought about them in years. So much she hadn’t thought about in the rush to manage a baby and college and everything that came after in one long, exhausting blur. And now was not the time to be thinking about it. She concentrated on the scan again.
The door behind them opened and a lanky dark-haired woman in a pale blue shirt and khakis came in. She was a slightly taller carbon copy of Flannery—their coloring was different, but the resemblance was unmistakable. This must be Presley’s soon-to-be spouse.
“Hey,” the newcomer said to Flannery. “I heard you had something going.”
“Hi, Harp,” Flannery said. “Motorcycle. She’s got some bleeding in the belly, we think. Just getting to the scans now.”
Harper glanced at Abby, her brows rising slightly.
Abby extended her hand. “Abigail Remy.”
Recognition flared in Harper’s eyes. “You’re Presley’s friend and our new ER chief.” Her grip was an extension of her easy confidence, sure and firm. “Harper Rivers. Good to have you aboard.
Presley mentioned you’d gotten here early.”
“Presley said the sooner the better. I had time coming, the house up here was empty, and I’d done all the paperwork by email.” She glanced at Flannery, whose jaw had tightened. She probably should have checked with Presley before dropping by the ER, but that ship had sailed. “I’m afraid we took your sister by surprise.”
“Not a problem,” Flann muttered.
Harper glanced at Flannery and shrugged. “I think Presley was planning to catch you up after your first case.”
“Well, we’re all caught up now.” Flann had had enough of hospital politics for the morning. They all knew Presley—aka SunView—would be making sweeping changes to keep the hospital afloat. One of those changes was establishing an independent ER group with a separate financial structure and its own staff to capture patients who might otherwise use urgent-care centers. Abby Remy was Presley’s point person, and Flann’s new opposite number. She’d live with it. “It looks like the liver is okay. Maybe a small hematoma that will bear watching.”
Harper leaned a hand on the desk to get closer, studied the images, and nodded. “Pretty banged up.
How’s she doing otherwise?”
“She’s stable,” Abby said, aware that the two sisters were a tight unit personally and professionally. She needed to establish herself as an equal player right away. “But the closed head injury could be an issue. With that effusion in the chest cavity, her respiratory status is questionable too.”
Flann said, “We can repeat the chest and abdominal CT in a few hours.”
“I suggest that we transfer her to a level one. Then if she needs an intracranial bolt or prolonged ventilator therapy, they’ll be able to handle it.”