Rocky Mountain Sabotage. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Sounds like a plan,” said Kent. “First, round up as many of the blankets and pillows as you can. Keep whatever you need for yourselves for the trip, but send the rest in the first load. We’re also going to harvest the seat cushions. Grab some of those now for the most injured to lie on.”

      Healthy activity began in the cabin of what was once a luxury aircraft. With something constructive to do, the tension in the passengers seemed to ease. If only Lauren could say the same for herself. She’d never looked after patients under such primitive conditions. The prognosis for the copilot was not good if help didn’t reach them soon. And who knew what complications might develop in her other patients?

      Shoving her jitters to the back of her mind, Lauren threw herself into aiding people and organizing supplies. Moving Mags was the most delicate operation. They formed a makeshift sling out of blankets and somehow managed to get her limp form out the egress window. Cliff and Phil had already gone outside to help Kent, and the three of them easily slid her onto a set of cushions in the back of the black ambulance. Lauren refused to think of it as a hearse.

      Transferring Richard Engle was almost more difficult, because the man flinched and moaned with every jostle. Not that she blamed him. He had an excruciating injury and had behaved better about it than certain others with minor hurts. Finally, her turn came, and she climbed out the window onto the wing of the plane. She began shivering immediately, despite the blanket around her shoulders.

      Standing between the wing and the open door of the ambulance, Kent reached up and took her hand, steadying her as she leaped to the ground. His grip sent a tingle up her arm, and his encouraging smile warmed her straight down to her toes. All right. Enough of that nonsense. She made herself look away and climbed into the wagon with her patients—one inert and comatose, the other gritting his teeth and stifling groans.

      If only she had something stronger for pain than the limited stock of non-narcotic analgesics in the first-aid kit. The kit contained things like nitroglycerin and epinephrine designed to respond to medical emergencies in-flight, not deal with injuries due to a crash landing.

      The inside of the wagon smelled stale and musty. Lauren wrinkled her nose as she settled cross-legged between her patients. Someone closed the door, and darkness swooped in. Only a few small cracks in the wood allowed slivers of dull sunlight to ease the gloom.

      “How are you doing, Mr. Engle?” she asked.

      “Call me Rich, please, and I’m alive. Guess that will have to be enough for now.”

      “Hang in there. The emergency kit contains lidocaine for local anesthetic. Once we get to an environment where I have room to work, I’ll administer it. If your kneecap is only dislocated, I should be able to put it back in place, which will decrease your pain level, long-term. There is some risk of aggravating possible cartilage damage, but—”

      Her patient wheezed a small laugh. “Anything to ease the pain sounds great to me.”

      Their wagon creaked and shifted.

      “Here we go.” She patted Rich’s arm.

      Rocking and jouncing in a vehicle with no shock absorbers went on for a small eternity. Finally, they stopped and the door swung wide. Kent stood framed in the opening. He was puffing, and a trickle of sweat traced a path from his left brow to his chin, but the white cloud of his breath testified to the chill in the air. When the sun went down, chilly would become downright cold. They had a lot to accomplish in the few hours before sunset.

      Lauren pulled her blanket tighter around her and stepped down out of the wagon. They were parked in front of a weathered clapboard structure with a sagging porch and very few intact windows. The faded sign over the building announced it as the Trouble Creek Mercantile. Whatever supplies the mercantile had stocked were bound to be long gone. Trouble Creek had been abandoned for quite a while.

      “Doesn’t look like much,” Kent said with a wave toward the shabby building, “but I’ve laid down sturdy boards from the steps to the door so none of us is going to fall through on our way inside. The structure is sound, though I can’t guarantee the roof doesn’t leak. But if we can scrounge things up to cover the broken window panes, the potbellied stove in the middle of the front room should warm us up considerably. No lack of old wood for fuel around here.”

      “You’ve thought of a lot of things in a little time.” Lauren beamed up at her mom’s pilot hero.

      The guy certainly had a good head on those impressive shoulders. It might be interesting to get to know him better—not as a boyfriend, of course, but as a person. He probably had a thing for his copilot anyway, judging by how protective he acted toward her.

      Kent’s gaze dropped toward his feet. “Just doing what I can.”

      Lauren narrowed her eyes. “What is it that you don’t want to tell us you can’t do?”

      His lips pulled tight beneath grim eyes. “Let’s get everyone transferred safely, and then we’ll all have a powwow.”

      Simmering, Lauren barely restrained herself from stomping across the porch boards. Aggravating man. One thing Lauren had learned to hate in her early years—other people deciding when to tell her things she was entitled to know. All she wanted was straight answers to important questions...even though everything she dreaded might be in those answers.

      * * *

      Kent tromped toward the downed plane, empty wagon in tow. He’d left Phil and Cliff with Lauren and her patients to see if they could get that stove going, as well as find ways to cover the broken window panes.

      On this next trip back to town, Dirk could walk or even help him pull. That measly broken finger didn’t qualify him for a free ride. Phil had told him they called the guy DJ at Peerless One where they worked together. The nickname drove Dirk nuts, because he thought they were referring to his brief and unstellar career as a disc jockey in the nightclubs before he made it in arbitrage. No one had ever told him the initials stood for Dirk the Jerk. Not hard to guess how he earned that name. Kent suppressed a grimace.

      A half hour later, he helped Mrs. Barrington into the wagon. At her insistence, she was the last to climb aboard.

      The dainty woman awarded him a large smile. “Thank you, sir,” she said, “And please call me Nina. I can see you are among the last of the true gallants. I believe you have impressed even my headstrong daughter with your courtesy and service.”

      Kent shut the wagon door and shook his head. Impressed Lauren Carter? Aggravated would be more accurate. He seemed to have a gift for pushing her buttons.

      He headed back toward town with the wagonload of people and supplies. Dirk Dixon plodded alongside him, wearing a scowl. Fat chance the guy would help him pull.

      They arrived back at the abandoned general store to the tune of lively hammering. Was it possible the former inhabitants had left tools behind? Might there be other survival treasures lying around, too?

      Kent smiled as he helped his passengers out of the wagon. Everyone—even Dirk—carried a load of food and other supplies inside the store. Kent placed himself last in line and stopped short just over the threshold.

      Someone had brought order out of hodgepodge. He could about guess who. The fixed counter that sat on one side of the open area, as well as the moveable shelving, appeared to have been wiped off, though the floor remained thick with dust due to lack of a broom. The shelving had been arranged СКАЧАТЬ