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.

A boy slouched on a green park bench just inside the fence under one of the big weeping willow trees, watching her as she drew near but pretending he wasn’t. He looked about her age, skinny like most of the boys in tenth grade—eleventh grade, she reminded herself—with a big loose T-shirt and tan ripcord shorts that came to his knees. His haircut was cool, short on the sides and kind of wild on top, and a pretty shade of dark brown. He was cute. She didn’t know him, and that was kind of strange, seeing as how it wasn’t really tourist season yet and strangers in the village were unusual. She waved when he kept staring. “Hey.”

He looked surprised and blushed, like he’d been caught at something, and smiled almost tentatively. “Hey.”

“How’s it going?”

“Okay, I guess,” he said, but it didn’t sound as if he meant it. His voice was soft and a little bored sounding, with the slightest hint of sweetness to it.

Margie stopped in front of him and balanced her books on her hip. He was cuter than she thought at first. His eyes were a really neat shade of blue, a lot like Harper’s and her mother’s, really dark until you got close and realized they weren’t brown but more like navy. “So, are you visiting?”

“No, I live here.”

“Yeah?” Margie plopped her books on the end of the bench, sat down, and drew one knee up onto the wooden slats. Wrapping her arms around her leg, she faced him. “You just moved in, then.”

He fidgeted a little, as if trying to think of what to say, and nodded. The sunlight cut across his face, and up this close, his skin appeared smooth and pale, his jaw softly tapered, his upper lip full and curved. Huh. Interesting. “That’s cool.” She held out her hand. “I’m Margie Rivers.”

He looked at her hand for a second as if it were a foreign object. Then he took it. His hand was firm and warm. “Blake Remy. Hi.”

“So, you’ll be in school this fall.”

He sighed. “I guess so.”

She laughed. “You mean you’re trying to figure some way not to be?”

He laughed too, and his eyes lightened as if a storm had passed through and the sun had started to come out again. “Not really. It’s just weird, you know. I’m already halfway through high school, and now…” He shrugged. “You know. New guy.”

“I’ve gone to school with the same kids since kindergarten, but I think it would be kind of neat to meet some new people. After a while, you know everyone.”

He looked away. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So I’ll be a junior. How about you?”

“Me too.” He straightened a little. “That’s cool.”

“Where do you live?”

He pointed off to the left. “At the end of town. The old schoolhouse.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s where the Weatherbys lived before their dad got transferred. When did you move in?”

“We got here this weekend, but we’re not really moved in yet. The truck is supposed to come this afternoon with the rest of our things.”

“Where did you live before?”

“Manhattan.” He said it as if it were on the other side of the world, and a place he never expected he’d see again.

“Wow, that’s different.”

He stared at her a second and grinned. “Too right. So what’s it like around here? I mean, what do you do?”

“Well, it’s almost summer.” Margie rolled her eyes. “I guess you figured that out already.”

Blake laughed again. “I noticed.”

“So there’s not as much going on as there is during school, when, you know, there’s band and soccer and school clubs. In the summer, though…” She stopped, considered. “I bet you don’t have much experience with livestock, do you.”

“Uh, no,” Blake said. “I don’t know anything about farms and animals and things like that.” He toed his sneaker into the grass. “I’m so not going to fit in.”

“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?”