Jill Elizabeth - Rocky Mountain Sabotage

“Mr. Yancy, isn’t it?” Lauren accepted the blanket. “Thank you for thinking of this.”

He offered a small smile. “Call me Cliff. Now that the edge is off the hysteria, I think we can start functioning like intelligent human beings who are grateful to be alive.”

“Here he comes!” Mom called out, angling her head toward the outside.

“Who’s coming?” a passenger demanded sharply from farther back in the plane. “Are we being rescued?”

“It’s our hero pilot, who has already rescued us from sudden death, so let’s see what new and amazing trick he’s pulled out of his hat.” Mom pointed out the window.

“All I want to know is when a chopper will be arriving to get us back to civilization,” a surly voice grumbled.

Lauren identified it as coming from Dirk Dixon, the man with the broken finger and the foul mouth. She felt the same way about being rescued as soon as possible, but a male diva attitude wasn’t going to help make it happen.

She leaned across a vacant seat toward a window and gaped at her mother’s freshly anointed hero and whatever strange vehicle he was dragging behind him. Not that everyone aboard didn’t owe Kent Garland a world of gratitude and no little admiration for his skill as a pilot, but if Mom thought she could put stars in Lauren’s eyes about this guy or any other, she was doomed to disappointment.

The pilot brought the contraption to a stop next to the wing, and Lauren got a look at the words painted on the side. What? He’d found a hearse? She shivered. The cold must be getting to her, because she was in no way superstitious about a dusty old wagon.

She turned and smacked her palms together. “All right, people. I believe our chariot has arrived.”

“I’m getting out of here.” The man with the broken finger jumped to his feet.

“Mr. Dixon, we will evacuate the most seriously injured first.”

The man smirked and held up his bandaged hand.

A pop announced the emergency exit panel turning loose, and Kent stuck his head through the opening.

“That means my copilot, Magdalena Haven,” he said firmly, “as well as Ms. Carter to watch over her, and then the rest of you will go in whatever order her triage assessment dictates.”

His icy stare toward Dixon brooked no argument. The executive scowled and sat down.

“Next after Mags and me should be Richard Engle,” Lauren said. “His leg needs more attention than I can give it in here. Both of those patients will need to lie flat, so I think that’s all for the first load. Phil Blount and Dirk Dixon will be for the next load in order of triage. Then I want Neil Gleason, Cliff Yancy and my mother.” She nodded toward Kent.

“I’ll help do the mule thing.” A tentative hand went up from Cliff.

“And I can walk. So they won’t have to pull me,” said Phil, the bulky man who’d given way to panic in the first moments after landing. “That way, Neil and Mrs. Barrington can go in the second load, too.”

The man had been sheepish ever since his display of terror. Lauren sent him a smile, and he drew himself up tall, dignity restored.

“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.