Chapter One: Drive
Shoshoni, Wyoming
Sunday, December 19, 1976, Ten a.m.
Patrick
The 1960 International Harvester Travelall accelerated out of the Wind River Canyon and into an angry churn of steely clouds. Patrick thought the canyon drive had been hairy—twists, turns, dips, and drop-offs—ever since the Wedding of the Waters, back where the Wind River flowed north and uphill from Boysen Reservoir and became the Bighorn River near Thermopolis. Beautiful, if sobering, even in December with snow clinging to the faces of the towering red sandstone, limestone, and Bighorn dolomite cliffs. One patch of black ice, and it was all over but the screaming on the way down. So, this unexpected wall of weather made him tighten his belly and his grip on the arm rest. They had seventy-five miles left in their drive through the barren Wind River Reservation to the Fort Washakie Health Center.
“That’s a storm there, Doc.” Wes Braten grinned under the coppery walrus mustache that didn’t match his blond hair. Wes was Patrick’s best friend and sometimes-favorite co-worker at the hospital in Buffalo, Wyoming. He’d been growing the mustache all fall, and it was his pride and joy. Patrick rubbed his own upper lip. Susanne had threatened him with his life if he even thought about one.
The gray wall enveloped them in a burst of wind that rattled the windows and forced its way inside. The temperature drop was instantaneous. Patrick rubbed his arms. Visibility dropped to about ten feet as snowflakes seemed to converge from all directions, like the center of a snow globe. Wes turned on the windshield wipers. They scraped and screeched across dry glass as they tossed the snow off, only to have the wind blow it right back on. Patrick reached in the rear seat for his thick plaid jacket and wrestled his way into it, adding snow gloves and a wool cap with ear flaps. He looked at his feet. Hiking boots. Not exactly snow gear, but all he’d brought, except for his running shoes, which would be even worse.
He turned up the heater. It spit out a burning smell, and he heard a terrible rattle in the belly of the beast. “Is that okay?”
“Oh, sure. But turn it to defrost for me. On high. Otherwise our breath will ice up the inside of this glass pretty quick.”
Patrick did as Wes asked, then huddled over the dash. “The forecast called for unseasonably warm weather.”
“Haven’t you lived here long enough to know that’s a load of horse nuggets?”
“Where do you get your forecast?”
“You don’t need one if you’re always prepared for anything.”
After nearly two years in Wyoming, Patrick did know this. But a lifetime in Texas had made him winter soft. The big vehicle shimmied, then felt like it was surfing a Gulf Coast wave, absent the sand, sun, and water, telling him they had already run into accumulated snow. Patrick leaned to the windshield for a closer look. There had to be a foot or more on the road. His breath fogged the glass, and, as Wes had predicted, it started to crystallize in a flash.
Patrick scraped at the condensation and ice with the forearm of his coat, mostly just smearing it. “Where did all of this snow come from?”
Wes shrugged. “The sky, most likely.”
Patrick wouldn’t be surprised if Wes met an early death someday, a few seconds after one of his smartass remarks to the wrong person. Right now, though, he could say whatever he liked as long as he kept the vehicle between the lines and moving forward. Being stuck in a blizzard wasn’t on his schedule.
A shadow and two yellow dots like headlights materialized in the road. Wes mashed the brakes.
Patrick clutched the arm rest. “What is it?”
“Damn prairie wolf.” The Travelall stopped, and Wes honked.
“Prairie wolf?” Patrick fancied himself something of an amateur wildlife biologist, but he wasn’t familiar with the term.
“Coyote.”
Patrick squinted into the storm. Sure enough, a coyote stared back at him before loping off and disappearing in the blinding white. Wes grumbled and pressed the accelerator, slowly picking up speed. The two men rode in a tense silence for about fifteen minutes. Patrick’s eyes burned from strain. Snow pelted the undercarriage of the vehicle. It reminded him of mudding in the Brazos River bottoms in the family truck, then washing it until it gleamed in the moonlight so his dad wouldn’t figure out what he’d been up to.
The snow grew deeper. Wes slowed, and the high clearance Travelall soldiered through it without faltering, the noise from its knobby tires in competition with the whistling wind and laboring defrost. The interior temperature dropped further.
Patrick touched the side window. It was bitterly, excruciatingly cold. “What do you think the temperature is out there?”
“I don’t think. I know, Doc. It’s minus 10, not counting the wind chill.” Wes pointed at his sideview mirror. “I rigged a thermometer. Works like a charm.”
“That’s chilly.” Patrick tried to get a look at the thermometer but couldn’t get the right angle. “With all this snow, we’re going to be late.”
“Late isn’t usually an issue on the reservation.” Wes tapped his instrument panel. “Now that doesn’t look right.” He decelerated, then flipped on his right blinker. “Damn thing doesn’t work.” He turned it back off.
“What are we doing?”
“Pulling over, of course.”
“I can see that. I meant why. Do you need to take a leak?”
“Nah. Not that I ever pass on the opportunity. But we’re overheating.”
“In this weather?”
“Yep.”
Patrick felt a moment of rising panic. His time at the clinic was limited as it was, without a delay. Worse, his wife would be worried sick if he didn’t call her with news of his safe arrival at Fort Washakie, roughly on time. “Are we breaking down?”
Susanne hadn’t been happy about this trip to begin with. Less than a week before Christmas and only hours before the mass arrival of her Texas family on their first visit to Wyoming, all before the calendar flipped over to 1977. He was skipping out on the house cleaning, the kid wrangling, and the last-minute runs as Santa’s main helper. Plus, they were down to the wire on negotiations for her dream house. She thought his absence might sour the deal, if he wasn’t available to help resolve any last-minute issues. But wasn’t that what phones were for?
He believed in the work he and Wes were doing in Fremont County, though. The Indian health care promised by treaty with the U.S. government was perpetually underfunded and underserved, and the health care centers for the Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho on the Wind River Reservation were no exception. Even if Indian Health Service clinics had the funds, it was next to impossible to recruit qualified medical personnel to the reservation. Faced with extreme weather, isolation, poverty, and a crime rate five times higher than the national average, most declined the opportunity, or left quickly if they came at all. So, he’d been volunteering at Fort Washakie once a month for the last year, and there was no other aspect of his medical practice he found more rewarding. The people needed him. The average life expectancy for an American Indian on the reservation was fifty years, twenty less than the rest of the state. If he could help improve those numbers, he’d have done something good to justify the cushy salary and lifestyle being a physician afforded him.
Susanne didn’t see things his way. While she supported his desire to help out, it was the timing of this trip that had them at odds. And when it came to his safety—watch out. She was a bear. With good reason. He’d worried her before when he was unreachable. It had triggered her intuition and sent her running pell-mell into the mountains to find him and the kids. They’d been in serious trouble and needed her help, too. She’d give him a few hours grace on his arrival time at the clinic before she sounded an alarm this time, but then she’d be on the horn to their next-door neighbor Ronnie Harcourt, a Johnson County Deputy. Which he supposed wasn’t a bad thing, given that the Travelall was not going to be traveling all that much longer, apparently.
Wes turned off the highway. “Gussie’s the best winter weather vehicle in the state, I’d wager, but she’s not as young as she once was.” He crept along a mostly white road, his eyes cutting back and forth between fence posts on either side, then jammed on the brakes. Gussie slid a few inches downhill and sideways. “Well, that wouldn’t have been good.”
Patrick peered into the gloom. A sign announced a boat ramp, into the reservoir which they had almost just slid into. “Shit.”
“On a stick.” Wes donned his winter wear, then hopped out with a flashlight in his hand. His size extra-lean body didn’t block much weather, even with the five inches he had on Patrick’s six feet. He leaned back in. Snow blew past him and splatted in the seat. “Let me check the radiator fluid. I’ll be right back.”
Patrick wasn’t sending his friend out into the elements alone. He took a deep breath and pulled his cap flaps lower over his ears. Then he was out, in the middle of the blizzard, with the wind howling across the lake and blowing him up the ramp. Icy snowflakes pelted his cheeks. Wes had popped the hood open, and Patrick shuffled toward him, using Gussie to steady himself as he walked. The hood didn’t block all of the wind, but the warm engine drew him in as if it was a crackling fire. Snow sizzled, melted, and steamed back upward from it.
Wes put the cap back on the radiator. “It’s empty.”
This was bad. No auto parts stores or tow trucks for miles, and no one on the roads in this weather. “You’re kidding.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea what’s wrong.”
Patrick followed him to Gussie’s rear, sliding along the length of the Travelall. The ramp was like a ski slope. Wes opened the back doors and selected a snow shovel, his toolbox, and a length of hose from an assortment of carefully arranged and secured emergency gear.
He handed the shovel to Patrick. “Can you dig me under?”
Patrick answered by getting to work scraping snow out from under and away from Gussie’s front end. Wes scooted headfirst beneath the vehicle on his back.
“I knew it,” he shouted.
“Knew what?”
“Frozen radiator hose. So frozen, it burst. All the water leaked out through the burst hose, so nothing getting to the engine to keep it cool. I can fix this right up.”
“What happened to the anti-freeze?”
“I don’t use it. Water is cheaper.”
Until you break down in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard. Then it’s a really expensive choice. Patrick pictured the snowy, cold miles ahead of them. “What if it freezes again?”
Wes grunted, and his voice was muffled. “I’ve got some anti-freeze in the back. I’ll add a little this time, and that should take care of it. But if all else fails, I’ve got more hose.”
“Okay.”
“There’s a water hauler in the back end. Can you fill ‘er up with some nice, cool reservoir water?”
“Sure thing.”
Patrick retrieved a ten-gallon hauler from the back end. Once filled, it would weigh—he calculated quickly in his head—more than eighty pounds. Quite a load to carry in this weather and terrain. He shook his head and walked to the side of the ramp until he found a more level approach down to the reservoir. Trudging through snow, he placed his feet carefully, still somehow finding rocks and holes that robbed him of his balance with every step. He skidded the last few inches to the lake, grimacing, expecting icy cold water to seep through his boots, but it didn’t come. He lowered the container on its side. It met resistance. Ice. He smacked it with the container, and it broke apart, splashing water up his arm.
The cold grabbed his full attention. “Holy mackerel.” Cursing euphemisms were something Susanne had talked him into once they’d had kids.
He submerged the container in the opening. Water flowed in the mouth as ice gushed on small ripples, knocking against the plastic. When it seemed like the jug was full, he tilted it and screwed on its attached cap. He lifted the water. The weight, the wind, the snow, the rocks – they were all too much. He stumbled into the reservoir up to his knees. The container became a handheld flotation device and kept him upright. The icy water was like a thousand cactus needles stabbing his feet and legs, something he was very familiar with after his horse, Reno, spooked at a rattlesnake the summer before, tossing him into a cactus patch on his tush.
“God bless America.” Euphemisms weren’t good enough now, though. He needed more and shouted, “Son of a bitch!”
He turned, planning to scramble out quickly, but the slick rocks made it rough going. Bracing on the container for leverage, he struggled out, then hugged it to his abdomen to stabilize his center of gravity. He cursed the storm and Gussie and the water and the big, trouble-making jug. Inching his way along, wobbling and sliding, he reached the snowy bank. When he stepped out, the wind whipped around his legs and feet, making him even colder. He tried to gauge the distance to the vehicle and could barely see Gussie’s lights. A burst of air escaped his lips, like a horse’s laugh. He wasn’t going to let himself die thirty feet from safety, but that’s exactly what would happen if he stayed out too long. Time to do this. He waded uphill through snow that clung to his wet jeans in icy crusts. What had seemed like a short walk down felt like a hike up Mount Everest, and what was slick and wobbly before was twice that now. He fell to his knees three times before he reached Wes at Gussie’s hood, where his teeth chattered so hard he worried he’d break one.
Wes took the water from him, one eyebrow raised. “Looks like you took a polar bear plunge. Do you have spare socks and gloves?”
“S-s-s-socks.” Patrick knew he had to get out of the wind, so he nodded at Wes and hurried away.
The inside of the Travelall was blessedly warm. He ripped off his gloves. After laying them to dry in the heated breeze from the defrost, he reached over into the back and dragged his duffel to the center of the seat. He unzipped it. Clothes fell to the floorboard as he dug for wool socks, tennis shoes, and two pairs of clean underwear. He stacked the haul in his lap while he fumbled with his hiking boots. His cold fingers didn’t want to cooperate with the laces, but with a lot of struggling, he got them loose enough to pull off, followed by his sopping socks. He chunked all of them into the back, careful to avoid the dry garments. Then he propped his icy feet on the dash for a moment, groaning. The warm air hurt so good. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to pull his feet away from the heater and put his socks on. His wet skin gripped the dry wool, and he was out of breath by the time he’d forced his feet in. He cuffed his jeans and rolled them to the top of his calf to get the wet material away from his legs, then pulled the socks the rest of the way up. Next, he put on his shoes. His feet tingled and burned more every second, which was a good sign. No frost bite. Finally, he wrapped his red, stiff fingers in the dry underpants.
What seemed like a painful eternity passed. He wondered what was holding Wes up. A few minutes later, he heard him at the back of the Travelall, putting away his tools and supplies. Then the rear doors shut, and, moments later, Wes jumped into the driver’s seat. He, too, took off his gloves and put them on the dash, then rubbed his hands briskly together.
He grinned at Patrick. “And I thought I was wet.”
“What t-t-took you so long?”
“I got another container of water, in case we need it on down the road.”
Patrick was grateful that Wes didn’t rub it in that he hadn’t taken a dunking, too. “Good idea.”
“Let’s get gone.” Wes shifted the vehicle into reverse, leaving one foot on the brake and accelerating gently with the other. The tires spun for a heart-stopping second, then caught, and the Travelall backed up the incline. “Thank the good Lord for four-wheel drive.”
Patrick was still thinking about his dip in the icy lake water. Stupid. He hadn’t been careful enough, and he could have drowned or died of hypothermia.
“Whatcha talking about over there to yourself, Doc?”
Patrick pressed his lips together. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep from moving his lips when he talked to himself, which, according to his friends, family, and co-workers, was a lot. “Ha ha.”
Back on the highway, they got lucky. While they’d been doctoring Gussie, a snowplow had made a pass down their side of the road. For now, at least, their new radiator hose wouldn’t be submerged. The Travelall surged over the shallow snow like a Coast Guard cutter, and the map dot towns passed slowly but steadily. Shoshoni. A right turn, then on to Pavilion. A left to Kinnear. Meanwhile, the snow continued to fall, and the sun refused to shine. On 132, past Johnstown and halfway to Ethete, Wes hit the brakes.
Patrick sat up with a jerk. He’d dozed off. Ahead, he saw an old crew cab Dodge pickup broadside in the road with its nose off one edge and its hazards flashing. A man in head-to-toe puffy black winter wear waved both arms over his head. Wes pulled Gussie to a stop as they approached the truck. Wes and Patrick looked at each other.
“How about you stay behind the wheel,” Patrick said. “I’ll go see what he wants.” He wanted to have faith in his fellow man. He also didn’t want to walk the rest of the way to Fort Washakie if this was a hold-up.
“Are you armed?”
Patrick got his holster from his doctor’s bag and buckled it around his waist. He checked his .357 Magnum, then re-holstered it. “Loaded.”
He patted his hip, feeling the reassuring hardness of his backup weapon. Wes had given him the six-inch pocketknife his last birthday, the one with SAWBONES engraved in the handle. The one that he’d rammed into the throat of Chester, the man who had kidnapped and sexually assaulted his daughter. He shuddered. As a doctor, it was his mission to save lives, not take them, and he hoped he was never in a position where he had to choose to end a human life again. He opened the door, and the full force of the north wind blasted him in the face.
“Aren’t you going to roll your pants down, Doc?”
Patrick glanced at his legs. Knee high gray and red wool socks, Adidas running shoes, and pedal pusher jeans. It was the kind of look that got a fellow’s ass kicked. “Thanks.” He grinned and rolled them down. “If I’m not back in five minutes, send the cavalry.” He reconsidered. “That sounds bad, given our location.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
Patrick slammed the door and ducked into the wind. He buttoned his jacket on his way to the truck. Wyoming’s not for sissies, he thought. One of the things he loved best about it.
The man in black met him at the door to the back seat of his truck. With the hood pulled close around his face, Patrick saw smooth, dark skin, pupils dilated in brown eyes, and white, chapped lips. “My wife is in labor. I was taking her to the hospital in Buffalo.” His expression turned almost apologetic. “The medical care on the reservation isn’t so good. But the snow got too deep. I was trying to turn around, and we got stuck. Now she says the baby is coming.”
As if on cue, there was a long, piercing scream from inside the back seat.
The man winced, drawing heavy eyebrows together. “I don’t know what to do to help her. My mother delivered all the babies in our family, but she passed on three years ago.”
Patrick patted his shoulder. “Buffalo has come to you. I’m a doctor there. I was just on my way to the health center in Fort Washakie to lend a hand. Would you mind if I checked on her? If she’s okay to travel, we could at least get her there where she’d be warmer and more comfortable. Maybe you and my buddy can get your truck unstuck while I see to your wife.”
Tears sprang to the man’s eyes. “Thank you. Yes. Yes. That would be great.”
Patrick reached for the man’s gloved hand and shook it. “I’m Dr. Flint. What’s your wife’s name?”
“Eleanor. Eleanor Manning. And I’m Junior.”
“Is this her first child?”
He nodded.
“Okay, then, why don’t you tell her who I am before I crawl in there with her?” Patrick smiled at him.
Junior laughed, a nervous, brittle sound. “Okay.” He opened the door, releasing a sweet spicy scent that reminded Patrick of berries. He knelt on the floorboard, whispering in the ear of a black-haired woman whose body was covered by a mound of colorful blankets. He kissed her forehead as she wailed again, then backed out. He nodded at Patrick.
Patrick moved into the spot Junior had vacated, taking in Eleanor’s ruddy cheeks and strained face. Long, jet black hair was stuck to her lips and sweaty neck. “Eleanor? I’m Dr. Flint. How are you doing?”
Her scream was like a punch to the eardrums.
“I’m going around to the other side of the truck. I need to check on the baby. Will that be okay?”
Her eyes were wide and long-lashed. She bit chapped lips and nodded in short, rapid jerks.
“Okay. Give me just a second.” To Junior, he said, “Why don’t you stay here for a minute and see if she’ll let you hold her hand. Talk to her, keep her distracted.”
Junior dove back into the truck, ripped off a glove, and took Eleanor’s hand. Patrick ran to the other side. He hated letting the wicked north wind in, but he had no choice. He wrenched the door open and his gloves off, jammed the gloves in his pocket, and then touched Eleanor’s ankle.
“I’m right here, and I’m going to lift the blankets back so I can see what’s going on. It’s going to be cold, and I’m sorry for that. You just relax the best you can.”
Behind him, a voice said, “I brought your bag of snake oil.” Wes. Referring to Patrick’s doctor’s bag. “Need a hand, Doc?”
“Thanks. I’m good. But this is Junior, and he needs his truck dug out and pointed toward Fort Washakie.”
“No problem. Junior, I’m Wes.” He held up his shovel. “I brought this, too. And I’ve had a lot of practice digging.” He grinned.
“Thank you, Wes.” Junior whispered to his wife again, then backed out to get to work with Wes.
Patrick set his bag on the ground, then dug around in it. Bandages. Antibiotics. Pain killers. Valium. Phenobarbitol for seizures. Muscle relaxants. Syringes. Tape. Activated Charcoal. A stethoscope, which he put around his neck. A pair of medical gloves. And a flashlight. He snatched the gloves and the flashlight, scrubbed his hands in the snow, then folded the blankets up to Eleanor’s waist. He eased her knees up and apart and switched the flashlight on. He couldn’t see the baby’s head, which was a good thing.
As he put on his glove, he was happy that he didn’t wear a ring so that he didn’t have to take it off now and risk losing it. Once, right after he and Susanne had married, he’d caught his wedding band on a nail. He’d come close to ripping his finger off, and he’d never worn the ring since. To Eleanor he said, “I’m reaching in to see how far the baby has to go, Eleanor.”
In the background, he heard Wes and Junior grunting and talking.
All he could see of the woman’s head from this vantage point was her hair, but it was shaking like she was nodding. Patrick probed up the birth canal. His fingers found the baby’s head. It wasn’t breech. The woman was nearly fully dilated, though. He removed his hand and then the gloves, guided Eleanor’s knees back together, and pulled the blanket back over her feet.
“Can I have your wrist to take your pulse?”
She pulled it from under the blankets and held it out to him. He counted beats with his eyes on his wristwatch. When he was done, he leaned over her.
“And now I’m going to listen to your heart. Just peel those blankets down a few inches, okay?”
She spoke for the first time. A young voice, almost childlike with fright and pain. “Okay.” She folded the blanket down.
“This is going to be a little cold.” He rubbed the stethoscope back and forth on his hand to warm it. Then he slipped it down the front of her blouse to her heart. It beat a steady whump-whump-whump in his ear. Healthy and strong.
“Good. Now, last thing. I’m going to press on your belly. It might be uncomfortable, but I just want to check on the baby.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
Patrick slid his hands under the side edge of the blanket. He palpated her belly until he had a fix on the baby’s location, position, and movement. Then he searched for its heartbeat with his stethoscope, found it, and again counted beats against time on his watch. He couldn’t help a sigh of relief. All was as it should be, other than the fact that they were stuck in the middle of the road in a blizzard far from a hospital with a birth imminent.
“Good job, Eleanor. Everything looks just fine.”
She gave him a weak smile.
“Can I turn the truck?” Junior asked over his wife’s head.
“Yes, I’m done. Eleanor, I’ll talk to you more in a second.” He kept his stethoscope around his neck but put his doctor’s bag in the floorboard and shut the door. Again, he scrubbed his hands with snow.
Junior got in the driver’s seat, then eased the truck back onto the road, turning it as he went.
Wes came to stand beside Patrick, leaning on his shovel and panting. “Well?”
“She’s fully effaced and her cervix is dilated to about eight centimeters. But this is her first baby, so I think we can make it to the clinic, if we hurry. I should ride with them, though.”
“Sounds good. See you there.” Wes disappeared into the storm.
Junior pulled back around and stopped. He got out and went to hold his wife’s hand again.
Patrick joined him. “Are you okay, Eleanor?”
She nodded, and this time she smiled for a moment, before another groan escaped her lips, then escalated into a long shriek. Patrick glanced at his watch. Her contractions were about five minutes apart, maybe a little less. This baby was coming soon.
When Eleanor’s contraction had passed, Patrick said, “Junior, Eleanor, everything looks just fine, and I think we can make it into the health center. How about I ride with you?”
They agreed, with Junior looking giddy about it.
Patrick settled into the front seat. Junior drove faster than Patrick was comfortable with, but he didn’t say a word. He did look behind them every so often, shocked each time he confirmed Wes was keeping up. Patrick checked on Eleanor and reassured her. A few times he tried to make small talk with Junior, but the soon-to-be father seemed too nervous to carry on a conversation. Fifteen minutes later, the truck arrived at a one-story stucco building. It was a relic, the oldest IHS clinic in existence, built by the U.S. Army in 1814 as a cavalry commissary. Junior had his pick of the spaces in the parking lot in front of it. Gussie barreled into the parking lot, too, spewing up snow as Wes parked the Travelall beside the Dodge truck.
“We’re here. It will be just a minute now, Eleanor,” Patrick said.
Wes ran ahead inside, then re-emerged at the other end of a stretcher from the tall, athletic looking Constance Teton. An Army medic and trained nurse now in the Reserves, she ran the clinic. Her hair was braided back from her face and hung down her back, showcasing magnificent bone structure in her cheeks, chin, and brow line. But it was her eyes that were her best feature. Like a fawn, brown, limpid, and thick lashed.
Patrick got out. “Hi, Constance. Thanks.”
She winked at him. The woman was outgoing and confident in addition to beautiful, and, in the informal environment of the clinic, they’d become friends with a shared mission. Last time he was at the clinic, she’d told him over lunch in the staff room that she’d dreamed of running off to Hollywood as a teen but didn’t have the money to make the trip. Her back-up plan was a college basketball scholarship. Then she’d wrecked her knee, something that Indian healthcare didn’t cover. That hope dashed, she signed a contract for the military. “Next stop, Vietnam,” she’d said. “Two tours. One wedding when I was home on R&R.”
Constance opened the back door to the truck. The cheery expression drained from her face. “Oh. Hello, Eleanor. Junior.” Her voice was chilly.
Junior nodded at her without speaking.
Patrick frowned. Before he could ponder the reason for the awkward interchange, it was time to transfer Eleanor to the stretcher. Wes took her shoulders. Patrick supported her mid-section. Constance brought the Mannings’ blankets and tucked them around the woman. Within seconds, snowflakes dotted the blanket and Eleanor’s hair. The woman was tiny, save for her labor-bloated face and belly.
A snowmobile parked beside them and a figure in all white gear climbed off, looking and moving like the Abominable Snowman. As he deposited the helmet on the machine’s seat, Patrick saw angry, red burn scars on his right cheek and jawline.
“Dr. Flint.” Riley Pearson lifted a hand in greeting without meeting Patrick’s eyes, then unzipped his fur-trimmed hunting parka. Riley did janitorial and grounds work at the center. Introverted, but nice, and helpful. Whether the social awkwardness was a result of his injuries or was his personality, Patrick wasn’t sure, just like he wasn’t sure if Riley was Indian or not, with light brown hair and green eyes paired with high cheekbones and a hook nose.
Patrick said, “Hello, Riley. You made it in.” Riley normally drove an antique of a motorcycle. Not the ideal vehicle for the conditions.
Riley nodded. “Need a hand?”
Constance waved him over. “Take my end. I’ll prep the room.”
“Okay.” Riley stashed his gloves in his pockets and gripped one end of the stretcher.
He and Wes set off for the clinic, Junior on their heels.
“We’ve got Eleanor under control, Dr. Flint, if you want to get yourself ready.” Constance walked backwards toward the door as she spoke.
“Thanks.”
She turned and went inside. Patrick grabbed his doctor’s bag from the Dodge. As he neared the door to the clinic, he noticed a rusted, dented truck parked on the far side of the building. The driver’s door was ajar, one long booted leg hanging out.
“Hello?” he shouted.
There was no movement and no answer.
Careful not to slip and fall in his running shoes, Patrick trotted over to the truck. The engine was shut off, but he still smelled a hint of exhaust, like it had been on not too long before. “Hello?” He peered in. A man. “Sir?”
The big man was slumped over the steering wheel, his weathered brown cheek pressed against it, mouth open and a shock of hair over one glazed eye while the other stared into nothingness. His gray felt cowboy hat was balanced over the gap between the floorboard and the slightly open door, an eagle feather in the brow band erect but buffeted by the wind. Fuzzy dice swayed in the wind from the rearview mirror. Patrick laid two fingers on his carotid artery, feeling for a pulse.
None. The man was dead. Cold dead. For a moment, he considered performing CPR, but it was clear he’d been there a while.
There was nothing worse than someone dying in his care, even if this man wasn’t his patient yet. Maybe if he’d had a chance to treat him, the man would have lived. But Patrick knew he had to shake it off, get inside, and deliver a baby. He didn’t have time to examine him yet and figure out what had gone wrong. One person dies, another is born. The circle of life, with Patrick’s first duty to the living. So, he lifted the man’s foot back inside his truck. It was undignified to leave him half in, half out of his vehicle. He wasn’t going anywhere, and it was deep freeze cold outside. He’d have to be fine until after the baby. Then Patrick would get help bringing him inside and call the police.
“Sorry, my friend.” He shut the door and hustled the length of the building to the door of the clinic.
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