Around him, his crew—Seth, Uncle Charlie, Dean Wilson, and a few others—uncoiled hose from the truck. A siren whining through the night suggested Sheriff Kyle Hueston might be on the way. Hopefully his brother Kirby, one of the few EMTs in the area, would be too.
No Jensen Atwood. His wife, Claire, was in labor.
And especially, no sign of Gust Hagborg.
So, Peter had a skeleton crew to save a mid-century home that belonged to his eighty-one-year-old former Sunday school teacher.
Who was hidden somewhere in the smoky minefield of his house.
Towers of papers, magazines, files, and cardboard boxes blocked all access in the front entry. The smoke alarm screamed over the crackling of the fire. By the roar of the flames on the other side of that wall, they didn’t have much time. Gust created a fireman’s worst nightmare, a maze of tinder just waiting for a spark. Once flames reached that far wall, the whole place would go up in a matter of seconds.
Peter threw his irons into the first pile and started knocking down a path with brute force and adrenaline. Once he had a small clearing he started his thermal imaging.
No sign of Gust.
With Seth right behind him, they wound their way around heaps destined to become piles of ash. By some miracle, Peter found his way through the smoke and the towers to the hallway. Stacks of containers lined the wall, narrowing the passage to the point his shoulders touched each side. He hunched them together as he squeezed through the hazy tunnel on his hands and knees. He prayed the way Gust had taught him to, like God understood everything, even the desperate pleas he couldn’t voice. Even though the elderly man didn’t fear death, this was an awful way to meet his Maker.
Peter opened the first door. No Gust. Next door, a bathroom. Empty. He tried the door at the end of the hall.
There.
The red orange blob on his screen indicated warmth. A body.
Peter picked his way across the room, tossing containers to Seth who threw them off to the side. They slowly fought their way through the crowded bedroom.
Gust, in his pajamas, was sprawled on the floor next to his bed, as if he had tripped and a pillar of boxes fell on top of him.
A crash sounded. Voices called through the radio.
“The fire breached! It caught in the living area.”
Which meant their escape was blocked.
Peter reached Gust and felt a light pulse. He most likely had internal injuries, but there was no way they could get a backboard in here or even have time to strap him on it.
“Dahlquist, you better get out of there! This place is going down!” A voice thundered through the radio.
Peter looked behind him. The hallway they just passed through was already a tunnel of fire.
Perfect.
“Through the window!” Seth pointed through the haze at a grimy window.
Yep. But first they’d have to get to it. Stacks of books and a cluttered nightstand stood in the way. And as soon as they opened the window, the rush of oxygen would feed the fire.
Backdraft.
But that window was the only exit.
He stepped over Gust, and the two of them threw the books on the bed, the one open surface in the room. Peter motioned for Seth to pick up Gust. The local lumberjack had no problem pulling the brittle man over his shoulder.
Rescue first. Then attend to his injuries. He yelled into the walkie on his shoulder. “Dean and Charlie, come to the far window! But stand clear—I have to break the glass.”
Peter cleared the nightstand with one swoop of his arm, then shouldered the bulky piece of furniture. With one hefty move, he launched it through the window, shattering the glass.
The surge of fresh air hit the fire. The inferno behind them roared as flames shot up the walls and across the ceiling, hungry for more.
Dean and Uncle Charlie stood outside ready to catch. Peter stood at the window and steadied Gust as Seth handed him over. They threaded him through to the men on the other side.
“Out now!” he shouted to Seth, and the big man went through the window like a buffalo through a fence.
Peter followed him. He hit the ground and ran as flames tore through the window—fingers grabbing at him.
Peter yanked off his mask, bent over to suck in air.
“That was close,” Seth said, doing the same. But he smiled at him. “Fast thinking.”
“Good work.” Peter straightened, ignoring the shakiness in his legs. “Grab some water and then we need to put this fire down.” Already, the night sky misted from the water hose now manned by John and Casper Christiansen.
At the edge of the yard, a woman with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail kneeled by Gust. She wore a pair of gloves, had a medical kit out.
“Who is that?” Seth asked. “And where are Seb and the ambulance team?”
“Not sure, but I’ll find out. Why don’t you go help John?” He ran over to her. “Hey—”
She looked up. “We need a backboard. Don’t you have one on your truck?”
“Yeah.” He slowed.
“Then go get it! This man could have a serious spinal injury. What were you thinking just tossing him out the window?”
Well for one, he’d hardly tossed him. And then there was that little matter of him almost dying—
“We’re about to lose him if we don’t get him to a trauma center now!” She turned back to her patient.
Right. “Dean, grab the backboard and collar.” Peter ripped off his gloves and ran to the truck for the oxygen kit. He found the tank and mask and headed back to Gust.
The woman was checking his airway. She didn’t even look up as she grabbed the kit from him. “This man should’ve been collared and backboarded before he was ever moved. That’s basic emergency protocol.” She shined a light into Gust’s mouth.
Dean and Uncle Charlie came up with the backboard. The short jog left both of them wheezing for breath.
“It’s about time,” she mumbled. She directed her gaze to Uncle Charlie. “You, kneel at his side and put your hands here.” She pointed to Gust’s shoulder and hip.
Peter didn’t wait to be told, just knelt next to his uncle and placed his hands on Gust’s hip and knee. While the bossy woman directed Dean to get ready with the backboard, she collared Gust.
“On my count we roll. Keep his back straight. One, two, three.”
They rolled Gust on to his side while Dean slipped the board under him.
She looked up at Peter. “Where’s the ambulance?”
Right. As if her question had conjured it, the old Deep Haven EMT unit pulled up. Cole Barrett hopped down from the front seat. Peter jogged over to him.
“Where are Seb, Kirby, and the rest of the EMS crew? I know first responder protocol, but I should be with my guys.”
Cole pursed his lips. “Don’t know. Heard a lot of people are gone for the holiday weekend. And the hospital ambulance crews are already out on another call in town. I dropped off Ronnie and drove to the fire hall, then found what I could to stock this old thing and rushed back.”
Forget trying to track down everybody. They still had a life to save and a fire to put out.
Peter helped Cole get the cot out of the back. “Do you have this?”
“Go. I’ll get this to Ronnie.”
“Who?”
Cole nodded toward the woman treating Gust. “That’s Veronica Morales, the new Crisis Team paramedic. She’s one of the best. Gust is in good hands.”
So that’s the woman who’d beat out Kirby Hueston for the Crisis Response Team position? Good to hear that the brusque Ronnie was at least competent. Then Peter could concentrate on trying to put out the fire. And maybe make sure Seth didn’t have to deal with her tonight. He was still sore about Kirby being passed over.
He slipped his gloves back on and checked in. Nathan Decker and a few more fire volunteers showed up. Peter switched out the hose crews and called to his nearest captain. “Seth, check for propane tanks and outbuildings.
Anything else we need to be aware of.”
“On it, Chief.”
The fire was close to being under control simply because it had already consumed most of the house. Peter started another line and sent John to refill the truck at the lake access.
Seth came up. “There’s a propane tank all right. Behind the house at the edge of the woods. Also a small shed back there.”
“Let’s get another hose on that side of the house, wet down those trees and grass, and keep the fire as far from the tank and shed as we can.”
They threw on another hose and more volunteers showed up in bunker gear. Peter put them to work.
Over the noise of the fire, the sirens, pump trucks, and hoses, a woman’s wailing reached Peter.
Gretchen Riggs, Gust’s daughter, cried at the door of the ambulance while Ronnie and Uncle Charlie tried to load the cot.
“Daddy! Daddy! Is he okay?”
Dean tried to hold her back, but she pushed him off and reached again for her father. She blocked the ambulance doors.
Ronnie nudged her out of the way as she stepped up into the rig. “Ma’am, I’m trying to save his life. Please move. Now.”
Sheesh. Yeah, they were all on edge and stressed. But couldn’t she show a little compassion? Peter ran over. “Gretchen, you need to let them go so they can help your father.”
“Oh, Peter. Thank goodness you’re here. They won’t let me see him!” She clawed at his arm, tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks. “That woman won’t let me near my own father.”
“They’re helping him, but they need to get him to the hospital right away.”
“Then I need to go with him!”
“I’m sorry. Only emergency staff can ride. But I’m sure we can find someone to take you to Duluth.”
“Duluth?” She let out another wail. “Is it that bad? Oh, Daddy!”
He got it. Gust and Gretchen were the only family the other had left. He couldn’t imagine if it were his father being loaded in the back of that ambulance. “They’ll do everything they can to save him. We have to let them go. The sooner they get him to the hospital the better chance he has.” He waved Kyle over. “Maybe the sheriff can help you find a ride.” He tried to move the woman away from the rig. But for such a little thing, her planted feet wouldn’t budge.
Ronnie was focused on Gust but called out, “Why aren’t we moving?”
Uncle Charlie stood by Peter, waiting for Gretchen to move in order to close the doors. “We’ve gotta go. I need to drive.”
Ronnie’s head snapped up. “You’re not driving. Cole will.”
Gretchen clung harder to Peter’s jacket, pulling his attention away from his uncle and Ronnie’s argument. “If I can’t ride then you have to go with Daddy in the ambulance.”
“Mrs. Riggs, I’ve got a fire to put out.”
“I don’t care about the house! You have to save my father. I trust you, Peter. Please!”
In the reflection of the flames, the haggard woman begged. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bloodshot and weepy. “I know what he means to you, Peter. Please.”
His heart wrenched. How could he say no to her?
Kyle reached them and gently pried Gretchen’s hands away. “Come with me, Mrs. Riggs.”
“No! Not until Peter promises me that he’ll go!” She stood resolute in the ambulance doorway.
Peter looked out across the yard. The fire was dying. There wasn’t much more to burn. The crew had watered down the small shed and all the grass and trees on the lot. He could already see the backyard over the rubble and diminishing flames.
“Let me tell my crew.”
“Oh, thank you, Peter. Thank you. And I won’t move until you come back.” Gretchen let go of his arm and guarded the back of the vehicle.
Peter ran to Seth. “I’m riding with Gust. Gretchen won’t let them go without me. Can you take over here?”
“We’re good. It’s almost out and we have more volunteers now.” Seth looked back at the ambulance. “So is that woman the new Crisis Response medic? The one Cole hired?”
“Yeah. Cole says she’s one of the best. She was an Army medic.”
Seth shook his head and concentrated on the fire. “Whatever. It should’ve been Kirby.”
And how was he supposed to respond to that? Kirby was a great EMT. But he also wasn’t here. Peter clapped Seth on the shoulder. “Take care of our crew.”
“You know I will.” He walked away and moved toward what was left of the house with a shovel.
Peter checked out with the safety officer and climbed in the back of the ambulance. Uncle Charlie—scowling, probably due to being pushed out of the rig by Ronnie—shut the doors behind him. Cole started the sirens from the driver’s seat, and they left. Out the window Peter watched Kyle, who tried to comfort Gretchen in the middle of the dirt road. She cried as she waved goodbye to her father.
Possibly for the last time.
He studied the woman, his new partner on the Crisis Response Team. Her long dark hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, her brows knit together in concentration. “You could’ve let her say goodbye, you know.”
Something in her eyes softened as she kept her laser focus on Gust. “I’m not a counselor. I’m a paramedic. My job is to save his life.”
Okay then. He must’ve imagined the softness.
He didn’t know where Cole found this woman, but she needed to go back to where she came from. She would never fit into Deep Haven or their newly formed team with an attitude like that.
And the last thing Deep Haven needed was more trouble.
The sirens screamed and lights flashed as they raced down the opposite lane of Highway 61 Ronnie had driven up just a couple hours earlier. This time, Ronnie’s only view was the harsh fluorescent lighting in the back of the ambulance. The reflection bounced off the chrome surfaces and highlighted the victim’s wrinkled pallor and bluish lips.
She couldn’t lose her first patient in Deep Haven. She had too much riding on this. And if people would just get out of the way and let her work, maybe she could do that. First those responders being so incompetent and then the daughter showing up on the scene. Couldn’t she see she was trying to save her father’s life? That she wanted to do everything possible to keep him alive?
Ronnie didn’t have the luxury of dealing with emotions when lives were on the line.
Now she just needed to tune out all the shouts and sirens around her, ignore the smell of smoke in her hair, and her cold legs where the damp grass had seeped through her jeans. Concentrate on her patient.
But the bulky fireman sat on the bench watching her, something of a snarl on his face, clearly disapproving of her treatment of the hysterical daughter.
Yeah, maybe Ronnie could’ve been nicer. But nicer didn’t save lives.
And see, this is why she missed Army life. When a man was bleeding out on the field, there was only one objective—keep your teammate alive. It didn’t matter how, and no one cared about feelings. Only efficiency. Competency. Grit.
Things were clearly going to be more complicated in Deep Haven, if the fireman’s glower was any indication.
Ronnie reassessed her patient. Still unresponsive, gray lips, rasping breath, contusions already forming on his bald head, face, and one exposed arm with second—possibly third—degree burns. She opened up one compartment after another.
“What are you looking for?” Fireman asked.
“This truck is a mess. I can’t find anything.” She slammed a door and opened another. “Gotta clear that airway. I need to intubate. His breathing is too labored.”
“Here.” Fireman opened one of the cupboards above his head and pulled out the kit. “By the way, his name is Gust. Gust Hagborg.”
She nodded and prepped the laryngoscope. Fireman moved to her right, where her partner would usually assist. He picked up the tube and had it ready. When she found the vocal chords, he passed it to her.
Maybe he would be helpful.
She
kept a steady hand while inserting the ET tube down Mr. Hagborg’s trachea. “Now that I’ve got him intubated, pull out that stylet and bag him. Keep a steady rhythm. Three to five breaths—”
“I know what I’m doing.”
She watched to be sure. He squeezed the BVM forcing air into the lungs. The ET tube fogged up nicely. Mr. Hagborg’s chest rose and fell. Hopefully his oxygen levels would rise too.
Ronnie got the monitors set and an IV going.
The patient started to stir, moan.
“Mr. Hagborg, don’t try to talk. We’re taking you to a hospital. I need you to stay calm.”
He reached for the tube in his mouth. He was coming to and growing agitated.
Fireman leaned closer to the patient. “Hey, Gust. Just relax. You’re okay. We’ve got a tube down your throat to help you breathe.”
The rumbling bass voice seemed to calm the older man for a bit, but then the patient started to grab for the ET tube again. His eyes opened, panicked. Heart rate shot up.
Ronnie dug through the meds for the Versed, measured the correct amount, and administered it to his IV. The last thing she needed was the guy to rip out his ET tube or IV line.
He calmed, dropped his hand back to the cot, the sedative kicking in.
Good.
His pulse decreased to a normal beat. But one touch indicated his hands were cold and clammy. Those oxygen numbers were still too low.
The monitor started beeping. Blood pressure dropping.
“Come on, Mr. Hagborg. We didn’t come all this way to lose you now.” Ronnie spoke quietly in his ear as she made sure his tube placement was correct. She pushed more meds and fought to stabilize the older gentleman. “That’s right, Gust. Keep breathing.”
Slowly his numbers improved, but not by much. There was nothing else to do but watch over him.
And still Fireman steadily squeezed the bag in perfect rhythm.
At some point he had shed his coat and helmet. His long dark hair curled past his shoulders. Same dark-colored beard. He looked like he belonged in the north woods, but instead of lumberjack flannel, a navy Deep Haven Fire Department shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and thick biceps, and red suspenders held up his bunker gear pants. Yeah, his brawn took up a lot of room. But go figure. The fireman knew a little emergency medicine.
Crazy for You Page 3