Wedding the Highlander

by Janet Chapman

  Libby was properly horrified now.

  “Libby,” Michael said with an impatient sigh, “Robbie visits friends now that he’s in school. And just about every house in this area has a hunting rifle in it. I need to be sure he understands what could happen if his friend wants to impress him by showing off his daddy’s gun.”

  “He should just run like hell and find an adult.”

  “He will,” Michael assured her. “Believe me, that was my first rule. We’re here,” he said, pulling into a driveway.

  Libby was out of the truck before Michael could shut it off, running to the gathering of people at the side of the house.

  Worried, helpless, and relieved stares greeted her, along with Mrs. Brewer, holding her two-year-old daughter, tears running down both of their cheeks.

  “Please. Help him,” she whispered hoarsely. “Al-Alan’s hurt bad. I-I think his back is broken.”

  Libby immediately put on her reassuring doctor’s face and smiled at Mrs. Brewer. “I’ll do what I can,” she promised, turning away and going over to the small group of people kneeling and standing beside the fallen man.

  She quickly scanned the area for a second victim but saw only Alan Brewer. “I was told there were two,” she said to the small crowd. “Where’s the boy?”

  “He’s here,” somebody offered, moving to reveal the child. He was sitting up, leaning against a woman, holding his arm cradled against his chest, his face smudged with dirt and tears. Other than a possible broken arm, he appeared okay.

  Libby knelt beside Alan Brewer, thankful to see he was conscious. “Alan,” she said, holding his head still when he tried to look toward her. “Tell me where you hurt.”

  “His back,” an unseen voice said from among the onlookers.

  “I want Alan to tell me. Where does it hurt, Alan?”

  “My back,” he repeated gutturally.

  “But where on your back? Up by your shoulders or lower, nearer your waist?”

  “Low,” he hissed. “And my…my left shoulder,” he growled, closing his eyes.

  Libby could see that his left shoulder was dislocated, but it was his back that worried her the most.

  “He tried to catch Darren when he slipped,” somebody said, kneeling on the other side of Alan. “But the ladder gave way, and he twisted as they fell in order to protect Darren. His son landed on top of him.”

  Libby assumed Darren was the boy with the broken arm.

  “We haven’t moved him,” somebody else said. “That’s the way he landed.”

  Libby thanked God for that small miracle, absently nodding. She could see that Alan Brewer was in a lot of pain and starting to show signs of shock. Dammit, where was the ambulance?

  Her training was useless without equipment to stabilize him, without IVs, a backboard, and a neck brace. Hell, she didn’t even have a stethoscope to listen for internal bleeding.

  Libby cupped Alan’s face and leaned close enough to whisper in his ear. “Just take slow, easy breaths,” she told him softly. “Focus only on me. Listen to what I’m saying.”

  “Darren,” he said with a harsh growl.

  “He’s fine,” Libby told him, still whispering in his ear.

  “He’s sitting up and is fine. Listen to me, Alan. I want you to concentrate on my hands. Can you feel my hands on your face?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “They’re going to feel warm. Concentrate on the heat. Let the warmth travel through your body, all the way down your back.”

  Libby closed her own eyes, focusing all of her energy on Alan Brewer. Color immediately lit her mind’s eye, a swirling, turbulent mass of black and red and churning blue. Her heart started to beat with pounding throbs, and Libby realized it was Alan’s heartbeat she felt. Pain assaulted her in waves. Tension racked her senses.

  “Let me in, Alan,” she whispered. “I can help you.”

  The colors swirled in angry chaos, howling through his body and into hers. Alan’s fierce emotions kept lashing out at her, blocking her from reaching his injury. For nearly five minutes, Libby tried to get him to let her in, whispering words of encouragement, entreating him to open his mind. And each time, the colors swirled, and his injury danced just out of her reach.

  Strong, warm, powerful, and familiar hands took hold of her trembling shoulders, and Libby renewed her effort. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach Alan’s broken vertebra.

  A siren sounded in the distance and slowly drew closer, until it finally came to a sudden halt behind her. Voices penetrated the fog of her mind, and Libby sat back on her knees and let go of Alan’s face.

  Michael lifted her to her feet, wrapped his arms around her body, and hugged her. “Your equipment’s here, lass,” he whispered as he tucked her head under his chin and tightened his arms, as if trying to still her trembling body with his own.

  The paramedics, loaded down with equipment, rushed in. And for a full two minutes, Libby became an onlooker—until her training overrode her shock. She pulled away from Michael, knelt down beside Alan, and started issuing orders to the paramedics. But she stopped the minute she realized they were staring at her.

  “She’s a trauma doctor,” Michael said with quiet authority, moving to kneel beside her.

  And from that moment on, she was, using her years of training to guide the two men and one woman as they all worked as a team to stabilize Alan Brewer. An IV was started; he was carefully placed on a backboard and immobilized, then loaded onto the gurney and placed in the ambulance. Libby spoke on the radio to an attending physician in Bangor and was told a helicopter already had been dispatched.

  She gave a few more orders to the paramedics, grabbed one of the medical kits, went over to young Darren Brewer, and knelt in front of him. She smiled and brushed a tear off his dirty cheek. “I’m Doc Libby, Darren. Remember me from the Christmas tree shop this morning?”

  He wiped another tear himself and then pointed at his left arm. “I-I fell,” he whispered.

  “Can I see where you hurt yourself?” she whispered back. “Your hand makes a good splint, but I think I can make you a better one.”

  With worried, pain-filled, and skeptical young eyes, the boy slowly nodded and let go of his injured arm.

  Libby smiled at the woman holding Darren. “Why don’t you let Michael take over now?” she suggested. “He’ll hold him steady for me.”

  Looking just as alarmed as Darren by Libby’s remark, the woman hesitantly nodded and moved out of the way so Michael could take her place behind the boy.

  “What were you doing on the roof?” Libby asked as she used scissors to cut Darren’s shirt carefully away from his arm. “No, let me guess,” she continued, keeping up a steady stream of distracting chatter. “I see Christmas lights hanging off the eave. You were decorating the house, weren’t you?”

  He nodded and sucked in his breath the moment she exposed his arm. It was broken between his elbow and his wrist, but the bone hadn’t pierced the flesh.

  Libby let out a long and appreciative whistle. “That’s quite a bruise you’ve got there,” she said in awe, smiling at him. “If it were me, I’d be wailing my head off.”

  “You’re a girl,” Darren said.

  Libby nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I guess that’s why I’d be hollering and you’re not.”

  “Is my daddy going to be okay?” he asked, darting a look at the ambulance.

  “He’ll be fine, Darren. But he is hurt, so we’re going to keep him in the ambulance until the helicopter gets here.”

  “Am—am I going to ride in the helicopter?” he asked.

  Libby cupped his face with her hands and shook her head with a rueful smile. “Sorry, chum. Not this time.”

  He pulled his gaze away from the ambulance and stared up at her. Libby darted a quick look at Michael and then looked back at the boy.

  “Close your eyes, Darren,” she whispered. “And think about something nice. Do you have a pet?”

  “I got Bingo,” he s
aid, tightly closing his eyes.

  Libby kept one hand on his chin and placed her other hand over the break in his arm. “And is Bingo a cat?” she asked.

  “Naw. He’s a dog. Ow,” he hissed, flinching.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, Darren. It’s only heat you’re feeling, not pain.”

  “Your hands are really warm,” he quietly agreed, looking down at his arm.

  Libby lifted his chin so he would look at her. “I’m not positive your arm is broken, Darren. I’m hoping it’s just a bad bruise. Now, close your eyes again and think about Bingo. Did you get him as a puppy?”

  But Libby didn’t hear Darren’s answer if he gave one. Already, her mind’s eye was traveling through his body. She felt his rapid, anxious breathing and his young heartbeat racing with fear. She found his broken bone, pulsing with color, and began to repair it mentally. The break slowly knitted together, the blood vessels stopped leaking, and the swelling eased ever so slightly.

  She was just pulling out of his body when Libby noticed something else—an irregularity in Darren’s heartbeat, a backwash from one valve. And so she stopped and concentrated and repaired it while she was there. She opened her eyes, lifted Darren’s chin, and smiled at him.

  “You’re a very lucky boy. It’s only a bit bruised,” she said, looking over at Mrs. Brewer, who was now kneeling beside her. “A little Tylenol if he complains,” Libby told her. “And he’ll be good to go in a day or two.”

  “It-it’s not broken?” the woman asked, softly touching Darren’s arm.

  “No. The swelling will go down quickly, once we get some ice on it,” she said, taking an ice pack out of the kit, breaking the seal to mix the ingredients, and then carefully placing it over Darren’s arm. “I think he’s more shaken than hurt.”

  Some of the tension eased from the woman’s face. “And Alan?” she asked. “He’ll be okay, too?”

  Libby nodded. “He will,” she assured her, remembering the injury she had been able to see but hadn’t been able to get near. “He’ll have to go through weeks of rehabilitation, but he’ll be fine in no time.”

  “It’s all my fault,” the woman cried, burying her face in her hands. “I bought those damned lights and wanted them put on the eaves.”

  Libby wrapped an arm around her. “It’s Karen, isn’t it?” she asked, trying to remember that morning’s introductions.

  “Carrie,” the woman corrected, nodding.

  “It was no one’s fault, Carrie. It was an accident. And your husband and son are going to be okay. You’ll have a great Christmas.”

  The woman took her son in her arms. “Thank Doc Libby, Darren,” she instructed.

  Darren eyed her suspiciously. “My arm don’t hurt no more.”

  “I’m glad,” Libby said, standing up and closing the medical kit. “And I’m prescribing that you stay off roofs, young man, for at least three years.”

  Michael took the kit from her and carried it back to the ambulance, allowing Libby to run ahead and check on Alan. Being strapped to a backboard was uncomfortable all by itself, and the strain of his ordeal showed on his face behind the oxygen mask.

  It was another fifteen minutes before the sound of beating helicopter blades finally broke over the tops of the trees. There was a large field next to the Brewers’ house, and people had parked cars and turned on their headlights to illuminate the area. With its own powerful lights flooding the field, the chopper slowly descended, forcing the onlookers to take shelter. Just as it touched down, attendants emerged and ran toward the ambulance.

  With her hand placed reassuringly on his chest, Libby climbed down as Alan was lifted out of the ambulance and became part of the parade of paramedics as she shouted an update of vitals to the new arrivals. Just as soon as Alan was placed in the chopper, Libby closed the door and pounded on the side. She then ducked and ran back to the ambulance to avoid being blown away by the downdraft from the blades.

  “Do you have someone to drive you to Bangor?” she asked Carrie Brewer. “And someone to stay with your children?”

  Carrie nodded, watching the chopper carry her husband away. Finally, she looked at Libby. “Should Darren come with me?”

  “That would be best,” Libby told her. “He probably should have a more thorough checkup and maybe some X rays.”

  Carrie pulled her into a shaky embrace. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for helping us.”

  “The paramedics did all the work. Now, go to Bangor, and tell whoever drives you not to rush. It will take them a while to evaluate Alan. But they’ll talk with you before they do anything. And don’t worry,” she finished, patting Carrie’s shoulder, “he’ll be fine.”

  Libby turned and walked to Michael’s truck, opened the passenger door, and stared at the chest-high seat. She was too tired and too numb to climb up into it. Strong hands took hold of her by the waist and lifted her up. Her seat belt was fastened, and the door was softly shut.

  Libby closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest. Other than to tell the paramedics that she was a doctor, Michael hadn’t said one word the entire evening. And he still had nothing to say as he slid in behind the wheel, started the truck, and drove down the driveway. When they got to the paved road, he turned right, not left, and headed toward her home.

  Libby was thankful for his silence. Her head was reeling, her stomach was churning, and she couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn’t until Michael turned on the heater and a blast of warm air hit her that Libby realized she was chilled to the bone.

  She probably should say something.

  But what?

  She looked to her left and could just make out Michael’s profile in the dim light from the dash as he watched the road. He silently lifted his right arm. And just as silently, Libby unfastened her seat belt and scooted over until she was firmly against him, closed her eyes again with a sigh, and snuggled into his fierce embrace.

  She had been staring up at the ceiling for the last two hours, until the glowing stars were nothing more than blurry dots of light. Libby looked at her clock by the bed, cursed the fact that it wouldn’t be daylight for another three hours, and stared at the stars again.

  He knew.

  Michael knew her secret. He’d been right there with her last night, anchoring her, while she had tried to heal Alan Brewer. And he’d been holding Darren when she mended the boy’s broken arm. Michael had to have felt the energy coursing through her, seen exactly what she had seen, and realized what was happening.

  So now he knew.

  And he hadn’t said a word. He’d brought her home, tucked her into bed, given her a chaste kiss, and left.

  What must he have thought? Was he lying in his own bed right now, looking up at his blank ceiling, wondering what sort of freak she was?

  Libby tried to imagine how she’d feel if it were Michael who had this gift. Would she be afraid of him? Could she love an aberration if their roles were reversed?

  But he did have a secret, and it wasn’t just who had crafted her bed, either. There was something mysterious about Michael that had to do with his past. Something had happened to him twelve years ago that had caused the strong, confident man to retreat to the mountains of Maine.

  He told her he had been a warrior. Had he seen or done something so unsettling that it had sent him into hiding?

  And what was Daar’s connection? Michael seemed to accept the priest’s claim that he was a wizard. Heck, he seemed actually to respect the old man.

  But he wasn’t afraid of Daar. Just cautious. And guarded.

  And unwilling to talk about her secret because he didn’t want to talk about his own?

  Damn, what a mess.

  Libby tossed back the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, only to nearly step on Trouble when he came scampering out the moment she opened the door. Guardian was right behind him, and she knew the two boys were headed upstairs to find their sister, who was likely sleeping with Kate.

  Libby splashed water on her
face, fluffed her hair, and brushed her teeth. She went back to the bedroom, dressed in layers of warm clothes, and headed into the kitchen. She found a paper and pencil and wrote her mother a note, telling Kate not to expect her at the Christmas shop until noon. Libby then put on her boots and jacket and hat and gloves, found her flashlight, and headed out onto the porch.

  She just stood there for several minutes, staring up at black and silent TarStone Mountain, which rose like a sleeping giant into the star-studded sky.

  It looked damned cold. And formidable.

  It also looked like a good place to get lost.

  Libby didn’t dare calculate her chances of finding Daar’s cabin, for fear she might get smart all of a sudden and not go. But she had to talk to the old priest before her mind really did explode. And so she snapped on her flashlight and headed across the yard and into the forest.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about last night, couldn’t get past the fact that she hadn’t been able to do anything for Alan Brewer.

  Why was that? What good was a gift that only worked some of the time? Why had she been able to heal Darren Brewer but not his father?

  She needed to talk to somebody, and there was no one else she could turn to except an old priest who brought flowers back to life. The wizard damned well better have some answers for her, if she was foolish enough to brave the dark and scary forest and risk getting eaten by a bear.

  Her determination served her well and carried Libby for the first hour of the climb until she heard something off to her left. A branch snapped, and she spun around and pointed her flashlight in the direction of the noise. But all she saw were leafless trees for as far as the flashlight beam would penetrate.

  And then she saw two little pinpricks of light.

  The eyes weren’t moving but staring at her, unblinking, just a few inches above the ground. Was it a tiny animal, a rabbit or a fox or something? Or was it a bear crouching low, preparing to strike?