A Killing Frost

“I didn’t say I disagreed with his ideas.” Monty opened his eyes and fixed his attention on Jama again. “What’s going on with you two? Last we saw of him, we were sure he would pop the question.”

Jama studied the wooden floor of the porch, but she didn’t see wood grain; she was seeing Tyrell’s face, the light of love in his dark blue eyes. She heard his voice so clearly telling her that he wanted her in his life for as long as he lived. He’d asked her to marry him.

How could it all have gone so wrong? A dream she had nurtured for so many years finally coming true, and she’d been unable to embrace it.

And when she looked up at Tyrell’s father before her, she felt the throbbing ache inside.

“Is that why you came this morning?” she asked Monty. “To heal the breach?”

“At least you admit there’s a breach,” he said. “Tyrell won’t admit that much. All his mother and I know is that he’s changed. He’s not his usual, cheerful—” Monty grimaced, and his face whitened.

“Monty?”

He held a hand up and gave a brief shake of the head.

“Seriously, what’s up with you? Did you pull a muscle or something?”

“I’m not feeling the best, okay?” As he said the words, Jama spotted a streak of blood seeping through the blue sleeve of his chambray shirt.

She sprang from her chair and dropped to her knees beside him. “What happened?” She reached for his arm.

“Had a little accident with a ladder out behind the barn.”

“You fell from the ladder? And you didn’t tell me about it immediately?”

“It wasn’t at the top of my list.”

“I’m a doctor now, remember? We need to see to this.” Jama unbuttoned his sleeve.

“Think that director of yours will be here any time soon?”

Jama slid his sleeve up. “I’m not sure, but I’ll call and find out. Tell me exactly where you’re hurting. How did you land?”

“Think I might’ve busted a rib or two.” He grimaced again.

Jama saw a superficial cut on his wrist. The arm didn’t appear to be broken, but she would delay judgment about that until she had an X-ray. “Why didn’t you say something when you got here?”

“I wanted to meddle in your life while I had the chance, before you could pull out the doctor’s bag.”

“You can meddle as soon as we get you taken care of.”

“Promise?”

“Sure, whatever. First, I’ve got to get you inside. Sit tight.” She clipped her Bluetooth to her ear and punched in the new director’s number on her cell phone. She hadn’t bothered to incorporate the voice recognition for Dr. Lawrence’s name, because she had, without doubt, subconsciously hoped that somehow the director would just go away before the need arose to connect with her again. The woman was as cold as a well digger’s—

“How far did you fall?” Jama asked as she waited for Dr. Lawrence to answer the call.

Monty looked up at her, his face a frightening gray. The director picked up the call just as Monty slumped over, unconscious.

“Monty!”

Chapter Three

J ama felt for a pulse at Monty Mercer’s throat and watched the rise and fall of his chest. “Dr. Lawrence,” she said into her earpiece, “this is Dr. Jama Keith. I’ve arrived early at the clinic, and I have a patient on the front porch who just lost consciousness.”

“Call an ambulance.” The clipped voice of Dr. Ruth Lawrence had not grown warmer since the last time Jama had heard it. “We aren’t open for business.”

“I can take care of him if I can get him inside. We do have supplies, don’t we?” Jama gave what vitals she could. “Where can I get a key? And when is the staff due?”

“I’m at least thirty minutes out, and no one else is scheduled to be there. Either get a key from the mayor or get the patient to the closest facility. That would be Jefferson City or Fulton.”

“I know that,” Jama snapped.

“I highly advise transfer.” No emotion. Not irritation at Jama’s shortness. Not concern. Nothing.

“I’ll call the mayor for a key.” Jama clicked off, then spoke the mayor’s name into her Bluetooth. Why was no staff scheduled to arrive?

With one call, Jama discovered Eric Thompson was out of town for a meeting and wouldn’t be back until later in the morning. She dug her only credit card out of her purse, doubting she could jimmy the lock as easily as she had at the high-school gymnasium on her graduation night. If this failed, she’d break a window.

“Hang on, Monty. I’ll take care of you.” She placed another call as she knelt before the front door and slid the card between the door and the jamb.

A deep male voice sounded in her ear. “Jama? Are you at the clinic yet? What’s up?” Caller ID.

“Hi, Tyrell, where are you?” She was surprised by the relief she felt.

“Getting the Durango serviced down at Joe’s.”

Good. That was only a few blocks away. He could walk from there. Or run. “I need you to come to the clinic. Your dad’s been injured.”

“What happened?”

“He fell.”

“I’m on my way.”

She closed her eyes, allowing herself a few seconds of comfort…followed by regret.

By the time Jama had the clinic’s front door open—Mayor Eric Thompson was welcome to withhold the cost of the broken window from her first paycheck—a crowd of two men, a woman and two children had noticed the activity and now clamored to help. They moved Monty into the clinic and settled him on a bed in the first treatment room.

They continued to hover while Jama ran from room to room, looking through cabinets for supplies to stop the bleeding and assess the damage, slamming doors and tripping over equipment. Where was the EKG machine?

“What can we do, Dr. Keith?” Harold Kaiser, the local grocer, had known Jama since she was a toddler. Her new title sounded odd on his lips. “Just tell us and we’ll do it.”

“Sure thing,” said Carol Saffer, the town postmaster. “I had some first-aid training a couple of years ago.”

Jama grimaced. Sweethearts, both of them, but she needed somebody who really knew how to help. “Hey, guys, doesn’t Zelda Benedict still live across the street?”

“Sure does,” Harold said. He and Carol often competed over which of them knew more citizens of River Dance, and who knew them better. “She walks three miles on the Katy Trail every morning she doesn’t work, then smells up the neighborhood every night before bed when she sits on her front porch and smokes her cigar, if she doesn’t have a night shift.”