The Husband School

“That’s never a good idea, sweetie,” Meg the waitress said, her voice gentle. She handed her back the phone. “You look a little pale. Are you sure you’re okay?”

She thought about the bus fumes, the jouncing, the endless miles to a place with no guarantees.

Shelly was suddenly very, very tired. The busy room seemed smaller, the noise quieted and everything swirled into black.

CHAPTER FOUR

KERMIT WASN’T KNOWN for his compassion, and because his punctuality was the stuff of legends, no one was surprised when the bus headed south without its pregnant passenger.

Meg and her customers managed to move Shelly to the floor, put a makeshift ice bag on her forehead and call the clinic before the girl came to and started to protest.

“Stay quiet,” Meg told her. “You fainted.”

“I’m okay, I’m gonna miss—”

“There will be another bus.” Just not for three days, Meg added silently. “You have to stay right where you are.”

“Am I on the floor?”

“You sure are. Are you having any pain?”

“No.” The girl closed her eyes again, probably because the sight of four elderly men staring at her was more than a little frightening. She moved her hands over her belly. “I’m fine.”

“Not exactly,” Meg said. “Something happened and you passed out.”

Shelly kept her eyes shut.

“Remember the time Hank Richards had a heart attack, right in that same booth?”

“No, actually, I don’t.” She shot George a look that said be quiet.

“Uh, he was fine,” the old man mumbled. “After the triple bypass.”

“My Debbie used to get wobbly and sick like that when she was expecting the twins.” Martin peered down at the girl. “Are you expecting twins, young lady?”

“I—I hope not.”

Jerry, who’d been the first to grab his cell phone and call for help, leaned toward Meg and whispered, “This could be our lucky day. A new resident and a population explosion.”

“That’s so not funny.”

He shrugged. “Hey, we need all the help we can get. In the meantime, what are we going to do with her?”

“We?”

“It takes a village...”

“It takes an obstetrician,” Meg pointed out, having helped Lucia through her last pregnancy. “And he’s sixty miles away.”

“Oh, good,” Jerry said, looking up as the door opened. “Hip’s here. I sure hope he’s sober.”

* * *

HORATIO IGNATIUS PORTERMAN, the local EMT, was otherwise known by his initials. Everyone loved him, everyone owed him a favor and no one questioned why his best friend was Jack Daniel’s. That was his own business: a man was entitled to his demons, and, to Hip’s credit, he didn’t drive. He and his cousin shared a house in town and Theo, a car collector, was always ready to drive his cousin wherever he was needed.

Luckily, Hip’s services weren’t in great demand. He carved animals from tree trunks in the large shed behind the house when he wasn’t administering first aid. In the summer the lawn sprouted bears, moose, elk, prairie dogs and sale signs. Once in a while one of them went home with a passing tourist.

Jerry hoped he’d upgrade to an art studio once the cameras started rolling. Hip wasn’t bachelor material, but as an artist he’d give the town another dimension and attract other creative types. Jerry was already thinking how to give artists tax breaks, but first things first. Save the town, bring in the artists, attract the tourists.

“Hey,” Jerry said, making way for his city rescue volunteer. Owen MacGregor, a grim expression on his face, followed Hip across the room. The rancher’s frown eased when he saw Meg, but he didn’t look exactly cheerful as he stared at the girl on the floor.

Jerry wasn’t sure what Hip could do, aside from taking the girl’s blood pressure and pulse. Theo would most likely end up driving her to Lewistown, since he owned the ambulance.

“She’s looking better,” Jerry said. “Not so green.”

Meg nodded. “I don’t think she’s been eating well. You should have seen her shovel in the pancakes.”

Owen stepped closer. “Where’s she from?”

Hip, crouched over the girl like a paternal crane, asked the same question. He didn’t get an answer, but she did open her eyes. She was a pretty thing, but Owen thought she seemed way too young to be pregnant.

Owen tried again. “Anyone know who she is?”

“Her name is Shelly,” Meg said. “She was on the bus heading south.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You know her?” Owen hoped there was help on the way. Like the girl’s mother, who would be wearing a nurse’s uniform and pushing a gurney.

“No. We were talking when she slid sideways.”

“Huh.” This was from Hip, a rescuer of few words. He removed the blood-pressure cuff from the girl’s arm. “Seems fine now. Should rest for a while, though.”

The patient frowned. “Can I sit up? You’re all kind of freakin’ me out.”

“That goes both ways,” Meg pointed out, and the girl had the decency to look embarrassed as Jerry and Hip helped her sit up.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’ve had a pretty tough morning, I think.”

Owen thought that might be an understatement, but he kept quiet while Hip asked Shelly—if that was her real name—if she felt dizzy.

“I’m fine. I just have to get out of here. The bus—”

“Is long gone,” Hip said. “Sit still. I’m gonna check your pulse again.”