“Oh, here come our first customers,” Kate said excitedly, looking out the window at the car driving up.

A man, a woman, and six kids got out. The children, ranging in age from about ten down to two, hit the ground running, headed for the closest field of Christmas trees. The woman captured the toddler, picked her up, and slowly started after the brood. The man, his expression resigned, came into the shop.

Kate smoothed down her hair and perked up, her smile warm and inviting. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Do you need a saw?”

“I do,” he answered, eyeing Kate suspiciously as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ah, where’s John?”

Kate sobered. “He’s spending the day with the Pottses, and having Thanksgiving dinner with them,” she told him. “We were all worried today might be hard for him… without Ellen.”

The man nodded. “That’s good, then. Ellen was the foundation of this place.” He eyed the doughnuts and frowned, looking back at Kate. “And you would be?” he asked.

“Oh. I’m Kate Hart,” she said, and then waved her hand toward Libby. “And this is my daughter, Libby Hart,” she added.

The man turned, and Libby smiled in greeting.

“Libby Hart?” he repeated. “You the doctor I heard about, living in Mary Sutter’s place?”

Libby wasn’t sure how to respond, so she nodded mutely.

“Are you going to hang out a shingle in town?” he asked. “We’ve been trying to get a doctor here for years now.”

“I-I’m a surgeon, Mr… .?”

His face tinged red. “Sorry,” he said, nodding to both Libby and Kate. “Alan Brewer. I own the welding shop in town.”

“Mr. Brewer,” Libby acknowledged. “I’m not really trained in general medicine. I worked in a trauma center.”

“We got trauma cases here,” he said, suddenly looking even more interested. “Most work in these parts is dangerous, what with the mills and logging operations, not to mention the rugged terrain. I’ve seen it happen that a person’s had to wait more than an hour to be airlifted all the way to Bangor. A few have even died before help arrived.”

Again, Libby didn’t know how to respond. But she’d bet a penny the next time an accident happened, she’d be getting a call. Well, that was okay, she supposed. She couldn’t in good conscience refuse to help when she might be able to save someone’s life.

She probably should think about throwing together a triage kit and carrying it in her truck.

“Here’s the saw, Mr. Brewer,” Kate said, handing it across the counter, smartly saving Libby from having to respond.

“And when you’re done, bring your children in for doughnuts. We have hot cocoa and warm cider for them, too, and coffee for you and your wife.”

“It’ll probably take a while,” he said with a pained sigh, handing his money to Kate and taking the saw. “Last year, we were in the field for nearly an hour. I swear, everyone’s got an opinion on what a tree should look like. I’ll see you a bit later, then. Missus Kate.

Doc Libby,” he said with a nod to each of them, tucking the saw under his arm and leaving to catch up with his family.

“Well, that was… ”

“Awkward?” Libby finished for her mom, groaning heavily. “I guess word’s out that Pine Creek has a new doctor in residence.”

“I’d forgotten what small-town life was like,” Kate said.

“Libby, you know you’re going to get called if there’s a bad accident, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I can see that. Lord, are people going to be calling me Doc Libby now?”

Well, it seemed that they were and that Kate’s reminder of small-town life would be proven true. At least, every other person trooping through the Christmas shop that day

—and there must have been fifty—knew a doctor had moved into town. Heck, people from out of town knew and asked questions, their eyes filled with hope and a good deal of relief.

By closing time, both Libby and Kate were beat ragged from smiling and fielding questions, making cocoa and coffee, giving opinions on customers’ choices of the perfect tree, and apologizing for the sad condition of their doughnuts. And in between all that, Libby had to keep running into the house and basting the turkey, peeling vegetables, and setting the table for their own Thanksgiving feast.

Michael spent his day loading yet three more tractor-trailers with trees headed out of state, so he wasn’t much help to Kate and Libby. Neither was Robbie, who had been given the duty of counting every tree being loaded. And Ian MacKeage, when he wasn’t inside eating doughnuts and teasing Kate, was outdoors, binding the fat Christmas trees and helping to load them on top of cars and trucks so they could be lugged home.

At seven o’clock, they were finally sitting at the table, ready to feast on a twenty-pound turkey, everyone dog tired and hungry as a bear.

And that was when the phone rang, and Kate’s prediction was made a reality, when Michael walked back to the table and quietly told Libby that both Alan Brewer and his oldest son had just fallen off the roof of their house.

Chapter Twenty-two

Libby sat on the passenger sideof Michael’s truck, staring sightlessly at the landscape passing by in a blur, thinking how she was used to dealing with victims after the paramedics had already done their jobs. And although she had gone on many ambulance runs during her training, it had been a while since she’d had to do triage at the scene of an accident.

And dammit, she didn’t have anything to work with.

“What were they thinking, to let a child up on the roof of a house?” she asked for the fifth time. “And I don’t have any equipment. You’re sure they called the ambulance?”

Michael reached over and covered her wringing hands. “Your knowledge is what’s needed. And the ambulance has been called, but it’s forty miles away, coming from the other end of the lake.”

“My knowledge means squat without equipment. What were they thinking?” she repeated.

Michael squeezed her hands and then had to downshift and concentrate on taking the corner without killing them both. He was driving fast but not recklessly.

“Kids grow up quick here, lass,” he said as he shifted and accelerated the truck out of the curve. “We can’t afford to keep them sheltered, or they’ll get into even more trouble as teenagers.” He looked over and smiled. “It’s not wise to wait until a boy’s grown to put a chain saw in his hand for the first time. Or set him on a snowmobile or let him shoot a rifle. We begin young, when we have the advantage of supervision.”

Libby started wringing her hands again. “Ha—has Robbie used a chain saw?” she whispered, fighting back the picture that rose in her mind. “And shot a rifle?”

“Aye, Libby. Under my supervision.”

“But he’s not even nine.”

“If he’s big enough to lift a tool, he needs to know how it works in an emergency.”

“A gun’s not a tool.”

Michael gave her a bit longer, more assessing look, as if he were trying to judge her mood. “But it is a tool, lass,” he softly countered. “Which is why I’ve seen that Robbie knows the business end of a gun. When he was only three, I froze a gallon jug of water and shot it. He was properly horrified when it exploded, to realize what would happen to a person.”

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.