“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 said, 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.