Page 26 of Mountain Captive

The comment surprised him. “Why would you think someone would target her?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s pretty striking looking. Maybe she caught the wrong guy’s attention. And for all she’s been part of the group for four years, I don’t know much about her. She’s not one to talk much about herself. Which I respect, but most people aren’t quite as, well, secretive as she is. And now there’s this weird thing with some stranger declaring he’s going to marry her?” He shook his head. “I just wonder if it’s all connected.”

Rand was sure the attack and Chris’s past were connected, but would the sheriff be able to prove it? “Maybe the sheriff will find who did it,” he said, and opened the notebook. “Let’s get started on these protocols.”

The work went quickly. The notebook was arranged alphabetically, with one to two sheets of paper outlining the proper treatment for each condition, from asthma attacks to wound care. Rand recommended a few updates and places where they might review their training. “Have you dealt with all of these conditions in the field?” he asked after he had studied the page for transient ischemic attack.

“Most of them,” Danny said. “I’ve seen everything from third-degree burns from a campfire to heat exhaustion and broken bones. We’ve dealt with heart attacks, seizures and head injuries—if it can happen to someone when they’re away from home, we might be called upon to treat it in the field, or at least stabilize the person until we can transport them to an ambulance.”

“It looks to me like you’re up to date on everything.” Rand shut the notebook. “I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Danny said. “We try to run a professional organization, but when you rely on one hundred percent volunteers, things can fall through the cracks.” He shoved back his chair. “Thanks again for your help.”

Rand was about to tell him he was glad to be involved when hard pounding on the door made him flinch. He and Danny exchanged looks, then hurried toward the entrance, where the pounding continued. Danny opened the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.

A twentysomething man with disheveled dark hair to his shoulders and deep shadows beneath his eyes stood on the doorstep. He wore jeans faded to a soft shade of gray blue, an equally worn denim work shirt over a gray T-shirt and dirty straw sandals. “I need a doctor right away,” he said.

“I’m a doctor.” Rand stepped forward. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s not for me. It’s for my sister.” He clutched Rand’s arm. “You have to come with me. Now.”

“Let me call an ambulance.” Danny pulled out his phone. “Where is your sister?”

“There isn’t time for that,” the man said. He struck out, sending Danny’s phone flying.

“Hey!” Danny shouted.

“What’s wrong with your sister?” Rand asked, trying to gain control of the situation.

“I think she’s dying. You have to help her.”

“An ambulance will help her more than I can,” Rand said.

“No ambulance!” The man let go of Rand and stepped back. Rand thought he might leave, but instead, he pulled a pistol from beneath his shirt and pointed it at Rand. The end of the barrel was less than two feet from Rand’s stomach. One twitch of the man’s finger would inflict a wound Rand doubted he would survive. “Come with me now,” the man ordered.

Chapter Nine

“Killing him won’t save your sister,” Danny said. Rand could see him out of the corner of his eye, his face as white as milk, the muscle beside his left eye twitching. But he kept his cool and spoke firmly.

“Don’t think I won’t shoot,” the young man said. He shifted the pistol’s aim to Danny. “You come too. You can help him.”

“All right,” Rand said. “We’ll come with you.” They’d look for an opportunity to overpower the young man. The odds were in their favor—two against one.

Still holding the gun, the man urged them toward a mostly powder blue sedan, which had been manufactured sometime in the 1980s, by Rand’s best guess. As they approached, a second, larger man got out of the passenger seat and frowned at them. He was older than the first man but dressed similarly, his shirt a faded blue-and-white-checkered flannel; his shoes old house slippers, the suede worn shiny at the toes. He opened the back door, and Danny, with another wary glance at the gun, got in.

“You sit up front,” the bigger man told Rand before joining Danny in the back seat. His voice was a reedy tenor, nasal and thin.

So much for two against one. Rand wondered if the second man was also armed, then decided he didn’t want to find out. Instead, he focused on the driver, who shifted into gear with one hand, the other still holding the gun. “What’s wrong with your sister?” he asked.

“She’s having a baby,” he said. “But something isn’t right.”

“What isn’t right?”

“She’s been in labor a long time, but nothing is happening.”

“How long?”

The younger man hunched over the steering wheel, the barrel of the gun balanced on top. “Two days. A little longer.”

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