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CHAPTER ONE
PAXTON SAMUELS’ DECISION to leave Boston had been calculated. Volunteering for the temporary medical position in western Oklahoma hadn’t given him pause. It was his ticket out of the emotional nightmare his life had become. He needed this change in scenery, some privacy. Desperately.
With his experience and training in emergency care and family practice, the temp job was a perfect fit for him. That it was halfway across the country from Boston only added to its appeal. Still, he’d not anticipated driving through a blizzard at the end of November in the middle of nowhere. He’d been prepared for culture shock but not this blowing snow and endless road. The unexpected brutal weather notwithstanding, the move was well worth the effort. It got him away from his parents’ demands as well as the media’s fascination with the spectacular failure of his wedding, which had been hailed as the “social event of the year.”
He searched the empty white plain for any sign of civilization but only spotted an occasional tree. According to his GPS, Last Stop, Oklahoma, should only be a few miles ahead. Visibility was becoming so bad he had thoughts of pulling over until it improved. Still, he couldn’t shake the worry that if he did so the rapid snow accumulation would strand him. He had to push on.
Moments later the terrain rose enough to obscure the road ahead. Paxton topped the small rise and instinctively stomped on the brakes. The back end of his sports car fishtailed. He yanked his foot off the brake, steering the car into the spin, and the vehicle straightened. In control again, he slowed to a stop and surveyed the wreckage before him. Blocking the road was a huge combine tractor lying on its side, a truck smashed against it.
His job as local doctor was starting sooner than he’d thought.
Paxton parked on what he guessed was road, making sure two of his tires remained on the pavement. Locating his cell phone, he called 911. The dispatcher answered and he reported the wreck, its location and that he was a doctor.
“Help is on the way,” the dispatcher said, and ended the call.
Opening the door, Paxton shuddered at the bone-cutting blast of wind and snow that assaulted him. He snatched his heavy wool overcoat from the front passenger seat and jerked it on. Reaching in again, he pulled out his medical bag. Pushing the door closed with his hip, he shoved his empty hand into a coat pocket and lowered his head against a biting gust. His toes curled in his shoes in an effort to generate heat as he trudged toward the accident.
Reaching the pickup truck, he skidded across a patch of black ice, doing a little twist and turn, before he smacked his hand against the truck to catch himself. When his feet were firmly beneath him, he worked his way to the cab and peered through the driver’s side window.
The man inside was slumped forward, his head against the wheel. Paxton knocked on the glass. The man moved slightly but didn’t straighten. Grabbing the door handle, Paxton pulled it open and touched the man’s shoulder. In a firm but caring tone he asked, “Hey, are you okay?”
The man moaned and attempted to sit up.
“Easy.” Paxton gripped his shoulder to hold him in place. “Don’t move. I’m a doctor. Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”
“My head.”
“I want you to remain still.”
Swiftly Paxton assessed his head injury. Delving into his open bag and pulling out a packaged four-by-four bandage, he tore it free of the wrapper and pressed it over the man’s bleeding gash.
“Someone will soon be here to help you. I need to check on the other person.”
The man muttered, “Okay.”
Making his way to the overturned tractor, Paxton stabilized himself by pressing a hand on the side of the truck. The cold metal felt like sharp pins beneath his fingers but fear of falling overrode the pain. What light he had was disappearing fast.
At the tractor cab, he rubbed his hand in a circle across the window. From what he could make out there was one young man lying on his side, not moving. Paxton would have to climb up onto the side of the cab of the hulking piece of machinery, then lower himself inside to properly assess the unconscious man’s injuries. He studied the tractor. It wouldn’t be easy.
Strapping his medical bag over his shoulders, thankful for the growing wail of an approaching siren, he carefully made his way around to the exposed undercarriage. To get inside he’d have to open the cab door. He examined the bottom workings of the engine for a footing. No help there. Even if he could find something to stand on he still couldn’t swing high enough to grasp the cab handle. The metal step to the cab was just above his head but not large enough to do him any good. On his best day he couldn’t pull himself up within reach of the door.
He looked at the front tire of the tractor suspended in the air. That was his way in. Using the inside rim of the tire for foot support, he hefted himself up on the exposed axle then onto the side of the engine hood. Crawling on hands and knees, he located the latch. At least the engine was still warm enough to give his hands some relief.
Reaching the door, Paxton kneaded his fingers to get them flexible then tried the handle. At first it wouldn’t budge. Using his palm, he hit it. His teeth clamped together as pain shot through his arm. After one more knock the handle shifted and he swung the door back. Warmth greeted him but soon vanished into the frigid twilight.
He looked down at a teen, who still hadn’t moved. “Hey! Are you okay?”
No answer.
The siren grew louder.
