must be parched by now. She knew how a shock like that messed with a victim’s—no, dammit—a patient’s electrolytes. Guilt was a bitch, she thought with a sigh. Maybe there was some way to make it up to him. That’s when she saw the sign advertising Sam’s Slurpee Stand. A message from God?
According to the billboard, the guy using her name served “the biggest baddest ice drinks this side of Death Valley. Only one mile off the highway.” She watched for the exit and pulled off, following the arrows that pointed down a twisting black-top road. “Sam’s a damned liar,” she muttered as the direction continued sending her deeper into nowhere. “I don’t have time for this.” Already they were hours behind schedule to make Denver.
Just as she was about to give up and make a U-turn, she saw the joint at a fork in the road. “Pays to advertise,” she said, observing the long string of cars inching their way toward the drive-up window. Of course, it probably didn’t hurt Sam’s business that this was the only place within a hundred miles. She took her place at the end of the line and looked at her watch. Damn, the service had better be pretty fast or she was out of here.
Then Granger groaned again. Sam settled back against her seat with a sigh of resignation. After what seemed like half a day, although she knew it was only half an hour, she reached the window and bought two supersize strawberry Slurpees. Not wanting any company when she gave the treat to her “patient,” Sam started to pull away from the small white clapboard drink stand. Suddenly the shrill bleat of a horn coincided with a nasty spray of gravel and the crunch of a fender. Hers.
No good deed ever goes unpunished. Sam rested her head against the steering wheel.
Some Utah yutz had just blindsided her. The rusty yellow pickup had pulled out from behind the stand and crashed head-on into the passenger side of her van. Great. Wonderful. Only Sam used stronger words for the situation as she climbed out to survey the damage. Already she could hear Matt making muffled noises from the back. Before he got it into his head to start kicking at the door, she rushed over to the wizened old man sitting behind the wheel of the pickup.
“I’m a nurse transporting a burn patient. He’s really in pain. Could I just exchange insurance information with you and get back on the road?” she asked the codger. When he grinned sheepishly at her, she could see why he liked Slurpees. He had no teeth.
“Right sorry about this here leetle bump.” He took a long swill of what looked like grape Slurpee, then pulled his wallet from his jeans and handed her his driver’s license.
“No, I need your insurance card, not your driver’s…” Her words trailed away when she glanced at the expiration date on the license. Damn! It had expired nearly ten years ago. Fat chance he’d have insurance. She handed the yellowed square back to him. “I don’t suppose—”
“Nope. But Jasper Hopwell’s good fer any damages. Jest ask anybody here at Sam’s. They’ll vouch fer me. Say, that there feller inside is sure raisin’ a ruckus. He all right?”
Matt was banging his foot against the door like the Beast from Revelation trying to escape the gates of Hell. Sam nodded. “Like I said, he’s in terrible pain. I have to get him to a burn center just outside Denver as soon as I can. Now, I wouldn’t want to get you in any trouble for hitting me, so why don’t we just forget about this little fender bender?”
“I’ll be glad to pay once’t yew git yer wagon fixed,” Jasper offered sincerely.
Here she was letting him off the hook and he was too decent to take the offer. “No, really, it’s all right. I’m fully insured through Fairview Hospital and my patient comes from a very wealthy family.” Well, that was sure the truth. Aunt Claudia would have bodywork tacked onto her bill. “I won’t get in any trouble.” Unless you call the local constabulary.
Jasper appeared to consider her appeal as she smiled her most winsome smile at him. She held her breath until he nodded. “Reckon, if’n yew say it’s all right. Tell yew the truth,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Effie, my missus, she’ll skin me and tack my hide to the barn door if’n she finds out I been drivin’ whilst she wuz off visitin’ her sister in Ogden.”
“Good deal. You take it easy driving home, okay?”
“All righty. Say, yew take good care ’o thet feller. He don’t sound too happy. Right strong fer a sick ’un, though.”
Matt’s muffled oaths had grown louder as she and Mr. Hopwell talked. So had the kicks at the door. “I’ll sure do that, sir.” She returned to the van and took off, heading toward the highway. Just as she turned off the back road, one of the big Slurpees tipped over, spilling thick red goo all over the passenger seat.
“Dammit!” she yelled, pounding on the steering wheel. Granger, whose protests had subsided once she was under way again, renewed kicking the door.
All right, she’d gone through hell to get him that big fat Slurpee. He would damn well drink it! She crossed the over-pass and found a deserted rest area boasting the only shade tree in the state. Setting the emergency brake hard enough to nearly snap it off, she seized the oversize Styrofoam cup and stomped to the rear of the van. She yanked the doors open and glared at Granger, who glared back.
Oh, it didn’t matter that he had gauze covering the blindfold, she knew he was glaring, damn his hide. She thought of Effie and stretching a hide on a barn door. Granger’s would be big enough to stretch over the whole frickin’ barn. Sam took a deep, calming breath. The Econoline still ran. The bent fender was nothing that a body shop couldn’t take care of for a pittance, say a grand or two.
“Too bad, Aunt Claudia. You can afford it,” she muttered as she unstrapped Matt. “Okay, swing your legs around so I can help you sit up,” she told him.
He tried to talk through the tape, but she ignored the mumbling. “Look, I went to a lot of trouble to get you this. According to the ads, it’s the best Slurpee in the state. You gotta be dehydrated and I know your electrolytes are messed up, so cooperate.”
Finally, after considerable struggling, she got him propped against the fender well with his feet dangling over the edge of the fender. He was still pretty groggy in spite of his kicking fit back at the Slurpee stand—or maybe worn out because of it. She hesitated for a moment as she unwound the gauze and reached for the tape over his mouth, willing herself to chill out. Grudgingly, she added, “I owe you for not hurting me this morning. You were right. I was a bitch.” Then she pulled the tape off, taking care not to pull his parched lips any more than necessary.
“Can’t argue with that,” he mumbled. His tongue felt like number-seven sandpaper and his head pounded like Ricky Ricardo’s bongo drums. Then she took hold of his chin with one hand and thrust a straw between his lips with the other. He tried to suck but his mouth was so numb and the Slurpee so thick, nothing came through. He tried again. No go.
“I know you’re dying of thirst. You gotta be,” she said in exasperation, thinking of the red goo soaking into the passenger seat while she wasted time with him.
“Can’t…get it…through the straw.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” she said, pulling on the straw to get it out of the small hole punched in the lid. It wouldn’t budge. She tried opening the lid and it appeared welded to the cup. “Great! The other one opened like sesame. This one’s sealed tighter than Brad Pitt’s buns.” She pried with her fingernails and broke one before the edge of the lid finally popped up, spraying her with thick red ice.
Matt could hear her swearing and only guessed
