Two hours later, she pulled up at her uncle’s house. Henry had been able to drag her Jeep out of the ditch without a problem. He inspected her vehicle, checked the wheels and made sure the rims hadn’t been bent. The bumper would need to be replaced, but there wasn’t any other damage. He stayed while she turned the motor over, and had her pop the hood to make sure everything worked as it should. He even followed behind her, making sure she made it into town safe.

Henry refused to charge her for the service, gave her a business card for his shop, and told her to bring the car around when she wanted to get the bumper fixed. She gave him a peck on the cheek and waved as he pulled away.

With a deep breath, she stared at her temporary home. Until she could find a place to live, Uncle Pete had opened his house. It felt a little like coming home and finding a piece of herself. She’d always been close to her aunt and uncle and had spent many summers in this small town growing up.

She’d tried calling her uncle, but he hadn’t picked up the phone. The country house lacked the white picket fence out front, but had the cobbled walk up to the door, a covered porch with the requisite porch swing and rocking chairs, and despite the snow covering the front lawn, the flower beds boasted a riot of peonies in bloom. The doormat was one of those thick fiber mats. Instead of Welcome, it said, Peace.

She knocked on the white-washed door of the little one-story home.

A tribute to the town perhaps, but Aunt Martha had said a home should not only welcome visitors but strive for peace and tranquility for those who lived inside.

There was no answer at the door.

She knocked harder, and then peeked through the windows.

Maybe he was out back, working in the shed?

She stepped off the porch and picked her way across the melting snow. Late morning, the sun climbed high. The temperature had steadily risen from the chill of morning, and it was above freezing. At this rate, all the snow would be melted and gone within the day.

The door to the shed was locked. He always said a doctor needed a hobby, something to engage the creative side of the brain and give the scientific one a break. She had yet to find her creative side, too engaged with learning how to be the best doctor possible.

She missed sitting with him in the shed. He used to give her a blade and taught her to whittle. Never any good at it, all she’d ever managed was sharpening sticks, but it wasn’t about making anything. It was about his stories. Because of his stories, she’d decided to pursue medicine.

Her visits to Peace Springs had stopped eight years ago when her focus shifted from kicking back to getting good grades and preparing for college. Little did she know that would be the year everyone's lives changed. Uncle Pete diagnosed Aunt Martha’s breast cancer that Fall. Four years later, Aunt Martha lost her fight with cancer, and Abby’s parents died in a car accident on the way to the funeral. Pete stayed in Peace Springs with his medical practice, and she’d returned to Redlands to bury her parents and pick up the pieces of her life. She hadn’t been back.

Not much had changed in the town. Her uncle's house looked the same as it had when Aunt Martha had been alive.

She looked forward to working with him and reconnecting. In his late fifties, he kept talking about how much he looked forward to retiring and had been thrilled when she pursued a family medicine residency because his dream had been to pass his practice on to his goddaughter. Pete and Martha never had children of their own.

She walked to the back door, opened the screen, and knocked.

No answer.

It was Sunday. He kept crazy hours, made house calls at all hours of the day, but he didn’t usually work on the day of the Lord, as Aunt Martha used to call it. Abby’s fist banged against the door, and she called out.

“Uncle Pete? Are you home?”

What she should do was try calling again, but in the excitement of last night, she’d forgotten to charge her phone. Henry had been kind enough to let her borrow his, but she wouldn’t be calling anyone until hers recharged. The poor thing had been at five percent when her ordeal in the snow had begun. It was way past dead now and needed a deep recharge.

Where was her uncle?

Something acrid tickled her nostrils. A burning smell, not wood, floated on the air. Something pungent. And it was coming from inside.

Abby banged on the door, harder and more insistent this time.

Nothing.

Even though her aunt and uncle lived in a small town, considered by many as one of the safest communities, Aunt Martha insisted on gardening for safety. That meant planting the thorniest bushes beneath every window to keep burglars out.

Abby climbed over the holly bush, desperate to peek through the window because whatever was burning, it was coming from inside.

Barbs of pointed stems and holly leaves poked through her jeans and scratched her skin. She bit back a squeal as a thorny branch sliced her upper arm.

The kitchen window perched a tad too high. She gripped the window sill and leveraged herself up by bracing against the trunk of the offending bush. Branches broke. She fell. And then scurried up again.

Peering into the house, thick black smoke curled up from a skillet on the stove. Bacon grease and the putrid smell of burned eggs created the horrendous smell.

Where was Uncle Pete?

She twisted left and right, trying to see inside.

There. On the floor. His feet poked out from the hallway.

Abby dropped to the ground and raced to the back door. Her palm slammed against the door.

“Uncle Pete!” Her shrill cry rang through the air.

The neighbor next door stepped out onto her back porch. “What’s all the hollering about?”

Abby recognized Mrs. Leesum and ran to her. “Mrs. Leesum, it’s me, Abigail Knight, Doctor Bateman’s niece. Something’s wrong. Can you call 9-1-1?”

“Is Doctor Bateman okay?” Mrs. Leesum’s face paled, and she clutched at her chest.

“I don’t know. Can you please call?”

Mrs. Leesum turned to duck back inside her house, but Abby called out. “Do you have a key?”

Her aunt never believed in leaving a spare key outside. Too risky. Dangerous even. But maybe she’d given a copy to the neighbors.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Leesum said. “Let me grab it.”

“Please, and then call 9-1-1.”

Mrs. Leesum disappeared inside and reappeared a few moments later with a key in her hand, and a cell phone pressed to her ear. Abby ran back to the house as Mrs. Leesum spoke to whoever was on the other end of the line.

Abby shoved the key in the lock. Her pulse pounded with adrenaline, making her hands shake. It took three tries before the lock turned. She barged in. Her eyes cut to Uncle Pete’s unmoving form. Acrid smoke filled the kitchen and burned her lungs. Why hadn’t the fire alarms gone off?

She turned off the gas to the stovetop, and put a lid on the pan, then rushed to her uncle. He’d fallen and lay face first on the floor. Her fingers trembled as she felt for a pulse, terrified because she couldn’t find one.

Where were the emergency response vehicles?

Then she paused, remembering who and what she was. She took a steadying breath. She’d been trained for this.

She rolled him over, placing him in the recovery position. She forced her emotions to the background and focused on being the doctor she’d trained to become.

Placing her fingers over his neck, she felt again for his carotid pulse. Faint, but steady, his pulse thumped against her index finger. His chest moved with the slow rhythm of breath. So, why had he fallen?

As far as she knew, he wasn’t diabetic. There’d never been a reason for him to disclose his medical history, but low blood sugar was something she could fix. She left him in the recovery position and rushed to the kitchen.

Sugar. What kind of sugar did he have on hand?

Opening the fridge, she found what she needed. Strawberry preserves. Perfect.

Returning to her uncle, she dipped her finger in the jam, took a big scoop, and rubbed it inside his cheek. If his fall was the result of low blood sugar, that would raise it quickly enough.

Sirens sounded. She ran to the front door, unbolted the latch, and threw open the door. Walking onto the porch, she waved to the paramedics, urging them to move faster.

Two men jumped out of the rig. One came toward her, orange bag slung over his shoulder, while the other pulled a stretcher out of the back of the rig.

“Ma’am,” the lead man said. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s my uncle. He passed out.”

She followed him inside. “I gave him sugar, but I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

The man crouched beside her uncle and felt for a pulse. “Don’t worry, Ma’am, we’ll take good care of the doc.” He scrunched his eyes at her. “Hey, wait. You’re Doctor Knight aren’t you?”

She nodded. “That’s me.”

He breathed out a deep sigh. “Glad to meet you.”

“Um,” she said. “You know me?”

He rolled up her uncle’s sleeve and looked for a vein to place an IV. “Whole town has been waiting on you to arrive.”

“You have?”

“Don’t worry about Doc Bateman. He’s given us instructions.”

“Instructions?” What the hell was this guy talking about?

“We’ll make sure he’s comfortable. He’s got a doctor in Billings and hospice has been arranged.”

“Wait,” she said. “What do you mean hospice?”

He paused. “Um…he didn’t tell you?”