Starlight On Willow Lake. Susan Wiggs

I need a favor. Can you find a towel or something in the van? Something I can use as a really big bandage.”

      “I don’t see anything, Mom.”

      “Keep looking.”

      “I’m scared.”

      “Look anyway.” Faith gritted her teeth. How had she ended up in a mess like this? She had used her own jacket to staunch the blood. So much for her best outfit for the job interview. But oh, well.

      An involuntary spasm caused the victim’s back to arch and contort.

      “Easy,” Faith said to the stranger, even though he appeared to be unconscious. “You don’t want to move. Trust me, you don’t.” She eyed the piece of metal in his thigh with concern. If it cut the femoral artery, he could die in minutes.

      The victim was lucky she’d come across him, probably seconds after the crash. The lakeshore road was deserted, and his motorcycle had ended up deep in a ditch. If she and the girls hadn’t happened by, he would have bled out by now.

      It had been Cara, jiggling her leg and watching out the window, who had spotted a flurry of dust and exhaust in the ditch. Her yell—Mom, pull over, I mean it, Mom, pull over right now—had been delivered with an urgent imperative Faith hadn’t questioned. She and Cara had their differences, but the girl wasn’t one to cry wolf.

      Ruby appeared at the edge of the ditch. “I brought you my bathrobe.” A gasp escaped her. “Mommy—”

      “It looks like a mess, but we need to help this man,” Faith said. She could see Ruby starting to sway. “Don’t pass out on me, kiddo. I can only handle one crisis at a time. Just toss me the robe and go back to the van and wait for me, okay?”

      Ruby didn’t hesitate. She threw the wadded-up robe to Faith and rushed to the van. Faith pressed the freshly laundered fabric on top of the soaked jacket. The hot, coppery scent of his blood filled her senses.

      Where the hell were the EMTs?

      As crucial moments ticked by, Faith did her best to assess the injuries of the unknown victim. She’d checked his airway immediately—all clear, though he was unconscious—and then wrapped her jacket around the big bleed from the arm, the bright rose-red of arterial blood pulsing out in spurts. In addition to the metal protruding from his thigh, he almost certainly had a compound fracture of the lower leg. A bloody bone, like a branch of stained and broken driftwood, was poking through the torn denim of his jeans.

      There were probably other issues, as well, but she couldn’t let up on the bleeding in order to examine him in detail. She yearned to stabilize the piece of metal, but that was too risky. He was male, in his forties or fifties, perhaps, judging by the face framed by the now-battered helmet. He seemed to be about six feet tall, two hundred pounds. It was probably best he was unconscious, because that fracture was one of the most painful-looking things she’d ever seen.

      Her mind, trained by instinct, flashed again to Ruby, who had obediently returned to the van. What time was it? When your kid was diabetic, you always needed to know what time it was. When did she last eat? When did she have her insulin? Were her levels okay?

      “Ruby, I want you to speak up if your alarm even thinks of going off.”

      “I will,” said the little girl.

      The blood-smeared face of Faith’s discount-store watch showed nine-twenty. It was past time for the job interview.

      Ah, well, the position had sounded too good to be true, anyway. The invitation that had popped up in her inbox late last night had been an interview with a Mrs. Alice Bellamy, who lived in a fully staffed estate on the western shore of Willow Lake. Finding a client who could accommodate Faith and her two girls was a long shot, but Faith had run out of options.

      After what seemed like an eternity, she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. No sirens, but at this point she would take whatever help she could get.

      She glanced up and saw a shiny dark blue car that was eerily silent in its approach. One of those new electric things that made no noise. The door opened and a guy in a crisply pressed three-piece suit with a white shirt and tie jumped out and rushed toward her.

      “Do you have a phone?” Faith yelled. “Call 911.”

      “Already done,” he said. “They’re on the way.”

      She could tell the moment he spotted the victim, because his gasp was audible. He looked a bit as Ruby had, regarding the sea of blood.

      “Hey, get a grip,” she said. As she spoke, the victim made an involuntary spasm. She really needed to check his pulse. “I could use some help here.”

      “Okay. What do you need me to do?” She could feel his gaze moving over the blood that covered her.

      “He’s bleeding from the brachial artery. That’s why there’s so much blood. We have to keep applying pressure. This robe I used is soaked through already,” she said.

      “Then should I... Okay.” She could see his shadow on the road as he removed his jacket and bent down beside her. “Now what?”

      “I need you to keep compression right here.” She could barely see her own hands.

      “I’m ready,” he said.

      She caught a glimpse of the label on his jacket—Bond Street Tailors, London. It sounded very posh. It was about to be ruined, though.

      “What do I do? Should we wait for help?”

      “We hope he doesn’t bleed out or stroke out before they get here.”

      This guy clearly needed very specific guidance. “Listen carefully. This is important. Don’t move the compress that’s already there, because that’ll only make it worse. Put the jacket directly over the bleed and press down hard. It’s an arterial pressure point. Don’t worry about hurting the guy. He’s unconscious. The only thing that’s going to keep him from bleeding out is the pressure you apply.”

      “Jesus. I can’t—”

      “Just do it. Now. I need to check his pulse. I think he’s seizing, and that’s bad.”

      Before the guy could protest again, she grabbed the jacket from him, clapping it over the wound.

      “Press down hard,” she said.

      He turned an even whiter shade of pale, and his eyes rolled upward.

      “Don’t you pass out on me,” she said. “Don’t you dare.”

      She carefully removed the helmet. The victim was gray-faced, his features slack now, his pupils dilated. She checked his airway again. Still clear, but there was almost no pulse. The whole time, she was inwardly urging the EMTs to hurry up and get here.

      The useless guy swayed, then struggled to rally. Okay, he wasn’t totally useless. Just...out of his element. And definitely overdressed. Still, she was grateful he’d happened by.

      “Is he going to be all right?”

      “I can’t answer that. His breathing’s not right. He’s got multiple injuries and almost no pulse. Do yourself a favor and don’t look at his left leg.”

      And then of course he looked. “Oh, Jesus.”

      “Keep pressing and don’t let up. And don’t disturb his upper thigh.”

      This was bad. Faith knew she was way out of her depth. She had plenty of training in trauma situations, but hadn’t put those skills into practice since Dennis. Pulling her mind away from her late husband, she stayed focused on the victim. “I’m losing his pulse,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I need to begin chest compressions.”

      “Losing...what? Ah, Christ...”

      “You sure the EMTs are on their way?” she asked the guy.

      “Positive.” He spoke through gritted teeth.