Rocky Mountain Sabotage. Jill Elizabeth Nelson

than outside.

      He moved further into the building. Rotting leather tack dangled from hooks here and there. Empty box stalls lined two sides of a wide aisle. Any hay or straw that was left behind had long since turned into piles of dust that swirled around on the residue of wind that invaded the place through the open door. A sneeze racked his body. If any of his passengers had allergies, this would not be the place for them to stay. He’d better check out some of the other buildings before he went back to the plane.

      What was the bulky object in the far corner?

      Kent hurried past the stalls. Here, a larger area must have housed buggies or wagons. Only one remained—an enclosed boxy contraption, narrow, with a high seat for the driver out front, but no doors in the sides. He walked around the wagon, pulling on each iron-shod wheel as he went. They seemed solid enough. Two lines of faded lettering graced each long side, but it was too dim inside the stable to read what they said. The entrance door to the interior of the carriage was in the back. Some kind of prison wagon? If so, where were the bars?

      Shaking his head, he hefted the wooden beam to which a team of horses or oxen would have been attached and pulled. The axles let out a high screech but the wheels began to turn.

      Kent’s heart lightened. He wouldn’t be able to transport everyone in the same load. Not enough room. Besides, he was strong, but he was no horse. Still, it shouldn’t take more than a few trips to get the people, as well as blankets, pillows, food, beverages and other useful items into town. Hopefully, his battered passengers would take comfort in small mercies.

      Kent managed with little trouble to get the strange carriage out into the sunlight. He stood back to take a better look at his prize. Now he could easily read the words painted on the sides, faded as they were. His pulse stalled as their meaning slapped him in the jaw.

      Property of Undertaker.

      Trouble Creek, Nevada.

      This wagon was going to be no comfort to anyone. No comfort at all.

       THREE

      “Young lady, my head is harder than most bowling balls.” The older executive glared up at Lauren from his cushy seat, age-spotted hands folded over his modest paunch. “I don’t need to be poked and prodded.”

      “Sir, a concussion is all about the softness of your brain slamming around inside that bowling ball.” She frowned down at him. “I do need to perform some basic assessment.”

      The edges of the curmudgeon’s lips curved upward. “Deftly done, young lady. I am put in my place.” The smile grew, revealing even rows of gleaming, white teeth. Dentures, no doubt, since his speech carried the slight slur that sometimes came with that territory. “Very well, you may shine your little flashlight into my pupils and confirm that they are equal in size and reactive.”

      Lauren lifted her eyebrows. “You have medical training?”

      “No, I just watched a lot of Dr. Kildare in my younger years.”

      “Who?”

      “Never mind, well before your time.” He removed thick-lensed glasses and stared up at her with shrewd, brown eyes.

      Lauren scanned his pupils with the penlight she had found in the medical kit. “At least as far as this symptom of concussion, you have a clean bill of health, Mr... Ah.”

      “Gleason. But you may call me Neil.”

      “Are you related to Jackie?”

      Neil Gleason let out a raspy chuckle. “Not at all. You may not be familiar with my favorite TV doc, but I see you’re not out of the loop on all prehistoric television personalities.”

      Lauren smiled. “My grandmother loved The Honeymooners. I watched a few reruns with her when I was little. And you may call me Lauren, rather than young lady.”

      “It’s a deal. Now feel free to assess someone needier that I. Your mother, perhaps?”

      “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

      She began packing up her kit. It was actually amazing that she wasn’t dealing with a whole gamut of major medical problems, instead of an abundance of minor ones. She’d examined every passenger except her mom, and doctored cuts and contusions from flying objects. While one of her patients had a broken finger from trying to protect his head from said objects, thankfully no one was bleeding profusely from a slice through a vein or an artery. As for more serious injuries, she suspected kneecap fracture or dislocation in Richard, the next oldest to Neil, but the best she could do in the confines of the jet was wrap the limb and apply an ice pack.

      Lauren found her mother hugging herself, frowning and staring out the window.

      “Are you in pain?” Lauren bent over her.

      “Not really.” She dredged up a faint smile. “I’m starting to feel cold, though. With the cockpit windshield gone and my jacket packed away in the stowed luggage, there’s not much between us and the great outdoors. Looks pretty barren out there. No snow yet in this valley, but it’s coming soon. I can feel it.”

      “I’ll grab one of those airplane blankets for you after I palpate your abdomen.”

      “You’re going to do what?”

      Lauren chuckled. “I’m going to press on your tummy in different spots to see if you hurt somewhere specific.”

      “Whew! At least you’re not contemplating surgery.” Mom winked up at her.

      Lauren’s heart squeezed in upon itself. What if her mother did have an internal injury that required surgery? What if some of her other patients had something like that going on, and the issue hadn’t yet been identified? For sure, Mags needed to be hospitalized immediately. There was so little Lauren could do out in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a first-aid kit.

      Mom squeezed her arm. “I’m fine, dear.”

      The warm touch pumped encouragement into Lauren’s bloodstream. “Go ahead and put your seat all the way back while I check you out.”

      Her mother complied, and Lauren swiftly determined that the ache was general across the length of abdomen where the seat belt had fastened, and no point of pressure elicited a sharp pain. Good signs that the damage was muscle strain and bruising, not damage to an internal organ. Still, she’d keep her mother under close observation.

      “I think you may live,” Lauren concluded with a wink, and her mother laughed. “Now, about that blanket,” she swiveled on her heels, “I’ll—Oops!” She halted barely in time to keep from bumping into one of the executives.

      The man’s angular face sported a butterfly bandage closing a long, shallow cut on his cheek and a purple goose egg on his jaw, which Lauren believed was not broken, only bruised. The tall, raw-boned man held a small stack of blankets.

      “Take one of these,” he said. “I was just going to start passing them out. None of us brought our outdoor jackets on board. They’re all packed away with the luggage.”

      “Mr. Yancy, isn’t it?” Lauren accepted the blanket. “Thank you for thinking of this.”

      He offered a small smile. “Call me Cliff. Now that the edge is off the hysteria, I think we can start functioning like intelligent human beings who are grateful to be alive.”

      “Here he comes!” Mom called out, angling her head toward the outside.

      “Who’s coming?” a passenger demanded sharply from farther back in the plane. “Are we being rescued?”

      “It’s our hero pilot, who has already rescued us from sudden death, so let’s see what new and amazing trick he’s pulled out of his hat.” Mom pointed out the window.

      “All I want to know is when a chopper will be arriving to get us back to civilization,”