State Of Emergency. Cassie Miles

suck-and-spit method, anymore. First, we clean and disinfect the wound.” She pantomimed that action. “Then wrap an Ace bandage above the wound. Not too tightly. Most of all, you want the victim to remain calm.”

      The supposedly snakebit Brownie eased into a prone position on the tabletop, and Emily completed the treatment by taping a folded gauze pad over the bite. “This is to apply direct pressure to the wound. Now, what’s next?”

      “Get help,” said Yvonne’s daughter.

      “That’s right.” Emily gave a thumbs-up. “Any other questions?”

      Tall and Feminine raised her hand. “Is that your real hair color?”

      Emily touched her curly blond ponytail. “Yes.”

      “I wondered ’cause your eyes are kind of a weird green and not blue like most blondes.”

      “Let’s get back to first aid, shall we?” Emily loosened the Ace bandage on her volunteer victim’s arm.

      The irrepressible angel asked, “Did you have anybody die from getting bit by a rattler?”

      “Never.”

      “But you’ve seen people die ’cause you’re a nurse.” Before she moved to Cascadia three years ago, Emily had experienced more than her share of senseless, violent death when she worked in a Denver hospital emergency room. God, yes, she’d seen people die. The helplessness and horror branded deep into her soul. Real-life death wasn’t an appropriate topic for seven-year-old Brownies. “The important thing,” she said, “is to avoid danger. Can you tell me the first rule of mountain safety?”

      “Think ahead and be careful,” they recited back to her.

      “Second rule?” Emily asked.

      “Be prepared.”

      “And if an accident happens?” she prompted.

      “Keep calm. Call 9-1-1. Use first aid.”

      “I don’t get it,” said Tall and Feminine. “9-1-1 is Sheriff Litvak’s phone number. Why is it the same for Search and Rescue?”

      “The 9-1-1 dispatcher contacts S.A.R.,” Emily explained.

      “Does he call you at home? Like, what if you’re busy?”

      “Drop everything and come running,” Emily said.

      “We usually meet right here, behind Dr. Spence’s office.”

      The headquarters for the mostly volunteer S.A.R. unit based in Cascadia, Colorado, was the size of a two-car garage and almost as glamorous. The furnishings included secondhand tables, chairs, desks and an ancient refrigerator. Their rescue equipment, however, illustrated state-of-the-art preparedness with skis, snow shoes, carry litters, pitons and miles of nylon rope. Sophisticated aerial-photograph maps covered every wall. There were walkietalkies, a satellite phone and two computers—electronics that were beyond Emily’s comprehension.

      Concluding her demonstration, she passed out miniature first aid kits with the address and phone number for Cascadia S.A.R. attached with a sticky label. From past experience, she knew that most of these kits would be used as toys, but at least the girls would be thinking about safety.

      Dr. Spence Cannon, a young and much-loved general practitioner, poked his head through the door that connected with the offices for his regular practice. “I thought I heard some mice down here.”

      Excited, the Brownies flocked around him. “We’re not mice!”

      “Then how do you explain those big ears?” Spence tugged at a couple of their braids. “And these long tails?”

      “I’m an eagle,” said the redhead. She spread her arms and began to soar.

      “Yeah? Well, I’m a wolf.” Libby Hanson bared her fangs and snarled.

      Tall and Feminine struck a pose. “I’m a supermodel.”

      Emily stepped back beside Yvonne, and they watched as Spence and the Brownies settled around a table for Kool-Aid and snacks. “He’s great with kids,” Emily said.

      “You bet,” Yvonne agreed. “We’re so lucky he settled here. With that streaked blond hair and those baby blue eyes, Spence could’ve made big bucks with a practice in Aspen.”

      Though Cascadia lay only an hour’s drive from the fabled ski area, this small working-class community was a million miles distant in terms of economics. Cascadia couldn’t be described as a resort. It wasn’t a picturesque mountain town with châteaus, chalets and cutsey shops. Most of the people who lived here worked in Aspen. Their homes were humble cabins off the beaten path or trailers or rented rooms in the barracks-like motels.

      “Spence fits in here,” Emily said. “He’s a nice guy.”

      Coming from her, “nice” represented a genuine compliment when applied to an M.D. In her years as an emergency room nurse, she’d developed a potent hostility toward the usually egotistical doctors.

      “Thanks for talking to the kids,” Yvonne said. “Those first aid kits are nifty. How did our underfinanced S.A.R. afford them?”

      “We received a contribution that was specifically earmarked for mountain safety training and first aid. Ten thousand dollars.”

      “Wow!” Yvonne’s eyes popped wide. In addition to motherhood duties, she raised and trained rescue dogs—an endeavor that could always use extra financial aid. “Who is this benefactor? Somebody from Aspen?”

      “Somebody who’s dead. Lynette Afton-Shane.”

      “Oh my! You know I hate to brag, but I’ve been to that house. The Afton Château. Big stone monstrosity. Gorgeous antiques.”

      “How did you manage that?”

      “It was a kid thing.” Yvonne clucked her tongue and lowered her voice, not wanting the Brownies to overhear. “That poor woman. Being killed in cold blood by her own husband.”

      “I don’t think Jordan Shane did it,” Emily said.

      “Do you know him?”

      ”Not really. I’ve met him twice.”

      The first time had been over a year ago when he attended one of her mountain safety lectures in Aspen. The second time, he came personally to her cabin to deliver the contribution. He insisted the ten thousand dollars be credited to his wife’s name even though the check had been written on his personal account.

      “Come on, Emily. I want details. What’s he look like?”

      “Dark brown hair. He wears it kind of long.” When she’d met Jordan, he was another woman’s husband. It would have been improper for Emily to notice his cleft chin, high cheekbones and smouldering dark eyes. She had absolutely no right to admire the breadth of his shoulders and the way his snug Levi’s outlined his muscular thighs. “He has a southern accent. I think he’s from Florida or something.”

      Yvonne’s dark eyebrows lowered in one of those reproachful mother looks. “Please don’t tell me you have a thing for him.”

      “How could I? He’s married.”

      “Was married,” she said darkly. “Now, he’s a murderer.”

      “He’s accused of murder,” Emily corrected. She’d been following the much-reported case in the newspaper. “The trial hasn’t even started.”

      “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he found standing over the body with a smoking gun in his hand? And there was nobody else in the house? No sign of forced entry?”

      “That’s right,” Emily conceded.

      “He had motive, too,” Yvonne said. “I heard the couple was talking divorce, and Jordan would lose out on her inheritance.”

      Nearly