Shelter from the Storm. RaeAnne Thayne

quick to escape Moose Springs after the scandal broke. He couldn’t understand why Lauren seemed determined to remain in town despite the ugly blotches on her family’s laundry.

      “That should do it,” she said after a moment, affixing a bandage to the spot. “I’ll write you a prescription for a painkiller and an antibiotic, just to be on the safe side.”

      “Just the antibiotic,” he said, shrugging back into his ruined uniform shirt.

      “That’s a nasty laceration. You might be surprised at the residual pain tomorrow.”

      “I’ll take an aspirin if it gets too bad.”

      She rolled her eyes but before she could speak, his communicator buzzed with static and a moment later he heard his dispatcher’s voice.

      “Chief, I’ve got Dale Richins on the line,” Peggy Wardell said. “Says he was driving home from his sister’s in Park City and blew a tire.”

      “He need help with it?”

      “Not with the tire. But when he went in the back to get the spare, he found a girl hiding in the camper shell of his pickup.”

      He blinked at that unexpected bit of information. “A girl?”

      “Right. She’s beat up pretty good, Dale says, and tried to escape when he found her but she collapsed before she could get far. She only hablas the español, apparently. Thought I’d better let you know.”

      He grabbed for his blood-soaked coat, sudden dread congealing in his gut. One of the hazards of working in a small town was the fear every time a call like this came in, he didn’t know who he might find at the scene.

      He knew just about everyone in the growing Latino community around Moose Springs and hated the possibility that someone he knew—someone’s hija or hermana—might have been attacked.

      “Thanks, Peg. Tell Dale I can be there in five minutes or so.”

      “Right.”

      He headed for the door, then stopped short when he realized Lauren was right on his heels, passing a medical kit from hand to hand as she shoved the opposite hand into her parka.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

      “I’m coming with you,” she said, that Lauren stubbornness in her voice. “Sounds like you’ve got a victim who will need medical care and if I go with you, I can be on scene faster than the volunteer paramedics.”

      He didn’t want to take the time to argue with her—not when a few seconds consideration convinced him the idea was a good one. Lauren was more qualified to offer better medical care than anything the volunteer medics could provide.

      “Let’s go then,” he said, leading the way out into the drizzling snow.

      Daniel drove through the slushy roads with his lights flashing but his siren quiet, at a speed that had her hanging on to her medical kit with both hands.

      She gritted her teeth as he hit one of the town’s famous potholes and her head slammed against the headrest.

      “Sorry,” he said, though he barely looked at her.

      Nothing new there. Daniel seldom looked at her, not if he could help himself. She was glad for it, she told herself. She didn’t want him looking too closely at her. He already knew too much about her, more than just about anyone else in town—she didn’t want him aiming those piercing brown eyes too far into her psyche.

      She gripped her bag more tightly as he drove toward the scene, trying not to notice how big and hard and dangerous he seemed under these conditions.

      Sheriff Daniel Galvez was not a man any sane person would want to mess with. He was six feet three inches and two hundred and ten pounds of pure muscle. Not that she made note of his vital statistics during the rare times she had treated him or anything—it was just hard to miss a man so big who was still as tough and physically imposing as the college football player he’d been a decade earlier.

      Beside him, she always felt small and fragile, a feeling she wasn’t particularly crazy about. She wasn’t small, she was a respectable five feet six inches tall and a healthy one hundred and fifteen pounds. It was only his size that dwarfed her. And she wasn’t fragile, either. She had survived med school, a grueling residency and, just a few months later, crippling shock and disbelief at the chaos her father left in his wake.

      She shoved away thoughts of her father as Daniel pulled the department’s Tahoe to a stop behind a battered old pickup she recognized as belonging to Dale Richins. The old rancher stood behind his camper shell, all but wringing his hands.

      He hurried to them the moment Daniel shut off the engine. “The little girl is inside the camper shell of my truck. I had a horse blanket in there. I guess that’s what she was hiding under. Looks like you brought medical help. Good. From what I can see, she’s beat up something terrible.”

      He looked at Lauren with a little less suspicion than normal, but she didn’t have time to be grateful as she headed for the back of the pickup. Daniel was right behind her and he didn’t wait for her to ask for help—he just lifted her up and over the tailgate and into the truck bed.

      He aimed the heavy beam of his flashlight inside as she made her careful way to the still form lying motionless under a grimy blanket that smelled of livestock and heaven knows what else.

      She pulled out her flashlight, barely able to make out the battered features of a Latina girl.

      “She’s so young,” Lauren exclaimed as she immediately went to work examining her. Though it was hard to be sure with all the damage, she didn’t think the girl was much older than fourteen or fifteen.

      “Do you know her?” Daniel asked, leaning in and taking a closer look.

      “I don’t think so. You?”

      “She doesn’t look familiar. I don’t think she’s from around here.”

      “Whoever she is, she’s going to need transport to the hospital. This is beyond what I can handle at the clinic.”

      “How urgent?” Daniel asked from outside the pickup. “Ambulance or LifeFlight to the University of Utah?”

      She considered the situation. “Her vitals are stable and nothing seems life-threatening at this point. Send for an ambulance,” she decided.

      She lifted the girl’s thin T-shirt, trying to look for anything unusual in the dim light. She certainly found it.

      “Sheriff, she’s pregnant,” she exclaimed.

      He leaned inside, his expression clearly shocked. “Pregnant?”

      “I’d guess about five or six months along.”

      She moved her stethoscope and was relieved to hear a steady fetal heartbeat. She started to palpate the girl’s abdomen when suddenly her patient’s eyes flickered open. Even in the dim light inside the camper shell, Lauren could see panic chase across those battered features. The girl cried out and flailed at Lauren as she tried to scramble up and away from her.

      “Easy, sweetheart. Easy,” Lauren murmured. Her skills at Spanish were limited but she tried her best. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you and your baby.”

      The girl’s breathing was harsh and labored, but her frantic efforts to fight Lauren off seemed to ease and she watched her warily.

      “I’m Lauren. I’m a doctor,” she repeated in Spanish, holding up her stethoscope. “What’s your name?”

      Through swollen, discolored eyes, the girl looked disoriented and suspicious, and didn’t answer for several seconds.

      “Rosa,” she finally said, her voice raspy and strained. “Rosa Vallejo.”

      Lauren smiled as calmly as if they were meeting for brunch. It was