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Mrs. Leesum disappears inside and reappears a few moments later with a key in her hand and a cell phone pressed to her ear. I run back to the house as Mrs. Leesum speaks to whoever is on the other end of the line.
I shove the key in the lock. My pulse pounds with adrenaline, making my hands shake. It takes three tries before the lock turns. I barge in. My eyes cut to Uncle Pete’s unmoving form. Acrid smoke fills the kitchen and burns my lungs.
Why didn’t the fire alarms go off?
I turn off the gas to the stovetop and put a lid on the pan, then rush to my uncle. He lies face down on the floor. My fingers tremble as I feel for a pulse, terrified because I can’t find one.
Where are the emergency response vehicles?
Then I pause, remembering who and what I am. I take a steadying breath. I’m trained for this.
I roll him over, placing him in the recovery position. I force my emotions to the background and focus on being the doctor I’ve trained to be.
Placing my fingers over his neck, I feel for his carotid pulse. Faint, but steady, his pulse thumps against my index finger. His chest moves with the slow rhythm of breathing.
So, why did he fall?
As far as I know, he isn’t a diabetic. There’s never been a reason for him to disclose his medical history, but low blood sugar is something I can fix. I leave him in the recovery position and rush to the kitchen.
Sugar. What kind of sugar does he have on hand?
Opening the fridge, I find what I need. Strawberry preserves. Perfect.
Returning to my uncle, I dip my finger in the jam, take a big scoop, and rub it inside his cheek. If his fall was the result of low blood sugar, that should raise it quickly enough.
Sirens sound. I run to the front door, unbolt the latch, and throw open the door. Walking onto the porch, I wave to the paramedics, urging them to move faster.
Two men jump out of the rig. One comes toward me, orange bag slung over his shoulder, while the other pulls a stretcher out of the back of the rig.
“Ma’am,” the lead man says. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s my uncle. He passed out.”
I follow him inside. “I gave him sugar, but I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
The man crouches beside my uncle and feels for a pulse. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll take good care of the doc.” He scrunches his eyes at me. “Hey, wait. You’re Doctor Knight, aren’t you?”
I nod. “That’s me.”
He breathes out a deep sigh. “Glad to meet you.”
“You know me?”
He rolls up my uncle’s sleeve and looks 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 is this guy talking about?
“We’ll make sure he’s comfortable. He’s got a doctor in Billings and hospice has been arranged.”
“What do you mean hospice?”
He pauses. “He didn’t tell you?”
INHERITANCE
