Christmas Story - The Urn of Fate, Janet Lane Walters YA #BooksWeLove #MFRWauthor #shortstory

Purchase from your favorite vendor by clicking the book cover for links

The Urn of Fate

Pedro tossed a stone down the hill and sighed. He felt a tugging at his woolen scarf and turned to stroke Blanca, his pet merino sheep.

“Si, Blanca, soon it will be time to go down but I must think now. Jaime’s coming for a few days. Can you imagine, he’s to be my special friend until next Christmas?”

Pedro put his arm around Blanca and she settled beside him. Christmas hadn’t been good this year. Pedro frowned as he remembered how excited he’d been when his grandmother, Abuela, had picked up the Urn of Fate and started to draw names. Pedro had held his breath.

Last year, Tio Carlos had been his special friend. Tio Carlos had given him Blanca and had taught him many things about being a shepherd.

This year, Abuela had drawn Jaime’s name to be Pedro’s special friend. Pedro wondered what Jaime would give him. Jaime always had his nose in a book.

Pedro had been so disappointed he had run from the room, saying he had to feed Blanca and the chickens. His eyes had burned with tears. Abuela had planned the whole thing but it wouldn’t work. He and Jamie could never be special friends.

“Pedro, Pedro, come quickly,” his mother called.

Pedro rose slowly and untied Blanca’s rope. “We must go, little one.” He and Blanca made their way cautiously down the hill. Blanca was going to lamb soon and Pedro took special care of her. She was his future. Someday, he would have the largest flock of sheep in Spain.

“Pedro, I want you to take some eggs to Abuela.”

“Si, Mamacita,” said Pedro. “First, I must put Blanca in her pen.”

“Let Jaime do that while you gather the eggs.”

Pedro hadn’t noticed Jaime standing in the doorway. “Hello, Jaime,” he said. “I’ll get the eggs and you put Blanca in her pen. Be sure the door is shut.”

“May I pet her?” asked Jaime.

“Sure.”

As the boys started down the hill to their grandmother’s, Jaime said. “Blanca is a merino. I read they produce fine wool.”

Pedro grinned. Maybe Jaime wouldn’t be so bad after all.

When they reached their grandmother’s house, Pedro carried the eggs in. Jaime followed him.

“Good day, Abuela,” said Jaime.

Abuela took the eggs. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad Jaime could visit you. It will do you good to be outdoors more, Jaime.”

“Si Abuela,” Jaime said.

“And you, Pedro, Jaime can interest you in books. The schoolmaster has been talking to me.”

“I don’t need books. I’m going to be a shepherd.”

“Some knowledge might help.”

“Si, Abuela,” said Pedro. “Come, Jaime, Mamacita will have supper ready.”

The sky was growing dark and the wind had begun to blow.

“Hurry, Jaime,” said Pedro. “It’s going to snow and Tio Carlos said Blanca might have her lamb any time. I want to be with her.”

“Can you only think of that smelly sheep,” said Jaime. “Tio Carlos always smells like sheep.”

“So will I. I’m going to be a shepherd.”

“And I’m going to be a school teacher.”

When they reached home, Jaime went to the house but Pedro headed for Blanca’s pen. A few minutes alter, he burst into the house. “Blanca’s gone! It’s all your fault, Jaime. The door wasn’t closed tight.” He ran out.

“Pedro, wait for me,” called Jaime. “I’ll help you.” He pulled on his coat and tried to tuck the loose ends of his scarf in as he ran after Jaime. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it right.”

“I should have done it myself,” said Pedro. “Blanca, Blanca!” He tried to follow the tracks Blanca had left.

The wind began to blow and snow swirled through the air. Finally, Pedro stopped and slumped to the ground.

“It’s no use. The wind has hidden her tracks.”

“Pedro,” called Jaime. “Here’s a bit of wool on this bush. We must search like the American Indians do. I studied them in English class. We’ll find her.”

Pedro stumbled after Jaime. Each time Jaime found a new sign of Blanca’s travels, Pedro was amazed. The storm was so thick he could hardly see Jaime.

“I must rest,” Jaime said.

“But look, there’s a big lump in front of those bushes over there.”

Pedro ran forward. “We’ve found her. Oh, Blanca, why did you run away?”

He knelt beside Blanca on the ground.  His eyes widened when he saw the two lambs nestled against her. “Jaime, come quickly. Blanca has two lambs. We must get them home.”

“Pedro,” Jaime screamed.

Pedro turned and saw Jaime lying on the ground. He ran over.

“I tripped on a tree root,” said Jaime. “My ankle hurts. I can’t stand. Now we’ll never get Blanca and her two lambs home.”

“You found Blanca and I will get us home,” said Pedro.

Pedro found some stout branches and put one on either side of Jaime’s injured leg. He tied them with his and Jaime’s scarves. Then he carried Blanca and the lambs to Jaime.

“Put the lambs in your coat to keep them warm while I try to make some kind of sled with some of these pine branches. I’m glad you didn’t take Blanca’s rope off. We can use that.”

After Pedro wove the branches together, he put Jaime and Blanca on the makeshift sled. He tugged on the short rope and started down the hill. The sled bounced over the uneven ground and Pedro thought it might fall apart before they got far. He hoped he could find some shelter for Jaime and Blanca so he could continue home for help.

“Pedro,” said Jaime. “Sheep are soft. Can we be friends?”

“Didn’t the Urn of Fate choose us?” said Pedro. “Maybe you can find me some books about sheep.”

“Pedro, look. There are some lights moving up the hill.”

Pedro looked up. Mamacita must have called men from the village to look for us. We’re almost home, my Blanca, my two lambs and my special friend. Here we are,” he shouted.

The End

Christmas Short Story - The Star the Wisemen Saw - Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #shortstory

The Star The Wisemen Saw

Hurry, hurry, thought Ruth Greer. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Traffic moved through town like the last drops of ketchup from the bottle.

Rush, rush. Why did I invite both families to Christmas dinner? I must have been out of my mind,

Bob’s parents are nice. It’s my family who’ll act like I’m the idiot child. Marcy’s house is spotless and she never gets in a flap. All my life I’ve heard, “Hurry, Ruth. If you would plan, you would get things done.”

It’s Christmas Eve and five o’clock, she thought. I’ve just finished my Christmas shopping. I promise and I promise. Never again. The promise doesn’t work. Every year, I have to shop on Christmas Eve.

“Hey, Mom,” shouted Timmy in his loudest voice. “Why can’t we see Santa? There’s so much I want to tell him.”

“Me, too. Me, too,” shouted the three-year-old twins.

Bother Santa, thought Ruth. I’d like to send him to the moon.

“I want a robot, a sled, a new bike, a racing car set and some of those trucks that run by them selves,” shouted five-year-old Timmy. “I’ve got to tell Santa.

“Me, too. Me, too," shouted the twins.

“Would you sit still and shut up,” said Ruth through clenched teeth. There is no Santa, she wanted to shout. He’s someone made up to drive parents crazy. I wish there wasn’t a Christmas. I wish I didn’t have a mother and a sister who keep perfect homes.

It was snowing lightly when Ruth pulled into the driveway. Nearly six o’clock. Two hours behind schedule. I might be finished by tomorrow morning. I’ll be glad when Christmas is over.

“In the house, kids,” she said and grabbed two bags from the seat beside her. She dropped them on the kitchen table and hurried out for the rest.

“Out,” she shouted at the boys. They were standing on chairs lifting packages from the bags. “Outside and play. Daddy will be here soon.”

“I want to help,” said Timmy.

“Me, too. Me, too," echoed the twins.

“Come on, kids. Outside,” shouted Ruth over their voices. “Please.”

The door slammed behind the three boys. Ruth slumped in a chair and rubbed her forehead. She was getting a headache and she didn’t have time to nurse it. She shouldn’t be sitting here.

“Mind over matter, “she mumbled. “Think positively.”

But she couldn’t. There were groceries to put away, pies to bake, cranberry sauce to prepare, the turkey to stuff and start baking. Last minute purchases to wrap and the tree to trim after the kids went to bed.

I’ll never get done, she thought. All those jobs suffocated her. She looked at the clock. Bob’s late. Dinner’s not ready. The guest room beds had to be made.

She threw some hamburgers in the oven and dashed upstairs. I’ll make the beds up. Then I can spend time with Mom and Dad Greer when they arrive. They’re darlings. They won’t mind if everything’s not perfect.

Only Mother and Marcy will be looking for what I haven’t done. When they come tomorrow, they’ll try to take over. This time I’m going to refuse.

The bottom sheets were on the bed when Ruth remembered the groceries hadn’t been put away. She dashed downstairs and stopped short. Muddy footprints and clumps of snow left a trail across the clean kitchen floor.

What have they done now, she thought. The trail led to the table. Oh, no, they’ve drunk the whipping cream. Bob’ll have to go to the store for more.

Ruth took a deep breath. I don’t have time to cry. She jammed things into the refrigerator and cupboards and set the table. As she called the children, she sighed. I haven’t played with them all week. Why is tomorrow so important to me? Why does it matter what Mother and Marcy think? It does. I’m tired of being Miss Scatterbrain.

When Bob came in, she had supper on the table. “Traffic’s fierce,” he said and kissed her. “You’re tense. Stop worrying about tomorrow. It’s just another day.”

Ruth began to cry. “It’s not just another day. It’s Christmas. We’re having company and the children drank the whipping cream.”

Bob laughed. “Is that all? I’ll go to the store after supper.

The house was silent when Bob and the boys left. Ruth wished she could relax but there was too much to do. She had mixed the filling for the pumpkin pies while Bob and the boys ate. She rolled the crusts and set the pies to bake. While she was cleaning the cranberries, the phone rang.

“Ruth, dear,” said her mother. “Would you like me to come over and help? I know how frantic you get.”

“Everything’s under control,” said Ruth. “Just a minute.” She turned off the water and scooped the cranberries back into the bowl. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mother.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me?”

“Perfectly sure.”

The back door opened and the boys dashed in. They waved candy canes. When they hugged her they left sticky imprints on her arms.

“Santa. Santa,” shouted the twins.

“It really was Santa,” Tommy said. “He gave us candy. He said we were good.”

“Good. Good,” echoed the twins.

“Quiet,” shouted Bob. “Upstairs and get undressed.” He shook his head as they ran off. “Had to get a can of cream. They were out of the other.”

“Those darn kids’ said Ruth.

He pulled her close. “Don’t take it so seriously. You’re been frantic all week. Mom and Dad don’t care what we eat. They want to be with us.”

“It’s not your parents. It’s Mother and Marcy. They act like I’m a goof.” She sighed. “Most of the time they’re right.”

“If you’re a goof, that’s the way I like you.” He kissed her on the forehead.

“Don’t make jokes,” said Ruth. “I can see Mother and my sister when they come in. ‘Ruth, dear, is there anything we can do? Your pies are watery. Are you sure you baked the turkey long enough?’ Just for once, I would like to show them.”

He kissed her again. “You do just fine. I’ll get the kids ready for bed.”

“Bed,” shouted Ruth. “The guest room beds aren’t made yet.” She started to the door. “I can’t leave this food. What am I going to do/”

“Relax,” Bob said.

“How can I when everything’s getting out of hand.” Ruth heard water running. “See what those kids are doing.” They would decide to take a bath tonight when I spent two hours cleaning the bathroom.

As she melted butter for the stuffing, she felt like she was missing something. I don’t know what, she thought. I feel so empty.”

The phone and the front door bell rang at the same time. Why can’t everyone leave me alone, she thought as she grabbed the phone. “Just a minute,” she shouted. “Someone’s at the door.” Marcy’s mocking laughter followed her down the hall.

“Mom, you’re early,” she said.

Mrs. Greer enfolded Ruth in her ample arms. “We made good time. Dad’s bringing our things in. Where are the boys?”

“Bob’s getting them ready for bed.”

“I’ll run up and help him.”

Ruth remembered Marcy and hurried back to the kitchen. The awful smell of burning butter greeted her. She ran to the stove and turned the burner off. Tears stung her eyes when she picked up the phone. “I’m here.”

“Poor little sister,” said Marcy. “Everything in a mess?”

Ruth counted to ten. “No. Bob’s getting the children ready for bed. When the phone and doorbell went off together, I had to get both.”

“Mother called and suggested we come over and help.” drawled Marcy. “I’m sure you need us. You do want to impress your in-laws.”

“I don’t have to impress then,” said Ruth. It’s you and Mother, she thought.

“Maybe we’ll have a relaxed day at your house for a change. Going to chain the kids?”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it, little sister,” said Marcy. “See you at church tonight.”

Ruth stood and stared into space. She’d forgotten about church. There was a sitter coming in three hours. I’ll have to be ready. Last year, Marcy had entertained on Christmas Eve, gone to church and had a perfect meal at two the next afternoon, but Marcy didn’t have children.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have children, thought Ruth. Then she gasped. What am I thinking? It wouldn’t be a home without the boys even if they do make messes.

“What’s the matter, Ruthie?”

Ruth forced herself to smile. “I was just wondering if I was going to get done.”

“Sure smells good,” said Mr. Greer.” Even the burned butter?”

“Didn’t notice that. I’ll run these things upstairs.”

Ruth returned to the stuffing. I’d better chop the onions and celery before I melt more butter. As she chopped the onions, tears streamed down her face. She could hear laughter from upstairs. I’m missing the best part of Christmas trying to impress Mother and Marcy when I know it can’t be done.

“Ruth, the boys are ready for their story,” called Bob.

Ruth took the stairs two at a time. The boys looked so sweet she wanted to gather them into her arms. She would rather have them and a messy house than an empty perfect home like Marcy’s.

“What story?” she asked.

“The Wise Men and the star,” said Timmy.

“Star. Star, echoed the twins.

Ruth sat on Timmy’s bed. The twins snuggled on either side of her. Mom and Dad Greer sat on the bed with Timmy between them. Bob leaned against the wall.

“Behold, three wisemen came to Herod…”

When Ruth finished the story, she sat quietly for a few minutes. She had missed so much of Christmas these past few days. What did a perfect house have to do with the season?

She got up and walked to the window. She pressed her face against the pane. A few snowflakes drifted lazily down. The sky was full of stars but one appeared brighter than the rest.

“What do you see?” asked Bob.

“Come here,” she said. When Bob and the boys had gathered close, she pointed to the brightest star. “Maybe that’s the star the wisemen saw.”

She and Bob tucked the boys in bed. When they started downstairs, she turned to Bob. “Mother and Marcy will have to be happy with our house as it is. I lost the meaning of Christmas trying to impress them. I’m going to be me.”

Bob squeezed her hand. “That’s my girl.”

“No,” said Ruth. “Your scatterbrain.”

The odor of pumpkin pie and stuffing filtered up to her. I’m glad I saw the star, she thought. Christmas is for family and love. I have both.

Another Short Story _ Janet Lane Walters #MFRWauthor #short story

 

 

Continuing with sharing short stories. This story is one that could only have written in 1968 since much has changed. The story was triggered by an article I read in one of my husband’s medical journals. The story also is one that sounds like the synopsis for a story rather than a story. The amount of passive writing surprised me when I re-typed the words. The urge to re-write became strong but I refrained.

 

No “Good Samaritan” I

 

Dr. Thomas Brand held the steering wheel so tightly the knuckles of his hands were white. As he drove along, he stared at the road without seeing it. Why had he decided to go to that meeting? He had known what Judge Sloan was going to talk about. It would have been better if he had stayed at home. The meeting had brought back bitter memories.

It was a rainy night in early November and the moon remained hidden. The blacktop glistened in the beams from the car’s headlights. The road twisted and turned past scattered farm houses, most of them were dark but I few still had porch lights visible.

Dr. Brand let out a deep sign. Judge Sloan had spoken of the physician’s responsibility when stopping to give aid at the scene of an accident. He felt that a doctor was obligated to stop. Dr. Brand had felt a wave of resentment pass over him. During the discussion that had followed, he had given his views.

Of course, his views were bitter but what else could they expect? If any of his fellow doctors had agreed with him, they hadn’t spoken out. Many had disagreed with him but they didn’t know what it was like to have given up something for which you had worked so hard. He didn’t know any of them who had to sit in an empty office waiting for patients who didn’t come or watching people’s embarrassment when they met him on the street. Not many of them knew what it was like to leave your home and friends, not because you wanted to but because you were forced to.

They spoke from their ideals and their dreams. They didn’t know. They’d never had to be “Good Samaritan.”

Dr. Brand knew and he knew he was one doctor who would never again play that role. He would close his eyes to suffering and see patients by appointment only.

Those idealistic doctors didn’t have that night vividly etched in their memories. He would remember it as long as he lived.

After his evening office hours, he had driven out to the Howard farm. Mr. Howard had broken his leg and it had swollen. Now the cast seemed too tight.

 

* * *

The July night was hot and humid. Everyone was hoping for signs of rain. When Dr. Brand had finished loosening Mr. Howard’s cast. He said, “If you have any more trouble with the cast, let me know and I’ll make arrangements to put a new one on.” As he spoke, he closed his medical bag and got up to leave.

There was a loud crash outside. “Thunder?” asked Dr. Brand.

“I hope so,” replied Mr. Howard. “It’s been a hot, dry summer. My crops are dying in the fields and I can’t do a thing about them.”

They were interrupted by the steady blare of a car horn. “There go those darn kids again,” said Mr. Howard. “They come down this road almost every night blaring that horn.”

As Dr. Brand walked to his car, the horn’s blare continued, not fading a bit. A nagging thought began to forming Dr. Brand’s mind and he stopped to peer into the darkness.

The Howard farm was bordered along the road edge by a brown stone wall. An elm grew near the gate. As Dr. Brand peered into the darkness, he could make out the shadowy outline of a car among the scattered stones. Someone in that car must be honking for help, he thought.

Dr. Brant turned and dashed back to the house. “Mrs. Howard, call Memorial and have them send an ambulance right now. There’s a wreck at the end of your lane. Tell them I’m here.”

He drove down the lane as fast as he dared. When he reached the road, he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a girl with red hair who lay in a grotesque heap on the road. Wandering aimlessly was another girl. And the horn continued to blare.

As Dr. Brand stared at the wreck, he knew how a battle surgeon must feel when he looked at the chaotic scenes of war. He controlled his panic and tried to decide what to do first. While thinking, he pulled nervously at his right earlobe. From beside him he grabbed his medical bag and hurried to where the red-haired girl lay. He knelt beside her and felt for a pulse. He stood up slowly. She was dead.

He walked slowly over to the twisted wreckage of the car. What had once been a bright, shiny convertible was now covered with a thick coat of dust and bits of stone. The front end was smashed in.

Then he saw the blonde boy wedged behind the steering wheel with his head and chest lying across it. A sudden feeling of panic overcame Dr. Brand when he saw the boy was Allen Randel, son of Circle’s leading lawyer and one of its most influential citizens.

Allen had played football for Circle High School.  He outweighs me by at least thirty pounds, thought Dr. Brand. I’ll never be able to move him by myself. I’ll have to wait until the ambulance arrives. He put his hands to his ears. Oh, God, is there no way to stop that horn.

The girl who was wandering in the road began to call out. “Watch out! Allen! Stop!”

Dr. Brand left Allen’s side and half-carried her to the side of the road. Blood oozed from scrapes and cuts on her hands and face. She cried hysterically.

Dr. Brand searched through his bag and gave her a sedative. Then he dressed her wounds. Some of them would have to be sutured when they got to the hospital. Her face would scar, he thought. Gently, he helped her to his car.

At the sight of her friend, the girl began to scream again. Dr. Brand covered as much of the dead girl as he could with his jacket. He soothed the young girl and then hurried to Allen again. Would this nightmare ever end?

He checked his nausea and tried to figure a way to move Allen, even though he knew it was impossible without help. I wish the ambulance would hurry, thought Dr. Brand as he felt the boy’s pulse. The boy needs to get to a hospital. I can’t do a thing for him here.

A low, whimpering puppy-like sound drew his attention from Allen. He turned to see a boy huddled against the broken stone wall, near the front of the car. The boy held his hands to his face. He continued to whimper while Dr. Brand examined him.

“Come on, son. Stand up. I’m here to help you,” said Dr. Brand. The boy’s cries continued as Dr. Brand led him to his car.

As Dr. Brand hurried back to Allen, he heard the wail of an ambulance in the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief.

When the ambulance reached the scene, the driver and attendant helped Dr. Brand move Allen into the ambulance and they went to take the red-haired girl. The cessation of the horn’s blare made Dr. Brand almost as nervous as its steady blare had.

“Horrible accident,” said the attendant. “I wonder what they were trying to probe. Must have been going very fast.”

Dr. Brand finished checking the extent of Allen’s injuries and tossed his car keys to the attendant. “There’s another couple in my car. The girl’s face and arms are lacerated and the boy’s in shock. He has no evident injuries. I’d better go in the ambulance. I’m not sure young Randel’s going to make it.” He placed a tourniquet around the blond boy’s arm.

The fifteen minute ride to the hospital seemed endless to Dr. Brand. Allen’s condition grew progressively worse. Dr. Brand started an intravenous and administered stimulants but nothing seemed to help.

Allen died shortly after they reached the hospital before he could be taken to the operating room. A feeling of helplessness engulfed Dr. Brand. How do you tell the parents of an only child that he was dead? Slowly, he left the room and went to find Allen’s parents.

He saw the Randels in the waiting room. Mrs. Randel was leafing through a magazine. She was an imposing woman who wore her gray hair in a chignon. Her sharp aristocratic features suited the long mink coat and the jeweled hands.

Mr. Randel stood in the doorway, talking to a nurse, gesticulating wildly. His portly face was red and he ran his fingers through his balding blonde hair.

As Dr. Brand approached, he heard Mr. Randel say, “I want to see my son. That was an expensive car he wrecked and I want an explanation. I don’t care if the doctor is with him. My wife and I were called away from an important party and would like to return as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Randel,” interrupted Dr. Brand. “I’ve just come from your son.”

“Can I see him now?”

“I would like to talk to you and yoru wife first.”

As they entered the waiting room, Dr. Brand cleared his throat. He still didn’t know how he was going to tell the Randels. He looked at them and began pulling at his right earlobe.

“I’m sorry… Allen just died. We did everything possible for him but we couldn’t;’ get him here in time. One girl was killed and another couple injured.”

Mr. Randel sat down heavily. His face was ashen. Mrs. Randel looked at Dr. Brand with cold blue eyes.

“How did you let this happen?” she demanded. “You’re a doctor. Why did you let my son die?”

Dr. Brand motioned to the nurse. “Get Mrs. Randel a sedative, please.”

Mrs. Randel’s voice rose to a high pitch. “I don’t want anything from you. You’re responsible for Allen’s death. I know it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Brand said as he turned away. He didn’t want Mrs. Randel to see the anger on his face. There were things he could have said, her son’s recklessness had killed a girl and injured two others but Allen was dead and those things were petty. His anger changed to pity as he walked to where his other two patients were waiting.

When the Randels sued him for malpractice, Dr. Brand was taken by surprise. Surely by now, they must realize he had done everything he could for their son.

His practice began to decline before the trial. Appointments were cancelled and only a few new ones were made. He had known this would happen but he hadn’t expected it.

Dr. Brand won the suit and his heard was full of pity for the Randels. They looked so old.

He was stunned and then angered when his patients didn’t return. Wasn’t he the same doctor he had been before the whole mess began? He knew he was but he wasn’t being giving a chance to prove it. When he heard John Howard had gone to another doctor to have his cast removed, he knew he would have to leave Circle.

The decision was a hard one to make. He would have to throw away five years of hard work that it had taken to build his practice. Si, he left and moved to Stonedge to start over again.

 

* * *

 

A road sign indicating a double curve ahead roused him from his bitter memories. He slowed down and as he rounded the first curve, he gasped. A blue coupe had crashed into a large oak tree. Nearby, a gray sedan was parked and two people stood helplessly by the wreck.

Dr. Brand continued around the bend. Why did this have to happen to him? Why God, why? His questions echoed in his head as he pulled his car off the road. He left the headlights on. A find misting of rain rapidly covered the windshield. Groping shadows reached out from the trees as though they were pleading for help.

I’ve got to drive on. I don’t want to be involved. He began pulling at his right earlobe. What should I do?

He opened the door of the car and stepped out. I can send those people to go call for an ambulance. At least I can do that much. No one has to know I’m a doctor. His hand unconsciously grasped the medical bag.

As he walked through the chilling November drizzle, his thoughts raced. Why am I doing this? Why did I pick up my bag? He controlled an impulse to return to the car and drive away.

Je walked over to the couple. “Would you call an ambulance? There’s a farm house down the road a little way.” As an after thought, he added. “I’m Dr. Brand.”

The couple got into their car and drove away. Dr. Brand knelt in the road beside the patient and began to examine him.

 

The End

 

https://twitter.com/JanetL717

 

 https://www.facebook.com/janet.l.walters.3?v=wall&story_fbid=113639528680724

 

 http://bookswelove.net/

 

 http://wwweclecticwriter.blogspot.com

 

http://www.bwlpublishing.ca/authors/lane-walters-janet-romance-fantasy-usa/