The tantalizing aromas of butter, cinnamon and vanilla lured him to a quaint shop with etched-glass windows.
Oh, yeah. Patti Jo’s won, hands down.
Tinkling bells sounded as he opened the bright crimson door. Before him, customers patiently stood in line at the single cash register, most perusing the glass cases filled with pastries as they waited. Ben scanned the small room, noting that every single bistro table and red leather booth was occupied.
Waiting wasn’t his strong suit. Maybe he’d try the restaurant instead.
He turned to leave just as an elderly man seated at a table to his far left began to cough. Mere moments later, the man stood and clutched his throat before he stumbled back from the table. The coughing stopped, and his face took on a blue tinge.
Without thinking, adrenaline surging, Ben pushed forward through the customers.
But not soon enough.
The man crumpled, striking his head on the table edge as he spiraled down to the floor. Ben reached him and automatically slid his fingers along the victim’s neck.
Pulse still strong. Thank You, God.
He placed his ear to the man’s chest.
Air movement negligent.
Tilting the man’s head, Ben searched his mouth for an obstruction. None evident. Yet something had occluded his airway.
“Everyone step back.” Ben turned to a waitress and nodded toward the silver-haired woman who hovered close. “Can you help her to a chair?”
He made purposeful eye contact with the cashier, a young girl whose face was pale, her eyes rounded.
“What’s your name?” Ben asked, while quickly positioning himself behind the barely conscious man.
“Susan.”
The girl’s frantic glances darted back and forth from the man on the floor and then to him again.
“Susan, look at me,” he commanded. “I need you to call 9-1-1. Right now. Okay?”
She nodded and pulled a cell phone from her smock pocket.
Arms around the fallen man’s waist, Ben gave a practiced abdominal thrust. Once. Twice. Three times. The air pressure action caused something to dislodge and shoot from the man’s mouth into the air. A sharp sucking inhalation filled the now-silent room before the man coughed, and then began normal respirations.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”
A collective sound of relief fluttered through the small crowd.
Ben’s own breathing slowed now that the crisis was over. For a moment he simply rested on his haunches, stunned with the realization that he’d just responded to an emergency like his old self. There’d been zero time for second thoughts, self-doubting or the crippling panic attacks.
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath.
Thank You, Lord. Thank You.
Easing the elderly man away from him, Ben began a quick inspection of his head, parting the gray hairs where blood oozed from a scalp wound.
“I’ve got gauze for that laceration.”
Ben turned, his gaze slamming into the clear green eyes of a petite dark-haired woman, about his age. She reached a latex-gloved hand forward and applied pressure to the victim’s head.
“Thanks,” Ben murmured, grateful for the assist.
After a minute, the woman lifted the corner of the now blood-saturated gauze.
He peered at the site. “Not too bad.”
“Nothing a couple sutures won’t fix,” she said.
Surprised, Ben glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod of agreement at her words. Her confident demeanor said she obviously had a medical background.
Before he could consider that further, the siren of an emergency vehicle echoed. The sound became louder and louder until two paramedics burst through the door of the shop.
As they strode toward him, Ben carefully rose to transfer the care of the victim for a complete evaluation.
“Choking incident. Resolved with Heimlich.” Ben addressed the uniformed medics. “Minor scalp laceration, approximately one-eighth centimeter, secondary to head trauma.”
He turned away, relieved that everyone’s attention was on the victim, which allowed him to slip to the front door.
As he turned away, the elderly woman who’d been with the fallen man grabbed Ben’s arm.
“Thank you, son,” she said. “You saved my husband’s life.” Her soft eyes overflowed with emotion as they met his.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
Head bowed, Ben collected himself. He’d doubted himself for so long; the simple thank you touched a place inside that desperately needed affirmation. Maybe God could still use him.
When he looked up, his eyes met the familiar gaze of the woman who’d assisted him. She pulled hand sanitizer from a first-aid kit that now sat on the café table and squeezed some liquid into her palm before handing the bottle to him.
“Here you go, Doc.”
“Thanks. How’d you know I’m a doctor?”
“Would you believe it takes one to know one?” Amusement skittered across her face.
“Really?” Ben smiled. As he cleaned his hands, he noted with interest her red-plaid Western shirt, well-worn and snug jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. A doctor, huh?
“I’m Sara Elliott. Dr. Sara Elliott.”
“Ben Rogers. Nice to meet you.”
He couldn’t resist a further assessment, from the sprinkling of light freckles that dusted her small nose to the teasing smile that touched her lips and reached her eyes. There was something about the pint-sized beauty that sharpened his senses.
“Nice job with Orvis.”
“Orvis?”
“Orvis Carter. His daughter-in-law owns this café.”
Ben nodded as he digested the information. When his gaze met Sara’s and held for a long moment, he was surprised at the connection between them. Or had he imagined it?
Flustered, Sara Elliott pushed a thick, dark braid over her shoulder and shoved a few loose tendrils of hair back from her face. No, she seemed as taken off guard as he was.
The slight tilting of her head revealed a long, thin scar running from her temple to her ear, parallel with her hairline. It was obvious from the silvery shade and flattened texture that it was years old.
Curious.
Ben looked away, then slid his phone from his pocket, grimacing when he saw the time. “I hate to Heimlich and run, but I’ve got to be somewhere.”
He pushed open the door of the shop and moved the conversation past the still-lingering crowd and the paramedics who were finishing up, out to the sidewalk.
“No problem.” She followed him outside. “I’m sure we’ll meet again. Paradise is a small town.”
“Do you live here?”
“I grew up in Paradise.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned closer, her voice conspiratorial. “But the truth is, I’m here about a job.”
“Oh?” Ben froze, his mind calculating. How many medical positions could there be in a community this size? He’d done his homework. Paradise Hospital itself only had four physicians on staff, and there were a handful of family-practice physicians scattered throughout the valley.