The man glanced at the woman wearing a typical Amish dress and apron.
“Jah, that is right,” she said, nodding in agreement.
“What about your family?” Frank called. “Was anyone hurt?”
“Thanks to God, we are unharmed, but our neighbors are in need.” The man pointed to the next farmhouse and the gaping hole where the wall and roof had been. He and his wife ran to offer aid.
Before Frank could follow, he glanced at the nearby barn. The corner of one wall remained standing, precariously poised over a pile of rubble. At that moment, the cloud cover broke, and the sun’s reflection bounced off a piece of metal buried in the wreckage.
Something chrome, like the bumper of a car. The Amish didn’t drive automobiles, but a traveler passing by could have been seeking shelter from the storm.
He raced to the barn and dug through the debris. “Shout if you can hear me.”
A woman moaned.
“Where are you?” Frank strained to hear more.
All too well, he knew the terror of being buried. His heart lodged in his throat as the memories of Afghanistan played through his mind.
Duke pawed at a pile of timber, his nose sniffing the broken beams and fractured wood.
He barked.
“Help.”
Working like a madman, Frank tossed aside boards piled one upon the other until he uncovered a portion of the car. The passenger door hung open. Shoving fallen beams aside, he leaned into the vehicle’s interior.
A woman stared up at him.
“Are you hurt?”
She didn’t respond.
Hematoma on her left temple. Cuts and abrasions. She was probably in shock.
“Can you move your hands and feet?”
She nodded.
“Stay put, ma’am, until the EMTs arrive. You could have internal injuries.”
She reached for his hand and struggled to untangle herself from the wreckage.
“You shouldn’t move, ma’am.”
“I need help.” She was determined to crawl from the car.
“Take it slow.” Frank had no choice but to assist her to her feet. She was tall and slender with untamed hair the color of autumn leaves. She teetered for a moment and then stepped into his arms.
He clutched her close and warmed to her embrace. “You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“But—”
She glanced over her shoulder. He followed her gaze, his eyes focusing on a second woman.
Black hair. Ashen face. A bloodstained jacket lay wadded in a ball at her waist.
Pulling back the covering, Frank groaned. Her injury hadn’t been caused by the storm.
She’d taken a bullet to the gut.
Where were the emergency response teams?
Police, fire, EMTs?
Frank removed his belt and wove it under the victim’s slender waist. Determined to keep her alive, he cinched the makeshift tourniquet around the rolled-up jacket to maintain pressure and hopefully stop the flow of precious blood she was losing much too fast.
He glanced at the redhead hovering nearby. She looked as concerned as he felt. They both knew that without immediate medical help, the injured woman wouldn’t survive.
“If you’ve got a cell, call 911.”
She pulled a phone from her pocket and shook her head. “There...there’s no coverage.”
The gunshot victim needed an ambulance and needed it fast. Frustration bubbled up within him. After ten years with the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Division, Frank didn’t like the only conclusion he could make with the information at hand.
“Why’d you shoot her, ma’am?”
Red shook her head, her eyes wide. “I did no such thing.”
He pointed to the demolished car. “This is your Honda?”
She nodded.
“How’d she end up in your car?”
“I...I stopped at the picnic park about a mile from here. She needed help. I opened the passenger door, and a shot rang out.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
Red rubbed the swollen lump on her forehead. “I...I don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember or don’t want to remember?” Even he heard the annoyance in his voice.
The woman stared at him, her face blank. Maybe she was telling the truth.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Colleen...Colleen Brennan.”
“You’re from around here?”
“Atlanta.”
Which didn’t make sense. “But you just happened to pull into a nearby picnic park?”
Her green eyes flashed with fear.
Trauma played havoc with emotions and memory. Frank wanted to believe her, but he knew too well that the pretty woman with the tangled hair could be making up a story to throw him off track.
Duke sniffed at her leg. She reached down and patted his head.
A raspy pull of air forced Frank’s attention back to the gunshot victim. She moaned.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
He leaned into the car. “Stay with us, ma’am. Help’s on the way.” Hopefully it would arrive in time.
Her glassy eyes focused on Colleen. Frank turned to stare at her.
The redhead blanched. The lump on her temple cried for ice, and the scrapes to her cheek and hands needed debridement.
“After your friend’s treated, we’ll have the EMTs take a look at you.”
“I’m fine.” Colleen’s voice was lifeless.
Slipping past her, he waved his arms in the air at the approaching first responders. Two ambulances and a fire truck from one of the rural fire stations.
The emergency crew pulled in front of the Craft Shoppe. Frank motioned them closer to the barn, where they parked and jumped from their vehicles.
“Two women are injured.” Frank pointed to the collapsed structure. “One with a bullet wound to her gut. She’s lost blood. The other woman has a knot the size of a lemon on her forehead and could be in shock.”
Hauling medical bags and a backboard, a pair of EMTs waded through the collapsed wreckage around the car. A second set of paramedics set up an emergency triage area near the second ambulance.
“We’ll need you to step away from the car, ma’am,” one of the EMTs told Colleen.
Her brow furrowed. She peered around them at Frank.
Seeing the confusion in her gaze, his anger softened. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “They’re here to help.”
Despite the niggling worry that Colleen Brennan may have been involved in the shooting, he reached for her. “Come toward me, and we’ll get out of their way.”
She