How You Play The Game
A Fan Fic Story
by Carol from Minnesota

* * * * *

Games are played for fun... or with ‘serious’ determination.

PROLOGUE

“Josh, you’re tickling me! Not fair! I can’t concentrate!”

Josh Hartshorn, aka Richard Kimble, chuckled softly and mumbled an apology to Sandy as he straightened up and stepped back into the small group circled around her. He had not consciously realized he was crowding her as she sat crouched over the laptop keyboard, fingers flying, as she unstacked the “virtual tiles” in her favorite, MahJong Solitaire.

Watching Sandy play was fascinating. She was good! And fast! Not that she had to beat the clock. She set her own parameters, such as 10,000 points in so many minutes or 9000 points in a single round, rather than letting the computer decide that she had no more rounds left. Unlike the more favored games of her younger brother Pete -- with their stealth space ships and interplanetary flavor, or castle scenarios of dark knights -- MahJong Solitaire was more simple. At least, on the face of it. No one on the board was going to “attack” her. And it was not the kind of game that one “won or lost,” other than through Sandy’s own self-imposed limits.

And, as Kimble now also realized, he had been standing close to Sandy not so much to admire her skill as to get a whiff of her hair... some scent in the shampoo she used..and to feel the softness of her tresses brushing against his bare arm...

* * * * *

“How You Play The Game”

On his ongoing quest to find the elusive One Armed Man, and at the same time stay ahead of Gerard and the others, Richard’s cross-country trek had taken him once again in a zig-zag course across the country. Unfortunately, as had happened before, Richard found that by the time he got to Charnquist’s last known location (Minneapolis), he had totally “lost the scent.”

At the same time, Richard realized that his nerves were shot. He needed a break, to rest his troubled mind and regroup his mental acuity. So rather than cast about darkly in the Twin Cities, he decided to lay low for a time -- not far off the journey’s last known path, but hopefully remote enough.

But as usual, he also needed food, money, and a warm place to stay.

So he answered an ad in the St. Paul Pioneer Press for a “handymen of sorts; permanent or seasonal.” His job interview took place over the phone. After answering a few perfunctory questions, and being promised the refund of his bus fare upon arrival, he counted out the last of his meager funds at a ticket counter, climbed on a Greyhound and headed north.

Several hours later, even considering all the stops the bus made (he had not realized it would be quite THAT far!), he arrived at Smiley’s Store, a combination grocery/bait and tackle shop, which served as a rendezvous point where he was picked up by Nick, a quietly pleasant young man who was going to be one of his new co-workers. Nick drove Richard several more miles, on what he more or less formally called The Rut Road, to what turned out to be a run-down resort on a lake in northern Minnesota that a small but determined family had recently inherited.

Richard could see, on arrival, that this outfit would probably be glad to get any and all help that they could. There was far more work than their small numbers could do, even now, just past winter, when the resort was closed in the off season.

Partly because he was immediately drawn to these friendly folk, and partly because he was tired of wondering how many people had become suspicious of him on other occasions when he’d had to take off suddenly, he decided to be up front and tell them that he was not interested in a permanent position, and that his “seasonal” interest in the job meant that he would probably stay only a week or so, if they could use him for that short a time. They welcomed him with open arms.

The new title owner was Cassie Lindberg. But his boss, or “Leader of the Pack” as she called herself, was actually Cassie’s daughter Sandy. It was she who introduced the rest of the crew - such as they were. They included Cassie (who considered herself one of the crew), and Sandy’s brother Pete, in his early teens -- “He’s being home-schooled, so we are stuck with him around all the time,” she explained. Brother and sister made faces at each other.

No mention was made about Pete and Sandy’s father. Richard did not press.

The only others there were Nick and Rick Anderson -- tall, lanky, blue-eyed twins, “a couple of young bucks who are some of our closest friends.” The two had just turned twenty -- “That means we are actually forty, right?” Rick piped up. With all the kidding around going on here, Richard thought wryly that “Josh” -- the name he had chosen for himself -- was certainly apt, for his latest life’s venture.

Nick, of course, he had already met. His brother Rick appeared to be Nick’s exact replica. Richard could not tell them apart, even after sitting next to one of them on the trip from Smiley’s Store.

“Rick” was a common enough nickname - one which Kimble was personally seldom known by. It was nevertheless disconcerting (as had happened previously) to hear a variant of his own actual name tossed around so easily. He would just have to be on the alert and get used to it.

Cassie was sentimental about the old place for several reasons. She had grown up with it being a part of her life. She had even worked there as summer help, all during her teens. She had known and loved the previous owners, who had told her once, years ago, that they considered her like a daughter. When she learned that she had inherited, she was humbled and overjoyed at the same time. There was never any question of changing the name, “Sandy Beach Resort.” She told Richard with a far away smile that she considered it a good omen, because of her own daughter’s name.

Sandy -- soft and sensuous -- was probably in her late 20’s or early 30’s, Richard guessed. Cassie he could not be sure. There was something wise and ageless about the lovely lady with silvery-gray hair and twinkling eyes.

Everyone on the crew currently lived at the resort. “Josh Hartshorn” was the odd man out as far as the inside jokes of long-time residents in a small community. And yet, they were all quite pleasant -- including (for the most part) thirteen-year-old Pete. They all welcomed him not only as a hard worker but a new friend.

Sandy’s leadership style was chaotically refreshing, at once disorganized and inspiring. The only differentiation of jobs had to do with particular skills one of them might possess. Otherwise, everyone pitched in, share and share alike, regardless of age, title, or gender.

There were only patches of snow on the ground. Richard assumed that it was because of the time of year. But he was informed that Minnesota had had a string of winters with not much snow -- “That makes it tough for places that ARE open all winter,” Sandy told him. “But it has been a big help to us, because we can certainly get more done this way. I would hate to think how anything would get done at all if we had that to contend with, right now.”

Work was severely hampered by the limited number of employees. From Day One, Richard could see that Sandy Beach Resort needed major revitalizing, making it “winter friendly” and accessible all year round -- with such activities as cross country skiing, sleigh rides, tobogganing, snowmobile races, ice fishing contests -- if it was ever going to make a financial go.

Cassie wanted to preserve the older traditions of the area, while realistically adding some modernization. She did not feel they needed to compete with the more expensive resorts in the northwestern part of the state. In its history, Sandy Beach Resort had always catered to families of more modest means and old fashioned values. And so, while there would be internet access, there would also be marshmellow roasts. And it would be nice to get some real sleighs, again -- the nostalgic kind, the romancing kind -- as well as a big ol’ hay wagon.

Meanwhile, in the present, the trail horses needed to be taken care of, consuming expensive feed without earning their keep in the winter months. Richard could scarcely wait to take his turn to care for them!

Sandy and the others were delighted that he’d had experience. It would give the rest of them a break. From Richard’s standpoint, he had loved horses since his youth. In many ways, those chores would not seem like “work.”

But there was plenty of that, too! The stables themselves needed repairing. The older log cabins, dating from the early 1930’s, were sturdy enough. But some of the newer ones -- built in the 60’s -- needed so much attention that they virtually needed rebuilding. (At least for now, they would ignore the ones that were too far gone).

Sandy continued with her litany of needs. “The electric hookups for the camp sites and rental campers need upgrading,” she went on. “Hmmm; you’re not an electrician, are you? Oh well; maybe Smiley Hakala can come over and help with that.”

The list of tasks continued. The antique plumbing needed tending to -- in this regard, Nick and Rick, although not licensed plumbers, showed some inborn talent. And everything needed paint of course, but it was mostly too cold out, yet for that... and on and on. Work was hard, and seemingly endless.

And then there was the problem of how to pay for everything! Would all the work, and all the expense, pay off in the long run?

It would be easy to give in to discouragement. But in the evenings, they all gathered in the Great Hall (“We are going to have to give THAT a better name,” Sandy declared.) They engaged in conversation, played board games, computer games, word games, charades, Jenga, whatever came to mind, “because we all have to keep alert and stay sane.” Sandy made it part of the job description that everyone WOULD join in, for at least part of every evening.

And most of the time, they all did. “No one is going to come down with Seasonal Affective Disorder, folks,” she cajoled. “I absolutely forbid it!” It was her belief that SAD - that strange form of depression which is more common to people living in areas of the world with diminished sunshine in the winter months - was best treated not only with a bright light, but with “brain work” and lots of laughter.

One evening, feeling a need for a slight break from the enforced togetherness, Richard wandered across the large expanse of the Great Hall, the vaulted room which was festooned alternately with deer antlers and moose racks, as well as art work from various provinces in Scandinavian countries.

Cassie had explained that years ago, some people took it quite seriously about their regional differences, and would even come to blows. That didn’t happen now; but there were still a friendly rivalry, and many Minnesotans knew exactly which town from which their grand parents had departed the Old Country, and they knew which dialect was the “real” language (their own!) and which provincial folk art they felt to be superior.

There were plenty of examples of that. Some of it was whimsical, and some quite intricate. Richard marveled as he looked closely. And here in the Great Hall, it all looked quite abandoned. That, too, would need attention, he realized. Some of the art work would possibly need restoration... of which he knew absolutely nothing.

Richard continued his slow wandering inspection of the sturdy-looking room. He noticed a dusty, abandoned guitar in a dark corner and picked it up tentatively, tuned it, and quietly began strumming. The others quickly dropped their own pursuits and gathered around him.

Taken somewhat aback at first, Richard warmed to his audience, entertaining them with a decent enough timbre, somewhere between tenor and baritone. The condition of his singing voice did not please him. It had not seen use in quite a long while. But he delighted the others, and they clamored for more. He had to think a moment... then he launched into a boisterous song which unequivocally demanded that everyone join in.

From then on, Richard’s music became a part of the regular evening routine. Strumming or picking, leading them in song or going solo, he varied his genre from a rousing, hand-clapping foot-stomper one minute, to a gentle haunting ballad the next. Someone scrounged around and found a couple of song books. Richard welcomed them, finding his own repertoire running thin.

His thoughts took him back to high school, where he and some friends had formed a garage band. He had gotten good enough that during his college days, he had even sat in on a couple of gigs to earn extra money. But that was long ago.

“Hey, did you know Bob Dylan grew up not too far from here?” a breathless Pete informed him. “Maybe, some time, he stayed here at Sandy Beach Resort. Maybe he played this actual guitar! Maybe his cooties rubbed off on you, and that’s why you play so good!”

“Well, I’m no Bob Dylan,” Richard responded with an embarrassed laugh.

But Pete’s mom verified that Bob Dylan had indeed been born and grew up in northern Minnesota, and had first sat in on his own gigs in this part of the world, before he went out East and got famous. “Of course, he was Bobby Zimmerman back when he was growing up,” she added.

Richard felt some degree of envy that Robert Zimmerman -- aka Bob Dylan -- could decide to change his name merely by professional choice, rather than through desperate necessity.

Richard Kimble -- aka Josh Hartshorn -- had realized from the outset that own his own musical skills (such as they were) had become rusty. But Sandy and Cassie and the others were enthralled, and always encouraged “just one more” song out of him, again and again. He always responded. He promised Pete he would show him a couple of neat strumming techniques, “just as soon as I remember how.”

“And as soon as this gets better,” Pete said, holding up an index finger with a Band-aid upon it. “It’s just as scratch -- but it hurts like heck.”

“Yeah; we’ll wait till that’s all healed,” Richard agreed, wondering if that would happen before he was gone again. Right now, he was in no big hurry to leave.

Meanwhile, his music -- his guitar, yes, but more importantly, his voice -- slowly began to return to him.

* * * * *

Richard had not quite gotten used to hearing the name “Rick” spoken so often. His disconcerted feeling turned to fear one evening when Pete, sitting at the computer, called out “Richard.” In a moment of tired distraction, Kimble looked up and said “Yes?” at the same time as did Rick, seated nearby.

Pete smiled, dark and mysteriously, pressed a key on the computer, and crept out of the room without saying what he wanted.

Rick wondered what was up with the kid, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to what he was doing.

Richard, on the other hand, was left in a cold sweat. He wondered if anyone heard his answer - wondered if Pete, somehow, had realized who he was...

But then again, a few moments later, Pete came back in the room, called out “Nicholas” and left the room again, without waiting for a reply. Then he came roaring back in. “I just realized,” he said, grinning. “YOU have a NICK-name!” and he dashed out again.

Richard did not know what to think. Was Pete toying with him? What excuse could he give for leaving suddenly... and by what conveyance could he do so? The weather, although getting warmer (by Minnesota standards), was certainly still too chilly for him to trek off on his own for unknown miles, with unknown destination.

Just as he was thinking this, Pete popped up in front of him with a major grin and said, “Joshua - right?”

“...Right!” he responded intensely, to Pete’s retreating back.

“Kids!” muttered Nick (or maybe Rick), not so very long from being one, himself.

But Pete pushed it too far. He came back in, planted his feet in front of his mother and said, “Cassandra.”

“Watch it, young man,” said Cassie, “or I’m going to start calling you Peter!”

“NO!” Pete howled from the other room.

And that was the end of it. He WAS thirteen years old, after all, trying hard to be a man, while not yet relinquishing being a child. Richard decided to keep his eyes and ears open, and his mouth shut. Nothing more was ever said. Pete behaved innocently, obnoxiously, politely, rudely, mysteriously, cleverly, clumsily, delightfully. Just like the job description of most thirteen-year-olds. Richard decided to relax and enjoy him.

* * * * *

The evening games, of course, continued -- some solo, some together. There was a nice jigsaw puzzle that everyone contributed to. And when Sandy played MahJong Solitaire, she always put definite time limits on herself.

...and also...

There was just so much interacting that one could do during any game of solitaire, other than impressing everybody else enough in the space of a short game that they could joke and talk during it. If all the home-bodies stopped crowding around while she played (and eventually, they did), maybe -- just maybe -- she would be left with Josh alone, so that she could joke with him, as she taught HIM the game.

“I thought it was all about luck - good or bad,” Sandy said. “But the more I played, the more I realized what thinking skills I could keep sharpened. There is a fair amount of memory work.” Richard thought she was overstating it a bit. But he was willing to try his hand at it.

He also realized of course that, by being seen using the computer and supposedly playing “solitaire” on his own, he might also be able to check in with dr-richard-kimble.com from time to time, to see if Brixius or any of the faceless (and faithful) internet supporters had any new leads to share with him.

Richard was a fast learner. Although he feared that such games could easily become addictive, he also soon realized the truth of what Sandy had said. MahJong Solitaire was more than merely a game of luck. There was also a degree of mental skill as he had to connect like tiles and unstack them all, racking up varying degrees of points as he did so, clearing one part of his mind while at the same time exercising his thought processes in ways that he had not done in a very long time.

During his long and dangerous chase as a fugitive, the odd jobs that he usually picked up along the way, seldom afforded a chance to use his reasoning skills in a recreational way. He found that he liked the sensation, especially when it was Sandy’s turn to crowd HIM as he sat before the tiles. There was an electricity between the two of them... a sense of danger, of a different kind... which he willed his mind to put on hold.

Richard found himself relaxing into his current life. It was the respite he had needed from his grueling chase. He liked the lonely old resort on the quiet, pristine lake, frozen yet, but beginning to melt around the shoreline. He found that he was catching a sense of nostalgia that the old place held, even though he personally had not been included in its past.

A part of him wanted to nurture Sandy Beach Resort along, staying to see it prosper and return to its obvious former days of glory.

“I don’t see much evidence of other people living nearby,” he remarked to Sandy.

She shook her head. “No, there are only a handful who live here year ‘round. There are some big cabins on the other side of the lake that belong to rich city-slickers. But we hardly ever see them. Certainly not this time of year.. There are a few houses back near the highway, but you probably noticed that The Rut Road dead-ends at Sandy Beach.

The good news is that we have all this property, and we have room to grow. But the bad news is that we have to take care of it all by ourselves. Some of the land right next to the Rut Road is too marshy to get permits to build on... So we can’t even sell any of it.”

“That’s too bad,” Richard commiserated. “If there were other property owners, they might be willing to help build up the road. Of course, there are plenty of other things that need doing, now. But come summer, we will certainly need better vehicle access.”

He realized belatedly that he had said “we.” Sandy picked up on it immediately.

“So you’ll stay? And help build a new road? Or -- better yet -- stay, and play your guitar for the guests? You can be the entertainment, during dinner!”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

Richard was genuinely abashed that Sandy would think he was good enough to be the featured entertainment, night after night. Truth to tell, it WOULD be fun. But he knew he could never risk that an unknown guest might recognize him.

“But also -- seriously --” Sandy continued, “We really are quite isolated, cut off from everyone, now that The Big Snow has started. Or will be, within the hour.”

“The Big Snow?” he echoed, with foreboding.

“Yes. Every once in awhile, right at the end of winter like this, a slow moving weather pattern brings us a really huge storm: “The Big Snow.” That is another reason why we need better access than The Rut Road.” Sandy went on and described a situation that they got some years, which -- because of their remoteness and the miserable condition of the roads -- often cut the resort off from The Rest of Civilization for a few weeks, before what locals called The Big Thaw.

Kimble felt trapped. He realized that, because it was technically spring according to the calendar, he had not thought that such an occurrence would be possible. Just another piece of evidence that he was losing his mental acumen! He felt incredibly stupid. He, who had lived through enough Chicago winters, knew that late winter and early spring could be unpredictable. How much more that must be true in northern Minnesota! And what about that time when he had been trapped in bad weather in the Colorado Rockies? You’d think he’d learn! Obviously, his nerves were shot and he needed a rest.

But he also believed that he had been set up by not having been told about the impending storm, which had been forecast for several days. Sandy knew from the outset that Richard only wanted to stay a short while.

He also felt he could not tell her that he felt this way!

She guessed it anyway. Richard knew that she could not possibly realize the depths and horrors that were awaked for an innocent fugitive, in not having a place to run on a moment’s notice, should the need arise -- as it so often had.

“Seriously! --” she resurrected the word from earlier in their conversation, “-- would you have taken this job, knowing that you might not be able to leave?”

He had to admit that that was probably true.

“...Are you angry?”

“Well --” he hoped that he was successful in dropping what he knew must be an exasperated facial expression, replacing it with a lopsided smile (on the alert, so as not to antagonize her), “-- Seriously -- to tell you the truth, this situation reminds me of... what was that place; the Overlook Hotel? You know, from ‘The Shining?’ ”

His face assumed a maniacal Jack Nicholsonian expression. “Heeerrrrre’s Johnny!!” he mimicked. “I just hope we don’t all start creeping out on each other!”

Relieved, Sandy exclaimed, “EXACTLY! That is why we have to keep our minds working, and our hearts light.” She raised her voice a bit. “So play us another song, troubadour, and THEN, after that, listen up, people!” She turned toward the group. “It’s off to bed, because I want ALL you lazy swine up and at ‘em, by six o’clock sharp!!!!” But she was grinning as she said it... and they grinned back at her. “Big Snow in the immediate forecast.” Her voice volume had dropped. They were all quiet. It would be a short night, and a long day tomorrow.

* * * * *

Josh. Josh Hartshorn. Richard lay awake that night, anger having subsided and resignation setting in. He realized why his subconscious had picked the name he was using right now. “Hartshorn,” indeed! He was lonely. Plain and simple. And in more ways than one.

The instant he’d met Sandy, his loins fired up. Richard -- healthy, physical, male -- realized that he could ravish the lady without blinking an eye.

And with that reminder, Richard’s thoughts now returned to Helen... his first real and only true love. In college, and even in high school, when others had been so focused on girls -- specifically, on the female body -- he was a more serious student. Consciously suppressing his urges for the greater goal of completing the degrees he wanted, he knew he could not earn his way through medical school by any means but diligent study and the earning of scholarships. He was simply not in a financial position to do otherwise.

Not that he did not have his attractions and dates. But perhaps, recalling his Roman Catholic upbringing, he had consciously decided, early on, not to be a party animal. Additionally, early tutelage from grade school held sway in him; Father Frank and Sister Clara had done their work well!

But even by college, Richard had felt contempt and disgust for the way that some of his contemporaries talked degradingly about females, mistaking lust for love, not realizing that there was a difference, or -- worse! -- not caring.

Even some of those guys who were not otherwise degrading toward females still seemed overwhelmed by them, to the exclusion of all else. He himself had never had quite so narrow a focus regarding the subject of sex...

Until Helen.

When he first saw her, that day in the walk-in clinic when he wrapped her sprained ankle, his interest sparked. However, he consciously suppressed it and went on with his doctoring. There were rules of ethics, and wise laws, which discouraged and even forbade the romanticizing of the professional relationship between doctor and patient.

But Dr. Kimble was not Helen’s regular physician, and the professional relationship did not continue. And so, when by chance he ran into her again some time later in a social context, he felt OK about asking her out.

They shared a dinner date. They shared conversation... common interests...

And over a mesmerizing glass of wine, with their eyes locked on each other, each of them knew intuitively that, sooner or later, they would inevitably be sharing a lot more.

Until Helen, until their whirlwind courtship and marriage, Richard did not relate to the youthful focus of his friends, with their braggadocio sex talk. But with Helen -- in his “arrested adolescence,” as he joked about himself -- he finally Got It!

Richard and Helen genuinely cared for each other, and had no trouble expressing concern for each other’s every happiness. Images of his wife kept flitting in and out of his consciousness, larger than life, more ethereal by the moment.

Sometimes their lovemaking was infinitely tender...

...while at other times, they frolicked and played and tickled their way through their passion, feeling as though such behavior had been invented exclusively for the two of them, even as the silliness served to strengthen the bonds of their deepening love...

The faint call of wolves echoed from somewhere across the lake... and Richard’s reminiscing was jolted back to the present. He ached for the loss of Helen.

At the same time, he felt... he felt...

“I could fall in love with Sandy!” Richard realized. In the brief time that he had known her, a mutual attraction was slowly developing between them. It was physical, yes, but also emotional. And they were intellectually compatible.

Such thoughts as these had taken far less time with Helen. In the present, during his many thoughts and dreams about Helen, she had sometimes given him “permission” to heal his grieving of her, and to turn his thoughts elsewhere someday. Was she doing that now?

Helen, of all people, knew that Richard was not cut out to be a monk.

Richard needed no further rationalization to lose himself in fantasies about Sandy..

But thoughts of his beauteous boss were soon intruded on by the memories of others that he had met during his nightmare fugitive journey. His mind touched on Marie Renaud, whom he had met under strange circumstances in Eastern Quebec. It had been some time since that had happened.

He didn’t know what made him think of her now, especially. Maybe it was wild deserted lake, or the particularly northern appearance of the evergreens and birch -- a subtle change which had begun several miles north of the Twin Cities. He remembered from his brief time in Canada that the terrain there was not so different than that which surrounded this little Minnesota lodge. Or maybe it was simply knowing that Sandy Beach Resort was not all that far from the Canadian border.

He wondered how Marie was doing, where she was now, what new direction her life might have taken. There had been a whisper of a spark between them, which he had felt in his loneliness then, spurred on by her attraction to him.

Richard had even briefly considered remaining in the relative safety of Canada, thus cheating the threat of the death penalty if he were ever caught.

There were others for whom he had felt a sense of friendship, or even Kindred Spirits. Sometimes, it was... something more. His mind drifted in remembrance.

Some of the names, and even the faces, had begun fading... “Oh my, Kimble, how you’ve changed!” he berated himself.

There were times that his guilty conscience made him believe that being attracted to others, however fleetingly, was a betrayal of Helen’s memory.

But then, of course, there was Jenny... dear, sweet Jenny! She was special among all whom he had met. He did not trust his thoughts to go there... Probably, he had unconsciously been drawn to thoughts of her, even by way of answering the ad for work at a resort! The thought made him wince with pain. Richard forcibly tried to erase Jenny from his mind.

And who should pop up in Jenny’s place -- God help him! -- but his sister-in-law, Helen’s own sister, Becca...

And with the thoughts of the two of them, Richard ached anew, body and soul... He knew he needed love, romantic love as well as friendship love, from someone who knew him -- truly knew him, knew him well, knew what he was going through -- sustaining, balancing, life-giving.

Mentally, he turned again to Helen... and thanked her, for her indulgence and understanding of him. But he acknowledged, once again, that although he was not cut out to be a monk, he needed for the time being to behave like one. Despite his loneliness and need for a normal life, he felt that he could not trust himself to form a lasting relationship with anyone, until his exhausting run was truly over. And his moral fiber was such that he was not the kind of guy for a succession of One Night Stands.

Sandy was a pretty girl. Intelligent, witty, fun to be with. He would value her friendship while he could, and then he would move on. That WAS the best way to deal with his feelings toward her.

...Wasn’t it?

With a heavy sigh he rolled over, determined (against all odds) to get some sleep.

* * * * *

Some time during the night, the wind began howling along with with the wolves.
The next morning was gray and dark. Too dark. The Big Snow was upon them.

One by one, Josh and Nick and Rick found their way to the Great Hall.

Pete was there before them. Sandy and Cassie were nowhere; they had gotten up much earlier than six, apparently. Pete said that they were most likely worried about how the horses were faring in the storm.

They must have gone out in a hurry. There was no evidence that they’d had anything to eat first. Richard took his turn at “rustling up some grub.” (“Josh, is there nothing you cannot do?” asked a delighted Sandy, when she first learned that he was a decent cook.) The meal over, a silence settled on the men as the two women failed to return, their breakfast portions remaining untouched.

They looked at each other, a bit at a loss without their leader to tell them what to do. Finally, Josh decided he would take charge and be Leader of the Pack, giving the others some direction until Sandy returned to resume her rightful role.

He suggested that, since there appeared to be little they could do out of doors today, and since the animals were being taken care of, they could concentrate on the main lodge building itself -- at least, until Sandy returned and told them otherwise. There was certainly general cleaning that could be done, right here in the Great Hall, even. It was obvious that, with all the heavy repairs that needed doing outside, the more mundane work inside had been neglected. And yet, if they were ever going to attract customers and let them stay in the rooms upstairs, it would all eventually have to be done.

Josh had heard Sandy talk of the need to inventory the indoor jobs. Very well. He would get everyone going with the cleaning and repairs that they could accomplish now, and he would also start an organized list of what yet needed doing.

One thing they had to do right away was to find some deep cleaning supplies, and make them go around. They were in very short supply... or, things were not put back where they belonged. It was hard to tell. Specific storage places should be designated. The kitchen, once obviously built to handle large crowds of diners, had multiple stoves and sinks, and lots of storage cupboards... but the contents were all in a jumble. Sorting out that alone would help cut down the current work load, in terms of lost time spent searching for things.

Most of the long-unused upstairs rooms had years of dust in them. Some had a jumble and a redundancy of furniture; others had scarcely any at all. Heavy work like moving furniture could certainly be rectified. The mattresses... oh dear! - well, considering the shape of the ones they were now sleeping on, no one believed that there were very many that were worth saving. THAT would have to go near the top of the list.

Richard grinned as Pete, Nick and Rick stumbled over each other, volunteering to spend the rest of the day testing the mattresses for sleep-ability!

Richard took some of the paper they had been using for game score keeping and quickly began a couple of lists, sorting and organizing tasks vs. purchase needs which he hoped would be helpful to Sandy, so skilled at leadership, yet so disorganized. He had filled half a page before he looked up at Pete, who had come up from behind and was watching him with a puzzled expression.

“Wouldn’t that be easier on the computer?” he said. Richard smiled wryly back, realizing that this product of a younger generation was, in this instance, absolutely right.

“Get to work, you lazy swine!” one of the twins called out from the balcony over head, throwing a wad of dust bunnies at them. As usual, Richard could not tell whether it was Nick or Rick. For awhile, there was a flurry of activity as they all dove in and industriously followed Richard’s list.

But every now and then, each of them stopped for a moment and looked toward the direction of the stables. True, the horses were a lot of work, and they would need extra attention in the storm, but... surely Cassie and Sandy should be back by this time? One by one, by some unspoken agreement, the workers made their way back to the Great Hall.

Maybe somebody should go and check on them; make sure everything is OK. No one particularly wanted to go out in the cold and wind, yet each of them felt they should. The doctoring part of Richard was on the verge of deciding to go out himself when Pete said, “It’s my mom and sis. I’ll go.” No one could argue with the wisdom of that logic. Pete bundled up and left.

It was not long before he came bursting back through the door. “Mom’s hurt! -- She needs help! --” He could scarcely get any words out for the hard breathing of running and panic. They all hustled into their winter garb and hurried out as one into the bitter cold. Visibility was rapidly dwindling. The stable door nearly flew off the hinges as they opened it. It took the strength of both twins to shut it behind them against the wind, while Pete ushered Richard over to where Cassie lay moaning in an empty stall in a pool of blood, Sandy huddled over her. She looked up.

“Josh! Thank goodness!” Sandy gasped. “I thought you would never come.” Richard did a quick assessment and found that Cassie was semi-conscious and not making much sense. Sandy’s blood-soaked gloves were holding closed a nasty gash on her mother’s bare thigh, having hiked up the heavy pant leg so she could keep it from bleeding out.

“Josh, the blood! I was afraid to go for help. I thought she would bleed to death before anybody got back here. And then when nobody came --”

They all felt guilty for not checking sooner. “We’ll worry about that later,” Richard said tersely. “You did the right thing. Right now, we have to get the bleeding stopped, and get her inside the lodge.”

They all briefly pictured the near impossibility of their upcoming task of transporting her across the yard. But he was right. The stable was small comfort; the wind found every dilapidated hole. As cold as they all felt, they could only imagine how it must be for Cassie with her bare leg.

Richard attempted making a tourniquet out of Pete’s woolly scarf. It was only partially successful. But in the absence of anything else readily available, it would have to do until they got back inside. No one even had shoe laces, because they were all wearing boots! Sandy had rued that for whatever reason, neither she nor her mother had worn a scarf that day. And in her panic, she had not thought to tell Pete to ask for a tourniquet when he went for help.

Meanwhile, Richard began checking Cassie’s pupils and doing other brief assessments for signs of neurological injury. Apart from her semi-conscious condition, so far, so good. But he knew that ominous trouble could be lurking in that department, hiding now, only to show up later.

He was hoping there was a toboggan or some other conveyance that they could use to bring her back up the rugged hill to the lodge building, but no such luck. They found a large piece of plywood, but it was so old as to be crumbling. Their slim options were running out. He feared that Cassie might already be well on her way to a case of hypothermia.

Even as these events were unfolding rapidly, there was a sense of slow motion in the frenzy to get Cassie the help she needed.

“Do you have a First Aid Kit of any kind?” Richard asked Sandy.

“Oh yes!” she replied. “It has a real tourniquet, and material for pressure bandages. There is everything you could want.”

Richard doubted that. He worried how in the world Cassie could get the treatment she needed, out here in the virtual wilderness.

Richard sent the twins back to the lodge for the medical supplies and some blankets. Cassie would be wrapped in one of them, and from another two lay atop each other, they would fashion a sling. He did not trust that one old blanket would be strong enough, by itself, not to break through as they carried her back, hammock style. He hoped that two would do the trick. The assistance he gave in the stable would be just enough to stop bleeding. She would need real medical care, once inside.

Meanwhile, they cast about, looking for something to cover Cassie’s rapidly cooling bare leg. The wound was still leaking blood, and the knot on the scarf-tourniquet could not be trusted. They dared not try to pull her slacks back over it, even if there had been enough room.

Pete took off his outer jacket and and lay it over his mother’s leg, below the knotted scarf and the wound.

“No, Pete!” cried Sandy. “It’s too cold out. We’ll find something else!” Sandy looked down at her own jacket; there really WAS nothing else out there, not even a dirty old horse blanket; nothing, except what they were wearing.

“I can stand the cold!” retorted Pete, much in the tone of “I’m not a baby!”

“It’s just until they come back with the blankets,” Pete continued. “Anyway, you’ve been out here longer than I have.” Sandy looked at him, then at Richard. He nodded. Pete was right. It was the only logical thing to do, even though Pete now started visibly shivering, trying gallantly not to do so.

While they waited for them to return, Sandy explained what had happened. “Mom was kicked by Charlie --” she nodded over to the next stall, occupied by an angry looking steed “--and that made her stumble over the oat bucket. I don’t know why Charlie did that; he’s never been mean before. Maybe the storm has him spooked. Anyway, everything happened so fast! Mom yelled and went flying; I was over with Thunder, but I saw it happen. By the time I got over here, mom was already moaning and bleeding. But under all her heavy clothing, I couldn’t tell where it was coming from!”

Sandy paused to take a breath. Pete was standing to one side, fear etched on his young face. Richard could see the toll that the stress was having on both of them. Sandy resumed her narrative of the frantic search for the source of the bleeding, her mother unable to tell her anything coherent. Finally she located the deep, long gash and held the flesh together with pressure as best she could, to try to stop the bleeding. The sticky wetness of it, made worse by the rapidly cooling temperature, made the task almost impossible. She felt she had no other choice but to remain as she was, trying to staunch the bleeding, call for help (virtually useless, but she had to try), and hope that someone would come looking for them.

Richard once again reassured her that she did exactly the right thing. “Oh, I know that, Josh,” she said quickly. “It’s just -- oh, you know, when it’s your own mom! --” She stopped, and Richard nodded grimly, remembering the powerless feeling he’d had himself, during his own father’s last illness.

He also apologized to Sandy that he had not gone to check on them sooner. Sandy started to protest that one of the others could have come, just as well. But Richard told her that he had more or less taken responsibility for assigning jobs in her absence, and he should have either sent someone or gone himself.

Sandy looked up into his eyes, a gleam in her own. “Josh, do you mean to tell me that you took over MY job? Well, you’re fired!” She smiled through unshed tears. It was the first light moment since they had discovered Cassie’s plight, and it was a spot of needed comic relief, however weak. “That is,” she continued, “you’re fired from being in charge. I gladly relinquish the job as attending physician in this case.”

A chill not associated with the weather ran down Richard Kimble’s back as he heard these words. “Oh!” Sandy went on, “and we still want you and your guitar for the entertainment.” But her words fell flat; she sensed a change in Richard.

In any case, she kept up a chatter to keep her young brother Pete’s mind off his mom’s condition.

Fortunately, Nick and Rick soon arrived with the blankets and medical supplies. Their chests were heaving, out of breath. Obviously, they had raced over and back. Richard was glad that they were young, hardy, and dependable. Quickly, Pete’s jacket was returned to him and replaced with one of the blankets. They all stood back and watched as Richard applied a better tourniquet and some pressure bandages. He doubted that he (or anyone else!) could give Cassie the care she needed back at the lodge. But he put those thoughts aside for the moment and concentrated on getting her inside.

Following Richard’s directions, Nick and Rick helped create a (hopefully) strong enough hammock of sorts. Checking her wound once more, he patiently explained how to transfer her onto the blankets with as little pain and damage as possible. “On the count of three -- one, two, three --” and Cassie was rolled into place. She let out another moan which scared them, but Richard commanded them to stay on task. All along, he was concerned with keeping her as immobile as possible, just in case she had incurred an injury invisible to them now. He was concerned that she seemed unable to communicate.

Richard decided that Rick and Nick would carry Cassie, head and foot. Richard and Sandy would open and close the wind-swept doors and then help carry from along either side, watching her wound in case something happened to it, and if necessary, helping to ease her to the snowy ground. They bunched the old blankets together, hoping that they would hold. Pete went ahead of the procession and watched for rocks, logs, anything that would impede their progress.

It was slow going and hair-raising. Nick realized almost immediately that he could not grasp the blankets with the gloves he was wearing. Richard therefore ordered them all off. But he worried silently that he would not be able treat Cassie’s injuries if his hands were as cold as he was afraid they were going to get. Then Rick lost his footing, cried out in pain, and almost sent them all tumbling. Fortunately, Sandra and Richard were quick to grasp Cassie and keep her from hitting the ground. Rick tested his ankle and decided he was still able to walk and carry Cassie.

“Stubborn cuss,” Sandy muttered, but they all knew that Sandy meant she was grateful that Rick was OK enough to continue onward

Pete called out about obstructions to their path; twice they had to take a slight detour. Somehow, they managed to make it back uphill to the lodge. Pete ran ahead and opened the door; the wind caught it and almost knocked him over.

Everyone was shivering. Richard’s hands were beet red and felt as cold as he had imagined they would. He directed Cassie to be placed on one of the sofas in the Great Room and posted Nick at her side to keep her from rolling off. Nick looked at him questioningly. “It will be easier to look at that wound out here in the Great Hall where the light is brighter,” he explained. “We can move her to her own room later.”

“And,” he thought to himself, “hopefully she won’t become agitated, and we won’t have to make a bed for her on the floor.”

Cassie was still semi-stuporous. He did a rapid neurological assessment, and remembering Sandy’s words, checked Cassie for any sign that she had struck her head. Fortunately, he found nothing.

Richard told Rick to sit down and elevate his foot on a hassock until there was time to evaluate it. He sent Pete off to get the First Aid Kit.

“The whole thing?” Pete asked, incredulous.

“Uh - yeah, the whole thing,” Richard replied, wondering why that was a problem. He knew that most people’s First Aid Kits were woefully inadequate. When he saw this one, it was indeed large, and surprisingly very complete.

There were sterile gloves with current expiration dates. There were suture kits with various-sized threads, sterile gauze and tape, all manner of bandages and other supplies. There was even a small arsenal of medications, including antibiotics. Truly amazing. He just might be able to do the immediate job she needed, right here, after all!

Considering the age and dilapidation of almost everything else in this place, the First Aid kit was a pleasant revelation. He supposed that, given that they were as far removed as this, they’d had the foresight to stock themselves well. But many of these items, including some of the medications, were not ones that the average person could buy at the drugstore. It puzzled Richard as much as it pleased him.

Something else occurred to him. Usually, about this time, whenever he had used his medical skills to provide assistance, somebody would pipe up and wonder how he knew what to do. As yet, no one had commented on it. He did not know whether to be grateful or... fearful...

But for the moment, there was no time to think about it. Richard suggested to Sandy that she go over to one of the kitchen’s large sinks and do a good wash job. All that blood on her hands was distressing her; besides, he might need her to assist him. He had Pete stand guard over Cassie in Sandy’s place. Meanwhile, he himself went over to another sink and did a surgical scrub, letting the lukewarm water run over his cold hands a bit longer than usual, before he donned a pair of sterile gloves.

The temperature in the room was starting to drop as the fire died down. Richard sent the much-worried Pete to return the flames to a cheery appearance and also provide a little heat. At this point, Pete seemed grateful not to have to hang around his poor mom any longer.

Richard flooded the wound with sterile saline to clear the area and immediately saw the artery that was the cause of the most severe bleeding. He immediately clamped it off.

Sandra WAS helping him. She anticipated his every need. Without his asking her, she opened packages of gauze and other supplies in a professional manner, holding the corners in such a way so as not to contaminate the contents. That would not occur to most people who were not trained to do so. He suspected that she was a nurse or EMT, but did not comment on it.

Under other circumstances, Richard Kimble (the doctor) would certainly have asked her. But Richard Kimble (the fugitive) left it alone.

And again, for whatever reason, Sandy did not question HIS knowledge. He would have to work on his story later.

The deep cut was going to be easier to repair than he had feared - Cassie had been fortunate that a nerve had been missed. Richard continued working on the gash with long-practiced skill. When he finished, he would have to do a much more thorough neurological assessment. She might yet be in trouble, and need to be transported to a medical center... somehow.

Suddenly, there was a crash, a yelp, and a flash of sparks from the fireplace.

Pete!

Sandy went flying over to him to make sure he was OK. He was -- but some of the burning logs had shifted and were in danger of falling out into the room. Together, Pete and Sandy rapidly worked to contain the blaze behind the screen once more.

Brother and sister were both obviously drained emotionally.

Rick jumped up from the couch and hopped over to them. “Look, you two, why don’t you go lie down? I can stay and help Josh with your mom,” he offered.

Sandy argued that he still needed to stay off his foot.

“Oh, it’s OK. Look!” Rick had apparently helped himself to an Ace wrap when nobody was looking. His ankle was wrapped completely, if crudely.

While this exchange was going on, Richard looked over the contents of the First Aid Kit again. He was hoping to find some Betadine, that dark reddish-brown liquid commonly used during surgery. But there did not seem to be any. Oh well; there was Hydrogen Peroxide. It would have to do. Richard knew well that wounds which are not properly cleaned out could cause all manner of problem later on, especially considering that Cassie’s injury had taken place in a barn. He didn’t want to think of the harmful microbes that could have been introduced deep into her anatomy!

Actually, Cassie was starting to come around, even while he was thinking this. That was a good sign, for sure. But it could also become a problem if she became agitated and could not stay still enough for him to complete all the painstaking sutures that she yet needed. Nevertheless, he was glad to see her more alert. It meant, hopefully, that she would soon be able to begin an oral antibiotic.

Sandy and Pete noticed that their mom was starting to wake up and rushed over immediately. “Thanks for offering to cover for us, Rick, but we need to be here, now.” She grabbed a penlight and flicked the beam into her mom’s eyes.

“Definitely, some type of medical background,” Richard thought to himself.

“Oh!” Suddenly, Sandy looked up and shouted. “The horses! We never did finish with them. Nick, would you --”

“On my way,” he said easily, turning away from the foot of the sofa as he made his way to his jacket, which he had draped over a chair near the fireplace, like everyone else’s. No one envied him going back out in that weather. And no one needed to be reminded to go looking for him, if he did not return in a decent interval of time.

Meanwhile, Cassie’s wound was painstakingly sewn together, dosed with a Triple Antibiotic ointment, and dressed with a new pressure bandage. She slowly continued to regain consciousness. Richard realized that her moaning and drowsy state might be a combination of pain, a mild concussion, and (because her temperature was low, although not critically) the beginnings of hypothermia. He would need to continue to watch for these possibilities, along with watching her wound dressing like a hawk, to make sure it did not start seeping.

Otherwise, Richard believed that Sandy had done a superb job of containing the bleeding, by herself, in the barn. He did not think that Cassie’s loss of blood had reached a critical stage... although he sure wished that he had some lab results, to be more certain of her status. Another concern, related to the cold, was early frostbite at the wound site. But because of the appearance of the flesh at the wound site, Richard did not believe this was a concern. He was glad to finally shed himself of the surgical gloves.

“By the way, Josh, did you know that you dinged your nose somewhere?” Sandy said. Richard was not aware of it and went to the kitchen to look in a small mirror over one of the sinks. He could see a small abrasion and wondered how he had gotten it. In the rush to bring Cassie in, he could have gotten it at any point. He went back to the First Aid Kit.

“No, silly, I can take care of it,” Sandy interjected. “It’s just a scrape.” And she reached for some ointment and a Band-aid. “There; good as new!”

“Thanks,” he said, feeling a bit silly -- and somehow electrified, in Sandy’s being that close to him... to his face... in such a personal (yet perfunctory) way.

By the time Nick returned from the stables, stomping the snow off his boots, flapping his arms and hooting about the cold, Cassie was awake enough to ask him how the animals were faring. He assured her they were all OK and had all behaved themselves this time. Even Charlie. Cassie looked ruefully down at her leg.

“I just KNEW it would be bad luck to have a horse named Charlie,” she said. There was a pause, then they all burst out laughing, glad that she was doing better and that her corny sense of humor had remained intact.

Cassie continued to drift in and out of drowsiness. At one point she looked hard at her daughter and said, “Kitten, get out of here and go lie down and get some sleep. That’s an order! You look like I feel. Now go!”

Thus chastised, Sandy murmured “Yes, mum,” and departed from the Great Hall. But Cassie had fallen asleep again before Sandy had left the room.

But she was soon awake again, not wanting to miss anything and blinking back sleep. Nick and Pete helped Richard to prop her up in a sitting position, legs remaining elevated. Richard asked Cassie a few questions, and satisfied with her answers, sent Nick for a glass of water and asked her to take a sip.

Cassie passed the test. She was able to follow commands, and was able to swallow without choking. He then gave her one of the antibiotic tablets with some more water, which she automatically swallowed, luxuriating in the attention that a sensitive Pete was bestowing upon her by stroking hair out of her eyes.

Meanwhile, Rick went over to check the status of the logs in the fireplace. He was obviously limping. Richard had forgotten about Rick’s ankle!

“What happened to it?” Cassie wanted to know. As Richard worked on Rick’s ankle, they all took turns telling Cassie the story of their trek from the stables. She marveled over them toting her back to the lodge in a blanket hammock. She had no memory of it.

Richard unwound the Ace bandage and quickly realized that Rick had made the common mistake of wrapping it too tightly. He assessed the ankle and, without benefit of an x-ray, told Rick to stay off it and keep it elevated just in case it was broken (it didn’t seem to be), and to go to a doctor as soon as he could. He rewrapped the Ace expertly. Then he looked up. Sandy was watching him. He reddened and realized that, sooner or later -- probably MUCH sooner -- he was going to have to face the fact that she obviously knew that he was a lot more than a “seasonal handyman of sorts.”

But she smiled at them with an innocent-appearing expression and said, “Soup’s on. I presume everyone is starving, like I am.” And she walked away.

* * * * *

Lunch was, literally, soup. Richard ate very little. Afterward, he and Sandy cleared away the dishes. He decided that he would tell her he had been a medical corpsman in the Navy; it was a story he had used before, with varying degrees of success. But he was uncertain how to broach the subject with her. She gave him no opportunity to do so.

“I think we could all use a break from work,” she decided. Mom and Rick shouldn’t be doing anything right now, anyway. Let’s keep them company and just fast-forward to recreation time, this afternoon.”

And with that, she marched back into the Great Hall and acted as though none of the day’s previous events had ever occurred.

The games were subdued but friendly. The internet was off line, probably due to the storm. Sandy’s precious MahJong Solitaire was unavailable to her. But seated at the computer console, she told Richard that she appreciated what he had begun with organizing and prioritizing the work assignments. She created a document on the computer, listing everything that Richard had written down... just as Pete had earlier suggested.

They all listened to the weather updates on the radio for awhile, but soon became bored that it never seemed to change. The mega-storm was going to be with them at least another day. And then would begin the digging-out process.

“Hey Josh! How about a song, or three?” asked Rick. Richard did not feel much like performing. But he picked up the guitar, realizing that a little “music therapy” might be good for them.

And he was right. It soon lifted their moods, including his own. He launched into a repetitive nonsense song, one that he did not even need to think about, and began to relax. None of them seemed to care about his having taken charge, medically. Sandy, because she had obviously had some training, seemed the biggest threat... if there were any at all.

And suddenly, he began to think about that. He had been so busy worrying that Sandy would wonder about his medical knowledge, that it had not occurred to him to question how much SHE knew, and why she was not using that knowledge. If he had not always been a handyman, neither had she always been a resort foreman! Why would that be?

They couldn’t... they could not BOTH of them be fugitives, could they?

This line of thinking made him instantly empathize with her... and then, just as instantly, recoil. In his position, it was easy to forget that MOST fugitives from justice were, in fact, guilty of the crimes they had committed. That was one reason why people like Philip Gerard and Roman Chandler were so relentless. There were real live Bad Guys out there, who had Done The Deed, and who needed to be hunted and captured in order to protect the safety of the rest of the world.

Could Sandy be one of those Bad Guys?

He looked over at her. She certainly seemed just as pleasant as she could be. Either it was real, or a very clever act.

And he, Richard Kimble, was growing paranoid! “Knock it off!” he ordered himself.

Suddenly, he realized that the song he was playing was over. “Break time for the band!” he declared to the group, amid protests. It was time to check on Cassie again. He realized that she had not been singing with them, as she usually did.

“How’re you feeling, Cassie?” he asked

“Well... I’ve been better,” she said. He decided that was a grand understatement. Although her pupils had not changed, her face was flushed. Hmmm; her pulse was racing. Then he grabbed a stethoscope and cuff, and took her blood pressure, and was troubled by the results. 210 over 100!

“What’s wrong? Too high?” she asked. He had tried not to let his reaction show in his face; obviously, he had failed. Sandy overheard and came over to check.

* * * * *

Outside, the wind continued to howl throughout the evening. Cassie was having a bad time of it. Her blood pressure remained elevated. Without the tools of his trade, Richard was not sure what was going on. It could be many things.

Sandy came up behind him as he checked her pupils once again. “Josh, you gave her an antibiotic, right? Which one?”

Belatedly, he realized that he had never asked if Cassie had any allergies. But this did not appear to be an allergic reaction. However, it might be another drug reaction of some kind.

When he told Sandy the name of the medicine, her face grew concerned as she looked at her mother, who was sleeping again. Sandy said that although the drug was basically considered safe, there had been recent, rare reports of hypertensive crisis, when given in cases of hypothermia.

“NO!” Richard screamed inside himself, and swore under his breath.

But Cassie had certainly not had an advanced hypothermia... but then again, maybe it did not have to be advanced. Maybe a small amount would do.

Could her symptoms be a delayed reaction? Or could they indicate infection at the wound site? Richard told Sandy that there was no Betadine and that he’d had to use Hydrogen Peroxide instead.

Sandy’s expression clouded over. “But we have Betadine... I don’t understand where -- Oh! I just remembered. Pete got a cut on his finger several days ago. I’ll bet the Betadine got put away in the kitchen up over a sink, instead of in the First Aid Kit.”

Richard nodded grimly, remembering Pete’s Band-aided finger and the chaotic kitchen cabinets.

“There’s something else,” she continued. “There was a study recently about Hydrogen Peroxide. We should have taken it out of the First Aid Kit, but with everything to do around here, I suppose we forgot --”

Richard dreaded her next words.

“It seems that Hydrogen Peroxide can actually cause damage to injured tissue,” she said with difficulty. “Especially if the tissue is compromised in any way --”

“-- like with frostbite, or even just prolonged exposure to cold,” he finished, dejected.

“Right,” she whispered. They both looked down at the sleeping Cassie, a deep frown on her forehead and her eyes tightened with pain.

As a matter of routine, reports of any newly discovered drug reactions and precautions would have been widely distributed to pharmacies, medical centers, physicians, nurses, and others involved in heath care delivery.

But Dr. Richard Kimble, as a fugitive, was on nobody’s medical mailing list. He had been on the run long enough -- and away from his chosen profession -- that his skills were slowly growing rusty, his knowledge obsolete...

It was one of his nightmares, come true.

* * * * *

Richard and Sandy stayed up together, watching Cassie through the night. Few words passed between them. He could think of no clever lie to tell, now! For Sandy’s part, she continued to require none. She seemed more empathetic and forgiving of him than he felt he deserved. When he did try to apologize, she cut him off, saying that he was a natural caretaker who could not help jumping in when someone was in trouble. She did not blame him in the least.

Richard felt that her position would change, if Cassie had a stroke, or even died, because her elevated blood pressure had gone into full blown hypertensive crisis!

But it did not. Slowly, her pressure began coming back down. And when he changed her dressing, the site was dry and intact, with was no sign of infection. Maybe -- hopefully -- there had been no injury to her tissue from the Hydrogen Peroxide. Certainly, none was visible.

And maybe her condition had not been a drug reaction to the antibiotic after all. Maybe she was an undiagnosed hypertensive anyway, with the stress of the accident sending her blood pressure skyrocketing. Maybe it was only a mild drug reaction, because she did not truly have hypothermia. Or maybe it was because she had only one dose of the medicine, or... maybe, maybe, maybe! Richard’s head was spinning.

He was reminded of the infamous, decades-old case of Sam Sheppard, another doctor who (like Kimble) had been wrongly accused of murdering his young wife. Although Sheppard was eventually released from prison and resumed his work in osteopathy, ten years had elapsed. Ten years! A complicated case came up in which he was sued for malpractice. True, Dr. Sheppard’s judgement was undoubtedly affected by the alcohol he had turned to. But it was also true that, being locked up so long -- away from his practice, unable to do his doctoring -- his skills were no longer sharp.

“I could become a Sam Sheppard!” Richard thought bleakly. He fell asleep in a chair at Cassie’s bedside, muttering to himself.

* * * * *

Sandy was standing over Richard, speaking softly to him so as not to awaken Cassie. “No, you are not Sam Sheppard, any more than you are Bob Dylan. Wake up, doctor! You’re talking in your sleep!”

Richard jolted upright at her words and looked intensely into her eyes. Trapped, he looked back at the sleeping Cassie, then back at Sandy.

“Mom’s doing all right,” she informed him. Sandy told Richard that Cassie had awakened some time earlier and told Sandy where to find her blood pressure medicine -- something that she had not told her daughter about, because she had not wanted to worry her! She had planned to take the medicine that morning after taking care of the horses. But after the injury, she had completely forgotten about it until later.

Sandy had taken Cassie’s BP several times since. It was still coming down. Sandy herself also looked better. The relief over her mother’s improvement was evident in her face.

The time had obviously come for Kimble to discuss whatever Sandy knew about his medical skills - or the lack of them, he thought ruefully. What ELSE might he have said in his sleep?

Before he had time to ponder that, Sandy called him Richard instead of Josh.

* * * * *

The color drained from his face. He suddenly recalled that day when Pete had called everyone by their full name, instead of their nicknames. “The computer!” he whispered. He had been so careful not to go to Brix’s web site when anyone was around! But of course, Pete had actually been at the computer when it happened.

“No, silly! I’ve known all along who you were!” Sandy grinned at him. “Ever since you got here, and I saw your face. I had to keep reminding myself to call you Josh.”

“Uh - OK,” Richard responded, warily. He was not sure what to make of what she was saying. If she had always known... “How...” he began.

Sandy’s smile grew wider as she walked out of the room. Richard’s heart was pounding. His immediate instinct was to run - but of course, there was nowhere to run. She returned a moment later. “I assume you haven’t seen this.”

She handed him a slim copy of “DOC.” It was an off-beat medical journal, one which he had never heard of before... which, he realized with a thud, was further evidence that his professional knowledge was slipping. DOC seemed to be dedicated at least as much to sensational stories as to actual medical information. And there, in the corner of the cover, was a photograph of himself!

His jaw dropped as he looked back at Sandy.

“There’s an article,” she said. “But I’m sure you know the story. Go ahead - read it! Just don’t puke on the carpet,” she chuckled. “Actually, there are one or two things in there that you might not have expected.”

Richard turned to page 27 and read quickly. There were more pictures accompanying the article, ones that he had seen before, some of them not very pretty. The article was emblazoned with the words, “DIAGNOSIS: MURDERER-?” The title made him sick. He then read the campy, irreverent version of his own life: Helen’s death, the outcome of the trial of one Dr. Richard Kimble, and his current fugitive status.

It seemed to be more of a tabloid presentation than he would have expected in a supposedly professional publication. The main focus was a presumption of his guilt and, if any doctor saw him (which could happen, because Kimble seemed to have a penchant for giving medical aid to those in distress), a warning to the professional readers to notify the police -- “lest you get charged yourself, and endanger your medical license, for aiding and abetting a convicted felon.” THAT gave him an additional chill!

However, near the end of the article, there was a reference to “the One-Armed-Man Defense -- could there actually be such a person?” And there was yet another allusion to Kimble’s giving professional medical aid, at his own peril of getting caught. All of which served to lead the reader to question whether Dr. Kimble might be innocent, after all.

Hence the question mark in the title, Richard supposed, noting the high irony that a tabloid story would hit upon the truth! The article ended with the question: “If you, Doctor, ever found yourself in Kimble’s predicament, what would YOU do?”

Richard was troubled that his identity was once again emblazoned in ever-widening circles. But in spite of the article’s negatives -- and perhaps because it was one of the few public indications of the possibility of his innocence -- he decided that sort of liked that ending. But he deeply regretted the additional exposure it afforded him.

“Don’t worry,” Sandy said, reading his mind. “The circulation is small. Hardly anybody reads that crap.”

“YOU did,” he countered.

“Yeah; well....”

He flipped through a couple of pages and discovered that the content was as much factual medical information as sensationalized ones, like his own story. He shook his head. What a crazy magazine! Then he looked up at Sandy, who was watching him. “Sandy, I’ve been meaning to ask you --”

“What I am doing with a magazine like this?” she presumed. “How come I know about medicine? Simple. I am a doctor, too!” And with that, she opened her purse and showed him her license: “Cassandra M. Lindberg, MD.”

Richard was amazed. Then he happened to remember Pete’s Name Game that day. “I thought your mother’s name was Cassandra,” he said. And then he realized, even as she told him, that they were BOTH named Cassandra. Cassie and Sandy were simply different variations of the same name.

“OK, doctor,” said Richard, “ Seriously: out in the stable, when you told me that you were turning over this case to me --”

“That was a mistake! I never should have said it like that, knowing how you might take it. I was just tired and not thinking. Seriously!!” She pleaded. “Forgive me?”

Richard smiled at her, reached over and hugged her in response. He felt the tension draining from him his pores. He still didn’t know why she did not seem to be in active practice, but... that could wait, couldn’t it? The room was quiet as Cassie lay sleeping. They watched her chest slowly moving up and down. They thus caught each other counting Cassie’s respirations. They stifled a chuckle and hugged each other again.

* * * * *

Some time during the night, the wind quieted down. The next morning was calm and bright with sunshine -- but bitterly cold; more in the tradition of January. And they were buried with snow. A part of the morning’s work would have to be dedicated to cutting a path through the drifts to get to the hapless animals.

“You gotta do something about access to the barn before you get access to the highway,” Richard said over breakfast. Sandy looked down at her plate. She realized that he had switched back from “we” to “you.”

They had decided to let Cassie sleep; nevertheless, she hobbled in and joined them. She and Rick made jokes about their both having to elevate their legs... and that now, everyone could finally tell which one he was. “Maybe for the first time in my life,” he said with a grin. After the meal, Sandy and Richard assessed Cassie once again; she waved off all the fussing.

Then Sandy gave out the morning’s work assignments. Nick and Pete would take care of the outside duties. Richard offered to help them but she said, “I need you inside for now.” Then she told Cassie and Rick to check the “Needs” lists on the computer and see what they could add to it. “But most of all, rest up, you two! I need you to get better, so I can work you even harder, later on.”

“Slave driver!” Cassie said mirthfully to her daughter.

Then Sandy pulled Richard aside.

“You must be wondering why I am not in practice,” she began. And then she told him a sad tale about a little girl with cancer that she had treated... and the girl died. “I keep thinking I missed something,” she said. “You should have seen her! So full of life -- with all that wretched, diseased blood circulating in her. She never had a chance.”

The girl’s family initially threatened to sue, but their own lawyer had talked them out of it. There were no indications that the treatment she had received was anything less than professional. But the threat of an ugly malpractice suit made her doubt herself. That, in combination with an over-attachment for the dying young patient, proved too much for Sandy. She wanted out. She wanted her life to be simpler again.

And so, when her mother had inherited Sandy Beach Resort, the daughter turned over her lucrative practice to the hands of a capable partner, and headed back north. Back “home” to this lake, where she had spent most of her summers growing up.

Richard responded sympathetically. But he could not help but think about the irony of her wanting to leave the profession for a secluded life, and his being forced to live one until he could resume the medical life he had been forced to leave. His recent scare over Cassie underscored the need to get back soon.

Sandy seemed to read his thoughts. She said that she figured out a way he could do something to stay on top of newly discovered medical information, to obtain at least the minimum number of Continuing Education credits which are necessary for all health care professionals in order to renew their licenses every few years.

“I am not ever going to use my MD license again,” she stated emphatically, and she suggested that Richard could use hers -- to earn Continuing Education for on-line courses. “Not that you could pass yourself off as Dr. Cassandra Lindberg, nor use my CE credits as Dr. Kimble. But at least you could keep your knowledge more current.”

Richard was surprised -- impressed by her offer, and repelled by it, at the same time. During his “previous life,” as he sometimes thought of it, he had never knowingly committed a crime which took him outside the scope of his medical practice. But since becoming a fugitive, he had had to break the law, or at least bend it, more times than he cared to admit.

It was just one more dilemma which he was forced to face.

Before he could think of a response to Sandy, Cassie came upon them and said pointedly to Richard, “You will do no such thing!”

She continued on, turning to her daughter. “You are young, Sandy. You could change your mind about staying here year ‘round. You haven’t had very many years to put your medical license to use. You might yet want to do so again.” (Since Cassie spoke so easily about this, Richard realized that she not only knew he was a doctor, she most likely knew who he was, as well!)

“We are isolated up here, dear,” she continued. “For you, Sandy Beach Resort was like summer camp. For me, this lake is where I grew up. I AM home! I inherited this place from a wise old family friend, who had no one else to give it to, and who knew I needed lower my blood pressure and slow down!” Cassie smiled at her daughter and gave her a big hug. “So I won’t hear of you giving up on your medical practice before you are really ready.”

“So instead,” she continued, reaching for her wallet and turning to Richard, “you should earn your Continuing Education with MY license!” And with that, she handed him the document which read “Cassandra O. Lindberg, MD.”

* * * * *

“Maybe, someday, you could even transfer the CE credits to the upkeep of your own license, once your name is cleared. And it WILL be cleared... ‘Josh,’ ” Cassie said pointedly.

Richard’s head was spinning with the twin offers from mother and daughter -- the Doctors Lindberg. He cautiously voiced the opinion, of which was very much certain, that a medical ethics board would not take kindly to his attempting to use either of their licenses to earn Continuing Education, with an eye toward maintaining his own license.

“Yes; I’m sure you’re right,” Cassie twinkled at him. “Nevertheless, you are welcome to use mine as an access tool, to get at what you need to know! It is not really identity ‘theft’ if I give it to you!”

“If anyone asked me how you got my license number,” she went on, “I could always deny knowing. I promise you that I won’t be using it. No more! I’m done. Too bad we are not the same gender. You might have been able to attend workshops in person! Not in Minnesota, of course; I am too well known, here.”

Richard felt that he could teach Cassie a few things about being “too well known.” But he held his tongue. He had known that she and Sandy both had independent, pioneering streaks. He just did not realize to what extent! He was squeamish about taking any test, for HIS results, in either of THEIR names.

Nevertheless, there was a kernel of wisdom included in what they had said. One thing that the two of them obviously knew, which he could not dispute -- runaway or not, he had had a professional scare. As all physicians do, sooner or later, if they are honest with themselves.

And this one was due, in part, to his own skills beginning to slip. He realized that this was something that had been at the back of his mind for some time. Now it was very much in the forefront. He could not ignore it any longer.

As for keeping his own license current -- he acknowledged with a heavy heart that, when and if the time came that he was openly allowed to practice medicine again, he would no doubt be required to take refresher courses in order to keep his license active. Regardless of how much he might know (or how he learned it), he would someday have to prove that knowledge to a state licensing board... and prove it legally. It was a necessary evil.

Meanwhile, it WAS a very good idea to keep as up to date as possible. At the very least, he needed to spend more time at some medically-oriented web sites and do some serious reading, whenever the opportunity presented itself... which was rare.

But for the present, he decided simply to shake his head and smile at them both.

It did occur to him that with the help of the access code that Cassie had insisted on giving him, he could, indeed, visit web sites otherwise not available. And no one was going to twist his arm and make him submit a final on-line test for CE credit. He could merely go to these sites and do some serious reading, and hurt nobody in the process.

In another lifetime, he could have loved both these remarkable, independent women. Cassie certainly would have made a delightful mother-in-law!

And as for Sandy -- well...

From some corner of his mind, Helen came floating to him with a tender look of love and a whisper of a smile. For once, the thought of his lost wife held more comfort than pain. “Choose wisely, and forever, my love,” she whispered to him gently, and enigmatically. And then she was gone.

* * * * *

It was quiet during Relaxation Time, a few evening’s later. Everyone was tired but otherwise happy. Without his being aware of it, Richard’s music gravitated toward the subdued. The weather had suddenly started warming up.

Earlier that day, an excited Pete had had gestured skyward and shown Richard, a tremendous vee of geese headed north, and pointed out the calls of a couple of songbirds that had not been heard in the area since the previous autumn. “But Winter can come back any time it wants up here,” he warned wisely. Pete demanded that Richard take custody of an oversized coat of his that was “truly not cool” but would sure keep a body warm.

“It was his father’s coat, before he died, and I wish Pete would wear it,” Cassie said with resignation. “But he’ll never grow into it before he grows out of it. At least, not emotionally. But he’s right, Josh. You should take it. You might need it, yet.”

Richard accepted the coat with good grace. By now, he realized that All Hands at Sandy Beach Resort knew who he was. But in front of each other, at least, they all continued to call him Josh.

Rick was no longer limping and insisted on doing his full load of work. Richard was back to not being able to tell Rick from Nick.

Cassie’s blood pressure remained normal to borderline high. Her leg wound showed no signs of infection or extended injury, and was healing nicely. She had no signs of a concussion.

And Cassie had a new idea, born of thinking about Richard’s Continuing Education problem: In addition to gearing Sandy Beach Resort to family activities, she might try offering CE credits to doctors, nurses, and other medical professionals, while they and their families relaxed at the resort. Kill two birds with one stone! Cassie knew some speakers - experts in their field - fellow doctors who would jump at the chance to catch walleye through an ice hole while helping her get started. She was all fired up with plans which would certainly go a long way to helping pay for all the work that yet had to be done. This idea made it all seem “do-able,” now.

“Someday,” Richard said, “if my life is ever... sorted out, I would like to be among your customers.”

“Nothing doing!” Cassie retorted. “Do you think I could charge YOU? You’ll stay for free. Or... I suppose I could make you sing for your supper...?”

“It’s a date,” Richard grinned, as he imagined a time in the future when he would be able to strum a guitar and sing carefree songs, swim and fish and ride horses and toast marshmellows, while openly earning Continuing Education with his fellow physicians. Heck, maybe someday he could even be the featured speaker! Doctors could learn from HIM what it was like to practice medicine under bizarre circumstances... without the tools of their trade... or anyone to assist them...

As for the present, regarding Richard’s own need for keeping current in the medical world, Sandy showed him a couple of her favorite professional web sites which he had been unaware of before... and she challenged him to an on line medical quiz. “It’s game time, right?” she grinned. Richard gave her a run for her money.

“You know,” Sandy began when she and Richard were standing together on the porch later, “Nick and Rick would never say anything about... about you. And Pete will keep his mouth shut. At least, for awhile. But they are all young. Pete especially is impulsive, and does things without thinking. Somebody might -- not on purpose -- someone might make a mistake.”

They both winced at the word “mistake” as his own recent medical errors weighed heavily between them.

“I think,” Richard said by way of reply, “that between Nick and Rick and myself, we could have the Rut Road plowed out to the highway sometime tomorrow. Or a least by the next day.”

Sandy looked at him, stricken. Even as she had acknowledged a danger to him regarding his identity, she was not ready for him to leave. At least, not this soon.

“I don’t suppose there would ever be a future for the two of us..”

“Sandy, I don’t dare even think like that! Certainly not right now...”

And not ever. He had not spoken it. But each of them wondered if he meant it.

“Do you think you ever WOULD come back up here, to visit?”

“You know I’d love to... but Sandy, who knows when that could be? Years... if ever!”

“Then when you leave, it will be goodbye,” she said.

“...Yeah,” he whispered, tenderly.

They looked into each other’s eyes. Richard remembered that evening, not so long ago, when Sandy’s hair had accidentally brushed against his bare arm.. and just now, he saw a look in her eyes that he could not ignore. The mutual attraction had reared up again, strong and unbidden. They could easily make love to each other. It did not seem right, to deny it.

And yet -- and yet -- !

They both sighed, knowing that -- if here were going to leave in the end, anyway -- it was time for him to move on.

However...

“Do you have to leave right this minute?” Sandy inquired. He realized that she had a point. Had he not come here, after all, in part to “rest his nerves?” Sandy Beach Resort was truly isolated until they, themselves, chose to dig out from under. Friendly phone calls from neighbors around the lake, inquiring how they were faring, were answered with a delightful positive. Ditto their own queries of the others. Everyone was able to dig out on their own.

So Richard was safe -- for now. Maybe he WOULD stay on a little longer... earning a little more money, spending time nuzzling the horses, doing some serious on-line medical studying, even singing and playing guitar... and just being himself, without worrying about giving himself away. Who knew when he would get another chance at all this, any time soon?

“Besides -- “ Sandy said -- “Pete’s finger is getting better, and you promised you would teach him those neat strumming techniques!”

Richard groaned at his own impulsive promise.

* * * * *

EPILOGUE

One morning a week later, Sandy and Richard were again standing together on the porch. The eves of the lodge and outbuildings were resplendent in half-melted icicles, sparkling in the sunlight. The place looked less forlorn and more like an enchanted fairyland. A close inspection of the bare patches of ground surrounding the steps would reveal those lovely, tiny red “knuckles” that signaled a bountiful rhubarb crop to come. From nearby, the hopeful sound of newly arrived songbirds was unmistakable, co-mingled with the mournful cry of a loon. Above them, a bald eagle circled and then turned northward. Large numbers of raptors were migrating... as he must.

Sandy gave Richard her dr-richard-kimble.com screen name.

“That’s YOU?” he said, surprised and delighted.

“In person!” She grinned.

Richard was glad to know that he ALREADY knew her, as an on-line friend. Most of the names on the message boards were just that -- names only.

Now he had a face... and an indelible memory.

There were times in life, Richard knew, when it was NOT merely how you play the game. Sometimes, it truly mattered whether you win or lose -- he who had already lost so much! -- and who, if future events went badly for him, had so much more to lose.

It was time to go.

Sandy walked him to the door. Both of them had to shield their eyes from the brightness of the sun on a dusting of new snow, which renewed, with dazzling whiteness, the remains of the recent larger drifts.

“Sure you won’t stay?” She tried one more time.

“Sandy...”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So do I. Seriously!” He gently smiled and pulled her toward him in a side-to-side hug, the bulkiness of his new coat from Pete precluding any real contact.

Sandy looked up at Richard’s face with an amused expression, grabbed his coat collar, and planted a big sloppy kiss on his mug.

“There! I hope that SERIOUSLY rattles your teeth, for some time to come!”

Of that, he had no doubt.

* * * * *

THE END
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