Mike MacDougal began, hurrying into the parlor as his sons stumbled in with the bleeding stranger. Morwenna looked at her father; she was worried about what they were doing, herself, but to avoid a family argument over Shayne’s absolute determination to be a physician at all times, she waved a hand in the air. “This guy was out there hurt, Dad,” she said. “We have to help him.” Stacy, drying her hands on a dish towel, came hurrying into the parlor as well. “Oh, no! The poor man. Get him onto the sofa, Shayne. Oh, he’s bleeding! I’ll get a clean washcloth and warm water. I’ll—” Stacy began. “Hey!” Mike protested. “Bleeding, in the snow, in the middle of nowhere? How the hell did he get here? How do we know he’s not an escaped convict or mass murderer?” “That’s what I said, Dad,” Morwenna replied, setting a hand firmly on his chest. “But your son, the physician, refused to allow anyone to bleed to death. Now, Dad—move, please!” Mike groaned, staring at the man on the sofa.
