“I hear you, George,” she said into the receiver. “And I admit it. He’s alive. I even admit that it doesn’t look as if he’s going back into a coma anytime soon. But I still have no way to know how badly hurt he is. I need an ambulance. Or a helicopter. Or a snowmobile-”

While she listened, she also ground a little fresh pepper onto the potato soup. The stove and refrigerator were still functioning in the torn-up kitchen, but that was about it. There was no sink or running water. All the pots and pans and dishes had been moved elsewhere, ditto for silverware, food and spices.

Daisy considered herself outstanding at making something out of nothing-not because she’d ever wanted that talent, but God knows, because being married to Jean-Luc had required some inventive scrambling to just survive. She’d always been her mom’s daughter in the kitchen, besides. So she started out with a bald can of potato soup she found in a basement pantry, then found kitchen tools and the spices in boxes in the dining room, then raided the depths of the fridge, finally came through with some bacon crumbs and a beautiful hunk of cheddar.

The chives and pepper weren’t as fresh as she’d like, but a decent soup was still coming together. If she could just get rid of her unwanted invalid, she might even be able to relax.

“Yes, George, I hear that wind outside. And I can’t even see for the snow. But that’s why you guys have snow machines, isn’t it? To be able to rescue people in all conditions? No, I’m not exaggerating! At the very least, he needs some X-rays. And some antibiotics or medicine like that-oh, for Pete’s sake.” She stared in disbelief at the cell phone. “No, I won’t go out with you when this is all over, you…you cretinous canard! Des clous!”

The French insults didn’t even dent his attitude. George just laughed. The sheriff! The one person in town who was supposed to rescue you no matter what the problem!

When it came down to it, the law had never done her a lick of good.