City Surgeon, Small Town Miracle. Marion Lennox
of distressed woman intent on following her calves over the edge of the cliff.
‘Let me go,’ she yelled. ‘They’re Gran’s calves. Stop them.’
In answer he held her tighter. No matter how bad his weekend had been up to now, no matter that this woman had just made it worse, he was feeling a certain obligation to stop her self-destructing.
‘You’re hurt.’
She was. There was blood oozing from a cut on the side of her head, and she was staggering, as if one of her legs wasn’t doing what it was supposed to.
She was also pregnant. Seven months or so. Apart from the pregnancy she looked like a kid, scruffy, dressed in worn jeans, a blood-spattered windcheater and ancient leather boots. What else? He was doing a lightning assessment as she struggled. Her carrot-red hair was tied roughly into two bright plaits. She had a cute snub nose, freckles and wide green eyes, currently filled with fear.
She was hurt. There was no way he could let her chase calves.
‘Sit,’ he said, and tried to propel her to the edge of the road, but she wasn’t about to be propelled.
‘Gran’s calves.’ She was practically weeping. ‘She has to see them before…Please, let me go!’ She made to shove past him again, but he wasn’t moving.
‘Not until I see how badly you’re injured. You’ve cut your head.’
She swiped blood from her face with her sleeve and glared up at him, and he was astonished at the strength of her glare. ‘It’s not arterial,’ she gasped. ‘If I’m bleeding out then I’m not bleeding in so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not about to drop dead from raised intracranial pressure, so let me go.’
Too focussed to note her unexpected knowledge, Max settled for a calm ‘No.’
‘Yes.’ Then before he could react she kicked out. Her boot hit his shin. Hard.
He was so astounded he let her go, and she was over the cliff like the hounds of hell were after her.
Luckily the cliff wasn’t sheer. It was a steep incline, sloping sharply twenty feet down to the beach, so the calves—he could count four now they’d disentangled themselves—hadn’t fallen. They looked essentially unhurt, and were heading north along the sand, with the collie tearing after them.
The woman was presumably wanting to tear after them as well, and for a fraction of a second he was tempted to let her go.
That wasn’t exactly heroic, he thought ruefully. Neither was it possible. She was battered and torn and pregnant, and she was heading off to rescue calves that he’d been in part responsible for releasing. So he groaned and headed down the cliff after her.
He had no trouble catching up to her, but as he reached her she swiped out at him and kept on going. She lurched as she put weight on what presumably was an injured leg. He grabbed her again—and she kicked him again.
Why was he doing this? Her rust-bucket of a truck had caused this mess. She’d kicked him and her boots packed a painful punch. Women, he thought bitterly. Since his wife’s death he’d carefully constructed a solid and impervious armour, and once again his desire to retreat behind it came to the fore. Why worry? She could head off after her calves and her dog, and he could ring a tow truck and wait for her to come to her senses.
But she was bleeding, and she was pregnant.
Personal choice didn’t come into this. Doctors didn’t sign the Hippocratic oath anymore, but conscience was insidious. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure she was bright enough to stop before she passed out from shock or blood loss, and an unconscious woman would complicate his life so much he didn’t want to think about it.
So he groaned and headed off again, and snagged her just as she hit the beach. This time he grabbed her by the back of her jeans. She swung back to face him, already lashing out, but he was ready for her. He reeled her in by the waist and swung her up into his arms, tugging her so close she couldn’t struggle.
‘Let me go. I’ll bleed on you,’ she snapped, and she had a point. He’d bought this jacket in Italy and he liked it. Ruining it for a woman who didn’t have a grain of sense to bless herself with seemed a waste. But it was unavoidable.
‘Go right ahead, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.’
‘Blood doesn’t come out of leather.’
‘No, it comes out of torn skin, which is why you have to shut up, keep still and let me put something on your head to stop the bleeding.’
‘I can fix it myself—when I’ve got the calves. Do you have any idea how I’m going to tell Gran where her cows are?’
‘You could say, “Gran, they’re on the beach,”’ he said mildly, ignoring her struggles and starting to climb the cliff again. ‘Okay, they’re important but your dog seems to have their measure. They look unhurt. The cliff gets steeper in either direction so my guess is that they’ll stay on the beach until you can organise a muster, or whatever you do with cows. Meanwhile my car’s in the middle of the road on a blind bend, blocking traffic, and I don’t want what’s left of it squashed.’
She glared up at him. ‘That’s a bit inequitable,’ she said, and suddenly he saw a hint of humour in her wide eyes. ‘What about my truck?’
‘I’ll save your truck too,’ he growled. ‘If you’ll let me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said meekly, and abruptly subsided.
He climbed back up to the road, suddenly aware that his own knees weren’t too steady. The airbags had kept him safe but shock was setting in. Plus he’d been kicked.
Almost as he thought it he felt an answering tremor in her body. She wasn’t as feisty as she was making out, he thought. Or she was hurting more than she’d admit.
Or maybe she was feeling guilty.
‘I’m sorry I kicked you,’ she said, and to his surprise she put her arms around his neck to hang on. It kept them both steadier as they climbed. It felt okay, too. His knees didn’t shake as much when she held him. ‘It might have been a little inappropriate,’ she conceded. ‘Especially since I think the accident was my fault.’
‘I’m sure it was your fault.’
‘That’s not very gracious.’ She pushed her hair back from her face—her braids were working loose—then looked at her hand in disgust. She shrugged and put it back round his neck. ‘Gross. Look, okay, I overreacted. Yes, I’m bleeding, so maybe you could lend me something to make a bandage. But then I need to go back down to the beach so I can take care of the calves. Maybe you could drive to my farm and ask Gran to send Angus?’
‘How far’s the farm?’
‘Five-minute drive.’
‘Angus will rescue you?’
‘Angus will rescue the calves.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, setting her down on the verge. ‘I don’t know what fairy-tales you’ve been reading, but in the ones I read heroes don’t put calves before fair maidens.’
‘I’m not exactly fair,’ she retorted. ‘I’m red.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’ But she was wilting, he thought, and it worried him. ‘So let’s stop you getting redder.’
Before she could protest he tugged off his bloodstained jacket, grabbed the sleeve of his very classy shirt—bought in Italy at the same time as his jacket—and ripped it from the shoulder. He folded the linen into a pad, placed it over her forehead and applied pressure.
‘That was a very nice shirt,’ she said, sounding subdued.
‘I’ll send you a bill.’
‘Do heroes say stuff like that?’
‘I