A Healing Love. Doris English
any of the wreckage. If she didn’t soon, night would catch her up here. She shuddered. The thought did not appeal to her. Squaring her shoulders, she forged ahead.
As she neared the plateau and her destination, the path brought her to the very edge of a rock precipice that plunged to the valley below. She dropped another flare, knowing Jonah waited anxiously below. Maleeka had to thread her way among boulders, making each step secure before taking another on the slippery surface. When Laura attempted to spur the bay on, the horse would not be hurried. She knew her business was to get her mistress safely up the treacherous trail.
Thirty minutes later the smell of scorched rubber wafted through the heavy damp air. The pathway turned inward, tunneling narrowly through walls of granite, before it opened onto a plateau in the side of the mountain. A stream cascaded from above and made its way around the inside perimeter next to a sheer granite wall. Against it rested a smoldering cockpit, nose down in the bubbling stream, and on the natural shelf fifty feet away sat the splintered tail section. Perhaps at the last moment there had been a break in the clouds and the pilot had attempted a landing on the broad ledge.
Laura dismounted and, after grabbing her bag, began a systematic search of the area. Wreckage lay scattered across the rocky terrain, while clothing and papers nestled in the softly swaying sagebrush. Inside the tail section only a shoe and a few books remained, silent evidence that anyone had inhabited the plane.
She left the aircraft and turned to the edge of the plateau. Peering over the side, she looked into a thick band of trees hugging the steep slope. She saw more debris scattered beneath the trees. Stepping into the evergreens, Laura grasped the prickly trunks, and, from one to the next, braced herself as she advanced toward the ledge, scanning for bodies. Several yards away she found a small notepad flung open and facedown, with the initials M.B.J. on the supple calfskin cover. Next to it was a pale-yellow jacket, now smudged with mud, monogrammed with the same initials. But no sign of the pilot. Had he escaped before the explosion? Why had she not found him somewhere on the ledge above?
Laura’s foot slipped on the wet foliage and she slid sideways into a stalwart evergreen, ripping her slicker. Rolling over on her stomach, she reached out toward a low sturdy branch to pull herself upright, when she spied a jean-clad leg protruding from beneath a tall bush just above her.
Urgency replaced caution, and she crawled, struggling through the dense undergrowth, oblivious to the vines and limbs catching and pulling at her clothes and hair. Reaching the small broad tree, she grabbed its prickly branches and jerked them back.
A tall angular man lay crumpled on his stomach. One arm was penned beneath him, the other lay flung out above his head, the hand stilled in a groping position. Laura shook her head. Something about the back of the man’s head, his broad shoulders, stirred a memory, a vague familiarity that danced just beyond her recall.
With pounding heart, she inched her way under the tree limbs toward him. Finally her hand touched him, then she moved in, positioning herself even with the upper part of his body. Gingerly, she sat up and slid one arm under his chest, while her other braced his shoulder. As gently as possible, she pulled him over. And came face-to-face with the inert form of Dr. Michael Bradford Jeremiah.
She took his limp hand in her icy fingers and detected a vestige of warmth still clinging to his. Frantically, she searched for a pulse. Leaning her face close to his, she felt a faint breath blow against her cheek…
“Oh, Lord, he is alive!” she exclaimed aloud, half in prayer, half in confirmation.
She dropped his hand to tilt back his head and further free his air passage. Then she jerked open her bag. Incredulity lit her face as she pointed her stethoscope to his chest and found a faint and rapid heartbeat. His skin was cold and clammy, partly from the weather but more likely from shock. She needed those blankets. And help. As soon as she could administer the necessary aid she would somehow climb back up the slope to her flares.
The wind moaned through the treetops and she cast an uncertain eye to the heavens. The clouds still lingered, but visibility, at least for now, was adequate for rescue. Still, she must hurry. Darkness came quickly on the mountain.
Cuts and scratches marred his handsome features; dried blood mingled with mud and pine needles clung to his clothes and skin. He appeared different from the debonair socialite she had met only two days before, but there was no doubt in Laura’s mind. This was the very same Dr. Jeremiah who could determine her future if she decided to leave the clinic. And Darlene’s fiancé.
Laura looked above her. The disturbed ground told a mute story of his tumble from the plateau above. He had probably pulled himself to the edge and rolled over, trying to escape the plane before it erupted in flames. He was lucky the dense bush had stopped his fall; whether or not it had saved his life still remained to be seen.
She completed her examination. His wounds appeared superficial; however, she suspected his leg was broken, probably in more than one place, as well as some ribs. He had a large knot on the back of his head where dried blood matted his thick dark hair.
As gently as possible she straightened his leg and brought his arm down to his side, but he made no movement. He was deeply unconscious, or the severe pain would have evoked some response. After taking sterile pads and alcohol from her bag, she bathed his face and with deft hands raised his head slightly to dress his wound.
Now she could leave him briefly for the climb up to the plateau above. Backing out of the bush, she sat on her heels, still holding the prickly branches in her hand. Pausing, she glanced at her patient. His damp hair clung to his forehead in dark curls, and his features, even with his eyes closed, were ruggedly handsome. His still form had a vulnerability about it that provoked a strange tenderness in Laura.
She remained rooted to the spot in front of his long, lean, muscular body, while questions rioted through her mind. What had prompted his flight to this area in this weather? Could he survive? What if he didn’t? Unwittingly, a deep sorrow burdened her heart, almost as if she were contemplating a personal loss.
She shook her head, puzzled at her strange response in this quiet stillness. Had her cool physician’s objectivity deserted her? she mused, just as the wind whipped a prickly branch into her hair, stinging her neck. She took a deep, calming breath and the physician in her once again resumed control.
Turning from him, she pushed her way, slipping and sliding, back up the embankment, where she retrieved blankets and discharged three flares—the signal there was a survivor. After setting emergency markers for the helicopter, she rushed back to her patient. Just as she reached him a small boulder dislodged beneath her feet and she fell, rolling down the steep slope, straight toward the sheer cliff below them.
Clutching the blankets in one arm, she groped wildly with the other for something to slow her descent. Blond hair and pine straw mingled in a matted mass. Her shoulders and legs painfully impacted rocks, but at last she grabbed on to a tree that held her, stopping her fall.
She sat up slowly, stunned for a moment, then winced as she touched her shoulder. She raised her arm; it moved with only minimal pain. Next she flexed her fingers. Amazingly, she seemed to have nothing more serious than a few scratches and bruises. She glanced hesitantly beyond her feet, where dense evergreens gave way to air, and shuddered. Ten more feet and Brad Jeremiah would have been alone on the mountain.
Laura’s mouth tightened into a grim line as she forcefully pushed the fearful “what might have beens.” aside. Stoically, she turned and began her climb back up to her patient, this time pulling herself from tree to tree while pushing her supplies before her.
After what seemed like hours but in reality was only minutes, she arrived at Brad Jeremiah’s side, to find his condition unchanged. He was still unconscious, and his breathing remained shallow.
She brushed the dirt and straw from the blankets and rolled them tightly to pillow each side of his head. Unable to assess fully his injuries, Laura knew that one jerk of his head, given a severe spinal injury, could put him beyond a surgeon’s help.
A few rays of afternoon sun filtered through the brush and Laura looked up gratefully. The light came from low on the horizon,