From Christmas To Forever?. Marion Lennox
hold on her tightened.
She inserted the point—and the needle slipped seamlessly into the vein.
‘Yay, us,’ she breathed, but Hugo was already handing her some sticking plaster to tape the cannula. She was checking the track, but it was looking good. A minute later she had the bag attached and fluid was flowing. She just might have done the thing.
Hugo let her go. She swung out a little, clear of the truck. It was the sensible thing to do, but still …
She hadn’t wanted to be … let go.
‘Heart rate?’ Her voice wasn’t quite steady. She took a deep breath and tried again. ‘How is it?’
‘Holding.’ Hugo had his stethoscope out. ‘I think we might have made it.’ He glanced into the bag. ‘And we have adrenaline—and a defibrillator. How did you carry all this?’
‘I tied it under my seat.’
‘Where did you learn your knots?’
‘I was a star Girl Guide.’ She was, too, she thought, deciding maybe she needed to focus on anything but the way his hold had made her feel.
A star Girl Guide … She’d been a star at so many things—at anything, really, that would get her away from her parents’ overriding concern. Riding lessons, piano lessons, judo, elocution, Girl Guides, holiday camps … She’d been taken to each of them by a continuous stream of nannies. Nannies who were chosen because they spoke French, had famous relatives or in some other way could be boasted about by her parents …
‘The current girl’s a Churchill. She’s au-pairing for six months, and she knows all the right people …’
Yeah. Nannies, nannies and nannies. Knowing the right people or speaking five languages was never a sign of job permanence. Polly had mostly been glad to be delivered to piano or elocution or whatever. She’d done okay, too. She’d had to.
Her parents loved her, but oh, they loved to boast.
‘ER Physician, anaesthetist and Girl Guide to boot.’ Hugo sounded stunned. ‘I don’t suppose you brought a stretcher as well? Plus a qualification in mountain rescue.’
‘A full examination table, complete with lights, sinks, sterilisers? Plus rope ladders and mountain goats? Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something.’
He chuckled but she didn’t have time for further banter. She was swinging in a way that was making her a little dizzy. She had to catch the sapling.
Her feet were hitting the cliff. Ouch. Where was nice soft grass when you needed it?
Where was Hugo’s hold when she needed it?
He was busy. It made sense that he take over Horace’s care now, but …
She missed that hold.
‘It’s flowing well.’ There was no mistaking the satisfaction in Hugo’s voice and Polly, too, breathed again. If Horace’s heart hadn’t given way yet, there was every chance the fluids would make a difference.
In the truck, Hugo had the IV line set up and secure. He’d hung the saline bags from an umbrella he’d wedged behind the back seat. He’d injected morphine.
He’d like oxygen but Polly’s culling of his bag had excluded it. Fair enough, he thought. Oxygen or a defibrillator? With massive blood loss, the defibrillator was likely to be the most important, and the oxygen cylinder was dead weight.
Even so … How had she managed to get all this down here? What she’d achieved was amazing, and finding a vein in these circumstances was nothing short of miraculous.
She was his locum, temporary relief.
How would it be if there was a doctor like Polly working beside him in the Valley all year round?
Right. As if that was going to happen. His new locum was swinging on her seat, as if flying free, and he thought that was exactly what she was. Free.
Not trapped, like he was.
And suddenly he wasn’t thinking trapped in a truck down a cliff. He was thinking trapped in Wombat Valley, giving up his career, giving up … his life.
Once upon a time, if he’d met someone like Dr Polly Hargreaves he could have asked her out, had fun, tried friendship and maybe it could have led to …
No! It was no use even letting himself think down that road.
He was trapped in Wombat Valley. The skilful, intriguing Polly Hargreaves was rescuing him from one trap.
No one could rescue him from the bigger one.
Fifteen minutes later, help arrived. About time too, Polly thought. Mountains were for mountain goats. When the first yellow-jacketed figure appeared at the cliff top it was all she could do not to weep with relief.
She didn’t. She was a doctor and doctors didn’t weep.
Or not when yellow coats and big boots and serious equipment were on their way to save them.
‘We have company,’ she announced to Hugo, who couldn’t see the cliff top from where he was stuck.
‘More polka dots?’
She grinned and looked up at the man staring down at her. ‘Hi,’ she yelled. ‘Dr Denver wants to know what you’re wearing.’
The guy was on his stomach, looking down. ‘A business suit,’ he managed. ‘With matching tie. How’d you get down there?’
‘They fell,’ she said. ‘I came down all by myself. You wouldn’t, by any chance, have a cushion?’
He chuckled and then got serious. The situation was assessed with reassuring efficiency. There was more than one yellow jacket up there, it seemed, but only one was venturing near the edge.
‘We’ll get you up, miss,’ the guy called.
‘Stabilise the truck first.’
‘Will do.’
The Australian State Emergency Service was a truly awesome organisation, Polly decided. Manned mostly by volunteers, their skill set was amazing. The police sergeant had arrived, too, as well as two farmers with a tractor apiece. Someone had done some fast organising.
Two yellow-jacketed officers abseiled down, with much more efficiency and speed than Polly could have managed. They had the truck roped in minutes, anchoring it to the tractors above.
They disappeared again.
‘You think they’ve knocked off for a cuppa?’ Polly asked Hugo and he smiled, but absently. His smile was strained.
He had a kid, Polly thought. What was he about, putting himself in harm’s way?
Did his wife know where he was? If she did, she’d be having kittens.
Just lucky no one gave a toss about her.
Ooh, there was a bitter thought, and it wasn’t true. Her parents would be gutted. But then … If she died they could organise a truly grand funeral, she decided. If there was one thing her mother was good at, it was event management. There’d be a cathedral, massed choirs, requests to wear ‘Polly’s favourite colour’ which would be pink because her mother always told her pink was her favourite colour even though it wasn’t. And she’d arrange a release of white doves and pink and white balloons and the balloons would contain a packet of seeds—zinnias, she thought because ‘they’re Polly’s favourite flower’ and …
And there was the roar of tractors from above, the sound of sharp commands, and then a slow taking up of the slack of the attached ropes.
The truck moved, just a little—and settled again—and the man appeared over the edge and shouted, ‘You okay down there?’
‘Excellent,’