Marion Lennox - In Dr. Darling’s Care

© 2004

Dear Reader,

I live inland from Australia’s Great Ocean Road, one of the wildest, most scenic roads in the world. Last summer, we rounded a blind bend-wild ocean on one side, vertical cliff face on the other-and nearly collided with one crazy jogger. And his dog. What were they doing jogging in such a remote place, we wondered? (After we recovered from our fright.) As a romance writer I immediately gave them a story.

Written in holiday mode, In Dr. Darling’s Care turned out to be pure enjoyment. Two gorgeous doctors, two spare fiancés, far too many bridesmaids, puppies, kids and drama…everything you need, in fact, to create a fine romance.

I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it.

Marion Lennox

Memo:

Tell Emily: Doctors are not trained to tie pew ribbons.

Tell Emily: Doctors should not even need to admire pew ribbons. It’s not written in the wedding contract. Is it?

Remember to admire the bridesmaids. Don’t tell anyone I detest pink chiffon.

Do not slug Mrs Smythe when she asks me yet again when we can expect the patter of tiny feet.

Run. Run until I forget how many people are intending to watch me get married tomorrow…

SHE’D hit him.

Dear God, she’d hit him. Dr Lizzie Darling pushed Phoebe aside and shoved open the car door, her heart sprawled somewhere around her boots.

Where was he? There. Oh, no…

The man was face down in the mud right beside her car. Lizzie hadn’t been going fast-this was a blind bend on an unmade road and it was raining. She’d crawled around the bend, but Phoebe had snapped her dog-belt at just the wrong time. The vast basset hound had launched herself joyously at her new mistress and Lizzie had been momentarily distracted. Or maybe distracted was too mild a description for the sensation of a basset tongue slurping straight down your forehead.

Whatever.

What had she done?

He must have been jogging, but what was someone doing jogging in this wilderness? He was in his late twenties or early thirties, Lizzie guessed. She’d reached him now. The sick dread in her heart was almost overwhelming. What damage had she caused?

Stay calm, she told herself. Look. Think. Triage. Sort priorities. And the first priority had to be to get herself calm enough to be professional.

Was he an athlete? With this build he surely could be. He was wearing shorts. His too-small T-shirt revealed every muscle. On his feet were running shoes, and he wore nothing else. Lying in the mud, he looked like some discarded Rodin sculpture. A wounded Rodin sculpture.

But…not dead? Please?

How hard had she hit him? She’d practically crawled around the blind bend. He must have run into her as much as she’d run into him.

She knelt in the mud beside him and put a hand to the side of his neck. Beneath her fingers his pulse beat strongly. That was good. There wasn’t any blood. That was good, too.

But he wasn’t moving. Why?

Her momentary calm was receding as panic built in waves. Lizzie might be a qualified medical practitioner but she was accustomed to her emergencies coming through the front entrance of her nicely equipped emergency department-not lying in the mud at her feet. She looked wildly around her, taking in her surroundings. She truly was in the middle of nowhere.

Birrini was a tiny fishing town on the south coast of Australia. The road through the forest into this town was one of the wildest in Australia. Scenic, they called it, but no tourists ever came here at this time of the year. Especially now, when the road surface had been ripped up for roadworks. Local traffic only, the sign had said, and for good reason. The road was a series of hairpin loops along a jagged coastline. On one side was a sheer cliff face; the other side dropped straight to the sea.

And what a sea! From here the ocean fifty feet down was a churning maelstrom of foam, with jagged shards of rock reaching up like suppliant fingers in the foam.

Suppliant fingers…hands raised in prayer. The analogy was a good one, she thought bitterly. Help was what she needed.

Action was what she needed. Here she was staring out to sea when she should be figuring out what to do with this guy.

She was figuring out how alone she was.

At least his breathing was fine. Her fingers had been moving over his face even as she looked about her, searching for what was most important. The stranger was face down but as her hand came over his mouth she felt the soft whisper of breathing. Thank God. She adjusted the position of his head a tiny bit-not enough to hurt if his neck was broken but a tiny sideways shift so his mouth and nose were clear of the mud.

So why wasn’t he moving?

‘What’s wrong?’ she whispered, but there was no answer.

Had he hit his head? He must have. Her fingers kept searching and found what they were seeking-an ugly haematoma on the side of his forehead. There was a little blood. Not much.

Maybe this was momentary. Maybe she’d just stunned him.

What else? She sat back, her trained eyes running over his body. What…?

His left leg.

She winced. It was all wrong. Just below the knee it twisted and was lying at a grotesque angle. She moved so that she was kneeling by it and winced again.

He’d snapped the bones beneath the knee. The tibia and the fibula must both be broken. She stared at it-at the position it was lying in. The position meant that there was a huge risk it’d be cutting off blood circulation. In fact…With fingers that felt numbed-horror had made her whole body seem numb-she edged off one of the guy’s shoes and stared down. There was no mistaking the blue-white tinge to his toes.

No blood. She winced again, her mind racing. She was a good five miles out of Birrini. The way those toes had lost colour… Maybe he’d torn an artery.

No. Probably not. There didn’t seem enough swelling to indicate that level of internal bleeding. But the blood vessels must be kinked, and the speed at which his foot had lost colour told her that he’d lose his leg before she could get help.

He needed X-rays, she told herself frantically. He needed careful manipulation under anaesthetic.

He had Lizzie and nothing and nowhere.

But at least she knew what had to be done, and as for anaesthetic…well, he was stunned now. He was temporarily-hopefully temporarily-out of it. What she needed to do would have him screaming in agony if he was conscious. She had morphine in the car but even so… It’d be far better to do this while he was unconscious and worry about pain relief if-when-he came around. So… ‘Move, Lizzie,’ she told herself. Any minute now he could gain consciousness and she’d have lost her chance.

But if only she had X-rays. She gave one last despairing glance at the road ahead. Nothing. She looked up at the cliff and then down to the sea below. There was nothing there to help her either.

She took a deep breath, then moved so that she was kneeling beside the leg. Another breath. She stared down, figuring out which way she should move. She might well do more damage with this manoeuvre-without X-rays she was flying blind. But the choice was to do nothing and watch his leg die, or try to move it into position. No choice at all.

She took hold of his left ankle in one hand and his knee in the other. It was harder than she’d thought. She was applying manual traction, easing the leg lengthwise and to the side. Trying-slowly and gently but still with strength-to move it.