Heidi Rice - Summer At Willow Tree Farm - The Perfect Romantic Escape

‘What for? Do you want to wait until you need a blood transfusion or something?’ The high note of panic gave lie to the snark.

And spurred him into action.

‘Fine, let’s do this thing.’ He tried to sound sure.

He gave his head a quick shake, to clear the fog enveloping him, and grabbed a hold of the car door while ignoring the rabbiting heartbeat punching his ribs. And the nausea sitting like a roaring lion under his sternum.

Do not puke.

He placed his feet on the tarmac, levered himself out of the car and staggered, his balance shot.

Ellie caught him round the waist. ‘Don’t you dare fall on top of me, Dalton.’ Banding a supporting arm around his back, she propped his good arm over her shoulder. ‘If you go, I’m going to go with you, because you’re too much of a big lummox for me to catch. And I’m telling you now, I will be severely pissed off if that happens.’ The snippy motormouth monologue was weirdly comforting.

‘I’m OK.’ He tried to take some of his weight off her, even though his equilibrium was iffy at best, the scent of her – summer flowers and sultry spice – as disturbing as the prospect of flattening her in an NHS car park.

‘Shut up, and lean on me,’ she said, holding him upright.

He gave up objecting – he didn’t have the strength to walk and argue at the same time.

The shaking hit his knees as the glass doors slid open, the electric hiss bringing with it the sucker punch of memory.

‘Don’t make a fuss, Arty. Everything will be OK. As long as you don’t tell, baby.’

His mummy’s voice whispered in his ear while the scary man with a white mask over his face kept prodding at his tummy, making the screaming agony a thousand times worse.

‘Art, you’re not really going to pass out are you? I can go and get a wheelchair?’ Ellie’s frantic questions beckoned him back to the present.

He breathed, ignoring the lion now roaring in his ears. And realised he’d yet to cross the threshold.

‘I’m fine, Princess Drama.’ But he didn’t feel fine, he felt terrible.

She didn’t comment, so he knew he must look terrible too.

He forced his feet to carry him through the door and back into purgatory, grateful for the feel of her flush against his side, her fingers digging into his hip. He clung on to her, reminding himself every step of the way that the throbbing pain was coming from his hand now and not his stomach. And wasn’t anywhere near as diabolical as it had been when he was a boy.

*

‘Ouch, nasty.’ The female doctor snapped on a pair of surgical gloves then unwrapped the layers of blood-soaked tea towels and dropped them in a surgical waste disposal unit. ‘How did you do this, Mr Dalton?’

‘Rotary blade slipped,’ Art supplied, in his usual talkative fashion from his perch on the gurney. The room was sunny and smelled of orange blossoms, not bleach or blood like most hospitals. Ellie was surprised Art hadn’t kicked up a fuss when she’d followed him into the treatment room. But then, from the pasty face, she wasn’t sure he would notice if she started tap-dancing naked in front of him.

‘At least it’s a reasonably clean incision.’ The physician, who was called Susan Grant according to the nametag pinned to her white coat, wiped away the sluggish seep of blood with a succession of antiseptic wipes. ‘And you don’t appear to have severed any tendons. But it’s deep, so it’s going to need quite a few stitches.’

Ellie cringed as the woman, who had a pleasantly upbeat and efficient manner, began to probe at the cut.

If Art could feel it, he wasn’t letting on, his eyelids sinking to half-mast, as if he were struggling to remain awake.

He looked dreadful, but not as dreadful as he’d looked when they’d been entering the building. The electrical hum of the doors had triggered and, for a split second, he’d looked completely terrified, the whites of his eyes showing. She’d said something to him, worried he was about to keel over and take her down with him, and she’d had the strangest feeling she’d called him back from somewhere far away.

What was that about?

Because Art definitely wasn’t the swooning type, even after managing to hack off half a hand. Something else had been going on, something other than his injury, because he looked as if he’d rather do anything in that moment than take a single step into the medical centre.

‘When was your last tetanus shot?’ the doctor asked.

Art shook his head, his eyelids drooping.

The doctor turned to Ellie. ‘Do you know if he’s had any recent boosters? I think he may be a bit shocky.’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ This would probably be a good time to say she was just the taxi service. But after the episode as they entered the centre, she wasn’t going anywhere.

‘All right.’ The doctor turned back to Art. ‘I think we’ll err on the side of caution and give you one just in case. I’m going to call the nurse so she can help me stitch you up.’ She applied a dressing to the wound as she spoke, the thick wadding absorbing the worst of the blood, which seemed to have finally stopped flowing so copiously. ‘In the meantime, Ms…?’

‘Preston,’ Ellie said, then realised she’d given her maiden name.

‘Ms Preston. Could you help him get his T-shirt off.’ She lifted a gown off a neat stack in the corner of the room. ‘And get him into one of these.’

Ellie took the gown, before the doctor disappeared out of the door.

She stared at the neat blue and red geometric pattern on the starched cotton then back at Art. She was going to have to undress him?

Suck it up. You’ve seen a lot more of him than just his chest.

So what if the memory of seeing his chest hair peeking out of his overalls had made her react like a nun yesterday evening.

‘Art?’ She nudged his shoulder. His lids snapped open, but his eyes were blank for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure where he was.

‘We’ve got to get your T-shirt off.’ She held the gown aloft. ‘And put this on.’

‘I can do it,’ he said, or rather croaked, still channelling he who shall never need any help.

He yanked up the hem of his T-shirt with his good hand. Then swore as the wad of cotton got stuck. With his sore hand dangling in space, his face covered by the blood-soaked shirt and some phenomenal abdominal muscles trembling with the effort he was making to try to yank the garment the rest of the way off, he looked stuck fast.

‘Ready for some help yet?’ Ellie quipped.

The reply was an annoyed grunt.

‘I’m going to take that as a yes.’ After dumping the gown on the bed, Ellie circled his wrist with gentle fingers, and eased his injured hand through the armhole, ignoring the sight of the dark hair fanning out across the defined slabs of his pectoral muscles.

There was not an ounce of extra belly fat on the man, the black elastic of his boxer briefs peeking over the low-slung waistband of his jeans. The black hair around his nipples tapered into a thin line to bisect the ridges of his six-pack.

The hot flush struck somewhere around her backbone and raced up her spine as she dragged the T-shirt over his head.

He groaned, cradling his hand as he positioned it in his lap. She spotted the ridged white scar that had shocked her all those summers ago. She’d only seen it from a distance then.

She could see it more clearly now, illuminated by the treatment room’s harsh fluorescent light. It still looked nasty, but for the first time she noticed the tiny white dots that travelled up either side of the line trailing out of his groin all the way to the bottom of his ribcage.

When had the injury happened? Was this where his fear of hospitals came from? Because it looked like he had once had at least fifty stitches in a wound that must surely have been life-threatening.