Marion Lennox - From Christmas To Forever?

She pushed herself back from the truck and cocked a quizzical eyebrow—and he couldn’t speak.

Time to strut his stuff? She was right, of course. He needed to stop staring at polka dots.

He needed to try and save Horace.

Polly was now just as stuck as the guys in the truck.

There was no way she could pull herself up the cliff again. She couldn’t get purchase on the nylon without cutting herself. The cord had cut her hands while she’d lowered herself, but to get the bag to Hugo, to try and save Horace’s life, she’d decided a bit of hand damage was worthwhile.

Getting up, though … Not so much. The cavalry was on its way. She’d done everything she could.

Now all she had to do was secure herself and watch Hugo work.

He couldn’t do it.

He had all the equipment he needed. All he had to do was find a vein and insert a drip.

But Horace was a big man, his arms were fleshy and flaccid, and his blood pressure had dropped to dangerous levels. Even in normal circumstances it’d be tricky to find a vein.

Horace was bleeding from the arm nearest him. He had that pressure bound. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but he needed to use Horace’s other arm for the drip.

It should be easy. All he needed to do was tug Horace’s arm forward, locate the vein at the elbow and insert the drip.

But he was at the wrong angle and his hands shook. Something about crashing down a cliff, thinking he was going to hit the bottom? The vein he was trying for slid away under the needle.

‘Want me to try?’ Polly had tugged back from the truck, cautious that she might inadvertently put weight on it, but she’d been watching.

‘You can hardly operate while hanging on a rope,’ he told her and she gave him a look of indignation.

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve rigged this up with a neat seat. So I’m not exactly hanging. If you’re having trouble … I don’t want to bump the truck but for Horace … maybe it’s worth the risk.’

And she was right. Priority had to be that vein, but if he couldn’t find it, how could she?

‘I’ve done my first part of anaesthetic training,’ she said, diffidently now. ‘Finding veins is what I’m good at.’

‘You’re an anaesthetist?’

‘Nearly. You didn’t know that, did you, Dr Denver?’ To his further astonishment, she sounded smug. ‘Emergency physician with anaesthetist skills. You have two medics for the price of one. So … can I help?’

And he looked again at Horace’s arm and he thought of the consequences of not trusting. She was an anaesthetist. They were both in impossible positions but she had the training.

‘Yes, please.’

Her hands hurt. Lowering herself using only the thin cord had been rough.

Her backside also hurt. Three thin nylon cords weren’t anyone’s idea of good seat padding. She was using her feet to swing herself as close to the truck as she dared, trying to balance next to the window.

There was nothing to tie herself to.

And then Hugo reached over and caught the halter-tie of her dress, so her shoulder was caught at the rear of the window.

‘No weight,’ he told her. ‘I’ll just hold you steady.’

‘What a good thing I didn’t wear a strapless number,’ she said approvingly, trying to ignore the feel of his hand against her bare skin. Truly, this was the most extraordinary position …

It was the most extraordinary feeling. His hold made her feel … safe?

Was she out of her mind? Safe? But he held fast and it settled her.

Hugo had swabbed but she swabbed again, holding Horace’s arm steady as she worked. She had his arm out of the window, resting on the window ledge. The light here was good.

She pressed lightly and pressed again …

The cannula was suddenly in her hand. Hugo was holding her with one hand, acting as theatre assistant with the other.

Once again that word played into her mind. Safe … But she had eyes only for the faint contour that said she might have a viable vein …

She took the cannula and took a moment to steady herself. Hugo’s 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.