Marion Lennox - From Christmas To Forever?

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,’ Hugo called, but Polly didn’t say anything at all.

‘Truck’s now secure,’ the guy called. ‘The paramedics want to know if Horace is okay to move. We can abseil down and bring Horace up on a cradle stretcher. How does that fit with you, Doc?’

‘Is it safe for you guys?’

‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs,’ the guy retorted. ‘But med report, Doc—the paramedics want to know.’

‘He’s safe to move as long as we can keep pressure off his chest,’ Hugo called. ‘I want a neck brace. There’s no sign of spinal injury but let’s not take any chances. Then Polly.’

‘Then you, Doc.’

‘Polly second,’ Hugo said in a voice that brooked no argument.

And, for once, Polly wasn’t arguing.

It must have been under the truck.

She’d been balancing in the harness, using her feet to stop herself from swinging.

The truck had done its jerk upward and she’d jerked backwards herself, maybe as an automatic reaction to tension. She’d pushed her feet hard against the cliff to steady herself.

The snake must have been caught under the truck in the initial fall. With the pressure off, it lurched forward to get away.

Polly’s foot landed right on its spine.

It landed one fierce bite to her ankle—and then slithered away down the cliff.

She didn’t move. She didn’t cry out.

Two guys in bright yellow overalls were abseiling down towards the driver’s side of the truck, holding an end of a cradle stretcher apiece. They looked competent, sure of themselves … fast?

Horace was still the priority. He was elderly, he’d suffered massive blood loss and he needed to be where he could be worked on if he went into cardiac arrest.

She was suffering a snake bite.

Tiger snake? She wasn’t sure. She’d only ever seen one in the zoo and she hadn’t looked all that closely then.

It had had stripes.

Tiger snakes were deadly.

But not immediately. Wombat Valley was a bush hospital and one thing bush hospitals were bound to have was antivenin, she told herself. She thought back to her training. No one ever died in screaming agony two minutes after they were bitten by a snake. They died hours later. If they didn’t get antivenin.

Therefore, she just needed to stay still and the nice guys in the yellow suits would come and get her and they’d all live happily ever after.

‘Polly?’ It was Hugo, his voice suddenly sharp.

‘I … what?’ She let go her toehold—she was only using one foot now—and her rope swung.

She felt … a bit sick.

That must be her imagination. She shouldn’t feel sick so fast.

‘Polly, what’s happening?’

The guys—no, on closer inspection, it was a guy and a woman—had reached Horace. Had Hugo fitted the neck brace to Horace, or had the abseilers? She hadn’t noticed. They were steadying the stretcher against the cliff, then sliding it into the cab of the truck, but leaving its weight to be taken by the anchor point on the road. In another world she’d be fascinated.

Things were a bit … fuzzy.

‘Polly?’

‘Mmm?’ She was having trouble getting her tongue to work. Her mouth felt thick and dry.

‘What the hell …? I can’t get out. Someone up there … priority’s changed. We need a harness on Dr Hargreaves—fast.’

Did he think she was going to faint? She thought about that and decided he might be right.

So do something.

She had a seat—sort of. She looped her arms around the side cords and linked her hands, then put her head down as far as she could.

She could use some glucose.

‘Get someone down here.’ It was a roar. ‘Fast. Move!’

‘I’m not going to faint,’ she managed but it sounded feeble, even to her.

‘Damn right, you’re not going to faint,’ Hugo snapped. ‘You faint and you’re out of my employ. Pull yourself together, Dr Hargreaves. Put that head further down, take deep breaths and count between breathing. You know what to do. Do it.’

‘I need … juice …’ she managed but her voice trailed off. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t …

She mustn’t.

Breathe, two, three. Out, two, three. Breathe …

‘Hold on, sweetheart—they’re coming.’

What had he called her? Sweetheart? No one called Polly Hargreaves sweetheart unless they wanted her to do something. Or not do something. Not to cut her hair. Not to do medicine. To play socialite daughter for their friends.