In Dr Darling's Care. Marion Lennox

booked a holiday cottage half a mile south of here.’

      ‘You’re supposed to be staying at the hospital.’

      This was one crazy conversation. He was trying to take his mind off the pain until the morphine kicked in, she decided. OK. The least she could do was help.

      ‘I can’t stay at the hospital. I have a dog. What do you think caused this accident?’

      ‘You have a dog?’

      ‘How’s the pain level?’

      ‘Horrible. Tell me about your dog.’

      ‘Phoebe’s stupid.’ She touched his hand again, gave it a quick squeeze and then released it, aware as she did of a sharp stab of reluctance to let it go. This comfort business wasn’t all one way, she thought ruefully. She’d had a sickening shock. She needed his presence as much as he needed hers. ‘The morphine should have taken by now.’

      ‘Not enough.’

      She glanced at her watch and winced. It wasn’t going to get any better than this. ‘I need to splint your leg. How are you at biting bullets?’

      ‘Do you have a supply of bullets?’

      ‘Maybe not,’ she conceded. ‘I have a Mars Bar.’

      ‘I’d throw up.’

      ‘You’re feeling nauseous?’

      ‘Horribly.’

      ‘Don’t throw up until we get your face out of the mud,’ she advised, but she had to move. She lifted her branch and laid it along the back of his leg. It was awful. Rolled up newspapers, the emergency manuals said. They were generally antiseptic and rigid enough to hold. So where were rolled-up newspapers when she needed them?

      She was wearing a light jacket—cotton. Formal business. Not enough to give any warmth. But as padding for the splint, at least it’d stop him getting slivers of wood in his leg.

      She hauled off her jacket and twisted it round the wood. She laid the makeshift splint along his leg and then carefully started winding bandage along its length. It was impossible to operate in these conditions without shifting his leg slightly and she was aware by the rigidity in his body how much she was hurting him.

      ‘What sort of dog?’ he muttered and she grimaced. There was real pain in his voice. Maybe ten milligrams of morphine wasn’t enough.

      ‘Basset.’

      ‘Why do you have a stupid basset?’

      ‘I inherited her.’ He was using Phoebe to focus on something that wasn’t pain and she could do the same. ‘My grandma died three weeks ago. She left me Phoebe. I live in North Queensland. Phoebe’s the human equivalent of eight months pregnant. I can’t take her home until she’s delivered the pups. It’s hot up north and the heat would kill her, if she survived the journey. No kennel will take her this far into her pregnancy, and no airline will carry her, so I’m stuck here until the pups are born.’

      Harry thought about that and bit on his imaginary bullet some more. ‘That’s why you applied to be my locum?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      Now what? She had the splint in place now. The leg was fixed as rigidly as she could manage. The morphine would be working as well as it could.

      It was time to move.

      ‘You’re sure no one’s likely to come along this road?’ she asked, and he grunted into the mud.

      ‘Nope. We’re on our own. It’s time to turn me over and check my face hasn’t fallen off.’

      ‘Does it feel as if it has?’

      ‘Nope, but this mud pack has done me all the good that it’s going to do me. Let’s go.’

      Lizzie was very worried. If she had an ambulance here she’d have him moved immobile onto a fixed stretcher until she’d thoroughly checked that neck and spine. She couldn’t leave him lying in the mud on the side of the road, though. For a start, if he lost consciousness again he could even drown. It was still raining, a steady drizzle that was making her cold to the bone. They’d both have hypothermia if she didn’t move.

      So, feeling as anxious as she’d ever felt in her entire medical career, she moved to his shoulders and put her face down in the mud again, nose to nose.

      ‘I’m going to roll you over now,’ she told him. ‘Don’t try to help me.’

      ‘If I don’t try to help you then you’ll never do it,’ he muttered. ‘How tall are you?’

      ‘I’m tall.’

      ‘You don’t sound tall.’

      ‘I have a short voice.’

      ‘I can see you sideways. You look really short.’

      ‘From where you are I must look eight feet or so.’ She put her hands under his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry but your leg’s going to hurt when I do this. But I want to roll you keeping your back and neck as rigid as possible.’

      He forgot about the short bit. She could see him brace.

      ‘OK. Let’s give it a shot.’

      In the end he rolled with ease. There couldn’t be major damage, she decided with relief. He could use his still strong hips to roll himself as she supported his shoulders and neck.

      ‘Slow,’ she said urgently. ‘Keep it slow.’

      A minute later he was lying on his back, practising deep breathing as his leg settled. She took three deep breaths herself and met his gaze. Done. He was still breathing and breathing well. His hands were still moving. There clearly wasn’t an unstable break in the vertebrae.

      He was staring up at her with the bluest eyes…

      They really were the most extraordinary eyes, she thought, stunned. Or maybe it was just the situation and the relief of having him look up at her with eyes that were lucid.

      No. It wasn’t just that. They really were the most extraordinary eyes. His face was mud-stained and etched with strain, the bruise on the side of his forehead was raw and ugly, but she could see laughter lines around his eyes. A wide generous mouth looked as if it was meant for smiling.

      He was trying to smile now.

      ‘S-see,’ he said. ‘No problem.’ After a short pause he added, ‘Maybe you could give me that extra five milligrams of morphine.’

      ‘You’ve already had it.’ She was checking his chest now, his shoulders, everything she could see of him. ‘I’m sorry but that’s all I can give you.’

      ‘Damned managing woman.’

      ‘That’s what I’m famous for. Is it only your leg that hurts?’

      ‘Isn’t that enough?’

      ‘I guess it is.’

      ‘Tell me again why I employed you?’

      ‘So you can get married.’ She looked uneasily at the car. She was going to have to get him in there. Somehow.

      ‘You can’t lift me.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘But you can’t leave me sprawled in the road for some other dingbat city doctor to run down.’

      ‘How many dingbat city doctors do you have around here?’

      ‘Ha,’ he said in satisfaction. ‘You admit it. Dingbat city doctor. That’s an admission of guilt if ever I heard one. Where are witnesses when you need them?’

      ‘There’s always Phoebe.’

      ‘Phoebe?’

      ‘My basset.’

      ‘Right.