In Dr Darling's Care

The silence went on and on

And in that silence something built. Something intangible. Something neither of them recognized, but it was there for all that.

“It’s a sensible job you have up north, isn’t it?” he asked at last, and she nodded.

“Yes.”

“And do you have a sensible boyfriend?”

She flushed at that. “I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Is that who you’re running from?”

“I’m not running.”

“I can pick up running from a mile off.”

“You were running,” she said softly. “When I first met you.”

“Well, you stopped that.” There was a moment’s pause, and then he added, “Maybe I can stop you running.”

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

In Dr. Darling’s Care

Marion Lennox

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

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.

It wouldn’t go.

She wasn’t brave enough. She had to be. More traction. She pulled and it moved. Just.

More traction. Twist…

And she heard it. Crepitus. The grating sound that fractured bones made as they moved against each other. Crepitus was an awful name for an awful sound but now she almost welcomed it.

Had she done it?

Maybe.

Her fingers were on his leg and she felt—she was sure she felt—the pulse return. She stared down, willing the colour to change. And in moments she was sure she wasn’t imagining it. There was a definite improvement in the skin tone of the toes.

The man stirred and groaned. Little wonder. If someone had done to her what she’d just done to him, she’d have screamed so hard she’d have been heard back in Melbourne.

‘Don’t try and move,’ she said urgently, her voice unsteady—but he didn’t respond.

‘Can you hear me?’

Nothing.

OK. What next? She’d saved him from a dead leg. Well done, Lizzie. Now she just had to save him from cerebral haemorrhage, or internal bleeding, or by being run over by another car as he lay in the road.

Her thoughts were cut off by another moan. The guy stirred and moaned some more and then shifted. He was finally coming round.

‘You mustn’t move,’ she said again, and he appeared to think about it.

‘Why not?’ His voice was a faint slur but it sounded good to her. Not only was he gaining consciousness, he was gaining sense.

‘You’ve been hit by a car.’ She moved again so that she could see his face, stooping so her nose was parallel to his. ‘You’ve broken your leg.’

He thought about that for a while longer. She’d laid her face in the mud beside his so that he could see her and she could see one of his eyes. She knew that he’d desperately need human contact and reassurance but she daren’t move him further.

It was a crazy position to be in, but panic could make him move. He mustn’t panic. So she lay in the mud so that he could focus.

He did. ‘Whose car?’ he managed, and she winced.

‘My car.’

That was another cause for some long, hard thinking.

‘My leg hurts,’ he conceded at last. ‘What else?’

‘You tell me,’ she said cautiously. ‘Where else hurts?’

‘My head.’

‘I think you hit your head on the road.’

‘How fast were you going?’

‘Not fast at all,’ she told him, a tiny bit of indignation entering her voice. He was making sense. No brain damage, then. ‘You ran straight into me.’

‘Yeah, like you were stopped and I just smashed into your car. You’ll be suing me next.’ Amazingly there was a hint of laughter in the man’s voice. Laughter laced with pain.

But Lizzie wasn’t up to laughter. Not yet. No brain damage, she was thinking. He had enough strength left to give her cheek. She found she was breathing again but she hadn’t remembered stopping.

‘I might sue you,’ she said cautiously, still nose to nose with him in the mud. ‘But not yet. I think we should consider scraping you off the road before we consult our lawyers.’ She placed her hand on his head in a gesture of warmth and comfort. Strong as this man sounded, he was badly hurt and shock must be taking its toll. His hair was nice, she thought inconsequentially. Thick and wavy and deep, deep black. What she could see of his face was strong-boned and tanned. Her initial impression was really, really nice.

Which was a silly thing to think, given the circumstances. ‘I’ll get you something for the pain and ring for an ambulance,’ she told him, and decided that shock was affecting her too. Her voice was decidedly wobbly. She couldn’t make it sound efficient and clinical. Efficient and clinical was the last thing she felt like.

And his next words made her feel even less efficient. ‘There’s no phone reception out here,’ the man muttered.

‘No reception?’

‘No.’

‘But…’ Leaving her hand resting on his head—he’d need touch, she knew—she rose and sat back on her heels and stared blankly down at him. ‘But…why not?’

‘Because we’re in the middle of nowhere.’ Stupid, he might have added, but he didn’t. ‘Why do you think I run out here?’

‘Because you’re stupid?’ Lizzie whispered, trying to disguise her overwhelming sensation of sick dismay. No reception. Help!

‘A man has to have peace some time.’

‘Yeah, well, it should be really peaceful in hospital,’ she snapped. This was a crazy conversation. He was lying face down in the road; she didn’t even know what was wrong with him yet, and he was giving her cheek?

‘Who said anything about hospital?’

‘I did.’ Her voice was starting to sound a bit desperate. She was feeling more out of control by the minute. ‘That’s where you’re going.’ She took a deep breath, searching for control. ‘Now shut up while I examine you. And stay still!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Silence. More silence. Lizzie started running her fingers over his body, searching for any lumps or bumps or obvious contusions. She could still only see his back but she was reluctant to roll him over. For a start that leg would hurt like hell. Second, if he’d hurt his back or his neck…

‘I can wiggle my fingers and my left toes,’ he told her. ‘I’m not game to try my right toes.’

‘I don’t blame you. You’ve got a horrible break. I just had to straighten it to get circulation back.’

‘Circulation…’ He stirred and she placed a warning hand on his shoulder. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Lizzie Darling.’ Her hands kept moving. One good thing about the scanty clothes he was wearing, her examination wasn’t impeded. She put her hands under him and felt his ribs. His chest was broad and muscled and the ribs didn’t seem damaged at all.

‘Lizzie Darling.’ He sounded bemused. ‘Darling. As in not Lizzie Sweetheart but Lizzie Darling, daughter of Mr and Mrs Darling? Or wife of Mr Darling?’

She could afford to be magnanimous about her stupid name. Almost. If she hadn’t been so fond of her mum and dad and her grandma she would have changed it years ago. But by deed poll. Not by marriage. ‘Daughter will do,’ she told him. ‘That’s the one.’

‘You’re the new locum, then?’ he demanded, his voice incredulous, and she sat back and surveyed him some more. And worried some more. She had more to concentrate on now than her entirely inappropriate name.

‘I’ll find something to splint that leg and then we’ll try and roll you over.’

‘But you are the doctor we’re expecting?’

‘I am.’ She was searching the roadside. A branch had fallen from the cliff-top and it had crashed down, splintering into what she needed—a mass of wood of various lengths and thickness. Something here would do. She needed to roll him to check for further injuries but she wanted that leg immobile first.

At least the man was sensible. His voice was strong enough. With no blood, ease of breathing and fully conscious…she hadn’t killed him and it didn’t look like she was going to.

Locum. He’d said locum. He’d recognised her name?

‘You knew I was coming?’ She left him for a moment to think about it while she fetched her doctor’s bag from the back of the car. Returning to kneel beside him, she located a syringe from the bag and fitted it with a morphine vial. By the time she had the needle ready, he had his answer ready. He might be conscious but he was still dazed.

‘Yeah, I knew you were coming. Of course I did.’

‘I’m just giving you something for the pain.’

‘Morphine?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Five milligrams.’

‘I thought ten,’ she told him. ‘I need to move you and it’s going to hurt.’

‘Five.’

‘Hey, who’s the doctor here?’

‘I am,’ he told her, and she paused, her syringe held to the light, and stared at the head in the mud.

‘You?’

‘Me,’ he told her, his face still obscured. ‘That’s who you just ran over. Your boss. I’m Harry McKay, Birrini’s doctor. You’re here to replace me while I go on my honeymoon.’

Silence. She managed to finish checking the syringe but she was operating on automatic pilot. She couldn’t focus on what he was saying and what was needed at the same time.

Medicine. Concentrate on medicine or she’d do something really stupid.

Seven and a half milligrams of morphine, she decided. When in doubt, compromise.

She swabbed his arm while he lay absolutely still. That fracture must be causing agony, she thought. He’d turned his head slightly and she could see the set look on his jaw.

Forget compromise. Forget he was a doctor. He was very definitely a patient. Ten milligrams of morphine whether he liked it or not.

She gave the dose subcutaneously, then moved down so she could work on his leg. She’d prepare the splint while she waited for the morphine to take hold.

‘Five minutes tops before you get relief,’ she told him.

‘I know how long morphine takes to work.’

‘I guess you do.’ Her mind was racing. ‘So…you’re really the doctor I’m coming to replace?’

‘I am.’

‘You’re getting married?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right.’ She frowned. She shouldn’t be talking to him like this. She should still be assessing him for shock. But it seemed he wanted to talk. To lie in the mud and think about what damage had been done… He’d be scared, she knew, but there was little reassurance she could give him until she could move him.

‘There’s no pain when you breathe?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘So no broken ribs?’

‘Apparently not.’

She ran her hands down his spine again—lightly. She wanted as much information as she could before the morphine took hold. ‘You can feel that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No loss of sensation?’

‘No.’

‘No pain in your back at all?’

‘No. Only in my leg. And my head.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Yeah. Fantastic.’

‘Sorry.’ She managed a smile. She moved up and placed her hand over his, feeding him warmth she thought he’d be desperate for. She was wearing a light jacket but it was already soaked and it held no warmth at all. She needed a blanket. She always carried a blanket in her own car, but this was a hire car. She was lucky she had a medical bag. The bag had been provided by the locum service when she’d agreed to take on this job, but there was no blanket and he must be freezing.

‘I’m as strong as a horse. I’ll live,’ he said curtly, and she blinked.

‘That’s my job,’ she said mildly. ‘To decide that.’ But she smiled again and the tension eased off a bit. Despite his attempt at humour, he was gripping her hand as if he needed it.

‘This is stupid. My face is in the mud. I’m going to try and sit up.’

‘If you try and move before I splint your leg, your brain will be in orbit,’ she told him. She relented a little. ‘It mightn’t be that bad, but your circulation was cut off. I don’t want to risk the bones moving again.’

‘Compound fracture?’

‘Comminuted. The bones are right out of alignment but they haven’t broken the skin.’

‘That’s lucky.’ He tried to smile.

‘Yeah.’ He had courage. She’d have rolled herself off the edge of the cliff by now, she decided. The pain level in that leg would be dreadful.

And all she could do for the moment was wait. She sat on the road, holding his hand, forcing herself to stay still. To stay calm. The morphine would kick in soon and then she could work, but it wouldn’t hurt to wait.

Phoebe was in the passenger seat of her car, staring out with the desperation of a basset who’d been abandoned by the world. Too bad. Phoebe had caused this mess. It wouldn’t hurt her to wait either.

Her car was parked in the middle of the road, though. Maybe that was a problem.

‘No one’s likely to come.’ Harry was obviously thinking as she was thinking. ‘Not this way. Council’s doing road work and the road’s blocked at either end. That’s why I’m running here. I knew the road would be deserted.’ He thought about it a bit more and decided it didn’t make sense. ‘But it wasn’t deserted. How did you get through? The only way through is via the hills—not along the coast road.’

‘The coast road was open when I came last night.’

‘You came last night?’

‘I 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.’