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.