His Island Bride

by Marion Lennox

  'You've rung the services.' The woman hadn't relaxed yet. She was snapping out orders, looking grim. She was wearing some sort of gym outfit, he noted in that first assessment as he couldn't help but take in her appearance. Which was startling. She had on crimson leggings and a tiny white singlet top. Bare feet. She was soaking wet, as he was. She had seaweed hanging over her arm, tangling with her fiery red curls, which hung to her shoulders.

  Her appearance right now was the last thing she was thinking about.

  'Malcolm rang from the mainland,' one of the old ladies was telling her. 'With the bridge blocked it'll have to be the coastguard. Twenty minutes at least.'

  'Damn,' Susan said. 'I need—'

  'Bert's getting your gear for you,' the same old lady said before she could finish. 'We thought you'd need more than the first aid kit from pilates. He's backing your van down here.'

  'Bert is?' the redhead queried, sounding scared. She whirled and faced Sam. She'd accepted his help without question while they'd needed to do CPR, and now it seemed like he was part of her assessment.

  'Did you swallow fuel?' she demanded.

  'No.'

  'What about your eyes? Can you see?'

  'They're fine.'

  'Are you hurt in any way?'

  'No,' he said curtly, 'and I'm a doctor.'

  'A doctor.' Her gaze held. She'd been pale before but now every last vestige of colour drained from her face.

  'Grant,' she whispered, and she sounded appalled.

  'I'm Sam,' he said. This had happened to him so many times in his life that the response was automatic. He was a twin. Or.. .he had been a twin.

  This, then, must be Grant's Susan.

  But this was no time for the personal. 'I'm a doctor,' he said again, and she gulped and steadied.

  'Right,' she said, obviously forcing herself to refocus. 'I...Great. But first...can you see the car backing down the boat ramp?'

  'Yes,' he said. Two hundred yards away an ancient family wagon was weaving very slowly backward down a ramp leading from what looked like a public car park to the hard sand of the river bank.

  'Bert's ninety-two and he has cataracts,' Susan said. 'I have a full emergency medical kit in the back of that car and I really need it to get here and not into the river. Can you help?'

  She was holding her patient's head. The guy was still retching. He couldn't be left.

  He was the doctor. Maybe he should...

  'Don't fight it,' Susan was saying strongly to the guy on the sand. 'Your stomach's getting rid of a load of oil and that's a good thing. We've got you safe and the doctor's getting ready to give you pain relief. Dr Renaldo will be with you in a minute. As soon as he prevents another crash.'

  She'd obviously prioritised and so should he. He went.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur of medical necessity.

  After that one incredulous gasp as she'd realised who he was—or who she'd thought he was—Susan had accepted with what seemed huge relief that he was a doctor, and she deferred to him absolutely.

  It seemed there was no other doctor likely to be forthcoming. Only Susan, whatever she was.

  She must be a nurse, and a good one, he thought as they worked together. The kit in the back of Susan's car was impressive, to say the least. Someone had brought towels, a vast pile of pink linen that they'd spread over the sand to give them the best possible workspace. The guy had roused to consciousness, then slipped away a little, moaning in pain.

  But Susan's kit contained drugs, saline—everything he needed. Sam administered five milligrams of IV morphine, running fluids with an IV line, aware that the magnitude of these burns could be a killer. The guy's forearms and the backs of his legs seemed the worst, and adding to the complexity there was a vicious-looking wound on the back of his shoulder.

  Sam worked on that, stemming the oozing blood, padding it firmly, aware that there'd be reconstructive surgery required further down the track.

  'Is an ambulance coming?' he demanded.

  'The ambulance might have a bit of trouble getting here,' Susan said ruefully. 'Someone seems to have knocked the bridge down. We'll wait on the coastguard.' Then: 'Hey,' she said, and she was no longer talking to him. Her patient's eyes had focused momentarily and she'd picked it.

  'My name's Susan,' she said. 'What's yours?'

  'H-Hammond,' the guy whispered. He was in his fifties, Sam guessed, a big man and florid. His clothes were ruined but he still had boat shoes on. Expensive.

  As had been the boat. A million-dollar indulgence?

  'Joe Hammond or Hammond Joe?' Susan asked, and Sam was astounded to see the man's lips twitch in what could almost be a responding smile.

  'Pete Hammond,' he muttered.

  'Hi, Pete.' Her hands were still working, spreading silver sulphadiazine on the guy's forearms, but she made it seem that all her attention was on her patient's words.

  She was a mess, Sam thought. Her hair was littered with seaweed, her feet were bare and sand-coated...

  She was smiling at her patient and Sam suddenly thought that if she smiled at him like that...

  Whew. No wonder Grant had fallen for her.

  'You've squashed your boat, good and proper,' she was saying, chatting easily to Pete in an 'over a cup of coffee' tone. 'Was there anyone else on board? Is there anyone else we ought to be looking for?' She asked it almost as if it didn't matter.

  'N-no.'

  'You were alone on the boat.'

  'Yeah.'

  Susan's shoulders slumped a little. As did Sam's. If there'd been anyone else in the cabin.. .Well, there was no way they'd have survived.

  'Great,' Susan said, like it was no big deal. Moving on. 'But you've got a few burns and you've hurt your shoulder. No problem, but you 're going to have to go to hospital and get things sorted. Dr Renaldo here has given you pain relief for the trip. It'll be kicking in any minute so hang on in there. We'll cover your burns, too—this stuff looks like food wrap—OK, it is food wrap—but it'll keep your burns clean. The coast guard will take you to Sandridge Hospital to do full assessment. Is there someone we can ring to tell them to fetch your pyjamas and a toothbrush?'

  He had to hand it to her. Susan was reducing the situation to mundane and domestic with a few well-chosen words. Pyjamas and toothbrush. Pete closed his eyes but Sam was aware of the imperceptible relaxation, the slackening of muscles taut with the fight-or-flight reflex.

  'Details are in my wallet,' Pete whispered.

  His wallet was probably at the bottom of the river. Burned.

  'You know, your wallet might be a bit soggy,' Susan said, still with a smile in her voice. 'Can you give us a name and a phone number we could ring?'

  'Carly,' Pete whispered. 'My wife. We're staying in Seaspray Lodge in Sandridge.'

  'Say no more,' Susan said solidly. 'Leave the rest to us. I have about fifteen interested onlookers here now and they're about to be relegated to phone duty.'

  She did have interested onlookers. Horrified onlookers. They'd been arriving for the last few minutes and more were still coming. Sam was assisting Susan, lightly covering the burned areas in plastic cling wrap. It was methodical work, needing care but not complete attention, so he had time to take in his surroundings, the people around him.

  His first impression had been that he'd ended up in some sort of geriatric facility. Now, though, the people around them included a few younger ones. There were a couple of burly men who looked like fishermen. There were two or three younger women, one with a baby. All were standing well back, not intrusive, just appalled, waiting to see if there was any way. they could help.

  'Donna,' Susan called, and the woman with the baby stepped forward.

  'Yep.'

  'I can depend on you not to sound scary,' Susan told her, and Sam saw a silent message pass—a warning. 'Can you ring a Carly Hammond over at Seaspray? Tell Carly her husband's had a fight with the bridge in his boat. Say he's a bit knocked about but it looks as if he'll be OK. Make s
ure she hears that, Donna. Tell her the coastguard's bringing him over to the hospital in about thirty minutes.'

  She hesitated, then went on, 'When you ring, you'll get onto Faye at reception first. Tell Faye what's happening before you talk to Carly and ask her if she'll drive Carly to the hospital. Faye's a mother hen,' she explained to Pete. 'She'll make sure no one scares your wife.'

  'I'm onto it,' Donna said, already moving away and calling back over her shoulder as she went. 'And I'll pick up the boys from school for you, Suse. Nick'll take them swimming and I'll give them dinner. Oh, and here comes the coastguard. Looks like the paramedics are on board. Too bad you've already saved him, guys, the hotshots are here.'

  It was extraordinary, Sam thought.

  Once the paramedics were there he could sit back and watch.

  This was a tiny community. Everyone knew everyone. The chat was casual and friendly, everything seemed almost laid-back, but there was nothing laid-back in the way Pete was treated.

  The paramedics worked with clinical efficiency behind their friendly banter. They seemed to know Susan well, and respect her. As they should, he thought. The first aid she'd offered had been stunning.

  Why was she here? A soaked, seaweed-strewn woman in gym gear, amidst a host of elderly people on a tiny island at the ends of the earth...

  At some time this woman had been involved with Grant. He didn't know how much, and now he was here he was even more confused. This was not the sort of place Grant would visit. And Susan...she didn't look like the sort of woman Grant would be attracted to either.

  Mind, she was seen at a disadvantage right now. As he was. He was soaked, and now the urgency had gone out of the situation he was starting to shiver. Reaction?

  He barely had time to think the word, and Susan was there, beside him. He'd retreated to a driftwood log half-buried in the sand, content to stay seated at a distance now the cavalry had arrived. The paramedics were loading Pete onto a stretcher to carry him the short distance to the boat. The onlookers were starting to disperse. Which meant that Susan could turn her attention to him.

  Susan knelt in the sand before him and before he knew what she was about she'd taken his hands. Whatever shock she'd shown on first seeing him had been suppressed, and she was now all health professional.

  She was gorgeous, he thought, dazed. A battered, sodden sea maiden.

  'They're taking Pete across to the hospital,' she said, gently but firmly, hauling him back to the practical. 'I think you should go, too.'

  'There's no need.'

  'You're shivering. You dived under the fuel slick. Are you sure you weren't burned?'

  'No. I didn't swallow or breathe in fuel and I got him out before the flames reached us. His burns were from the blast.'

  'And your lungs?' She was still holding his hands, and it felt...strange. Weird. This was Grant's woman, he thought, or once she had been. What had happened between them? More and more he thought that this situation wasn't Grant's style. But Susan herself.. .No, she wasn't the sophisticated creature Grant had usually had by his side, but he could surely see why Grant had been attracted to her.

  This was dumb. He needed to focus on common-sense stuff rather than how gorgeous his brother's ex-girlfriend was.

  'My lungs are fine,' he managed.

  'Let me listen to your breathing.'

  'I'm OK.'

  'Let me listen,' she said, more forcibly this time. 'Or I'll tell the coastguard guys to hold you down while I do. Doctors,' she said disparagingly, but she softened her words with a smile. 'They make the worst patients. You went under the oil slick and you surfaced in the middle of it. If there's muck in your lungs you know very well it has to be cleared or you'll end up with massive infection. The boat's going in two minutes so I don't have much time to decide whether to put you in it forcibly. So let me listen.'

  'Fine,' he said weakly, and her smile deepened and she squeezed his hand.

  'Good boy.'

  'Hey, I'm not—'

  'Shut up and let me listen,' she told him, and he did, which left him time to think about her, about how she'd dived into the water with no more hesitation than he'd had, and how she'd saved the guy's life, for if she hadn't appeared and helped drag him to shore the CPR would have been too late.

  Grant might just have had solid reasons for getting involved with her, he thought. But more and more he thought she wasn't Grant's style. She was practical and sensible and...lovely.

  She had a stethoscope to her ears. She hauled up his sodden shirt and listened.

  'Cough,' she said, and he did.

  'And again?'

  Another cough. He was feeling more and more surreal. One minute he'd been driving along minding his own business, wondering who this Susan was, the next he'd almost died, he'd found Grant's Susan and now she had him half-undressed.

  She was listening to his heartbeat. Listening to his lungs.

  'I'm fine,' he told her. 'You jumped into the water, too. Did someone listen to your chest?'

  'I didn't go anywhere near the fuel spill.' She sat back on her heels, a furrow of uncertainty etched between her eyes. 'Look, your car's destroyed. The bridge will be impassable. You'd better go with the coastguard.'

  'I came to see you,' he said gently, and she flinched.

  'Yes,' she whispered. 'I figured that. But there's not a lot to say. And I don't want you trapped here.'

  'Grant died three months ago.'

  She hadn't known. He could see it in the way she flinched, stilled, schooling her expression to be passive.

  'Your.. .your brother?'

  'Grant was my twin, yes. How long since you've seen him?'

  'Eight years,' she said, taking a deep breath and looking back to the stretcher, to Pete, to things that were obviously her concern. As opposed to him. A reminder of an affair almost forgotten?

  She'd remembered him. Or she'd remembered Grant. The shock when she'd seen his face had been real and deep.

  'Look, go,' she said, sounding urgent. 'There's nothing for you here. I'm sorry about Grant but I'm really busy. If you want to talk to me then I'll get one of the fishermen to take me across for a couple of hours tomorrow. Leave me your number and I'll call you.'

  He could do that. He could leave now, stay overnight at Sandridge, dry out the cheque that was currently soaking in his wallet in his trouser pocket and give it to her over coffee.

  End of story.

  That was what she wanted.

  She rose, brushing sand from the seat of her leggings. 'I'm sorry, I have to move on.' The paramedics had Pete ready to move, and were clearly waiting for her to make a decision. 'This man will be coming with you,' she said.

  'There are decent medical facilities in Sandridge?' he asked, and Susan obviously thought he was seeing sense. Her face cleared. 'There are,' she said. 'We have an orthopaedic surgeon and there's a plastic surgeon on call from the next town.'

  'So Pete will be well looked after?' he asked, and the paramedic at the head of the stretcher nodded.

  'Yes,' he said curtly. 'But we need to go.'

  'Don't let me stop you,' Sam said, and he gazed around at the small group of onlookers still left. 'The information office at Sandridge told me that there's a bed-and-breakfast establishment here. I have a tentative booking at Mrs Murphy's.'

  'Ooh, that's me,' Doris said, and the old lady beamed her delight. She'd obviously been horrified by what had happened but was now aching to be included. 'I'll take you home right now,' she said. 'And don't you worry about petrol in his lungs,' she said to Susan. 'The moment he starts coughing I'll ring you straight away.'

  'He should be under observation,' Susan said, but she was fighting a losing battle. The paramedics were already moving Pete toward the boat. The morphine Sam had administered was taking effect—Pete looked up at them sleepily and gave a shaky wave of farewell.

  'Thanks,' he croaked, and Susan smiled and slipped back to his side.

  'You take care,' she said. 'We'll get the local fishe
rmen here to look after what's left of your boat. Don't you worry about a thing—just get better.'

  He hadn't spared a thought for the boat, Sam thought, startled. What the hell was Susan about saying she'd take care of it?

  But then.. .It had been an expensive cruiser, set up for serious deep-sea fishing. It'd be worth a fortune and it'd probably be this guy's pride and joy.

  He might not be voicing concern about it but it'd surface over the next few hours, when Pete was in a situation where no one could reassure him.

  Susan had pre-empted that. As a medic she was seriously good.

  Even though she'd appreciated his help, in a medical sense she probably could have coped without him.

  'I wouldn't have got him out of the water in time,' she said as they watched the paramedics carry Pete to the coastguard boat tied up at the jetty.

  He was startled. Were his thoughts that obvious?

  'It's not too late to change your mind,' she said obliquely. 'The forecast is for the wind to get up. You might be stuck here for a couple of days.'

  'That's OK,' he said. 'It's going to be a red-tape nightmare replacing my hire car, and I need to talk to you anyway.'

  'I don't think you do,' she said, hugging herself, and he thought suddenly she was as cold as he was. The wind off the water was brisk. They both needed to get dry and warm.

  'It can wait until tomorrow,' he said.

  'It can wait for eternity as far as I'm concerned,' she said bluntly. 'I'm really sorry to hear that your brother is dead, but Grant decided not to talk to me almost eight years ago. I'm not interested in resuming the conversation with his twin now.'

  There was no more conversation forthcoming with Susan. She disappeared to get dry and Doris took Sam home.

  Doris's bed-and-breakfast establishment was the old lighthouse keeper's residence on the far side of the island, set high on a bluff looking out to sea. From outside it looked stark and weather-beaten, an ancient stone cottage with walls that looked more like a fortress than a residence.

  It looked great from the outside, but then he walked inside and discovered it was just about the last word in kitsch. Doris had decided on a marine theme and had gone overboard. Her lights were sea lanterns. There were craypots dangling from the ceilings and fishing nets strung between. She had ships' wheels on every wall, with barometers and tidal clocks and navigation maps crowding for space.