Heart's Command

by Meredith Webber

  He smiled back and again Kirsten felt an uneasy sense of invasion at this man’s presence in her room.

  ‘Well, are you going to share it?’ he prodded, propping himself on a corner of the desk.

  ‘I’m going to try some different inhalation therapy on Mr Graham tomorrow,’ she announced. ‘Up to now he hasn’t really been a patient although from time to time he’s been admitted to hospital for treatment for an infection or occasionally when his carbon dioxide retention levels have risen and caused other problems. Now that he’s a real patient, I’m going to give this system a go. See if it leads to an improvement in his general health.’

  ‘Poor man! All he wanted to do was help out in the floods and now you have him at your mercy!’

  Harry’s brown eyes gleamed down into hers and she knew he was teasing her, but she didn’t want Harry Graham teasing her any more than she wanted his image imprinted in her room.

  And as for gleaming brown eyes…

  She closed her own against their appeal and an image of faded brown eyes was superimposed upon them.

  ‘Why are you so interested in Mr Graham?’ she asked. ‘Because you share a surname? Are you related? Do you think you might be?’

  The gleam faded and his eyelids, fringed by thick black lashes, dropped to hide his thoughts.

  ‘I’m interested in Chipper, too, and Moira and her motor neurone disease.’

  ‘But what about Captain Woulfe?’ Kirsten persisted. ‘I doubt you’ve so much as visited him.’

  The eyelashes fluttered upwards again and a spark flashed in the darkness.

  ‘Shows how much you know. I’d been sitting with him for half an hour before we met outside. Then your young nurse—Mary, is she? She came back in her civvies with a pack of cards and some board games, and I felt my presence was no longer required.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Kirsten said, thinking more of Mary and the young captain than of Harry’s protestations.

  And he’d shifted the conversation from Mr Graham, and probably thought she’d missed the switch. She studied him for a moment, wondering if she’d let him get away with it, thinking, on another level, what strong facial bones he had.

  A sculpted look that projected strength.

  And reliability.

  And a masculine appeal!

  A shiver shafted through her. Masculine appeal indeed. The man would be gone in a month, possibly less if the water went down more quickly than was predicted.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked, the question a logical extension of her thoughts, although they were more concerned with where he’d go to. Perhaps not the same thing.

  ‘Melbourne originally, though I’m based at Holdsworthy in New South Wales now.’

  He shifted off her desk and took a turn around the room, but something in the way he looked suggested he was distracted—not seeing it at all.

  ‘And is the army your life? Are you there until they pin a long-service medal on you and retire you honourably from the service?’

  He swung back to face her, and frowned as if the question had interrupted some other train of thought.

  ‘I haven’t considered getting out,’ he said, ‘although I guess it’s always an option—should something else come along.’

  ‘Something else like what?’ she asked, and refused to consider why she was in the least bit interested in Harry Graham’s future.

  He smiled and shrugged the broad shoulders she’d admired more than once today.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, but he spoke slowly, as if he wasn’t certain he was telling the truth.

  Harry watched the doctor lift her cup and drain the last of her coffee. He sensed she was about to leave the room—or ask him to go—but more than anything he wanted to talk to her, to sound her out about the dilemma now facing him.

  But how? He could hardly blurt out a condensed version of his life story—particularly the details of an irrepressible, energetic, city-loving mother—to a woman he’d only just met.

  ‘I’m going back to sit with Mr Graham,’ she said, proving his instinct right.

  ‘Why you?’ he demanded, upset that she should have to do this when she’d already had a long, traumatic day.

  She smiled, and he saw the dancing lights in the mesmeric blue eyes and almost forgot his question.

  ‘Because I want to,’ she told him. ‘While he’s on the respirator he needs suctioning, and his lips and mouth require moistening. His pulse and blood pressure have to be checked, the tube watched to ensure it doesn’t slip or close on itself. These are things night staff do automatically in a normal hospital situation, but with limited night staff I’d just as soon leave Joan free for the other patients—Cathy’s baby will wake for feeds, your soldier will need turning—while I stay with Mr Graham.’

  It seemed reasonable but didn’t make him feel any better about her sitting up all night.

  ‘Couldn’t you sedate him? I thought that’s what hospitals did with their patients at night?’

  ‘Only if they want to attract law suits,’ she said, the smile sparkling in her eyes again. ‘And with Mr Graham, sedation is the worst possible suggestion. Even mild sedation can depress the respiratory system—definitely contra-indicated in his condition.’

  Definitely contra-indicated.

  The phrase echoed in Harry’s head, only his mind was using it to warn him against involvement in this town—this hospital—with either the patients or the staff.

  Kirsten pushed back her chair and stood up, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. As she leant over to turn out the desk lamp he saw the dark shadows beneath her eyes and again considered what she’d been through today.

  ‘I could sit with your patient if you showed me what to do,’ he offered.

  ‘You’d be no use at all to your troops tomorrow if you did. You’ve got a bigger job ahead of you than I have,’ she reminded him, and the gentle smile that accompanied the words made his head swim.

  And suddenly he wanted to answer the question she’d asked earlier—about his future in the army.

  The army’s been my family, he wanted to explain. Provided a stability I’d never known. Been there for me when I had no one else.

  But he knew it would sound weak, even pathetic, and, until today, he hadn’t known it mattered. Which was something else he had to think through before he discussed it with anyone.

  Kirsten waited for Harry to take the hint and leave her room, but he’d gone back to pacing again and she wondered what was disturbing him so much that he couldn’t stand still.

  ‘I’m off now,’ she said, hoping this time he’d catch on. But he nodded absent-mindedly and continued pacing.

  What harm could he do? she asked herself, opening the door and stepping out into the corridor.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, the politeness that shone through all his dealings still very much to the fore.

  ‘And goodnight to you, Harry Graham,’ she said, then she grinned at him. ‘But that’s not your room. It’s mine. Haven’t you got a tent to go to? A nice camp stretcher of your own?’

  He looked so startled she had to chuckle, mirth gurgling through her at the comical expression on his face.

  ‘I was distracted,’ he said gruffly, pushing past her and striding down the passage. ‘And I’m not sleeping in a tent,’ he added, pausing and turning back to face her. ‘You offered us the first floor and the east wing, in case you don’t remember. Not that there’s much difference between a nun’s cell and an army tent.’

  He spun around again and continued on his way.

  Not much difference, Kirsten thought as she walked back to Mr Graham’s room. Was he talking about the loneliness of command?

  Or was he telling her something else?

  Something that harked back to his question about a significant other in her life—to her question about whether he had children?

  Was he hinting at celibacy?

  A man who looked like Harry Graham?

  Her head scoff
ed at the idea, but her heart didn’t mind it.

  Not a bit of temporary celibacy.

  Recent temporary celibacy.

  She grinned at her stupid thoughts and went quietly in to where her patient lay sleeping, though doubtless uncomfortably.

  ‘I’ll sit with him,’ she whispered to Joan, lifting the newly written-up chart from the foot of the bed and carrying it to the corner where a dim light burned above an easy chair.

  ‘I’ll bring you in a hot drink in a couple of hours,’ Joan promised, and she tiptoed from the room.

  Satisfied with Joan’s obs, Kirsten set the chart back in place, then sat down. While she was observing him and listening to his breathing sounds, she could allow a longer interval between suctioning which would give her patient more uninterrupted sleep.

  And she’d give some thought to Harry’s contention that the army sought to know the enemy and made up its battle plans accordingly. What Murrawarra needed was a long-term strategy to fight the hospital closure, not the piecemeal skirmishes they’d conducted so far.

  Perhaps if he was going to be around for a month, he’d help them plan…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BY SIX next morning Mr Graham was feeling better, the flood waters had risen another two feet and the rain had returned as a slow and monotonous drizzle.

  Kirsten visited all her patients, then handed over to Ken while she caught up on some sleep. She set the alarm as she wanted to start Mr Graham on the IPPB unit at eight. That way she could fit in four sessions in the day. As she drifted off to sleep she realised she’d have to read the article again. She had no idea how long it would be before she could expect to see any improvement.

  Waking at two-thirty had not been part of the plan, and she only knew it was two-thirty because, after failing to find her clock when she turned sleepily towards where it should have been, she checked her watch.

  She sprang out of bed, dragged on the first clothes she could find and careered out into the passage, seeking Ken and considering murder.

  ‘Calm down!’ he told her, actually reaching out to hold her steady while she all but danced in frustration. ‘I put Mr Graham on the machine at eight and again at twelve. You’d told me that was the plan when I came on duty.’

  ‘You took my clock!’ she spluttered, and he had the temerity to smile at her.

  ‘Actually, I didn’t. The army took it!’ he told her. ‘It was the major’s idea to let you sleep. He said you were probably too stubborn to realise you’d need a decent sleep to get over the stress you’d been through yesterday.’

  ‘He took my clock? He went into my room and stole my clock?’

  Ken grinned again.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t game enough to do it so he had to,’ he said.

  Kirsten wrenched herself away from him and stormed off down the passage.

  ‘Just wait until I find him. The cheek of him! If he thinks he can run my hospital he’s got another think coming. I’ll—’

  Ken caught her from behind and stopped her headlong rush.

  ‘I wouldn’t go rushing out there like that,’ he said mildly. ‘Most of the men will be down at the levee bank but there’ll be some around the camp.’

  Kirsten looked down at herself.

  She’d pulled on the filthy jeans she’d worn the previous day, and on top a khaki shirt so worn she now used it as a duster. What it had been doing on the floor near her jeans she had no idea.

  And to make matters worse, it was buttoned all wrong so the material was bunched up, giving views of skin and the edge of one breast to anyone who happened to glance her way.

  Her cheeks heated with mortification and she slunk back to her room, found clean clothes, then headed for the bathroom she’d set aside for staff, up the stairs on the first floor.

  Fate, not working with her at the moment, decreed that Harry Graham should be descending the stairs as she ascended. She clutched her towel and bundle of clean clothes closer to her chest to hide the misbuttoned shirt and glimpses of skin, and frowned ferociously at him.

  ‘I want a word with you later,’ she growled.

  He seemed unfazed by her wrath—even had the hide to smile.

  ‘About Peter?’ he said blithely. ‘I’ve already set him up with a job. And I dug out some recruiting material that was in my briefcase from a previous trip. Something for him to read and consider.’

  As well as yelling at him for stealing her clock, she should have said thank you and then explained that Peter’s fussy mother would never let him join up, but his cheery attitude left her speechless and by the time she’d sorted out the priorities in her reply he was gone.

  Neither did he reappear all day, or materialise in the dimly lit passageway that night.

  It was the return of the rain that was making her feel depressed, Kirsten told herself as she sat at her desk a day later—the day before the floods were due to peak—writing up her notes and hardly daring to believe that things could be going as well as they were. Mr Graham was definitely a lot better, Cathy and the baby, now blessed with the name of Robert, junior, were blooming, Chipper was his normal self, Mr Curtis almost with it and even Moira was having a good day.

  ‘It’s the calm before the storm,’ she told Peggy, who appeared with a tray containing a pot of tea and sandwiches and announced that Bella had sent lunch to save her going to the kitchen.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Peggy said. ‘It’s your organisation that’s got it all running so well, and now the army’s here you don’t have to be worrying so much about the civilians down there in town. That must make it easier for you.’

  Kirsten thanked her for the lunch tray but refused to agree with her contention that the army had somehow miraculously improved the condition of her patients.

  Although she had to admit it had helped Peter Phelps. In a cautious foray into his room earlier, she’d found him sitting up in bed, not counting paper-clips but drawing in the buildings in the main street on a contour map of Murrawarra.

  ‘I’ve got to do this, then do the outlying area, colouring in the properties where people have stayed on, so the major knows who’s where,’ he’d told Kirsten proudly. ‘I have to phone the farms and make sure someone is there, and later, when the major’s worked out an evacuation plan, I have to let them know about it.’

  It had seemed logical and reasonable to Kirsten, but she assumed that the major, who was fast achieving god-like status among the convent’s inmates, would have had someone on his staff equally able to do the job. She had to give him full marks for co-operation as far as Peter was concerned.

  Relieved of worries, she phoned Vereton Hospital for a report on Jim Thompson, only to find he’d been transferred on to the city for surgery on his leg. After some general chat about other Murrawarra patients at present in the town, she was about to hang up when the medical officer in charge put her on hold.

  ‘The area manager wanted a word,’ he explained, coming back on the line a few seconds later. ‘I just had to check he was available. I’m switching you through now.’

  Kirsten’s heart sank and she could have sworn the day grew cloudier, the rain heavier. Hal Burton, the area manager, was like a dark shadow in her life.

  ‘Hi, Hal. How’s everything with you?’ she asked brightly, while her mind was wondering just how soon she’d get an opportunity to pick Harry Graham’s brain about strategic planning.

  Hal’s voice quacked on at her, exchanging pleasantries at first, then going for the jugular.

  ‘The insurance claim you put in was most irregular,’ he said with infuriating pomposity.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Kirsten refused to concede a point in her arguments with the man. ‘The building is the property of the hospital board, so they were entitled to claim on their insurance.’

  ‘The hospital has come under the state government umbrella for many years now,’ Hal reminded her.

  ‘Yes, the hospital has,’ Kirsten granted, ‘but we’re talking about the building here.’

  ‘T
he building is the hospital. Without it you don’t have a hospital and, in fact, you haven’t a building now—have you? Not a proper hospital building.’

  She had to clench her jaw to keep her voice even, and the fingers holding the receiver were shaking with the effort to control her temper.

  ‘We have a perfect building—far better than the old one—and, as I’ve pointed out to you before, Hal, the word “hospital” to my mind covers the range of services provided, not a physical place.’

  There was a soft tap on the door and it opened a few inches, enough for Harry Graham to poke his head through the gap.

  ‘Oh, you’re busy. I’ll come back,’ he said softly, but Kirsten realised this was too good an opportunity to miss and beckoned him urgently inside.

  Her inattention meant she missed what Hal was saying, but she knew she wouldn’t have liked it, or agreed with it, so she didn’t ask him to repeat it.

  It was when he added ‘So don’t expect the usual transfer of funds at the beginning of the quarter’ that she again sat up and took notice.

  ‘I’ve staff to pay,’ she protested. ‘And patients to treat. You can’t do that!’

  ‘Oh, can’t I?’ he said, and she could almost see the smirk over the phone.

  She slammed the phone back into its cradle and wiped her hands on her jeans.

  ‘Slimy bastard!’ she muttered, glaring at the phone as if it might somehow transmit her rage to the area manager’s office.

  ‘Trouble?’ Harry said, settling his hip on her desk and looking as if he’d come to stay.

  ‘Don’t you ever have work to do?’ she grumbled at him. ‘Or is the army such a well-oiled machine it doesn’t need its leaders?’

  ‘Hey, you asked me in!’ he protested, looking affronted, although she was sure she could see laughter in his lovely eyes.

  She could definitely feel her now familiar internal reaction to his presence.

  ‘You were there already,’ she reminded him, then remembered exactly why she’d asked him in. ‘Have you got a minute?’

  He burst into laughter, the deep, rich sound rumbling up through his chest.

  ‘First you have a go at me for not doing enough work, and now you want to take me from my duties—no doubt to help you in some patient-support scheme. I’ve already organised young Phelps.’