The Flyer

by Marjorie Jones

  She was unable to avoid seeing his body, however, so she did her level best to simply ignore the toned muscles beneath sun-kissed flesh. Instead, she concentrated on pulling the silk through, knotting it, then repeating the movements over and over again. If she tried hard enough, perhaps she could imagine herself back in medical school, practicing on a cadaver, instead of here, practicing on a man who was anything but dead.

  “When did you arrive, by the by?” Paul asked, barely wincing while she worked, even though the needle she plied must have caused him a great amount of agony.

  “This morning.” Pull. Knot. Twist. Pull.

  “You’re an American, aren’t you?” he continued, as if he were sitting in her parlor, sipping tea instead of bleeding on her examination table. The gentle brush of his fingers along the ends of her bobbed hair startled her, and she tossed her hair to discourage his attention.

  “I am.” Pull. Knot. Twist. Pull.

  His hand thankfully dropped to the table again. “What brings you to the Pilbara? Don’t they have hospitals in America?”

  2

  Paul stifled any number of grunts and groans, and the occasional scream of bloody agony.

  He hadn’t actually felt Bessie’s giant teeth slice through his shoulder. He hadn’t known how severely he’d been injured until Tim had pointed it out to him on the bank. Already soaked from his little swim, he hadn’t noticed the blood pouring over his chest, either. But within a few short minutes, he’d grown weak, and if it hadn’t been for his mates, he would have bled to death. No doubt about that.

  As it was, they’d managed to control the bleeding with a makeshift bandage and had dragged him to Doc Mallory’s. He would have expected nothing less, and would have done the same for them, of course.

  But he felt the wound now. Every inch of it. He half-expected his arm to fall off.

  What he hadn’t expected was to find the beautiful woman in residence at Doc’s place. Doctor or not, every time she touched his shoulder, poking and prodding around his little souvenir, he felt a twinge of something powerful in his gut that had nothing to do with the pain ripping the upper half of his body to shreds.

  “We’re almost finished,” she mentioned, apparently ignoring his question while pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. She tilted her head to one side as she examined her work.

  Curious, Paul looked at the gash as best he could given the fact that he lay on his back with no pillow. The stitches were perfect, neatly arranged in equal intervals from the top of his shoulder to just above his right nipple. He frowned. “How many?”

  Helen’s head snapped upward. “Excuse me?”

  “How many stitches?”

  “Fifty-seven,” she replied, standing then crossing to the sink. She placed her instruments in a steel bowl and the other supplies in the basin, then turned on the faucet. The pipes groaned in protest before a solid stream of clear water poured out of the spigot.

  He’d have to work on that. He’d only installed the sink a month ago. It shouldn’t be having problems yet.

  “That’s some kind of a record, isn’t it?” Tim whistled.

  Paul pushed the noisy pipes out of his mind and focused his attention on Dr. Stanwood’s ramrod-straight back. Disappointed that she’d covered her nightdress, he focused on the fact her jacket hugged the curve of her hips rather nicely. The flowing gown covered her to her ankles, but his imagination conjured any number of unsuitable images. Including the curves beneath the folds and his lips on the back of her exposed neck. “No, mate. Dale still wins that one. It took over a hundred to close him up at Beersheba.” Paul sat upright and hid a wince.

  “You’ll need to spend the night here.” Dr. Stanwood—Helen—turned around and dried her hands on a small white towel. “In your condition, I don’t trust you not to reopen the wound.”

  “I haven’t had that much to drink.”

  “I disagree. If you’ll give me a moment, I’ll prepare the sleeping room for you.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble on my account. If I had a quid for every night I’ve spent sleeping off a shout of piss in Doc’s parlor, I’d be a wealthy man, wouldn’t I? No, I’ll find my way just fine.” He winked, then chuckled when her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink. Like a wild bloom in the desert.

  “A shout of piss? That’s a lovely image.”

  “Sorry. I think you Yanks would call it a round of drinks, if memory serves.”

  She smiled. Paul’s stomach clenched. “You’ve met many Americans, have you?”

  “A few, back during the war. And there’s a woman who lives just up the road apiece. She’s from your part of the world.”

  Helen’s eyes widened hopefully for barely a second. “I’ll make up the bed for you, just the same. It’s my job, you see.” She quickly scrubbed the items she’d placed in the sink and proceeded to wash the basin, as well. When she finished, she disappeared.

  “She’s a right sassy one, isn’t she?” Tim asked, propping himself on the edge of the examination table. “Wouldn’t mind sharing a few minutes of her time. Not at all.”

  “Annie would skin you alive, then feed you to a pack of dingos, mate.”

  Tim sighed. “I reckon she would at that. Pity,” he chuckled.

  Paul had no such obligations, however, and Tim was right. The new doc was something.

  The object of his friend’s considerable attention came back into the examination room, nodded to Tim, and smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “Always,” Tim answered, approaching the table.

  “What about you, Mr. Campbell? Are you ready?”

  For any number of things, love. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Tim, I was just thinking.”

  “Thinking about what?”

  Paul admired the soft rise and fall of Helen’s breasts, as though she were out of breath, or perhaps a bit affected. He grinned. “Don’t you reckon I should invite Helen to come dancing with me?”

  Tim shook his head, chuckling quietly. With apparent effort, he sobered and nodded. “Rack off, mate. I saw her first, didn’t I?”

  “Only because I was half-dead. She’s my doctor, you bastard.”

  “Go on, then. She’s just as likely to go dancing with me as she is your sorry, damaged arse.”

  “That’s enough, boys. I’m not going dancing with anyone. It’s rather late for any sort of dancing, and you have had quite enough celebrating, Mr. Campbell. I suggest you allow us to help you find your bed. If your shoulder pains you in the morning, I’ll supply you with laudanum, or you can return to your haunt and drink another barrel of beer.”

  “I’m simply being neighborly,” Paul replied, feigning offense. In truth, he liked the slight rise of color in her cheeks as she scolded him, like a patient teacher sending her favorite, unruly student to sit in the corner. Something told him she wasn’t really offended, either.

  Skittish, yes. But never offended.

  He narrowed his eyes, bringing her features into clearer focus. “You’re new in town, right? And I’m just the man to show you around. Ask anyone. Except my mate, Tim here. He lies.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m sure all of that’s true. Unfortunately, I can’t take the word of someone in your condition. And I’m not speaking of your injury.” She glared at him. But not with disapproval. No, she tried to wear a mask of indifference, but somewhere behind the censure lived a cocky grin.

  Slowly, careful of his newly repaired shoulder and chest, he slid off the table.

  “Has anyone told you you’re right pretty when you pretend you’re angry?”

  Whatever hint of a smile she’d been trying to hide vanished. The mock disdain went with it, replaced by something he couldn’t identify. Was it fear?

  “You need to get to bed, Mr. Campbell.”

  Sleeping was the last thing on his mind.

  It might have been the booze. Or it might have been the amount of blood he’d left on the road between the billabong and Doc’s front door, but the room spun a lazy circle. He leaned
forward, and Helen immediately caught his good shoulder in one hand, and his waist with the other. She wore a subtle perfume, but it didn’t cover the scent of woman that permeated the small room. Sunlight, flowers, springtime in the desert. Would she taste as good as she smelled?

  When his lips came into contact with hers, his mind spun even more wildly. Aye, she tasted like a heady wind over the sea.

  His vision blurred, and the vertigo increased. Quickly, he broke the kiss and shook his head. “You’ll be … you’ll be seeing me again, Miss Helen. Whether ya like it or …”

  The floor leapt like a lizard on a spider and slapped him square in the jaw.

  Paul woke with a start. From outside the parlor windows, the unmistakable sound of a mob throbbed through the glass, and his brain. He couldn’t be certain which hurt worse, his head or his shoulder. Glancing at the large bandage covering most of his chest, he frowned. When the strain became too great for his alcohol-induced headache, he dropped back to the lumpy pillow set at an awkward angle on the sofa. It wasn’t like him to allow himself to imbibe quite so much Swan’s. At this point, he deserved what he’d got.

  “I see you’re finally awake.” The voice was crisp and decidedly feminine. A spark of awareness wound from his brain to his groin. “Since it proved impossible to keep you in bed last night, I would suggest you rise and address your adoring public.”

  Female. Bed. He strained his memory, searching for a naked body somewhere in the dark void of the night before. Crikey, he couldn’t find anything to indicate he’d bedded a strange woman.

  The owner of the voice stepped into view. Directly above his head. Dark eyes, framed with delightfully dark curls that hugged alabaster, sculpted cheekbones, studied him. Full, pink lips were pursed in a straight line. “Can you get up? Or are you still drunk?” One arched eyebrow rose in a mocking accusation.

  “I can get up just fine.” He regretted the words immediately. He’d have to prove them now, wouldn’t he?

  Luckily, she turned away. Probably because she didn’t believe him.

  Something about her was vaguely familiar. He hated not being able to place her, exactly, but rather enjoyed the view of her backside while she paced away from the sofa to pull the draperies back. Blinding sunlight added to his already miserable state. He squinted against it.

  She wore a black dress that was short enough to reveal shapely calves. The dark seam of her stockings drew his gaze to her ankles, and a pair of heeled shoes that buckled in the front. He’d traveled enough in the past few years to recognize the style. He could see her in a London club, dancing and laughing with the other flappers.

  Lots of women had come to Port Hedland in the recent months—looking for husbands—and soon found the slow, antiquated pace of an outlying mining community not to their liking. Most of them left. Others stayed, but adapted immediately to their new lifestyle.

  Hard work and a simple, God-fearing way of life.

  That’s what they had to look forward to.

  He’d never thought about it much, but hell, he’d hate to see those amazing legs hidden behind too much wool.

  Too bad he couldn’t remember the feel of his hands on her…

  Still, his fingers tingled. Her hair was as soft as a newborn lamb. He knew it, somehow.

  Beneath the short, black dress, hanging in pleats around her knees below a wide belt that hugged her hips, her calves were muscled and just the right size, too. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t remember them wrapped around him last night.

  “They’ve been outside for more than an hour, clamoring for your attention. You should say a few words about heroism. Or foolish whimsy, perhaps?”

  Paul scanned Doc’s parlor, adding his location to the mystery of his throbbing injury. Obviously, he’d been hurt last night. The last thing he remembered clearly was sliding onto a high stool at the bar in Grogg’s Pub and buying the first shout of the evening. It had been followed by several more than several shouts from his mates.

  He continued to strain his memory. Something had happened … Bessie.

  He’d nailed it. Last night, he’d killed the croc and nearly died doing it. That’s why he’d come to Doc’s place.

  Then it hit him. Like a bullet right between the bloody eyes. The woman was a doctor. She’d treated him. And then …

  He’d made a pass.

  Blasted.

  He forced himself to stand and did his best to ignore the increased pounding in the back of his head. Tried to steady himself. He hadn’t been that drunk in years, not since before the Great War when his youth had been responsible for … well, for his irresponsibility.

  Crikey, he’d been stupid to slide into the billabong last night. He hid a sigh by wiping one hand over his mouth and scratching the full day’s growth of beard on his chin.

  Helen Stanwood, if he remembered her name correctly, faced him. The accusing expression on her face hadn’t changed. The eyebrow still cocked at him like a loaded Enfield. “You’re hardly presentable. But I’m afraid you’ll need to have your friends disperse just the same. This is a medical clinic, after all. Not a circus.”

  “Too right,” he answered, somehow mesmerized by the chastising glare she sent him. Even censure couldn’t hide the fact she was more than beautiful. More than sensual.

  He pushed away the image. She had no idea who he was, and with any luck, she’d forget the advance he’d made the night before.

  When he reached the door, he pulled it open gently, already fearing the increase in the noise level would send him straight to his knees.

  He braced himself, holding to the door with a tight grip.

  The moderately sized crowd of local citizens cheered when they saw him. Shrilling, loud, and with an enthusiasm that turned his already-sour stomach.

  Tim O’Leary hung off to one side. He approached Paul, his hat tilted back slightly, and whistled. “They wouldn’t leave, mate. They all heard about what you did last night.”

  Paul frowned while he glared at Tim. “I wonder how that happened.” He raised his free hand, signaling the crowd to settle down. When the roar faded to a rippling murmur, he smiled. “Now, folks, I didn’t do anything to warrant such attention, did I? I appreciate your sentiments, but I’m as pleased as the rest of you that the De Grey’s shores will be a might safer for the next little bit. Go on home, and I’ll be happy to regale you with the adventure some other time.”

  Several groans of disappointment grew from the crowd. He waved them away and slowly, the group thinned.

  A shock of white, neatly combed hair bobbed through the mass of people. Doc reached the steps and paused. “You’re cracked, you know that?”

  Paul smiled. “Aye. So you’ve told me before.”

  “He’s been cracked since he was born, Doc,” Tim added, before tipping his hat and escaping in the direction of Grogg’s Pub. To embellish last night’s activities while the men bought him countless drinks, no doubt.

  Doc climbed the remaining steps and pulled Paul’s bloodstained shirtfront to the side. “Helen did a fine job putting you back together, I’d wager. I’d like to have a look at the stitches, mind you, just to be sure.”

  He proceeded into the office while Paul followed. “Where did you find an American doc in the bush?”

  “Her father is an old friend of mine. She wanted to practice somewhere adventurous, apparently, so he wrote to me and here she is.”

  “I assume you’re talking about me?” Helen strode into the room, the narrow line of her skirt swaying with the movement of her wide, lush hips.

  “Correct as always, dear Helen,” replied Doc, while he washed his hands in the same basin the woman had used the night before. “Paul, climb up on that table so I can take a look at her work, will you?”

  Paul complied, the ache in his head giving way to an equally painful ache in his groin.

  Helen tried to concentrate on anything other than Paul’s half-naked form sitting easily on the table. Something about the way he held himself
made her think he’d be at ease anywhere, doing anything. She’d watched him sleeping in the parlor for longer than she should have, as well. She’d told herself it had been to gauge his breathing. To make certain he was all right. He was her patient, after all. But she knew differently. In that part of her that she’d been unable to control in her old life, she found something erotically fascinating about him.

  And now he leveled an appreciative stare in her direction. She felt his eyes move over her from the tips of her bobbed hair to the soles of her shoes. Everywhere his eyes touched, she burned.

  She closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she focused all of her attention on Dr. Mallory—the man who had been gracious enough to save her from herself when she’d so desperately needed it. That’s what she should be concentrating on. Making Dr. Mallory proud of her. Being the best doctor she could possibly be. Bringing medicine to those who needed it.

  The last thing she needed was to concern herself with the gentle slope of a man’s pectoral muscles, or the way the light danced in his hair through the window. She’d been right. His hair was dark blond, with tiny golden highlights that winked at her.

  Enough!

  “This looks splendid, Helen. You’ve done a magnificent job. Nice, clean stitches, evenly spaced. Your knots are very well done, indeed. I would have suggested a running suture given the length of the wound, and a few of the stitches appear a mite rushed, but all in all, I say a job well done. You’ll improve with practice, I’m sure.”

  “Th-thank you, Dr. Mallory.”

  “Your father said you were an excellent doctor, and he’d know, wouldn’t he?”

  “He did?”