Worried that a vertical lift might injure him further, she radioed up to let Dave know she was sending him up, attaching four straps to the winch wire, and signalling to lift.
As ever, it seemed to take an age for the winch wire to descend again for her, but when it did, a crewman handed it to her and she slid the little seat between her legs and clipped on, signalling again to lift.
By the time she unclipped back in the helicopter, Mark had the stretcher secure and a cannula inserted in the man’s hand, ready for fluid resuscitation, and an oxygen mask on his face.
‘Braxton or straight to Retford?’ Marty asked.
‘Retford,’ Emma told him, aware that the Braxton Hospital didn’t have the surgical teams the man would need.
Working carefully, she and Mark removed the man’s boots, cutting the laces to ease them off his feet before cutting away his socks and the tattered clothing on his legs. They irrigated the wounds, squirting most of the loose debris away, but had to resort to tweezers for the deeper pieces.
‘It’s a mercy he’s unconscious,’ Mark said as they wrapped clean dressings around the injured limbs. The tibia was broken on both legs and from the position of the break, Emma suspected the fibula would also have suffered. But the breaks were above the ankles, which would make surgery and recovery simpler.
His thighs were less damaged.
‘Probably because his right hip bone and pelvis bore the brunt of the pressure,’ Mark said, but for all the IV fluids they were pumping into him, his blood pressure remained worryingly low.
Had a major blood vessel been impacted when his chest had been caught by the great weight? But wouldn’t he have already bled out if that was the case? The question tormented Emma.
Should they put down in Braxton first so a surgeon could open him up to look for a rupture?
‘ETA Retford thirty minutes.’
Marty’s message decided her. Retford was definitely the best option.
She radioed her findings to Retford Hospital, adding her suspicion about internal bleeding, so was pleased to see a crash team waiting as they touched down.
The man was rushed straight into Theatre, and she sat in the doorway of the helicopter to complete her paperwork. One copy had accompanied the man, but this second sheet was required for the Search and rescue service records.
‘You want to come and see George?’ Marty asked, dropping down to sit beside her.
Did she?
Her boys had been premmie, but only by six weeks, but she’d still spent enough time in a PICU to know she didn’t really like the places. There was always a positive vibe, and few premmie babies were ever lost, but the sight of the wee mites in their cribs brought back memories of the baby she had lost—the baby who had been too small to save.
‘No, thanks,’ she said, but probably so long after he’d asked the question that he’d guess what she’d been thinking.
‘No worries, but I’m popping in to see the family, so why don’t you go over to the canteen? Dave and Mark will be there. We’ll leave in thirty minutes unless there’s another callout, in which case I’ll contact you.’
He jumped to the ground and walked away, leaving Emma feeling very alone, and more than slightly put out.
Normally, Marty would touch her shoulder as he passed her, or at least turn around and wave if he was walking away.
Had she let him down, not going to see George?
Oh, for heaven’s sake, get your head on straight, she berated herself. There was no reason on earth why Marty should wave or touch her shoulder. In fact, it was far better that he didn’t because if either thing had happened it would have affected her body in ways she didn’t want—her shoulder would have felt warm where his hand had been, while a wave, or the smile that always accompanied it, would have sent shivers down her spine.
But physical reactions stemmed from attraction—that’s all it was. After all, he was an attractive man—hadn’t half the women in town been attracted to him at some time?
And if it was attraction, then all she had to do was resist it...
* * *
Marty headed straight for the PICU, knowing at least one of the family would be there.
Mac and Nikki were.
‘Hallie’s taken Izzy to get some clothes—little essentials like underwear and nightdresses and stuff to wear during the day,’ Mac explained.
‘And I’m in charge of George,’ Nikki announced. ‘Of talking to him, I mean. You have to talk to the babies, did you know that? I’ve been telling him about Wetherby and how we’ll play in the sand when he gets a bit bigger and how I’ll help him make sandcastles with moats around them and even volcanoes.’
‘Might be a while before you get to volcanoes,’ Mac put in drily.
Marty laughed, then bent to examine his new nephew.
‘He certainly looks good, given how premmie he is,’ he said, and Mac nodded.
‘He’s the unit champ already,’ he said, and the note of pride in Mac’s voice pierced through a special shield Marty had wrapped around his heart.
No babies! he reminded himself, but he knew the wound remained and always would.
But Nikki was pointing out his tiny toes, and Marty found a smile for this girl he’d known since she’d been born.
‘You were in a crib like this, and you had even tinier toes,’ he told her, and she laughed.
Which was a good way to leave them, Marty decided.
‘Well, I’d better get the crew back to Braxton,’ he said, kissing Nikki and patting Mac on the shoulder. ‘Give Izzy my love, and Nikki, tell Hallie to phone me when you’re both ready to go home.’
‘I can phone you. I do have a phone, you know,’ Nikki told him, so he was smiling as he left.
Still smiling when he reached the chopper to find Emma sitting where he’d left her.
‘Didn’t you want refreshment?’ he asked, and she looked up as if he’d startled her.
Her eyes met his and messages he couldn’t understand seemed to flash between them, messages that made him feel hot, and light-headed at the same time.
Made him want to close the distance between them in long strides and take her in his arms...
Kiss the eyes that sent him messages...
Was he nuts?
This was Emma.
Emma, who’d already suffered two terrible losses in her life. No way could he cause her more disruption. Yes, he was attracted to her—maybe very attracted to her—but...
But what?
Love?
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, aware that this wasn’t the first time that word had filled it when he thought of Emma...
* * *
She watched him walk towards her, feeling such a mix of emotions she didn’t have a clue which one dominated.
Attraction was in there for sure, but it was more than that. It was something deep inside her gut, some instinct that was telling her stupid things, telling her this man was important in her life and—worse—that she wanted him there.
He is in your life, stupid, she told herself. He’s a friend, a colleague, almost a relation if Ned’s friendship with Carrie leads to something more...
He’d reached her now, and settled himself beside her in the doorway.
‘Tell me?’
It was gently asked, his voice deep and slightly husky, and it would have been foolishly naïve to ask him what he meant.
‘I met Simon, my husband, when I started work as an intern in the ED of a big Sydney hospital. He was senior staff and I knew he’d barely notice me, but he did. I’d already noticed him—thought him wonderful, and although at the time that was more hero worship of a junior to a very accomplished man, I found out he was wonderful. He was everything a top ED specialist should be—kind, caring, compassionate yet firm with drunks and time-wasters.’
She glanced at Marty, wondering how he was taking this—really wondering why he’d asked...
‘Tough competition for any bloke coming along now,’ he said, and she felt a little spurt of anger.
‘Well, it shouldn’t worry you, because you’re not, are you?’
‘Not what?’ he asked, all innocence.
‘Competition! You don’t do commitment, remember?’ she snapped. ‘Now, do you want me to finish or not?’
Talking about Simon had stirred up the memories she usually kept tucked carefully away in a box in the back of her mind, but now she saw him in her mind’s eye, striding through the ED, flashing a smile here, touching a shoulder there, always so equable, so patient—always with time for everyone.
Especially for her.
Always for her...
‘Please,’ Marty said, and it took her a moment to remember what she’d asked.
Could she go on?
Best if she did.
Hadn’t Dad been telling her she should talk about the man she’d loved, if only for the boys’ sake?
‘We got married; I kept working until I fell pregnant then Simon began to get headaches, not telling me at first—not, in fact, until he’d seen a specialist, had all the scans and tests, and been told he only had six weeks to live.’
Try as she might, she couldn’t shut the box of memories now and her eyes blurred with tears.
‘I’ve told you most of the rest—the “why me” reaction that is purely selfish, then living with a loved one’s pain, feeling his suffering and knowing I couldn’t ease it, pretending all the time that life goes on when, really, it doesn’t—it stands still, seemingly forever...’
‘And the boys?’
The question was so out of left field, so startling, she forgot her tears, and just stared at the man who’d asked it.
‘You were pregnant but you lost that baby,’ he reminded her gently, moving closer to put his arm around her shoulders.
The pain she’d been feeling receded.
‘I think the day Simon had the news, he went to see Stephen. They’d been contemporaries at university. Simon and I—we’d talked about our family, what we’d like in the way of kids. We knew we wanted more than one, so just in case I ever decided to have another one, he had some sperm frozen.’
Emma paused, wondering if talking about stuff you didn’t want to talk about really was cathartic, because somehow now she was feeling better.
‘For a long time after I’d lost the first baby, having another just wasn’t on the agenda. I was still grieving for Simon and for his baby—our baby—as well, so I’d completely forgotten the frozen sperm.’
She paused, thinking back to that momentous day when Dad had suggested using it.
And smiled.
‘Dad suggested it, promised to help, to mind the baby while I kept on working. It was three years after Simon’s death and I must have been ready, because suddenly it was the best idea I’d ever heard. I went to see Stephen and the rest, as they say, is history. The very best part of it was that I conceived not one but two babies.’
* * *
Marty drew her closer and clasped her hands in his, aware how hard it would have been for her to tell this story. But she’d been through so much loss and pain his heart hurt, thinking about it.
But now he understood her detached approach to the search for a father for the twins. She’d suffered too much to want to love again—to risk that terrible pain...
So he sat and held her, felt her warmth, knew whatever it was between them could not continue.
Except for friendship.
That he could provide...
CHAPTER EIGHT
BY THE TIME they touched down at the base in Braxton, Emma was well and truly off duty.
‘You want a lift home?’ Mark asked, as the pair of them stripped off their flight suits and hung them on the pegs in the big shed that was the headquarters of Braxton Search and Rescue.
But Marty was right behind them, and he spoke before Emma could reply.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take her, it’s on my way.’
‘Do I get to choose?’ Emma muttered, then realised it was a stupid thing to have said. She’d far rather Marty drove her home, although wouldn’t it be better if she went with Mark?
No temptation that way, no time to study the way Marty’s hands held the steering wheel, the precise but effortless way he drove; no need to sit there revelling in the warmth that just being close to him always provided. No need to torture herself.
Especially after the way she’d poured out her heart to him!
But while these ridiculous thoughts tumbled through her head the matter had been decided. While she’d been thinking of his hands on the steering wheel, and whether or not she regretted telling him about Simon, he’d answered her question with a sharp, inarguable ‘No’.
Feeling aggrieved, she followed him out to his vehicle, clambering into the big four-wheel drive.
‘Where does Mark live?’ she asked, still put out by his making her decision for her.
‘Way out the other side of town and he’ll have his wife and kids waiting for him. They always hear the chopper go over so they know exactly when he’ll be home.’
‘Is this your subtle way of telling me he’s a married man? Warning me off?’
He didn’t answer, so she added, ‘Anyway, I already knew that. He’s told me all about his family.’
Marty sighed, then pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
He stared out through the windscreen for a few moments then said, ‘I can’t keep doing this.’
As he was still studying the road ahead and perhaps the bush that surrounded them, Emma could only see his profile and it wasn’t telling her anything.
‘This what?’ she asked, and he turned towards her, reaching out as if to touch her.
‘This,’ he said. ‘This being close to you, finding excuses to be near you, aching for you in every cell in my body but knowing I’ve no right to even be touching you.’
Emma turned to fully face him and caught his hands in hers.
‘Why haven’t you?’ she asked. ‘Just tell me why.’
He shook his head and went back to staring out the windscreen.
Heart pounding, Emma undid the clasp of her seatbelt and manoeuvred across the seat to get as close as she could to him.
She put her hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
They were warm, his lips, but still, and for a long, dreadful moment she thought she’d done the wrong thing—totally wrecked whatever it was they had.
Or didn’t have...
Then his lips responded and he turned his body, reaching out to draw her close, to hold her in an iron clasp while his lips devoured hers, feasting on them—a starving man finding food...
Her heat matched his, burning in her body, lips opening, tongues tangling, little moans coming from one or other of them, maybe both, Emma didn’t know.
She only knew that this was what she’d wanted, yet hadn’t wanted, what she’d missed, but hadn’t wanted to miss.
The engine noise of an approaching car broke them apart, and they both straightened in their seats, both looking through the windscreen now, panting slightly.
The car passed and Marty started the engine of his vehicle, pulling carefully back onto the road.
Emma re-buckled her seatbelt, too confused to speak, hardly daring to look at the man who’d aroused such fire in her.
But was it only fire?
Need?
Lust?
Or something more?
Fire and need would be okay. Maybe even lust. They could have an affair, try to keep it quiet. They spent so much time together anyway, maybe it would go unnoticed..
.
Except by her father, who would be the one minding the boys while she was with Marty, which would mean putting more responsibility on him when she was trying to free him up to live his own life.
‘I can’t have an affair.’
She blurted out the end result of all her torturous thoughts as Marty pulled up outside her house.
‘It wouldn’t be fair on Dad. Especially now when he’s just begun to have a little bit of social life himself.’
Marty turned towards her, one side of his mouth lifting in a rueful smile.
‘I was about to say the same thing,’ he said, reaching out to cup her cheek in one hand and rub his thumb across her undoubtedly swollen lips. ‘I couldn’t do that to you. Couldn’t have you join the list as “another one of Marty’s women” because you are way, way more than that to me.’
He shook his head, not smiling now.
‘So, we’re stuck, aren’t we?’
Unless it wasn’t an affair, the treacherous voice in Emma’s head whispered, and it was her turn to shake her head. Getting married again was a sensible, practical idea for her and she had no doubt she’d grow to love the man she married.
In time...
But the thing she didn’t want was passion, because that way heartbreak lay...
Yet whatever it was that had flared between her and Marty was definitely passion, the kind, she feared, that would deepen and spread like wildfire through her body, steal the heart she’d have to grow again, and fill her life.
Which meant commitment—the one thing Marty didn’t want.
She leaned across and kissed his cheek.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said, and slid out of the car.
* * *
Marty drove home, his body throbbing, his mind in turmoil as anger at his foolish action raged back and forth.
He’d stopped the car because the urge to kiss the woman he’d been with—to hold her in his arms and feel her body against his and, yes, to kiss her senseless—had been so strong he’d feared he’d have an accident if he’d kept driving.
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