by Fiona Lowe
‘Are you sure there is only Hartmann’s?’ Will scrounged through the pack, praying for more IV fluids.
‘I’m O-negative.’ Meg gave him a knowing look. ‘We could do a direct blood transfusion.’
Again, the protective surge moved in him, strong and hard. ‘No way. It’s far too dangerous for you.’
‘Tom’s like a father to me.’ Her voice rose. ‘We have to do all we can.’
He respected her courage, her desire to do all at whatever cost. ‘We are doing all we can. But without surgery to stem his internal bleeding, your blood will just end up pooling in his abdomen. More importantly, you could get a blood-borne illness. You know direct blood transfusions stopped years ago.’
‘I’m fit. I can handle it.’ Her jaw jutted in defiance of the conditions, the situation. With her free hand she reached for an IV line.
But he saw a sliver of fear streak across her face.
‘Being fit is irrelevant against hepatitis C.’ He touched her arm, hoping to show her he understood her feeling of impotence at the situation. Her fear. ‘Let’s see if the Hartmann’s brings up his blood pressure.’
But he was certain it was too late for that.
Will took over the bagging, letting Meg dress Tom’s gaping wounds. She needed to do something, needed to claw back some control in a situation that had none.
He surveyed the towering trees. Now the wind had dropped, the snow fell straight down. The pink of sunset reflected through the snowflakes. Under other circumstances, being out in the bush with a beautiful woman, with snow falling quietly around them, would be magical.
But now was far from magical. How would the rescuers find them in such dense bush?
‘Tom.’ Meg spoke quietly. ‘I’ve sent up the flares, they know we’re here. They’ll find us.’ She placed packing gauze against his crushed nose.
She glanced up at the Hartmann’s bag, now almost empty. ‘How’s his BP?’
‘Dropping.’ He hated this. Hated watching a man’s life drain away in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, Meg, we can’t do any more. We tried.’ His voiced trailed off, the words sounding inadequate.
Her wide-eyed distress sliced into him.
She gripped Tom’s hand and dropped her head down next to his ear. ‘When Dad died, you were there. You’ve been such source of strength to me and Mum. Thank you.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I love you.’
Tom’s pulse faded to nothing under Will’s fingertips. ‘He’s gone, Meg.’
For a brief moment her shoulders shuddered. Then she leaned forward and kissed Tom’s forehead. She pulled the space blanket aside, putting it behind her. Taking the corners of the tarp, she folded them over him, wrapping Tom’s body completely, carefully protecting his body from the continuous snowfall. Then she reached over and grabbed a large stick. Pushing it into the snow, she marked Tom’s position.
Each action spoke of love and the desolation on her face pierced Will. He moved toward her almost unthinkingly, pulled her to her feet and into his arms. She fell against him, her chest shuddering with suppressed tears, her arms gripping his. He wanted to comfort her, hold her tight against him and ease her grief. Tell her he was so very sorry they couldn’t do any more.
But there was no time for that.
He moved back slightly so he could see her face. He needed to make eye contact. Needed to see those sky-blue eyes, now cloudy with grief, clear.
He was strong, but he knew the odds. They were stranded, miles from help, in harsh conditions. Damn it, he needed the ‘take charge’ Meg back or they wouldn’t get through this alive.
Tom was dead.
The pitch black of the alpine night cloaked her along with the heavily falling snow. For one brief moment she’d given in to her grief and found solace cuddled against Will’s broad chest, feeling his heart beating against her own.
But then he’d moved away.
‘Meg, we need to take shelter before we freeze.’
He’d spoken to her. The words, distant at first, suddenly sounded louder. Will’s voice penetrated her fudge-like brain and Meg looked up into his face.
By the light of his headlamp she could see congealed blood on his dark eyebrow from a deep gash. Scratches hid in the stubble of his dark beard, the only hint of their presence tiny clots of blood. She wanted to reach out and touch them. Offer comfort.
‘You need steri-strips on your eyebrow.’ Her voice was husky.
He gave a wry smile. ‘You can be the first-aid queen as soon as we get some shelter.’ His gloved hands gripped her forearms firmly, his energy seeming to flood her, giving her back the strength she’d just lost.
Shelter.
He was right—they’d freeze without shelter. The wind chill had sent the temperature way below zero. ‘Will the plane be safe?’
‘No, it’s too risky with all that aviation fuel. We didn’t get this far to be blown up. By morning it will be OK but for now we need to construct some sort of lean-to.’
She shook her head. ‘Snow cave.’
‘What?’
‘We need to make a snow cave to protect us from this icy wind.’ She glanced around, taking in the area. It was so dark she couldn’t see a thing. Where the hell was the moon when you needed it? ‘Can you move your head around so I can see the area?’
He moved in close to her and bent his knees so his head was level with hers. Putting his arm around her, he slowly propelled her 360 degrees, the small beam of light exposing the area.
She wanted his arm, his warmth, to stay with her. But that was impossible. ‘Over there.’ She pointed to a large snowdrift. ‘We can dig a compartment big enough for the two of us and use bracken to cover ourselves. I chucked some gear well clear of the plane so we could go back for that. There might be something we can use.’
‘Right now it’s too cold and windy and I don’t trust that aviation fuel. I don’t suppose that medical pack of yours runs to a shovel, does it, Mary Poppins?’ A weary grin creased his stubbled cheeks.
Heat coursed through her, stunning her. Despite her throbbing ankle, her bruised body, her heartache and her fear, his smile managed to fire up feelings she’d pushed away long ago. Feelings she’d locked down after Graeme had left.
‘No shovel, but I could use the face masks to dig with.’
‘You plan to dig this cave yourself, do you?’ His voice held a slight edge.
Every movement cost him pain—even in the shadowy dark she could see that. He deserved a break after all he’d done, trying to save Tom. ‘My ribs aren’t bruised or broken. I’ve seen you grimace with every lift and sudden movement.’
He grunted. ‘I’m not alone there. You can hardly walk. Let’s just dig the damn cave so we can both rest.’ He fell to his knees and started digging.
She sighed. She’d upset him, trying to help him. Graeme had accused her of being far too independent and not playing the ‘societal game’. That was another reason why she belonged at the base of the mountain with the farmers who treated their partners as equals.
She shrugged, carefully knelt beside him and handed him a mask. Silently, they dug side by side, developing an unspoken rhythm, alternating the scooping out and dumping of the snow, slowly hollowing out space where they could both sit.
An hour later, warm from the physical work, Meg crawled into the snow cave. She’d dumped the contents of the medical kit at the back of the cave and flattened the backpack to sit on.
Will crawled in next to her, the small space contracting even more. Her heart seemed to flip in her chest. Just like on the plane, his presence unnerved her, but this time she couldn’t ignore him. This time his presence would help her survive.
He piled the bracken and tree-fern fronds up at the front and then turned and sat next to her. ‘I think this cave might get an architectural award.’ His lightning-quick grin streaked across his face as he settled next to her, and then he turned off the headlamp.
‘Creative use of minimal space?’ She tucked the space blanket around the
m both as his thigh came to rest against hers.
‘Natural heating.’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her gently toward him, closing the tiny space between them.
A blaze of heat flared inside her, which she tried to squash. He was only cuddling her to prevent hypothermia.
‘Modern furnishings.’ She patted the backpack, trying to ignore the slight pressure of his hand on her waist.
‘Look, we’ve even got natural light.’ He pointed to the moon low on the horizon, rising slowly.
‘So we have.’ The words came out on a sigh as she looked at the moonlight that had come too late, and thought of Tom.
He squeezed her arm. ‘We’ll find him in the morning.’ His low voice vibrated with understanding. ‘You marked where he was.’
How had he known she was thinking of Tom? She blinked back the tears that hovered ready to spill, the events of the evening threatening to overtake her. ‘The morning…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Meg, the morning will come and the rescuers will come. You know that. The flares went up and Tom gave the co-ordinates over the radio before we went down. They will find us.’
‘But not tonight.’
‘No, not tonight. They’ve got no hope of finding us in this storm, and they’d be risking their lives at the same time.’
Damn it, he was right. ‘These drifts will be twice the height in the morning if this snow keeps up. They’ll have to come in on horseback first.’
‘True, but those mountain men know what they’re doing. Even Banjo Patterson knew that. They will come.’
She smiled at his reference to The Man From Snowy River, and in the dark of the cave she let his voice infuse her with some of his strength.
She so wanted to relax into him, rest her head on his chest, feel and hear his heart beating. Affirming life. Proof that they had survived the crash, that together they would survive the night.
But that would be weak and she couldn’t be weak, so she sat ramrod stiff. She’d learned the hard way that the only person she could depend on was herself. Snowstorm or not, nothing would change that. She knew that once the rescuers arrived she and Will would go their separate ways, strangers again.
She just had to get through the night.
CHAPTER THREE
‘TELL me where you learned about snow caves.’ Will jostled Meg with his shoulder, hoping to keep her awake.
The cave mostly protected them from the wind but it was bitterly cold. Hypothermia and sleep didn’t look very different from the outside. They’d got this far, and he was determined they would make it through the night alive.
She yawned. ‘You’re trying to keep me awake, aren’t you?’ A smile played in her voice.
An image of her high cheekbones framing her plump upturned lips flittered across his mind. The same smile that had captivated him six hours ago. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘You’ve found me out. We don’t have to talk about snow caves, we can pick any topic at all.’ A blast of wind brought in snow and he started to cough, his ribs sending out shards of red-hot pain.
She stiffened against him. ‘Will?’ Her concern radiated through the confined space. She reached out, fumbled with the zipper on his coat and then determinedly searched under his polar fleece until her hand rested on his skin. On his ribs.
Her touch should have been cold. But her fingers sparked off a series of mini-explosions that travelled straight to his groin. Hell! It was below zero, he’d just survived a plane crash, he was in a snow cave with bruised ribs and he could still get aroused. This definitely wasn’t the right time or place.
A moan escaped his lips.
He heard her breath catch before her words rushed out. ‘You’re in pain. Can you breathe without pain?’
‘Yes, I can. It just hurts to cough.’
‘Are you sure? Please, don’t put on a macho act for me. I don’t need you developing a punctured lung.’ The stern tone in her voice couldn’t hide her fear.
He wanted to reassure her, lessen her fear, that he wasn’t going to die. That she wouldn’t be alone in the snow. ‘Think, Meg. If it was worse than bruised ribs, I wouldn’t have been able to lift Tom and dig a cave. I’ve seen your nursing skills in action, you know your stuff. Don’t let panic override your knowledge base.’
Her hand dropped away from his skin and the icy air swooped in, absorbing the heat in a moment. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hey.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘We’re in this together and I appreciate your concern. How’s your ankle feeling?’
‘It’s throbbing.’
‘Any pins and needles?’ He was worried swelling might be impeding blood flow.
‘No, I can still feel my toes, so that’s a good sign.’
She relaxed slightly, her body resting fractionally more against his. Despite the fact their sides were touching for the much-needed heat exchange, he could feel her holding herself aloof from him.
‘So back to snowcaves…’ he prompted.
‘At high school I did outdoor education. As we’re in an alpine region we did both snow and bushfire safety to cover each end of the spectrum. I never expected to use it.’
She wriggled against him in an unconscious action as she tried to get comfortable.
He closed his eyes against the surge of heat that rocketed through him. She had no idea what she did to him and she couldn’t know. Tonight they had to keep warm and that meant body contact. He wished he’d taken more notice when his secretary had talked about meditation and achieving a ‘Zen-like’ state.
She finally stilled, having pulled her legs up to her chin, and he released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘So who’s worrying about you right now?’
‘My mother.’ A different tension radiated from her. ‘She doesn’t need this sort of stress. Mum’s got MS. Something like this could spark off a further progression of the disease.’
Regret for her family pulled at him. He knew the emotional toll of a chronically ill parent.
Her hands tugged agitatedly at the space blanket. ‘I was worried about her spending this week on her own. I wasn’t expecting her to think I’d died as well.’ Her voice rose on the last words, her anxiety palpable.
Professionally he knew she needed to talk, to help keep the panic at bay, and yet part of him wanted to know about her life. ‘So, she’s still living independently?’
‘Yes and no. I live with her and we run the farm together. She gets tired by the end of the day and uses elbow crutches.’
Astonishment combined with admiration. ‘You work full-time as a nurse as well as running a farm with an ill mother?’
She nudged him with her elbow. ‘You city slickers don’t know what hard work is.’
The playful tone in her voice sobered. ‘The land is part of you and very hard to give up, no matter the obstacles. And all farmers have those, especially the ones in the Laurel Valley. The bottom dropped out of tobacco a year before Dad died and he’d started to branch out and grow chestnuts. We’ve kept his phase-one orchard and leased out the rest of the farm to our neighbours.’
‘Sounds like tough times.’ A niggle of guilt at his financially secure life tweaked him.
‘Not just for us. The entire district is struggling. Changing your primary industry after many years of a dropping income is tough. Some people are farming emus, others ostriches, and then, of course, there’s tourism.’
He heard her wry tone. ‘Tourism brings in the dollars, you can’t deny that.’
‘You’re right, it does, but it changes the town. In winter Laurelton is full of skiers who belt in and belt out. They see the town purely as a service centre and are often very critical of the service. They don’t take the time to truly know the town, appreciate the area, understand the fragile environment.’
‘That’s being a bit tough on us, isn’t it?’
‘Have you ever visited Laurelton out of the snow season?’
Her face was in shadow but he pictured her brows a
rched in question, her sky-blue eyes flashing in a direct gaze. ‘Point taken. I’ve skied here for years but I’ve never come at any other time.’
‘And you’re missing so much!’ Her voice became animated. ‘There are so many wonderful places that come alive in spring and summer when the snow melts. Tiny orchids grow between rocks, the alpine grass waves in the breeze and the area is dotted with a rainbow of colourful flowers. Only a local can truly show a tourist the real Laurelton, but they don’t want to hang around that long.’ The passion in her voice for her alpine district filled the cave.
‘Do you have any ideas on how to change that?’
‘I certainly do.’
He laughed. ‘Of course, I should have realised. I’m getting the picture of a very determined woman.’
She shrugged. ‘You carve out your own life in this world, and if you don’t like something you should set about trying to change it for the better.’
Her words scorched him. Did he do that? He was doing it with his job, trying to improve the lives of sick kids. A voice in his head tried to speak. Not the way you want to, though.
He swallowed a sigh. His father’s illness had forced both of them to make a career change. But thinking about it didn’t change anything. He pushed the uncomfortable thought away as she continued.
‘Mum and I run a bed and breakfast and I offer tours of the area all year round between shifts. Mum manages the B&B, although I do a lot of the physical work.’
‘So you go from bed-making at work to bed-making at home.’ This time he dodged the elbow.
‘Cheeky! Although any registered nurse worth her salt knows how to make a patient comfortable, I don’t make many beds these days. Mind you, you can learn a lot about a patient, chatting to them while making their bed.’
‘You’re right. Nurses have that over doctors—the opportunity to talk to patients in a more casual way. It can net you a lot.’ But he didn’t want to talk about work even though they had medicine in common. He wanted to know more about Meg. ‘So you’re a farm girl. What about brothers and sisters?’