by Emily Forbes
‘Now, I’m just going to bend your arm at the elbow and move it like this, and with a bit of pressure I should be able to slip it back into place.’
‘Are you a qualified paramedic? Should you be doing this?’
Okay, so methoxyfluorane hadn’t improved his mood. But he had crashed down from the sky, and he was probably feeling extremely foolish for having attempted to fly the ultralight, as well as being in a great deal of pain.
So she smiled sweetly at him.
‘No and yes,’ she said, and before he could voice further objections she lifted his folded arm and moved it upward and outward until she felt the joint slip back into its socket.
‘Better?’ she said, although she knew it would still be painful—just not agonisingly so.
He muttered something she was charitably willing to accept as assent, and she began to examine the rest of him. Bloody graze on his left hand—he’d probably put it out to break his fall—and his left ankle looked a little swollen.
‘Sore?’ she asked, moving it slightly.
More muttered complaints followed as she unlaced his light canvas shoes.
‘I’m going to take off your shoe and sock so I can bandage it,’ she told him. ‘If we leave them on and your ankle swells, your shoe will have to be cut off—which would be a pity with such good-quality footwear.’
More mutterings. This time she gathered something about what a woman would know about men’s footwear. She ignored the words and went ahead, removing his shoe, and then his sock, revealing a long, pale foot, with blue veins visible beneath milky skin.
The bare foot made him seem vulnerable, and for all his tetchy remarks she suddenly felt sorry for him.
Which, she decided, was distinctly better than the physical reaction she’d had earlier...
She’d just finished binding the ankle when voices told her the SES team had arrived.
‘He okay?’ the lead man asked.
Lauren nodded. ‘I’ve just reset a dislocated left shoulder—it’ll need to be X-rayed—and checked him over for other injuries. His left arm will need to be put into a special sling for a while, and his left ankle...’
But the team were no longer listening.
‘Geez,’ one of them said, peering up at the tangle of fine wood and plastic in the midst of the dead black trees that bordered the gully. ‘Is that old Henry’s flying machine up there? Boy, he’ll be cranky up in heaven!’
‘Or down in hell,’ another suggested, and all four laughed before slowly returning their attention to their patient.
‘You did that?’ they more or less chorused, all shaking their heads in disbelief.
‘Okay,’ Lauren said, calling them to order as they started to suggest the punishments old Henry would have meted out to someone crashing his most favourite toy. ‘You’ve actually got a patient here, and if you want to get him down the track in daylight I’d suggest you get him strapped onto whatever you’re carrying and start moving.’
‘I don’t need to be carried.’
Not muttered, but definitely not happy.
‘You might have other injuries, and possibly concussion,’ she told him, adding firmly, ‘So you will be carried.’
Recalled to their job, the team set to work, and as they slid the pieces of stretcher under the injured man Lauren could practically read their minds.
Although in case she’d been in any doubt Joe, their leader, muttered, ‘Cor, he’s a big bugger!’
‘I’ll take the head end and you can go two each side,’ she said. ‘The ambulance will be down on the road. You can radio for their two guys to start up the track to help.’
They worked well, the team, getting the bits of board under the patient and snapped together, strapping him firmly onto it.
‘Just use the magic whistle if you need to,’ Lauren reminded the man, as they all got into position to lift him.
He gave her a look of such disbelief she had to smile.
‘They have done it before,’ she said, and he shut his eyes, as if better to pretend this wasn’t happening.
* * *
He’d been rescued by—he couldn’t think off-hand of a bunch of comedians to compare this lot to—vaudeville slapstick clowns, perhaps?
Campbell Grahame shook his head—big mistake, as it brought the sore lump on it into contact with the board to which he’d been strapped. He clutched the device his rescuer had called ‘the magic whistle’ to his chest, wondering if he should take a few more puffs as the lurching downhill journey was anything but comfortable.
His rescuer!
Maybe he’d think about her instead of the pain.
She’d seemed to appear from nowhere, startling him as he’d tried to work out just how seriously he was injured. And told himself how stupid he’d been! He’d been angry with himself, as well, for flying so far in an old machine he didn’t know at all. Apart from anything else, it had been totally irresponsible.
He turned his attention back to his rescuer.
Totally unsympathetic, she’d been, whoever she was. But perhaps brisk efficiency was what was needed in rescue situations.
Still, a rescuer with long, tanned legs, clad in short red shorts and a singlet that clung to a curvy upper body like a second skin...? The men at least were in uniform—with the words State Emergency Service embroidered on their shirts.
The peaked black cap she was wearing, pulled down tightly on her forehead, meant he hadn’t been able to see the hair tucked under it, but dark eyes and eyebrows suggested it would be brown or black.
He raised his eyes to take another look at her face, hoping she was concentrating on where she was putting her feet rather than on him.
But it was a surreptitious glance, just to check that her face was as lovely as he remembered it.
It was.
It was well put together, with a straight nose and wide, shapely lips, a small, determined chin—yes, she was something of a beauty...although he did wonder if other people would think so.
Perhaps it was just a face like any other, and he’d imbued it with beauty because she’d rescued him?
Whatever. The fact remained he’d been damnably rude to her.
He sighed, and the beauty—he was pretty sure she was a beauty—said, ‘Don’t be afraid to use the whistle. This isn’t exactly the smoothest ride you’ll ever have, and there could be other things wrong with you.’
But he knew there weren’t. The team had carried out the basic tests—blood pressure, heart-rate, breathing—and although he felt pain as they trekked down the rough track, he knew it wasn’t anything serious.
So he could think about the woman again—tall, as well as good looking...
‘What’s your name?’
His question came out without much forethought, and she frowned down at him, as if she wasn’t certain of the answer.
Had she already told him?
He couldn’t remember...
‘Lauren Henderson,’ she said eventually, before adding, ‘And yours?’
Cam frowned. He had introduced himself earlier—but had that been just to the team?
Surely she’d heard?
‘Campbell Grahame—I’m usually called Cam.’
One of the two men who held the stretcher at Cam’s shoulder level turned briefly towards them, but a slight slip on a rock had him turning back, concentrating on where he was going, almost immediately.
‘How do you do, Cam?’ Lauren said, in the slightly husky voice that somehow suited her. ‘I won’t shake hands because I’d probably drop you.’ Silent for a moment, she then said, ‘And what were you up to—flying over the forest in old Henry’s ancient machine?’
All four of the heads he could see in front of him turned at this question, and he wondered if perhaps they should leave conversation until they were well away from the rough
track by the creek bed.
But she had asked...
‘I thought it might be useful to spot any injured wildlife returning to their burnt-out homes.’
‘You’ve never heard of drones?’ It was a question edged with sarcasm, but perhaps—
‘Is that why I crashed? You had a drone up and it hit me?’
She gave a huff of laughter and shook her head. ‘You crashed because you were flying so low your left wing-tip hit a tree, and you were lucky I did have a drone up—because otherwise it would have taken a full-scale search, and almost certainly plenty of man hours, to find you. The forest might be burnt out, but there’s thick regeneration in the undergrowth, and with the deep gullies even a helicopter search would have been difficult, if not impossible.’
‘Well, that’s telling me,’ he muttered to himself, feeling put out that he wasn’t being treated more kindly, considering he was injured. Not that he’d earned any kindness, the way he’d been earlier—though his bad temper was more to do with his own foolishness than these innocent rescuers.
They continued down the path in silence, and as the journey went on he realised just how far this group had walked to rescue him—idiot that he was to have even got into the damn microlight.
‘Do you do this often?’ he asked.
‘Rescue blokes from crashed flying machines?’ one of the men responded. ‘Not so much. But I reckon a couple of dozen times a summer we get call-outs to search for someone who hasn’t come back when they should...a fisherman stranded on rocks in the lake as the tide rises, lost bush-walkers, kids—we keep busy.’
Intrigued now, Cam wanted to know more. ‘Only in summer?’
Another of the men shook his head. ‘Nah! Winter’s actually worse—cooler for people who want to walk some of the trails though the bush, who then get off the trail and end up lost.’
‘Not that there’ll be much bush to walk in this year,’ another said, gloom shrouding his words.
And then the talk turned to the bushfires that had so recently ravaged the area. Most of South Eastern Australia had suffered to some degree, and Cam, who’d arrived in the country six days ago, in the aftermath of the fires, had discovered that as well as inheriting a veterinary practice from a great-uncle he’d only met once, many years earlier, he’d inherited a small hospital for injured wildlife—complete with, and run by, mostly volunteer helpers.
And an ultralight!
He bit back a groan, more of anguish than agony. Flying the wretched machine had seemed like a challenge. And it had brought back such vivid memories!
The only time he’d met his great-uncle, Henry had helped him build his very own ultralight, and taught him how to fly it. So, seeing what must have been Henry’s old machine in the shed, it had been hard to resist—particularly as his daughter had been so excited that Daddy could fly such a thing.
Showing off to Maddie. How pathetic had that been?
Idiotic too.
Maddie!
Hell!
He looked up at rescuer number one. ‘Can someone radio the vet surgery and let my mother know I’m okay? She’ll be worried.’
‘I’ll do it,’ one of the men at the foot of the stretcher said, keeping hold of his burden with one hand, while the other tapped away at a radio Velcroed to his chest.
No need to tell them his mother was the last person who’d be worried. She was probably trailing along the lake’s edge with her fishing line, with Maddie following in her wake like a small shadow, her own fishing line tangled around the small rod, because to her shells had far more appeal than fish.
But at least his mother would know to listen to messages on the surgery line as well as the home phone when she returned from her excursion.
New voices and laughter preceded the arrival of the ambulance crew, who greeted everyone cheerfully, assured him he’d soon be more comfortable in their care, and then joined the effort of carrying him down to the road.
He was about to lose Lauren Henderson from her place at the head of the stretcher.
As she moved away he reached out with his good hand and caught her fingers. ‘I’m sorry for being such a bear,’ he said. ‘I was just so annoyed with myself for bringing Henry’s machine down. It was a stupid and totally irresponsible thing to do.’
She smiled at him. ‘It was,’ she agreed, but the smile had taken any sting out of her words.
Then she was gone, striding on ahead of the team carrying him down the track.
He wanted to ask about her—who she was, and what she did. She hadn’t been sympathy personified, but she’d reset his shoulder—besides which, she was damned attractive.
Knowing someone’s name really told you nothing, he was thinking when the paramedic who’d taken her place said, ‘The doc reported a dislocated shoulder—looks like she got it back in place. Left one, was it?’
He nodded his reply—mainly because, back in place or not, his shoulder was hurting like the devil, and he really didn’t want to be taking any more of the drug.
And why is that? a small voice in his head asked.
He closed his eyes, as if he might shut out the question, but he had a suspicion it might be pride—not wanting these tough men carting his considerable weight down the mountain to think him a weakling.
Stupid pride, at that!
He lifted the little ‘whistle’ to his lips and took a deep breath.
‘Take a few,’ said the man at his head. ‘Moving you to the ambulance will hurt a bit.’
Cam took a few more puffs. Given the Australian talent for understatement he’d already encountered in his short time here, it was likely going to hurt like hell!
* * *
Lauren didn’t wait to see her patient loaded into the ambulance. She turned and went back up the path. Telling herself her plan was stupid and futile failed to stop her forward momentum.
As a child, she’d helped Henry—or mainly watched—as he’d built his little ultralight, and it deserved a better end than to be stuck in the burnt-out scrub at the head of the gully. And rescuing the bits would distract her from the reaction she’d felt when the stranger had grabbed her hand and pressed it gently as he’d apologised.
For some reason, that slight touch had left her fingers tingling.
Think about the wreckage!
Even if she couldn’t rescue all of it, if she could just recover the frame and the little leather seat Henry had fashioned out of an old saddle...
She thought back to those days when she’d been Henry’s little shadow—far closer to him than she’d been to her own father when she was small. Probably because her father’s practice hadn’t involved animals large and small.
Henry hadn’t talked much about his family, although hadn’t he once visited a sister or a niece back in England?
Mary?
Marion?
Madge?
It had been Madge—a niece. Maybe she’d inherited the old house and the veterinary practice?
And if he lived with his mother—the tall man with the blue, blue eyes who’d made her spine skitter and her fingers tingle—then that was probably Madge, because the house certainly hadn’t been on the market. The lakeside gossip net would have known if it had been.
But living with his mother? Unusual in this day and age... Although she’d lived with her father for years—for ever, almost...
Was he a vet, that tall man with the very blue eyes?
Silly question. Henry had talked occasionally about his great-nephew with a veterinary practice in London—spoken of him with pride. And if she’d ever thought about it, she should have guessed he’d inherit Henry’s place and his practice.
But who’d leave London to come to a practice in the bush?
And why should it matter to her, anyway?
Just because he was good-looking?
Becaus
e he’d sparked something in her although he’d been abrupt and cranky?
And made her fingers tingle when he’d caught her hand.
And he was going to be living next door.
This last realisation made her feel...not exactly queasy, but unsettled inside.
Puzzling over it kept her feet moving, so she was soon past where she’d met the man, and the wreckage of the ultralight was much more visible—and not as badly shattered as she’d pictured it.
Carefully avoiding any chance of slipping and injuring herself, she gathered up the pieces—one almost complete wing, the bones of the shattered one, and the cockpit, as Henry had grandly called the seat and control panel—and some other bits and pieces not immediately recognisable.
Wishing she’d stopped long enough to get some big bin bags, she untied her light jacket from her waist and tied it around the awkward bundle. She hitched it on to her shoulder and set off, yet again, down the rough track.
By the time she reached her house, drenched in sweat, she was regretting what now seemed like a totally irrational decision.
Just what was she intending to do with the wreckage?
Rebuild the thing?
She dropped the bundle just inside her back gate, unwrapped her jacket and used it to mop the sweat from her face.
‘Are you going to put it together again?’ asked a quiet, precise voice, and she turned to see a small child with dark tousled hair standing at the fence, dark blue eyes fixed intently on her.
‘I’m not sure I’m clever enough,’ she answered honestly, seeing the wreckage more clearly now.
‘My father could help you,’ the little girl told her. ‘He knows how.’
Lauren smiled, because the words held such certainty. This was a child who firmly believed her father could do anything—although, if the father was who Lauren guessed he was, putting the ultralight back together again was probably the last thing he’d want to do.
Time to change the subject.
‘Does your mother know where you are?’ she asked.
The small child climbed onto the gate and began to swing back and forth on it. ‘I don’t have a mother,’ she said. ‘Daddy said she left to find herself. But I think you are yourself, and that’s where you are.’