Priority Care

by Mary Hawkins

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jean tried to scramble up. The gasping sobs changed to a moan as pain jabbed in her shoulder as well as her ankle. Another wave of dizziness forced her to drop her head down again. A faint groan echoed in her ears, and for a moment she thought it had come from her own lips. But then it sounded again, and this time was accompanied by a muttered curse. She lifted her head carefully, gingerly propping herself up on one hand as she straightened up. She winced again. That hand was sore too.

  There was a scrambling sound from the room behind the open doorway in front of her. Another soft moan. Then silence.

  Suddenly Jean froze as she realised what she had just done. She had not just slapped a man's face. Oh, no, that wasn't good enough for Jean Macallister! She'd had to revert to those dreadful days of her first year of high school when her fists had been one of her defences against a hostile world!

  She had just landed a punch on a complete stranger.

  Panic made her fight the pain and another wave of dizziness as she scrambled to her feet. She wanted to do nothing else but flee down the steps and back to the sanctuary of home. But she had to see for herself that the man was all right. She clung to the door-jamb for a moment, and then limped painfully in to see what damage she had inflicted.

  'Oh, no . . .' Jean gasped in horror.

  The man was sitting on the floor propped up against the wall next to the door. Not only was he shirtless, but long, tanned bare legs seemed to go on forever, his only covering a pair of ragged cut-off jeans. The face that was raised to look at her was smeared in blood. Even as she hopped another step closer, a large hand moved slowly to touch a battered nose from which blood was dripping. The already-blood-covered hand moved to the side of his head, leaving another trail of red.

  'What's happened to you?' she whispered, and then felt cold at the stupidity of her question.

  She was what had happened to him.

  Deep brown eyes looked up at her. They didn't seem to focus properly. Then eyelids closed them off from view as he let his head fall back against the wall. With a sharp exclamation, she started to crouch down, but her ankle made its presence felt again with a sharp twinge, and she almost fell on top of his legs, as she landed heavily on the carpet.

  He sat up with a jerk, then groaned again, and dropped his head into both hands. She managed to slide closer.

  'Please, let me look. I'm a nurse. Or . . . well . . . almost, anyway.' She heard her voice begin to rise, and ground to a stop. One trembling hand reached out to touch him.

  This time his gaze was sharper. He grabbed her wrist. 'I think you've done enough damage!'

  The deep tones were bitter as he flung her arm away. Pain wrenched at her shoulder and this time she did give a sharp little cry of pain. With difficulty she scurried as quickly as she could away from him.

  Ice. She needed ice. She needed something to wipe up all the blood.

  It seemed a long way to the kitchen. It seemed to take forever for her shaking hands to grab an ice-cube tray and find a couple of tea-towels. She quickly wet one and hobbled painfully back.

  He was standing up, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. To her horror, blood was still trickling slowly from his nose and running down his neck.

  He was very tall, she vaguely registered, as she had to reach quite a way up to wipe away the blood. He straightened, opened glowering eyes, snatched the cloth off her and clamped it to his nose. Quickly she placed a couple of ice cubes in a corner of the other towel.

  'If you hold this to your . . . your nose, it should stop the bleeding.'

  He muttered something almost indistinctly.

  'Head too? But I ... I only hi-hit you in the . . .'

  Jean gulped as a wave of disbelief swept over her. She had knocked a man down! She had punched his nose! She had actually lost the temper she had thought had been tamed years ago and hit this man!

  His hand dropped away from his face, and this time she shrank back as he glared at her.

  'My head hit the shelf,' he snapped very nasally.

  'Oh,' gasped Jean. She swallowed, and strove to sound professional without any success as her voice grew shrill. 'Did . . . did yon lose consciousness?'

  'I'm . . . not sure. No! No thanks to you!' he snarled in a stronger voice. His other hand moved to touch the side of his head again.

  'Please. Let me,' she said quickly, and leant closer to part the short, wavy dark hair at the side of his head. The skin was swollen just in front and above his ear.

  'You . . . you need some ice there too. The skin's not broken, but it's swelling. Please . . . you must sit down . . . you ‑'

  He pushed her hand away and took a step forward. He had moved so abruptly that she tried to move out of his way and put too much weight on her sore ankle. She staggered back, and felt fingers bite into her arm as he grabbed at her. She cried out as her shoulder was jarred again.

  'We'd both better sit down before we fall down,' she heard him mutter between clenched teeth. He let go of her arm and grabbed her around the waist instead. Together they stumbled forward, collapsing at last on to a couch. Jean let her head fall back. She was still shaking, and she closed her eyes as she tried to catch her ragged breath.

  'What's the matter with you?' his voice rasped at her after a brief silence.

  'The matter with me?' Jean said faintly.

  She felt hysteria start to rise and tried to take a deep breath to stem the tide. And failed miserably. She sat bolt upright and turned on him.

  'The matter with me?' she said, her voice becoming louder and louder. 'The matter with me is that I've had hardly any sleep for two nights. I've been abused on the phone by a stranger. I've been travelling since seven this morning without a break. I've just lost my temper. I've pu . . . pu . . . punched . . . someone . . . and . . . and . . . George . . .' The heavy hard feeling in her chest choked at her throat at last, and the tears began to pour down her face again. 'And I don't know if he's alive or . . . or . . .'

  'He's alive.'

  His abrupt words took a moment to penetrate through the noisy sobs. She lifted her wet face and stared at him wordlessly. He had removed the cloth from his face as he stared back at her with a frown.

  'I rang around the hospitals,' he said quickly. 'Thought you might have rung back. I ... I shouldn't have hung up on you. As soon as I did I remembered I didn't know where you were ringing from.'

  'Where . . . what?' she managed.

  He told her the name of a private hospital and added quickly, 'I'm afraid they wouldn't give me details about what had happened except to say the usual "he's comfortable".'

  She stared at him dumbly, the tears still trickling down her cheeks accompanied by a few left-over sobs.

  'Oh, thank God,' she whispered at last.

  His expression changed again, and suddenly she was conscious for the first time of his expanse of bare flesh, and what a wreck she must be herself.

  She started to struggle to her feet.

  'Where do you think you're going?'

  His voice was sharp and she looked at him in a daze. 'To the hospital, of course.'

  'Not in that condition, you're not.'

  I was right, you are arrogant, she thought as she stared at him, and only realised she had said it aloud as an arrested look changed his face once again.

  'That's right,' he said coolly, 'and I believe you owe me.'

  'Owe . . . owe you?'

  She stared blankly at him. Calmly he wiped another spot of blood from his face.

  'Yes. You are going to sit there, and you aren't moving an inch before you tell me why you're limping and what's wrong with your arm, and what the he . . . what's going on!'

  She continued staring at him silently for a moment, and then she sank back again on the couch.

  'That's the trouble, I don't know what's going on,' she murmured wearily.

  She felt the couch bounce as he moved closer.

  'You at least must know why you're limping,' he said gri
mly.

  'I tripped on the veranda and fell.'

  'And your arm?'

  'I fell on my shoulder.'

  He examined her shoulder briefly. Must jarred,' was the verdict. Then his warm hands were touching her ankle, moving it gently. He rearranged the ice cubes in the towel and began wrapping it around her foot.

  'No, you mustn't,' she began to protest weakly.

  'Shut up. And don't you move an inch,' he snapped before standing up and heading out of the room.

  'But I've got to get to the hospital,' she wailed after his disappearing body.

  He turned and glared savagely at her. 'You're in no state to go anywhere.'

  He returned several minutes later, and she was relieved to see he had removed all traces of blood, and had added a black T-shirt to the brief shorts. In a few moments he had dried her foot and expertly wrapped her ankle in an elastic bandage. Still without a word, he disappeared again, returned with a wet cloth and a towel in one hand and a glass in the other. He handed them to her, sat down on the chair, and watched her as she wiped off the residue of tears and make-up. At last she swallowed a few mouthfuls of water.

  'Thank you,' she murmured, and looked at him to find his gaze sweeping over her dishevelled clothes.

  His dark hair was fairly short. A mass of unruly curls framed a strong-jawed, tanned face. Long, dark eyelashes swept his cheeks as he lowered his gaze to her ankle again. Despite the fact that he looked as though he hadn't bothered to shave for a couple of days at least, he was extremely good-looking.

  Then she focused on the reddened area on one side of his nose and adjoining cheekbone. It was slightly swollen where . . . where she had hit him. Then she realised his eyes had returned to her face and they darkened as she stared at him. A Wave of heat flooded through her. Many times over the years her fair skin and readiness to blush had been the bane of her life, but never more than at this moment.

  'So you're Jean Macallister. Surely there could be no one else living next door with a penchant for punching up the male of the species, as well as entertaining so many.'

  Jean's mouth fell open. Then it snapped shut. She swallowed convulsively and managed to say through clenched teeth, 'Your informant being Mrs Jones, I understand.'

  He continued to study her for a moment. 'She seems to be wrong about your concern for your uncle, though,' he said thoughtfully.

  Her chin tilted, and she stared angrily back. 'Oh, I'm so glad you've found one thing she's wrong about. But I'm afraid I can't waste any more time on discussing that . . . that woman.'

  This time he allowed her to stand up, watching her carefully as she tentatively put weight on her bandaged foot. She gritted her teeth, and refused to reveal that it was still painful. She placed the towels and glass on a low table, and started towards the door.

  'You may need this.'

  She swung carefully around to see that he had risen and was holding out her sandal.

  'Thank you,' she forced herself to say excessively politely, and held out a hand.

  He moved towards her, but hung on to the sandal.

  'How are you getting to the hospital?'

  'My car,' she snapped, and turned away. He could keep the confounded shoe for all she cared. She just wanted to get home.

  On the veranda she rescued the handbag she had dropped, and then clung to the rail as she eased her way down the steps. As she started across the grass, she realised he had followed her.

  'I can manage,' she stated grimly, and then gasped on a stab of pain as she put her foot down on a sharp pebble.

  He merely gave an exasperated snort as he put his arm around her waist, and took some of her weight until they reached her own front door. He only let her go as he bent to pick up her suitcase and she fumbled in her bag for the key. As the door swung open, he gestured her in with a curt nod. She hesitated, and he pushed past her.

  'Your bedroom?'

  She stared blankly at him.

  His gaze stung her with its sudden scorn. 'I assure you / only want to put your case there!' he snapped, and started down the long hallway leading off the foyer. He stopped at the first closed door, and flung it open.

  Furious again, she limped after him as fast as she could. 'No, that's my uncle's ‑'

  She had reached him before the stench hit her. She pushed past him into the room and looked around in horror.

  George's normally spotless room was a mess. A pile of sheets and blankets had been thrown into one corner of the room. The bed was unmade, and as Jean drew closer she saw that the soiled sheets hadn't even been removed, and where they had been wet was covered in black mould. Dust was thick everywhere she looked, and even the urinal on the table placed conveniently near the bed had not been emptied. Chris's furious voice drew her dazed gaze to his face.

  'Well, Mrs Jones was certainly right about one thing: your poor uncle was badly neglected. You should be ashamed of yourself! He's certainly better off in hospital than in this pigsty!'

  He dropped her case where he stood. Before she could utter a word he had stormed out of sight.

  Jean took another unbelieving look around the room. Her need to find out what had happened swamped her with urgency. She reluctantly closed the door on the mess, and made her way as quickly as she could to her own room.

  Since she had lost so much weight, she had been using more make-up than she usually did, and one look in the mirror at her pale face and the devastation her tears had made had her hurrying to the bathroom.

  In record time she did what she could to restore her face to its usual immaculate condition, using more blusher than usual on her pale cheeks. But nothing could completely hide the black circles around her reddened eyes or take away the strained, taut look on her face. She quickly brushed out the tangles in her thick, shiny black hair that fell to shoulder length and then picked up a few strands of hair, biting her lip. It wasn't the first time she regretted the mad impulse that had sent her to the hairdressing salon at Airlie's Beach. Somehow, the colour did not match the fair skin with the slight scattering of freckles on her heart-shaped face.

  She decided her jeans would do, but changed into a fresh aqua blouse. After managing to squeeze her wrapped foot into an old, loose-fitting shoe, she made her way out through the laundry to the large double garage attached to the side of the house. She was thankful to note that her workshop door was still locked before she let herself out through the large roller door to the car-port outside. To her dismay, when she switched on the ignition of the large Commodore Holden station wagon nothing happened, not even the faintest whirr of the starter. A brief examination of the controls on the panel soon showed her why. The headlights had been left on.

  If Alicia or Dan had been there she might have thrown another punch, she thought as she rested her head on her hands on the steering-wheel. Why, oh, why had she left the keys for them?

  Now what? She had used the last of her cash to pay for the taxi, and there was no way her ankle would let her walk to the nearest bank. The hospital was at least twenty minutes' drive away.

  She raised her head and listened. A car was coming up the driveway. If that was Dan, she . . . she'd . . .

  It was Chris Hansen. And he was still furious, by the squeal of brakes and the way he climbed out of the sleek sports car.

  'Trouble?'

  Dan was really going to pay for this added insult to injury, she decided as she forced her shaking legs forward and managed to snap back in an equally cold voice, 'The headlights have been left on.'

  'Tough. Get in.'

  She hesitated, and the next thing she was being bundled into the passenger seat. 'You couldn't have driven far on that ankle anyway, you idiot.'

  'It's an automatic!'

  'You drive with your left foot on the accelerator and brake?'

  She subsided as he reversed the car. The pain in her ankle had lessened, but she knew how sore it would have become with added use.

  'Do up your seatbelt or you pay the fine,' he snapped.
r />   She reached for her seatbelt, and was glad she had it securely fastened as the car took off fast down the street.

  They were well over a block away when she cried out, 'My handbag! I left it in the car.'

  'It should be safe there until you get back,' he sighed impatiently.

  'But I've no money . . .' She thought of something. 'Look, I've changed my mind about going to the hospital first. Could you drop me off at Dan's office, please?'

  'Getting cold feet?'

  Jean stared at him blankly. 'What do you mean?'

  'Self-seeking women like you usually steer well away from such reality as hospitals present.'

  Pain slashed through her. For a moment she couldn't speak. She moistened her suddenly dry lips, and then said harshly, 'I don't know what you think you know about me, but I think you should know that Mrs Jones has been my enemy since I punched her son's face in when I was fourteen for trying to maul me.' She was aware that he glanced sharply at her and then away. She stared blindly through the windscreen. 'As for hospitals . . . I've spent quite a lot of time in the reality of sickness and death. I was within four months of finishing my university nursing diploma when George had his stroke. I visited him every day for his four weeks in hospital, and I've been his sole carer at home since his discharge. Now, if you take me to Dan's office, I'm sure someone there will be able to assist me.'

  Another car changed lanes in front of them without warning. She was jolted forward as the brakes were clamped on the sports car. Her eyes closed as her heart beat frantically for a moment at the near miss. Exhaustion gripped her again as her head started pounding.

  In an expressionless voice she gave instructions to Dan's office, and was relieved when Chris Hansen turned at the next traffic-lights without another word.

  'Who's Dan?'

  The snarled words penetrated her fog of tiredness. She didn't bother opening her eyes as she said listlessly, 'My uncle's stepson.'

  The deep tones were more subdued when they asked after a pause, 'Is he some of the "family" you couldn't contact?'

  'Yes.'

  There was a heavy silence. Jean's headache had settled into a dull ache some time later when she heard him clear his throat and say quietly, 'You'd better give me more instructions now we're at the shopping centre.'