Dominic Spencer. Dom for short.’
‘Dominic,’ she managed.
‘Dom will do fine. And your name?
‘Erin Carmody.’
It wasn’t a comprehensive patient history but it’d do for now. ‘What hurts?’
‘Everything.’ It was practically a wail and he relaxed a little. In his experience, patients who were deathly ill didn’t wail.
‘Anything specific?’
‘N-no.’
‘What happened?’
‘I crashed my car.’
Where? The roads round here would be deserted at this time of night. Where had she walked from?
‘Is anyone else hurt?’ he asked, and she managed to shake her head.
‘So there’s no one else at the car.’
‘N-no. I was by myself.’
‘Is the car obstructing the road? Do I need to call the police?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Let’s get you out of the rain where I can take a look at you.’
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she managed. ‘It’s really late.’ She stared blindly up at him and he thought he saw fear. Her eyes were wide and brown and shocked.
It was one in the morning. Maybe reassurance was the way to go.
‘Take a look around,’ he said gently, motioning to the jumble behind him—buckets and spades, Nathan’s tricycle, Martin’s pogo stick, the bundle of wet towels left from the day’s play. ‘I’m a dad as well as a doctor. My kids are asleep upstairs. You’re safe here.’
‘The dog…’
‘Even the dog’s safe with me,’ he said ruefully. ‘Safe, reliable Dr Spencer.’
She even managed a smile at that. ‘Don’t say it like you’d rather be a playboy,’ she whispered.
‘Leave my fantasies alone,’ he growled, and smiled back. ‘Now, Erin, don’t get your knickers in a knot but I’m going to carry you indoors. One, two, three, go.’ And before she could protest he swung her up into his arms.
She was older than twenty. She was every bit a woman, he thought as his arms held her close. Pushing thirty? Maybe. Now the worst of the mess was gone from her face he could see smile lines around her eyes. Or worry lines? Nope, smile lines, he thought. She had clear, brown eyes, nicely spaced. Her mouth was generous and her nose was decidedly cute.
That was hardly patient appraisal. He gave himself a swift mental swipe and carried her inside before she could find the strength to protest.
She did protest as he stepped over the dog in the hall.
‘The dog…’ she managed. ‘Put me down.’
‘I’ll attend to your dog as soon as I’ve attended to you.’ In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the dog was on the way out. It hadn’t moved an inch since he’d set it down.
But that wasn’t his concern right now. Erin had been retching. He needed to check there wasn’t a ruptured spleen or something equally appalling going on inside. So he stepped over the limp dog with purpose and carried her into the living room.
He’d been reading in here while he waited for his dough to…not rise. The open fire was still sending out warmth, making the place seem intimate and welcoming. The settee was big and squishy, built for comfort rather than style.
She protested again as he laid her on the mound of cushions.
‘I can’t. Your wife… I’ll stain your settee,’ she whispered as he laid her down, but her protest was weak. She was almost past arguing.
‘I have kids,’ he growled. ‘We’ve given up worrying about Home Beautiful years ago. Let’s have a look at you.’
There was a better light in the living room and he could see her more clearly. Lots of superficial injuries, he thought, taking in scratches and bruising. There was blood but not so much in any one place that it merited concern.
‘Can we take the worst of those clothes off?’ he asked, half expecting her to protest again, but she simply looked at him for a long moment, maybe assessing for herself the truth of his statement about reliability, steadfastness—dad material rather than playboy stuff. What she saw must have been okay. She nodded mutely and submitted as he peeled off her windcheater and tugged her jeans away.
He wanted her dry. Her bra and panties were scant and lacy—they’d dry quickly on her, he thought, and he guessed she’d be much happier if he let them be. He pulled a mohair throw from the back of the settee, tucked it round her and felt her relax a little with the warmth.
He felt her pulse again and it was slowing, growing stronger and steadier.
‘How far did you carry the dog?’ he asked, checking an arm gently, watching her face for reaction. No problems there. Her hands were scratched but there were no breaks. He lifted the other arm before she found the strength to reply.
‘Miles,’ she said, and she even managed to sound indignant. ‘This is the middle of nowhere.’
‘What, Bombadeen?’ he asked, pseudo indignant to match. ‘Bombadeen’s the cultural capital of the known world.’
‘Right,’ she managed, and tried for a smile. Then, as he moved to check her legs she added, ‘My legs are fine. Do you think I could have carried him with a broken leg?’
‘Toes?’
‘Also fine.’
But they weren’t. He tugged the lone trainer off her right foot. That was okay. He gently peeled the remainder of the sock from her left foot. Less than okay. Gravel was deeply embedded. The foot was bleeding, rubbed raw.
Not life-threatening, though. Move on for now.
‘Tummy?’
‘That does hurt,’ she whispered, finally acknowledging pain. ‘Like I’ve-just-been-retching hurt. But, no, I wasn’t hit in the chest or abdomen. I’d imagine my kidneys and spleen are in one piece and I’m breathing okay.’
She had medical knowledge, then? He smiled but he didn’t take her word for it. He put his hands gently on her abdomen and felt, still watching her face.
‘It’s true. I’m fine,’ she whispered.
‘In fact, you’ve never looked better,’ he agreed, relaxing. Then triage kicked in again. ‘You’ve been in a car accident. You’re sure no one else was hurt?’
‘There’s only me.’
‘And your car… You’re sure
