she said again, breathlessly. ‘How’re you guys doing? Would you like a bag?’
And, amazingly, she hauled up his canvas holdall from under her.
Horace was slumped forward, semi-conscious, not reacting to her presence. Polly gave Horace a long, assessing look and then turned her attention to him. He got the same glance. Until her assessment told her otherwise, it seemed he was the patient.
‘Okay?’ she asked.
‘Bruises. Nothing more. I’m okay to work.’
He got a brisk nod, accepting his word, moving on. ‘If you’re planning on coping with childbirth or constipation, forget it,’ she told him, lifting the bag through the open window towards him. ‘I took stuff out to lighten the load. But this should have what you need.’
To say he was gobsmacked would be an understatement. She was acting like a doctor in a ward—calm, concise, using humour to deflect tension. She was hanging by some sort of harness—no, some sort of seat—at the end of a nylon cord. She was red-headed and freckled and polka-dotted, and she was cute …
She was a doctor, offering assistance.
He grabbed the bag so she could use her hands to steady herself and, as soon as he had it, her smile went to high beam. But her smile still encompassed a watchful eye on Horace. She was an emergency physician, he thought. ER work was a skill—communicating and reassuring terrified patients while assessing injuries at the same time. That was what she was doing. She knew the pressure he was under but her manner said this was just another day in the office.
‘Those bruises,’ she said. ‘Any on the head? No concussion?’
So he was still a patient. ‘No.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Then it’s probably better if you work from inside the truck. If I work on Horace from outside I might put more pressure …’
‘You’ve done enough.’
‘I haven’t but I don’t want to bump the truck more than necessary. Yell if you need help but if you’re fine to put in the drip then I’ll tie myself to a sapling and watch. Margaret is up top, manning the phones, so it’s my turn for a spot of R and R. It’s time to strut your stuff, Dr Denver. Go.’
She pushed herself back from the truck and cocked a quizzical eyebrow—and he couldn’t speak.
Time to strut his stuff? She was right, of course. He needed to stop staring at polka dots.
He needed to try and save Horace.
Polly was now just as stuck as the guys in the truck.
There was no way she could pull herself up the cliff again. She couldn’t get purchase on the nylon without cutting herself. The cord had cut her hands while she’d lowered herself, but to get the bag to Hugo, to try and save Horace’s life, she’d decided a bit of hand damage was worthwhile.
Getting up, though … Not so much. The cavalry was on its way. She’d done everything she could.
Now all she had to do was secure herself and watch Hugo work.
He couldn’t do it.
He had all the equipment he needed. All he had to do was find a vein and insert a drip.
But Horace was a big man, his arms were fleshy and flaccid, and his blood pressure had dropped to dangerous levels. Even in normal circumstances it’d be tricky to find a vein.
Horace was bleeding from the arm nearest him. He had that pressure bound. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but he needed to use Horace’s other arm for the drip.
It should be easy. All he needed to do was tug Horace’s arm forward, locate the vein at the elbow and insert the drip.
But he was at the wrong angle and his hands shook. Something about crashing down a cliff, thinking he was going to hit the bottom? The vein he was trying for slid away under the needle.
‘Want me to try?’ Polly had tugged back from the truck, cautious that she might inadvertently put weight on it, but she’d been watching.
‘You can hardly operate while hanging on a rope,’ he told her and she gave him a look of indignation.
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve rigged this up with a neat seat. So I’m not exactly hanging. If you’re having trouble … I don’t want to bump the truck but for Horace … maybe it’s worth the risk.’
And she was right. Priority had to be that vein, but if he couldn’t find it, how could she?
‘I’ve done my first part of anaesthetic training,’ she said, diffidently now. ‘Finding veins is what I’m good at.’
‘You’re an anaesthetist?’
‘Nearly. You didn’t know that, did you, Dr Denver?’ To his further astonishment, she sounded smug. ‘Emergency physician with anaesthetist skills. You have two medics for the price of one. So … can I help?’
And he looked again at Horace’s arm and he thought of the consequences of not trusting. She was an anaesthetist. They were both in impossible positions but she had the training.
‘Yes, please.’
Her hands hurt. Lowering herself using only the thin cord had been rough.
Her backside also hurt. Three thin nylon cords weren’t anyone’s idea of good seat padding. She was using her feet to swing herself as close to the truck as she dared, trying to balance next to the window.
There was nothing to tie herself to.
And then Hugo reached over and caught the halter-tie of her dress, so her shoulder was caught at the rear of the window.
‘No weight,’ he told her. ‘I’ll just hold you steady.’
‘What a good thing I didn’t wear a strapless number,’ she said approvingly, trying to ignore the feel of his hand against her bare skin. Truly, this was the most extraordinary position …
It was the most extraordinary feeling. His hold made her feel … safe?
Was she out of her mind? Safe? But he held fast and it settled her.
Hugo had swabbed but she swabbed again, holding Horace’s arm steady as she worked. She had his arm out of the window, resting on the window ledge. The light here was good.
She pressed lightly and pressed again …
The cannula was suddenly in her hand. Hugo was holding her with one hand, acting as theatre assistant with the other.
Once again that word played into her mind. Safe … But she had eyes only for the faint contour that said she might have a viable vein …
She took the cannula and took a moment to steady herself. Hugo’s hold on
