ELEVEN
To my amazing husband who believed I could succeed at anything I put my hand to.
With special thanks to my fabulous critique partners at Write Romance. I owe you ladies so much!
And to the amazing bunch of writers who hang out in Subcare over at eharlequin.com. The hand holding and support found there is beyond compare.
‘ALL we’re doing is pasting a bandage over a gaping wound.’
Dr. Matt Palermo, in the middle of resectioning a femoral artery, ignored the exasperated mutter from the doctor beside him, knowing his colleague wasn’t speaking literally. The neighboring gurney housed an injury just as frightening as the one Matt was working on. Except the patient’s foot was long gone, lost somewhere in the depths of the rainforest.
The quick shrug of his shoulders had nothing to do with indifference and everything to do with dabbing a stray bead of perspiration that threatened to contaminate his surgical site. That was, if the sticky heat and buzzing flies hadn’t already coated all the equipment with noxious bacteria.
He fought the frustration that rose in his throat. He knew exactly what the doctor to his left was going through. Hadn’t he experienced the same overwhelming sense of hopelessness when he’d first come to this part of the Amazon? He still felt it at times. But that had had nothing to do with Brazil and everything to do with burying a large chunk of his heart in Tennessee. Even his bout with break-bone fever a couple of years ago couldn’t compare to the agonizing phrase that had changed his life for ever: I’m sorry; we did everything we could.
He shook off the memory and eyed the newly closed artery, checking it manually for leaks. Satisfied with the job, he prepared to close.
‘You need any help?’ he asked, risking a quick glance at the other doctor, who now sat slumped in a chair while his patient slept on, unaware that life as he knew it was over.
Just like Matt’s had been.
‘I’m done.’ Averted eyes and fingers scraping through hair that was stiff with a mixture of sweat and hair gel told Matt those two words would prove prophetic. After the city guy’s two-week stint down the Amazon on the medical boat was over, he’d catch the first flight home to Chicago. He’d go back to his urban medical practice. Back to his pristine surgical suite and soft piped-in music. He wouldn’t be coming back to Brazil.
Ever.
And Matt would again be left to fight the losing battle of man against nature.
Alone.
The blast of heat punched hard and fast as Stevie Wilson stepped from the cocooning shelter of the plane. She had to lock her knees and force herself to remain upright, or she’d end up melting onto the shiny black tarmac that danced and shimmered around her.
Wow. Coari was even hotter than she’d expected.
A quick tap of her hand sent her sunglasses toppling from their perch on her head to the bridge of her nose, where they cut the glare of the sun by half. She gave a sigh of relief and headed toward the worker who was busy tossing suitcases and foot lockers from the underbelly of the ancient aircraft.
‘Oi, Senhor! Cuidado com a mala vermelha, por favor.’
The man smiled and gave her a thumbs-up signal, and then, despite her request to the contrary, dropped her medical bag with a thunk onto the growing mound of luggage.
She winced. ‘Things can only get better from here, right, Stevie?’
Moving a few yards toward the vacant exterior of the airport terminal, she prayed someone was inside to meet her. She’d only dealt with the director of Projeto Vida, and though the woman had been cordial, she’d given a noncommittal ‘Have the applicant e-mail his full résumé, including qualifications and a copy of his medical license. We’ll get back to him.’ She’d rung off before Stevie had a chance to admit the ‘friend’ she’d been calling for was actually herself.
Much to her shock, after sending in the requested information, she’d received an affirmative response, along with a list of necessary vaccinations and visa requirements. A month later, here she was.
Free and clear.
Free from her lying fiancé-cum-hospital-director and the political maelstrom that had arisen in the wake of their broken engagement. Free from the subtly averted eyes of the nursing staff that had torn at her heart and shredded her confidence.
She was free to do what she’d gone into medicine to do: treat those in need. And if traveling down the Amazon on a floating hospital ship was the only way she could meet that goal, so be it.
She tugged her sticky cotton shirt away from her body and fanned it against her ribcage, hoping her deodorant proved to be as Kevlar-strong as the ads claimed. A flatbed cart raced by, heading toward the growing mountain of luggage. Well, at least she didn’t have to worry about unearthing the rest of her bags from that stack. Except that if her medical bag was now on top of the heap, it would soon be …
Turning, she took off at a sprint towards the pile and waved frantically at the two men. They stopped what they were doing, obviously wondering what the crazed foreigner was so upset about this time. She skidded to a stop and motioned to her bag, telling them what she wanted in Portuguese. Well, continental Portuguese, which she’d been told was different than the Brazilian version of the language, but it was all she had.
They evidently understood because the thumbs-up signs were again flashed in her direction before her bag was plucked from the stack and handed down—rather than tossed, this time.
‘Obrigada.’
