Bushfire Bride. Marion Lennox
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die because you’re not there. He’s over eighty, he’s grossly overweight and there are at least five cardiologists in Sydney who are as qualified as you are to care for him.’
‘You know that’s ridiculous.’
‘I know nothing of the kind.’
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ It was Brown Eyes. Hugo. But Rachel wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. She wheeled and gave him a look to kill.
‘Butt out. This is my business.’
He held up his hand, placating. ‘Whoa …’
‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned back into the cubicle, grabbed her overnight bag and hauled it out. It was a fine gesture which didn’t come off quite as planned. She hadn’t snibbed her bag shut, and it flew open. Out tumbled her spare jeans, her toilet bag—and a bra and a couple of pairs of very lacy, very scant panties.
They were Dottie’s offerings. Her mother-in-law. ‘You never know what’s going to happen, dear,’ she’d told her. ‘And I do so want you to be prepared.’
Dottie was right. You never did know what was going to happen, but one thing Rachel did know. She’d been a fool to ever agree to come here. She closed her eyes as her belongings tumbled everywhere. A bra flew past Digger’s nose. He snagged it and held on, seemingly bemused.
Everyone was bemused.
Dear heaven, let the ground open under her. She had to get out of here.
‘The dog can keep it,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, stuffing the rest of her gear into her bag and fighting a wave of burning mortification. ‘He’s so smart he can probably work out how to wear it.’ She pulled the remains of her bag shut, tugged the shreds of her dignity around her and stalked toward the door.
They watched her go, Hugo with laughter in his eyes and Michael with his jaw somewhere around his ankles.
She didn’t care. If she didn’t see any one of them again she’d be delighted. She was getting out of here.
She didn’t make it.
She stalked out of the pavilion, took a couple of deep breaths and regrouped for a moment to try and figure out the location of the main entrance to the showgrounds—and a dogfight broke out just behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
SHE stopped.
Of course she stopped. The sound of the dogfight was unmistakable, the vicious, ear-splitting snarls breaking through everything else.
And then a high-pitched scream of human terror.
She’d have to have been less than human to ignore it. She turned and stared, as did everyone else close enough to hear.
The dogfight was at the entrance of the pavilion she’d just left and it wasn’t a fight—it was a massacre. A faded old cocker spaniel, black and white turned to grey, had been held on its lead by his teenage owner but the pit bull terrier had no restraint and it was intent on killing. The dogs were locked in mortal combat, though the cocker clearly had no idea about fighting—no idea about how to defend himself.
The spaniel’s owner—a girl of maybe fifteen or so—was the one who’d screamed in terror. She was no longer screaming. She was trying desperately to separate them. As Rachel started forward—no!—the girl grabbed the pit bull’s collar and hauled. The dog snarled and twisted away from the spaniel—and bit.
‘No!’
Rachel was screaming at her to stop—to let go. She was running, but it was a good fifty yards back to the entrance to the pavilion.
The man—Hugo—was before her. The dogs were everywhere—a mass of writhing bodies with the girl beneath …
She had to get them apart. The girl would be killed. Rachel dived to grab a collar to pull the pit bull from the girl, but her arm was caught.
‘Keep back!’ Hugo’s harsh command had the power to make her pause. He was reaching for a hose snaking across the entrance and he hauled it forward. ‘Turn it on.’
She saw instantly what he wanted and dived for the tap. Two seconds later the tap was turned to full power. The massive hose, used to blast out the mess in the pavilion after showtime, was directed full at the dogs.
Nothing else could have separated them. The blast hit the pit bull square on the muzzle and drove him back. The hose turned to the spaniel, but he was already whimpering in retreat, badly bitten by the pit bull, while Rachel launched herself at the prone body of the girl.
‘Her leg …’ she breathed.
The girl’s leg was spurting bright arterial blood, a vast pulsating stream. Oh, God, had the dog torn the femoral artery? She’d die in minutes.
The dog had lunged at her upper leg and the girl had been wearing shorts! Dear heaven …
‘Someone, get my bag. Fast! Run!’ Hugo was shouting with urgency. ‘The car’s by the kiosk.’ Car keys were tossed into the crowd—swiftly, because Hugo’s hands were already trying to exert pressure. Rachel was hauling her T-shirt over her head. They needed something for a pressure pad—anything—and decency came a very poor second to lifesaving.
She shoved the shirt into Hugo’s hands and Hugo wasn’t asking questions. He grabbed the T-shirt and pushed.
‘Kim, don’t move,’ Hugo was saying, and with a jolt Rachel realised he was talking to the girl. He was good, this man. Even in extremis he found time to tell his patient what was happening. ‘Your leg’s been badly bitten and we need to stop the bleeding. I know it hurts like hell but someone’s gone for painkillers. Just a few short minutes before we can ease the pain for you, Kim. I promise.’
Could she hear? Rachel didn’t know and she had to concentrate on her own role. Hugo would want a more solid pad than one T-shirt could provide. She stared up into the crowd. ‘Michael,’ she yelled. Hugo was too busy applying pressure to haul off his shirt and he needed something to make a pad. And Michael could help with more than a shirt. He had the skills.
But Michael was gone.
It couldn’t matter. ‘Take mine.’ A burly farmer had seen her need and was hauling off his shirt. She accepted with gratitude, coiling it into a pad.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw her overnight bag, sprawled and open in the dust where she’d dropped it as she’d lunged for the tap. More clothes. Great. As Hugo looked up, searching for whatever she had, she handed him a pad. She made another with what was in the bag. Then she shoved the pad hard down over his and pressed. He pressed with her. Even their combined effort wasn’t enough to stop the flow.
‘I need forceps,’ he said grimly. ‘My bag …’
‘Clive’s gone to fetch it,’ the farmer told them, hovering over both doctors as they worked, his face ashen with concern. ‘He’ll be back any minute. He’s the fastest runner.’
‘Good.’ They were working together, their hands in tandem. Hugo was breathing fast, using all his strength to push tighter, and Rachel realised that she was hardly breathing at all. Live. Please. It was a prayer she’d learned early on in her medical training, and had used over and over. Skills were good but sometimes more was needed.
Luck?
Still the blood oozed. ‘Push down harder,’ Hugo told her. ‘Don’t move off the wound.’
‘I’m not moving,’ she said through gritted teeth. The bite resembled a shark bite—a huge, gaping wound that, left untended, would release all the body’s blood in minutes.
Even if tended …
She was pushing down so hard it hurt.
‘I need forceps.’ Hugo’s voice was growing more urgent as the situation became more desperate.