From Christmas To Forever?. Marion Lennox
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get away.
Polly’s foot landed right on its spine.
It landed one fierce bite to her ankle—and then slithered away down the cliff.
She didn’t move. She didn’t cry out.
Two guys in bright yellow overalls were abseiling down towards the driver’s side of the truck, holding an end of a cradle stretcher apiece. They looked competent, sure of themselves … fast?
Horace was still the priority. He was elderly, he’d suffered massive blood loss and he needed to be where he could be worked on if he went into cardiac arrest.
She was suffering a snake bite.
Tiger snake? She wasn’t sure. She’d only ever seen one in the zoo and she hadn’t looked all that closely then.
It had had stripes.
Tiger snakes were deadly.
But not immediately. Wombat Valley was a bush hospital and one thing bush hospitals were bound to have was antivenin, she told herself. She thought back to her training. No one ever died in screaming agony two minutes after they were bitten by a snake. They died hours later. If they didn’t get antivenin.
Therefore, she just needed to stay still and the nice guys in the yellow suits would come and get her and they’d all live happily ever after.
‘Polly?’ It was Hugo, his voice suddenly sharp.
‘I … what?’ She let go her toehold—she was only using one foot now—and her rope swung.
She felt … a bit sick.
That must be her imagination. She shouldn’t feel sick so fast.
‘Polly, what’s happening?’
The guys—no, on closer inspection, it was a guy and a woman—had reached Horace. Had Hugo fitted the neck brace to Horace, or had the abseilers? She hadn’t noticed. They were steadying the stretcher against the cliff, then sliding it into the cab of the truck, but leaving its weight to be taken by the anchor point on the road. In another world she’d be fascinated.
Things were a bit … fuzzy.
‘Polly?’
‘Mmm?’ She was having trouble getting her tongue to work. Her mouth felt thick and dry.
‘What the hell …? I can’t get out. Someone up there … priority’s changed. We need a harness on Dr Hargreaves—fast.’
Did he think she was going to faint? She thought about that and decided he might be right.
So do something.
She had a seat—sort of. She looped her arms around the side cords and linked her hands, then put her head down as far as she could.
She could use some glucose.
‘Get someone down here.’ It was a roar. ‘Fast. Move!’
‘I’m not going to faint,’ she managed but it sounded feeble, even to her.
‘Damn right, you’re not going to faint,’ Hugo snapped. ‘You faint and you’re out of my employ. Pull yourself together, Dr Hargreaves. Put that head further down, take deep breaths and count between breathing. You know what to do. Do it.’
‘I need … juice …’ she managed but her voice trailed off. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t …
She mustn’t.
Breathe, two, three. Out, two, three. Breathe …
‘Hold on, sweetheart—they’re coming.’
What had he called her? Sweetheart? No one called Polly Hargreaves sweetheart unless they wanted her to do something. Or not do something. Not to cut her hair. Not to do medicine. To play socialite daughter for their friends.
To come home for Christmas …
She wasn’t going home for Christmas. She was staying in Wombat Valley. The thought was enough to steady her.
If she fainted then she’d fall and they’d send her back to Sydney in a body bag and her mother would have her fabulous funeral …
Not. Not, not, not.
‘I’ve been bitten by a snake,’ she muttered, with as much strength and dignity as she could muster. Which wasn’t actually very much at all. She still had her head between her knees and she daren’t move. ‘It was brown with stripes and it bit my ankle. And I know it’s a hell of a time to tell you, but I need to say … I’m also a Type One diabetic. So I’m not sure whether this is a hypo or snake bite but, if I fall, don’t let my mother bury me in pink. Promise.’
‘I promise,’ Hugo said and then a yellow-suited figure was beside her, and her only objection was that he was blocking her view of Hugo.
It sort of seemed important that she see Hugo.
‘She has a snake bite on her ankle,’ Hugo was saying urgently. ‘And she needs glucose. Probable hypo. Get the cradle back down here as fast as you can, and bring glucagon. While we wait, I have a pressure bandage here in the cabin. If you can swing her closer we’ll get her leg immobilised.’
‘You’re supposed to be on holiday,’ Polly managed while Yellow Suit figured out how to manoeuvre her closer to Hugo.
‘Like that’s going to happen now,’ Hugo said grimly. ‘Let’s get the hired help safe and worry about holidays later.’
FROM THERE THINGS moved fast. The team on the road was reassuringly professional. Polly was strapped into the cradle, her leg firmly wrapped, then she was lifted up the cliff with an abseiler at either end of the cradle.
She was hardly bumped, but she felt shaky and sick. If she was in an emergency situation she’d be no help at all.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she managed, for Hugo had climbed up after her and he was leaning over the stretcher, his lean, strong face creased in concern. ‘What a wuss. I didn’t mean …’
‘To be confronted by two guys about to fall down a cliff. To need to climb down and secure the truck and save them. To bring them lifesaving equipment and get bitten by a snake doing it. I don’t blame you for apologising, Dr Hargreaves. Wuss doesn’t begin to describe it.’
‘I should …’
‘Shut up,’ he said, quite kindly. ‘Polly, the snake … you said it had stripes.’
‘Brown with faint stripes.’
‘Great for noticing.’
‘It bit me,’ she said with dignity. ‘I always take notice of things that bite me.’
‘Excellent. Okay, sweetheart, we have a plan …’
‘I’m not your sweetheart!’ She said it with vehemence and she saw his brows rise in surprise—and also humour.
‘No. Inappropriate. Sexist. Apologies. Okay, Dr Hargreaves, we have a plan. We’re taking you to the Wombat Valley Hospital—it’s only a mile down the road. There we’ll fill you up with antivenin. The snake you describe is either a tiger or a brown …’
‘Tiger’s worse.’
‘We have antivenin for both. You’re reacting well with glucose. I think the faintness was a combination—the adrenaline went out of the situation just as the snake hit and the shock was enough to send you over the edge.’
‘I did not go over the edge!’
‘I do need to get my language right,’ he said and grinned. ‘No, Dr Hargreaves, you did not go over the edge, for which I’m profoundly