Four Weddings. Fiona Lowe
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respect.
* * *
Tom wanted to chop wood. Wanted to swing the axe high over his head and bring it slamming down into the timber, sending splinters flying. He needed to feel the release of tension, feel it drain out of him and into the axe.
He’d lived at the woodpile during his adolescence. There was nothing more satisfying than splitting wood when that hot ball of fury sat firmly in your chest.
But he had patients to see.
He clenched and unclenched his hands. Bec Monahan was the most provoking, the most maddening, most independent, most … His brain fumed, clutching for more descriptors.
Most sexy woman you have ever met.
Visions of her in a bubble bath resurfaced in his mind. He blasted it away on a wave of outrage. What the hell was he thinking, picturing Bec naked?
She was gorgeous but she deserved someone who could give her his complete attention. Right now he couldn’t do that. He had to sort out who he was before he could get involved with any woman.
Not that she wanted him anyway.
Since she’d told him about her father she’d seemed more relaxed around him. The flinching thing had faded, thank goodness. He hated feeling like an ogre just because he was male. And yet she still had this wall around her, keeping more out than she let in.
This woman gave of herself every moment of her day but if he tried to give some of that care back to her, she refused it every time.
What the hell was wrong with her? Couldn’t a bloke be a friend?
Her father threw her down the stairs.
He closed his eyes and drew in a long, slow, deep breath. He had no idea what it was like to live in fear but Bec had lived with it for sixteen years. Ironically, he’d fled a war as a baby and she had lived through a domestic war.
But she’d moved on from that and had made herself a fulfilling life.
A life on her own.
Alone.
His anger died. She’d been so busy surviving she hadn’t learned the wonder of friendship.
Teach her how to let people in. Show her friendship.
The crazy thought ricocheted through his head. Could he?
‘Tom! Hin! Code one.’ Bec’s voice carried across the compound from where she stood by the door of a house waving frantically.
Since the cholera outbreak they had instigated a series of codes to signal each other. Code one meant medical emergency. He grabbed the emergency kit from the four-wheel-drive and ran back to her.
A toddler, about eighteen months old, lay in an oval bamboo basket in the dark hut. Her mother knelt next to her, her face taut with fear.
Bec rubbed the tiny girl’s sternum. ‘I can’t rouse her. She’s unconscious. No head injury evident and her skin is burning up.’ Her worried face glanced up at him. ‘And I can’t find Hin.’
Tom recognised the mother. He’d seen this child a couple of months earlier. In Vietnamese he asked the woman, ‘Did she take all the medicine in the bottle?’ He hoped his accent was on the correct vowels of the Vietnamese words.
The mother wrung her hands and dropped her eyes.
Tom caught sight of the family temple with the bottle of Artemisinin placed firmly in the centre, flanked by other offerings of flowers, food and incense.
Exasperation slammed into hurt. Why didn’t they listen to his advice? He wasn’t just some foreigner charging in. He was Vietnamese, too. He was on their side.
Just treat the child. He gently inserted the aural thermometer into the little girl’s ear. ‘Bec, she’s got a temp of forty-two Celsius. Set up a drip.’
Bec nodded. ‘Saline?’
‘No, glucose. It’s malaria and she’s going to need sugar. Severe malaria causes a precipitous fall in blood sugar, inducing a coma.’
He gently opened the eyelids of his patient, shining a penlight into her eyes. ‘Cerebral malaria can mimic a head injury or meningitis, but I diagnosed malaria on this child a while ago with a finger-prick test.’
‘It’s hard to treat it when the malaria in South-East Asia is extremely resistant to drugs.’ Bec threw him an understanding look.
‘I prescribed ACT. It works well, it just has to be taken.’ He inclined his head as his anger blasted out the words.
Bec caught site of the bottle, frowning as comprehension dawned.
Hin rushed in. ‘What’s happening?’
Bec spoke first. ‘Cerebral malaria. Can you go and get the ice? I need to cool her down fast. Bring towels as well.’
Hin nodded and turned, running out of the hut.
Tom put his finger on the sole of the child’s foot, pushing his nail into the skin to try and rouse her to the stimulus. ‘Hell, that’s a zero on the Blantyre coma scale.’
‘No response to painful stimulus and she’s not even crying. She’s critical.’ Bec pushed a torch into the mother’s hand and moved the light beam onto the child’s arm. ‘Hold it here, please.’
The English words meant nothing to the mother but Bec’s active demonstration said it all.
Bec swabbed the arm and handed Tom a tiny cannula. ‘She needs to be in intensive care.’
Tom guided the needle into the flaccid arm, concentrating on not going right through the vein. ‘We’ll get her there but first let’s get some fluid and antipyretics into her to bring the fever down.’
She bit her lip and taped the drip in place, putting a backboard on the tiny arm.
Tom’s heart contracted. He wanted to tell Bec that the child would be all right but he couldn’t provide that guarantee. All he had were facts and stats. ‘Toddlers succumb to malaria because they’ve just been weaned. They lose their mother’s antibodies before they can develop some resistance of their own.’
Bec stroked the child’s head. ‘Come on, little one, hang in there.’ With a flick of her head she turned to him, the worry in her eyes replaced by her practical go-get-'em attitude. ‘Obviously you won’t have Mannitol in that emergency kit to reduce the swelling of the brain, so what’s your next step? I know you have more up your sleeve than sugar and paracetamol.’ Her encouraging smile carried total belief in his skills.
Her compliment rallied his dented spirit. He smiled at her, longing to tell her how much her faith in his ability as a doctor really helped. ‘Quinine is still the drug of choice and we’ll push that after we’ve brought her fever down. I don’t want her fitting if I can help it.’
Hin rushed back into the hut, clutching the portable cooler and towels. Bec quickly rolled the ice into the towels to make small ice packs, which she placed around the little girl, wedging them between the child and the basket.
Tom titrated the paracetamol into the IV. ‘Hin, explain to the mother that her daughter has malaria and she must go to Danang hospital.’
Hin’s voice relayed the message.
A howl of distress sounded from the mother, her face taut with grief.
‘She says Danang is too far and they have no money to pay the hospital.’
‘Tell her I’ll pay.’ Bec wrapped her arms around the woman’s shoulders, comforting and supporting her.
Hin looked straight at Tom, seeking clarification.
He nodded. ‘Tell her the bills will be paid no matter what.’ Money might not be enough to save the child. Sighing,