Her eyes were wide and brown and shocked.
It was one in the morning. Maybe reassurance was the way to go.
‘Take a look around,’ he said gently, motioning to the jumble behind him-buckets and spades, Nathan’s tricycle, Martin’s pogo stick, the bundle of wet towels left from the day’s play. ‘I’m a dad as well as a doctor. My kids are asleep upstairs. You’re safe here.’
‘The dog…’
‘Even the dog’s safe with me,’ he said ruefully. ‘Safe, reliable Dr Spencer.’
She even managed a smile at that. ‘Don’t say it like you’d rather be a playboy,’ she whispered.
‘Leave my fantasies alone,’ he growled, and smiled back. ‘Now, Erin, don’t get your knickers in a knot but I’m going to carry you indoors. One, two, three, go.’ And before she could protest he swung her up into his arms.
She was older than twenty. She was every bit a woman, he thought as his arms held her close. Pushing thirty? Maybe. Now the worst of the mess was gone from her face he could see smile lines around her eyes. Or worry lines? Nope, smile lines, he thought. She had clear, brown eyes, nicely spaced. Her mouth was generous and her nose was decidedly cute.
That was hardly patient appraisal. He gave himself a swift mental swipe and carried her inside before she could find the strength to protest.
She did protest as he stepped over the dog in the hall.
‘The dog…’ she managed. ‘Put me down.’
‘I’ll attend to your dog as soon as I’ve attended to you.’ In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if the dog was on the way out. It hadn’t moved an inch since he’d set it down.
But that wasn’t his concern right now. Erin had been retching. He needed to check there wasn’t a ruptured spleen or something equally appalling going on inside. So he stepped over the limp dog with purpose and carried her into the living room.
He’d been reading in here while he waited for his dough to…not rise. The open fire was still sending out warmth, making the place seem intimate and welcoming. The settee was big and squishy, built for comfort rather than style.
She protested again as he laid her on the mound of cushions.
‘I can’t. Your wife…I’ll stain your settee,’ she whispered as he laid her down, but her protest was weak. She was almost past arguing.
‘I have kids,’ he growled. ‘We’ve given up worrying about Home Beautiful years ago. Let’s have a look at you.’
There was a better light in the living room and he could see her more clearly. Lots of superficial injuries, he thought, taking in scratches and bruising. There was blood but not so much in any one place that it merited concern.
‘Can we take the worst of those clothes off?’ he asked, half expecting her to protest again, but she simply looked at him for a long moment, maybe assessing for herself the truth of his statement about reliability, steadfastness-dad material rather than playboy stuff. What she saw must have been okay. She nodded mutely and submitted as he peeled off her windcheater and tugged her jeans away.
He wanted her dry. Her bra and panties were scant and lacy-they’d dry quickly on her, he thought, and he guessed she’d be much happier if he let them be. He pulled a mohair throw from the back of the settee, tucked it round her and felt her relax a little with the warmth.
He felt her pulse again and it was slowing, growing stronger and steadier.
‘How far did you carry the dog?’ he asked, checking an arm gently, watching her face for reaction. No problems there. Her hands were scratched but there were no breaks. He lifted the other arm before she found the strength to reply.
‘Miles,’ she said, and she even managed to sound indignant. ‘This is the middle of nowhere.’
‘What, Bombadeen?’ he asked, pseudo indignant to match. ‘Bombadeen’s the cultural capital of the known world.’
‘Right,’ she managed, and tried for a smile. Then, as he moved to check her legs she added, ‘My legs are fine. Do you think I could have carried him with a broken leg?’
‘Toes?’
‘Also fine.’
But they weren’t. He tugged the lone trainer off her right foot. That was okay. He gently peeled the remainder of the sock from her left foot. Less than okay. Gravel was deeply embedded. The foot was bleeding, rubbed raw.
Not life-threatening, though. Move on for now.
‘Tummy?’
‘That does hurt,’ she whispered, finally acknowledging pain. ‘Like I’ve-just-been-retching hurt. But, no, I wasn’t hit in the chest or abdomen. I’d imagine my kidneys and spleen are in one piece and I’m breathing okay.’
She had medical knowledge, then? He smiled but he didn’t take her word for it. He put his hands gently on her abdomen and felt, still watching her face.
‘It’s true. I’m fine,’ she whispered.
‘In fact, you’ve never looked better,’ he agreed, relaxing. Then triage kicked in again. ‘You’ve been in a car accident. You’re sure no one else was hurt?’
‘There’s only me.’
‘And your car…You’re sure it’s not blocking the road? Do I need to call the emergency services to clear it?’
‘It’s way off the road,’ she said, suddenly bitter. ‘But even if it was, would you need to clear it? Apart from the car that caused me to crash-which didn’t even stop-I’ve seen no other car for hours.’
‘It’s a quiet little town in the middle of coastal bushland-and we’re on holiday.’ He was still watching her face, thinking the situation through. What next?
In the warm room Erin’s colour was starting to return. Her foot needed attention, as did her mass of cuts and bruises, but if she’d carried the dog for miles she must really care about it. Maybe triage said he ought to check.
‘If you’re okay for a minute, I’ll see what’s happening to your dog.’
‘Would you?’ She closed her eyes. ‘I think he’s dying. He was moving when I picked him up-he sort of moaned- but he didn’t struggle.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Dom said, and put his hand on her cheek in a fleeting gesture of reassurance. ‘Don’t move.’ He tucked the rug more tightly round her, pulled a couple more logs onto the fire then left, leaving the door wide so she could watch him.
Her eyes followed him. She must love the dog a lot to carry him with her foot like that, he thought. It’d be good if he could do something. But, like she’d said, the dog looked close to death.
The creature hadn’t moved. Dom flicked the hall light on so he could see him better and stooped over the limp form.
He wasn’t dead yet. Neither was he unconscious. The dog’s eyes were huge. He looked up at Dominic and his expression was almost imploring.
If there was one thing Dom was a sucker for it was a dog, especially a dog in trouble. And this one was really in trouble. ‘Hey,’ Dominic said softly, and put a finger gently behind the dog’s soft ear. He scratched gently. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’
He liked this dog on sight. It was mix of English bulldog and something he didn’t know. Part bulldog, part mutt? Dog ugly in every sense of the word. He looked a bit like Winston Churchill, missing the cigar.
But he didn’t smile at the thought. The situation was too serious.
Tending an injured dog had problems not normally associated with people, the main one being their propensity to bite. This one looked beyond biting, but Dom sensed that even when he was well this dog would be docile. His eyes followed him with absolute trust.
But, hell, he must be hurt. Why wasn’t he moving?
A few months ago Dom had attended a guy who’d come off his bike onto gravel. That’s what this dog looked like-he’d been dragged along the road. His coat was a mass of scratches, some deep. His mistress was in a much better state than he was.
What was so wrong that the dog couldn’t move?
