better with a wound like this. ‘How the heck…?’
‘Big batteries.’ Alf grimaced. ‘A man’s gotta have some comfort. What can I do now, Doc?’
‘Get my bag, if you can,’ Quinn told him. ‘It’s on the
The
Then Alf had the motor running again. It was foolhardy for two boats to be alongside when one was without a motor-dangerous at the best of times.
The men knew what they were doing, though. Fern and Quinn could stick to their medicine. If there was one thing the fishermen of Barega were good at, it was coping with the sea.
The boats were manoeuvred as though they were on a lake at midday instead of an ocean swell after dark. In two minutes there were more men clambering onto the deck of Alf’s boat and Quinn’s precious bag was with them.
Morphine…Saline…Everything they needed to try to keep Sam alive…
Everything except luck…
He’d need that, Fern thought grimly, feeling Sam’s cold and clammy skin. Luck, luck and more luck…
There was a sharp exclamation of horror from the bow of the boat and Fern glanced up in time to see the men drag aboard what was left of the dinghy.
Fern’s fear of a shark feeding frenzy had been realised. The dinghy was torn to ribbons.
Sam had been lucky already.
And at least Sam had Quinn Gallagher, Fern thought with gratitude, as Quinn set up a saline drip with a speed she’d never seen before.
If ever there was a man to have around in an emergency it was this man.
If ever there was a man to have around…
Over the next few hours Sam hovered between life and death but by three in the morning Quinn’s skill had loaded the dice in favour of life.
By three in the morning Fern was so exhausted that she was almost past caring.
They’d brought Sam back to Theatre and spent four gruelling hours trying to stem the bleeding and do emergency repairs.
If Quinn hadn’t been a skilled surgeon they wouldn’t have had a hope. The wound was horrendous.
At least the kidneys were clear. Their first task as they reached the hospital was to insert a catheter and watch for blood. The clear urine was the first piece of good news they’d had all night.
There was more.
It was just as well that Sam’s blood group was O positive-if he’d had a rare blood type the task of cross- matching enough blood with the island’s limited supplies would have been a nightmare.
With unit after unit of blood dripping into his veins to make up for the massive blood loss, Quinn assessed the wound and decided that his only choice was a full laparotomy. They didn’t have a clue what damage there was.
If there was liver damage…
It didn’t bear thinking of.
Quinn worked fast but thoroughly, cleaning and debriding the wound as he found and tied off the mass of tiny torn blood vessels that made the wound bleed so freely.
Fern gave the anaesthetic-a job that required her full attention with a patient who was so badly shocked-and could only marvel at the skills Quinn showed.
This man had been trained with the best. He was cool, swift and skilled but he was no textbook surgeon. This sort of surgery-repair of a wound so horribly different-took courage and intelligence, both of which Quinn seemed to have in abundance.
Barega was indeed blessed to have him here.
The bowel had been ripped and a small section completely torn out. Such a wound would have left Fern helpless with horror but Quinn didn’t falter. He hardly talked during the reanastomosis-the joining of the torn ends of the bowel-or as he performed a meticulous peritoneal lavage, carefully washing out the abdominal cavity. Slipshod work here would cost Sam his life.
This was no slipshod work.
The fingers doing the surgical procedures were skilled and sure and Fern knew that Sam wouldn’t be in any better hands if he’d been in Sydney.
The two island nurses stayed in Theatre and it took the four of them, working flat out, to give Sam a chance of life. This job in a major teaching hospital would have warranted a team of seven or eight. Here they had to make do with what they had.
Fern could only marvel as she watched Quinn sew the abdomen closed. There was still a massive defect-the dressing had to be applied over an area with no skin-but Sam now had a chance.
Finally, Quinn had done all he could. Fern adjusted intravenous antibiotics to maximum dosage and reversed the anaesthetic as the last dressing was put in place.
Quinn’s work had been little short of brilliant. It was now up to Sam…
When Quinn wearily pushed his mask from his face, it was more than he who sighed with relief. The nurses pushed the trolley away with their shoulders sagging in exhaustion. Neither nurse had been in such an intense surgical situation since their training hospital-and even then Fern doubted that they’d been under such pressure.
‘That was…That was magnificent…’ Fern told Quinn as she walked unsteadily over to the sink. She hauled her own mask from her face with a feeling of unreality.
‘It wasn’t too bad a job you did yourself, Dr Rycroft,’ Quinn told her and Fern flashed him a look of astonishment.
‘You don’t even sound exhausted.’
‘I guess I am,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ve gone onto automatic pilot.’
‘Some automatic pilot. It’s saved Sam’s life…’
‘I just hope that’s right. It’ll be days before we know for sure. His chances of infection are still high. You realise he’ll have to go to Sydney? It’s a rough job I’ve done tonight. Cosmetic stuff will have to be done by the plastic guys.’
‘As long as he lives…’
‘As you say.’
Fern closed her eyes, exhaustion sweeping over her in waves. The urgent needs past, she felt just plain sick.
Quinn stepped behind her and untied the ribbons of her surgical gown. He flicked his gloves into the waste bin and then put his hands on her waist.
‘You’re all done, Dr Rycroft,’ he said gently. He pulled her back to lean against him and she was too tired to care…
Not true.
She was too tired to resist.
‘Bed, I think, Dr Rycroft.’ Quinn’s head dropped and he planted a light kiss on her hair.
‘I…I think so…’
‘You realise you lost a fiance tonight?’
Quinn’s voice was coming from a very long way away. Fern leaned back against his chest and let his words drift. They didn’t make an awful lot of sense.
What had he said?
‘Sam’s going to live,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I know he is.’
‘Not with you, he’s not.’
‘Why…?’
She had to force herself to ask the question. What Quinn was saying didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was the feel of his arms around her, the feeling that here-against this man’s body-she was secure against all peril.
