City Surgeon, Small Town Miracle

groaned and headed down the cliff after her.

He had no trouble catching up to her, but as he reached her she swiped out at him and kept on going. She lurched as she put weight on what presumably was an injured leg. He grabbed her again-and she kicked him again.

Why was he doing this? Her rust-bucket of a truck had caused this mess. She’d kicked him and her boots packed a painful punch. Women, he thought bitterly. Since his wife’s death he’d carefully constructed a solid and impervious armour, and once again his desire to retreat behind it came to the fore. Why worry? She could head off after her calves and her dog, and he could ring a tow truck and wait for her to come to her senses.

But she was bleeding, and she was pregnant.

Personal choice didn’t come into this. Doctors didn’t sign the Hippocratic oath anymore, but conscience was insidious. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure she was bright enough to stop before she passed out from shock or blood loss, and an unconscious woman would complicate his life so much he didn’t want to think about it.

So he groaned and headed off again, and snagged her just as she hit the beach. This time he grabbed her by the back of her jeans. She swung back to face him, already lashing out, but he was ready for her. He reeled her in by the waist and swung her up into his arms, tugging her so close she couldn’t struggle.

‘Let me go. I’ll bleed on you,’ she snapped, and she had a point. He’d bought this jacket in Italy and he liked it. Ruining it for a woman who didn’t have a grain of sense to bless herself with seemed a waste. But it was unavoidable.

‘Go right ahead, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.’

‘Blood doesn’t come out of leather.’

‘No, it comes out of torn skin, which is why you have to shut up, keep still and let me put something on your head to stop the bleeding.’

‘I can fix it myself-when I’ve got the calves. Do you have any idea how I’m going to tell Gran where her cows are?’

‘You could say, “Gran, they’re on the beach,”’ he said mildly, ignoring her struggles and starting to climb the cliff again. ‘Okay, they’re important but your dog seems to have their measure. They look unhurt. The cliff gets steeper in either direction so my guess is that they’ll stay on the beach until you can organise a muster, or whatever you do with cows. Meanwhile my car’s in the middle of the road on a blind bend, blocking traffic, and I don’t want what’s left of it squashed.’

She glared up at him. ‘That’s a bit inequitable,’ she said, and suddenly he saw a hint of humour in her wide eyes. ‘What about my truck?’

‘I’ll save your truck too,’ he growled. ‘If you’ll let me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said meekly, and abruptly subsided.

He climbed back up to the road, suddenly aware that his own knees weren’t too steady. The airbags had kept him safe but shock was setting in. Plus he’d been kicked.

Almost as he thought it he felt an answering tremor in her body. She wasn’t as feisty as she was making out, he thought. Or she was hurting more than she’d admit.

Or maybe she was feeling guilty.

‘I’m sorry I kicked you,’ she said, and to his surprise she put her arms around his neck to hang on. It kept them both steadier as they climbed. It felt okay, too. His knees didn’t shake as much when she held him. ‘It might have been a little inappropriate,’ she conceded. ‘Especially since I think the accident was my fault.’

‘I’m sure it was your fault.’

‘That’s not very gracious.’ She pushed her hair back from her face-her braids were working loose-then looked at her hand in disgust. She shrugged and put it back round his neck. ‘Gross. Look, okay, I overreacted. Yes, I’m bleeding, so maybe you could lend me something to make a bandage. But then I need to go back down to the beach so I can take care of the calves. Maybe you could drive to my farm and ask Gran to send Angus?’

‘How far’s the farm?’

‘Five-minute drive.’

‘Angus will rescue you?’

‘Angus will rescue the calves.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, setting her down on the verge. ‘I don’t know what fairy-tales you’ve been reading, but in the ones I read heroes don’t put calves before fair maidens.’

‘I’m not exactly fair,’ she retorted. ‘I’m red.’

‘So I’ve noticed.’ But she was wilting, he thought, and it worried him. ‘So let’s stop you getting redder.’

Before she could protest he tugged off his bloodstained jacket, grabbed the sleeve of his very classy shirt- bought in Italy at the same time as his jacket-and ripped it from the shoulder. He folded the linen into a pad, placed it over her forehead and applied pressure.

‘That was a very nice shirt,’ she said, sounding subdued.

‘I’ll send you a bill.’

‘Do heroes say stuff like that?’

‘I believe I just did,’ he said, and grinned, and she managed a smile back. Whoa.

She was older than he’d thought-and she was a lot more attractive. Compellingly attractive, in fact.

Her smile was just plain gorgeous.

‘I can do that,’ she said, and put her hands up, grabbed his shirt-pad and pressed.

As well as being attractive, she was also a lot less stupid than he’d first thought, he conceded. She’d talked about raised intracranial pressure. Did she have medical training?

No matter. She was in no state to practise any medicine right now, and he had no time to concentrate on her smile.

Her head was okay for the moment. But he stood and looked down at her and thought, There’s more here than scratches. She was trying to make light of her injuries, but he recognised pain when he saw it.

She’d been limping. One knee of her jeans was shredded and bloodstained, though not nearly as dramatically as her face. Still…

He bent, carefully took the torn part of the leg of her jeans in both hands and ripped it to the ankle.

Hell.

How had she managed to climb down the cliff? How had she stood up at all?

She’d cut her knee-it was bleeding sluggishly-but that was only part of it. Already it had swollen to almost twice its size. There was a massive haematoma building behind.

‘Yikes,’ she whispered, pushing herself up on her elbows to look. ‘Why did you do that? It was better when I couldn’t see.’

‘Let’s get it elevated,’ he said, and mentally wished his jacket farewell. He folded it then wedged it under her bloodied knee. A spare tyre had spilled from the cattle crate. He put that under her feet, so her legs were raised on an incline as well.

She needed X-rays. Both leg and head, he thought. No matter what she said, he wasn’t about to let her die of an intracranial bleed just because she was stubborn. And there was also the biggie. The baby might have suffered a blow, and even if it was okay the impact could cause problems with the placenta. She needed an ultrasound, and bed-rest and observation.

Her baby needed attention. That meant he needed to hand her over and get away. Fast.

‘We need an ambulance,’ he told her, tugging his cellphone from his pocket. ‘You need X-rays.’

‘You can give that up as a joke,’ she said wearily. ‘Even if there was reception out here-which there isn’t- you’re looking at Yandilagong’s only ambulance right here.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s not usually the truck. I have a decent-sized estate wagon, only it blew the radiator hose this morning.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My truck’s the local ambulance until I can get a new radiator hose,’ she said patiently, as if talking to someone who wasn’t very bright. ‘And there’s not one to be had locally for love or money. I’ll get one from Gosland tomorrow-if I can leave Gran for that long.’

‘There’s no ambulance?’ He didn’t have time for the extra information she was throwing at him. He needed to