The Australian's Proposal: The Doctor's Marriage Wish / The Playboy Doctor's Proposal / The Nurse He's Been Waiting For. Alison RobertsЧитать онлайн книгу.
anxious for he repeated all his warnings and instructions about contact before Hamish finally signed off.
He reached down and swung one of the backpacks onto his shoulders, then lifted the other one.
‘That’s mine,’ Kate told him. ‘If you want to be gallant, take the smaller bag.’
He grumbled to himself, but held the medical equipment pack up for her so she could slip her arms into the straps.
‘We’ve a way to walk,’ he warned, and Kate grinned at him.
‘My legs may not be as long as yours, but they’ll get me anywhere we need to go, so lead on.’
He muttered something that sounded like ‘damned independent women,’ then turned his attention to the GPS, marking their current position as Landmark One, then keying in the position of the injured man.
‘It’s about eight hundred yards in that direction,’ he said, showing Kate the route map that had come up on the small screen.
They set off, picking their way through the wide-leafed palms that gave the gorge its name, clambering over the rocks littering the banks of the narrow creek that had cut through the sandstone over millions of years to form the deep but narrow valley. The creek was dry now, at the end of winter, but, come the wet season in late October, and it would roar to life, marks on the cliffs showing how high it could rise.
Darkness was falling swiftly, but they’d left the creek-bank and were walking on more stable ground, the light from their torches picking out any traps for their feet.
‘It shouldn’t be far now,’ Hamish told her. ‘I’ll try a “coo-ee.”’
The thought of a Scot using the Australian bush call made Kate smile, but Hamish’s ‘coo-ee’ was loud and strong, echoing back to them off the cliffs. Then they heard it, faint but clear, definitely a reply.
‘Well, at least he’s conscious,’ Hamish said, reaching back to take Kate’s hand to guide her in the right direction—hurrying now they knew they were close to their patient.
The man was lying propped against the base of the cliffs, an overhang above him forming a shallow, open cave. A very young man, haggard with pain, trying hard to hold back tears he no doubt felt were unmanly.
‘Digger said he’d let someone know, but I thought he was just saying it to make himself feel better about leaving me,’ the lad whispered, his voice choking and breaking on the words.
‘Well, he did the job and here we are,’ Hamish told him. ‘One doctor and one nurse, all present and correct. I’m Hamish and this is Kate, who’d barely set foot in Crocodile Creek when we whisked her off on this adventure.’
‘Crocodile Creek? You’re from Crocodile Creek?’
He sounded panicky and Kate knelt beside him and took his hand, feeling heat beneath his dry skin.
‘We’re the Remote Rescue Service,’ she said gently. ‘And now you know us, who are you and what have you done to yourself?’
She brushed her free hand against his cheek, confirming her first impression of a fever, then rested it on his chest, unobtrusively counting his respiratory rate. Twenty-five. Far too fast. She’d get him onto oxygen while Hamish completed his assessment.
The Scottish doctor was already kneeling on the other side of their patient, taking his pulse with one hand while the other released the clasps on the backpack. Kate swung hers to the ground and moved so her light swept over the patient’s body, picking up a rough, blood-stained bandage around the young man’s right thigh.
‘There’s a bullet in my leg,’ he said, and the phrasing of the answer made Hamish frown, although he didn’t question how or why, simply repeating part of Kate’s question.
‘And your name?’
The lad hesitated for another few seconds then finally said, ‘Jack. My name’s Jack.’
He was radiating tension that Kate guessed was more to do with his circumstances than his condition, although he seemed very weak. But if his tension arose from being abandoned, injured, in the middle of nowhere, surely their arrival should have brought relief.
And the name? Had he opted for Jack as a common enough name or was he really a Jack? Kate didn’t know, but she did know it didn’t matter. Jack he would be while they tended him, and part of tending him would be getting him to relax.
Hamish was doing his best, chatting as he ran his hands over Jack’s head and neck, asking him questions all the time, satisfying himself there were no other wounds and no reason to suspect internal damage. Where was the pain? Could he feel this? This? Had he come off his horse? Off a bike? Hit his head at all?
Jack’s responses were guarded, and occasionally confused, but, no, he hadn’t fallen, he’d stayed right on his bike. It was a four-wheeler.
And where was the bike?
He looked vaguely around, then shook his head, as if uncertain where a four-wheeler bike might have disappeared to.
The smell hit Kate as she fitted a mask and tube to the small oxygen bottle she’d taken from her backpack. She looked up to see Hamish unwinding the bandage from Jack’s leg. Necrotic tissue—no wonder the boy was feverish and looked so haggard.
‘How long since it happened?’
Jack shrugged.
‘Yesterday, I think. Or maybe the day before. I’ve been feeling pretty sick—went to sleep. Didn’t wake up until Digger moved me here this morning.’
‘Where’s Digger now?’ Kate asked, holding the oxygen mask away from his face so he could answer.
‘Dunno.’
Hamish raised his eyebrows at Kate, but didn’t comment, saying instead, ‘His pulse is racing. He needs fluid fast. I don’t want to do a cut-down here, so we’ll run it into both arms. If you open the smaller pack you’ll find a lamp. Set it up first then in your pack there’ll be all we need for fluid resuscitation—16g cannulae and infusers for rapid delivery. You’ll see the crystalloid solutions clearly marked.’
Kate found the battery-operated lamp and turned it on, a bright fluorescent light pushing back the shadowy evening. Now it was easy to see what they had—sterile packs of cannulas and catheters, bags of fluid, battery-operated fluid warmers, boxes of drugs.
‘Good luck,’ she said to Hamish as she handed him a venipuncture kit. ‘We’re going to get some fluid flowing into you,’ she added to Jack, as she found the fluid Hamish wanted and began to warm the first bag. ‘And that means inserting a hollow needle into one of your veins. But because you’re pretty dehydrated, your veins will have gone flat so it won’t be an easy job. I’m betting Hamish will need at least two goes to get it in.’
‘I’ll have you know, Sister Winship, I’m known as One-Go McGregor,’ Hamish said huffily, taking the tourniquet Kate passed him and winding it around Jack’s upper arm, hoping to raise a vein in the back of his hand or his wrist.
The needle slipped in. ‘See, told you!’ Hamish turned triumphantly to Jack. ‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t bet?’
Kate had tubing and a bag of fluid ready, and she turned her light onto the cliff-face behind their patient in search of small ledges where they could place the bags.
They changed places, Kate starting the fluid flowing into Jack’s vein, then setting the bag so it would continue to gravity feed through the tube. And all the time she talked to him—not about how he’d come to have a bullet in his leg, but about what she was doing, and how it would help.
‘Once Hamish has you hooked up on that side, we can start pain relief and antibiotics. It’s the infection from your wound that’s making you feel so lousy.’
‘Actually,’ Hamish said mildly, ‘getting shot in the first place would make me feel pretty lousy.’