Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

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‘Check him out, then,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe don’t say anything until you’re sure.’

Dusty was obviously taking her at her word, or maybe he’d simply forgotten again and was just enjoying the moment. There was too much else to think about.

He didn’t have enough males in his life, Jess thought ruefully as she watched them. No grandparents. No uncles. His teacher was a woman. Even his karate instructor was female.

What were they saying?

This was driving her crazy.

Ben’s reaction to Dusty had Ben disconcerted. He didn’t react to kids like this. In truth, he hardly reacted to kids at all. Once they’d lost newborn status he had little to do with them.

He was aware of them, of course. He’d even done a stint of paediatrics during training. But now … it was as if his decision about avoiding families had made him tune out from doing more than be nice to the siblings of his newborns.

But Dusty seemed … different.

The kid had him intrigued. He wasn’t a noisy kid. He’d sensed the need for initial quiet in the enclosure they were cleaning, not wanting to scare the tortoises. For the first few minutes he’d simply scrubbed and not said anything.

Then, as the creatures got used to them, deciding they were no threat, Dusty started talking. A little.

‘There are three different species of turtle here,’ he told Ben. ‘Look at the markings. And two species of tortoise. I really like tortoises.’

‘Have you ever had one as a pet?’

He looked appalled. ‘We live in London. These guys would hate it there.’

‘I guess.’

Dusty scrubbed on, then peeped him a smile. ‘What did the snail say when he was having a ride on the tortoise’s back?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ben sat back and enjoyed Dusty’s grin. Once more, he was hit by that blast of recognition. Surely this was …

‘Wheeeeeeee,’ Dusty told him, and Ben found himself chuckling out loud.

The creatures around them didn’t even back away.

‘Do you know any tortoise jokes?’ Dusty demanded, and Ben thought about it. He and Nate used to buy books of jokes. Jokes had been their very favourite thing and Ben was blessed with an excellent memory.

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ he said, and Dusty chuckled in anticipation.

Just like Nate.

This was excellent, Jess thought. Wonderful. Dusty was getting to know his uncle without the tensions that revealing their relationship might cause. She’d deal with those tensions when they happened, she decided. Meanwhile the wombats were watching her balefully from inside their hollow log. Waiting for their clean house.

She scrubbed.

She kind of liked scrubbing. There were massive eucalypts overhead, taking away the sting of the sun. The wombats were a benign presence, and she thought, Am I doing it to your satisfaction, guys?

This was great for her head. It was taking her away from the grief of losing her mother, from the normal stress of work, the worry she always felt about Dusty …

And that was the biggie. Dusty had been desperately miserable since his gran had died. Now …

He had an uncle.

Any minute Ben might find out.

But when it came out … if Ben reacted well …

She glanced across at their stroke-for-stroke scrubbing. If Ben decided he did want to be an uncle … If he decided to share …

There were too many ifs. And she didn’t want to share with an Oaklander.

‘I’m befuddled,’ she told the wombats, and they eyed her as if they already knew it.

Befuddled but happy?

Yeah, okay, she was happy. She was in one of the most glorious places in the world. Come what may, Dusty had met his uncle. ‘I helped my uncle look after tortoises,’ she imagined him telling his friends back home. ‘He made me laugh.’

For Ben’s rich chuckle rang out, over and over, and a couple of research workers in one of the far enclosures swivelled to see. As they would. They were female and that chuckle … Whew.

Had Nate’s chuckle been as … gorgeous?

She couldn’t remember. Nate was a fuzzy memory, an overwhelming, romantic encounter and then nothing.

Ben was here, now.

He was still an Oaklander. Nate must have had that chuckle. For her to lose her senses as she had …

‘Well, I’m not losing my senses now,’ she told the wombats, returning to scrubbing with ferocity. ‘No way. I’m cleaning your yard and then I’m moving on.’

To the wallaby run. Not to Ben Oaklander. Not even close.

And then she paused. Sally had come flying out of the back door of the house. She looked around wildly. Saw her. Gasped.

‘I … I …’

And that look …

Jess was already rising. Switching mind sets. She’d done stints in emergency rooms. She knew that expression. ‘Sally, what is it?’

‘It’s Marge.’ Sally’s voice was scarcely above a whisper but the words carried regardless. ‘It’s serious.’

One minute Jess was a tourist, happily scrubbing for wombats. The next …

‘Ben,’ she yelled, no doubt scaring the wombats, but the look on Sally’s face said scaring was the least of their problems. ‘I need you.’

CHAPTER FOUR

A SORE leg and a head cold?

Much more.

Marge was lying on crumpled bedclothes, gasping for breath. Even from the doorway Jess could see signs of cyanosis, the blue tinge from lack of oxygen.

Ben was right behind her, and he saw the signs as she had.

Marge’s nightgown was buttoned tight to her throat. He strode forward and ripped the buttons open, easing constriction in an instant. He put his hands under her arms and lifted.

Jess dived to shove pillows behind her. They were getting pressure off her chest any way they knew how.

A pug growled from the end of the bed and Sally gasped and grabbed her and hauled her away.

The little dog whined in fright.

Sally sobbed.

Dianne was crowding into the room as well, with Dusty and the research workers behind her.

Marge was still conscious. Her breath was coming in short, harsh gasps, as if every breath was agony.

As Jess pushed the pillows more solidly behind her she coughed, and a splash of crimson stained the bedclothes in front of her.

‘Her leg,’ Jess said urgently to Ben. ‘A kick from the wallaby last week. Massage yesterday to alleviate the pain.’

And with that thought they both knew what they were dealing with. This had to be a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot in the leg, breaking up, moving to the lung. All the symptoms were there—the pain on breathing, the shortness of breath, the lack of oxygen marked by the bluish tinge. A bruise on the leg, a massage yesterday stirring it up … it made horrible sense.

They needed to call for transfer to a major hospital. They needed to clear the room. They needed to move fast. But just for this moment Ben took time for reassurance. Panic would make this much worse. He took Marge’s hands in his and he forced her terrified gaze to focus on him.

‘Marge, it’s okay, we know what’s happening and we know what to do about it,’ he said, firmly and strongly, and everyone in the room seemed to pause. Marge’s harsh breathing was still dreadful, but her eyes fixed on Ben’s, a terrified, wounded thing searching desperately for help.

‘Sally said you hurt your leg last week,’ Ben said, almost conversationally. ‘A fragment of clotted blood will have broken away and made its way to your lung. That’s what I think is happening. It’s causing problems with your breathing; it’s stopping your lungs inflating fully. That’s what’s hurting, your deflated lung. What we need is to get the pain under control so it doesn’t hurt so much to breathe, and to give you oxygen so you won’t have to breathe so often or so deeply. If I can find those things we’ll do it here to make you comfortable. Meanwhile, we’ll call for a transfer and get you to the mainland hospital, because that’s where they can give you blood thinners that’ll stop any more clots forming and causing more trouble. But it’s okay. We’ll take care of you.’

The doorway was crowded. Everyone was listening. Ben’s voice was deep and calm, dispersing panic.

Marge’s breathing was still short and sharp and dreadful but some of the terror faded. If Ben could persuade her to relax …