The Flyer (3 page)

Deeper, this time.

Bessie rolled onto her back, bringing him almost to the floor of the river. His naked back slammed against a sunken log, forcing out what little air he had left. The dark walls of panic closed around him. His mind swirled.
Bloody hell!
He pushed away, using Bessie’s weight to propel him upward. He broke the surface and inhaled.

He shouldn’t have done that. Crikey, she was a fast blighter. Even as Bessie’s wide, ominous jaws opened mere inches from his face, cheers rose from the shoreline. At least his mates were having a fine go.

He dove, forcing his body beneath Bessie’s soft underbelly. Too late. The croc’s teeth sliced his chest and shoulder, but thankfully, she was unable to maintain her deadly hold.

Fortunately for him, she must have believed she’d taken him, because she started to spin. For the first time in the few minutes since the fight began, Paul grinned to himself. Oh yeah. Roll on, love.

Paul wrapped his arms around Bessie’s midsection and used the momentum of the roll to hoist himself farther onto her belly. Finally centered, he wrapped one arm around her neck and straddled her. Gripping with his knees, he fought the urge to get the hell out of the river and leave her be. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. He was in it now, and there was no getting out.

After several more rolls, and more than one dose of river water in his lungs, Bessie came to a stop. She made for the shore with Paul clinging like a koala to a limb beneath her. If she landed, Paul was croc bait for sure.

Paul slid his arm a few inches over the smooth underside of the croc’s wide neck, then tightened his grip. He was exhausted. His lungs protested the length of time since his last breath. The thick, spiky skin encasing the ancient remnant of the dinosaurs had torn his strides to near shreds. The flesh beneath the remains of the fabric burned.

Still, he garnered enough strength, from somewhere, and gripped the handle of his knife as tightly as he could. With the last of his strength, he plunged the fourteen-inch blade deep into the soft throat.

The water turned crimson in the moonlight.

Helen pulled a silver-handled brush through her hair a final time, then placed it on the matching sterling-trimmed tray in front of her vanity mirror. She’d spent her first evening in her new home unpacking her trunk and turning the back bedroom of Dr. Richard Mallory’s upstairs apartment into her own. Her mentor had abandoned his home for her, moving in with his widowed sister in order to provide a place for her to live. Yet another unwarranted act of kindness on his part.

Where there had been only a plain white coverlet on the bed, there was now an elaborate quilt, lovingly stitched by her grandmother. It had been a gift upon her graduation from the University of California, San Francisco, six months earlier.

Inside the wardrobe, she’d hung her scant collection of dresses, the thick bandages she used to trim her too-full breasts each day, and several pairs of shoes, including a rugged pair of boots, which had been her father’s only contribution to her sudden relocation across the globe. The vanity held her collection of crystal and silver cosmetic and scented oil jars, and a single silver picture frame.

She ignored the portrait encased in the frame.

At least, she tried to, but her father’s stare bore into her with the same disappointment it had since she’d made the decision to leave San Francisco. To this day, she couldn’t be sure where the disappointment came from. Had it been her decision to leave, or the reason she’d been forced to make it?

None of it mattered now. She’d made her decision, and she’d followed through. No matter what anyone said about her, they all had to admit that Helen Stanwood finished what she started.

The apartment was small, but then, she didn’t need a lot of room. Not when she had only herself to take care of. Luckily, it was furnished, so the few personal items she’d brought with her—photographs, the quilt, and a few books and phonograph recordings—were enough to make it seem like home. In addition to her bedroom, she had a second bedroom, a small parlor, a workable kitchen, a private indoor water closet, and a tiny library for her medical books and journals.

It was all she needed, and far more than she deserved.

She left the bedroom, hitching the belt of her dressing gown. The hallway was narrow and short, leading directly into the parlor, and then the kitchen, which was furnished with a small icebox, a large sink, an old wood-stove, and a heavy wooden table. She opened the icebox, thoughtfully stocked by her benefactor just this morning, and retrieved a bottle of milk.

A crash sounded from beneath her. It took her a moment to realize it was someone banging on the largely glass front door of Dr. Mallory’s clinic, directly beneath her feet.

Almost dropping the bottle of milk, she slammed it on the naked kitchen table and raced out of her apartment. A second later, she reached the door and pulled it open.

“Where’s Doc?” a burly man shouted. Practically shoving her aside, he half-dragged, half-carried another man, almost as large as himself, through the door.

“He’s not here. He’s moved in with his sister.”

“We’ll have to fetch him. We have a slight emergency, haven’t we?”

The injured man seemed barely conscious. His head, covered with a damp hat turned up on one side, bobbed left then right, and his feet scraped against the hardwood floor. His trousers were drenched, torn, and clung to his muscled legs. Dark blood soaked a shirt that hung, unbuttoned, from wide, solid shoulders.

“What kind of emergency?” Considering both men smelled like breweries, she had a vague idea. Following them into the examination room, she noted the uninjured man’s weaving steps. If it weren’t for the blood, she might have been inclined to think they were both simply inebriated. Nothing a good dose of castor oil wouldn’t cure by morning.

“Croc bite.”

Croc bite? As in crocodile? This was a first. “Put him on the table, if you can. I’m a doctor.”

“You?” Bushy eyebrows that matched his red hair raised a notch. “No offense meant, sweetheart, but I think we’ll be needing Doc for this one.”

“No offense taken,” she replied, forcing a smile. “But you’ll have to settle for me, I’m afraid. Dr. Mallory isn’t here, and I am.”

She’d faced enough battles in her quest to become a doctor to know how to stand her ground. But her heart still hurt from the slights she’d received back in the States, and the fact that her gender had closed so many doors. Not as many as she’d closed on her own, of course, but still…

Her first Australian patient stirred when his cohort settled him on the table. His voice was weak, but held a note of argument. “Bloody hell, Tim. I’m bleeding to death, aren’t I? If the sheila wants to play nurse, let her, for Christ’s sake.” Dazed blue eyes turned in her direction. From loss of blood or too much hooch, she couldn’t tell immediately. Most likely, the bleary-eyed gaze was a combined result of the two. A grin formed on his mostly clean-shaven face. “Aye,” he whispered. “She can play nurse all she likes, indeed.”

Helen quickly turned away. The man didn’t know what he was saying, obviously. It was to be expected between the blood loss and the booze. She had learned months ago that men seldom said what they meant. Especially men who looked at women the way he looked at her. As though he could see through her chemise.

Suddenly she remembered her state of near undress. A quick glance down confirmed that her dressing gown covered her well enough, but she still felt too close to naked for comfort. Beneath the gown and robe, both made from pure silk, her too-large breasts swayed, then tightened beneath his perusal. She might as well have
been
naked. She pulled a white jacket from a hook on the back of the door, threw it on as casually as she could, and hooked the two buttons closest to her unbound breasts.

She washed her hands in a small sink in the corner. “Take off his shirt,” she ordered in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact tone, not tainted with the sudden flurry of excitement roiling in her gut, despite the lessons she’d learned.

The man called Tim complied, immediately stripping his friend to the waist amid groans of protest.

When Helen turned to face her patient, she hid a gasp. She was a doctor. Fully trained. Fully capable. She’d treated broken bones, delivered children in the most risky of circumstances—once she’d treated a man who had fallen into the path of a trolley. The naked male body was nothing to shock her. For Pete’s sake, he wasn’t even naked, yet her breath caught for more than the ragged gash on his shoulder.

She’d only been three years old when a horrendously destructive earthquake had devastated her home, leaving burned and bloody victims all over the city. But she remembered it vividly and the horrific injuries her father had treated. The image served as a reminder of her professional obligation to her patient. The taut, sinewy ripple of muscle beneath tanned, soft flesh was not her concern.

Not to mention, in the months since she’d graduated and begun her stilted practice, she’d never encountered anything as brutal as this man’s shoulder. The wound was ragged, extending from just above his right nipple to the outside of his right shoulder. And it was deep. Already, the skin around it glowed crimson in the yellow light of the single electric bulb that hung from the center of the ceiling. “What happened to him? And exactly how much has he had to drink?”

“I told you. Croc bite.”

“Yes, but
how
was he bitten?”

“With her teeth,” replied her patient with that remarkable half grin. He chuckled, then winced.

“Lord, you must have been drunker than most to fall into the path of a crocodile.” She collected several swatches of soft, white cloth and a bottle of iodine, then sat on the stool beside the examination table.

“I didn’t fall into anything. I was fighting her.”

She raised her gaze to his and found him tracing the lines of her face with his amazingly solemn eyes. “You know, most of the men I know only fight
each other
when they’ve had too much to drink.” After a pause, she added, “This is a vicious wound, but I think you’ll heal.”

Her patient studied her. She could feel his gaze as she might feel his hands. Caressing her. Holding her.

Unbidden, her mouth pursed into a disapproving frown, and she did her best to disguise it. It wasn’t his imbibing she disapproved of, but the way he was looking at her. She’d seen that look before.

“I don’t think you quite understand. It’s my job. Well, one of them. Whenever a croc becomes a menace, they call me to get rid of it. This particular lady was quite the nuisance along the river. She just nipped me a little.”

“It’s more than a little, and I’m fairly certain you have been drinking. I don’t care what you say. I’m not judging, mind you. I’m speaking from a purely professional position. Had you not been drinking, you might have thought better of this particular activity. This is going to hurt a little,” she added, dousing the gash with iodine.

“Crikey!” He lunged, trying to climb off the table.

Tim held him down. “Seems to me he hasn’t had nearly enough to drink,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“What’s your name?” Helen gripped the bottle of iodine and tried to keep her hands from shaking. It wouldn’t do to show her patient just how nervous she was. After all, this was her first … crocodile wound.

“Campbell. Paul Campbell,” he replied through clenched teeth.

“Hello, Mr. Campbell. I’m Dr. Helen Margaret Stanwood. I must clean the wound before I can sew it closed. I’ve already warned you that it will hurt. Would you like a dose of laudanum?”

“Never touch the stuff,” he answered.

“I find that rather difficult to believe. But suit yourself. Do us all a favor, and try not to scream.”

She doused the wound again. This time, Paul gritted his teeth, taking in a sharp, hissing breath. He squeezed his eyes closed, but he didn’t move a single muscle. At least, not willingly. The spasms in his smooth, thickly muscled chest were purely involuntary, she was sure.

After she put aside the iodine and retrieved her suturing kit, she pulled the curved needle through Paul’s raw, irritated skin with a pair of needle holders, then formed the first surgeon’s knot, working as quickly, but as carefully, as she could. The sooner she could suture his wound closed, the sooner the pain would lessen. If Doc were here, he would certainly be able to work faster. While she worked, she tried not to steal awkward glances at her patient.

Apart from the fact he was soaked to the skin, his hair was a knotted mess, and he boasted more than his share of nicks and scrapes from his recent reptilian encounter, he was precisely gorgeous. When dry, she imagined his hair would be dark blond, though it looked brown at the moment. Eyes the color of a cloudless sky just before sunset attempted to wrap her mind in a trance. If she looked into them, she could easily see herself forgetting even basic things. Like her name. It wouldn’t do to forget how to stitch a wound.

She was unable to avoid seeing his body, however, so she did her level best to simply ignore the toned muscles beneath sun-kissed flesh. Instead, she concentrated on pulling the silk through, knotting it, then repeating the movements over and over again. If she tried hard enough, perhaps she could imagine herself back in medical school, practicing on a cadaver, instead of here, practicing on a man who was anything but dead.