Washed Away (16 page)

I
T HAD NEVER FELT
so empty before.

The home he’d built from the ground, the home that had comforted him no matter how bad a day he’d had, suddenly felt empty.

Now that the roads were open, a massive influx of patients had arrived at the clinic. Ranchers were calling in, asking Noah to come out and check the animals that were their livelihood. And then there were the repairs to Noah’s property. Upstairs had been completely gutted by the storm and he was confined to the lower floor of his home and the clinic, but in comparison to some folks, he knew he really had nothing to complain about. Plenty of things to keep Noah busy, plenty of reasons to work himself into the ground. And still he managed to head to town and help Mitch. It got him through from five in the morning until midnight, when if he was really lucky, all that was left to do was his last round of good-nights before feeding Buster and Madge.

Oh, and himself.

Suddenly that chicken soup didn’t taste quite so wonderful anymore, and the casseroles were more effort than they were worth.

“Come on, Buster.” Noah watched as the little mutt halfheartedly nudged the tray of food he had put down for her. He broke off a piece of dog biscuit and tossed it to her, but she nudged it away, those bright eyes uninterested now. “You really think that starving yourself is going to bring her home? She’s a California girl, Buster. She’d admire your willpower and no doubt mix you up one of her smoothies, then have you pound the sidewalk….” Even Noah didn’t appreciate his own humor. And Buster wasn’t the only one off her food. Three nights in a row Noah had shoveled his microwaved meal around the plate, stared at a pile of blurry figures on his computer, even watched the late-night shopping channel—anything to stave off going to bed alone.

Three nights in a row he’d dialed her phone number. Not even an answering machine picked up. He’d listened to the endless ringing, willing Cheryl to pick up just so he could hear that voice once more. He could just picture her staring at the call display, knowing it was him phoning and waiting for the ringing to end, or coming in from a shift and seeing his area code displayed.

Noah Schmuck Arkin.

Noah Schmuck Arkin, who had let the best thing that had ever happened to him simply walk out of his life.

It would be written on his gravestone.

“Come on.” Whistling to Madge, he indicated the door. “Let’s go and meet the trees, then call it a night.”

But even the normally much-awaited, late-night walk didn’t fire up Buster or Madge. Lethargy was clearly the order of the day.

“Hey, guys, why don’t you try to summon up some enthusiasm while I go and check next door.”

Flicking on the lights, he worked his way around the clinic, giving out the midnight antibiotics, updating his charts and running a set of obs on his two post-op patients, but just as he went to turn off the lights and take Madge and Buster out, he paused a moment and stared into the cage where a proud, tired lady lay.

“Hey, Georgina.” Long eyelashes fluttered back at him, and if it had been a pink shawl and not a pile of sawdust she was lying on, he’d have sworn she’d pulled it closer around her shoulders. “How are you doing?”

Her owner had died; the call had come through around 6:00 p.m. that Mary had passed away, but Noah hadn’t had the heart to break it to the old horse.

Which was stupid, Noah reasoned. As if Georgina was going to understand what he said. But still he couldn’t bring himself to say the words, to tell Georgina that her mistress wasn’t ever coming home.

“You know anyway, don’t you, girl,” Noah said softly, looking into her eyes, then reaching for a stethoscope and listening to her old heart.

Even though he loved animals, in some instances more than people, Noah wasn’t overly sentimental where they were concerned, unless it was one of his own pets. There was a kind of mental subclause there for Madge and the multitude of dogs who had come before her. Oh, and Mabel, as well. But in much the same way doctors and nurses probably coped with human patients, Noah held back. Sure it hurt, and sure you felt people’s
losses, but if you were going to survive, you couldn’t get too attached. Death was part and parcel of a day’s work in this game.

“Sleep tight, Georgina.” Noah gave her a final stroke before closing the cage door. A sadness filled him when Georgina didn’t even try to fight back, didn’t whinny in protest or try to nip his hand as he shot the bolt. She just stared at her keeper with sad, dark eyes.

Maybe it was because Georgina
thought
she was human, or maybe it was because her beloved owner had died today, but as he turned to go, Noah knew he would be back. After walking around the clinic with Buster and Madge, for once obediently at his heels, Noah lifted Georgina out of her cage and led her into the living room of the house. The real reason he was doing this, of course, was Cheryl. A special lady who had had the foresight and the compassion to bring the frightened animal out of the clinic and into the adjoining bedroom, and Noah knew that if Cheryl were still here, she’d insist on it now.

Noah took the dogs for a very quick trip outside again, then returned to the house to be with Georgina.

“Maybe we should forget the diet.” He smiled, breaking open a bar of chocolate and giving her a piece, before stretching out on the sofa. Buster lay shivering by the door, obviously still hoping that Cheryl would magically appear.

“Come on, girl,” Noah called, but he knew it was useless. She’d stay there waiting all night. Madge circled around on his stomach before planting herself firmly at
his feet as Noah flicked off the lamp. Reaching over the side of the couch, he idly stroked the miniature horse, listening to her ragged breaths, the endless ticking of the clock, wishing for the practical demands of the morning. He fought an impulse to phone Cheryl again in the hope that maybe, just maybe, this time she’d pick up, let him plead his case once more. Hell, he’d settle for a few sharp words.

If only it meant he heard her voice.

T
HEY WANTED
to admit her!

Admit her for rest and IV antibiotics, and Cheryl couldn’t even argue the point. Well, she tried, but given that the examining doctor was the chief of emergency, she didn’t get very far. The more Cheryl argued, the more Rachel pushed to admit her.

Why couldn’t it have been some first-year attendant checking over her X rays? Oh, no, because she was one of their own, because it was Trauma Nurse Cheryl Tierney, who had been flown in from Texas with a raging fever and a cough, Rachel simply couldn’t stop. Cheryl had been told in no uncertain terms that for the foreseeable future she could forget work, forget the gym, forget her whole routine, in fact. A couple of nights in the hospital and a full week of downtime was ordered, and then, if she improved, Rachel would think about letting her back to work.

“I’ve got a slight cough.” Cheryl slumped back on the hospital gurney, mortified at being dressed in a lemon-yellow gown and wheeled by a porter to X ray through
her own department. She’d felt okay in Turning Point—aside from a broken heart—not great, but okay. But as soon as the airplane had lifted into the sky, whether it was the decompression or just the end of an exhausting journey, her body had simply given out on her. Her cough became more rasping, every joint in her body ached, her cheeks flushed with fever, and she was barely able to walk the short distance from the plane to a waiting wheelchair. Then, horror of horrors, she was driven by ambulance into her own department. “There’s no reason I can’t have some oral antibiotics and come back to work in a couple of days.”

“You’ve got a patch of consolidation on the right lower lobe.” Rachel pointed at the X ray on the view-finder. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, is pneumonia, or do you know something I don’t?”

Slinking farther down on the pillow, Cheryl muttered something rather ungracious.

“You’re not in the trauma room now, Cheryl,” Rachel reminded her, “so lose the attitude, okay? For now you’re a patient,
my
patient, and if I get even an inkling that you’re not going to comply with my orders, I’ll sign you off work for a full month and tell the admitting physician that you’re noncompliant and maybe a five-day admission might be more appropriate.” She eyed the X ray film more closely. “Which might not be such a bad idea, in fact. I thought you’d at least have a couple of broken ribs, given the extent of the bruising. I guess those multivitamins you swear by must have some merit after all.” She paused.

“You’re in a bad way, Cheryl.” Rachel’s expression was kind but firm. “You’re covered in bruises, and you’ve got a tender rib cage, which as you well know makes deep breathing more difficult. Over the next few days, as the bruises come out, you’re going to feel worse, not better. On top of all that you gave blood.” She paused for a moment, watching as Cheryl swallowed hard. “Cheryl, I don’t say this sort of thing lightly, so know that I mean it. You have my support in all this—you were sent to do a job and you did it well. You’re trained to make tough calls, and no matter how much the powers that be try, not every scenario can be covered in a policy book or summed up in a pile of legal jargon. We’re here to save lives, Cheryl, and that’s what you did. I’m going to have to speak to the hospital’s legal team, and no doubt they’ll want a full statement from you, but from what you’ve told me, it was either a case of sit back and watch her die or…”

“Give blood and scrub in for a veterinarian?”

“Hopefully the hospital solicitor will put it a bit more eloquently,” Rachel said, “but in a word, yes. Now, with all you’ve been through, it’s no wonder you’re not well. And if you don’t do this right, if you don’t follow my orders to the letter, you’re going to end up with full-blown pneumonia and at least a week’s admission, followed by a couple of weeks of rehab.”

“Okay, I’ll rest,” Cheryl said rather more graciously, “but I can do that at home, Rachel. I just want to be around my own things, in my own bed.” Her voice trailed off, tears pricking her eyes. Appalled at the
prospect of breaking down in front of her new boss, Cheryl bit down hard on her lip.

“Let me admit you for a couple of days,” Rachel urged her. “Cheryl, you’re not well, and it’s not just the bruises or the pneumonia. I’m really worried about you.” Rachel handed her a tissue and Cheryl took it gratefully. “This is a hard, tough job sometimes, and if you don’t let everything out sometimes, sooner or later it catches up.

“And it’s caught up with you now,” she added softly, watching as Cheryl gave a reluctant nod. “You’re not just physically exhausted, you’re emotionally drained, too. That’s a bad combination. You can pound the gym, drink your smoothies, take your multivitamins and ginseng or whatever those bullets you swallow are, but if a body’s run-down and you don’t stop and rest and let the world wash over you every now and then, your immune system can’t keep up. Infections are serious, Cheryl. You know that. They hit you when you’re down. Who’s going to be at home to look after you? Who’s going to cook for you and make sure you’re getting enough fluids?”

“No one.” It was the loneliest admission she’d ever made.

“You’ve got a serious infection brewing, Cheryl….” Rachel halted as a frown crossed Cheryl’s face. “What is it?”

“Beth, the patient I gave the blood to—pneumonia can quickly lead to sepsis…”

“We’re already on to it. I’m waiting to be put through
to one of the surgical teams in Houston, but from what you told me, the veterinarian covered her with strong antibiotics. The risk is very small.”

“But there is a risk?”

“A small one, but once I let the surgeons know—” The pager was beeping in her pocket and Rachel raised an eyebrow as she looked down and turned it off. “Seems they’ve called back.” She gave Cheryl a wink. “Houston, we may have a problem.” When her joke didn’t even raise a smile, Rachel patted Cheryl’s hand. “I’ll let them know about the infection and find out how she’s doing for you, Cheryl. Do I have your permission to fax over your blood work and the results of the cultures when we get them back?”

“Of course.”

It seemed forever that Cheryl lay there waiting for Rachel to return, to tell her how Beth was doing. The possible ramifications of Beth’s surgery—both legal and medical—were about to make themselves known.

Rachel would stand by her. Cheryl knew that much.

And in turn she’d stand by Noah. Swear on a Bible—if it came to that—that there had been no choice. The heroic measures they had taken to save Beth’s arm—Beth’s life—had been the right ones….

But already it was starting.

Noah had been right when he’d said that once she left Turning Point and returned to Courage Bay she’d lose sight of the truth, lose sight of the magic, the love, the hope and confidence that had carried them through on their journey. As she lay here on a hospital gurney, star
ing at the equipment around her, listening to the PA system relaying messages, sending staff to where they were most needed, it was hard to fathom the desperation of the situation she and Noah had faced alone. And worse still, away from Noah, away from Turning Point, even she was beginning to have doubts about the decisions they had made….

“She’s okay.”

Rachel’s two words ripped through her doubts.

“Better than okay,” Rachel said. “She’s out of surgery and they’re hopeful she’s going to have full function in her arm. Apparently this vet of yours did an amazing job.”

“He’s not
my
vet,” Cheryl sniffed, but tears were starting now, the sheer horror of all she had witnessed finally catching up. “We had no choice, Rachel.”

“Yes, you did.” Rachel’s words were firm. “And so did this vet—Noah, isn’t it?”

Cheryl nodded. Just hearing his name made the impossible more real somehow.

“You could have done nothing, and there’s no one who’d have blamed you. But your patient would have died, Cheryl. The surgeons in Houston have confirmed it. Her blood loss was extensive. She’s having a further three units of blood transfused as we speak. Without the transfusion she wouldn’t have made it, and without Noah’s intervention she’d have lost her arm. He thought of everything. He covered her with penicillin cephalosporin and an aminoglycoside, which will knock any infection straight on the head. Her prognosis is good, Cheryl, and it’s thanks to you and this Noah.”