Found: One Husband
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Meredith Webber
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The amnesiac doctor? He fell at her feet, literally, out in the Australian rain forest. Nurse Sam Abbot knew the man was injured, and it wasn't just his ankle. The only thing he could remember was some medical knowledge. Was he a doctor? Either way, they had to get to a hospital pronto. They agreed to call him Jack. As they snuggled together under one sleeping bag, Sam sensed complication. Her attraction for this intriguing stranger with a wedding ring was about to lead her into very unknown territory!
CHAPTER ONE
HE DIDNâT exactly drop from the sky. It was more a slithering, bumping descent, but the effect was much the same.
One minute Sam was rock-hopping quietly up the stream, revelling in the solitude, the splash and gurgle of the crystal-clear water as it scurried around the rocks, the occasional cries of birds in the thick rainforest which crowded the right-hand side of the creek.
Then suddenly there was this body, landing half in and half out of the water, right in front of her.
âDamn the man!â she muttered to herself, protesting the interruption to her blissful escape while shrugging off her backpack and hurrying forward to tend to him anyway.
There was an awful lot of him, she realised when she reached the small ledge that had prevented the top half of his torso landing in the creek. Too much for her to move on her own.
She peered upwards where snapped-off bushes and a scrape of loose stones marked the path heâd taken, and tried to visualise the map of this section of the park.
âAnyone up there? Hello?â
But even as she called, she knew the hope was futile. The manâs companion, had he had one, would have been doing his own calling out. Yelling down the cliff, anxious for the reassurance of a reply from his friend.
Or her friend.
A stray sunbeam picked out the gold band on the manâs left hand.
Her husband?
The thoughts jostled in Samâs head while her eyes did an initial survey of the inert victim. Heâd landed on his side and she left him that way, reluctant to move him before sheâd checked his injuries. It was close enough to the recovery position anyway.
He was definitely alive, as he was breathing, his chest rising and falling with a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath a faded khaki shirt which had seen better days. There was no blood spurting from open woundsâno open wounds that she could see if she discounted a multitude of abrasions. A hairy growth of curly brown beard had probably protected the lower half of his face, while the thick, overlong and slightly darker brown hair might have provided padding for his head.
She ran her fingers through her own short crop of rusty blonde curls and wondered if the curling of his beard bothered him as much as her wayward hair had always aggravated her. Not that hair was of the slightest importance at the moment! Was she thinking about it to put off the moment when she had to bring another sense into play in assessing his injuries? That of touch?
Come on! You touch patients every day of your working life. Touch the man! Feel his pulse.
She knelt on the ledge and wondered whether sheâd feel a pulse beneath his chin. Find a chin beneath the beard? Went for the wrist instead, not moving his arm but feeling beneath the frayed, buttonless cuff of his shirt.
It was slow. Very slow, considering hers was racing and she would imagine most people, on falling down a cliff, would have reacted with some slight elevation in their heartbeat.
She lifted one eyelid and then the other. No obvious difference in pupil size but she had a torch in her backpackâsheâd check reaction when sheâd finished her physical examination.
Skull first. Setting aside her own lingering annoyance that her all-too-brief holiday had been disrupted, she thrust her fingers gingerly into the dark locks, pressing lightly against his scalp, feeling for contusions, for a movement in the bone that would suggest a fracture.
As far as she could tell, it was all intact, but if medical people had been able to diagnose cracked bones by feel, X-rays would never have been invented.
Sam moved on, running her hands down his body, lean and sinewy, and in one piece, if touch could judge. Then, listening for crepitus, that awful sound of bone scraping on bone, she gently moved his arms.
From his waist down he was in the water and the instinctive urge to somehow haul him out was countered by a fear he could have sustained spinal injury and any movement might exacerbate the damage.
She should go for help, but she was a dayâs walk from the nearest habitation and in the meantime the man might regain consciousnessâor worse, part-consciousnessâand wander off. Fall down another cliff. There were any number to choose from in the area, including the one sheâd scrambled up a hundred yards farther along the creek.
Her immediate dilemma was solved by the man himself. He groaned and shifted, moving his legs, then moaning as if the movement caused him pain. But his legs had definitely moved. In fact, his pelvis had also moved for there was dampness spreading across the dry stones on the edge of the creek where heâd lifted his hips out of the stream.
âHello! Can you hear me? Wake up. Talk to me.â
It wasnât standard recovery-room procedure for unconscious patients but Samâs anxiety level was rising as the deepening shadows over the creek reminded her that the sun was sinking. Night fell swiftly in the rainforest and moving anywhere in the darkness would be suicidal.
She looked around her, wondering where she could pitch her tent if they had to stay right here until morning. On this side, the cliff down which the unwelcome intruder had fallen rose steeply, while on the other, the growth was so thick, its tangled vines kissed the water.
âTalk to me!â she repeated, almost yelling the words in her despair.
âWhat about?â
She looked around, certain the man couldnât possibly have said the words. Whoever had been with him must have somehow scrambled down the cliff.
As far as she could see, they were still alone, so she turned her attention back to her patient.
âWhat did you say?â she demanded, watching lips she could barely discern in the hairy growth, hoping for movement.
âJocelyn.â
The lips did move but only minimally, so the word sounded distorted.
âJocelyn! Is that your name?â
Sam knew it more as a womanâs name, but she had a vague feeling it could also be a manâs. And who was she to argue with unisex names?
âJocelyn?â she repeated, bending closer so she could see more of his face.
Which was when his eyes opened, and although sheâd seen them earlier her attention had been on pupil size, not blueness. Bright blueness like the wedge of sky she could see above the creek.
âIâm Sam,â she said, as the eyes tried hard to focus on her face. âWhatâs your name?â
It was stupid conversation to be having, but Sam knew she needed him conscious if she was to have any hope of getting him out of the wilderness area.
Or getting a rescue team in.
He was frowning at her, the blue eyes shadowed by lowered eyelids and a curtain of lashes a darker shade than his hair. Almost black, in fact.
âIs it Jocelyn?â she prompted, and the creases between his equally dark eyebrows deepened.
âJocelynâs a sissy name!â he muttered crossly at her.
âWell, forgive me for breathing!â Sam shot back. âIâm only trying to help!â
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and if anything the frown grew fiercer.
Arguing with him wasnât going to help, Sam reminded herself. Calm downâbe professional.
âPerhaps Jocelynâs your wife,â she suggested, then watched as the frown developed into a black scowl.
âPigs!â he said.
âAnd pigs to you, too!â Sam snapped, then she weakened. âLook here, mate! Iâm trying to help you. Youâve tumbled down a cliff in the middle of nowhere and Iâm your only visible means of support. Somehow Iâve got to get the two of us out of here. Could you, please, at least try to get with it?â
His lips moved again, but this time it was to reveal strong white teeth. And the blue eyes were twinkling in a most beguiling manner. The man was smiling at her.
âNo wife,â he said forcefully. âEven though I was offered two pigs.â
He was either so satisfied with this response, or so worn out by the effort of talking, that his eyes closed and Sam felt him slipping away from her.
âOh, no, you donât,â she told him, seizing his arm and dragging his wrist around so he could see his own left hand. âYou stay awake. And look at this. Itâs a wedding ring. You must have a wife.â
He opened his eyes and gave her a pained look, then mumbled again about pigs.
âThat might be one reference too many to pigs in conjunction with wives!â Sam told him, as the eyelids drooped again. âIâve a good mind to leave you here on your own. You can take your chances with the cliffs!â
As if in response to her threat, the hand sheâd waved in front of his face moved and she felt his fingers grasping hers, holding on tightly, like a child who didnât want to get lost in a crowd. It was cool, that hand, and slightly calloused, yet she felt, had their situations been reversed, sheâd have found it comforting.
The thought made her feel more kindly towards him and she tried again for a verbal response. Nothing. Perhaps she should put her time to better use by getting the rest of him out of the water. Now his hips were resting on the edge, it should be easy to tackle the legs. If she moved the lower one, the right one, first, then eased the other up on top of it so he was lying curled on his sideâŠ
First detach his hand.
This proved difficult as the long, thin fingers tightened when she tried to disengage hers, and she had to pry them back, one by one.
âIâll hold it again soon,â she promised him, as this unspoken dependence on her touched her heart.
Before moving either limb, she ran her hands down each one, feeling through the thick wet material of his dirty, patched camouflage trousers for any obvious misalignment of bone.
No obvious breaks.
The plan worked well with his right leg, although with all the paddling around in the creek she was forced to do to get a good hold she was now as wet as he was. But when she lifted his left leg, gripping the damp trousers where she thought his calf would be, he stirred and groaned deeply as if the movement was causing him pain.
Sam lowered it gently and knelt in the shallow water, pushing the trouser leg up so she could see what was what.
His lower leg was intact, the femur forming a nice straight ridge, but his foot hung at a crazy angle, a clear indication all was not well with his ankle. Further examination showed it had already swollen inside his tough, scuffed hiking boot.
âIf I leave your boot on for support and things swell more, it could constrict the blood supply to the rest of your foot,â she told her unconscious patient. âAnd if I take the boot off and strap the ankle, you wonât get it back on again, and without its support youâll have less chance of walking out of here!â
He was no help, although she sensed he might have heard her voice for he stirred and she thought she heard him murmur Jocelyn yet again.
âShe must be your wife!â Sam told him, while her fingers probed the swollen tissue above the boot. âPoor thing! Your wife, not you!â
Though why, apart from the pigâs remark, she should be feeling empathy for his wife, she didnât know.
âBecause youâre a nuisance to me, I guess,â she admitted honestly. âWhich is most unfair of me!â
Deciding it was better to tackle his injury while he was still unconscious, she crossed to where sheâd dropped her pack and dug around in it until she found her first-aid kit. Then, armed with sharp scissors and an elastic bandage, she returned to her patient.
Getting the boot off was the hardest part, and in the end she had to resort to the kit again and use a scalpel and new blade on the tough leather before she could ease it off.
âNot a bad idea anyway,â she told her comatose patient. âMaybe after a bit more surgery on the leather Iâll be able to put it back on and give the joint some support.â
His ankle was very swollen, the bruise already coming out, turning patches of pale skin a purplish blue. She bound it carefully, then rested his left leg on top of the right so that he was now lying, curled like a sleeping child, on the narrow ledge.
Only he wasnât sleeping. He was unconscious.
A major concern!
She moved back to the head end of her unexpected company and noticed a redness in the curling beard she hadnât seen earlier. Not russet red, but blood red. Blood-soaked red, in fact.
An oath she rarely used echoed around the pristine wilderness and, first-aid kit still gripped in one hand, she knelt to investigate. Damping her handkerchief in the creek, she mopped up the worst of the blood, but couldnât pinpoint the injury.
âHereâs hoping this face fuzz isnât something youâve taken a lifetime to grow,â she muttered as she snipped at the damp hair, seeking the source of the bleeding.
The injury was on his jawline, a gash about an inch and a half long, deep enough to be showing the white of bone beneath it.
âScars are manly things for men to have,â she told him, her mind racing as she considered and discarded options.
No razor to shave the area around the cut. Sheâd have to scrape away what she could with a scalpel and then suture the skin together.
Or try to hold it together with plastic strips?
If she left it open heâd have a wider scarâwhich the beard would hide. Or would it? Perhaps the hair wouldnât grow where the scar was and thereâd be an unsightly gap.
âI donât even like beards so why the hell am I worrying about your face fungus?â Sam muttered at him, searching through the compact pack for an antiseptic solution and the sutures and needles she knew she had stowed into it.
Shaving even such a small portion of his skin with a scalpel was difficult, but fortunately he lay still.
He stirred as she splashed antiseptic liberally around the area, but as she neatly stitched and tied off sutures he remained immobile.
âNot much point trying to put something over that,â she decided, speaking her thoughts aloud automatically.
âOver what?â the man mumbled, his head turning towards her as he asked the question.
Perhaps it was the beard, the mass of brown, that made his eyes look so blue.
âOver the gash on your chin,â she told him, smiling to hide the strange twinge the eyes were causing her. âAre you properly awake this time? Can you tell me who you are? What youâre doing here?â
He looked beyond her to the trees, the sky, then back to her, and frowned.
âWhereâs here?â he asked, then must have decided he was at a disadvantage for he sat up suddenly, almost knocking Sam back into the creek.
âHey! Steady on! Iâm wet enough, thanks to you,â she grouched at him, grabbing at his shoulder as he swayed precariously towards the creek.
The bits of skin she could see on his face, beneath beard, blood and scratches, were a greenish white and for a moment she thought heâd pass out again. She propped him against the rock face down which heâd tumbled and held him steady while he took in great gulps of air through his mouth.
Then his breathing steadied and the mesmeric eyes snagged her attention once again.
âDid you hit me?â he demanded, shaking off her supporting hand and feeling at what must have been a tender patch on his scalp.
âNo, but Iâve been tempted!â Sam told him. âYou fell from up there.â
He turned to gaze upward, then groaned and gripped his knee as he moved his legs to get a better view.
âIs your knee sore, too?â
âNo, itâs my ankle.â
He peered at the offending joint then looked back at Sam.
âYouâve bandaged it!â
The accusatory tone riled Sam, though she knew head-injured patients were often argumentative.
âTen out of ten for observation,â she sniped at him, anxiety prickling beneath her skin like a rash turned inside out. âNow, letâs try the questions again. Who are you? And what were you doing before you tumbled down the cliff to ruin my holiday?â
âWhy do you want to know what I was doing?â he demanded, a frown pulling his eyebrows almost together. âWhy should that matter?â
Heâs concussed, Sam reminded herself. Be patient with him.
âIf you were walking with someone and fell behind, or perhaps walked on ahead, then eventually that someone might just report you missing, which means people would come looking for you and we will both be found.â
âAre you lost?â he asked, the frown deepening slightly.
Mad as well as concussed?
âNo! Of course Iâm not lost!â
âThen why would you want to be found?â
Sam sighed.
âIf this is how you normally behave, then itâs very doubtful anyone would ever report you missing. In fact, theyâd probably take themselves to the nearest church to give thanks on bended knee that theyâve finally got rid of you.â
Then, having vented herself of a little spleen, she added, âWeâll both be found because Iâll be with you. I can hardly go off and leave an injured man lying here in the bush.â
âBut donât tempt you?â he said, accompanying the words with a slightly rueful smile.
Sam was so surprised she chuckled.
âIâm sorry. I have been grumpy, but I hardly ever get away from people and Iâve been looking forward to having these two days alone. So to have you tumbling down into my little bit of solitude kind of threw me.â
He looked around and the frown returned.
âYouâre out here in the jungle all alone? Couldnât you have found your solitude somewhere safer than this? Isnât it stupid to be clambering around here on your own?â
The condemnation in his voice killed the moment of empathy his little joke had produced.
âOnly if I fall down a cliff,â she told him, standing up and stepping over his legs to get to her pack. âNow, do you think we could stop discussing my presence here and get back to yours? Does anyone know where you are? Are people likely to raise an alarm if you donât return home tonight?â
She considered how far sheâd walked today and amended the question.
âOr tomorrow night?â
He stared at her, his eyes wideâas if startledâthen he shook his head and the frown became positively ferocious.
He lifted both hands and ran them through his hair, wincing as fingers must have pressed against the tender part.
âI donât know!â he said crossly. âActually, I have no idea. I canât remember if I was with someone or alone, or whether someone knows where I am. In fact, I donât know that either. Where am I?â
He did the fingers in the hair thing again, and glared at Sam as if she might be responsible for stealing his memory.
âYouâre in the Border Ranges National Park, but in a fairly remote area of it. I donât know the marked trails very well, but as far as I know thereâs no regular walking track at the top of the cliff. Could you have rock-hopped down the creek?â
The man looked around again, peering into the rainforest as if he expected it to tell him something.
âWhat border?â he asked, his voice lower now. Husky. Almost as if he was afraid.
âQueensland and New South Wales. The mountains are known as the Border Ranges although they have their own names. This isââ
âQueensland and New South Wales in Australia?â he demanded.
âOf course,â Sam told him, although now she was feeling the coolness of fear. Was he more badly injured than sheâd thought? âWhere did you think you were?â
But he was looking around again, and didnât answer, instead turning back suspiciously.
âYouâre sure of that?â
âQuite sure.â She opened one of the side pockets of her pack and pulled out her plastic-coated map. âSee. Hereâs the border, and the mountains. I left my car down there where that dotted mark ends, and followed the creek up. I think weâre at about this point. This narrow swirl of lines indicate the cliff.â
He all but snatched the map from her hand and pored over it, running his finger over the names he found.
âAre these towns? Iâve never heard of them.â
The suspicion sheâd heard earlier had deepened.
âTheyâre more like villages,â she said. âLittle settlements down in the valley. Did you want a town?â
He must have heard the tartness in her voice for he glanced up.
âA name,â he said lamely. âThe name of a town I might recognise.â
Sam closed her eyes as the realisation that she was stuck in the bush with an injured amnesiac dawned.
âDo you know who you are?â she asked, more gently now she considered the awful confusion he must be feeling.
She saw the answer in his eyes, in the desperate gaze he fixed on her.
âYou donât know me?â
Sam shook her head, then reached out to touch his shoulder.
âDonât try to remember right now. Youâve taken a bad tumble and knocked yourself unconscious on the way down. Give yourself time. It will all come back to you if you donât start worrying about it.â
âYouâre guaranteeing that?â he demanded, and as she turned and looked at him, and saw the same question reflected in his eyes, she knew she couldnât lie.
âNo, I canât,â she said quietly, âbut right now thereâs nothing we can do about your memory, so letâs think about what we can do, which is getting out of here.â
He was silent for a moment, then he nodded and again she saw the hint of a smile.
âSo, how do we go about that, Girl Scout?â
Sam decided it was her turn to frown. She peered up at the cliff down which the stranger had fallen, and confirmed her earlier opinion. There was no way sheâd get up it without pitons, and preferably someone at the top belaying rope to her.
âIf youâve told someone where youâd be, then theyâll come looking for you eventually. Were you carrying a pack? Do you remember that much?â
The frustration in his eyes answered her, and she realised she should be saving him angst, not causing more by asking questions he couldnât possibly answer.
With a final twinge of regret for the loss of her peaceful idyll in the bush, and for the time she needed to think seriously about Henry, she turned her thoughts to practical matters.
âI think we should head back towards my car. Iâll leave a note here in case someone does come looking. Weâve already lost the sun and will only have about an hourâs light. Hopefully, by then weâll have found a slightly better place than this to camp for the night.â
The man greeted these sensible pronouncements with a look of undisguised horror.
âWhatâs the matter now?â Sam demanded.
âWhat do you mean by âcamp for the nightâ? Isnât there a track? Couldnât we keep walking? How far away can your car be?â
âToo far for you to make it tonight,â Sam told him. âThatâs assuming you can actually walk. Sit there while I hunt around for a stout stick. You can lean on me when we can walk abreast but there are a lot of places where youâll have to manage on your own. A stick will help.â
She knelt down beside her pack again, fumbling through the folds of rain slicker and clothing until she found a plastic container and the shape of a plastic mug.
Reaching out to the creek, she filled the mug with water and passed it to the man, handed him two paracetamol tablets from her first-aid kit, then opened the lid on her âenergy foodâ.
âHere.â She put the container down by his side. âDried fruit and nuts. Eat some of these, take the tablets and drink plenty of water before we get going.â
She turned her attention to writing a note and sealing it in a plastic bag which she held down with a rock at the base of the cliff, but when he didnât acknowledge the snack she looked up, to find him peering at the water in the cup, the expression on his face holding equal parts of horror and distaste.
âWhatâs wrong now?â Sam asked him.
âYou canât drink water straight from a stream,â he told her. âI might have lost my memory, but I havenât lost my mind. Not drinking the water is a basic rule of survival in the bush. You need sterilising tablets, or should boil it for at least ten minutes to get rid of any deadly micro-organisms lurking in it.â
âIn this water?â Sam teased, scooping up a handful and drinking noisily. âThis water?â She splashed it over his face and watched the droplets sparkle where they landed in his beard. âThis is pure, clean, fresh water, totally uncontaminated by anyâŠâ
Another aspect of what heâd said struck her forcibly enough to stop her mockery.
âYou donât remember your name but you know about deadly micro-organisms in water?â
âMy brotherâs a brain surgeon.â
The reply came out so pat that Sam chuckled, then laughed, and had to hold her sides as an uncontrollable mirth gripped her.
âOh, Iâm s-sorry,â she stuttered, wiping tears from her eyes and trying to control the final fits of giggles. âBut you have no idea how funny that sounded. âMy brotherâs a brain surgeon!â Itâs like little kids using âMy Daddyâs a policemanâ as the final unarguable, unanswerable threat.â
But her companion, now that her eyes were free of tears and she could see him clearly, seemed more puzzled than offended.
âNow, why would I know that if I donât know who I am?â
âI donât know enough about amnesia to explain,â Sam said, âbut I do know thereâs not much of a link between micro-organisms in drinking water and brain surgery, so I wouldnât take the brain surgeon as gospel. Unless by chance you can remember this brotherâs name?â
She was teasing him again, but gently, hoping a little light-hearted joking might ease some of the inner turmoil he must be feeling.
âTake my word for it, the water is clean so drink plenty of itâeat some fruit. Iâll be right back.â
He didnât reply, but he did lift the cup slowly towards his lips and, as Sam smiled and nodded her encouragement, took a few tentative sips.
Confident she could leave him on his own for a few minutes, she stepped nimbly from rock to rock across the creek, trying not to think of the places along the banks where it was impossible to walk.
How the man would manage rock-hopping with his injured ankleâŠ
