From Christmas To Forever?. Marion Lennox

      ‘He’s safe to move as long as we can keep pressure off his chest,’ Hugo called. ‘I want a neck brace. There’s no sign of spinal injury but let’s not take any chances. Then Polly.’

      ‘Then you, Doc.’

      ‘Polly second,’ Hugo said in a voice that brooked no argument.

      And, for once, Polly wasn’t arguing.

      It must have been under the truck.

      She’d been balancing in the harness, using her feet to stop herself from swinging.

      The truck had done its jerk upward and she’d jerked backwards herself, maybe as an automatic reaction to tension. She’d pushed her feet hard against the cliff to steady herself.

      The snake must have been caught under the truck in the initial fall. With the pressure off, it lurched forward to get away.

      Polly’s foot landed right on its spine.

      It landed one fierce bite to her ankle—and then slithered away down the cliff.

      She didn’t move. She didn’t cry out.

      Two guys in bright yellow overalls were abseiling down towards the driver’s side of the truck, holding an end of a cradle stretcher apiece. They looked competent, sure of themselves … fast?

      Horace was still the priority. He was elderly, he’d suffered massive blood loss and he needed to be where he could be worked on if he went into cardiac arrest.

      She was suffering a snake bite.

      Tiger snake? She wasn’t sure. She’d only ever seen one in the zoo and she hadn’t looked all that closely then.

      It had had stripes.

      Tiger snakes were deadly.

      But not immediately. Wombat Valley was a bush hospital and one thing bush hospitals were bound to have was antivenin, she told herself. She thought back to her training. No one ever died in screaming agony two minutes after they were bitten by a snake. They died hours later. If they didn’t get antivenin.

      Therefore, she just needed to stay still and the nice guys in the yellow suits would come and get her and they’d all live happily ever after.

      ‘Polly?’ It was Hugo, his voice suddenly sharp.

      ‘I … what?’ She let go her toehold—she was only using one foot now—and her rope swung.

      She felt … a bit sick.

      That must be her imagination. She shouldn’t feel sick so fast.

      ‘Polly, what’s happening?’

      The guys—no, on closer inspection, it was a guy and a woman—had reached Horace. Had Hugo fitted the neck brace to Horace, or had the abseilers? She hadn’t noticed. They were steadying the stretcher against the cliff, then sliding it into the cab of the truck, but leaving its weight to be taken by the anchor point on the road. In another world she’d be fascinated.

      Things were a bit … fuzzy.

      ‘Polly?’

      ‘Mmm?’ She was having trouble getting her tongue to work. Her mouth felt thick and dry.

      ‘What the hell …? I can’t get out. Someone up there … priority’s changed. We need a harness on Dr Hargreaves—fast.’

      Did he think she was going to faint? She thought about that and decided he might be right.

      So do something.

      She had a seat—sort of. She looped her arms around the side cords and linked her hands, then put her head down as far as she could.

      She could use some glucose.

      ‘Get someone down here.’ It was a roar. ‘Fast. Move!’

      ‘I’m not going to faint,’ she managed but it sounded feeble, even to her.

      ‘Damn right, you’re not going to faint,’ Hugo snapped. ‘You faint and you’re out of my employ. Pull yourself together, Dr Hargreaves. Put that head further down, take deep breaths and count between breathing. You know what to do. Do it.’

      ‘I need … juice …’ she managed but her voice trailed off. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t …

      She mustn’t.

       Breathe, two, three. Out, two, three. Breathe …

      ‘Hold on, sweetheart—they’re coming.’

      What had he called her? Sweetheart? No one called Polly Hargreaves sweetheart unless they wanted her to do something. Or not do something. Not to cut her hair. Not to do medicine. To play socialite daughter for their friends.

      To come home for Christmas …

      She wasn’t going home for Christmas. She was staying in Wombat Valley. The thought was enough to steady her.

      If she fainted then she’d fall and they’d send her back to Sydney in a body bag and her mother would have her fabulous funeral …

       Not. Not, not, not.

      ‘I’ve been bitten by a snake,’ she muttered, with as much strength and dignity as she could muster. Which wasn’t actually very much at all. She still had her head between her knees and she daren’t move. ‘It was brown with stripes and it bit my ankle. And I know it’s a hell of a time to tell you, but I need to say … I’m also a Type One diabetic. So I’m not sure whether this is a hypo or snake bite but, if I fall, don’t let my mother bury me in pink. Promise.’

      ‘I promise,’ Hugo said and then a yellow-suited figure was beside her, and her only objection was that he was blocking her view of Hugo.

      It sort of seemed important that she see Hugo.

      ‘She has a snake bite on her ankle,’ Hugo was saying urgently. ‘And she needs glucose. Probable hypo. Get the cradle back down here as fast as you can, and bring glucagon. While we wait, I have a pressure bandage here in the cabin. If you can swing her closer we’ll get her leg immobilised.’

      ‘You’re supposed to be on holiday,’ Polly managed while Yellow Suit figured out how to manoeuvre her closer to Hugo.

      ‘Like that’s going to happen now,’ Hugo said grimly. ‘Let’s get the hired help safe and worry about holidays later.’