Lily's Scandal

by Marion Lennox

  He blocked it out. Or tried to. He tried not to care.

  ‘You want to go back and help?’ Lily asked, looking concerned.

  ‘He wouldn’t thank me.’

  ‘Like my mum doesn’t thank me for caring,’ she whispered. ‘Sometimes you have to do what you have to do.’

  ‘And sometimes you need to back off.’

  ‘Like you have from everyone?’

  ‘Butt out,’ he said, trying to sound good humoured. If she was to pry into his personal life, the next four weeks would be endless.

  ‘You made phone calls on my behalf,’ she said mildly. ‘Do you call that butting out?’

  ‘That’s …’

  ‘Different,’ she said cordially. ‘You can butt into my life, but I can’t do the same in yours.’ She glanced back along the track. ‘That chainsaw …’

  ‘He doesn’t want us! He’s vowed not to want anyone.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Tom and I don’t talk of it. What business is it of mine?’

  ‘All your business if you love him.’

  ‘Then you end up where you are with your mother.’

  ‘Are you saying your uncle Tom is like my mother?’

  ‘No, but …’ He raked his hair. ‘You can care too much. It leaves you open for hurt, like you’ve been hurt. It sounds to me like you should have backed off years ago.’

  ‘Like you,’ she said cordially. ‘And Tom. Living in your emotion-free bubbles.’

  ‘I like emotion-free bubbles.’

  ‘Good for you,’ she said, and smiled, and it was an entrancing smile. Enchanting. Beguiling. It made him want to.

  Step right out of his emotion-free bubble.

  It wasn’t going to happen. It was not.

  The chainsaw was roaring in the background. They walked on in silence, using the noise as a silent excuse not to talk.

  He was so aware of her, a slip of a girl with an enchanting smile, with judgment written all over her. And challenge.

  He thought of Tom. Was she right? Was the old man finally admitting he needed people?

  The chainsaw was biting through wood. It really wasn’t safe, he conceded.

  He had talked to Tom about it. Tom had told him where he could put his worries.

  Suddenly the chainsaw’s motor whined sharply, differently, rising in pitch as if it had been jerked free of wood. The wood was rotten. If Tom was pressing against solid wood and met rot …

  Even as Luke thought it, the chainsaw motor cut out as it was meant to do the moment pressure was released from the hand hold.

  And as the motor died … a scream.

  Luke was running almost before his brain had processed the sounds.

  They’d been replacing fence posts. The old ones had been hauled out and stacked.

  Tom had balanced the first post against the pile, then started slicing it for firewood. Now he was sprawled on the damp grass, the chainsaw tossed beside him. The dogs were whimpering in fear.

  A pool of bright scarlet was blooming out from Tom’s leg.

  Lily wasn’t as fast as Luke. By the time she reached the clearing Luke had rolled Tom from curled and clutching his leg onto his back so he could see the damage.

  In that one instant, she knew what had happened. He’d swiped the chainsaw downward. Maybe the wood was more rotten than he’d expected—maybe he hadn’t needed as much pressure as he had exerted. For whatever reason the saw had sliced far further than he’d intended, smashing into his upper thigh.

  He must have hit the femoral artery. It had to be cut, she thought with horror. There was no other explanation for this amount of blood.

  Luke was searching for pressure points, one hand pressing, the other ripping at his shirt to try and get a wad, a tie, anything.

  Her shirt was off in an instant, folded, handed to him. Then she grabbed Luke’s sleeve and ripped with a strength she hadn’t known she had. She ripped the sleeve right off, then ripped again from shoulder to cuff.

  It gave them padding and a tie.

  ‘Let me … let me…’ Tom was gasping, trying to see.

  ‘Lie still,’ Luke snapped. There was no time for reassurance, not while the blood was pumping as it was. ‘Tom, lie still. You’ve cut an artery and we have to stop it.’

  ‘Bloody fool,’ Tom muttered, and subsided.

  His face was ashen.

  So much blood.

  The pad was doing nothing, no matter how hard Luke pressed. Lily was twisting the tie above the wound but making no difference at all to the blood flow. Already Tom was looking clammy, a sheen of cold sweat on his face.

  He’d bleed out in minutes.

  If they were back at the hospital they’d have tools to cut down, to find the artery and clamp it off. Here they had nothing.

  ‘I can’t locate it,’ Luke snapped, and the agony in those words was desperate. ‘Your hand’s smaller. You try.’

  It was a desperate request. He had nothing else to try.

  He took the tie, while she shoved her fist into the wound, hard, as tight as it’d go. Was her hand small enough? She was searching for the source of the blood, pushing with a desperation born of terror.

  Harder …

  The blood welled around her fingers … and slowed.

  Slowed more.

  But in time?

  She had to be in time.

  ‘Hey, she’s stopped the bleeding,’ Luke told his uncle. Until now it had been impossible to disguise the panic. ‘Lily’s hit the spot. Don’t you move, not a whisker.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Tom whispered. ‘Oh, girl, I’m making you all mucky.’

  ‘I love horses and I love nursing,’ Lily told him, trying to match Luke’s reassurance, trying to keep the strain from her voice, as if holding back blood like this was routine. Knowing how close to disaster they still were. ‘I like a bit of muck.’

  Tom tried to laugh but it didn’t come off. He looked …

  Like he could go into shock at any minute.

  It was a real possibility.

  Lily couldn’t move. Her fist was a ball curled tight against damaged tissue, pressed hard against the pulsing artery. Somehow she’d hit the spot, somehow she’d blocked the blood supply. If she moved a fraction …

  Luke was tightening the tourniquet with one hand, holding his phone in the other. Snapping details to an emergency service.

  ‘Air ambulance, helicopter, code blue. GPS co-ordinates …’ He lifted his uncle’s phone from his pocket—a new model, Lily saw, and read the positional co-ordinates off. Thank goodness for technology. ‘There’s a clearing a hundred yards to the north. I’ll secure it before you get here. If you can break the sound barrier I’d appreciate it. Move.’

  He flicked the phone off.

  There were sheets of paper-bark hanging from the massive gums along the river. While Tom—and Lily—stayed motionless Luke hauled a dozen of the soft bark sheets, folded them into a wedge and manoeuvered them with extraordinary care underneath Tom’s hips and legs. He had to be careful; there was no way he was interfering with Lily’s position. But it had to be done. Any available blood needed to flow to Tom’s head and not to his lower limbs. His hips had to be higher than his heart.

  Done. He twisted the shirt tighter around Tom’s thigh and Tom grunted in pain.

  ‘I have emergency gear in the car,’ he told Lily. ‘Catheters. Saline. Morphine.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ She was impressed by how calm she sounded. Luke needed to get an IV catheter in now, if not sooner. If Tom’s veins collapsed, resuscitation would no longer be possible.

  They both knew that point was close.

  ‘I’m going.’ Luke sounded agonised. He’d hate to leave but he couldn’t stay. He touched his uncle’s face, then he touched Lily on the shoulder—a feather-light brush.

  Then he was gone.

  They were the longest minutes of Lily’s life, keeping pressure on the wound, praying Tom’s condition wouldn’
t worsen. Trying not to let Tom see she was terrified.

  The dogs, Border collies, lay and watched and she sensed their fear as well.

  ‘I hope Luke can run,’ she ventured, and Tom tried a smile.

  ‘Like the wind,’ he whispered. ‘He spent half his childhood running on this farm. Most weekends. All his school holidays. Ran all over this farm.’

  ‘Did he never go back to Singapore?’

  ‘Parents sent him to boarding school to get rid of him,’ Tom muttered. ‘He had a ruddy big birthmark on his face. His parents hated looking at it. My brother was too mean to get it fixed, though. Told the kid it was character building but in truth he was fixated on money. Like that bloody wife of his …’

  He broke off and gasped and Lily wished she could hug him, wished she could move. Selfishly she also wished she could alleviate the pins and needles in her hips.

  She could do nothing.

  They were totally dependent on Luke. He needed to fetch equipment. He needed to check for a safe place for the helicopter to land. It was maybe a ten-minute run back to the house. Ten minutes there, ten minutes back, time to get land cleared …

  All she could do was sit.

  It was killing her. It was killing Tom. With every moment his chances grew slimmer.

  Then, before she imagined it was possible, she heard the roar of a motor revving through the trees, crashing … and Luke’s Aston Martin broke into the clearing, bush-bashing like he was driving an ancient SUV rather than a sports car. No matter, he was here. He was out of the car almost before it stopped, hauling his bag with him.

  ‘Tom …’ She heard the catch in his breath, knew how terrified he’d been of what he’d find.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Lily said quickly. ‘And we always knew Aston Martins were offroaders.’

  He managed a fleeting grin as he hauled a catheter from his bag.

  ‘You drove that thing through the bush?’ Tom gasped, and Luke’s smile became genuine. Luke would have run thinking the worst, Lily thought. He’d have known that if Tom had gone into cardiac arrest while he was gone there’d have been nothing she could do—not when taking her hands from the pressure point meant blood loss would resume.

  But now …

  Luke was inserting a catheter. He had IV fluids! Not blood product, she thought, that’d be too much to hope from most emergency kits, but he had saline, and any fluid was a lifesaver.

  Could be a lifesaver.

  Please.

  The catheter was inserted in seconds. An IV line was set up.

  ‘There’s morphine going in, Tom,’ Luke said. ‘Any minute now you can stop gritting your teeth.’

  ‘I’m not gritting my teeth,’ Tom said, indignant. ‘Or not very much.’

  Lily let out her breath, not knowing until then that she’d been holding it. There was a chance …

  ‘I’m releasing the tourniquet for a moment,’ Luke said. ‘I’m not saving you only to lose that leg. You might want to grit those teeth.’

  ‘Pansies grit teeth,’ Tom said, though the expression on his face said the pain was bad. ‘Me and Lily aren’t pansies.’

  ‘You and Lily can face the world with your heads held high,’ Luke said. ‘Pansies? I don’t think so. Heroes, both of you.’

  ‘It’s our Lily. I’m just lying here thinking of England.’

  ‘Well, think of England a while longer,’ Tom said. ‘I need to get the paddock cleared for the chopper. Harbour Hospital, here we come.’

  ‘Hey, we might even be in time for Teo’s party,’ Lily managed, desperately striving for lightness. ‘Tom, there’s a party on the beach tonight. You want to get stitched up and come?’ They all knew how impossible it was, but the thought was a good one.

  Tom groaned. ‘Parties,’ he whispered, trying to sound withering. ‘Mind, if alcohol’s involved, I wouldn’t mind a wee drop.’

  ‘Neither would I,’ Lily said, with meaning. ‘And not so wee at that.’

  The helicopter arrived soon after with a team of paramedics from the Harbour who knew Luke by name.

  Jack Stephens, trauma specialist, was in charge. The team must have understood the call was deadly serious to have sent a physician of Jack’s standing. In her two nights in the Harbour Lily already knew this guy’s reputation and he was with a team who were just as awesome. They worked with competence and speed, and a light-hearted banter that made Tom relax as nothing else could.

  ‘For years we’ve been trying to wangle an invitation to see the place where Luke hides out,’ Jack told Tom as he replaced IV saline with blood product and set up another line in case of need, then checked Lily’s position and placed a hand on her shoulder—a silent message not to move. ‘Thanks for organising it. I guess you’re not quite up to guided tours.’

  ‘Maybe another time?’ Tom said weakly, and Luke gripped his hand and held.

  ‘Don’t agree to anything,’ he urged. ‘This guy’s a freeloader from way back. He’ll have conned you into bed and breakfast in no time.’

  ‘I’m guessing it’s you who needs the bed and breakfast,’ Jack told Tom. ‘Let’s get you back to the Harbour.’ He cast an uncertain look at Lily, looking closer at where her hand lay. ‘And I’m thinking we’re taking Lily as well. You’ve got a pulsing artery there, Tom. Lily has her hand on exactly the right spot and it’s hard to reach. If we try to clamp it here we risk more blood being spilled and you’ve made enough of a mess already. Lily, can you stay where you are while we work around you?’

  Luke made an involuntary protest. To have Lily hold that position during transfer.

  But it was the only way. Where she was now, not only was she holding the blood flow back but somehow she’d lucked onto a position where a tiny amount of blood was seeping through to Tom’s foot. To take Lily away, to slice down, to tie off the artery, keeping the blood supply to the foot uncompromised …

  It had to be done in a well-equipped theatre to give Tom any chance of keeping his leg, as well as his life.

  ‘I’ve never ridden in a helicopter,’ Lily said. ‘Cool.’

  She was amazing, he thought. She was as pale as a ghost, still shaken by gastro. Her jeans were blood-soaked and she was only wearing a bra on top. She wasn’t moving. She knew what needed to be done and she was doing it.

  ‘We can’t fit you in as well,’ Jack told him, and grinned at the look on Luke’s face. ‘This is cool indeed. Our team has the whole ride back to grill Lily and Tom about our Dr Williams’s secret love life and secret farm life. The hospital’s been bursting with questions since Wednesday. Now, you, Luke Williams, can butt out and calmly drive your poncy little car back to the Harbour while we do our interrogation as we ride in real transport. We’ll do our best to save your uncle’s leg while we’re at it. By the way, you might want to stop and collect pyjamas for your uncle on your way. That’ll give us more time to interrogate. Okay, guys, let’s move.’

  The Aston Martin, loaded now with two subdued dogs, took a lot more time getting back to the road than it had taken getting to his uncle.

  He’d hit a couple of small trees, bush-bashing in his desperation to get back to Tom and Lily. His front fender was bent. He stopped at Tom’s house and had to do a bit of rebending in order to protect the wheel. He didn’t want any hold-ups on the way back to hospital.

  He was thumping the fender one last time when his neighbour Patty arrived, looking scared.

  ‘I saw the chopper,’ she said. ‘From the Harbour. What’s happened?’

  He told her, and she offered to pack Tom’s bag while he got the car sorted.

  ‘I’ll take care of the dogs and the rest of the place as well,’ she said. ‘Tell him Bill and I will drop in and see him as soon as he’s well enough for visitors.’

  ‘He won’t want—’

  ‘He always says he doesn’t want,’ she said. ‘But what men say and what men mean are different things. Like telling me he doesn’t need me bringing him casseroles and pies. Like telling me he doesn’t want you li
ving here. He’s a lying hound but he’s our lying hound so we’d be grateful to have him home safe and sound.’

  He left her, but her words stayed with him.

  What men say and what men mean are different things …

  If he and Lily hadn’t been there today …

  Tom couldn’t stay on the farm any more. Not alone. They’d have to find him a live-in housekeeper.

  He’d hate it.

  Could he finally decide to commute?

  Tom would hate that, too. He’d put up with him as a kid, because he’d felt sorry for him. He tolerated Luke owning the place next door and he appreciated his help, but essentially he was a loner.

  Tom didn’t want Luke close, like Luke didn’t want anyone close.

  Anyone like Lily.

  His thoughts should have only been on Tom. Instead they kept drifting to a shadowed girl with bloodstained clothing and a courage that defied belief.

  Riding Glenfiddich yesterday.

  Holding Tom today.

  Facing down the gossip of the Harbour.

  Coping with a mother who sounded like a nightmare.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be worrying about Tom?

  He was feeling sick about Tom. No matter that he was in good hands, there was still a chance …

  Don’t go there.

  He was going as fast as the speed limit and a slightly buckled Aston Martin allowed. The chopper would be back at the Harbour by now. Jack and his team would be doing their utmost to save Tom.

  Would they have released Lily?

  She’d go into Theatre with them, he thought. They’d leave her hand in position while Tom was anaesthetised, while they put every tool in place so they could work with speed to cut down, clamp, tie off, without compromising what little was left of the leg’s blood supply.

  Then Lily could step away.

  He needed to be there when she stepped away.

  How fast could he make this car go? Not fast enough.

  He hit the phone. Evie.

  ‘He’s here and he’s still with us,’ Evie said before he could say a word. ‘Jack’s taken him straight through into Theatre. He had everyone lined up before he got here. Finn’s supervising. Judy’s on her way. You have the best surgical team the Harbour can provide.’