The Doctor's Rescue. Kate Hardy

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      Everything hurt. Absolutely everything. Will risked moving an eyelid and closed it again quickly. The light was too bright. But he couldn’t go back to sleep again now—there was too much noise. People talking, clattering sounds and beeping. Sounds that were familiar somehow and yet strange at the same time. Where was he?

      Resignedly, he opened his eyes. And saw her sitting cross-legged in the chair at the foot of his bed, reading a book. The gnome. Not a gnome—an elf, he decided, now she wasn’t wearing that huge yellow waterproof.

      She smiled and put the book down. ‘Well, I suppose an elf’s an improvement on a gnome.’

      Oh, no. He couldn’t have actually said that.

      ‘’Fraid so.’

      ‘Wha—?’

      She uncrossed her legs, stood up and came over to the bed. ‘Would you like some water?’

      He nodded gratefully. She wasn’t an elf either, then. More like an angel.

      If angels had spiky auburn hair. Weren’t they supposed to be all golden and shining? And he couldn’t see any sign of wings or a halo.

      Though she didn’t make a comment, so he clearly hadn’t spoken aloud this time.

      She held a plastic beaker and put the straw to his lips, and he took a sip. And another. And another. And then she took the beaker away.

      ‘Not too much at once,’ she said.

      Will resented that, even though her tone was kind. Didn’t she know his mouth felt as if it had been stuffed with sawdust? He needed water. Lots more water. He glowered at her and started to reach over to where she’d put the beaker on the bedside cabinet. Then he realised he had no chance of getting the water. Because his left arm was encased in plaster.

      He stared at it in disbelief. He had a broken arm?

      Her quiet voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Can you remember what happened?’

      Will’s eyes widened. Oh, yes, he remembered what happened. The car coming round the corner in Darrowthwaite high street, the look of horror on the driver’s face when he saw the little girl run into the road and realised he wouldn’t be able to stop in time, the screech of tyres and the smell of burning rubber as he’d slammed on the brakes…

      And then the impact. The bone-jarring impact when the car had thudded into him.

      ‘Car,’ he forced out.

      ‘Anything else?’

      He looked suspiciously at her. ‘Are you a reporter?’

      ‘No.’ She changed tack again. ‘Do you know what day it is?’

      ‘Thursday.’ He suddenly realised why she was asking. She wanted to check if he had amnesia. ‘How long was I out?’

      ‘The second time, you mean?’

      So he’d been knocked out twice?

      ‘Only for about fifteen minutes.’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘You gave us all a scare.’

      ‘I’m fine now. I’m going…’ His voice faded as he tried to sit up. No, he wasn’t going to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He had a nasty feeling he knew exactly why his right leg had a dressing taped over it: the car had given him more than just a bruise. A lot more.

      He stared at her. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘My name’s Mallory Ryman.’

      It didn’t ring any bells. And Mallory Ryman was definitely a woman once seen, never forgotten. Small and slender, with huge blue eyes and a mouth that…

      Stop right there, Will Cooper. You’re in hospital with an arm in plaster and probably a pinned leg, you ache all over, you’ve probably got concussion and you’re in no fit condition to start thinking like that about her, he told himself.

      And then he panicked. Was it more than just concussion making him feel groggy? Did he know Mallory? Did she work with him? Was she a neighbour? Or was she the one who’d managed to melt his resolve about never getting involved again?

      ‘Can you remember your name?’

      Uh-oh. This was beginning to sound as if he did know her. So why couldn’t he remember who she was? ‘I’m Will Cooper.’

      She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what your notes say, too. And what I was told in Darrowthwaite.’

      He relaxed again. It was all right. He didn’t have amnesia on top of everything else. Though a tiny part of him was disappointed. As if he’d been hoping that she—

      No. He’d already learned the hard way that love didn’t exist.

      ‘I thought you might like an update on the little girl.’

      ‘Little girl?’ Will parroted.

      ‘The reason you’re in here,’ Mallory told him kindly.

      As if he’d forgotten. His mind was just working a bit more slowly than usual, that was all. ‘Kelly Beswick. Is she all right?’

      ‘Not so much as a bruise on her. You took all the impact and your body cushioned hers,’ Mallory said. ‘Her mum was in shock, mind. I had to prescribe some hot sweet tea.’

      So his gnome—elf—angel—whatever—had a sense of humour. Because, of course, Will, being a GP in Darrowthwaite, should have been the one doing the prescribing. No doubt Wendy Beswick had told Mallory who he was.

      ‘But Kelly’s fine. The driver had a bit of a sore neck so they’re checking him out in Casualty—it’s probably minor whiplash. And Wendy’s going to keep Kelly on reins in future, particularly the next time she starts chatting to her friends in the middle of the street. I think she’s realised now that two-year-olds have a low boredom threshold. Especially when they see a cat on the other side of the road—’

      ‘And step straight out in front of a car,’ Will finished.

      ‘Lucky you saw it and got her out of the way.’

      Mallory didn’t need to elaborate. They both knew that the impact would have killed the small child. Will had seen the toddler wander into the road, then the car come round the corner. There was only one thing he could possibly have done—and he’d done it. Rushed into the road, even though it had felt like wading through treacle at the time, and scooped her out of the way, taking the brunt of the impact himself.

      The dull thud had reverberated through his body. And then he’d hit the tarmac.

      ‘And even luckier it wasn’t summer,’ Mallory said.

      He knew exactly what she meant. In summer, he wouldn’t have been wearing a waxed thornproof jacket. He’d have been in shirtsleeves—thin fabric that would have been torn to shreds on the tarmac when he’d hit it. And as for the СКАЧАТЬ