Rescuing Dr Ryan Read online

  RESCUING DR RYAN

  Caroline Anderson

  The injured hero!

  Will Ryan is supposed to be training Lucie Compton as a family doctor, yet here he is with two injured arms, relying on her for every undignified little thing! It's more than his pride can take.

  She disrupts his peace, his life, his dignity--and she's beautiful! She's loud, willful and the dog prefers her to him. She's kind, thoughtful...and he's dreaming about her! Not that he'd ever tell her.

  Lucie decides to save this grumpy but gorgeous soul from himself--and get him to pursue his real desires! In fact, she makes rescuing Dr. Ryan her very next challenge....

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Ah. no!'

  Will rammed his hands through his hair and stared disbelievingly at the wide, wet stain on the mattress. Cocking his head a little, he looked up at the ceiling, and winced. Yup, there was a corresponding stain, right over the middle of the bed. The new bed.

  Great. There must be a missing tile on the roof, just over the bedroom, and, of course, as luck would have it, it had been the wettest March on record.

  He sniffed experimentally, and sighed. Mildew. Lovely. Probably soaked right through the bed and rotted the carpet underneath. He said something his grandmother wouldn't have understood, and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.

  Before anyone could use the little cottage, it would need a new bed—another one—and a new carpet— and Lucie Compton, their new GP registrar, was due in two hours. He crossed the yard, turned and squinted up into the sun. Yes, there it was—or wasn't. A neat hole in the middle of the roof slope. Still, it could have been worse. The tile was sitting in the gutter and hadn't smashed on the ground— although if it had smashed at least he would have stood a chance of noticing it sooner.

  He gave a hefty sigh and fetched the ladder and some tools from the barn. Within moments he'd put the tile back and secured it, and checked the others around it. All looked fine.

  Good. He put the tools away and came back for the ladder, and as he carried it round the end of the little converted barn he noticed Minnie, the tiny little Siamese kitten, running across the roof and crying.

  'Oh, Minnie, how did you get up there?' he asked, exasperated.

  'Mreouw—rrr,' she replied.

  'Did you? Well, that'll teach me to leave the ladder there for you, won't it?'

  'Mreow.'

  'OK, I'm coming,' he said. He glanced at his watch. One hour seventeen minutes and counting. Hell.

  He stuck the ladder up against the side of the barn, checked that it was steady and gave the sloping ground a dubious look. Oh, dammit. He didn't have time to tie it. He rattled it again, just to make sure it was secure, and climbed carefully to the top.

  'Come on, Minnie. Come here.'

  The kitten came almost within reach, sat down and cried piteously.

  'Well, come here, then!' he coaxed with the last shred of his patience. He held out his fingers and she brushed against them. If he could just reach out...

  The ladder jolted, lurching slightly to the side, and he grabbed the rungs and hung on, freezing for a moment.

  Hmm. Now what? Minnie came to the top, within reach, and rubbed herself against the top rung. 'Damn cat,' he said with affection, and reached for her cautiously.

  There was another lurch, and he felt the ladder sliding out from under him. He grabbed the top rung and prayed, but God was either elsewhere or had decided it was time Will was taught a lesson.

  It was, he thought with strange detachment, almost like watching something in slow motion. The ladder skidded, dropped below the guttering and then slid down the side of the bam, gathering speed as it neared the ground.

  Oh, hell, he thought. I really don't need this.

  Then he hit the deck.

  Everything hurt. His head hurt, his legs hurt, his ribs felt crushed, but it was his arms that were really, really giving him stick.

  He rested his forehead on the rung in front of him and instantly regretted it. He shifted, finding a bit that wasn't bruised, and lay Still for a moment, waiting for his chest to reinflate and his heart to slow down.

  He was also waiting for the pain to recede, but he was a realist. Five minutes later his breathing and heart rate were back to normal, and he decided that two out of three weren't bad. Given a choice, he would have gone for a different two, of course.

  The kitten rubbed herself against his head, and he cracked open an eye and glared at her balefully.

  'I am going to kill you,' he said slowly and clearly. 'Just as soon as I work out how to get out of here.'

  Unabashed, she sat down just inches away and washed herself.

  Will ignored her. He had other problems more immediate than a bit of cathartic blood-letting. He shifted experimentally, and gasped. OK. Not a good idea to press down on his right arm. What about the left?

  Nope.

  Knees? Better. And shoulders were OK. Now, if he could just roll over...

  He bit back a string of choice epithets, and rolled onto his back, falling with a sickening jolt to the ground beside the ladder.

  Phase one completed. Now all he had to do was get to his feet, go inside and call for help.

  Hah!

  He lifted his head a fraction, and stifled a groan. Damn. Headache. He persisted, peering at his arms which lay awkwardly across his chest.

  No doubt about the right one, he thought in disgust. He'd be lucky to get away without pinning and plating. And the left?

  His wrist was swelling before his eyes, and if it got much bigger his watch was going to cut off the circulation to his hand. Wonderful. He closed his eyes with a sigh and laid his head back down carefully on the ground. He'd just have to wait for Lucie Compton to arrive and rescue him.

  There was a lump of something hard sticking into his spine, but it was beyond him to shift himself away from it. It was just one more small pain amongst many. If he were a philosopher, he'd welcome the pain as proof that he was alive. However, he wasn't, and at that particular moment he wouldn't have minded being dead.

  And then, just as if survival itself wasn't a big enough bundle of laughs, he felt the first heavy splash of rain hit his face..,.

  Lucie was late. Lucie was usually late, but she really, really hadn't needed Fergus giving her the third degree on the way out.

  He knew she had to do this, knew that spending time in a general practice was part of her GP training, knew that it was only temporary.

  Well, not any more. Not the separation, at any rate, although her sojourn into the countryside would be as brief as she could get away with. Six months tops. That, on top of the six months she'd already spent in her inner-city practice, would see her qualified to practise as a GP, and then she'd be back in the city like a rat out of a trap.

  Of course, she didn't have to spend the time in the country. She could quite easily have found another London practice but, to be honest, Fergus was one of the reasons she'd wanted to get away, at least just for a while, to put some distance between them and see if what they had was a forever thing or just a temporary habit that needed breaking.

  Well, she'd broken it, in words of one syllable.

  You Do Not Own Me. Go Away. Leave Me Alone.

  OK, mostly one syllable. He'd understood, anyway. He'd flounced off, slamming the door of his car and roaring off into the sunset—except it had been some time after sunrise and he hadn't roared anywhere very much in the traffic off the Fulham Road.

  She pulled over to the side of the road and checked her map. It was raining, of course, blurring everything and making it harder to read the signs.

  '"Pass the turning to High Corner and take the next track on the right. Follow to the end. It's a bit rough in places." Hmm.' She pe
ered at the sandy track ahead. Could that be it? It didn't seem to have a sign, and looked like nothing more than a farm track, but the address was Ferryview Farm, so it was possible.

  With a resigned shrug, she turned onto the track and followed it. Some of it was sandy, some stony, some just downright boggy. It was a bit rough in places, she thought, and then lurched into a pothole.

  Make that very rough, she corrected herself, and picked her way carefully through the next few puddles. Of course, without the rain—

  There was a lurch, a nasty crunching grinding noise and her car came to rest on the centre of the track, its wheels dangling in matched potholes.

  She put it in reverse and tried to drive out, but it was stuck fast, teetering on a high point. Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  She got out, straight into a puddle that went over her ankle, and slammed her car door with a wail of frustration. Just let Dr Ryan wait until she caught up with him!

  Pulling her coat close around her shoulders and hitching the collar up against the driving rain, she headed up the track. It couldn't be far, surely?

  Not that it mattered if it was miles. She had no choice, not until she could get a breakdown truck to come and drag her car off the track.

  Always assuming, of course, that she hadn't shattered the sump!

  'Look on the bright side, Lucie,' she told herself, scraping a muddy hand through her rapidly frizzling hair. 'It could be snowing.'

  Ten seconds later a little flurry of sleet plastered itself against her face. 'I didn't say that!' she wailed, and hitched the collar higher. The moment she caught up with Dr William 'it's a bit rough in places' Ryan, she was going to kill him!

  She was late. Typical bloody woman, she was late, just when he needed her. He thought again of struggling to his feet and trying to get inside, but after the effort of sitting up and shuffling back into the lee of the barn, he thought it would probably kill him. Besides, the house keys were in his pocket, and he knew getting them out was beyond him.

  So he sat, and he waited, and he fumed.

  Still, he had Minnie for company—Minnie, the cause of all his grief. He might have known the damn cat was perfectly capable of getting herself down off the roof. If he'd thought about it at all, which, of course, he hadn't, he would have realised she could jump down on the top of the oil storage tank at the back and thence down to the ground. It was probably the way she'd got up in the first place.

  He dropped his head back against the side of the barn and closed his eyes. The sun was out now— typical of April, sleet and driving rain one minute, glorious sunshine the next—and where he was sitting in the shelter of the barn, he was facing directly into it.

  Good. It might warm him up, stop him shivering uncontrollably. He was in shock, of course, because of the fracture. Fractures? His right arm was certainly distorted, and his left was still swelling around the wrist. His watch was painfully tight, the flesh bulging each side of the broad metal strap. He tried to undo it with his teeth, but it was too firm and, besides, it hurt too much to prod about with it unnecessarily.

  Please, God, don't let me have two broken arms, he thought in despair. His mind ran through a list of things he couldn't do with two broken arms—and there were a lot in there that were very personal!

  God again, teaching him compassion for his patients? Giving him a closer understanding of their needs and suffering?

  Or just fate playing a nasty practical joke?

  Where was Lucie Compton? Richard had waxed so lyrical about her after he'd interviewed her that Will had had great hopes—but if her medical skills were as good as her timekeeping, it didn't bode well for her patients. And he, he realised, was going to be her first one.

  Hell.

  Bruno was barking in the house, shut inside because Will had just been on his way out when he'd checked the cottage and found the leak. However, the dog had been quiet until now apart from the odd bark, and now he was letting loose with a volley. Someone coming?

  Odd. Surely not Lucie? Will couldn't hear a car, but there was something. Footsteps. Fast, cross little footsteps.

  A woman came into view, small, bedraggled and evidently as mad as a wet hen. She marched up to him, fixed him with a glare and said crisply, 'A bit rough in places?'

  What? He opened his mouth to speak, but she rattled on, clearly divesting herself of some pent-up rage.

  'I could have you up under the Trades Descriptions Act!' she stormed. 'A bit rough! Do you know I've grounded my car and probably trashed it on your damn drive?'

  Oh, hell. It was Lucie Compton, finally. And now .he'd get to test her medical skills, if he could just get a word in—

  'I expect the sump's broken, knowing my luck,' she ranted on, 'and I'll have to get the engine replaced! And I'm wringing wet and frozen, and my mobile phone doesn't work out here in this Godforsaken bit of wilderness, and all you can do is sit there, and smirk!'

  She lifted her foot, and for a sickening moment he thought she was going to kick him, but she stamped it crossly and spun on her heel, walking away and then wheeling round and striding back.

  'Well, for goodness' sake, aren't you going to say anything? Apologise or something? I mean, the very least you could do is get off your idle backside and let me in! I'm soaked to the skin, I'm freezing to death and you don't give a damn.'

  God, she was beautiful, with her hair a wild tangle of damp curls and steam coming out of her ears! Her eyes were spitting green sparks, and her mouth when she finally paused for breath was soft and lush and too wide for conventional beauty, but he could imagine it trailing over his poor wounded body and kissing it better. He stifled a groan and met her furious eyes.

  'You're late. Help me up,' he said gruffly, and she stopped in her tracks and her wide, soft, pretty mouth fell open in surprise.

  'Excuse me?'

  'The ladder slipped. I think my arms are broken. Could you, please, help me up?'

  Her jaw flapped for a moment, and her eyes widened, tracking over him and filling with horror. 'Well, why on earth didn't you say so, instead of just sitting there?'

  'I would have done, but you made it well nigh impossible to get a word in edgeways,' he said drily. To his satisfaction she coloured, the anger going out of her like air out of a punctured balloon.

  'Sorry,' she conceded gruffly. 'Um...how do you suggest we do this? What have you broken?'

  'Right radius and ulna, and maybe something in my left wrist. Oh, and I'm a bit concussed and my legs hurt like hell, but they move, at least. Otherwise I'm just peachy.'

  'Right. Um.'

  She crouched down and bent over him, the damp tendrils of her wildly curling hair teasing his face. 'May I see?'

  He lowered his legs, wincing as he did so, and revealed his forearms. 'Don't touch anything,' he warned through gritted teeth, and she nodded. Thank God she only looked, and didn't feel the need to prod him.

  'OK. You need a couple of slings before I try and move you. Have you got any in the house?'

  'Yes, but until I get up you can't get in. The keys are in my pocket.'

  'Oh.' She glanced down at his jeans, snug around his hips, and she coloured slightly. 'Um—are you sure? Which pocket?'

  'The right.'

  'You could shift onto your left hip and I could see if I could wriggle my hand in...'

  He shifted, swallowing hard and hoping for a good hefty jolt of pain to take his mind off those slender little fingers. They wormed and wriggled their way in, while she blushed and apologised. She gave a little grunt of effort and her breath puffed soft and minty-fresh over his face. He closed his eyes and groaned, and wondered how long it would be before he embarrassed himself with her prodding and probing about so damn close—

  'Got them!' she said victoriously, brandishing them in front of his nose.

  He sighed with relief. 'Mind the dog. He's all right, but he'll come and jump all over me, and I don't need it just now.'

  'I'll keep him in,' she promised. 'Where ar
e the slings?'

  'Kitchen. Cupboard on the left of the sink. The dog's called Bruno.' He watched her go, and wondered how, in the midst of so much pain, he could be so aware of her cute little bottom in those tight, unbelievably sexy jeans...

  Lucie let herself in and greeted the dog, a huge hairy black thing with doleful eyes and jaws that could have sheared a man's thigh, and hoped the eyes would win.

  'Good doggie, nice Bruno. Sit.'

  To her amazement he sat, his tail wiggling furiously, and she reached out a tentative hand and patted him. 'Good boy,' she said, a little more confidently, and he barked again, standing up and going to the door to scratch hopefully at it.

  'Sorry, babes, you've got to stay inside,' she told him, and looked around. Sink. Good. Cupboard on left—and slings. Excellent. She squirmed past the dog, shut the door and ran back down the steps and over to the barn.

  His eyes were shut, and she could see, now she was less angry, that his face was grey and drawn. She wondered how long he'd been there, and how on earth she'd get him out.

  'Dr Ryan?'

  'Will,' he mumbled, opening his eyes. 'Lucie, take my watch off, can you? It hurts like hell.'

  She carefully unclipped the metal strap, but she couldn't slide it over his hand. The face was cracked, and it had stopped about three hours ago. Had he been there that long? Probably.

  'Let's get a support on that right arm first,' she said, and carefully lifted his hand as he shifted his elbow away from his body.

  She was as gentle as possible, but he still bit back a groan and braced himself against the barn. She fixed the sling, then put the left arm, which seemed less painful, in a lower sling so it wouldn't interfere with the right.

  'OK. Now I need to get you up and out to hospital. Any ideas?'

  His eyes flickered open. 'Teleporting?'

  Humour, even in all that pain. She felt a flicker of admiration. 'Sorry, not an option. Do you have a car?'

  'Yes. It's round the corner in the barn. The keys are with the door keys. Lock the back door again and get the car out and bring it round.'