“We need to splint this to keep it in place.”
The receptionist who’d watched the entire procedure left the room.
Deon was already more comfortable.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” Monica told him once she jumped off the table. The swelling and bruising were evident. She couldn’t rule out a critical bleed. She removed a permanent marker from her pocket and flexible ruler. She marked Deon’s leg in two places and measured the circumference. There wasn’t a chart to write on so she did the next best thing… she wrote the numbers right on the boy’s leg. Then at least she would have a starting point when she checked on him again.
He attempted a smile.
“Wait with him,” she told the mother. “We’ll splint his leg and have a doctor look at him as soon as we can.”
Soon could be the next day if his pulses held and the leg didn’t swell, but Monica didn’t want to tell the mother that.
“I’ll try and get him something for pain. Is he allergic to anything?”
“No.”
Monica added the letters NKA to Deon’s leg in pen. No known allergies… such a simple fact written on a chart. Here it could be life or death.
Monica turned away from the patient, her shoulders slumped slightly. The room was packed. If she could split into five people, she still wouldn’t be able to manage what all of them needed.
A strong hand rested on her shoulder. “Good job back there.”
She glanced over her shoulder and up. Barefoot was tall and surprisingly broad. Unlike anyone else, he smelled good. Sandalwood and man. Such a relief from blood, sweat, and dirt. “Thank you for helping.”
“You did all the work. Have you done that before?”
“No.”
“You made it look easy.” He smiled and for a brief moment, the room slid away. Something curled in the pit of her stomach and heated. Was it desire or was it hunger?
The weight of his hand never left her shoulder. It would have been too easy to lean on him.
She shook off the yearning and moved out of Barefoot’s reach. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at his feet. He wore a pair of running shoes.
“I’ve got to keep moving. Thanks for your help.”
Monica took a few steps away only to hear her name. “Monica?”
He remembered?
“The name’s Trent. Not Barefoot.” He lifted a leg and wiggled his foot.
Monica felt her face heat. “Good to know,” she said with a rare smile before turning away.
Chapter Four
“I need a volunteer.” Donald pulled Monica aside twelve hours after she’d set foot in the blazing inferno.
She rubbed a clean hand over her face and blinked a few times. “Volunteer? Isn’t that what I’m doing here?”
Donald offered a half smile. “I need a nurse to go over one county to the east, it’s a fishing village, Port Lucia. The clinic there is bursting. The local doctor hasn’t been seen since the quake.”
Monica shook her head. “There isn’t a doctor?”
“No. There’s a couple of nurses… aides.” He glanced around them. As organized as chaos could go, the room had some order. “Your triage skills kick ass.”
As much as she’d like to bask in the compliment, she couldn’t get over what he was asking. “You want me to go to a clinic where there isn’t a doctor? How does that work? My license…”
“Your license is safe here. There are people suffering and I need to send someone to triage the worst back here. We have standing orders you’ll take with you, and a two-way radio to ask questions if needed. The last thing we need is more walking wounded filling these rooms.”
Monica couldn’t argue with that. “You’re asking for a volunteer?” The way his eyes looked through her said he was more than asking.
“Tina’s good… but you’re better. If I put the best nurse there, I won’t worry that careless mistakes are happening. Either Walt or I will come up every twenty-four hours to lend a hand.”
“A lot can go wrong in twenty-four hours. I’ll need to sleep.”
“Like I said. There are aides. They’ve been sending most of the wounded here. Half of them didn’t need to come.”
Like a bad flu season in California, when the ER would fill with patients, bottlenecking the entire department and eventually the hospital, which made it next to impossible to treat anyone in a timely manner. Here the numbers of critical patients were too great to let sit.
“So… can I count on you?”
The inside of Monica’s stomach twisted. She liked to think she had some autonomy as a critical care trauma nurse. The bottom line, however, was there was always a doctor around. She followed a doctor’s orders.
A cry from a patient three beds away had Monica glancing around the room. All day she’d treated people, tended their needs… directed them to the next level of care if need be and she could count on one hand how often Donald or Walt had made it past her side.
“How far away is Port Lucia?”
There was an excited hum in his veins Trent had forgotten existed. For the first time in what felt like ever, he woke with sense of real purpose. He tried to convince himself the reason for his overzealous sense of self was due to the state of emergency the island had been under since the quake. That was part of it, but the itchy, hot exhilaration came from something much baser.
Blonde hair and cool blue eyes found him while he slept. Even there, her sassy tongue and knowing eyes found a moment to mock his bare feet.
Before leaving his chopper on the tarmac the night before, he’d been asked to arrive early to pick up one of the American nurses and deliver her to Port Lucia. Because Trent’s home resided between the short runway and Port Lucia, Reynard asked him to deliver the nurse personally. There wasn’t anywhere to land the chopper close to the clinic so a short drive would be in the travel plans.
Trent wanted to ask which nurse was taking the new assignment, but didn’t. He’d find out soon enough. He didn’t hold too much hope that Monica would be that nurse. He knew she didn’t take to flying and probably wouldn’t volunteer.
Either way, he’d have an excuse to see her again briefly, if only to find out who he was escorting around the island.
After a short shower and a cup of god-awful instant coffee, Trent filled Ginger’s dog bowl and pulled his Jeep out of his driveway.
Clouds blocked the morning rays of the sun and threatened more than a few drops of rain. The last thing the island needed was bad weather.