CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“S
idney!” Greg shrieked, collapsing by her side and running his hands over her to assess her wound.
Blood seeped from beneath her, soaking into her blonde hair.
He gently turned her face toward him, that beautiful, fierce mouth, tight jaw line, and flashing eyes all looked different now.
Now, her features were slack, her eyes closed as if she slept, her face smeared with dirt sprayed with tiny droplets of blood.
He searched frantically for a pulse at her neck and leaned toward her mouth to feel for breath.
She was still breathing, though shallowly, he realized with a shudder.
He patted her cheek, “Sid, Sid, honey?” he squeaked over the emotion in his voice, hoping to wake her, all the while searching for where the blood was coming from.
Medicine was his life. It started out as just a job, a way to prove his father wrong and to gain the admiration of almost anyone he talked to.
But it had also become his identity—the thing that gave him meaning.
He’d dedicated the last twelve years of his life to achieve the top of his career, to be the best, to apply his skills and knowledge to help save lives.
Most of the time when he stepped into the role of surgeon, a sense of immense confidence settled over him.
He knew what he was doing and he was damn good at it.
But now, away from the familiarity of the hospital, with the life he needed to save being the very woman he loved, all his training seemed to vanish on the gentle breeze that carried through the canopy.
He’d shot her. The realization sunk him like an anvil being thrown into the sea.
How had he shot her? He’d been aiming for the man Mimbeck’s cronies were holding.
She must’ve jumped in front of him. Why would she do that?
It had all happened so fast. He never intended to kill anyone, but he’d been so blind with relief at news that she was still alive, he’d agreed to do anything the large Hundi man had told him.
He hadn’t thought he would actually have to do it.
He hadn’t known what he was thinking as he drove with the small group of men just yesterday.
They drove up through the winding and treacherous roads of the mountain, over the peak, and finally abandoned their vehicles and made the rest of the journey on foot.
He’d been dizzy with relief that she was still alive.
After the mission’s search team left, he’d spiraled into a version of desperation he could only call feral.
Along with the small band of young Makian warriors, they had taken their newly acquired guns throughout the villages, eliciting fear in the poor tribespeople.
He’d never once considered using it for killing.
Honestly, he didn’t think he had it in him.
It was for leverage, and obviously it had worked.
Word spread that they were looking for a white woman.
An American. And right as he was about to give up, Mimbeck had entered Makia under a white flag.
Greg had come to rescue her, and now she was lying on the ground in a pool of her own blood, a bullet shot through her by a gun he’d fired with his own hand—how can this be?
He found the bullet hole. It hit her shoulder between the brachial plexus and the brachial artery, most likely hitting the humerus near the ball of the shoulder joint. His mind finally bolted to attention while people crowded closer.
He carefully lifted her, ensuring the injured arm was tucked tightly to her side.
“Get me that table!” he yelled to anyone who was listening. The man who he had intended to shoot moved quickly into action.
Greg placed Sidney on top as she moaned in pain.
“Sidney. Sidney, can you hear me? Stay with me, baby.” He looked up into the eyes of the dark-skinned man, his battered face pulled tight with restrained emotion and Greg barked, “Find me bandages, cloth, anything!” and the man ran off.
Greg pulled off his shirt, ripping it in two, and tucked one part up underneath Sidney’s shoulder, tipping her gently so he could see if the bullet had exited, as he assumed it had.
With his suspicions confirmed, he eased her back, applying pressure enough to help staunch the flow of blood, but not too much to cause undo pain to the quickly swelling shoulder. She would need surgery.
Just then the man reappeared, and with him, a slight, older woman holding cloth and bandages, long bamboo leaves, and medicines of the rudimentary variety.
“Tell us what to do to help…she is…our friend,” the man said stiffly, but in perfect English with a rich lilting accent.
Greg began to give orders and they administered first aid, stopped the bleeding and bound her arm tightly to her body.
The native man’s hands worked quickly and a sling was constructed from the long leaves of a banana tree, woven together for strength.
The old woman slathered honey over the open wound before closing it over with a bandage of cloth and securing it with twine that was braided in a tight weave.
Greg shrugged at their effective, albeit primitive, dressing and figured it couldn’t hurt to seal the flesh and keep infection at bay.
He didn’t know how long it would take them to get her to a hospital, but he was already making plans to call in an air ambulance once they made it back to the Rovers.
“She’ll need surgery,” he said, breathless. “I have to get her to a hospital as soon as possible. She may wake up soon and she’s going to be in a world of pain.”
Movement caught his eye. In the morning light he saw Manoi and the five other young, Makian warriors who’d made the journey with him, stripped of their guns, being corralled by some of the Hundi men. Apparently their plan for a surprise attack was nothing compared to a home-court advantage.
“I’ll need my men to help me get her down the hill,” he said, gesturing to the group who stood just outside the canopy. “We have vehicles at the base of the mountain,” he addressed the man who so obviously carried himself as leader but looked no older than Greg was himself.
He began to wonder then, what kind of feud he’d walked into when he’d agreed to come to Hundi village with Mimbeck. He’d barely registered the carnage of the surrounding scene, so wrapped up as he was in Sidney’s care. He turned slightly, surveying the damage.
Mimbeck lay dead just a few yards away, lying face down in an array of other disheveled bodies that littered the floor of the canopy. A quick estimation rounded the group of dead men to about a dozen.
“Return the guns, or not. I don’t care,” Greg said, turning back to Sidney, “but let my men go so they can help me. They only came because of me. Besides, it looks like you have bigger problems right now,” he said nudging his head at the scene he’d just beheld.
“Will she be alright?” the injured leader asked, almost like a plea. Greg did not like the way his question sounded. It was too intimate, too caring, as if the answer would be some deciding factor of the remainder of the man’s life.
Greg’s eyes flashed away from him. “If I have anything to do with it—yes!”