City Surgeon, Small Town Miracle
Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Dear Reader

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

With thanks to the fabulous Anne Gracie, whose friendship means the world to me.

Dear Reader

Sometimes reality meshes with the stories in my head. This year, a visit to a friend with a passion for ancient tractors was followed by a holiday to Coogee—one of Sydney’s fabulous beaches. While we were there the lights went out. No power! And, what was worse, no breakfast coffee. Aagh! So, while the love of my life tried to read his morning paper in a café so dimly lit I could barely see the table, I was forced to sit over cold cereal and think up a story instead.

The couple at the next table were fussing over their sleeping baby. They looked to be older first-time parents, and their love for each other and their joyful adoration of their beautiful daughter shone out despite the gloom. That’ll do, I thought, as I sulked over my orange juice. I named them Max and Maggie, and their lovely baby Rose. But there’s always an obstacle to a truly great romance, and suddenly those tractors sprang to mind. Sadly, that’s where my story stopped. There’s only so much a woman can do without caffeine :-(

Luckily the power came back on, and with it came coffee. Hooray, I thought as I headed home to start Chapter One. I’ve fallen in love with Maggie and Max and Rose and tractors. I hope you do, too.

Happy reading

Marion

Marion Lennox is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical™ Romances, as well as Mills & Boon® Romances. (She used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Mills & Boon® Romances, search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had 75 romance novels accepted for publication.

In her non-writing life Marion cares for kids, cats, dogs, chooks and goldfish. She travels, she fights her rampant garden (she’s losing) and her house dust (she’s lost). Having spun in circles for the first part of her life, she’s now stepped back from her ‘other’ career, which was teaching statistics at her local university. Finally she’s reprioritised her life, figured out what’s important, and discovered the joys of deep baths, romance and chocolate. Preferably all at the same time!

CHAPTER ONE

THE road was narrow, with a sheer cliff face on one side and a steep fall-away to the sea on the other. The scenery was fantastic, but Dr Max Ashton was in no mood to enjoy the view. He’d had enough of this bucolic setting. He’d had enough of holiday. All he wanted was to get back to Sydney, to work and to solitude.

Which wasn’t happening anytime soon. As he nosed his gorgeous, midnight-blue sports coupé around the fourth blind bend since town, a cattle truck veered around from the opposite direction. The small but ancient truck wasn’t travelling at speed, and neither was he, but the road was too narrow to let them both pass.

The truck jerked sideways into the cliff-face and the back of the tray swung out to meet him. Collision was inevitable, and collision was what happened.

He wasn’t hurt—his car was too well built for that—but it took moments to react to the shock, to see past his inflated airbags to assess the damage.

Mess, he thought grimly, but no smoke. The cab of the truck didn’t look badly damaged, and his own car looked bent but not broken. Hopefully this meant nothing but the hassle of a probably uninsured idiot who didn’t know enough to keep rust-buckets off the road.

But the accident wasn’t over yet. There was a bang, like a minor explosion, and the back of the truck jerked sideways. A tyre had just decided to burst. As he stared out past his airbags, the steel crate on the rear of the truck lurched in sympathy—and didn’t stop. It slewed off the truck and crashed sideways down onto the edge of the road.

It was as if a bucket of legs was suddenly upended. A cluster of calves, a soft toffee colour, with huge eyes, white faces and white feet, was tumbling out onto the road. He couldn’t count them for sure. They were too entwined.

The tangle of calves, all legs, tails and wide, scared eyes, was scrambling for collective purchase, failing and pushing itself further toward the edge of the cliff. Before Max could react, the calves disappeared from view, and from the cabin of the truck came a woman’s frantic scream.

‘No-o-o!’

Shock and the airbags had kept him still for all of thirty seconds, but the scream jolted him out of his stupor. He was out of the car before the scream had ended, heading for the cab.

The truck’s passenger side was crumpled into the cliff but the driver’s side looked okay. As he reached it, the cab door swung open and a woman staggered out. A blur of black and white flashed past her. A collie?

‘Stop them,’ she yelled, shoving past him as if he wasn’t there. ‘Bonnie, go. Fetch them back.’

And the black and white blur was gone.

She was bleeding. All he noticed in that first brief glance was a slight figure in faded jeans, blood streaming down her face, but it was enough.

He grabbed her arm as she headed past, and tugged her towards him. She wrenched back, fighting to be free, but she was small enough that he could stop her. He reeled her in against him, an armful of distressed woman intent on following her calves over the edge of the cliff.

‘Let me go,’ she yelled. ‘They’re Gran’s calves. Stop them.’

In answer he held her tighter. No matter how bad his weekend had been up to now, no matter that this woman had just made it worse, he was feeling a certain obligation to stop her self-destructing.

‘You’re hurt.’

She was. There was blood oozing from a cut on the side of her head, and she was staggering, as if one of her legs wasn’t doing what it was supposed to.

She was also pregnant. Seven months or so. Apart from the pregnancy she looked like a kid, scruffy, dressed in worn jeans, a blood-spattered windcheater and ancient leather boots. What else? He was doing a lightning assessment as she struggled. Her carrot-red hair was tied roughly into two bright plaits. She had a cute snub nose, freckles and wide green eyes, currently filled with fear.

She was hurt. There was no way he could let her chase calves.

‘Sit,’ he said, and tried to propel her to the edge of the road, but she wasn’t about to be propelled.

‘Gran’s calves.’ She was practically weeping. ‘She has to see them before…Please, let me go!’ She made to shove past him again, but he wasn’t moving.

‘Not until I see how badly you’re injured. You’ve cut your head.’

She swiped blood from her face with her sleeve and glared up at him, and he was astonished at the strength of her glare. ‘It’s not arterial,’ she gasped. ‘If I’m bleeding out then I’m not bleeding in so there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not about to drop dead from raised intracranial pressure, so let me go.’

Too focussed to note her unexpected knowledge, Max settled for a calm ‘No.’

‘Yes.’ Then before he could react she kicked out. Her boot hit his shin. Hard.

He was so astounded he let her go, and she was over the cliff like the hounds of hell were after her.

Luckily the cliff wasn’t sheer. It was a steep incline, sloping sharply twenty feet down to the beach, so the calves—he could count four now they’d disentangled themselves—hadn’t fallen. They looked essentially unhurt, and were heading north along the sand, with the collie tearing after them.

The woman was presumably wanting to tear after them as well, and for a fraction of a second he was tempted to let her go.

That wasn’t exactly heroic, he thought ruefully. Neither was it possible. She was battered and torn and pregnant, and she was heading off to rescue calves that he’d been in part responsible for releasing. So he groaned and headed down the cliff after her.

He had no trouble catching up to her, but as he reached her she swiped out at him and kept on going. She lurched as she put weight on what presumably was an injured leg. He grabbed her again—and she kicked him again.

Why was he doing this? Her rust-bucket of a truck had caused this mess. She’d kicked him and her boots packed a painful punch. Women, he thought bitterly. Since his wife’s death he’d carefully constructed a solid and impervious armour, and once again his desire to retreat behind it came to the fore. Why worry? She could head off after her calves and her dog, and he could ring a tow truck and wait for her to come to her senses.

But she was bleeding, and she was pregnant.

Personal choice didn’t come into this. Doctors didn’t sign the Hippocratic oath anymore, but conscience was insidious. Besides, he wasn’t at all sure she was bright enough to stop before she passed out from shock or blood loss, and an unconscious woman would complicate his life so much he didn’t want to think about it.

So he groaned and headed off again, and snagged her just as she hit the beach. This time he grabbed her by the back of her jeans. She swung back to face him, already lashing out, but he was ready for her. He reeled her in by the waist and swung her up into his arms, tugging her so close she couldn’t struggle.

‘Let me go. I’ll bleed on you,’ she snapped, and she had a point. He’d bought this jacket in Italy and he liked it. Ruining it for a woman who didn’t have a grain of sense to bless herself with seemed a waste. But it was unavoidable.

‘Go right ahead, I’ll send you the cleaning bill.’

‘Blood doesn’t come out of leather.’

‘No, it comes out of torn skin, which is why you have to shut up, keep still and let me put something on your head to stop the bleeding.’

‘I can fix it myself—when I’ve got the calves. Do you have any idea how I’m going to tell Gran where her cows are?’

‘You could say, “Gran, they’re on the beach,”’ he said mildly, ignoring her struggles and starting to climb the cliff again. ‘Okay, they’re important but your dog seems to have their measure. They look unhurt. The cliff gets steeper in either direction so my guess is that they’ll stay on the beach until you can organise a muster, or whatever you do with cows. Meanwhile my car’s in the middle of the road on a blind bend, blocking traffic, and I don’t want what’s left of it squashed.’

She glared up at him. ‘That’s a bit inequitable,’ she said, and suddenly he saw a hint of humour in her wide eyes. ‘What about my truck?’

‘I’ll save your truck too,’ he growled. ‘If you’ll let me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said meekly, and abruptly subsided.

He climbed back up to the road, suddenly aware that his own knees weren’t too steady. The airbags had kept him safe but shock was setting in. Plus he’d been kicked.

Almost as he thought it he felt an answering tremor in her body. She wasn’t as feisty as she was making out, he thought. Or she was hurting more than she’d admit.

Or maybe she was feeling guilty.

‘I’m sorry I kicked you,’ she said, and to his surprise she put her arms around his neck to hang on. It kept them both steadier as they climbed. It felt okay, too. His knees didn’t shake as much when she held him. ‘It might have been a little inappropriate,’ she conceded. ‘Especially since I think the accident was my fault.’

‘I’m sure it was your fault.’

‘That’s not very gracious.’ She pushed her hair back from her face—her braids were working loose—then looked at her hand in disgust. She shrugged and put it back round his neck. ‘Gross. Look, okay, I overreacted. Yes, I’m bleeding, so maybe you could lend me something to make a bandage. But then I need to go back down to the beach so I can take care of the calves. Maybe you could drive to my farm and ask Gran to send Angus?’

‘How far’s the farm?’

‘Five-minute drive.’

‘Angus will rescue you?’

‘Angus will rescue the calves.’

‘Sorry,’ he said, setting her down on the verge. ‘I don’t know what fairy-tales you’ve been reading, but in the ones I read heroes don’t put calves before fair maidens.’

‘I’m not exactly fair,’ she retorted. ‘I’m red.’

‘So I’ve noticed.’ But she was wilting, he thought, and it worried him. ‘So let’s stop you getting redder.’

Before she could protest he tugged off his bloodstained jacket, grabbed the sleeve of his very classy shirt—bought in Italy at the same time as his jacket—and ripped it from the shoulder. He folded the linen into a pad, placed it over her forehead and applied pressure.

‘That was a very nice shirt,’ she said, sounding subdued.

‘I’ll send you a bill.’

‘Do heroes say stuff like that?’

‘I believe I just did,’ he said, and grinned, and she managed a smile back. Whoa.

She was older than he’d thought—and she was a lot more attractive. Compellingly attractive, in fact.

Her smile was just plain gorgeous.

‘I can do that,’ she said, and put her hands up, grabbed his shirt-pad and pressed.

As well as being attractive, she was also a lot less stupid than he’d first thought, he conceded. She’d talked about raised intracranial pressure. Did she have medical training?

No matter. She was in no state to practise any medicine right now, and he had no time to concentrate on her smile.

Her head was okay for the moment. But he stood and looked down at her and thought, There’s more here than scratches. She was trying to make light of her injuries, but he recognised pain when he saw it.

She’d been limping. One knee of her jeans was shredded and bloodstained, though not nearly as dramatically as her face. Still…

He bent, carefully took the torn part of the leg of her jeans in both hands and ripped it to the ankle.

Hell.

How had she managed to climb down the cliff? How had she stood up at all?

She’d cut her knee—it was bleeding sluggishly—but that was only part of it. Already it had swollen to almost twice its size. There was a massive haematoma building behind.

‘Yikes,’ she whispered, pushing herself up on her elbows to look. ‘Why did you do that? It was better when I couldn’t see.’

‘Let’s get it elevated,’ he said, and mentally wished his jacket farewell. He folded it then wedged it under her bloodied knee. A spare tyre had spilled from the cattle crate. He put that under her feet, so her legs were raised on an incline as well.

She needed X-rays. Both leg and head, he thought. No matter what she said, he wasn’t about to let her die of an intracranial bleed just because she was stubborn. And there was also the biggie. The baby might have suffered a blow, and even if it was okay the impact could cause problems with the placenta. She needed an ultrasound, and bed-rest and observation.

Her baby needed attention. That meant he needed to hand her over and get away. Fast.

‘We need an ambulance,’ he told her, tugging his cellphone from his pocket. ‘You need X-rays.’

‘You can give that up as a joke,’ she said wearily. ‘Even if there was reception out here—which there isn’t—you’re looking at Yandilagong’s only ambulance right here.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s not usually the truck. I have a decent-sized estate wagon, only it blew the radiator hose this morning.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘My truck’s the local ambulance until I can get a new radiator hose,’ she said patiently, as if talking to someone who wasn’t very bright. ‘And there’s not one to be had locally for love or money. I’ll get one from Gosland tomorrow—if I can leave Gran for that long.’

‘There’s no ambulance?’ He didn’t have time for the extra information she was throwing at him. He needed to ignore what wasn’t making sense and concentrate on essentials. ‘Why not?’

‘You try attracting medical staff or funding for decent equipment to a place as remote as this,’ she said bitterly. ‘This weekend there’ll be a couple of first-aiders with the music festival, but that’s all the help I have. If I can’t get an ambulance from other areas then I use my own vehicle to take patients to Gosland. That’s our nearest hospital, about an hour away. There’s basic stuff here, like an X-ray machine, but that’s in town, and getting through the crush of the festival isn’t going to happen. But it doesn’t matter,’ she said resolutely. ‘I’d like to check my baby’s heartbeat but I’m sure I’m fine. I just need to get home to Gran. It’s Gran who’s the emergency and she doesn’t need an ambulance. She needs me.’

Was she some kind of volunteer paramedic? This was sounding crazier and crazier.

He turned away and surreptitiously checked his phone. Sure enough, no reception. Okay, he conceded. No ambulance.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, trying to figure where to start.

‘Maggie. We’re wasting time.’

‘How pregnant are you?’

‘Thirty-two weeks.’ And all of a sudden there was a quaver in her voice. ‘He’s okay.’

‘Can you feel him?’ Even asking that hurt, he thought. Hell, he’d lost his son six years ago. Would he ever get over it?

Luckily she’d only heard his professional question. ‘Yes.’ But there was still the quaver. ‘He’s kicking.’

‘Good.’ Kicking was good. But as Maggie had said, he needed to check the heartbeat. He wanted a stethoscope. Add it to the list, he thought grimly. Ambulance, X-rays, stethoscope, ultrasound, a medical team to take over while he walked away.

It wasn’t going to happen. Meanwhile, there was the small problem of the mess blocking the road.

‘If someone else comes round this bend…’ he said, trying to figure out priorities.

‘It’s not used much,’ she told him. ‘But there’s the odd out-of-towner stupid enough to try and get to the highway this way.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

She winced. ‘Sorry. Yes, that was rude. But we do need to clear the road.’ She stared across at the mess. ‘You’ll need help pulling the crate out of the way. Hang on.’ And she put her hands onto the ground to push herself up.

‘No!’ He was down beside her in an instant, taking a shoulder in each hand and pressing back.

And his preconceptions were changing all over the place. At first he’d thought she was little more than a teenager, like the young mothers he saw clustered outside the prenatal clinics near his consulting suite in the hospital he worked in. They were mostly scared kids, forced by pregnancy into growing up too fast, but the more he saw of this woman the more he acknowledged maturity. There were lines etched around her eyes—smile lines that had taken time to grow. And more. Life lines?

She looked like a woman who’d seen a lot, he thought suddenly.

She wasn’t beautiful—not in the traditional sense—and yet the eyes that met his as he pushed her back down onto the verge were clear and bright and almost luminous. They were eyes to make a man take another look.

And then another.

‘Hey, let me up,’ she ordered, as if sensing the inappropriate direction his thoughts were taking, and he came to with a snap.

‘You want that leg to swell so far I have to lance it to take the pressure off?’

Her eyes widened. ‘What the…?’

‘You’re bleeding into the back of your knee,’ he said. ‘If it gets any worse you’ll have circulation problems. I want it X-rayed. And like you, I’m worrying about the baby. You need an ultrasound.’

‘You’re a doctor?’ Her voice was incredulous.

‘For my pains,’

‘Well, how about that?’ she whispered, sounding awed. ‘A doctor, and a bossy one at that. A surgeon, I’ll bet.’

‘Sort of, but—’

‘They’re the worst. Look, if I promise to sign insurance indemnity, can I get up?’

‘No.’

‘The crate…’

‘I’ll move the truck.’

‘You and whose army?’

‘Just shut up for a minute,’ he said, irritated, and there was her smile again.

‘Yes, Doctor.’

The words were submissive but the smile wasn’t. It was a cute smile. Cheeky. Pert. Flashing out despite her fear.

‘You’re a nurse,’ he demanded, suspicious.

‘No, Doctor,’ she said, still submissive, still smiling, though there was no way she could completely disguise the look of pain and fear behind her eyes. ‘But you need to let me help.’

‘In your dreams,’ he growled, disarmed by her smile and struggling to keep a hold on the situation. Worst-case scenario—she could go into labour.

Or she could lose the baby.

Another death…

He needed a medical kit. Usually he carried basic first-aid equipment but his friends’ luggage had filled the trunk and the back seat. Fiona and Brenda. No medicine this weekend, they’d said, and they’d meant it.

Women. And here was another, causing trouble.

But, actually, Maggie wasn’t causing trouble, he conceded, or no more than she could help. She looked like there was no way she’d complain, but he could see the strain in her eyes.

Okay, he told himself. Move. This woman needs help and there’s only me to give it.

‘I meant what I said about keeping still,’ he told her. ‘I have work to do and you’ll just get in the way. So stay!’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said meekly, but he didn’t believe the meekness for a minute.

There wasn’t a lot of choice. In truth, Maggie’s leg hurt so much she was feeling dizzy. She lay back on the grass and tried not to think about the consequences of what had just happened and how it might have affected her baby. That was truly terrifying. She tried not to think how Gran would be needing pain relief, and how she’d been away from home for far too long. She thought about how her leg felt like it might drop off, and that she wouldn’t mind if it did.

If this guy really was a doctor he might have something in the back of his fancy car that’d help.

He really was a doctor. He had about him an air of authority and intelligence that she knew instinctively was genuine. He was youngish—mid-thirties, she guessed—but if she had to guess further she’d say he was in a position of power in his profession. He’d be past the hands-on stage with patients—to a point in his profession where seniority meant he could move back from the personal.

She wasn’t a bad judge of character. This guy seemed competent—and he was also seriously attractive. Yeah, even in pain she’d noticed that, for what woman wouldn’t? He was tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous. But also he seemed instinctively aloof? Why?

But this was hardly the time for personal assessments of good-looking doctors. The pain in her leg stabbed upward and she switched to thinking what the good-looking doctor might have in the back of his car that might help.

What could she take this far along in pregnancy? Her hands automatically clasped her belly and she flinched. No.

‘We need to get through this without drugs,’ she whispered to her bump. ‘Just hang in there.’

There was an answering flutter from inside, and her tension eased slightly. The seat belt had pulled tight across her stomach in the crash. There’d been an initial flutter, but she wanted more. This flutter was stronger, and as she took a deep breath the flutter became a kick.

Great! Maybe her baby hadn’t noticed the crash or, if he had, he was kicking in indignation.

‘We’ll be okay,’ she whispered for what must be the thousandth time in her pregnancy. ‘Me and you and the world.’

And she had a doctor at hand. A gorgeous one.

But gorgeous or not, doctor or not, the guy had no time for medicine right now, and her training had her agreeing with him. Triage told her that unless her breathing was impaired or she was bleeding to death, the road had to be cleared. Someone could speed around the corner at any minute and a minor accident could become appalling.

But how could he move the crate? It was blocking the road in such a way it stopped both the car and the truck from being moved. He couldn’t lift it.

He didn’t. As she watched, he put his shoulder against it, shoving harder than she’d thought possible.

The crate was about eight feet long by six feet wide, iron webbing built around a floor of heavy iron. It had been on the back of the truck for the last twenty years. She’d had no idea it could come loose.

Gran hadn’t told her that. There were lots of things Gran hadn’t told her, she thought grimly, a long litany of deception. In fact, Maggie’s decision to have this baby had been based partly on Gran’s deceit.

But there was no way she could yell at Gran now. In truth, she was so worried about the old lady she felt sick.

What else? She wanted to cry because her leg was throbbing. She desperately needed to check on her baby’s heartbeat.

But instead she was lying still as ordered, her leg stuck up in front of her, watching this bossy surgeon shift her crate.

If she had to have an arrogant surgeon bossing her while he organised her life, at least she’d been sent one whose body was almost enough to distract her from the pain she was feeling.

When she’d first seen him he’d looked smoothly handsome, expensive. Now his perfectly groomed, jet-black hair was wet with sweat, dark curls clinging to his forehead. A trace of five-o’clock shadow accentuated his strongly boned face, and his dark eyes were keen with the intent of strain.

He also looked gorgeous. It was an entirely inappropriate thought, she decided, but it was there, whether she willed it or not. This man was definite eye-candy.

He had all his weight against the crate now. He was grunting with effort, sweat glistening. One of his arms was bare—courtesy of the pad she was holding above her eye—and his arm was a mass of sinews. As was his chest. The more he sweated, the more his shirt became a damp and transparent nothing, exposing serious muscles.

And the more he sweated the more she was distracted from everything she should be focussed on. This was crazy. She was seven months pregnant. She was injured. She had so many worries her head was about to explode, yet here she was transfixed by the sight of a colleague attempting to move a weight far too big for one man.

Only it wasn’t. The crate was moving, an inch at a time and then faster, and then he found rhythm. He was right behind it and he kept on pushing, right up to the verge.

The verge was too narrow to hold it.

She should have been thinking forward to what he intended, but she was caught. Watching him. Fascinated.

‘Move!’ He gave one last gigantic heave—and it slid onto the verge and further. Before she realised what was happening, the crate was toppling over the side of the cliff, crashing its way down to the beach below. Leaving her stunned.

‘So how do you suggest I get the calves home now?’ she muttered, awed, but he wasn’t listening. He was in her truck already, shoving it into gear, reversing it from the cliff face. It sounded like something disastrous was happening inside the engine, but at least it moved. He drove it further along the road, parked it on a widened section of verge, then jogged back for his car.

She was a passive audience, stunned by his body and by his energy. And by…his car! She’d never seen an Aston Martin up close before. Not bad, she conceded, growing more distracted by the moment. Surgeon in open-topped roadster. Cool.

Or…hot.

Or maybe the blow to her head was making her thinking fuzzy. She should be too caught up with the pain in her knee to react like…well, like she was reacting.

But then, as he turned his fabulous car away from her, suddenly her fuzziness disappeared. It was replaced with a stab of panic so great it took her breath away. He’d backed away from the cliff, turning the car to head north.

North. Toward Sydney.

She was staggering to her feet, her hands out, rushing straight forward so he had to slam his brakes on or she would have run right into him. As it was, he stopped with barely an inch to spare.

She put her hand on the bonnet and tried to regroup. Tried to think of some way to say that this was panic, she hadn’t really thought he’d leave.

She was being hysterical. Insulting.

But she had no breath to say it. She could only lean on his car and gasp. And then he was out of the car, taking her hands, tugging her toward him. He looked shocked to the core, as well he might be. Crazy woman runs straight into path of car.

She had to explain. ‘I—I can’t leave Gran,’ she stammered. ‘You have to take me home. You must. You can’t leave me here.’

She could hardly breathe through fright. He swore and held her, and then as she couldn’t stop trembling he held her tighter.

‘Hey, Maggie, I’m not leaving,’ he said, sounding appalled. ‘I swear. I’m not that big a rat. I was just turning the car away from the bend so it’s safe for you to get in.’ And then as she tried desperately to think how to respond and could only think that her leg hurt and she was close to tears and she could have killed her baby, by running into a car of all things, how could she have been so stupid, he swore again, tugged her even tighter into his arms and held her close.

‘It’s okay,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘I won’t leave you. You’re safe. I’ll take you back to Gran, whoever Gran is. I’ll do whatever we have to do. We’ll do it together.’

His chin was resting on her hair.

He’d assumed she’d realise he was just moving the car; that he had no intention of leaving her. But why would she assume anything? He was a stranger.

Up until now it had been all about him, he thought, savage with himself. Sure, he’d reacted to her injuries, but he’d reacted as if she was a patient in Emergency where he was one of a team; the surgeon doing his job without looking at the whole picture.

But here he had to see the whole picture.

She had no obvious life-threatening wounds, but she was hurt, she was shocked and she was pregnant. Her truck was a write-off, and without a working cellphone she was stranded.

He’d climbed into his fancy car and turned away, probably making it clear by his body language he wanted to be shot of her. Her reaction—that he was about to leave—was so understandable he felt ill.

So he held her close and waited until her racing heartbeat eased, until he felt the rigid terror go out of her. Finally he felt her body soften, mould into his, take comfort from his hold.

It wasn’t exactly professional, to hold her like this, but who was worrying? He’d been shocked, too. If it felt good to hold onto this woman, then so be it. He could take comfort as well as give it.

And it felt good.

Different.

He’d hardly touched a woman for six years. He hadn’t wanted to. Now slipping into the edges of shock and concern and the need for professional care came something else.

Desire?

Surely not. There was no way he could desire this woman, for she was everything he most wanted to avoid. To feel like this within moments of meeting her was crazy. But there was no escaping the way touching her made him feel. There was no avoiding the way his body was responding.

Her body was soft, yielding against him. Her hair was naturally curly, and her curls were escaping their braids. Her hair was really cute.

Really soft.

Nice.

And then…pow!

The thump between them was such a surprise it drove them apart. They stood at arm’s length, staring at each other in astonishment. Then staring down.

‘I’m s-so…’ she stammered. ‘I’m so s-sorry.’

‘I don’t think it’s you who needs to apologise for that one,’ he growled. The sensation of her baby had slammed the need for sense into his head and he took a step back. Literally as well as emotionally. What the hell had he been thinking?

Caring for a pregnant woman…No and no and no.

Her wide green eyes stared up at him, and then down at her still heaving bump.

‘He’s got a good kick,’ she ventured, cautiously.

‘He surely has.’ New emotions were surging in now, and his head was scrambling to reassemble his emotional armour. How long since he’d felt a baby’s kick? It made him feel…

No. Don’t even think about going there.

‘Maybe it’s to reassure us he’s okay,’ he managed, feeling lame, dredging up a smile.

‘Maybe,’ she said and wobbled a smile in return. And then: ‘That was unforgivable,’ she said. ‘Thinking you were leaving.’

‘I hadn’t told you otherwise. I’m sorry. But consider me kicked. By…’

‘Archibald.’

‘Really?’ He found himself smiling properly this time, caught by her fierce determination to apologise, and her equal determination to insert humour into the situation. This was one brave woman. The sensations he was feeling toward her were inappropriate but clinical approval was fine. ‘You’ve decided on his name already?’

‘He knocked my mug of tea over last week,’ she said darkly. ‘I had to run cold water over my tummy for ten minutes until I stopped stinging. Until then, she was going to be Chloe or he was going to be William, but that’s in the past. Archibald it is.’

‘Named for the baby’s father, then?’ he said, still striving to sound professional. He smiled again, but it was her turn for her smile to fade.

‘His father would be William, but Archibald takes precedence.’

He was still holding her, by both hands, but now she made to pull away, as if naming the baby’s father had brought her to her senses. Both of them had to come to their senses. ‘Look, I am sorry,’ she whispered.

‘And I’m sorry, too,’ he said. ‘So let’s stop apologising and get things moving. I need to take you to hospital.’

‘I’m not going to hospital, but I do need to get back to Gran’s. It’s not far. If I hadn’t hurt my leg, I could walk.’

Yes! Suddenly things seemed simple. This wasn’t his problem. He could take her to her family and explain the need for hospital assessment. She’d said Gran was ill, but where there was a gran surely there’d be other relatives. He could hand her over with instructions to take her to the nearest hospital, and his nightmare of a weekend would be over.

‘The calves won’t go anywhere,’ she said, thinking out loud. ‘With Bonnie’s help Angus can drive them home by foot from here.’

Hooray for Angus, he thought. And William and Gran. A whole family. Better and better.

But she was wilting, and he was wasting time.

‘Okay,’ he said, and ignoring protests he lifted her across to his car, blessing the fact that the Aston Martin had a rear seat. Once again, though, he was surprised at how little she weighed.

Were things okay? Was this a normal pregnancy?

This was Not His Problem, he reminded himself sharply. He needed to cope with the emergency stuff only. She’d have her own obstetrician. Her family could take her there.

Stay professional and stay clinically detached.

But as he lifted her into the car he smelled a faint citrusy perfume, and he was caught once again in a totally unprofessional moment.

Her luminous green eyes were framed by long, dark lashes, surely unusual in a redhead. Her freckles were amazingly cute. Her flame-coloured curls were still doing their best to break out of their braids, and he had an almost irrational desire to help them escape.

Whoa. What was it with him? He was being dumb and irrational and stupid.

This was his patient. Therefore he could stop thinking dumb thoughts about how she smelled and how she felt against him and how her hair would look unbraided.

So turn professional.

‘Let’s do formal introductions,’ he said, trying to sound like he was about to key it into her patient history. ‘Can you tell me your full name?’

‘Maggie Maria Croft. You?’

‘Maxwell Harvey Ashton.’

‘Dr Ashton?’

‘Max is fine, we’ll forget the Harvey and I’m hoping we don’t need the Doctor. But if necessary…’ He hesitated but it had to be said. ‘If your family can’t take you, I’ll drive you to the hospital at Gosland—or even to Sydney if you prefer.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, courteously but firmly. ‘But it won’t be necessary. If you can just take me back to the farm I can sort this mess out by myself.’

CHAPTER TWO

SO FIVE minutes later he turned into the farm gate—and found himself staring at a graveyard. A tractor graveyard.

The driveway from the road to the house was a long avenue of gumtrees, and underneath their canopies old tractors were lined up like sentinels. There were tractors from every era, looking like they dated from the Dark Ages.

‘Wow,’ he breathed, and involuntarily slowed to take a better look. Some of the tractors looked like they could be driven right now if he had the right crank and didn’t mind using it. Some were a wheel or two short of perfect. Some were simply skeletons, a piece of superstructure, like a body without limbs.

‘William likes tractors?’ he ventured.

‘Gran and Angus like tractors. Gran bought her first one when she was fifteen. I believe she swapped her party dress for it. The tractor didn’t work then. It doesn’t work now, but she still thinks it was a bargain.

‘She sounds a character.’

‘You could say that,’ she said morosely. ‘Or pig stubborn, depending on how you look at it.’

He glanced into the rear-view mirror, and saw a wash of bleakness cross her face—desolation that could have nothing to do with the accident. And her expression caught something deep within him. For a fraction of a second he had an almost irresistible urge to stop the car so he could touch her; comfort her. It took strength to keep his hands on the steering-wheel, to keep on driving.

He did not do personal involvement, he told himself fiercely, confused by his totally inappropriate reaction. This woman was married and pregnant and he hadn’t felt this way about a woman since Alice died. Had he hit his head in the crash? Was he out of his mind?

They’d reached the end of the driveway now, and he pulled up beside an old estate wagon with its bonnet up. The car with the damaged radiator hose. He focussed on that. Something practical and something that didn’t make his heart twist.

‘So that’s your wagon. Is there something else you can use to drive to hospital?’

‘What’s wrong with tractors?’ she demanded, and he caught a glimmer of a rueful smile in the rear-view mirror. Once again, he had that kick of emotional reaction. This lady had courage and humour. And something more.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she told him, seemingly unaware of the effect her smile had on him. ‘Thanks for driving me home. I’ll give you my licence details, and our insurance companies can take it from here.’

So that was that. He was dismissed. He could retreat back to Sydney. Which was what, until an hour ago, he’d been desperate to do.

It seemed to Max that Yandilagong was about as far from civilisation as it was possible to get without launching himself off the New South Wales coast and swimming for New Zealand. Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d been thinking to let his friends—a cohort of career-oriented medicos—talk him into coming.

‘It’ll be fun,’ they’d told him. ‘Music festivals are all the rage and this one has a great line-up.’

Since he’d moved to Australia he’d been asked to many hospital social events, but each time he’d refused. Since Alice’s death he’d immersed himself in his work to the exclusion of almost everything else. Now his surgical list was growing to the point where the pressure had become ridiculous. More and more patients were queuing, and his teaching commitments were increasing exponentially.

Last week, working out in the hospital gym in the small hours, trying to get himself so physically tired that sleep would come, he’d realised he was reaching breaking point.

So he’d accepted, but what neither he nor his colleagues had realised was that the festival was a family event. There were mums, dads and kids, young women holding babies, grandmas bossing grandkids, dads teaching kids to dance. His friends, men and women who were truly married to their career paths, were appalled.

‘We’re so lucky not to be stuck with that,’ they’d declared more than once. ‘Hicksville. Familyville. Who’d want it?’

He didn’t, of course he didn’t, so why had it hurt to hear them say it?

Then this afternoon they’d announced they were bored with music and children, so they’d organised a tour of a local winery. He’d spent a couple of hours listening to his friends gravely pontificate about ash and oak and hints of elderberry, and how wonderful it was to be away from the sound of children, and how the advertisers should be sued for not letting ticket buyers know how many children’s events there’d be.

And then his anaesthetist had rung from Sydney. A woman was being flown in from outback New South Wales with complications from a hysterectomy. When was he coming back?

His registrar could cope. He knew he could, but the choice was suddenly obvious. He’d left feeling nothing but relief. For six years he’d been alone and that was the way he liked it.

He wanted to be alone now. But instead he was parked in a tractor graveyard while a seven-months-pregnant woman was struggling to get out of his car.

Wishes aside, he couldn’t leave her. Not before he’d handed her over to someone responsible.

‘Who’s here?’

‘Gran.’

‘But she’s ill.’

‘Yes.’

‘So where’s William?’ he asked, knowing it was a loaded question but hoping there’d be a solid answer.

‘William was my husband,’ she said flatly. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Dead.’ He felt like he’d been punched. Dead. Hence the bleakness. Hell.

‘Not recently. You don’t need to say you’re sorry.’

Recent enough, he thought, looking at her very pregnant tummy. Alice had been dead for six years yet still…

Well, there was a crazy thing to think. Make this all about you, he told himself. Or not.

‘So who’s Angus?’

‘William’s uncle.’

‘How old?’

‘Sixty.’

This was better. ‘He’ll look after you?’

‘He’ll enjoy the challenge of getting the calves up to the house. Bonnie’s his dog. Any minute now he’ll be here to demand what I’ve done with her. So thank you, Dr Ashton. I’ll be right from here.’

He was dismissed.

For the last forty-eight hours all he’d wanted to do was get out of Yandilagong. He still did.

But he needed to see how competent this Angus person was, and how forceful. For all Maggie was struggling to pull herself from the car, she was looking paler and paler.

Placental bleeding? The two words had been playing in his head for half an hour now and they weren’t going away.

He might not have done anything closely related to obstetrics for six years, but the training was there and he knew what a strain a car crash could put on a placenta.

Archibald had kicked him. That was a good sign but he needed more. He wanted to listen to the baby’s heartbeat and then he wanted Maggie in hospital under observation.

And that bleak look on her face was etched into his mind. He couldn’t leave her. And even if he could…Still there was that tug he didn’t understand.

‘You’re not walking,’ he growled, and before she could resist he’d lifted her up into his arms again. He strode up through a garden that smelled of old-fashioned roses, where honeysuckle and jasmine fought for smell space as well, where tiny honeyeaters flitted from bush to bush and where noisy rosella parrots swooped in random raids to the banksias around the edge.

The garden looked neglected and overgrown but beautiful. The farmhouse itself was looking a bit down at the heel, in want of a good coat of paint and a few nails, but big and welcoming and homely.

Once again there was that wrench of something inside him. Like coming home. Which was clearly ridiculous. This was like no home he’d ever known.

He’d reached the top of the veranda steps and as he paused she wriggled out of his hold and was on her feet before he realised what she was about.

‘Thank you,’ she said, breathlessly, sounding…scared? ‘I can take it from here.’

Scared? Was she feeling what he was feeling?

He didn’t know what he was feeling.

‘Not unless there’s someone through that door to give you a strong cup of tea, then carry you out to a nice, safe non-tractor-type car and get you to hospital,’ he said, making his voice stern. ‘Can you tell me that?’ Even though she was standing, he was blocking her way through the door.

‘I can’t,’ she admitted. ‘But I don’t have a choice. Please, I can’t leave Gran.’

‘Then I can’t leave you.’ Neither, he realised bluntly, did he want to.

‘Maggie, is that you?’ The high, querulous voice came from inside, and without waiting for permission Max pushed it open.

The first thing he saw as he opened the door was a vast open fireplace filled with glowing embers, a burgundy, blue and gold carpet, faded but magnificent, great squashy settees and a mantel with two ornate vases loaded with roses from the garden. And jasmine and honeysuckle. The room was an extension of the garden, and the perfume was fabulous. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the different light, he saw Gran. She was a tiny wizened woman, bundled in blankets on the settee, looking toward the door with obvious anxiety.

‘I’m okay, Gran,’ Maggie said urgently from behind him, and made to push past, but she stumbled on her bad leg. He caught her and held her against him, and she didn’t fight.

But suddenly Gran was lurching to the hearth to grab the poker. She turned toward him, but then fell back on her pillows, waving the poker, fright and feistiness fighting for supremacy.

‘Let her go.’ Her voice came out as a terrified rasp and he felt Maggie flinch and struggle again to get free.

The two settees in the living room were opposite each other, forming a corridor to the fire. He ignored the poker—there wasn’t a lot of threat when Gran didn’t seem to be able to stand—and moved to set Maggie down. Gran’s head and the poker were at the fire end. He set Maggie the opposite way, so the poker was away from his head.

‘He’s helping, Gran. Put the poker down,’ Maggie muttered, and he felt her tension ease a little. She was back in familiar territory now, even if it was did seem crazy territory. A tractor museum, roses, roses and more roses, and a poker-waving Gran.

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘He’s Dr Ashton,’ Maggie said, flinching as she moved her leg. ‘A doctor. Imagine that. Right when we need him.’

There was a lot to ignore in that statement, too. He released her onto the cushions, aware once again of that weird stab of a sensation he didn’t understand. Something that had nothing to do with a doctor/patient relationship.

Something that had to be ignored at all costs.

‘You do need a doctor, but not me,’ he growled, moving instinctively to load more logs from the wood-box to the fire. Thankfully Gran kept her poker hand to herself. ‘Maggie, you need hospital.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Your baby needs to be checked.’

‘I can’t leave Gran. I’ll put my stethoscope on my tummy and lie here and listen to him,’ she said. ‘That’s all I can do.

‘You have a stethoscope?’ he demanded, while the old lady rubbed her poker longingly, like she might still need it.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a nurse?’

‘I’m a doctor.’

‘A doctor?’

‘They don’t all come in white coats,’ she said bitterly. ‘Or Aston Martins and gorgeous leather jackets.’

‘Maggie, tell me what’s going on.’ Gran was trying again to heave herself to a sitting position, gasping as if breathing hurt, and the fear was still in her voice.

‘Dr Ashton crashed into our truck.’

‘The calves,’ Gran said in horror, but Max was playing triage in his head, and calves were somewhere near the bottom.

Maggie was a doctor. A doctor!

The personal side of him wanted to take that aside and think it through, for all sorts of reasons he didn’t fully understand, but the professional side of him had work to do and wasn’t giving him time to consider. ‘So you’re a doctor,’ he managed. And you have a stethoscope?’

‘The calves are okay, Gran,’ Maggie said, seeming to ignore him. ‘Bonnie’s looking after them.’ Then she turned back to him. ‘Yes, there’s a whole medical kit in the back of the wagon. Enough to cope with anything from typhoid to snakebite.’ She winced again and lay back on the cushions, her hands instinctively returning to her belly. ‘And, yes, I’d appreciate it if you could get my stethoscope.’

He stared at her and she stared back. Defiance and fear mixed.

‘I’ll take you both to hospital,’ he said.

‘Over my dead body,’ the old lady said from the other settee.

‘Mrs Croft?’

‘I’m Betty,’ she snapped.

‘Betty, then,’ he said, and softened his tone. ‘I’m not sure what’s wrong with you…’

‘I’m dying.’

‘So are we all,’ he said without changing his tone. If she wanted histrionics she wasn’t going to get them from him. ‘Some faster than others. I gather you’re ill and I’m sorry. I also know that your granddaughter—’

‘Maggie’s my granddaughter-in-law.’

‘Your granddaughter-in-law, then,’ he said evenly, glancing back at Maggie and knowing he was right. ‘Maggie’s been in an accident and her baby needs to be checked. If the placenta’s damaged, there could be internal bleeding. The only way she can be checked is to have an ultrasound. If she doesn’t have that ultrasound the baby could die, and she could be in trouble herself. Betty, I’m sorry that you’re ill, but it’s true I’m a doctor and I have to sort priorities. Is it right that we risk Maggie’s baby’s life because you won’t go to hospital?’

‘We’re not risking…’ Maggie said, and he turned back to face her. He had to ignore emotion here and speak the truth.

‘If you really are a doctor, you know that you really are putting your baby at risk.’

She was torn. He could see it—he saw fear behind her eyes and he knew that she was desperately trying to hide it. Why?

‘We don’t have time to mess around,’ he said. ‘I should have insisted at the start.’

‘I can do an ultrasound,’ she said.

‘What, here?’

‘Not on myself.’ Her voice was suddenly pleading. ‘But there’s everything we need in my car. I know, it’s asking a lot, but if you could help…Gran doesn’t want to go to hospital and neither do I. If I must for my baby’s safety then of course I will, but there’s Angus as well and he’ll be so afraid. So, please, Max, can you do an ultrasound on me here and reassure me that things are okay?’

‘Why will Angus be afraid?’

‘Angus is my son and he’s disabled,’ Gran whispered, as Maggie fell silent. ‘He has Asperger’s syndrome. He’s not…he’s not able to cope with people. It’d kill Angus to leave the farm. He’s the reason I made Maggie come here. She’s promised me she’ll stay and she won’t break that promise. She’s a good girl, our Maggie.’

‘My baby comes first,’ Maggie muttered, looking trapped, and once again he caught that look of utter desolation.

‘Yes, but he’ll be okay and you’ll both look after Angus and the farm,’ Gran said. ‘I know you won’t leave. You’ll keep your word. I know you’ll stay here for ever.’

CHAPTER THREE

THIS was crazy. Worse than crazy, it was dangerous. No, she wouldn’t leave Gran and the unknown Angus, but maybe his responsibility was to pick both women up and take them to hospital regardless.

But he’d have to chain Gran into the car, he thought ruefully. Plus he didn’t know what facilities Gosland hospital had, and the long drive to Sydney was the last thing either of them needed.

But caring for an injured, pregnant woman at home…

And for him personally to have to check her baby…

Max was out on the back veranda, supposedly on his way to fetch Maggie’s gear from the back of her wagon. He’d taken a moment to phone Anton, his anaesthetist, to tell him that their more-than-competent registrar would be needed for the woman coming in with the hysterectomy complications. Now he was staring down at the river winding down to the sea, taking a second to catch his breath. And his thoughts.

Maggie would agree to hospital if there was a real threat to her baby. He knew it. The moment he’d laid it on the line—that they were risking the baby’s death—he could tell that both women would finally agree to go. Only there was such despair in the old lady’s eyes, and such a sense of defeat and fear on Maggie’s face, that he’d agreed to help them stay.

So all he had to do now was to find Maggie’s ultrasound equipment and turn into an obstetrician again.

No. Checking one baby didn’t make an obstetrician.

He wasn’t even delivering a baby. He was simply checking it was healthy, before heading back to the city to his very successful gynaecological practice—the surgery he was good at and that he could do without the emotional investment every pregnant woman seemed to demand of him.

The need to care.

Not that he didn’t care about his patients. He did. He gave excellent service, making the lives of the women who came to him much more comfortable. He was even saving lives.

He just didn’t do babies anymore.

Except this one.

This was insane. He should refuse to have anything to do with it.

Yet…the way she looked at him…

It was the craziest of reasons and yet he couldn’t let it go. She looked as trapped as he felt. More.

He didn’t know what was at stake here. He shouldn’t want to know, he reminded himself. Do not get personally involved.

Stay professional, he told himself harshly. Find the ultrasound equipment, make sure things are okay and then leave. An ultrasound was no big deal. It wasn’t like she was expecting him to deliver the baby.

That was really when he’d run a mile.

‘Is he really a doctor?’

‘He says he is and he knows all the right words.’

The open fire was wonderful, the room was warm, but Maggie was still shivering. Reaction, she thought. Nothing more. It couldn’t be anything like internal shock—caused by a bleed, say, from a torn placenta.

She had to fight the fear. But what was keeping him?

She had a sudden vision of Max in his beautiful car, heading back to Sydney, and she felt ill. But she wasn’t running after him this time. She trusted him.

She had no choice.

‘Where are my calves?’ Gran said fretfully.

‘The crate slid off the back of the truck. The calves ended up on the beach. Bonnie’s watching over them.’

‘Are you sure they’re okay?’

‘They’re fine.’ Hopefully they were.

‘How do you know? Of all the irresponsible…You only had to bring four calves less than ten miles.’ The old lady’s voice was querulous and Maggie looked at her sharply.

‘How bad’s the pain? Scale of one to ten?’

‘Three.’

‘Betty…’

‘Eight, then,’ she said, goaded.

‘You have to let me put up a syringe driver.’ With a permanent syringe, morphine could be delivered continuously so there wasn’t this four-hourly cycle of pain, relief, sleep, pain that Betty was suffering. But so far Betty had resisted. She’d insisted on control at every stage of this illness and she wasn’t letting go now.

‘I’ll take a pill in a few minutes.’

‘Take one now. No, take two.’

‘When I see our baby’s okay,’ Betty said roughly. ‘Oh, my dear…’

‘It’ll be fine.’ Maggie hauled herself around and stretched her hand out to her. Betty’s hand was thin and cold and it trembled.

Probably hers did, too, Maggie thought. Things were going from bad to worse.

Hurry up the man with the ultrasound. Max. A doctor for her baby.

And more.

Max.

He’d carried her and he’d made her feel cared for. The remembered sensation was insidious—almost treacherous. It undermined her independence. Stupidly it made her want to cry.

Max.

He opened the back of the wagon, expecting to see a basic medical kit—or even no kit at all, because he still hardly believed she was a doctor—but what he saw was amazing. The equipment, carefully stored, sorted and readily accessible, was state of the art.

What had she said back at the crash site? She was the ambulance?

Maybe she was, for in the centre of the shelves of equipment lay a stretcher. It had been fitted to custom-built rails, with wheeled legs folded underneath. It was narrow, but otherwise there was little difference to the stretcher trolleys used at his city teaching hospital.

The ultrasound equipment was impossible to miss for it was in a red case labelled ‘Ultrasound’. Useful for a doctor in a crisis, he thought, to be able to say to an onlooker, ‘Fetch me the red case with this label.’ And the cases were stacked and fastened against the sides in such a way that in a crisis they could be pulled out fast.

He had a sudden vision of an emergency—maybe a child with breathing problems. With this set-up Maggie could haul out the side cases fast, then have someone else drive while she worked on the patient until they reached help.

Basic but effective. She was efficient, then, this Dr Maggie.

He needed to be as well. He tugged the ultrasound case, grabbed another case labelled ‘Pain/Anaesthetic’—and then, thinking of the strain on the old lady’s face and the wheeze behind her voice, he grabbed an oxygen canister as well.

Okay. Doctor with equipment.

They dropped their linked hands as he walked back into the room. Up until now he’d seen only an underlying tension, but there was now an obvious tie between the women. Emotional as well as physical?

Was the old lady really dying? He gave himself time to look at her—really look. She was dreadfully gaunt, as though eating had long ceased to be a priority, and her face was taut with pain. And her eyes…He’d seen that look before. Turning inward.

‘Betty needs a shot of morphine,’ Maggie said before he could say anything. ‘Please. Ten milligrams. You’ll find everything in my bag.’

‘The baby…’

‘One injection’s not going to take time. Betty needs it badly.’

‘Diagnosis?’ he said, watching Betty now and talking directly to the elderly woman.

‘Bone metastases,’ Betty whispered. ‘Ovarian cancer ten years back. I knew it’d get me in the end.’

‘Is Maggie your treating doctor?’

‘Now I’m not in hospital, she is,’ Betty said fretfully. ‘But look after her. I’m fine.’

But Max was already flipping open the case, drawing up the injection, aware both women were watching him like two hawks with a mouse between them. Or two mice with a hawk?’

‘You agree to this?’ he said, watching Betty’s face. Feeling Maggie’s tension behind him.

‘Yes,’ Betty whispered. ‘Please.’

He injected the morphine, feeling her pulse as he did so. Faint, irregular. If she was forty he’d be roaring for help, he thought, bullying her into hospital, pulling out all stops to help her, but her body language told him she knew exactly what was happening. He placed pressure on the injection site for a moment and her hand lifted to his and held.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and closed her eyes. ‘Now Maggie.’

‘Now Maggie,’ he agreed, and Maggie nodded and pointed to a power plug behind the couch.

‘We can do it here.’

‘You don’t want to be private?’

‘I doubt I’ll shock Betty by showing a bit of skin,’ Maggie said, smiling wryly. ‘And it’s warm in here.’

She shivered as she said it. He didn’t comment, though—she’d know as well as he did that shock would be causing her to shiver.

And internal bleeding?’

Please not.

‘You’ve used one of these before?’ she asked him.

‘Not a portable one.’

‘Nothing to it,’ she said.

And there wasn’t. In moments he had it organised, set up on a side table right by Maggie’s abdomen.

She was wearing jeans with an elasticised waist and a sloppy windcheater that could easily be pulled up. He rubbed the stethoscope in his hands to take away the chill, then knelt beside her. As she tugged up her windcheater, he glanced up at her and once again saw the flash of fear. He should take her blood pressure first, he thought, and check her pulse, but he had a feeling they’d be high and racing until he gave her the reassurance she needed. Was she shivering from shock or shivering from fear? Probably the latter.

So he placed the stethoscope over her tummy and listened.

And heard.

‘What is it?’ she whispered, and he glanced up and realised his emotions were showing in his face. How many years since he’d done this? And the last baby he’d heard…

‘It’s fantastic,’ he said, but he said it too fast, and saw doubt remain. Try as he may, he couldn’t get his face in order. As an alternative he put an arm around her shoulders, propped her up and handed the stethoscope to her.

She listened, and her face relaxed. As it should. And strangely he found himself relaxing as well, in a way that had nothing to do with the sound of a strong baby’s heartbeat. He was holding her, feeling the tension ease, feeling her body relax into his.

Just like…

No.

‘You looked like there was something wrong,’ Maggie whispered.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Then why—?’

‘No reason. Let’s move on with this ultrasound,’ he said, more roughly than he’d intended, and she nodded and lay back on her cushions and looked at him directly.

‘Do you need me to tell you how to work this?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘But—’

Okay, truth time. ‘Maggie, I’m not a general surgeon,’ he told her. It went against the grain to admit it but he was up to his ears in this mess already—he may as well commit the whole way. ‘I’m a gynaecologist.’

‘A gynaecologist,’ she said, stunned.

‘Yes. I’m in charge of surgical gynaecology at Sydney South.’ He smiled wryly and glanced across at Betty. ‘If Betty’s ovarian cancer had been diagnosed now rather than ten years back maybe I’d be able to help her. It’s what I’m good at.’

He was searching for gel, laying out what he needed. She was staring at him as if he’d just grown two heads.

‘A surgical gynaecologist,’ she muttered, awed. And then: ‘You don’t get to be a gynaecologist in this country without being an obstetrician as well.’

‘I’m English. But, yes, that’s right. I’ve done the training.’

‘You’re a baby doctor?’ He’d thought Betty had drifted into sleep as the morphine took effect, but now the old lady’s eyes flew open. ‘We so need a baby doctor,’ she whispered.

‘I’m not a baby doctor,’ he said, more roughly than he’d intended. ‘I work with women with gynaecological problems. Surgical problems.’

But Betty was no longer listening. Instead she was smiling. ‘That was the only thing missing,’ she said. ‘Now we have everything we need. Oh, Maggie…’

‘Don’t you dare give up,’ Maggie said, sounding fearful, and Betty tried a feeble wave but didn’t have the strength to pull it off. She closed her eyes.

‘You just concentrate on our baby,’ she said. ‘On William’s son.’

‘Okay,’ Max said, trying not to sound grim as he saw the colour drain from Betty’s face. The more he saw what was happening to Betty, the less he liked it, but he needed to focus on Maggie. ‘Let’s get some gel on you and have a look.’

He rubbed gel on her bulge. Maggie closed her eyes. Yes, she was desperately anxious about the outcome of this ultrasound but she was so tired. If she could just sink into her cushions and sleep for twenty-four hours, that’s exactly what she’d do.

There was not a snowball’s chance in a bushfire of that happening.

Where was Angus? And how was she going to cope with her patients, with the farm, with Gran, with an injured leg?

She couldn’t. She’d hoped she’d have another few weeks to work before the baby was born, but now, with her leg hurting as much as it did, and with Betty dying, and…

And as if on cue the doorbell pealed.

She tried really hard not to groan.

Max was about to place the paddle on her tummy. He paused and looked questioningly at her.

‘They’ll keep knocking till we answer,’ she said, and tried to sit up.

‘They?’

‘It’ll be a patient. The locals know where I live. I need to answer.’

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said, sounding appalled she could think such a thing. He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and pushed her back on the cushions. Which, she had to admit, felt excellent.

This man was taking charge. Even if it was only for a moment, it’d do, she conceded. There were too many worries to fit in her head. He’d carried her, he’d cared for Gran, he was caring for her.

So soak it in.

She could lie back and imagine that this arrogant, bossy doctor could take all her worries away. He’d check her baby, tell her everything was fine, make sure Betty was pain free, reassure Angus, fix whoever was at the door, fix her world…

Yeah, and pigs might fly. But, meanwhile, he’d said she wasn’t going anywhere and he meant it. She let herself relax against her cushions. She didn’t quite close her eyes but she almost did. If she shut her eyes the world might disappear.

She wasn’t quite ready for that, she conceded. Not yet. Disappearing worlds were for Betty.

But she wouldn’t mind if ninety per cent of hers went away.

He was wasting time. The ultrasound was becoming urgent. He had to get to the door, tell whoever it was to wait and get back to his patient. To Maggie.

But when he tugged the door wide he found a deputation. Mother, father, a scrawny little boy clinging to the mother’s jeans, and a baby.

‘The baby’s got a cold,’ the man said quickly, as if he was worried the door might be slammed in his face. ‘We’ve all had it, but she’s been bad all day and then she went limp. She looks okay now but the missus got scared. So I said we’ll stick her in the car and bring her here. Can Doc have a look?’

This was a nightmare. He should tell them to go away.

But Maggie had said she was the ambulance. Was she also the only local doctor?

These people looked terrified. For good reason?

He glanced down and saw the tiny child was swaddled in so much wool he could barely see her.

‘How long was she limp?’ he asked.

‘Only for a moment,’ the man said. ‘Ben here and me were watching telly while Cathy was feeding her in the bedroom. Cathy screamed but by the time I got there she was okay again. But Cathy’s that scared. Said she looked awful. We wrapped her up and brought her straight to Doc Maggie.’

‘Okay, unwrap her,’ Max said tersely. ‘Fast.’ He turned back to the living room, calling to Maggie. ‘Where’s your bathroom?’

‘Shall I come?’ Maggie called.

‘Stay where you are,’ he growled. The last thing Maggie needed was cross-infection, and she had to stay still. ‘Bathroom?’ he demanded again.

‘Door on the right of the hall,’ she called, sounding bewildered.

He glanced again at the baby, touched her face lightly with the back of his hand, felt how hot she was and knew he was right. ‘You go in there,’ he told the frightened parents. ‘Strip off all her clothes and pop her into a tepid bath. Tepid. Not cold but not warm either. She’s running a fever. I’m guessing she’s had a febrile convulsion and she needs to get cool in a hurry. You’re to keep her in the bath and keep her cool until I come back. I have an emergency in the other room.’

‘But Doc,’ the man said. ‘We want Doc Maggie.’

‘Doc Maggie’s the emergency,’ he snapped. ‘I’m a doctor, too, and I’m all there is. I need to take care of her.’

‘How do we know you’re a doctor?’ the man said, fear and belligerence mixed. ‘We want Maggie.’

‘Pete,’ the woman said, and she’d peered past Max into the living room. Seen what was there. ‘Maggie’s pregnant. If anything happens to Maggie the whole community’s in trouble. Just thank God there’s another doctor. Shut up and do what he says.’

Betty was asleep. Maggie was still slumped against the cushions, looking anxious. And exhausted. And pale.

‘Febrile convulsion?’ she queried.

‘I’m assuming so,’ he told her. ‘But I’ll check her when your baby’s been checked.’ He was worrying in earnest now. She was looking too shocked, too pale. If he’d messed around this long and she was bleeding…‘Lie back and let me see.’

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