Will wanted her. That knowledge gave Meg power.

Hell, she was an adult. There were no stars in her eyes anymore; Graeme had extinguished them. Will had told her he had no plans to marry, no plans for a long-term relationship. Even if he’d changed his mind, he wouldn’t choose her. She couldn’t give him a child and he wanted a family.

But this wasn’t about happy families, she knew that.

This was reality. This was unmistakeable lust.

She had needs like any other woman. She’d just survived a plane crash. Life was fickle and unreliable. She wanted him and now she was certain he wanted her. And damn it, this time she was taking what she wanted, even if it was only for a day and a night.

Dear Reader,

There is certain magic about the Victorian high country in southern Australia: the towering mountain ash trees soar straight to the sky; the Southern Cross constellation sparkles in a clear starry night; and craggy snow-lined winter peaks stand proud. All of this is overlaid by the romance of the bush horsemen in The Man from Snowy River.

I am a keen skier and have been visiting the Australian Alps for many years. Each year someone gets lost and rescuers go into the rugged terrain to safely escort the person out.

This got me thinking about a book that included an alpine rescue, and I imagined my hero and heroine being part of the rescue team. But then a dear friend, Judith Lyons, turned that idea around by saying, “What if the hero and heroine needed rescuing?”

I took that idea and pushed it further. What if you just met someone and experienced a life-and-death situation? How would that impact the relationship?

In everyday circumstances Will and Meg were unlikely to meet. She is a country girl and he is a member of society’s A-list. Both had battered hearts from previous relationships and neither were looking for love.

But the high society knew better and it wove its magic over Will and Meg.

I hope you enjoy reading their story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Love,

Fiona

Her Miracle Baby
Fiona Lowe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Carolyn for her lasting friendship and her amazing medical facts!

Special thanks go to:

Lee, a wonderful pilot who advised me on all things aviation, and gave me a gorgeous helicopter ride over Sydney Harbour.

Steve, from Bogong Horseback Adventures for his poetic description of horse riding in the snow.

Catherine, for the idea of riding horses in the snow.

CONTENTS

COVER

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

‘IS HE always late?’

‘He’s a doctor, Meg.’ The pilot gave her a wry smile.

‘Now you tell me, Tom!’ She tried to laugh but her frustration strangled it. Standing on the tarmac with icy wind whipping her, she shielded her eyes and peered into the late-afternoon, winter sun, willing the other passenger they were waiting for to appear from behind the hangar.

She wanted to get home. She’d had her fill of Melbourne, five days in the ‘Big Smoke’ was long enough. Now she couldn’t wait to get back to the farm nestled in the Australian Alps, back to her job at the bush nursing centre, and back to check on her mother.

‘There he is.’ Tom pointed and moved toward a tall man, who had a ski bag slung casually over one broad shoulder and a travel bag on the other.

An irrational irritation zipped through her at the sight of the skis. She reminded herself that not all skiers were rich and obnoxious. Not all skiers were Graeme.

She watched, with the sun blurring their features, as the two men shook hands, and Tom relieved the doctor of the travel bag.

They walked toward her. To her horror she felt herself giving the passenger the once-over. His impressive height she’d noticed immediately but now he was closer she saw his chestnut hair, streaked with blond, kicking up behind his ears. To match that dishevelled look he had a two-day stubble, which outlined firm lips. Lips that suddenly curved upwards, along with his dark brows.

Hell, she’d been caught scoping him out.

‘Meg, this is Dr Cameron,’ Tom called out over his shoulder as he walked past to stow the skis into the wing lockers and the luggage into the back of the light plane. He secured it all with a mesh safety harness.

‘Call me Will.’ The man’s deep voice wrapped around her like hot chocolate on caramel. He smiled and stuck out his hand.

His large warm hand enveloped her cooler one, his heat transferring itself to her palm. But it didn’t stop there. It wove up her arm and deep into her body. Heat and tingles. Heat and quivers.

The delicious sensations unnerved her. It was the end of a long week, she was tired and cold, so of course she’d shiver. Her body was too tired to know what it was doing and was getting all its signals wrong. ‘Pleased to meet you, Will. I’m Meg Watson.’

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting in the cold, Meg.’

She looked up into hazel-green eyes ringed by long, thick black lashes—lashes most women would have killed to have. Kind eyes. Eyes that gazed into your soul.

‘Right, you two, get on board.’ Tom called them over.

‘Guess we better do as we’re told.’ Will grinned and released her hand. ‘After you.’

Her hand suddenly felt colder than before she’d met him, and she resisted the urge to shove it into her pocket. She stepped up onto the metal disc that was the step into the light plane. Holding on to the side of the doorway, she ducked her head, hauling herself into the familiar eight-seater plane. Except today there were only two seats for passengers, the rest of the space taken up with brown boxes. She sat down and immediately buckled her seat belt.

Tom did freight and passenger runs between the high country and Melbourne, and had done so for the last thirty years. Meg had known him all her life, and when Tom had insisted on flying her home from the nursing conference, she’d been happy to accept. The flight was a lot quicker than seven hours on the bus and she was desperate to get home.

Will’s height and bulk filled the plane as he brushed past and swung into the opposite seat, his long legs seeming to concertina into the cramped space. He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘I think they design these things for people less then six feet tall.’

She ignored the fluttering sensation that skipped along her veins at his smile. ‘She’s small but sturdy.’

‘Yep, Tom loves this plane, that’s for sure.’

Long, tanned fingers dexterously snapped his seat belt into place across his lap, their actions mesmerising Meg.

‘Tom’s been flying me to Mt Hume since I was a kid.’ He gave a sharp tug to tighten the belt, and turned slightly to face her. ‘So the snow report is looking fantastic. We’re in for a great weekend with all that soft powder in the back country.’ Enthusiasm and anticipation wove through his voice.

Meg swallowed a sigh. If Will Cameron had been flying to Mt Hume since he was a kid then he’d been some rich kid. And it seemed the tradition continued—now he was a rich skiing adult. He represented the demographic Meg’s home town needed yet disliked. Laurelton depended on the money skiers brought into the town, but too often the skiers used and abused the hospitality. Used and abused the fragile alpine environment.

Used and abused the locals. Meg knew the story personally. Graeme had taught her well and had left a legacy to permanently remind her. Chlamydia’s detritus—infertility.

Meg’s smile felt tight and forced across her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great weekend.’ She turned slightly and rummaged in her handbag for some peppermints, hoping Will would take the hint and end the conversation. Skiers belonged to a different world from her. A world she’d once tried to visit. A world in which she’d never fit. She belonged at the base of the mountain where the air wasn’t quite as rarefied.

‘You’re not skiing, then?’ Curiosity moved across his handsome face, trailing down high cheekbones and along a strong jaw.

‘No.’ She knew she was verging on rudeness but she didn’t want to talk to this man who made her heart hammer. A man from the world she vowed she’d never enter again.

‘Ah, you’re a snowboarder.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, of course, a young woman like yourself wouldn’t do anything as boring as skiing.’

His grin was infectious and she laughed. ‘It’s nothing to do with the snowboarding-ski rivalry. I live in Laurelton. I’m going home.’ Her voice softened on the last word.

He smiled knowingly. ‘A place you love. How long have you lived there?’

‘All my life, with the exception of the five years I spent in Melbourne getting enough work experience so I could return.’

He nodded. ‘I can understand why you’re keen to get back to Laurelton. I’ve always loved the town. The post office clock stands like a beacon when you round the final bend and cross the old wooden bridge.’ He laughed. ‘Of course, the wonky neon sign at Nick’s hamburger joint tends to be the night beacon. It never seems to be able to flash NICK all at once.’

Surprise rushed into Meg and she looked into his face, stunned to see an expression of fondness for her town. ‘That sign’s never worked properly.’

‘Yeah, I remember when it went up I was about fourteen. Occasionally Dad would drive up the mountain, usually to test out the latest four-wheel-drive, and I loved those trips.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Having Dad’s undivided attention was a rarity. Anyway, we’d stop for a snack on the way. I can still taste Nick’s hamburger with the lot—pineapple, egg, beetroot…’ His voice trailed off and he licked his lips.

Her gaze riveted itself to his mouth as his tongue rolled over the apex of his top lip. Her breathing stalled. What are you doing? Sanity prevailed and she dragged her gaze away, staring out the window, thankful Tom had started the propellers.

The noise of the engines drowned out any conversation without the aid of headsets. She noticed out of the corner of her eye Will putting his headset on but she held back, leaving hers in her lap.

He was a doctor heading away for the weekend, excited and chatty. Nothing more, nothing less. Once they landed he would head further up the mountain and she would head down, back to her real life, which was a world away from his.

Will took a surreptitious look at Meg, who was winding her headset through her hands in a rolling motion. He wanted her to put the headset on over her riot of strawberry blonde curls so he could keep talking to her. Except she didn’t seem too keen to talk to him.

It wasn’t often he had to work hard to get a conversation going—usually he was the one trying to be polite but cool. Generally, just the mention of his name sparked recognition in the eyes of the person he was being introduced to, and the men pumped his hand extra hard and the women began flirting. The Cameron wealth did that to people.

But Meg Watson’s luminous baby-blue eyes hadn’t glinted at the words ‘Will Cameron’. And as for flirting, hell, she’d hardly looked at him since their introduction. But when she had it had been as if she’d shot a bolt of lightning out of her eyes, stunning him.

Suddenly this trip to the mountain had taken on a new dimension. Meeting Meg had immediately lightened his mood about this work trip. He’d hoped she might be on the mountain this week because spending time skiing with a gorgeous woman like Meg, a woman who didn’t know about him, would give him some welcome anonymity. It would make up for the rest of the week.

The week he’d spend convincing Jason Peters to commit $100,000 to St Jude’s Hospital building fund. Will sighed. Sometimes the old school tie came in handy. But it came at a cost. He knew the type of people who would be the other guests at Jason’s ski-in, ski-out apartment.

The sort of people he’d grown up surrounded by—wealthy, pampered and insular. Funny, he’d always had a better rapport with his patients, who came from all walks of life, than most of his parents’ friends and their children. But for the sake of his patients he’d use his childhood connections.

Tom’s voice came through the headset. ‘Estimated flight time is fifty minutes. The weather’s predicted to change but, based on the radar, we should get in well before that happens.’

The small plane charged down the runway, its nose rising quickly under Tom’s experienced hand. Will leaned back and relaxed. He’d done this flight four to five times a year since the age of five and he always got a kick out of the different cargos Tom carried. This time of year it was usually other skiers but today it was fresh fruit and vegetables, caviar and champagne. Someone on the mountain was throwing a party.

Meg popped a mint into her cherry-red mouth, her plump lips closing behind it. Desire flared in Will, leaving stunned surprise in its wake. Since Taylor’s betrayal six years ago he’d doggedly avoided women, although they didn’t avoid him. Just like Taylor, the women he met generally had dollar signs in their eyes. Amazing how money could produce a declaration of love.

Wealth reduced marriage to a business contract. Despite numerous women having other ideas, he had no plans to be part of any relationship.

Instead, in Cameron tradition, he threw himself into work, even though it wasn’t exactly the job of his heart. At least the Cameron wealth was being put to good use, raising money for medical facilities and research.

‘Would you like a mint?’ Meg’s melodic voice came through his headset.

He turned to find her fine tapered fingers holding a container of mints toward him.

The plane hit an air pocket. Her hand moved with the jolt, colliding with his thigh, sending waves of hot sensation down his leg and mints cascading into his lap.

She laughed, a tinkling, infectious laugh. ‘Sorry.’ In a typical ‘I can fix it’ action, she reached for the mints, her fingers lightly caressing his lap as she scooped up the sweets.

Colours exploded in his head and he breathed in deeply, reciting the monotonous eight-times table, something he hadn’t needed to do since he’d been sixteen.

‘It’s fine, really, I’ll fix it.’ He heard an unfamiliar huskiness in his voice.

Her hand paused, hovering above his lap, and then it shot back to her own. Her gasp of realisation sounded in his headset. Her cheeks burned red. ‘Sorry.’ This time embarrassment clung to the word.

She pivoted away and stared resolutely out the window, her discomposure evident. He bagged the remaining offending mints and wished he was out on the slopes, in the cold. His libido, which had been dormant for some time, needed some alpine air to cool it down.

Oh, God! Meg knew eggs could be fried on her cheeks. What had she not been thinking when she’d tried to pick up those mints?

She shook her head and kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window. Not that she could see that much as the brilliant blue sky had become overcast. The gaps between the clouds became shorter and less frequent, and a huge cumulonimbus cloud loomed ahead. Grey black, thunderous and full of snow. Must be the weather Tom had mentioned coming in.

She sat up a bit straighter and nibbled her bottom lip. She didn’t like the look of that cloud at all.

‘We’ll take a bit longer than usual because of the head wind, folks.’ Tom’s voice broke into her thoughts.

A few moments later, rain started to trickle down the windowpane, the droplets looking like fat tadpoles. A flicker of anxiety skated along her veins. She quickly reminded herself that flying in rain was safer than driving a car in it.

She glimpsed the snow line and relaxed. Pretty soon Tom would be circling to bring the plane in to land. And fifteen minutes after that she’d be home, having a hot cup of tea and checking that her mother had not overdone things while she’d been away.

Meanwhile, she gazed out at the tall, straight snow gums, their shiny dark green leaves creating a thick canopy. Thank goodness for national parks. It was hard to imagine that this whole alpine area had once been densely treed just like this, barely a space to glimpse the snow on the ground.

The airstrip abutted the national park and she heard Tom on the radio, talking to the resort’s control tower about the landing and giving their position. She could smell home.

Cold started to seep into her and she pulled on her jacket. Although she loved this little plane, there were times she felt like she was inside a tin can. The outside temperature was often reflected inside.

‘Right, folks, we’ll be there in ten minutes. We could be in for a bit more turbulence but I’ve been given clearance and we should make it in ahead of the storm. Meg, you might want to grab that sick bag.’ Tom turned and gave her a cheeky grin.

Once she’d been sick and, although it had been more to do with bad take-away chicken than a rough flight, Tom loved to tease her about it.

‘You OK?’

A thread of warmth spun inside her at the sound of Will’s smooth, deep voice. She looked up and nodded. ‘Fine. Thanks. And you?’

Argh! What was wrong with her? Now she couldn’t even sound coherent, her words coming out in a staccato beat. She focused on the rain.

Suddenly, the plane lurched violently and her seat belt pulled against her, pinning her to her seat.

Hail pounded the plane, balls of ice battering metal, the noise deafening, like bullets on a target. Fear sliced through Meg, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would bound out of her chest. Without thinking, she reached over and gripped Will’s arm.

Immediately his hand covered hers, steadying her.

‘He’s an experienced pilot.’ His hazel-green eyes, flecked with topaz, held her gaze, but his hand tightened around hers.

The smoothness of the engines suddenly sounded rough. Meg’s heart seemed to stop as dread rushed through her like white water through a gorge. You’re just imagining engine trouble. She forced her mind to think of tranquil rainforests. It will be OK.

Will’s hand tensed on hers.

Across his shoulder she saw ice forming on the window.

Ice!

Surely that was just a build-up of hail? She prayed it was. Ice on the wings wasn’t good. Planes didn’t fly well when ice weighed them down.

Engines didn’t like ice either.

She turned and focused on Tom’s back, feeling impotent. She watched his every action as if that would help them through the storm. Could he keep the carburettor warm, keep the ice at bay? Could he see the horizon? Could he see the ground?

She couldn’t see anything out her window. Nothing but grey fog.

Her heart hammered, sounding loud in her ears. The hail pounded the fuselage. All the noise combined, making her want to put her hands over her ears like a child. Her breath stalled, fear paralysing her lungs.

And then silence.

The hail had stopped. Her breath rushed out in one long swoosh. For the briefest moment she relished the peace.

It’s too quiet, the voice screamed in her head, clawing, pounding against her brain. The usually loud, rhythmic piston engines were silent.

She automatically leaned forward, watching Tom, wanting to do something, willing him to do something.

He throttled the engines back and forth, his shoulders rigid.

Meg prayed for a fuel blockage that would be easily fixed by his action.

The silence lingered like a malignant growth.

‘Bloody hail. No fuel’s getting through the carburettor.’ Tom’s voice trembled. ‘I’m sending out a mayday.’

Fear tore at Meg and she turned to Will. ‘But the hail’s stopped. I don’t understand.’

His handsome face paled but strength lingered. ‘The moisture in the air, combined with the drop in temperature, caused the ice. If the engines can’t get fuel, they can’t restart.’

‘Oh, my God.’ She knew under this fog lay the national park and her beloved gum trees. But they wouldn’t love a plane. They stood firm, strong and too close together to gently receive a plane.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at five thousand feet, heading north. Both engines failed. Do you have me on radar?’

The radio buzzed static.

‘Right.’ Tom’s voice sounded in control again. ‘Emergency drill. Tighten your seat belts. I’m turning off the fuel tap and I’m going to glide her down.’

‘But you can’t see anything!’ Terror forced the words everyone knew out of her mouth.

‘Meg, love, I don’t have any choice.’ The finality in his voice sealed her fear.

Meg wanted to run. To jump out of the plane. Anything but stay there and do nothing.

‘Put your head down on your knees, Meg.’ Will spoke quietly but his voice was laced firmly with control.

Dazed with shock, she followed his instructions, not wanting to let go of his hand, not wanting to let go of his supportive strength, but knowing she needed her hands to cradle and protect her head.

‘Let’s do it on the count of three.’ Will nodded at their clasped hands, understanding the need they both had to stay connected. Knowing they couldn’t.

She bit her lip. ‘One, two, three.’ She let go of his hand and felt the plane dropping through the sky.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at two thousand feet heading north. Both engines failed, do you have me on radar?’ The desperation and fear in Tom’s voice rang through the plane.

The shudder ripped through her as the plane hit the canopy of trees.

Glass shattered.

Timber splintered.

The crunching noise of ripping, crumpling metal screamed in her ears as her own screams stayed trapped in her throat. She was going to die.

She didn’t want to die.

The plane dived forward nose first, the weight pulling it inextricably downward to unforgiving solid ground.

An almighty boom sounded in her ears.

Everything went black.

CHAPTER TWO

BLACK fuzz swirled in Will’s brain, confusing him as he stiffened against the pain burning through his body. He dragged his eyes open against a trail of warm blood. A tree protruded through the plane directly in front of him. Vegetables and green glass, the shattered remains of champagne bottles, surrounded him.

He forced himself to think through the fog that clogged his mind, to really focus. He couldn’t remember the impact, only the icy fear that had preceded it.

An eerie silence encircled him, broken occasionally by the creaking of the trees.

He turned his head slowly, grateful he could move at all. He flexed his fingers, his arms and his legs. All moved. He breathed in deeply. Knife-sharp pain lanced him.

Ribs. His hand cupped his side. Broken or bruised, he couldn’t tell.

He heard a moan.

Meg.

The confused fog lifted instantly.

Meg. Tom. They had to get out of the plane. It could explode, catch fire. His mind started racing. He had to get them out of the plane.

He fumbled for his seat belt and clumsily released the catch. ‘Meg?’ His hand gripped her shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.

She swivelled around, her gaze resting on him, her face blanched white but scarred red by blood. She opened her mouth. No words came out.

‘Can you move?’ He gently released her seat belt.

‘I…I don’t know…I…’

Hell, she was shocked. He needed her brain to kick back in like his had. ‘We have to get out of the plane, Meg. Now.’ He used her name. Shocked people responded to their name. ‘Meg, can you move your legs?’

She wriggled her toes. She stretched out her legs. ‘I can.’

‘Good. I’m going to help you stand up.’ He put his arm under her shoulder, biting his lip against his own pain as she pulled forward and stood. She grimaced as her ankle took her weight.

‘Tom.’ She looked around wildly, her view obscured by the tree. ‘Tom.’ Her voice rose frantically.

‘Meg.’ Will continued to grip her arm and locked his gaze with hers. ‘We have to get out of the plane on this side of the tree and then we’ll get to Tom.’

Her blue eyes, dull since the crash, suddenly cleared to the vivid blue he’d so admired when he’d first met her. Her head snapped around, taking in her surroundings. The tree had come through the side of the plane where the door had been. ‘We’ll have to kick out the back emergency exit.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll do it. Your ankle shouldn’t kick anything.’

Clambering over the freight toward the tail of the plane, glad he was wearing his hiking boots, he swung a kick at the exit. The metal gave way and he slithered out. Enormous snowflakes tumbled onto him and cold air bit his skin. He breathed in, praying to smell only fresh alpine air.

He got a lungful of aviation fuel. Dread clawed back. Hell, he only hoped the snow fell heavily enough to put out any sparks. Hoping that if the plane was going to explode, it would have done so by now. The engines had given out a couple of minutes before they’d crashed so they probably weren’t hot enough to catch fire on impact.

Still, he wanted out.

He leaned back into the plane. ‘Meg.’ He held out his arms.

She crawled toward him and he heaved her through the gap, his ribs screaming as she fell against him. For a brief moment he held her tight, needing to feel her heart hammering against his chest. Needing to know they both lived, they had both survived.

Clutching her tightly and trying to hold off the fear that Tom was dead.

‘Tom. Go to Tom.’ She pushed him away and turned back, leaning into the plane to reach for something. ‘I’ll send up the emergency flares.’

He ran forward, snow biting into his eyes, ignoring the fire of pain in his side. The plane had dived nose first, the front section taking the impact. Tom was strapped in his seat but the seat had moved forward, wedging him against the controls. He sat still, his head slumped sideways covered in blood.

It looked as if his face had hit the control panel on impact and then whipped back. His jaw sagged, probably broken, along with his nose, which looked crushed.

And they were the injuries Will could see. Hauling the pilot’s door open, he yelled, ‘Tom.’

No response. He put his first two fingers on Tom’s neck, feeling for the carotid pulse.

A weak and thready beat pulsed under his finger pads. Tom needed to be out of plane a.s.a.p. but moving him without a neck brace risked paraplegia. He didn’t have a neck brace so his choice was limited. Alive but paralysed? Or dead?

Will hated triage.

‘Is he alive?’

Will swung around at the sound of Meg’s terrified voice to see her clutching a large black backpack, a tarpaulin and coats.

An overwhelming need to protect her surged inside him. ‘Get back. I don’t need you being blown up if the plane explodes.’

‘And how are you going to get him out on your own? Don’t be ridiculous.’ The terrified tone had been replaced with an ‘in-charge’ voice. She shoved the coat and gloves at him. ‘Put this on, I don’t need you getting hypothermia. You’re a doctor, you know the risk.’

To his complete amazement she hauled out a soft neck brace from the black pack. ‘Here, put this on Tom and then we can carry him in the tarp.’

He grabbed the proffered brace. ‘Are you Mary Poppins? What else have you got in that bag?’

‘It’s the new emergency pack I picked up at the medical and nursing conference I was coming home from. Laurelton Bush Nursing Centre needed one, but I wasn’t expecting to use it so soon.’

‘You’re a nurse and you’ve got an ‘in-the-field’ emergency medical kit?’ Incredulity overtook him.

‘Yes.’

His panic dropped back a notch. ‘Thank God for that.’ He swung back to his patient. ‘Tom, I’m putting on a neck brace and we’re going to get you out of here.’

Tom groaned as Will put the brace around his neck.

He should check for fractures in the pilot’s arms and legs but he had no splints to use and the fear of the plane catching fire grew by the moment. Will just wanted him out.

Then he could examine him. Know what he was really up against.

‘Meg, we’ll have to roll him out together.’

‘I’m right here. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

The strength in her voice transferred itself to him. ‘Spread the tarp out and then come and support his neck while I lower the back of the seat.’

Meg moved in close, her small hands dextrously holding Tom’s head and neck. Her light floral scent enveloped Will, defying the horror of their situation.

He tugged on the seat lever, praying it would work. The seat back started to move and he gently lowered it so Tom was lying flat.

The pilot’s breathing became noisy.

Will fought the desire to treat him there and then. But he couldn’t risk three lives. They had to get away from the plane. ‘You control his head and neck and I’ll look after the rest. On my count, we roll.’ He positioned himself so he could control the large man’s legs.

‘One, two, three.’ He pulled hard, his ribs blazing with pain. Together they rolled Tom as carefully as possible, given the situation, onto the tarp.

Meg limped to the other side of the tarp, rolling the edges in as close to Tom as possible. ‘Will one hundred metres away be safe enough?’

‘Should do it. Give me that pack and I’ll wear it. You’ll struggle enough carrying Tom.’

She tilted her head, her cheeks pink from cold and exertion. ‘I’ve seen you flinch. Your ribs are bruised or broken. We’ll put the pack next to Tom so we can both manage.’

He wanted to argue but couldn’t. Not with logic like that. ‘One, two, three, lift.’ He grunted and lifted, moving forward slowly. With each step he sank knee deep into powder snow. Exhaustion dragged at him.

With every step, Meg grimaced with pain. He adjusted his grip on the tarp, trying to take more of the load. He pushed on, hoping Tom would still be alive when they got to the clearing Meg had picked out.

‘On my count, down.’ Meg’s arms shook with exhaustion as she lowered Tom onto the snow.

Will dropped to his knees and checked the pilot’s pulse. Weak.

‘Here.’ Meg handed him a stethoscope and an LED headlamp, while she ripped open a space blanket package with her teeth.

It was surreal. All this medical gear belonged in A and E, not in the middle of an alpine national park.

Meg covered Tom, the snow falling white against the silver blanket.

Tom’s respirations had worsened—loud, gurgly and noisy. Bubbles of blood formed in his mouth.

Will checked his air entry with the stethoscope. ‘Shallow resps, poor air entry.’

‘Pneumothorax from the joystick?’

He examined Tom’s face. ‘Possibly, but he’s got a severely fractured maxilla. The middle of his face has separated from the rest.’ He looked up at her. ‘All this bleeding and swelling isn’t helping his breathing.’

Understanding crossed her face. ‘Do you need to do a tracheostomy?’

‘Yes, we need to establish his airway if we’ve got any chance of keeping him alive.’

‘And risk paralysis if his spinal cord is damaged.’ She bit her lip. ‘I hate triage.’

‘You’re not alone there.’ They were between a rock and a hard place. The treatment to save Tom’s life could render his life changed for ever.

‘Do you have a wide-bore needle, a fourteen-gauge, in that pack?’

Meg frantically scanned the laminated sheet. ‘I can do better than that.’ She read out the instructions. ‘In large bottom pouch, tracheostomy tube.’ Her fingers, pink with cold, fumbled as she opened the pack.

‘That’s one hell of a kit.’ Will took off his coat, rolling it up under Tom’s shoulders to extend the pilot’s neck. He removed the soft brace. ‘Tom, we have to put a tube into your throat. You won’t be able to talk.’ He had no idea if Tom could hear him. He was pretty certain he was unconscious.

She handed him the scalpel and cleaned Tom’s throat with the antiseptic wipe. ‘How long since you’ve done a trachy?’

Will didn’t lie. ‘On an adult, it’s been a long time.’

‘Some things you never forget.’ She gave him an encouraging smile, her confidence in him almost palpable.

He found the cricoid cartilage. The trachea is generally two finger-breadths above the sternal notch. The words of his surgical professor pounded in his head. He made a horizontal cut through the skin, the muscle and down into the cartilage of the trachea.

Meg tried to keep the area free of blood so he could see.

He needed to find the third or fourth ring of cartilage. ‘Pass the tube.’

He pressed firmly on the tracheostomy tube, until the resistance disappeared and the tube was in situ.

‘You inflate the balloon to keep the tube in place and I’ll check his breathing.’

He lifted the space blanket and put the stethoscope on Tom’s chest. The pilot didn’t flinch at the cold. Not a good sign. ‘His air entry is better but his pulse is weak. Open facial fractures bleed like hell. He’s lost a bucket of blood.’

‘Do you want me to bag him?’

‘Yes. I’ll see if I can get an IV in. What have you got?’

‘One litre of Hartmann’s solution.’

An expletive rose to his lips. One thousand millilitres wouldn’t replace the circulating volume Tom had lost.

‘It’s better than nothing, Will.’

Meg’s voice of reason penetrated his fear and frustration. ‘You’re right—sorry.’

As she rhythmically squeezed the air bag he tried desperately to find a vein. Tom was in severe shock, his veins collapsed. Will tightened the tourniquet around Tom’s arm. His fingers desperately palpated for a raised vein. Nothing.

He moved the tourniquet three times, trying arms and legs. Still nothing. He sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to concentrate and to ignore the dread that curled in his belly.

‘Do a venous cutdown.’ Meg’s desperate words echoed his thoughts. ‘We’ve got a scalpel.’

The natural light was almost gone. In the glow of his headlamp he saw her face streaked with blood and pain, yet there was a steely determination there. She wasn’t giving in without a hell of a fight.

Neither was he.

‘You keep bagging and I’ll do the cutdown.’ His fingers, now half-numb with cold, seemed clumsy but he managed to make a clean cut and locate the vein. The wide-bore cannula slid in and he attached the IV, turning it on full bore. He only hoped it wouldn’t be running straight out of Tom’s body.

‘Put your gloves on.’ Meg’s voice had a schoolteacher-like quality. ‘I don’t need you getting frostbite.’ Her voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Her concern touched him. ‘How are you doing?’

She bit her lip. ‘Fine.’

But he knew she was far from it. None of them were fine. Snow covered her hat and coat and her cheeks burned red from the cold.

An icy feeling crept through him. The temperature was dropping fast now the sun was down. Hypothermia was a real issue and they needed some sort of shelter, but attempting to get Tom stable had to come first. ‘You know, the cold might count in our favour.’

Meg shivered. ‘How?’

‘The cold slows down the heart rate and the metabolic process. Perhaps it will slow down Tom’s bleeding.’

‘Good, because his pulse is getting weaker.’ Her voice wobbled with alarm.

Will examined Tom’s abdomen and chest. Air was going in and his respirations were easier with the tracheostomy. But his abdomen was guarded, a sure sign of internal bleeding. He’d bet his bottom dollar Tom’s heart was pumping the lifesaving Hartmann’s solution straight into his peritoneum. It was no use to him there.

Worse still, there was nothing Will could do to stop it. Tom needed to be evacuated to a trauma centre urgently, only that wasn’t going to happen.

‘Are you sure there is only Hartmann’s?’ Will scrounged through the pack, praying for more IV fluids.

‘I’m O-negative.’ Meg gave him a knowing look. ‘We could do a direct blood transfusion.’

Again, the protective surge moved in him, strong and hard. ‘No way. It’s far too dangerous for you.’

‘Tom’s like a father to me.’ Her voice rose. ‘We have to do all we can.’

He respected her courage, her desire to do all at whatever cost. ‘We are doing all we can. But without surgery to stem his internal bleeding, your blood will just end up pooling in his abdomen. More importantly, you could get a blood-borne illness. You know direct blood transfusions stopped years ago.’

‘I’m fit. I can handle it.’ Her jaw jutted in defiance of the conditions, the situation. With her free hand she reached for an IV line.

But he saw a sliver of fear streak across her face.

‘Being fit is irrelevant against hepatitis C.’ He touched her arm, hoping to show her he understood her feeling of impotence at the situation. Her fear. ‘Let’s see if the Hartmann’s brings up his blood pressure.’

But he was certain it was too late for that.

Will took over the bagging, letting Meg dress Tom’s gaping wounds. She needed to do something, needed to claw back some control in a situation that had none.

He surveyed the towering trees. Now the wind had dropped, the snow fell straight down. The pink of sunset reflected through the snowflakes. Under other circumstances, being out in the bush with a beautiful woman, with snow falling quietly around them, would be magical.

But now was far from magical. How would the rescuers find them in such dense bush?

‘Tom.’ Meg spoke quietly. ‘I’ve sent up the flares, they know we’re here. They’ll find us.’ She placed packing gauze against his crushed nose.

She glanced up at the Hartmann’s bag, now almost empty. ‘How’s his BP?’

‘Dropping.’ He hated this. Hated watching a man’s life drain away in front of him. ‘I’m sorry, Meg, we can’t do any more. We tried.’ His voiced trailed off, the words sounding inadequate.

Her wide-eyed distress sliced into him.

She gripped Tom’s hand and dropped her head down next to his ear. ‘When Dad died, you were there. You’ve been such source of strength to me and Mum. Thank you.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I love you.’

Tom’s pulse faded to nothing under Will’s fingertips. ‘He’s gone, Meg.’

For a brief moment her shoulders shuddered. Then she leaned forward and kissed Tom’s forehead. She pulled the space blanket aside, putting it behind her. Taking the corners of the tarp, she folded them over him, wrapping Tom’s body completely, carefully protecting his body from the continuous snowfall. Then she reached over and grabbed a large stick. Pushing it into the snow, she marked Tom’s position.

Each action spoke of love and the desolation on her face pierced Will. He moved toward her almost unthinkingly, pulled her to her feet and into his arms. She fell against him, her chest shuddering with suppressed tears, her arms gripping his. He wanted to comfort her, hold her tight against him and ease her grief. Tell her he was so very sorry they couldn’t do any more.

But there was no time for that.

He moved back slightly so he could see her face. He needed to make eye contact. Needed to see those sky-blue eyes, now cloudy with grief, clear.

He was strong, but he knew the odds. They were stranded, miles from help, in harsh conditions. Damn it, he needed the ‘take charge’ Meg back or they wouldn’t get through this alive.

Tom was dead.

The pitch black of the alpine night cloaked her along with the heavily falling snow. For one brief moment she’d given in to her grief and found solace cuddled against Will’s broad chest, feeling his heart beating against her own.

But then he’d moved away.

‘Meg, we need to take shelter before we freeze.’

He’d spoken to her. The words, distant at first, suddenly sounded louder. Will’s voice penetrated her fudge-like brain and Meg looked up into his face.

By the light of his headlamp she could see congealed blood on his dark eyebrow from a deep gash. Scratches hid in the stubble of his dark beard, the only hint of their presence tiny clots of blood. She wanted to reach out and touch them. Offer comfort.

‘You need steri-strips on your eyebrow.’ Her voice was husky.

He gave a wry smile. ‘You can be the first-aid queen as soon as we get some shelter.’ His gloved hands gripped her forearms firmly, his energy seeming to flood her, giving her back the strength she’d just lost.

Shelter.

He was right—they’d freeze without shelter. The wind chill had sent the temperature way below zero. ‘Will the plane be safe?’

‘No, it’s too risky with all that aviation fuel. We didn’t get this far to be blown up. By morning it will be OK but for now we need to construct some sort of lean-to.’

She shook her head. ‘Snow cave.’

‘What?’

‘We need to make a snow cave to protect us from this icy wind.’ She glanced around, taking in the area. It was so dark she couldn’t see a thing. Where the hell was the moon when you needed it? ‘Can you move your head around so I can see the area?’

He moved in close to her and bent his knees so his head was level with hers. Putting his arm around her, he slowly propelled her 360 degrees, the small beam of light exposing the area.

She wanted his arm, his warmth, to stay with her. But that was impossible. ‘Over there.’ She pointed to a large snowdrift. ‘We can dig a compartment big enough for the two of us and use bracken to cover ourselves. I chucked some gear well clear of the plane so we could go back for that. There might be something we can use.’

‘Right now it’s too cold and windy and I don’t trust that aviation fuel. I don’t suppose that medical pack of yours runs to a shovel, does it, Mary Poppins?’ A weary grin creased his stubbled cheeks.

Heat coursed through her, stunning her. Despite her throbbing ankle, her bruised body, her heartache and her fear, his smile managed to fire up feelings she’d pushed away long ago. Feelings she’d locked down after Graeme had left.

‘No shovel, but I could use the face masks to dig with.’

‘You plan to dig this cave yourself, do you?’ His voice held a slight edge.

Every movement cost him pain—even in the shadowy dark she could see that. He deserved a break after all he’d done, trying to save Tom. ‘My ribs aren’t bruised or broken. I’ve seen you grimace with every lift and sudden movement.’

He grunted. ‘I’m not alone there. You can hardly walk. Let’s just dig the damn cave so we can both rest.’ He fell to his knees and started digging.

She sighed. She’d upset him, trying to help him. Graeme had accused her of being far too independent and not playing the ‘societal game’. That was another reason why she belonged at the base of the mountain with the farmers who treated their partners as equals.

She shrugged, carefully knelt beside him and handed him a mask. Silently, they dug side by side, developing an unspoken rhythm, alternating the scooping out and dumping of the snow, slowly hollowing out space where they could both sit.

An hour later, warm from the physical work, Meg crawled into the snow cave. She’d dumped the contents of the medical kit at the back of the cave and flattened the backpack to sit on.

Will crawled in next to her, the small space contracting even more. Her heart seemed to flip in her chest. Just like on the plane, his presence unnerved her, but this time she couldn’t ignore him. This time his presence would help her survive.

He piled the bracken and tree-fern fronds up at the front and then turned and sat next to her. ‘I think this cave might get an architectural award.’ His lightning-quick grin streaked across his face as he settled next to her, and then he turned off the headlamp.

‘Creative use of minimal space?’ She tucked the space blanket around them both as his thigh came to rest against hers.

‘Natural heating.’ He put his arm around her waist and pulled her gently toward him, closing the tiny space between them.

A blaze of heat flared inside her, which she tried to squash. He was only cuddling her to prevent hypothermia.

‘Modern furnishings.’ She patted the backpack, trying to ignore the slight pressure of his hand on her waist.

‘Look, we’ve even got natural light.’ He pointed to the moon low on the horizon, rising slowly.

‘So we have.’ The words came out on a sigh as she looked at the moonlight that had come too late, and thought of Tom.

He squeezed her arm. ‘We’ll find him in the morning.’ His low voice vibrated with understanding. ‘You marked where he was.’

How had he known she was thinking of Tom? She blinked back the tears that hovered ready to spill, the events of the evening threatening to overtake her. ‘The morning…’ Her voice trailed away.

‘Meg, the morning will come and the rescuers will come. You know that. The flares went up and Tom gave the co-ordinates over the radio before we went down. They will find us.’

‘But not tonight.’

‘No, not tonight. They’ve got no hope of finding us in this storm, and they’d be risking their lives at the same time.’

Damn it, he was right. ‘These drifts will be twice the height in the morning if this snow keeps up. They’ll have to come in on horseback first.’

‘True, but those mountain men know what they’re doing. Even Banjo Patterson knew that. They will come.’

She smiled at his reference to The Man From Snowy River, and in the dark of the cave she let his voice infuse her with some of his strength.

She so wanted to relax into him, rest her head on his chest, feel and hear his heart beating. Affirming life. Proof that they had survived the crash, that together they would survive the night.

But that would be weak and she couldn’t be weak, so she sat ramrod stiff. She’d learned the hard way that the only person she could depend on was herself. Snowstorm or not, nothing would change that. She knew that once the rescuers arrived she and Will would go their separate ways, strangers again.

She just had to get through the night.

CHAPTER THREE

‘TELL me where you learned about snow caves.’ Will jostled Meg with his shoulder, hoping to keep her awake.

The cave mostly protected them from the wind but it was bitterly cold. Hypothermia and sleep didn’t look very different from the outside. They’d got this far, and he was determined they would make it through the night alive.

She yawned. ‘You’re trying to keep me awake, aren’t you?’ A smile played in her voice.

An image of her high cheekbones framing her plump upturned lips flittered across his mind. The same smile that had captivated him six hours ago. It seemed a lifetime ago.

‘You’ve found me out. We don’t have to talk about snow caves, we can pick any topic at all.’ A blast of wind brought in snow and he started to cough, his ribs sending out shards of red-hot pain.

She stiffened against him. ‘Will?’ Her concern radiated through the confined space. She reached out, fumbled with the zipper on his coat and then determinedly searched under his polar fleece until her hand rested on his skin. On his ribs.

Her touch should have been cold. But her fingers sparked off a series of mini-explosions that travelled straight to his groin. Hell! It was below zero, he’d just survived a plane crash, he was in a snow cave with bruised ribs and he could still get aroused. This definitely wasn’t the right time or place.

A moan escaped his lips.

He heard her breath catch before her words rushed out. ‘You’re in pain. Can you breathe without pain?’

‘Yes, I can. It just hurts to cough.’

‘Are you sure? Please, don’t put on a macho act for me. I don’t need you developing a punctured lung.’ The stern tone in her voice couldn’t hide her fear.

He wanted to reassure her, lessen her fear, that he wasn’t going to die. That she wouldn’t be alone in the snow. ‘Think, Meg. If it was worse than bruised ribs, I wouldn’t have been able to lift Tom and dig a cave. I’ve seen your nursing skills in action, you know your stuff. Don’t let panic override your knowledge base.’

Her hand dropped away from his skin and the icy air swooped in, absorbing the heat in a moment. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hey.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘We’re in this together and I appreciate your concern. How’s your ankle feeling?’

‘It’s throbbing.’

‘Any pins and needles?’ He was worried swelling might be impeding blood flow.

‘No, I can still feel my toes, so that’s a good sign.’

She relaxed slightly, her body resting fractionally more against his. Despite the fact their sides were touching for the much-needed heat exchange, he could feel her holding herself aloof from him.

‘So back to snowcaves…’ he prompted.

‘At high school I did outdoor education. As we’re in an alpine region we did both snow and bushfire safety to cover each end of the spectrum. I never expected to use it.’

She wriggled against him in an unconscious action as she tried to get comfortable.

He closed his eyes against the surge of heat that rocketed through him. She had no idea what she did to him and she couldn’t know. Tonight they had to keep warm and that meant body contact. He wished he’d taken more notice when his secretary had talked about meditation and achieving a ‘Zen-like’ state.

She finally stilled, having pulled her legs up to her chin, and he released the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘So who’s worrying about you right now?’

‘My mother.’ A different tension radiated from her. ‘She doesn’t need this sort of stress. Mum’s got MS. Something like this could spark off a further progression of the disease.’

Regret for her family pulled at him. He knew the emotional toll of a chronically ill parent.

Her hands tugged agitatedly at the space blanket. ‘I was worried about her spending this week on her own. I wasn’t expecting her to think I’d died as well.’ Her voice rose on the last words, her anxiety palpable.

Professionally he knew she needed to talk, to help keep the panic at bay, and yet part of him wanted to know about her life. ‘So, she’s still living independently?’

‘Yes and no. I live with her and we run the farm together. She gets tired by the end of the day and uses elbow crutches.’

Astonishment combined with admiration. ‘You work full-time as a nurse as well as running a farm with an ill mother?’

She nudged him with her elbow. ‘You city slickers don’t know what hard work is.’

The playful tone in her voice sobered. ‘The land is part of you and very hard to give up, no matter the obstacles. And all farmers have those, especially the ones in the Laurel Valley. The bottom dropped out of tobacco a year before Dad died and he’d started to branch out and grow chestnuts. We’ve kept his phase-one orchard and leased out the rest of the farm to our neighbours.’

‘Sounds like tough times.’ A niggle of guilt at his financially secure life tweaked him.

‘Not just for us. The entire district is struggling. Changing your primary industry after many years of a dropping income is tough. Some people are farming emus, others ostriches, and then, of course, there’s tourism.’

He heard her wry tone. ‘Tourism brings in the dollars, you can’t deny that.’

‘You’re right, it does, but it changes the town. In winter Laurelton is full of skiers who belt in and belt out. They see the town purely as a service centre and are often very critical of the service. They don’t take the time to truly know the town, appreciate the area, understand the fragile environment.’

‘That’s being a bit tough on us, isn’t it?’

‘Have you ever visited Laurelton out of the snow season?’

Her face was in shadow but he pictured her brows arched in question, her sky-blue eyes flashing in a direct gaze. ‘Point taken. I’ve skied here for years but I’ve never come at any other time.’

‘And you’re missing so much!’ Her voice became animated. ‘There are so many wonderful places that come alive in spring and summer when the snow melts. Tiny orchids grow between rocks, the alpine grass waves in the breeze and the area is dotted with a rainbow of colourful flowers. Only a local can truly show a tourist the real Laurelton, but they don’t want to hang around that long.’ The passion in her voice for her alpine district filled the cave.

‘Do you have any ideas on how to change that?’

‘I certainly do.’

He laughed. ‘Of course, I should have realised. I’m getting the picture of a very determined woman.’

She shrugged. ‘You carve out your own life in this world, and if you don’t like something you should set about trying to change it for the better.’

Her words scorched him. Did he do that? He was doing it with his job, trying to improve the lives of sick kids. A voice in his head tried to speak. Not the way you want to, though.

He swallowed a sigh. His father’s illness had forced both of them to make a career change. But thinking about it didn’t change anything. He pushed the uncomfortable thought away as she continued.

‘Mum and I run a bed and breakfast and I offer tours of the area all year round between shifts. Mum manages the B&B, although I do a lot of the physical work.’

‘So you go from bed-making at work to bed-making at home.’ This time he dodged the elbow.

‘Cheeky! Although any registered nurse worth her salt knows how to make a patient comfortable, I don’t make many beds these days. Mind you, you can learn a lot about a patient, chatting to them while making their bed.’

‘You’re right. Nurses have that over doctors—the opportunity to talk to patients in a more casual way. It can net you a lot.’ But he didn’t want to talk about work even though they had medicine in common. He wanted to know more about Meg. ‘So you’re a farm girl. What about brothers and sisters?’

‘I’ve got two older brothers who were lured by the big city lights. One lives in Sydney, the other in Brisbane. I’ve always had a stronger connection to the farm and Laurelton. My brothers were born with wanderlust. Me, I’m content where I am.’

‘You don’t find country life confining?’

She turned to look at him. ‘Life confines us wherever we live. Work, family, societal rules. It’s how we deal with those confines that count.’

He thought about his family and the social confines their wealth had placed on him when he had been growing up. ‘I suppose the confines of family are similar in the city and the country, but here there is less to escape to. Such a small town wouldn’t offer, say, a vibrant performing arts scene.’

‘True, but I’ve always got the bush to escape to. Although I could truly do with her being a tad warmer tonight.’ Her shiver vibrated against him.

Concern whipped through him. ‘Cold? Sorry, dumb question—of course you’re cold. How can we change that? We’re not succumbing to hypothermia.’ He mentally ran through their limited options. ‘If we face sideways and you sit between my legs and lean back against me, we’ll transfer a lot more heat.’

Heat.

And it wouldn’t just be cosy heat radiating from him.

The thought of her leaning back into him, her back resting against his chest, her lower back resting against his lap terrified him.

But this was survival. Nothing more, nothing less.

His wayward libido would just have to deal with it.

Lean back against me.

Meg’s breath caught in her throat. Resting back on Will would warm her, but not quite in the way he’d meant. But he was right—they had to try something. It would be hours before they could expect to be rescued. The cold had now invaded her bones, and she was chilled to the core.

Chilled and hungry.

‘There isn’t much room to turn around in.’

He laughed and again the image of hot chocolate sauce cascading over caramel flooded her. Oh, God, now her imagery was making her hungry.

‘If you move forward, I can turn around and arrange the pack. Then I’ll move back and you can turn and sit back against me.’

He made it sound so easy. So normal. So very normal to be stranded in a snowstorm and cuddled up to a total stranger to survive.

A few moments later she sat between Will’s legs, the space blanket just reaching around them. Her back ached from sitting upright without support.

His hand burned into her shoulder. ‘Meg, lean back. I don’t bite, honest.’

No, but she might. Her heartbeat quickened as the memory of the feel of his skin under her fingers rushed back. Smooth skin, with taut muscle bands hiding beneath. She’d touched him and now she had a driving urge to taste him.

Oh, God, she’d lost it. This wasn’t her, she didn’t think like this. She’d sworn off men after Graeme and it was only shock, hunger and fear that were affecting her thoughts.

He gently increased the pressure on her shoulder and she eased back against him, feeling his chest supporting her aching spine.

‘Relax, Meg. I can take your weight.’

Relax!

He had no idea. She forced a deep, calming breath into her constricted chest. As she blew the air out of her lungs she concentrated on letting her body rest solely on his chest.

‘Comfortable?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Was that her voice that squeaked out the words?

‘Great.’ His arms encircled her and came to rest on the tops of her legs in a natural position, as if they belonged there. Then his chin rested on her head.

She felt cocooned in a nest of warmth. She fought the overwhelming urge to totally relax into his arms. She knew it was pure survival, there was nothing more to it, but her reaction to him scared her. The last time she’d given in to a man, he’d left her. Left her scarred and with damaged Fallopian tubes. Abandoned her, leaving only a tattered and useless dream.

The hole in the pit of her stomach growled, reverberating off the snow walls. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit hungry.’

‘When the storm abates, we can get some food from the plane.’

She grinned. ‘It’s not all crash survivors who can claim to have eaten caviar and drunk champagne while they waited. Although someone on the mountain might have been forced to have supermarket dip and biscuits and—quelle horreur—Australian sparkling wine.’

He laughed. ‘Ah, but they will incorporate it into a great dinnertime story back in Toorak, which would make up for it.’

‘The night they slummed it?’

‘Something like that.’

His words carried a reserve she hadn’t heard before. Realisation hit her. He was probably talking from experience. She wanted to know. She needed to know if her gut feeling about his privileged life was correct. That would be the ammunition she needed to fight her attraction to him. And she must fight it, otherwise it would all end in tears. Her tears.

‘You asked who is worrying about me. So, who’s worrying about you?’

‘I’m guessing that when the plane didn’t land the people meeting me will have contacted my parents.’

‘Were you staying with family friends?’

‘In a manner of speaking, I suppose they are. My parents certainly consider them family. I’ve known them all my life, went to school with them.’

A leaden feeling sank in her hungry stomach. Her intuition was correct. ‘Old Penton Grammarians?’

‘Yes.’ Surprise, mixed with an eagerness to establish a shared connection, played though his voice.

She recognised it from Graeme’s family and friends. First came the enthusiasm that she was an ‘old girl’. Then came the blank ‘Oh’ when the connection didn’t exist.

‘Did you go to the sister school?’

Bingo. ‘No.’ She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. ‘I went to Laurelton Secondary College.’ She waited for the ‘Oh’ and the inevitable silence that followed.

‘Didn’t Laurelton win the ski cup six to eight years ago? I remember my cousin, James, up in arms that Penton had been outmanoeuvred by a local high school.’ He laughed. ‘Did them good to learn that even with a truck-load of money, you still need skill to win.’

Surprise at his comment wriggled though her. She was amazed he would remember that. ‘We had Stuart McGregor that year. He was a gun skier and went on to represent Australia in the Olympics. But, win or lose, the Penton boys seemed to think it their duty to gatecrash our party. Apparently we were supposed to be grateful for the attention and the fact they added class.’ Teenage memories, some tinged with resentment, swirled in her head.

He laughed. ‘Yes, some of them could smell a party thirty kilometres away. Although vomiting in the snow never struck me as all that classy.’

‘That’s true.’ Will’s answers astonished her. She longed to pigeonhole him but he wasn’t quite fitting into the round hole she’d created for him. And her body was betraying her. Her bone-chilling coldness was receding. A bank of heat now permeated her back and she was desperate to press back to soak more of it in. To touch more of him.

With Will’s arms cocooning her, his warm breath skating along the edge of her cheeks, the heat from his body surrounding her, she could feel her flimsy walls of defence crumbling. She couldn’t let this attraction go anywhere. She had to stop it dead in its tracks.

She drew on what she knew. ‘What I don’t understand about Penton is why, as adults, old Penton boys want to live in each other’s pockets.’

‘Security, shared experiences. All the same reasons people hang out in groups.’

‘Yes, but…’ A niggle of irritation chafed against his reasonableness. ‘You have to admit, Penton has made it an art form. It isn’t just their ex-schoolmates—they marry the girls from the sister school and then enrol their yet-to-be-conceived children at both schools.’ Her words rushed out, carried on a wave of ingrained bitterness and hurt.

‘Not all old Penton boys socialise with their schoolmates.’ The words seemed clipped.

She heard his change of tone. She’d learned from Graeme that Penton was sacrosanct, above criticism. She’d expected Will to react like that.

Good. She pictured Will slowly morphing into the round shape to fit into the round hole she had all picked out for him. The same hole Graeme had slotted into so well. Money, privilege and a sense of superiority. Use, abuse, move on.

Once she had Will in that hole, her attraction to him would shrivel. ‘Yeah, right, weren’t you on your way to spend a week with your old school pals?’ She squashed the sensible voice in her head that told her she was being childish, sounding petulant. ‘I bet you were staying at the Alston, where all good Pentonians stay.’

‘Actually, I was staying at a private apartment.’

His voice became cool and for the first time she noticed his independent school accent.

A private apartment meant serious money.

Meg knew the mountain like the back of her hand. Each year when a new hotel or apartment complex was built, part of her was pained that fewer ordinary people could afford to enjoy the mountain in the winter. She sat forward and half turned toward him. ‘Which apartments?’

‘The Grenoble complex.’

She breathed in hard and fast. The Grenoble was the development the local environment group had protested against. She’d protested against it. And they’d lost. ‘Those apartments should never have been built. Money bought off that planning process. Now the mountain is being taken over and controlled by a select few.’

He tensed behind her. ‘Skiing has always been a rich man’s sport. There are lodges that provide access to the mountain for people with less money.’

Fury blazed inside her. That was such a ‘Graeme’ statement. ‘Yes, but it’s people like you who are driving up the prices for everyone, taking all you want during winter and never giving back.’

‘Never give back? We pour hundreds of thousands of dollars into the region, including into Laurelton. We support your livelihoods.’

Face it, Meg. You need my money, you need my connections and you need me. Graeme’s smarmy voice boomed in her head.

‘That champagne and caviar was probably ordered by your host!’ Her voice rose on a wave of anger.

‘There is every chance it might have been.’ The words were as icy as the cave.

Triumph saluted inside her. She’d been right from the start. Will was in the pigeonhole. Her lust shrivelled. She was safe.

‘Do you need me to apologise for that?’ He enunciated each word. ‘Does being an ex-Pentonian mean I am automatically a lesser person in your eyes?’ He paused for a brief moment, his words hanging in the air. ‘The fact you don’t know anything about me and that you’ve jumped to a massive stereotype conclusion says more about you than me.’

A kernel of guilt sprouted inside her.

‘I don’t need to justify myself to you. If you must know, this week’s ski trip was as much about work as it was about skiing. This group of rich bastards you so like to malign have the capabilities to donate large amounts of money for research and health-care facilities. Money is tight. The government gives limited amounts and research absorbs money like a bushfire absorbs oxygen. My old school connections come in handy sometimes and I don’t apologise for that. I use them to my advantage when I need to.’

An ugly silence settled over them. Meg was physically warm but his words sent shards of ice through her. She’d deliberately been aggressive, so determined to make him the same as Graeme, so determined to protect herself, that she’d been judge and jury with scant evidence.

From the moment they’d met, he’d only been polite and considerate despite the fact she knew she’d been deliberately chilly toward him. He’d put her first so often since the crash, tried to protect her, kept her warm, drawn her out on her life to keep her mind off the situation they found themselves in.

And he was right—she’d jumped to conclusions based on an old festering hurt. She thought she’d moved beyond that pain. Dismay filled her at the knowledge that it still coloured her judgement. She prided herself on being egalitarian but the truth was that since Graeme she no longer trusted. She’d lashed out in self-defence…but she was fighting the wrong person. She needed to be fighting her own prejudice.

‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I had no right to say those things. I know nothing about you except you ski and you’re a doctor.’

His hands balled into fists by his side. ‘Apology accepted.’

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