‘I believe in holistic midwifery—which is the use of all techniques that can help the clients,’ Poppy said. ‘What’s your problem with that?’

They glared at each other, and she watched Jake’s eyes narrow.

‘Hocus pocus, Poppy. Natural doesn’t automatically mean safe. There is no scientific proof that these methods work—and I think it’s dangerous. When something goes wrong it’s my conventional medicine that’s going to save them.’

By the time he finished his tirade his voice had risen.

‘I’m not deaf, Jake. On the surface, your arguments are old school and nothing I can’t demolish. But there’s something deeper and more personal in this explosion of emotion. What experiences have you had with alternative therapies?’ She gentled her voice. She didn’t want to cause him pain. Wasn’t even sure of the reaction she might get, let alone the fallout—but it was too late.

Fiona McArthur is Australian and lives with her husband and five sons on the Mid-North Coast of New South Wales. Her interests are writing, reading, playing tennis, e-mail and discovering the fun of computers—of course that’s when she’s not watching the boys play competition cricket, football or tennis. She loves her work as a part-time midwife in a country hospital, facilitates antenatal classes and enjoys the company of young mothers in a teenage pregnancy group.

Now that her youngest son has started school Fiona has more time for writing and is looking forward to the challenge of improving her craft. DELIVERING LOVE is her first novel.

Delivering Love

Fiona McArthur

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my Dad—my first hero.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER ONE

‘CAESAREAN birth, seventeen-ten,’ the scout nurse intoned. Everyone glanced at the clock as the baby was delivered into the world. Nobody spoke. The theatre staff at Midcoast Hospital, New South Wales, were too busy willing the baby to move.

The child lay tinged with blue and still, across his mother’s green-draped stomach.

Come on, Baby, Poppy McCrae urged silently as she moved into action. This was why she was here. She knew how resilient babies were once they had oxygen and the stimulation of the outside world.

Her gloved fingers directed the tiny suction tube to gently clear his mouth and nose as Dr Gates clamped and severed the ropy link between the baby and his mother.

Poppy gathered the tiny human to her chest and carried him to the resuscitation trolley. How he responded in the next five minutes would indicate his oxygen depletion.

Her elbow knocked the clock timer to keep track of time since birth and she positioned him on his back with his head towards her. She briskly rubbed the infant’s damp skin with a warmed towel. Sometimes, towelling would be enough to stimulate a baby to breathe. His little limbs wobbled slackly with her movements and Poppy winced. Twenty seconds since birth.

She reached for the stethoscope and listened for his heartbeat, heard the newborn’s slow steady beating in her ears and exhaled in relief. A sluggish beat was much better than no beat at all.

Placing the mask firmly over his nose and mouth, she gently squeezed oxygen into the tiny lungs with short puffs from the bag. Poppy nodded slightly at the way his chest rose and fell as she squeezed the bag.

One minute since birth. It felt like ten. His heart rate was better at just under a hundred beats a minute. She glanced up at the scrub-room window. Still nobody there. She frowned. Where was this new paediatrician?

‘Do it, Baby. Wake up and smell everybody sweating.’ She rubbed the infant again and continued puffing oxygen through the mask, noting the faint improvement in his skin colour.

‘You’re a dawdler, but you’re working on it. Good boy.’ She patted him.

The operating-theatre doors whooshed open and Poppy looked up briefly in relief. A tall figure, masked and gowned, strode over to the resuscitaire.

‘Dr Sheppard. Paediatrician. How long since birth?’

The previous week’s speculation about him was unimportant now and she glanced at the timer ticking away. ‘Two minutes, Doctor.’ They still didn’t know why the baby had become distressed during labour, and Poppy prayed there was no birth defect causing the problem.

She swapped places so he could stand at the baby’s head. ‘Slow foetal heart rate since admission and decreased foetal movement. Stunned at birth. No respiratory effort as yet, although pinking up slightly with bagging. Heart rate just under a hundred now.’

Poppy kept her gaze on the baby’s chest as it rose and fell with each squeeze of the black rubber bag.

‘How long was the labour and how much pethidine did the mother have?’

‘Less than four hours before the midwife noticed a sudden change in foetal heartbeat. As for the other...’ Poppy smiled at the memory of the baby’s earth mother and looked up at him ‘...we don’t use pain relief like pethidine very often here. The only drugs on board come from the anaesthetic. The baby was supposed to be born at home.’

She saw Dr Sheppard narrow his eyes and grimace. Great. She gritted her teeth. He’s not sympathetic to home births. She’d have to work on that. Later.

‘Hmm,’ was all he said. ‘Now, Baby, we’ll pop a little tube down your throat to help you breathe for a few minutes, and if you’re very good I’ll take it out again shortly.’

He listened to the infant’s chest and then took over the bagging so that Poppy could prepare the equipment. As she placed each object on top of the trolley she couldn’t help noticing how gentle his large hands were as he handled the newborn.

His voice rumbled on a deeper note as he spoke to the baby, and Poppy felt as if a cool breeze had somehow eddied into Theatre and blown across her neck. She shrugged off the thought that the cadences in his speech were niggling her as familiar, but she had to admit he had a great voice.

Not since her big city hospital training had Poppy felt so attuned during resuscitation, and she wordlessly placed the laryngoscope into his upturned palm. As she watched the diminutive patient lie flaccidly under his care, she sensed the anxiety of the other staff. There was none of the usual conversation.

The first signs of response started to appear. Poppy welcomed the lightening of weight in her own chest as, with each puff of the bag, the baby’s skin colour washed pinker from the oxygen. With the tiniest movements, the baby began to twitch and move.

Go for it, Baby! Poppy urged the little boy on in her mind. His plump hands clenched and the tiny toes spread as if in answer.

Relief washed over her like incoming surf. His little face grimaced and his chest fluttered as he struggled to breathe for himself.

Poppy sighed with relief. Any second now. She positioned the oxygen mask back over the baby’s face as Dr Sheppard removed the tube to allow the infant to breathe for himself.

The baby gasped and coughed. Then came the most beautiful sound in the world. He cried.

Poppy’s eyes misted and she looked up to meet those of the man beside her.

It was then that she fully took in the height, the forehead and those vivid blue eyes. It wasn’t just the voice that was familiar. For a moment she doubted her own sanity until common sense stepped in.

That man was dead!

She looked again and saw a different man beneath the green theatre attire. Similar but not the same. She shook her head and relegated another thought to later.

Refocussing on the crying baby, a smile spread from deep inside her. To hell with it. The baby was fine, they’d done a good job and life was great. She was glad they had a new paediatrician, even though doctors weren’t her favourite people. She smiled from her heart at this tall, skilled doctor standing beside her. He looked back and for a moment it seemed as if he, too, had been moved by the moment until his gaze hardened and he seemed to look right through her. Poppy shrugged and looked away.

The baby was roaring loudly now and she bundled him up in warm bunny rugs while keeping the oxygen mask tucked near his mouth. She watched Dr Sheppard gently pat the little boy to soothe him. He seemed to genuinely care about his little patient. Maybe he was one of the good guys.

All across Theatre, breaths were expelled and talk broke out.

‘I think everyone needs some oxygen after that. Well done,’ Dr Gates called out. He added, satisfaction clearly evident in his voice, ‘We’ve found the culprit, a true knot in the umbilical cord that pulled tighter during labour. Your young man was running out of time in there.’

Dr Sheppard looked across at the surgeon. ‘That answers a lot of questions. I’d say your decision not to wait was a good one. Baby responded well and I can’t foresee any problems.’ He looked back at Poppy and frowned.

Poppy’s own brows drew together at the expression on the new doctor’s face. What was eating him? She mentally shrugged. Did she really care? ‘Are you happy enough with the baby for me to transfer him back to the ward?’

She watched the scowl smooth away in front of her eyes. She sighed and hoped he wasn’t going to be another one of those doctors with unpredictable moods.

‘Yes, Baby’s fine. I’ll come with you and talk to the father. I gather he’s the poor chap nail-biting out in the corridor.’

Dr Gates looked up from his suturing. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice, Dr Sheppard. I know you don’t start until tomorrow but in the country everyone knows your comings and goings. You can’t hide from us.’ He laughed, the way only really chubby men could, and everyone joined in as they watched him wobble with mirth.

‘By the way, the very efficient midwife at your side is Sister McCrae. Sister McCrae—Dr Sheppard.’ He chuckled as the two looked at each other and then away. ‘Thanks again. Midcoast won’t always call you in at dinnertime.’

‘Not a problem.’ Dr Sheppard nodded at Poppy and they manoeuvred the trolley carrying the baby out of the theatre. They paused, before pushing open the swing doors, and threw their masks and theatre gowns into the bins provided. The baby was so snugly wrapped that only his wrinkled face poked out of the mound of blankets. Poppy stroked his cheek. His skin felt like silk against her fingers. Newborn babies never ceased to fill her with wonder. Once she would have given anything to have been able to have one.

As they pushed open the external doors from the theatre the child’s father jumped up from his seat and rushed towards them.

‘Congratulations, Luke!’ Poppy said. ‘Sheila’s fine and so is your son.’

‘It’s a boy!’ he whooped, but quickly sobered, or as much as the grin on his face would allow. ‘You’re sure they’re both OK?’

‘This is Dr Sheppard. He’s the paediatrician and he can tell you all about it...’ Poppy’s voice dwindled away as Luke fastened his eyes on the other man.

She, too, turned to study his face properly for the first time. The bottom seemed to drop out of her stomach. He was a stunner. In the corridor lighting, the lines of his cheekbones made his face seem almost harsh. His full bottom lip hinted at sensuality and softened the strength of his powerful jaw. It affected Poppy in a way she wasn’t prepared for. Her own lips tightened in denial. She wouldn’t even think about it!

Still she found herself drawn to his eyes. That vivid blue of the sea on a sunny day. There was that memory again. She knew who he reminded her of now. She’d only seen eyes of that colour once before—and then they’d been outlined by very sparse eyebrows. She’d kissed that man’s brow goodbye two weeks before he’d died. She shivered at the eerie feeling it left her with.

The men were talking and she couldn’t help noticing how broad and reassuring Dr Sheppard looked in his theatre trousers and V-necked top. A few stray black tendrils of chest hair poked out brazenly around his neckline and the fabric stretched tautly across the widest chest she’d seen in town for a while. She gulped and tried not to stare.

A gentle pulsing warmth started low in her stomach as she watched him absently stroke the bundled baby on the trolley. What would it feel like to be cradled in those strong arms? He’d draw women like kids to a sweets jar.

She winced as if hit by a wet flannel. Just like her ex-husband. The snake.

She glared at his tall frame. Typical. See how easily Dr Sheppard instilled trust in the father, she warned herself. She’d seen what a smooth talker could do once before.

‘Thanks, Doc. Thanks, Sister.’ Luke could hardly stand still in his excitement and relief. ‘I’m off to the phones.’ He sped off down the corridor, more excited than if he’d picked the winner in the Melbourne Cup.

Poppy seized gratefully on the break in her thoughts and helped steer the trolley through to the neonatal nursery.

‘I’ll do a thorough check before he goes into the crib, Sister.’ Poppy nodded and unwrapped the infant.

She watched Dr Sheppard check the infant. She had to admire the way his concentration focussed totally on the baby as he carefully assessed him from every angle.

When he was finished, he closed the tiny circular door with a gentle click. Poppy chalked up another point for him. She’d seen so many doctors snap the door shut, oblivious to the arm-flinging agitation of the baby within. She could work with this guy, she decided.

Then he spoiled it. ‘I can’t believe people put their children at risk by having babies at home. If I had my choice I’d ban it.’ He shook his head as he stared at the little fellow now resting comfortably in his artificial womb.

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. ‘Excuse me?’

Dr Sheppard glanced up at her measuringly. ‘You don’t agree, Sister?’

Cold blue eyes met militant green ones.

Poppy’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘No, I don’t agree.’

‘So convince me!’ He didn’t actually put his hands on his hips but he might as well have.

You bet I will, buddy. Poppy smiled sweetly. ‘My success would depend on whether you’re open to reasonable argument or whether your mind is already made up, Doctor.’

There was no answering smile and he spoke with sudden coldness. ‘Touché. I don’t like your chances. Maybe another day.’ He saluted her. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

Poppy shivered. Perhaps he wouldn’t be so easy to convince. It wasn’t just the right of the parent to choose the place of birth that she wanted to convince him of. Instinctively, she felt it would be hugely important to avoid any problems with her beliefs in midwifery. He could set her cause back two years if his demands were unreasonable.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, back in her usual uniform, Poppy could feel her feet dragging. She rotated her neck and shoulders to ease out any stiffness from the long day as she walked over to the crib.

‘Bye, Baby. We couldn’t help a true knot in your cord.’ She shivered at the closeness of tragedy. ‘It’s a shame about your mummy’s poor old tummy but you’re a lucky little boy.’

‘So how was our new paediatrician, Poppy?’ Sandy, the other midwife, pulled a butterscotch sweet out of her pocket and handed it to Poppy.

‘Thanks.’ Poppy untwisted the prize out of its wrapping and popped it into her mouth, rolling her eyes as the sweetness hit her tongue.

Poppy put her hand over her mouth as she crunched the butterscotch with her teeth. Sandy put her hands over her ears and the two women grinned at each other.

‘Sorry. I needed that. I haven’t eaten for about six hours.’ She pointed at the baby and answered Sandy’s question. ‘Well, I was pretty glad to see him, with the baby so stunned at birth, and he puts a tube in very well.’ She rolled the sweet wrapper in her hands thoughtfully. ‘He’s got that calmness the really experienced neonatal guys have so that everything seems to go smoothly with no stress. Very easy to work with.’

‘Hooray, you’ve said something good about a doctor finally.’ Sandy pretended to do a Red Indian war dance around the room.

Poppy glared at her. ‘I like Dr Gates.’

‘He’s as round as butter and married with six kids. He’s safe to like. Besides, he finally agreed with your complementary therapies. But this guy is young and Dr Gates says he’s single.’

‘Yeah, but I’ve got a bad feeling about how open his mind is. Also, he’s against a mother choosing the place of birth.’ Poppy rubbed her eyes and stretched her neck again. ‘Still, I suppose if everyone had their babies at home we’d be out of a job.’

Sandy frowned. ‘Don’t worry about him now. It’s been a long day for you and pressure’s on when a baby’s not responding.’

‘It’s OK, Sandy. I’m thinking that at least, having him here, we won’t have to book as many high-risk women into the base hospital.’ She stared dreamily at a rosy vision of babies and mothers filling the nursery.

Sandy shook her head. ‘What I don’t get is why such a qualified guy would come here.’

Poppy sniffed. ‘Why wouldn’t he come here? We have the best beaches on the North Coast and we’re close to about five national parks.’

‘Yeah, right, Poppy. Not everyone wants to tramp through slippery gullies to look at some hundred-year-old forest giant covered in green velvet.’ Sandy rolled her eyes.

Poppy wasn’t listening. ‘Hopefully, more women will come back to having their babies at Midcoast.’ She looked around at the freshly painted walls and the modern equipment.

‘I love this place and we fought hard for the birthing suites. It infuriates me that there’s no guarantee the ward will stay open if the birth numbers keep falling.’ She crossed her fingers superstitiously. ‘Help is here if they need it, but we’re finally offering our clients non-medical forms of pain relief, with great results. People are starting to chose Midcoast for those reasons. We don’t want another doctor to scare them away by being negative. We’ll just have to convince him that, while it has its place, conventional medicine isn’t always necessary.’

She shrugged her shoulders wearily and waved at the baby again.

‘I’ve had it. Bye, little one.’ She blew a kiss at the crib. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon, Sandy.’ With her bag in one hand and helmet and keys in the other, she headed thoughtfully out of the door. Poppy’s red motor scooter was no Harley-Davidson but it meant she didn’t have to walk home in the dark tonight.

Pushing open the external door, she almost collided with Dr Sheppard who was leaping up the stairs three at a time. Poppy stepped back out of his way but stopped when he put out his hand.

‘Hello again, Sister.’ He glanced at her helmet. ‘It’s dark. I’ll walk you to your, ah...bike?’

This tall, muscular man, vaulting the stairs, had knocked her mentally off balance. Poppy forced down the butterflies in her stomach and managed a noncommittal nod. But she smiled to herself at a reaction she hadn’t enjoyed in a while. Hormones.

What was that thing about adrenalin she’d learnt? It warmed your skin with increased blood flow and accelerated your heartbeat. This guy must trigger her adrenalin. And he’d know it, too. The thought steadied her. She’d had the impression he hadn’t even liked her. Strangely, she wasn’t tired any more.

Poppy walked beside him the short distance to the road. ‘Why do you want to walk me to my bike?’ She tilted her head up at him, unable to resist. ‘Did you want to hear why some home births are a good thing? How important it is that if these parents come to us in a crisis situation we shouldn’t judge them?’

His face showed it was the last thing he wanted to talk about and she bit her lip to suppress her smile.

‘Judging isn’t helpful when we’re trying to build a reputation as a liberal birthing unit. Obviously home birth isn’t for everyone, but in this case, prior to the sudden foetal distress, her midwife had a healthy mother with good antenatal care and a history of a previous normal vaginal delivery. That’s low risk.’ She slanted a look at him and saw that his eyes were glazing. She’d have one more go.

‘Do you realise that human beings are the only animals who make a nice safe nest to live in then leave it to have their young in a strange place? Don’t you find that bizarre?’

‘Bizarre? No.’ That was too much for him.

Poppy got the feeling she’d suddenly grown another head.

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘To come to a hospital to have your child seems perfectly natural to me—and something any sensible person would do.’ His forehead creased.

‘Look, I came back to check on the baby and I don’t know why I offered to walk you to your bike. Though it’s probably because I don’t like to see women walking alone at night.’

‘Oh, I appreciate that.’ She had no doubt he was wishing he hadn’t, and Poppy tried hard not to let the amusement come through into her voice. She needn’t have worried. He still couldn’t come to terms with women wanting home births.

‘What about infant mortality and morbidity? These people are dangerous.’ He looked down at her walking beside him. ‘No,’ he said again. ‘I don’t find it bizarre and we’ll never agree on home births.’ He smiled to soften the words but his voice was harsh.

Poppy shrugged. ‘Maybe we could talk about it another day?’

‘I don’t think so.’

They both stopped beside her red scooter. He stared at the tiny vehicle and its bottletop-sized wheels.

‘What an embarrassing bike.’

Poppy laughed out loud. And she’d been worried about offending him? ‘Oh very diplomatic, Dr Sheppard. I bet what you drive doesn’t cost less than a soft drink to run every month, and it’s fun. Have you heard of fun?’

He obviously wasn’t used to being paid back and she smiled as he blinked at her tone.

‘I’m sorry, that was rude of me,’ he said. ‘Which reminds me, I left rather quickly without telling you how impressed I was with your resuscitation skills. I thought we worked well together.’

Damn. She’d just decided he was an insufferable prig and he said something nice. She hated that. Now she felt like a louse.

She tried to hide her face by bending down to put the keys in the ignition. She could feel the heat in her cheeks because he’d made her feel self-conscious with his comment.

‘Thank you, Dr Sheppard.’

‘Jake, please.’

‘Jake, then. You’re pretty good yourself at what you do. I’m Poppy.’

He raised his eyebrows.

Poppy sighed. ‘My mother was a sixties flower child and she named her daughters after her favourite flowers. My sister’s name is Jasmine.’

Jake glanced down at her. She was tall for a woman and well rounded. He liked the way her red hair curled and bounced around her face. It was a big improvement on the theatre cap. She looked like a poppy. She had one of those husky, sexy voices that seemed to come out of the most unlikely people.

He watched her face soften when she spoke of her mother, and it made him think of the way she’d looked at the baby outside Theatre. Her face wasn’t beautiful—except when she smiled. Yet she had the kind of face he could watch all day, waiting for the changes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed watching a woman’s reactions so much.

Then she smiled and he realised that had been what he’d been waiting for. She lit up from within and the power of it scrambled his brains again. She could light a dark room with that smile. It made him catch his breath. Like the moment in Theatre when the baby had first cried. He was probably hypoglycaemic. Light-headedness and low blood sugar levels had a lot to answer for. He needed to get away from her.

‘Well, Poppy, you should be safe if I leave you now.’ He went to shake her hand but stopped at the expression on her face. He couldn’t believe it. She looked like she was trying not to laugh. At him. He glared at her. She bit her lip and took the hand he’d let fall. She held it in both of hers and shook it.

‘I’m sorry. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought or your combat skills, Jake, but this is Midcoast.’ She gestured around at the deserted street. ‘Not Sydney or New York.’

The ungrateful minx.

‘You’re laughing at me.’ He couldn’t remember the last time someone hadn’t taken him seriously. Then there had been that crack about fun. He froze. That was a worry. What was he turning into? Then she smiled that smile again.

‘I’m sure you’ll recover.’

She was playing the cheeky minx again, but she intrigued him. Still, he knew better than to lose his usual common sense. He’d always said that women in the health profession didn’t attract him. Women required more than he could give. Look at his marriage before Helen had died.

He was here to do the work he loved. His eyes narrowed. And make someone, somewhere in this small country town pay for his brother’s death, he reminded himself. He couldn’t forget why he’d come here—to find the woman responsible for stealing a month of his brother’s short life.

Someone had to fight against the new wave of alternative remedies that were causing people to turn their backs on real medicine. Maybe she was one of them.

The herbal scent in Poppy’s hair drifted to him and he found himself staring at her. One part of him sneered at her irresponsible stand on home births and the other half was sliding into a whirlpool of attraction that he knew was dangerous. But for the first time in nearly three years he felt alive. Something had shifted or cracked to allow some light in. He didn’t know if it felt good or not, but it was hard to back away.

If he ignored the voice of reason he had listened to for years, he could just cup her chin in his hand and drop a swift kiss on her parted lips. Just one.

Jake stepped back. She encouraged people to condemn conventional medical care. Just like the woman who’d killed his brother. Hell, that had been close. He turned away. ‘Goodnight, Sister.’

Poppy raised her eyebrows at the coldness and revulsion in his voice. The guy was all over the place. ‘Goodnight, Jake! Nice meeting you, too.’ She pulled her helmet on and puttered away as fast as the little bike could go.

CHAPTER TWO

POPPY felt unsettled all the way home. OK, so Jake was gorgeous. It might be amusing to bait him but it could be dangerous. Stop thinking with your hormones and think of the unit, she urged herself. She’d been crazy to risk alienating him by pushing home birth at him straight off, and then she’d laughed at him. He hadn’t liked that. She giggled and bit her lip. It wasn’t funny. But he was such a stuffed shirt.

It was a shame that what he stuffed in his shirt seemed to start a slow burn in her. Just when she’d thought her libido had been terminally extinguished. And doctors were definitely off the menu.

* * *

The next afternoon, Poppy arrived on the ward to start her shift. She barely had time to put her bag down before being hailed from the birthing room to assist.

Jake was the first person she saw as she entered the room and she instinctively bit back her smile. Strange how there still seemed to be time to notice how broad his shoulders looked in an open-necked white shirt that seemed to go on for ever across his chest. It wasn’t fair that he affected her like this. Her life was fine without a man to complicate it. She frowned and pushed the thoughts away. She’d been through this last night and had decided not to be attracted to him.

Her glance flicked away to rest on the young girl in the final stages of labour. All seemed to be well in hand but she ensured that Dr Gates and the two morning midwives had everything needed before she moved over to the infant resuscitation trolley and Jake.

The paediatrician’s presence meant that something wasn’t right.

She raised her eyebrows in a silent question and he leaned over to speak softly in her ear.

‘Lana is a sixteen-year-old first-time mum, due in ten weeks. She only came in half an hour ago and there was no time to send her off to the base hospital. She had a small antepartum haemorrhage at home and sudden onset of labour. No foetal heart rate found since admission.’

Poppy felt her stomach plummet. ‘It still could have a chance.’ Every midwife’s worst nightmare was a mother left without a baby to take home.

‘I haven’t given up.’ Jake’s quiet words reinforced her sense of denial. She never gave up until the end. They had that much in common. When he continued with, ‘NETS is on standby if the baby looks like it’s going to make it.’ He proved he was prepared to give the baby every chance.

The neonatal evacuation team from Newcastle Hospital flew to country areas with their own portable intensive-care unit, complete with highly trained nursing staff, all equipment and a neonatologist on board to stabilise the baby before transfer.

‘I’ll check the nursery crib.’ She slipped out of the room to turn on the oxygen in the nursery humidicrib, then rolled two hot bunny rugs to lay over the trolley just prior to the baby being born.

When she returned to the unit she could see the tip of the baby’s head as it descended down the birth canal. She arranged the blankets and Jake moved over to stand beside Dr Gates.

‘If we can get a decent heart rate and keep the baby well oxygenated without doing any damage, it has a chance.’

More of the baby’s head showed with each contraction until the tiny flaccid body eased gently into Dr Gates’s large palm.

Poppy winced at the obvious signs of prematurity. Wrinkled, almost transparent skin covered in downy hair. Vernix, the white creamy substance that acted as a barrier cream in the womb, covered her body and the head seemed much larger than the body.

Quickly, Dr Gates clamped and cut the cord to enable Jake to whisk the baby over to the resuscitation trolley.

The ease and speed with which Jake assessed, suctioned, intubated and initiated CPR on the infant was something Poppy had to admire. As she watched those large hands giving cardiac massage to the tiny chest to encourage the little heart to beat, she found herself willing the baby to live. Her mouth was dry as she concentrated on being able to anticipate Jake’s requests.

Barely a word passed between them in that fraught ten minutes. Her throat tightened as she saw the tiny hand clench and unclench as the baby’s heart rate settled into a stable rhythm.

‘Get NETS on the phone and on their way.’ Jake’s quiet voice carried clearly to everyone in the room and Poppy blinked the mist from her eyes. She bit her lip and motioned to one of the morning mid-wives to do as he’d bidden.

‘OK, Poppy, let’s get her in the crib and I’ll bag her until we can get her hooked up to the ventilator.’ He looked up and gave the exhausted mum a quick grin. ‘Congratulations, Lana, she’s a beautiful girl. Bag for a second, please, Poppy.’

He swiftly swapped places with Poppy and she rhythmically squeezed the oxygen into the tiny lungs. Jake steered the awkward trolley against the bed and lifted Lana’s hand to touch it to her baby’s cheek. He raised his own to rest it reassuringly on the mother’s head and said softly but firmly, ‘Baby’s going to have the best care we can give her, and she’s a fighter.’

To take the time to reassure the child’s mother made Jake a special man. Poppy had to admit it. A lot of doctors, including her ex-husband, were so one-tracked they didn’t realise how much of a difference that one touch could make—to give a frightened parent that tiny second of hand contact with their child and create bonds and memories that couldn’t be replaced with a Polaroid picture.

Only then did he allow them to wheel the trolley with its precious burden into the nursery. Away from her mother.

‘The next hour will be a battle while we try to maintain the baby in as stable a condition as we can while we wait for the NETS team to arrive.’

They’d connected the baby to the electric ventilator, and the sound of the rhythmic breathing of the machine seemed to dominate the room. Jake’s voice was low as he found a tiny vein into which to insert the even smaller cannula. Poppy could hardly see the blueness under the skin that showed him where to aim, but he slid it in with ease as she held baby’s arm still.

‘That’s impressive. I have trouble finding a vein in mothers sometimes. Remind me not to complain again when I have those big veins to work with.’

He looked at her under his brows and half smiled. ‘I’ve had lots of practice.’

By the time they had a drip running and the baby fully monitored, they could hear the thump of the helicopter.

Even though she’d seen it all before, it always amazed Poppy how much equipment a helicopter could disgorge when it arrived.

The specialist seemed to be surprised and pleased to see Jake, and even the flight sister was on a firstname basis with him.

Poppy turned away and pulled a face at herself for feeling superfluous. Surprised, she realised she felt vaguely annoyed with Jake and his easy camaraderie with the flight crew. She retreated to the birthing unit to take over from the morning midwife. Lana was tidying herself, preparing to go in the helicopter with her baby.

Soon the thump of the helicopter rotor faded into the distance and Poppy finished restocking the emergency trolley in case it was needed for the next delivery. She slowed her hands as she went over her feelings. All her nerve endings seemed to stand up and wave around whenever Jake was near her. She didn’t even know the guy. Get a grip, girl, she told herself firmly.

Poppy heard Jake being paged for the children’s ward, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then, just when she thought she was safe, he poked his head into the room.

‘Poppy.’

His sudden voice made her jump and she spun around. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears and the room seemed suddenly airless. It was just that he’d startled her.

‘Yes, Doctor?’ Her voice sounded remarkably cool and she managed to meet his eyes. The more she saw of him the more jangled she became. It was really starting to be a pain.

‘I’ll drop back later—there’s something I want to discuss with you.’ His head disappeared around the door again.

Poppy leaned shakily back against the bench and let out a ragged breath. What was it with this man? She hugged her stomach. How could he reduce her to this?

She’d make herself a remedy when she finished tonight. An essential oil bath perhaps, with a calming and stabilising blend for her nerves out of Mum’s aromatherapy book.

It should help.

As usual, thinking of her radical, lovable mother lifted her spirits. Although it had only been two years since she’d died, Poppy had taken to heart her mother’s conviction that in spirit she would always be with her, and the ache of loss was bearable.

Maybe Poppy had compensated by immersing herself in her mother’s interests, like aromatherapy and reflexology, and her home was certainly filled with her mother’s beads, plants and chimes. But they fitted so beautifully into midwifery, and just maybe, she admitted wryly, anything that attracted her ex-husband’s contempt had become doubly attractive to Poppy. The guy was a weasel and hated anything unconventional.

She wondered if Jake did, then shook her head. It didn’t matter anyway. She wasn’t going to get close enough to find out.

Sandy should be around here somewhere, she thought, and found her friend helping the new mums to master the art of breastfeeding. She was in Sheila’s room. Sheila’s eyes showed their delight when she saw Poppy.

‘How are you today, Sheila? Not too tired, I hope?’ Poppy noted the rings around the girl’s eyes but her contentment with her new son was plain to see. ‘Not quite the natural birth you and Luke were planning, was it? Though, I must admit, you do make beautiful babies.’

Sheila smiled dreamily at her son. ‘I’m feeling much better this afternoon, but thanks, Poppy, for looking after us yesterday. You were wonderful. I was so scared of coming into the hospital and how I’d be treated—let alone having a Caesarean. Luke was here when Dr Sheppard came in to see me this morning, and he’s very impressed with him.’ She winked. ‘Dr Sheppard’s quite a hunk.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Poppy felt her face stiffen at the mention of Jake and changed the subject. ‘You and Cade look very contented there. I’ll come back later to see you. Sandy and I are going to have a much-needed cuppa. If you want us, just push the buzzer.’

The two women moved towards the tea room and Poppy grimaced as she saw Sandy watching her. For the last two years her friend had been trying to encourage her to date. Without much success.

‘So, do you think the “hunky” Dr Sheppard is going to fit in here, Poppy? You’re the one who’s had the most to do with him. Day staff said he calls you by your first name already.’ Sandy’s eyes glinted mischievously.

Poppy avoided her eyes. ‘He’s certainly good-looking, but I learnt long ago what that means. At least he’s good at his job.’

‘Good-looking? The guy is devastating. I fancy him myself and I’m ten years too old for him and happily married. You haven’t even hit thirty. Come on, Poppy, when are you going to give another man a chance?’

‘That’s just it, Sandy. Why should I? I dumped my inferiority complexes with my married name. My life is great. Why would I risk that again?’

Maybe she shouldn’t visit the sins of her ex-husband on Jake. Maybe he was trustworthy.

Ha! That small voice inside her went into hysterics. You’ve met him twice! The guy’s charming, but can he be trusted?

‘When Mum died, another “hunk” walked out on me, right when I needed him. Maybe I’d feel more inclined to trust him if he wasn’t so perfect.’

Sandy raised her eyebrows. ‘Yeah, right. So we need him to put a paper bag over his head and get him to chant, “Trust me, trust me.”’ Poppy stifled a giggle at her friend’s imagination.

As if conjured up by their conversation, the sound of slightly off-key whistling preceded Jake’s head as he appeared around the door. Poppy watched his eyes brighten at seeing them and his long lean body followed to prop up the door frame. His dark hair was tousled as if he’d been caught in a wild breeze and the front of his shirt was damp and sticking to him in a fist-sized spot under his collarbone.

Jake looked a different man from the one in the nursery today. Ten years seemed to have dropped off his age. ‘I love kids, even if they are messy. I like the way they run Children’s Ward here—for the kids and not despite them.’ He grinned at them.

Poppy could see he meant what he said. She felt the same about her own ward.

‘Coffee smells good.’ Jake’s voice slid through her defences and Poppy stiffened her shoulders. Sandy could be mother.

‘How do you like it, Dr Sheppard?’ Sandy switched on the jug.

‘Jake, please. I’d settle for any way, except down the front of my shirt like my last drink was given to me. I can see by your badge that you’re Sandy. Is it Sandra or Cassandra?’

‘Cassandra, actually.’ Sandy blushed and Poppy hid her smile as the mature mother of three groped for composure like a sixteen-year-old.

‘White, no sugar, thanks.’

Cynically, Poppy marvelled at the way Jake put Sandy at her ease, drawing the older woman out about her children, obviously interested in all she said. Handsome men usually could. She could remember her ex-husband and all the young mothers sighing over him. Her nose twitched in disgust.

‘I’m going to check the ward.’ Poppy stood abruptly and left the room as if she had something important to do. She didn’t. She heard his voice thanking Sandy for the coffee as she walked away and she knew he’d follow her. She sighed.

The corridor was deserted and as Poppy passed one of the empty rooms she felt his presence as he came up behind her and steered her into it with a hand on her shoulder. He gently shut the door behind them.

Poppy could hear the now familiar thumping in her ears and she tried to slow the rapid rise and fall of her breathing as she turned to face him. She tried for lightness. ‘Did you want to see me, Doctor?’

Jake’s face was calm and Poppy marvelled how difficult she found it to read his mood. He was different again from the man of ten minutes ago. He didn’t look like he was going to chastise her for some fault in her work or even discuss a patient—so why was he here?

‘I want to apologise—for last night. There are reasons, which have nothing to do with you, that may have made me seem unfriendly.’

‘Apology accepted, Dr Sheppard.’ She looked up at him with mischief in her eyes. ‘Be polite next time.’

‘My mother would like you, Poppy. She’s very proper, too.’ He grinned and held out his hand for her to shake.

‘Proper’ was such an old-fashioned word. Poppy hiccuped on a giggle as she thought of herself as being labelled proper. But she supposed he’d only seen her as a neonatal nurse.

Actually, there had been times she’d been labelled a hippie, and a harpy—‘like your mother’. Her husband’s cold contempt still stung after all this time.

She was sure conservative Mrs Sheppard wouldn’t appreciate Poppy’s views or her mother’s past. Poppy couldn’t exactly tell Jake that.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely.

‘To friendship, as long as you don’t try to convince me that having a home birth is a responsible choice for a parent.’

He smiled at her but she could see he really meant what he’d said. She wondered what he’d think about her complementary therapies in the birthing unit. She shrugged. He’d find out.

He added, ‘I have asked you to call me Jake, please.’

‘To friendship, then, Jake.’ She reached out and placed her hand in his, and the difference in hand size made her feel suddenly very feminine. ‘But don’t expect me not to try and change your mind.’ Sensation tingled up her arm. She bit her lip. Friendship with this man would be...difficult!

* * *

By nine o’clock that night everything was quiet on the ward. Poppy was sitting with Sandy, writing patient reports, when the internal paging system suddenly erupted with noise. The medical emergency buzzer. This drew at least one staff member from each ward to assist in the area illuminated on the board.

‘I’ll go, Sandy.’ Poppy jogged quickly down the corridor and her stomach tightened as she saw the initials of the ward involved. Children’s Ward. Maternity was the closest unit and Poppy skidded around the corner and through the door. Like Maternity, Children’s Ward was staffed by only two nurses a shift. They’d need help. She scanned the indicators for the room with the light on and drew a quick breath as she entered.

She could see the child’s eyes were huge and terrified in her pale face. The sister in charge of the ward was supporting the girl and speaking gently, trying to reassure her. The hiss of the oxygen blowing the Ventolin mist into the girl’s lungs dominated the room as the child tried to force her narrowed bronchial tubes to open enough to let the air in.

‘Poppy! Thank God.’ The sister in charge looked up briefly. ‘Amelia was admitted this evening with her asthma, and she’s not responding to the Ventolin this time.’

The junior nurse wheeled the emergency trolley into the room and looked as frightened as the patient.

‘Have you rung Dr Sheppard?’ Poppy could see the little girl becoming more and more sleepy as she tried to lean forward droopily on her thin arms. She felt her nerves tighten as she remembered the words of her intensive care tutor. A sleepy asthmatic is an asthmatic in trouble.

‘Haven’t had time, but Nurse can ring now that you’re here to stay with me.’ The junior hurried to the door. ‘Tell him urgently, please.’

‘I’ll do the trolley part. She knows you. You keep her as calm as possible. Where are her parents?’

‘Her father’s gone home to feed the animals. You’ve got her mother over in Maternity.’ Poppy checked the girl’s armband and realised that this was Sheila’s older child. Heck!

‘She hasn’t an intravenous line in situ?’

‘It leaked into the tissues an hour ago and I paged the resident to resite it, but he’s stuck in Casualty with a chest-pain case. Dr Sheppard’s going to kill me because I didn’t ring him to come back.’

Poppy winced. He probably would, but that was the least of their problems at the moment. ‘I’ll have to cannulate if Jake doesn’t get here soon. How old is she? I need to work out the dosage for the drug.’ She hoped she wouldn’t mess up any veins but it was no use worrying—she had to do it. They’d need adrenalin if the child became much worse. Amelia started to cough, with the bronchospasm in her air passages making the air entry even more difficult.

‘She’s six.’

Poppy drew up the adrenalin and taped the ampoule to the syringe. It was situations like these that the wrong drugs could be accidentally given if they weren’t easily identified. She laid it in an injection tray and assembled the equipment to set up the IV.

Come on, Jake. She knew she was being unreasonable to expect him to appear as soon as he was called. It had probably been only a couple of minutes since the buzzer had gone off. Staff from other wards were arriving and the room seemed crowded with people. Unfortunately, most of them didn’t know what to do.

Poppy could see that the little girl was getting very little air in now and her chest was barely moving. A moment of panic welled up at the thought of her dying, but Poppy squashed it down.

‘She needs IPPV with the mask.’

‘I’ve got it here.’ One of the sisters from Intensive Care arrived and moved to commence intermittent positive pressure to force the lungs to open for the Ventolin and oxygen.

‘Someone grab the automatic blood-pressure machine and we need to know her oxygen saturation, too. Someone else get a clipboard and write down the times and any drugs given.’ Poppy’s voice was controlled and quiet but the response was immediate.

She placed a tourniquet on the child’s arm. She couldn’t even see any veins to aim for as the lack of oxygen had shut down the peripheral circulation to keep as much blood flow to the brain as possible. If she gave the injection into the muscle it could take several vital minutes for it to be picked up and dispersed by the blood to take effect and allow the bronchioles to dilate.

It would have to be intravenous! The thought of Jake’s ability to find the baby’s vein earlier that day strengthened her, and she slid the needle into the largest vein in the bend of Amelia’s arm. The immediate back-flow of blood made her heave a quick sigh of relief as she taped it into position.

‘Not the best place for one but good in an emergency.’ Jake’s voice behind her left shoulder made Poppy sigh in relief. ‘What happened to the other one?’

‘It tissued!’ Poppy turned and moved aside for Jake to get to the little girl.

Jake’s voice was quietly reassuring. ‘Amelia, it’s Dr Sheppard. You’ll be OK. Sweetheart, just try and relax.’ He held his hand out behind him and Poppy placed the tray in his hand. ‘Adrenalin?’ He checked the ampoule and fitted the syringe onto the intravenous port then slowly squeezed in the drug. ‘How much would you have given, Poppy?’

‘Age times two plus eight. About two mils over three minutes, but I haven’t checked it with anyone yet.’

Jake glanced up at her briefly and nodded. ‘Pretty good for a woman who deals with babies.’

He turned back to the little girl. ‘This should ease your breathing in a minute or so, Amelia. Hang in there.’

The girl was barely conscious and the sound of the rhythmic squeezing of air into Amelia’s lungs punctuated the rapid beeping of the monitors connected to the child. She looked worse, if anything, and Poppy was starting to feel cold with dread.

Jake’s face was stone-like, as if he was willing the child to improve, but they both knew that children responded better than adults did to the treatment—if it was received in time.

The next minute dragged. Jake said, ‘Come on, Amelia. Try and cough, sweetheart.’ The girl’s eyelids fluttered and then opened wide in fear. She gave a tiny huff of expelled air and then started to cough. Over the next few minutes her colour improved as she rid herself of some of the extra secretions blocking her lungs.

Poppy sagged against the wall. The crisis was over. Amelia was still a sick little girl and would be transferred to the intensive care unit for careful monitoring, but the immediate danger was over. Poppy met the eyes of the children’s ward sister in relief.

The other woman mouthed her thanks as Poppy hand-signalled that she was leaving. Suddenly she had to get out of there. Poppy knew it was just a delayed reaction to the stress, but the full horror of how close Amelia had come to dying crashed in on her. Jake would go and see Sheila as soon as he could safely leave her daughter’s side. It had been a big day all round and she decided she needed some space to pull her thoughts together.

Sandy was waiting for her when she came back. ‘Poppy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What happened?’

‘I’m OK. Everything will be all right now. There was a six-year-old with a severe asthma attack. Sheila’s daughter.’

Sandy drew her breath in sharply.

Poppy looked up at her friend. ‘Yeah, it was touch and go for a while there before Jake arrived. I had to cannulate.’ She looked at her hands, saw they were shaking and tucked them behind her back. ‘I’d rather have a problem in labour any day.’

Sandy reached into her pocket. ‘Time out, friend. Have a butterscotch.’ Poppy gave her a watery grin and took the sweet.

‘Thanks. I need a cup of tea, too. How’s the ward?’

By the time they were ready to go home, Poppy had stopped running the scene over in her mind to see if she should have done something differently. As she walked towards her bike she could see a figure that was becoming familiar standing outside the entrance to Casualty. She veered towards him.

‘Jake?’ What are you doing out here?’

He looked up, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Getting some air before I go over and see Amelia’s mother.’

Poppy felt the fear in her throat and forced the words out. ‘Amelia’s all right, isn’t she?’

‘She will be. Rest and Ventolin for the next couple of days should improve her.’ His gaze held hers. ‘You did a terrific job, Poppy. If I’d had to wait another few minutes, putting in the cannula, we may not have been so lucky.’ He hit one fist into his other hand. ‘People don’t realise how dangerous asthma is!’

His tone was forceful with disgust and Poppy couldn’t help thinking of the poor sister who hadn’t told him about resiting the cannula. She had a feeling the sister had copped it. But everyone was human and Poppy felt sorry for her. She sighed.

‘I’m tired. See you, Jake.’ She turned to go and she caught his movement as he pushed himself off the wall to follow her.

‘I’ll walk you to your bike.’

Poppy slanted a look up at him. ‘This is getting to be a habit.’

‘I’ve never liked a woman walking alone at night. It’s not safe. She should have a man to protect her.’

Poppy couldn’t help the bubble of laughter that slipped out. ‘Oh, spare me. I live on my own and walk myself to my bike every time I’m working late. Nothing’s ever happened to me and never will.’

A car passed and she saw the lift of one eyebrow at her comment. ‘My hero,’ she murmured facetiously under her breath, and smiled in the dark as she stopped beside her bike.

‘I heard that.’ He put his hand on her arm and pulled her to face him. ‘I could kiss you if I wanted to and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.’

She looked up at him and gave another gurgle of laughter. ‘Or I could kiss you and you wouldn’t know what hit you.’ She tilted her head and smiled at him. He was so old-fashioned. ‘Goodnight, Jake.’

* * *

Poppy parked her scooter under the carport and sat for a moment with her helmet off. She could feel her smile. Poppy knew she was playing with fire but it had been so long since she’d felt that sort of reaction to a man. It must be too long because she couldn’t remember it. Even with Tyson. She shook her head to get rid of the thought.

Men could turn their emotion on and off like a tap. Why couldn’t women? There’d been undercurrents there she couldn’t help noticing. Her heart felt like a burst water main.

She wasn’t going to become involved with a doctor. Especially not with another one who felt threatened by the true meaning of midwifery. Once had been enough. It had been the topic of the day when Dr Tyson Harvey had left his wife to run off with a consultant’s daughter.

Her first husband had been a smooth talker and too handsome. Just like this guy. When Tyson had wanted something, he’d gazed into her eyes and switched on his charm until she’d bent to his will. She’d tried to transform herself into the type of wife he’d wanted, but she’d always seemed to fail him. She hadn’t even realised she’d failed herself—until he’d left.

Poppy cringed. She wouldn’t set herself up like that again. Ever.

CHAPTER THREE

THE birthing unit was dimly lit and peaceful. The scent of lavender wafted lightly past Poppy from the aromatherapy vaporiser as she unhurriedly attended to the last-minute tasks before the baby’s birth. Soft rain-forest noises tinkled in the corner of the room from the CD player.

‘The bath water’s ready, Phillip.’ Poppy’s voice barely rose above the music as she dried her hands on a towel.

Followers of a Leboyer birth believed that the newborn benefited greatly from the return to weightlessness in the bath soon after delivery to allow a more gentle transition into the world. They believed this practice encouraged babies to be less stressed and more settled both in the immediate days following birth and in later life.

Poppy liked the idea but preferred no loss of contact from the mother once the child was born, usually leaving baby and mother skin to skin for at least an hour. It was her job to meet the needs of the parents to ensure they achieved as positive a birth experience as possible. As long as it was safe. If they wanted bath water, they got bath water.

Phillip, the father of the child, was stripped to the waist and lovingly held his wife’s shoulders as she bore down strongly with the contraction.

Poppy could see that Carolyn, the woman giving birth, was fiercely concentrating. She sat up with her arms under her thighs; the large blue beanbag supported her as she strained to see the child’s head reflected in the mirror at the end of the bed.

‘I can see it. Look. Black hair.’ Carolyn puffed.

Phillip and Poppy smiled at each other as Carolyn seemed to gain strength from the sight of her child easing its way down the birth canal.

Poppy savoured the aura of tranquillity they had created for the new arrival. This was midwifery at its least intrusive. If only the medical profession could have felt the ambience in the room she would have converted the lot of them.

Poppy heard a gentle knock and Jake’s head appeared around the door. She looked up and beckoned him in. This was in the safety of a hospital. Not a home. Surely he would see that nonintervention could be good and then he could help her convince the sceptics left in the hospital.

She fingered the peace sign around her neck. It gave her a thrill to see him. She hadn’t seen him for a week and he’d intruded on her thoughts more than she liked. It seemed as if her colleagues continually sang his praises. She smiled a welcome.

Unnoticed by the parents, Jake slipped to Poppy’s side and nodded. Disappointment hit her like a stone when, instead of appreciation for the setting, an almost bitter grimace crossed his face.

She watched him sniff and glance around the room, his eyebrows rising at the sight of a chunk of rose quartz the size of a small shoebox resting on the bedside table. He glared at the reflexology chart discarded on another table, before he schooled his features to impassiveness.

He whispered into her ear, ‘Dr Gates received your message but he’s been held up in Theatre. He should be along shortly and I said I’d pass the message along.’

He turned to go. ‘By the way, Sister, I hope there’s no naked flame burning that oil in case you have to turn the oxygen on. Surely you’re aware of that?’

Poppy frowned at his tone. His voice had remained quiet but had vibrated with a deep anger that seemed totally out of place. What had she done? It was almost as if he could hardly bear to speak to her.

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she answered evenly, her own voice soft and not carrying to the others in the room. ‘I always use an electric aromatherapy vaporiser. Of course I’m aware of the danger of hospital oxygen and naked flames.’ She tilted her head. ‘There’s no indication that this child will require oxygen, Jake.’

He nodded curtly, gave one final look of revulsion around the room and then was gone.

A chill ran over her neck and Poppy shivered. She hated that. People with negative feelings should be nowhere near a birthing room. She glared at the shut door and shook off the feeling of disquiet to concentrate once again on the magical tableau before her. She wouldn’t allow him to ruin the mood.

Everything proceeded smoothly and Poppy stood back as Carolyn controlled the birth of the baby’s head by her own gentle efforts. Phillip cut the cord when it stopped pulsating and the bath scene made Poppy think of Christmas and mangers and what she was missing in her own life.

It was at times like these that she mourned the death of her dreams. She’d assumed when she’d married Tyson that this would have been a scene from their lives together. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Still, maybe one day, a long time in the future, if she found a man she could trust not to try and stamp out all the things that were important to her, a baby would be hers. For the moment she gained great personal joy from helping other parents to achieve their dreams of a tranquil and natural birth.

Ironically, it wasn’t until her own husband had departed that this type of birth had become accepted at Midcoast.

Poppy helped settle the baby at her mother’s breast then left the new family alone together. She sighed as she shut the door quietly behind her.

An hour later, she stood in the shower at home, washing away the tensions of the shift as she went over her day. The new baby girl had been pink and placid, and not one cry had passed her rosebud lips, much to Poppy’s satisfaction. Phillip and Carolyn were ecstatic and would probably take their new daughter home that afternoon.

Yet she felt drained. It wasn’t like her to feel this way. It must be the responsibility of ensuring that all went well, she decided. Sometimes it weighed her down but the pleasure and satisfaction of a job well done was worth it. So why wasn’t she euphoric? She stepped out and towelled herself thoughtfully.

The chimes connected to the doorbell tinkled noisily. ‘Hang on.’ They’d have to wait. She pulled on her undies, slipped her batik caftan over her head and combed her wet hair. Only then did she answer the door.

It was Jake. She tilted her head. How had he known where she lived? His face was set in uncompromising lines and his greeting was abrupt, as if he had a lot on his mind. ‘May I come in?’

By the look on his face she didn’t know whether it was a good idea or not. But, then, who was she kidding? She couldn’t have made herself turn him away. ‘I suppose so, Jake. Come through.’ She gestured with her hand as she fought down the agitation his presence created in her stomach.

She had to admit that a lot of the time he just plain overwhelmed her. Hopefully her expression was as calm as she wanted to look. She’d only met him a few times but each time he seemed to be a different person. Maybe he had twelve personalities. Like Sibyl, that woman in the movie. She bit her lip to stop a smile.

He hesitated at the door so she went first, but he didn’t follow her. She turned back to see what he was doing. What was he doing? She didn’t need this.

‘I didn’t invite you here, Jake. If you don’t want to come in, why are you here?’

Poppy stood with her hands on her hips and waited for his eyes to meet hers. She watched him run his hands through his hair, a gesture that made him seem vulnerable. Something was bothering him seriously, and she softened towards him again.

He said, ‘I asked Sandy where you lived.’

When he finally moved into the house, she found it intriguing the way his head turned to note the abundant plant life, colourful mobiles and wind chimes and obviously Indian influence, so popular in the sixties, that dominated her house. He compressed his lips and nodded his head. ‘I should have known.’

‘Should have known what, Jake?’ Poppy tapped her foot, which wasn’t like her.

‘You’re one of those “alternative” people aren’t you, Poppy?’

She squared her shoulders and stared up at him as she weighed up the best way to present her argument. He topped her height by a good six inches and she had the feeling that every inch might count.

‘What’s your definition of “alternative”, Jake?’ She held his eyes. ‘Are we talking Greenie? Hippy?’ Her hands were back on her hips. ‘Maybe dangerous radical?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Or just someone who believes in something you don’t understand?’

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