Bushfire Bride

Praise for Marion Lennox:

‘Lennox brings this endearing story of Christmas wishes coming true. This romance is sure to touch your heart and make you start believing in miracles, especially at Christmas time.’

—RT Book Reviews on Dynamite Doc or Christmas Dad?

MARION LENNOX is a country girl, born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved on—mostly because the cows just weren’t interested in her stories! Married to a ‘very special doctor’, Marion writes Medical™ Romances, as well as Mills & Boon® Romances. (She used a different name for each category for a while—if you’re looking for her past Romances search for author Trisha David as well.) She’s now had well over 90 novels accepted for publication.

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

Recent titles by Marion Lennox: Mills & Boon® Medical Romance™

MIRACLE ON KAIMOTU ISLAND (Earthquake!) THE SURGEON’S DOORSTEP BABY SYDNEY HARBOUR HOSPITAL: LILY’S SCANDAL (Sydney Harbour Hospital) DYNAMITE DOC OR CHRISTMAS DAD? THE DOCTOR AND THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS

Mills & Boon® Cherish™

SPARKS FLY WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

A BRIDE FOR THE MAVERICK MILLIONAIRE (Journey through the Outback) HER OUTBACK RESCUER (Journey through the Outback) NIKKI AND THE LONE WOLF (Banksia Bay) MARDIE AND THE CITY SURGEON (Banksia Bay)

Bushfire Bride

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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PROLOGUE

THE thin blue line rose and fell. Rose and fell. Rose and fell.

How long does love last?

The young woman by the bed should surely know. She sat and watched now as she’d sat and watched for years.

‘I love you, Craig,’ she whispered, but there was no answer. There was never an answer.

Dappled sunlight fell over lifeless fingers. Beloved eyes, once so full of life and laughter, stayed closed.

The blue line rose and fell. Rose and fell.

‘I love you, Craig,’ she whispered again, and blessed his face with her fingers. ‘My love …’

How long does love last?

For ever?

CHAPTER ONE

‘SHE may be beautiful but I bet she’s stupid.’

Dr Rachel Harper’s hamburger paused midway to her mouth. Tomato sauce oozed onto her T-shirt, but her T-shirt was disgusting already. The sauce was the same colour as her pants. Hey—she was colour co-ordinated!

She was also distracted.

‘Look at her hair,’ the voice was saying. ‘It’d cost a fortune to keep it like that, and what for? She’s a blonde bimbo, Toby, mark my words. A gorgeous piece of fluff.’

‘But she’s got lovely legs.’ The child’s words were a thoughtful response to the man’s deep rumble. ‘And she’s got really nice eyes.’

‘Never be taken in by appearances, Toby,’ the deep voice decreed. ‘Under that gorgeous exterior, she’s nothing but a twit.’

Enough! Rachel might be a reluctant protector, but she was here to defend and defend she would. She hitched back the curtain and faced the world.

Or, to be precise, she faced the Cowral dog show.

The pavilion was packed and she’d retreated with her hamburger for a little privacy. The cubicles behind each dog weren’t big enough to swing a cat—or a dog—but at least they were private.

Who was criticising Penelope?

‘Hey!’ she said, and a man and a child turned to stare. She wiped a smudge of tomato sauce from her chin and stared right back.

Penelope’s detractor was in his mid-thirties, she guessed. Maybe he was a farmer? That’s what he looked like. He was wearing moleskins and a khaki shirt of the type that all the farmers around here seemed to wear. His curly black hair just reached his collar. He had deep brown, crinkly eyes and, with his deeply tanned skin, he looked …

Nice, Rachel decided. In fact, if she was being critical—and she was definitely in the mood for being critical—he looked more than nice. He looked gorgeous! The small boy beside him was aged about six, and he was a miniature replica. They had to be father and son.

Father and son. Family. The man was therefore married.

Married? Why was she wondering about married?

She gave herself a swift mental swipe for thinking of any such thing. Dottie had been doing her work too well. Why would Rachel possibly be interested in whether a complete stranger had a partner?

She was here with Michael.

But, then, who was she kidding? She was interested in anyone but Michael—married or not. The fact that she was married herself didn’t—couldn’t—matter. Dr Rachel Harper had reached her limit.

‘I need to show Penelope to gain championship points,’ Michael had told her one day at Sydney Central Hospital, where they both worked, and Dottie had pushed her to go. ‘Get a life,’ she’d said. ‘It’s time to move on.’

So she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. Rachel had imagined an hour or two displaying a beautiful dog, a comfortable motel in the beautiful seaside town of Cowral and the rest of the weekend lazing at the beach. Maybe Dottie was right. She’d had no holiday for eight years. She was exhausted past imagining. Maybe Dottie’s edict that it was time to move on was worth considering.

But Michael’s dream weekend had turned out to be just that—a dream. Reality was guilt. It was also a heat wave, a motel that refused to take dogs and an entire weekend guarding Michael’s stupid dog from supposedly jealous competitors.

Where was Michael? Who knew? She sighed and addressed Penelope’s critics.

‘Penelope’s been bred from two Australian champions,’ she told the stranger and his child, and she glared her very best putting-the-peasants-in-their-places glare.

‘She’s a very nice dog,’ the little boy said. He smiled a shy smile up at Rachel. ‘Can I pat her nose?’

She softened. ‘Of course you can.’

‘She might bite,’ the man warned, and Rachel stopped smiling and glared again.

‘Stupid dogs bite. Penelope’s a lady.’

‘Penelope’s an Afghan hound.’

‘So?’

The man’s lips twitched. There was laughter lurking behind those dark eyes and the beginning of a challenge. ‘So she’s dumb.’

Rachel brightened. A challenge? Great. She’d been here too long. She was bored to screaming point. Anything was better than retreating to her soggy hamburger and yesterday’s newspapers.

In truth, what she was aching for was a fight with Michael but he wasn’t here. However, this man was the same species—male—and the laughter behind his eyes told her he was fair game.

‘You’re not only rude,’ she told him, her gaze speculative. ‘You’re also racist.’

He raised his brows and his brown eyes creased into laughing disbelief. ‘You’re saying she’s smart?’

‘She’s a sweetheart.’ Rachel gave the great white hound a hug and then winced as a smear of ketchup soiled the dog’s immaculate coat. Whoops. Michael would be out with his pistols.

Where was Michael?

‘You don’t need to take my word for it,’ the man was saying. A small crowd was gathering now. The judging heats were over; final judging wasn’t for another two hours and things were slow in the dog shed. Rachel wasn’t the only one who was bored. ‘There’s tests for dog intelligence.’

‘You’re going to implement the MENSA quiz?’

‘Nothing so complicated. Lend me a piece of your hamburger.’

‘Lend … Hey, get your own hamburger.’

‘It’s in the interest of scientific research,’ he told her.

‘My daddy’s a doctor,’ the little boy said, as if that explained everything.

‘Yeah? Doctor of what?’ Rachel grinned down at the kid, beginning to enjoy herself for the first time all weekend. ‘It sounds a sneaky way to get some of my hamburger.’

‘It’s a simple experiment,’ the man told her, refusing to be sidetracked. ‘See my dog?’

The stalls and their associated sleeping quarters were raised almost three feet above the ground. Rachel peered over the edge. A lean, brown dog of indeterminate parentage gazed back at her. As big as a collie, the mutt was all legs, tail and eyes. As Rachel gazed down at him, he raised his back leg for a weary scratch.

‘Charming,’ Rachel said. ‘Great party trick.’

‘Digger doesn’t do party tricks.’

She nodded in sympathetic understanding. ‘I guess you need to be house-trained to be let into parties.’

The man’s grin matched hers. War hadn’t just been declared—the first shots had been fired. ‘Are you implying Digger’s not house-trained?’

‘Seeing is believing.’ This was OK, she decided. For the first time since she’d been conned into coming to this last bastion of civilisation, she was having fun. Guilt could be forgotten—for the moment. Penelope against Digger. It was a crazy conversation. She wasn’t sure how it had started but she didn’t intend to stop. ‘Breeding will out,’ she declared.

‘There’s been more gone into Digger’s breeding than your mutt’s.’

‘My mutt’s name is Penelope,’ she said haughtily. ‘And she’s no mutt. She comes from long line of Australian champions. Whereas your mutt …’

‘Digger also comes from a long line of champions,’ the stranger told her. He smiled again, and it was a heart-stopper of a smile. A real killer. ‘We’re sure there’s a piece of champion Border collie in there somewhere, and a champion kelpie …’

‘And a champion dachshund?’ Rachel watched as Digger’s tiny pointy tail stuck straight up. ‘Definitely dachshund.’

‘That’s silly,’ the little boy said. ‘Dachshunds are long and flat and Digger’s high and bouncy.’

‘Right.’ She was trying not to laugh. Both the man and the boy were entrancing. Two gorgeous smiles. Two sets of deep, dark eyes ready to spring into laughter. She was bored out of her brain and this pair were a diversion sent from heaven.

‘So what do we do with my hamburger?’ she asked, and the man’s smile deepened. Honestly, it was a smile to die for.

‘We put it under a feed dish.’

Rachel raised her eyebrows, then shrugged and handed over her burger. A fair amount of ketchup came, too.

The man looked down at his hand—ketchup with hamburger attached. Ugh. In truth it had been a very soggy hamburger and Rachel wasn’t all that sorry to lose it. ‘You like your burgers well sauced?’

‘Yes,’ she told him, and went back to glowering.

‘My Dad says tomato sauce has too much salt and salt’s bad for blood pressure,’ the little boy ventured.

‘People who say rude things about dogs are bad for blood pressure,’ Rachel retorted, and there was a general chuckle from their growing audience. ‘So what are you intending to do with my hamburger?’

‘Watch.’ The man stooped and placed a piece of hamburger underneath an upturned dog dish. Then he stood back and let Digger’s lead go slack.

‘Dinner,’ he said.

Digger looked up at him. Adoring. Then the skinny, brown dog gazed around the crowd as if ensuring each and every eye was on him. He sniffed, placed a paw on top of the dish, crouched down, pushed with the other paw … The dish toppled sideways to reveal the piece of hamburger.

Digger looked around again as if awaiting applause. It came. He received his due and then delicately ate the hamburger.

Uh-oh.

‘Now it’s Penelope’s turn.’

‘She’ll get dirty,’ Rachel said, and there was a trace of worry in her voice. Penelope might be lovely, but her opposition was seriously smart.

‘We’ll put it up on her platform.’ The stranger’s smile was growing broader. ‘I’ll even wipe the ketchup off. Or maybe you could do it on your T-shirt.’

Ouch! ‘Watch your mouth.’

Another grin, but the entire pavilion was watching now and he didn’t stop. He placed the dish in front of Penelope’s nose. He broke a second piece of hamburger, showed it to Penelope and popped it underneath.

He backed away and left her to it.

Penelope sniffed. She sniffed again.

She whined.

She lay down in front of the dish. She stood up and barked. She shoved the dish sideways with her nose and barked again.

Nothing happened. She lay down and whined, pathos personified.

‘So your dog’s hungrier than mine,’ Rachel told him with a touch of desperation, and there was general laughter. ‘You must starve Digger.’

‘Do I look like a man who’d starve a dog?’

No. He didn’t. He looked really nice, Rachel decided, and she wished all of a sudden that she wasn’t in soiled jeans and sauce-stained T-shirt, that her mass of deep brown curls were untangled and not full of the straw that the organisers had put down as bedding, and that she looked …

Oh, heck, what was she thinking of? This guy had a kid. She was here with Michael and …

‘Rachel, are you feeding Penelope?’

Unthinkingly, she’d raised the feed bowl, and Penelope was launching herself into the hamburger as if there was no tomorrow.

‘Um … Michael.’

Michael, silver-haired, suave and in charge of his world, was elbowing through the crowd and his face was incredulous. No one messed with Michael’s instructions. Pedigree dog food only. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m proving Penelope’s intelligence,’ she told him, chin jutting. Enough was enough and she’d had more than enough of Dr Michael Levering.

Back at Sydney Central, Michael had seemed witty and charming and, as one of Sydney’s top cardiologists, he was extremely eligible. His invitation to go away with him for the weekend had half the staff in Casualty green with envy, and her friends and her family had finally pushed her to accept. ‘Come on,’ her mother-in-law had told her. ‘This is your chance. You know it’s time you moved on. A romantic weekend with a gorgeous bachelor … Rachel, love, you take some precautions and go for it!’

Precautions. Ha! That was the last thing she’d needed. They were supposed to be sharing dog duty. That was another joke. Michael had said he’d sleep in the car because he was too tall to fit in the dog box, but she was starting to have serious doubts about what car he’d slept in. When he’d appeared this morning, ten minutes before Penelope had been due to appear in the judging ring, he’d looked far too clean to have slept in any car. Then he’d said he’d had to make an urgent telephone call. She hadn’t seen him again.

So what had he been doing all this time? She looked at him suspiciously, checking for damp hair. If she could prove he’d been swimming while she’d dog-sat, she was going to have to kill him.

‘Our dog’s more intelligent than yours,’ the little boy piped up, and Michael stared down at the child in distaste.

‘What are you talking about?’

Rachel flinched. This weekend was definitely not going to plan. Sexy? Eligible? Ha! This man was a king-sized toad.

‘I’m Toby McInnes and this is my dad,’ the little boy told him, oblivious to the anger in Michael’s voice. ‘My dad’s Dr Hugo McInnes. Who are you?’

Michael opened his mouth but Rachel forestalled him. She knew what would come out and it wouldn’t be pleasant. ‘This is Michael and I’m Rachel,’ she told the little boy. She watched Hugo’s grip tighten on his son’s hand and she didn’t blame him; she was moving into protection mode herself. ‘Penelope is Michael’s dog.’

But Michael had moved on. He was talking only to Rachel. ‘Did you know there are bushfires out of town?’

‘Bushfires?’ Rachel knew nothing of any bushfires. She hadn’t been out of the pavilion all day.

‘They’re a long way from here.’ The man—the doctor?—called Hugo was gazing from Rachel to Michael and back again. His initial anger at Michael seemed to have faded and he now looked as if the whole scene held great interest for him.

‘The fires are threatening to block the road,’ Michael snapped. He shoved Penelope away from him and the big dog practically fell over. Fast thinking was not Penelope’s strong point. She whined a little and nuzzled Rachel, and Rachel gave her a hug. Stupid or not, she was still a very nice dog.

As company went, if Rachel had a choice between Penelope or Michael, Penelope was definitely preferable.

‘Rachel, there’s an emergency back in town,’ Michael was saying. ‘Bushfires or not, I need to leave. There’s a helicopter on the way to collect me.’

‘A helicopter?’

A helicopter. Coming to collect Michael. Rachel focused. She really focused.

Michael was clean-shaven. He was wearing immaculate slacks and a crisp white shirt—and a tie for heaven’s sake. And his hair … She couldn’t stop staring at his hair. He looked like he’d just emerged from the shower.

The dog pavilion didn’t run to showers. Rachel hadn’t seen running water for twenty-four hours. She stank of Michael’s dog.

What was the bet Michael had just come from the beach via a shower? Via a motel.

She’d reached her limit. His talk of helicopters wasn’t making sense but she didn’t care.

‘Did you sleep at the motel last night?’ she demanded, and Michael paused.

‘No, but—’

‘Do you own a red Aston Martin?’ Hugo asked, politely interested.

‘Yes.’ Michael suddenly looked flustered. Understandably. He was used to deference and subservience. He wasn’t finding it here.

‘That fits,’ Hugo was saying. ‘You look the sort of guy who owns an Aston Martin. I did a house call at the motel at two this morning. Arnold Roberts was suffering badly from gout. He had the adjoining suite to yours. We inspected your car from stem to stern while we waited for his analgesic to take effect.’ He smiled from Rachel to Michael and back again—as if he was being really, really helpful. ‘We were wondering who’d bring a car like that to a place like this and now we know. I’ll tell Arnold it belongs to an Afghan owner and all will be clear.’

He was laughing, but Rachel hardly noticed. Her fury was threatening to overwhelm her.

‘You slept at the motel?’

Michael heard her anger then. Everybody did.

‘I thought you cancelled,’ she said carefully. ‘When they wouldn’t let us bring the dog.’

‘They rang me later and said it was too late to cancel—they were keeping my deposit,’ Michael muttered. He had the grace to look a bit shamefaced, but only for a moment. He regrouped fast. With an ego the size of Michael’s it was easy. ‘And by then you’d agreed to sleep here. For heaven’s sake, Rachel, you know how small the car is. Do you want me to hurt my back?’

‘Yes!’

‘Look, it’s immaterial anyway,’ he told her, moving right on. ‘It’s just as well I had a decent night’s sleep as it happens. Hubert Witherspoon’s had a heart attack.’

Hubert Witherspoon? The name had its desired effect. Rachel’s fury was deflected—for the moment.

Hubert Witherspoon was probably the richest man in Australia. He owned half the iron ore deposits in the country. What the man wanted, the man got.

‘He wants me,’ Michael told her.

‘What—?’

‘The Witherspoon family aren’t risking road blocks due to bushfire. They’ve sent a helicopter to take me back to Sydney.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It should be landing right now and they want me to leave immediately. Can you show Penelope for her final judging and bring her home afterwards?’

Hubert Witherspoon …

Hubert’s death would be a national catastrophe—at least for the financial markets. It should have made Rachel’s eyes widen in awe.

It should have made her do whatever Michael wanted. But—Michael had been swimming. He’d slept in a motel. In a bed.

While she’d been sitting with Penelope, feeling just dreadful about leaving Sydney. For such a reason …

‘You want me to show Penelope?’ she managed, and he smiled, the smooth, specialist-to-junior-doctor smile that had persuaded her to come on this weekend in the first place. Why did it make her think suddenly of snake oil?

‘You’ve been watching the other dogs being shown,’ he told her. ‘You saw how I handled Penelope this morning.’ He checked Rachel from head to toe with a judge’s critical eye. ‘Penelope will be fine. You might want to get yourself cleaned up a bit first, though.’

If she didn’t slug him it was only because they were surrounded by a score of onlookers, but it was a really close thing. Somehow she managed to keep hold of a shred of dignity. A scrap. ‘Right.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You want me to drive all the way back to Sydney by myself?’

‘Of course. Unless the bushfires block the road. I’ll understand if you’re delayed.’ He tossed her the car keys and she was so astounded she caught them. But that was all she was doing.

‘No.’

‘Rachel …’ His tone became patient-consultant talking to slightly stupid junior. ‘You know I can’t be replaced. Hubert needs a cardiologist and he needs the best.’

‘I have hay in my hair,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t show a potential Australian champion.’

‘Yes, you can. You just need a—’

He got no further. She lifted the car keys and threw them right at his freshly shined shoes. ‘Your dog, your problem. I’m going home,’ she told him, one syllable at a time. ‘I’ll hitchhike if I must, but I’m not touching your car.’

‘Rachel—’

‘Stuff it. Stuff you.’

‘But Hubert—’

‘Hubert can die for all I care, but he won’t die because you’re not there. He’s over eighty, he’s grossly overweight and there are at least five cardiologists in Sydney who are as qualified as you are to care for him.’

‘You know that’s ridiculous.’

‘I know nothing of the kind.’

‘Can I make a suggestion?’ It was Brown Eyes. Hugo. But Rachel wasn’t in the mood for interruptions. She wheeled and gave him a look to kill.

‘Butt out. This is my business.’

He held up his hand, placating. ‘Whoa …’

‘I’m out of here.’ She leaned back into the cubicle, grabbed her overnight bag and hauled it out. It was a fine gesture which didn’t come off quite as planned. She hadn’t snibbed her bag shut, and it flew open. Out tumbled her spare jeans, her toilet bag—and a bra and a couple of pairs of very lacy, very scant panties.

They were Dottie’s offerings. Her mother-in-law. ‘You never know what’s going to happen, dear,’ she’d told her. ‘And I do so want you to be prepared.’

Dottie was right. You never did know what was going to happen, but one thing Rachel did know. She’d been a fool to ever agree to come here. She closed her eyes as her belongings tumbled everywhere. A bra flew past Digger’s nose. He snagged it and held on, seemingly bemused.

Everyone was bemused.

Dear heaven, let the ground open under her. She had to get out of here.

‘The dog can keep it,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster, stuffing the rest of her gear into her bag and fighting a wave of burning mortification. ‘He’s so smart he can probably work out how to wear it.’ She pulled the remains of her bag shut, tugged the shreds of her dignity around her and stalked toward the door.