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?

About the Author

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

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.

They watched her go, Hugo with laughter in his eyes and Michael with his jaw somewhere around his ankles.

She didn’t care. If she didn’t see any one of them again she’d be delighted. She was getting out of here.

She didn’t make it.

She stalked out of the pavilion, took a couple of deep breaths and regrouped for a moment to try and figure out the location of the main entrance to the showgrounds—and a dogfight broke out just behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE stopped.

Of course she stopped. The sound of the dogfight was unmistakable, the vicious, ear-splitting snarls breaking through everything else.

And then a high-pitched scream of human terror.

She’d have to have been less than human to ignore it. She turned and stared, as did everyone else close enough to hear.

The dogfight was at the entrance of the pavilion she’d just left and it wasn’t a fight—it was a massacre. A faded old cocker spaniel, black and white turned to grey, had been held on its lead by his teenage owner but the pit bull terrier had no restraint and it was intent on killing. The dogs were locked in mortal combat, though the cocker clearly had no idea about fighting—no idea about how to defend himself.

The spaniel’s owner—a girl of maybe fifteen or so—was the one who’d screamed in terror. She was no longer screaming. She was trying desperately to separate them. As Rachel started forward—no!—the girl grabbed the pit bull’s collar and hauled. The dog snarled and twisted away from the spaniel—and bit.

‘No!’

Rachel was screaming at her to stop—to let go. She was running, but it was a good fifty yards back to the entrance to the pavilion.

The man—Hugo—was before her. The dogs were everywhere—a mass of writhing bodies with the girl beneath …

She had to get them apart. The girl would be killed. Rachel dived to grab a collar to pull the pit bull from the girl, but her arm was caught.

‘Keep back!’ Hugo’s harsh command had the power to make her pause. He was reaching for a hose snaking across the entrance and he hauled it forward. ‘Turn it on.’

She saw instantly what he wanted and dived for the tap. Two seconds later the tap was turned to full power. The massive hose, used to blast out the mess in the pavilion after showtime, was directed full at the dogs.

Nothing else could have separated them. The blast hit the pit bull square on the muzzle and drove him back. The hose turned to the spaniel, but he was already whimpering in retreat, badly bitten by the pit bull, while Rachel launched herself at the prone body of the girl.

‘Her leg …’ she breathed.

The girl’s leg was spurting bright arterial blood, a vast pulsating stream. Oh, God, had the dog torn the femoral artery? She’d die in minutes.

The dog had lunged at her upper leg and the girl had been wearing shorts! Dear heaven …

‘Someone, get my bag. Fast! Run!’ Hugo was shouting with urgency. ‘The car’s by the kiosk.’ Car keys were tossed into the crowd—swiftly, because Hugo’s hands were already trying to exert pressure. Rachel was hauling her T-shirt over her head. They needed something for a pressure pad—anything—and decency came a very poor second to lifesaving.

She shoved the shirt into Hugo’s hands and Hugo wasn’t asking questions. He grabbed the T-shirt and pushed.

‘Kim, don’t move,’ Hugo was saying, and with a jolt Rachel realised he was talking to the girl. He was good, this man. Even in extremis he found time to tell his patient what was happening. ‘Your leg’s been badly bitten and we need to stop the bleeding. I know it hurts like hell but someone’s gone for painkillers. Just a few short minutes before we can ease the pain for you, Kim. I promise.’

Could she hear? Rachel didn’t know and she had to concentrate on her own role. Hugo would want a more solid pad than one T-shirt could provide. She stared up into the crowd. ‘Michael,’ she yelled. Hugo was too busy applying pressure to haul off his shirt and he needed something to make a pad. And Michael could help with more than a shirt. He had the skills.

But Michael was gone.

It couldn’t matter. ‘Take mine.’ A burly farmer had seen her need and was hauling off his shirt. She accepted with gratitude, coiling it into a pad.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw her overnight bag, sprawled and open in the dust where she’d dropped it as she’d lunged for the tap. More clothes. Great. As Hugo looked up, searching for whatever she had, she handed him a pad. She made another with what was in the bag. Then she shoved the pad hard down over his and pressed. He pressed with her. Even their combined effort wasn’t enough to stop the flow.

‘I need forceps,’ he said grimly. ‘My bag …’

‘Clive’s gone to fetch it,’ the farmer told them, hovering over both doctors as they worked, his face ashen with concern. ‘He’ll be back any minute. He’s the fastest runner.’

‘Good.’ They were working together, their hands in tandem. Hugo was breathing fast, using all his strength to push tighter, and Rachel realised that she was hardly breathing at all. Live. Please. It was a prayer she’d learned early on in her medical training, and had used over and over. Skills were good but sometimes more was needed.

Luck?

Still the blood oozed. ‘Push down harder,’ Hugo told her. ‘Don’t move off the wound.’

‘I’m not moving,’ she said through gritted teeth. The bite resembled a shark bite—a huge, gaping wound that, left untended, would release all the body’s blood in minutes.

Even if tended …

She was pushing down so hard it hurt.

‘I need forceps.’ Hugo’s voice was growing more urgent as the situation became more desperate. ‘Damn, where’s my bag?’

‘Here.’ A youngster, a boy of about sixteen, was bursting through the crowd, carting a bag that was three times the size of any doctor’s bag that Rachel had ever seen. A country doctor’s bag.

‘Haul it open.’

The boy flicked the bag open and Rachel’s eyes widened. Forceps. There were several and they were sitting on the top as if prepared for just this emergency. She lifted a hand from the wound and grabbed the first pair.

‘We’re not going to stop this without clamping,’ she muttered. ‘The femoral artery has to have been torn to explain this.’

He accepted her medical knowledge without a blink. ‘I agree. Clive, take a shirt and clear as much blood as you can while we work. Let’s go.’ He grabbed forceps himself and then looked across at her. ‘Ready?’

She took a deep breath. This was a huge risk. They needed the pad to stop the spurting, but the only way to stop the bleeding altogether was to remove the pad and locate the source. They had only seconds to do it or the girl would die beneath their hands.

‘OK.’ She took two deep breaths. ‘Now.’

They lifted the pad away from the wound. The blood spurted out and they were working blind, searching in the mess that was the girl’s leg.

Where in this mess was the artery? Dear God, they had to stop it.

‘Take the swab right away, Clive. Just for the moment,’ Hugo said. ‘Be ready to replace it.’

And in the tiny millisecond before the wound refilled with blood …’There!’ Rachel pushed in and grasped, and the forceps linked to the torn artery. She clicked them shut—and the pumping died.

Not enough.

There were more. As well as the femoral artery, two or three minor vessels had been torn. They could kill all by themselves.

Hugo’s forceps clamped shut on another blood vessel and the flow abated still further. Another pair of forceps was in Rachel’s hands and Hugo had another.

She was working like lightning. Without the pads there was no pressure—the blood simply pumped out.

‘Gotcha.’ Another one was under Hugo’s forceps. He clamped.

And another.

And that was it.

The blood was still oozing, but slowly now. The pumping had stopped. It’d be flowing from the ripped veins but they’d done what they had to do. For now.

‘We need to continue with pressure,’ she said, and sat back as Hugo set to work with another shirt, forming another pad. They’d been lucky. Trying to find the blood vessels in these conditions …

Yeah, they’d been lucky—but this man was good!

Hugo was tying the pad firmly around the leg. He gave her a curious glance. There was still urgency but they were working with minutes now rather than seconds. They’d blocked off the blood supply. Now they needed to prevent shock setting in. They needed to replace fluids and they needed to save a leg that no longer had a blood supply.

‘Pete, ring the ambulance,’ Hugo snapped into the crowd. ‘Tell them I want plasma and saline on board and if they’re not here in thirty seconds I’ll have their hides. Dave, can you and a couple of the men find those damned dogs and deal with them before we have another disaster? Toby … Where’s Toby?’ He looked out into the crowd, searching for his little boy. ‘Myra, can you take him?’

‘The first two are already being looked after,’ someone said. ‘The vet’s got the cocker and a couple of guys have gone after the pit bull. The ambulance is on its way.’

Which left Toby.

A middle-aged woman stepped from the crowd of horrified onlookers and took Toby’s hand. The child had been standing white-faced and shocked as Hugo and Rachel had worked. ‘Come on, love,’ she told him. ‘Come with me while Daddy looks after Kim.’

Kim …

Rachel looked up to the girl’s deathly white face. Kim’s eyes were open but it wasn’t clear whether she was conscious or not.

‘You’ll be OK, Kim,’ she told her, taking the opportunity to take the girl’s hand in hers. What she’d most need now would be reassurance. Not panic. ‘We needed to hurt you a bit to stop the bleeding but we’re both doctors. We know what we’re doing. The bleeding’s stopped now.’

The girl’s eyes widened. She was conscious.

‘Mum … Knickers …’

‘Someone find the Sandersons,’ Hugo ordered. ‘It’s OK, Kim. We’ll find your mum and dad now, and Knickers is with the vet. You know Rob will look after Knickers just as I’ll look after you.’

The flaring panic in the girl’s eyes subsided. They were winning. Kind of. For now.

But … was one of the reasons the bleeding had eased because the blood pressure itself had dropped?

‘She hasn’t lost too much,’ Hugo muttered, and Rachel realised he was thinking the same as she was.

Too much blood …

There was certainly a lot. Rachel herself was covered with a spray of gore. She was wearing only a bra above the waist and she looked like something out of a vampire movie. Paramedics were supposed to wear protective clothing, she thought ruefully. If Kim had any sort of blood-borne disease, then she and Hugo were now also infected.

They couldn’t care. Not now.

Hugo was swabbing the girl’s arm and Rachel moved to get a syringe. By the time Hugo had the line ready she was prepared.

‘Five milligrams morphine?’

‘Yeah, and then saline. We need plasma. Hell, where’s the ambulance?’

It was here. There was a shout and then someone was pushing through the crowd. A couple of ambulance officers.

Rachel almost wept with relief. They’d have plasma, saline—everything Hugo needed.

They’d take over. This wasn’t her place. She could go back to being a horrified onlooker.

But …

‘Your husband’s a cardiologist?’ She’d gone back to applying pressure as Hugo inserted an IV line.

Her husband? She stared blankly and then realised who he was talking about. Michael, her husband. What a thought! But now wasn’t the time for fixing misconceptions. ‘Yes.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m the only doctor in town,’ he told her. ‘Can you ask someone to find him? He’ll be able to help.’

‘He was catching the helicopter back to Sydney,’ Rachel said blankly.

‘There’s a helicopter’s taking off now,’ a voice said helpfully. ‘You can hear it.’

He’d left? Michael had left?

Maybe he hadn’t even noticed what had happened. Rachel had stalked out and it’d be just like Michael to have left as well. He’d have heard the dogfight but he wouldn’t have turned to investigate. She knew him well enough after this weekend to know he wouldn’t deviate from his chosen plan for anyone.

‘He’s taken the helicopter?’ Hugo searched the crowd to find the farmer who’d been the first to offer his shirt. ‘OK, it’ll have to come back. Matt, get onto the radio. Get the chopper returned here. Tell the pilot we need priority. Kim needs emergency surgery if we’re to save this leg. She needs vascular surgeons. We need to evacuate her—now!’

‘Will do,’ Matt muttered, and ran.

There was a crowd of about twenty onlookers around them now, but it wasn’t the sort of crowd you saw in city accidents, Rachel thought. There was horror on everyone’s faces. They all knew Kim. They were all desperate to help.

Rachel was the only woman who’d stripped to her bra but she knew without asking that each and every one of these women would do the same and more if they needed to. Their care and concern were palpable.

Then Kim’s parents were there, running toward their daughter across the showgrounds. Their fear reached the group on the ground before they did, but Kim had drifted into unconsciousness. The combination of shock, blood loss and painkillers had sent her under. Good, Rachel thought as her mother disintegrated into tears, sobbing onto her chest. The horror on her parents’ faces would only have made things worse.

Enough. There was nothing more she could do now. One of the paramedics had taken her position, keeping pressure on the wound. She rose. A buxom woman in floral Crimplene put her arm around her and held. Rachel wasn’t complaining. She was grateful for the support.

‘Who are you?’ Hugo asked. He was adjusting a bag of plasma, the ambulance officers were helping. Rachel wasn’t needed.

‘Rachel. Rachel Harper.’

‘You’re a doctor?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not a vascular surgeon, I suppose?’

‘I wish.’ She knew exactly what he was thinking. A vascular surgeon was what they needed, urgently. The chances of saving Kim’s leg were incredibly slim. ‘But Michael has the skills. And he’s still in range.’

He’d be upset at being called back but he had no choice.

‘OK.’ He stared up at her for a moment longer, his intelligent eyes assessing. Each knew what the other was thinking. They couldn’t voice it here—not in front of Kim’s parents—but if the femoral artery wasn’t repaired fast, Kim would lose the leg if not her life.

They needed the helicopter. They needed Michael. Kim’s future depended on it.

There was nothing Rachel could do, though.

For now she was no longer needed.

Mrs Keen, the lady in the Crimplene, ushered Rachel into the showground caretaker’s residence. As the ambulance screamed its way to the hospital she was already under hot water while Mrs Keen tut-tutted about the state of her clothes.

‘And the clothes in your bag are no better,’ she told Rachel through the bathroom door. ‘One of the men brought your bag over but you’ve dropped it, and then used everything to stop the bleeding. Oh, my dear, there’s blood on everything.’

That was a minor worry. For now Rachel couldn’t care. She let the hot water steam away the gore and she worried about the girl. Worried about the leg.

Michael would be really angry at being recalled. He’d hate to miss out on the Witherspoon case.

It couldn’t matter. He wouldn’t have heard the dogfight, she decided. Michael Levering saw only the things that affected him. He was needed in Sydney for a prestigious patient and Rachel wasn’t doing what he wanted. He’d have simply turned on his heel and stalked away. As for Rachel and Penelope—others could pick up the pieces. If Rachel didn’t take his expensive dog and his expensive car back to Sydney, well, Michael had the money to send a lackey to the country to collect them later in the week. Dog-show organisers were hardly likely to let Penelope starve and even if they did …

Penelope was just a possession.

‘Damn the man.’

She was shaking, a combination of anger and reaction to the whole situation. They’d been really, really lucky to save Kim’s life.

Michael would be back. The helicopter would have returned by now and, dislike Michael as she did, she had to concede he possessed the skills she didn’t. He was an incredibly competent vascular surgeon. He might not have noticed the dog fight but if they planned to evacuate Kim on his helicopter, he would, of course, treat her. And with Hugo as back-up …

She washed the last trace of blood from her arms as Mrs Keen’s face appeared around the door. Her cheeks were crimson with embarrassment and distress.

‘My dear, I’m sorry to disturb you but you’re needed back at the hospital. Dr McInnes has just rung. The helicopter’s refused to turn around,’ she told her. ‘Dr McInnes says he has to operate now or she’ll lose the leg, and you’re all the help he has.’

‘It’s not a publicly owned chopper.’ Harold Keen, the showground caretaker, drove her to the hospital in grim-faced anger. ‘It seems it belongs to the chap that had the heart attack—Hubert Witherspoon. His man’s the pilot. He’s under instructions to take your young man to Sydney and there’s no way he’s turning back.’

‘But Michael’s on board. Surely he can overrule.’

‘I don’t think he has any say in the matter.’

Rachel stared straight ahead. She was wearing one of Doris Keen’s Crimplene dresses. She’d hauled a comb through her hair, but her curls were still dripping. She was wearing a pair of Doris’s sandals. She was heading to a tiny country hospital where they were facing surgery that was a nightmare.

Help!

‘I suppose someone’s looking after Penelope,’ she said in a small voice, and Harold looked her over with evident approval.

‘Your dog’s fine,’ he told her. ‘There’s any amount of folk looking after her. You look after Kim and we’ll look after you.’

‘Thank you.’ She felt like she was about to cry. Damn Michael. Damn him. He had the skills she didn’t. He had the helicopter she needed.

He was gone.

‘It’s no use being angry. We just have to get on with it.’

Hugo was already kitted out for surgery in green theatre gown, cap and slippers. The nurse had ushered Rachel straight through to the theatre. She glanced around and her heart sank. This was a tiny surgery, set up for minor procedures. Not the major trauma that was facing them now.

She swallowed and looked up, and some of her panic must have shown in her face.

‘What’s your background?’ he asked, his voice gentling a little.

‘I’m a registrar at Sydney Central. Emergency medicine. I don’t … I don’t have the surgical skills to cope with this.’

‘But you’re the reason we were able to clamp the arteries so fast,’ he told her. ‘So you saved Kim’s life in the first place. It’s just a matter of finishing what we started.’

Yeah, right. ‘You’re planning on rejoining the femoral artery?’

‘If we can—yes.’ He shook his head. ‘It may be unlikely we’ll succeed but we have to try. I’ve been on the phone to specialists in Sydney and we don’t have a choice. By the time we get her evacuated to Sydney the leg will be dead. If we don’t try then she loses the leg. It’s as simple as that. I’m assuming you can give an anaesthetic?’

He wasn’t expecting her to operate. That was such a relief her knees almost buckled right then.

‘Yes.’ If he was prepared to be heroic then so was she. This was heroic surgery, she thought. Damn fool surgery. The outcome seemed almost inevitable but he was right. They had to try.

‘It’s not as bad as it seems,’ he told her. ‘We have a video link to Sydney. Joe Cartier, one of the country’s leading vascular surgeons, has agreed to help us every step of the way. I’ve hauled in Jane Cross, a local who plays at being a film-maker. She’s setting up computer equipment and she’ll video while we operate. She can do really intricate close-up stuff so everything I do goes straight down the line to Sydney and I get immediate feedback.’

He’d organised all this while she’d been in the shower?

‘I … You’re not a surgeon?’

‘I’m a family doctor,’ he told her. ‘I’m two hours away from back-up. I’m everything. If you weren’t here—if I didn’t have an anaesthetist—then I’d count this impossible. But we have enough going for us now to hope. So what are we waiting for? Let’s go.’

Afterwards, when Rachel was asked to describe what had been done, she’d simply shake her head. How they did it … It was impossible. All she could describe were the technicalities, and they were impressive enough.

They had a speaker-phone mounted just beside the table. Every sound they made went straight down the wire to Sydney.

Jane Cross, a woman in her forties, looking crazily incongruous with theatre garb covering a purple caftan and a mass of jangling earrings dangling beneath her theatre cap, directed a video camera straight at the wound.

‘You promise you won’t faint?’ Hugo had asked the middle-aged woman as she’d set up the equipment, and Jane had regarded Hugo and Rachel with incredulity. Even with a hint of laughter.

‘What, faint? Me? When I’ve got a captive audience? I intend to faint at least three times and I’ll probably throw up too, but later. Not until I’ve done my job.’

She was wonderful, Rachel decided. She was right there behind Hugo’s hands, but somehow she had the skill and the sensitivity to stay clear enough for his fingers to do their work.

The pictures she took were via a digital video camera linked to video conferencing equipment. In Sydney Joe Cartier had a clear view—and Hugo was asking questions every step of the way.

Rachel couldn’t help him at all. She had her own battles. She wasn’t a trained anaesthetist—she’d done basic training but that was all—and Kim was so severely shocked that just keeping her alive was a major battle.

She worked with a phone link, too. They’d run out of phone lines but Jane’s partner, a dumpy little woman in jeans and sweatshirt, sat in a corner of the theatre where she didn’t have to see—her stomach was evidently not as strong as Jane’s—and relayed Rachel’s questions down the line to an anaesthetist in Sydney.

‘Minimal anaesthesia for such a shocked patient,’ the specialist told her, working her through a careful, haemody-namically neutral induction method. He worked through her needs with her and Rachel wondered that such a small hospital could meet the requirements he snapped down the phone.

It could. For a tiny hospital Hugo had brilliant equipment. It was stunning that they had sufficient blood supplies on hand, but there was so much more. Rachel had blood on request, she had plasma, she had saline and a team outside the theatre was warming all the fluids before she even saw them.

The fluids weren’t the only thing being heated.

‘Keep the patient warm at all costs,’ the anaesthetist barked down the phone, and warmed blankets appeared like magic to cover every part of Kim’s body that Hugo didn’t need to work on. After that one instruction Rachel didn’t need to worry about warming—the blankets were replaced every few minutes by freshly warmed ones handed through the door. There must be a hive of industry out there.

It was an amazing scene. As well as the unseen industry outside, they had two nurses working with them in the theatre.

Elly was a competent middle-aged woman, white-faced and shocked because she was best friends with Kim’s mum, but that fact wasn’t allowed to get in the way of her professionalism. Then there was David, a ginger-headed kid who looked like he was hardly old enough to be qualified—but was magnificent under pressure.

They were all magnificent under pressure, Rachel thought. The whole town.

And Hugo …

What was being asked of him was unthinkable. His concentration was fierce—he didn’t lift his head. He concentrated as she guessed he’d never concentrated in his life.

Where was the laughing man at the dog show? Gone. He’d been replaced by a pure professional—a professional being asked to work well past his level of training.

This was nightmare stuff. The specialist at the end of the phone could only guide—there was no way anyone could help Hugo manoeuvre the fine particles of tissue back into being a viable blood supply.

Rachel, concentrating fiercely on an anaesthetic that was taking her to the limits of her ability, could only wonder. If Hugo hadn’t been there, could she have done such a thing?

No, she thought honestly. Hugo had obviously done far more extensive reading and studying in this area than she had. The questions he asked the specialist showed keen intelligence and an incisive knowledge of what he was trying to achieve.

The man was seriously good.

And he was succeeding.

Even when the femoral artery was somehow—amazingly—reconnected and the first surge of pink started to appear in the lower leg, he didn’t relax. His questions to the unknown Joe in Sydney seemed, if anything, to increase. He worked on and on, tying off vessels that were damaged beyond repair.

He completed the vascular surgery, took a deep breath, and a plastic surgeon came on the line, guiding him through the complex steps in closing such a wound to give a decent cosmetic outcome.

They were worrying about appearances, Rachel thought jubilantly, watching the colour seep back into Kim’s toes and making sure the heart line on her monitor stayed steady as blood pressure stabilised. They were worrying how she’d look in the future.

They were winning!

And finally—finally, after hours without lifting their heads—the team in Sydney let out a cheer down the phone lines.

‘Well done, Cowral,’ they told them. ‘Unless you have any more big dogs menacing the populace, we’ll leave you to it.’

And to the thanks of the entire theatre team, the telephone lines went dead.

The theatre fell silent. Rachel was still concentrating. Hugo was placing dressings around the wound and she had to concentrate on reversing the anaesthetic, having Kim reestablish her own breathing. But the satisfaction …

She glanced up and the joy she felt was reflected in every face in the room.

Except Hugo’s. He looked sick. The strain Rachel had been under had been immense—the strain Hugo had felt must have been well nigh unbearable. He’d won, but at a cost.

She’d worked as a team member for long enough to know that it was time for someone else to take charge. And she was the only possible option.

‘David, take over the dressing,’ she ordered. ‘Hugo, leave the rest to us. We don’t need you here any more.’ He’d been under more pressure than any doctor should face and now, job done, reaction was setting in with a vengeance.

‘I’m OK.’ But the hands holding the pad were suddenly shaking. His fingers had seemed nerveless for hours, skilled and precise past understanding. It was more than understandable that reaction should set in now.

‘Go and tell the Sandersons their kid will keep her leg,’ she told him. ‘Kim’s parents will still be worried sick. Go.’ Kim was taking her first ragged breaths. One of the nurses had given them the news some time ago that their daughter would be fine, but they wouldn’t believe it until they’d heard it from Hugo.

And Hugo needed to tell them. Hugo had achieved the impossible. This was his gift.

The theatre team agreed. David lifted the tape from Hugo’s nerveless fingers and started applying it. Job done.

‘You’re being kicked out of Theatre, Dr McInnes,’ the young nurse told him, giving his senior a cheeky grin that was still flushed with triumph. They were all high on success. It was a fabulous feeling. ‘The lady’s told you to leave and what the lady wants the lady should get. Don’t you agree?’

Hugo stepped back from the table. He gave Rachel a long, assessing look and then his face broke into the beginnings of a crooked smile.

‘I guess. We owe the lady big time.’

‘There you go, then,’ Rachel said with a lot more placidity than she was feeling. ‘Pay your debt to us all by getting out of here.’

‘If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ And then for some reason she couldn’t fathom she put her hand on his arm. It was a fleeting gesture—of congratulation?—of comfort? She wasn’t sure but she knew that she was compelled to do it.

Her hand stayed. He looked down at her fingers resting on the sleeve of his theatre gown and his face twisted into an expression she didn’t recognise. For one fleeting moment his hand came up to cover hers. Warmth flooded between them—and something else. Something she couldn’t begin to recognise.

‘You’re right, Dr Harper,’ he said softly, so softly she could hardly catch the words. ‘I need to get out of here.’

He left. The two nurses wheeled Kim through to Recovery and Rachel was left with Jane, the lady with the video, and Pat, the lady on the floor holding the mobile phone.

They’d never met until three hours ago and they were grinning at each other like fools.

‘That was fantastic,’ Rachel said, and if she couldn’t keep her voice steady, who could blame her? ‘Jane, I have no idea how you filmed that without fainting.’

‘Fainting isn’t what I felt like,’ Jane admitted. ‘What I felt like was far more messy. But I figured I could do the messy stuff afterwards when no one needed me and, hey, guess what? Now I don’t feel like it at all any more.’

‘You realise you guys saved Kim’s leg.’ The video recording and computer link had meant the specialists on the end of the line had been able to watch them every step of the way and Pat’s relayed instructions had given Rachel every skill she’d needed.

‘We all saved Kim’s leg,’ Pat decreed. She rose and came across to give her friend a hug and then the two of them hugged Rachel. This wasn’t something that’d happen in a big city hospital but it was an entirely appropriate action here. A great action. ‘We make a fantastic team,’ Pat said roundly. ‘We’re so glad you’re here now, Dr Harper. Something tells me Dr McInnes is going to need the best team he can get.’

The words somehow broke through her exhaustion. They didn’t make sense. What was Pat saying? Something about Hugo needing a team? Surely that need was past.

‘Why now?’ she asked. ‘Why would Hugo need me any more now?’

‘A really solid medical team is exactly what we’re going to need now,’ Pat told her. ‘The wind’s swung around. Word came through as we were on our way in here. The fire’s blocking the highway. There’s no way in and there’s no way out, and the fire’s getting bigger by the minute.’

Rachel walked through to the sink and hauled off her theatre gown without even thinking. She was so tired she could hardly stand. She ran cold water over her wrists and then splashed her face, trying to haul her tired mind into gear.

She was stuck in this town?

‘Well done, you.’ The voice behind her made her jump and she turned to find Hugo in the doorway. The exhaustion in his face matched hers.

‘Well done, yourself,’ she managed. He’d startled her. More … He unnerved her.

He really did have a gorgeous smile, she decided. Crooked but nice. And the way he’d touched her …

No. She didn’t want to think about the way he’d touched her.

What was a doctor like Hugo—a doctor with such skills—doing in a place like this? The surgery he’d just performed had been amazing. He should have trained in surgery. He could be one of the country’s finest.

‘I like Cowral,’ he told her, and her eyes widened.

‘What …?’

‘You were thinking what’s a nice boy like me doing in a place like this?’ he told her, and he was so near the truth that she gasped.

‘I don’t … I wasn’t …’

‘It’s what all city doctors think. Why on earth would anyone practise in such a remote area? But I think that Cowral’s fantastic. I’m here through choice. While you, Dr Harper, are truly stuck.’

At some time since she’d kicked him out of the operating suite he’d hauled off his theatre gown. Underneath he was wearing moleskins and a casual shirt similar to the ones he’d been wearing at the dog show, though without the gore. Somehow he’d found time to change before surgery. He was transformed again, she thought. Doctor to farmer.

Doctor to farmer? What was she thinking? she wondered. She was finding it hard to concentrate on what mattered.

The fires. Being stuck here.

Craig …

Oh, God, she shouldn’t be here.

She was here. She was trapped. Without Craig.

‘The fires are bad?’

‘The fires are a problem,’ he told her. He was splashing cold water on his face as if he needed to wake himself up, and his voice was muted. ‘The burn’s in the national park. There’s no private property threatened but the neck of land into town has been cut. When the fire shifted, everyone who wasn’t local got out of town before the road closed. You were in Theatre when the evacuation call came through. We didn’t give you that option.’ He rubbed his face on a towel and then looked at her. Really looked at her. And his voice softened. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but you’re stuck here for the duration.’

She swallowed and tried to think through the implications. ‘We could get helicopter evacuation,’ she said at last, and he nodded. Still watching her.

‘We could. If it was urgent. But Kim’s no longer an urgent case. Are you urgently required back in Sydney?’

Was she urgently needed?

No, she had to admit. At least, not by the hospital. As of last Friday she was officially on holiday. The trip to Cowral had been intended to be a weekend away followed by two weeks of lying in the sun. Back in Sydney, though. She’d have lain on Bondi beach so she could still visit Craig morning and night.

Craig needed her.

No. Craig didn’t need her. She needed to get her head around that, once and for all.

She couldn’t. But the reality was that no one would complain if she wasn’t back in Sydney for the next few days, least of all Craig. She may as well admit it.

‘Um … no.’

‘That’s great,’ he told her. ‘Because I may just need you myself.’

Hugo needed her. Great.

Everyone needed Rachel. Everyone always had. So what was new?

Dear God, she wanted to go home. Craig …

She didn’t have a choice. She was here. With Hugo. While Craig was …

Craig just was.

CHAPTER THREE

RACHEL walked slowly back to the showgrounds, dragging her feet in too-big sandals. She’d told Hugo she needed to see to Penelope. Kim’s parents were needing more reassurance. He’d been distracted and she’d slipped away.

He had enough to worry about without her worries. Which were considerable.

It was just on dusk. The evening was still and very, very warm. The sound of the sea was everywhere.

Cowral was built on a bluff overlooking the Southern Ocean. The stars were a hazy sheen of silver under a smoky filter. To the north she could see the soft orange glow of threatening fire. It was too far away to worry about, she thought. Maybe it’d stay in the national park and behave.

Meanwhile, it’d be a great time for a swim. But she had things to sort. Penelope. Accommodation.

Sleep!

Michael’s Aston Martin was parked at the entrance to the showgrounds and she looked at it with a frown. She’d thrown the car keys back at Michael. Were they in his pocket right now as he did his heroic lifesaving thing back in the city, or had he left the keys in Penelope’s dog stall?

It was all very well standing on one’s dignity, she thought ruefully, but if he’d taken his keys then she’d be walking everywhere. She didn’t like her chances of hot-wiring an Aston Martin.

Meanwhile … Meanwhile, Penelope. Rachel pushed open the wire gates of the dog pavilion and went to find the second of her worries.

Michael might have taken his car keys but he hadn’t taken his dog. Penelope was right where Rachel had left her, sitting in the now empty dog pavilion, gazing out with the air of a dog who’d been deserted by the world.

‘Oh, you poor baby.’ She hugged the big dog and hauled herself up into the stall to think about her options. ‘I haven’t deserted you, even if your master has.’

Penelope licked her face, then nosed her Crimplene in evident confusion.

‘You don’t like my fashion sense either?’ She gave a halfhearted smile. ‘We’re stuck with it. But meanwhile …’

Meanwhile, she was hungry. No. Make that starving! She’d had one bite of a very soggy hamburger some hours ago. The remains had long gone.

Penelope didn’t look hungry at all.

‘You ate the rest of my hamburger?

Penelope licked her again.

‘Fine. It was disgusting anyway, but what am I supposed to eat?’ She gazed about her. The pavilion was deserted.

Michael hadn’t left his keys.

Her bag was over at the caretaker’s residence where she’d showered. She could walk over there and fetch it, but why? The contents of the bag were foul. She had her purse with her—she’d tucked it into a pocket of the capacious Crimplene. She needed nothing else.

Wrong. She needed lots of things.

She had nothing else.

So … She had her purse, a dog and a really rumbling stomach.

‘I guess we walk into town,’ she told Penelope. The only problem was that the hospital and the showgrounds were on one side of the river and the tiny township of Cowral was on the other.

‘We don’t have a choice,’ she told the dog. ‘Walking is good for us. Let’s get used to it. The key to our wheels has just taken himself back to Sydney and we’re glad he has. Compared to your master … I hate to tell you, Penelope, but walking looks good in comparison.’

Cowral was closed.

It was a tiny seaside town. It was Sunday night. All the tourists had left when the roads had started to be threatened. Rachel trudged over the bridge and into town to find the place was shut down as if it was dead winter and midnight. Not a shop was open. By the time she reached the main street the pall of smoke was completely covering the moon and only a couple of streetlights were casting an eerie, foggy glow through the haze.

‘It looks like something out of Sherlock Holmes,’ Rachel told her canine companion. ‘Murderer appears stage left …’ She stood in the middle of the deserted street and listened to her stomach rumble and thought not very nice thoughts about a whole range of people. A whole range of circumstances.

Murder was definitely an option.

Her phone was in her purse. She hauled it out and looked at it. Who could she ring?

No one. She didn’t know anyone.

She stared at it some more and, as if she’d willed it, it rang all by itself. She was so relieved she answered before it had finished the first ring.

‘Rachel?’ It was Dottie’s bright chirpiness sounding down the line. Her mother-in-law who’d so wanted this weekend to work. ‘Rachel, I hope I’m not intruding but I so wanted to know how it was going. Where are you, dear?’

Rachel thought about it. ‘I’m standing in the main street of Cowral,’ she said. ‘Thinking about dinner.’

‘Oh …’ She could hear Dottie’s beam down the line. ‘Are you going somewhere romantic?’

‘Maybe outdoors,’ Rachel said, cautiously looking around at her options. ‘Under the stars.’ She looked through the smoke toward the sea. ‘On the beach?’

‘How wonderful. Is the weather gorgeous?’

Rachel tried not to cough from smoke inhalation. ‘Gorgeous!’

‘And you have such gorgeous company.’

Rachel looked dubiously down at Penelope. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘You know we so wanted you to have a good time, Lewis and I. There’s no chance of extending your time there, I suppose?’

‘Actually, there may be,’ Rachel told her. She explained about the fires and the road being cut. ‘There’s nothing to worry about but … we may be held up here for a few more days.’ There was no reason to explain that ‘we’ meant Rachel and an Afghan hound. Not Rachel and a gorgeous hunk of eligible cardiologist.

But her words were just what Dottie wanted to hear. ‘Oh, my dear, that’s lovely.’ She could hear Dottie’s beam widen. ‘Unless the fires are a real problem?’

‘They don’t seem to be.’ Australians understood about bushfires. Most national parks burned every few years or so—they needed to burn to regenerate—and as long as they didn’t threaten townships they weren’t a worry. Dottie clearly thought this time they’d been sent from heaven.

‘Dottie,’ she said cautiously. ‘Craig …’

‘You’re not to worry. We told you and we meant it. His father and I have taken right over as we should have long ago. As you should have let us.’

‘But—’

‘You concentrate on yourself,’ Dorothy told her. ‘You concentrate on your future. On your romantic dinner under the stars. That’s an order.’

And the phone went dead.

Great.

She stared at it. Her link with home.

She should be back in the hospital right now. Why wasn’t she? Craig …

Don’t think about it. Think about now.

Now what?

If there was no dinner to be had in Cowral then she needed to think about her next need. Sleep. Accommodation.

Cowral Bay’s only motel—the place where Michael-the-rat had slept last night—was on the other side of the river.

She’d walk back over the bridge, she decided. She’d leave Penelope in her dog box in the pavilion and book herself into the motel. Hey, maybe the motel even had room service.

By the time she reached the motel her feet, in her borrowed sandals, were screaming that she had blisters. She’d bother with taking Penelope back to the pavilion later, she decided, so she tied the dog to a tree and walked into Motel Reception. To find no room at the inn.

‘Sorry, love,’ the motel owner told her, casting a nervous glance at Rachel’s dubious apparel. ‘There’s fire crews from the other side of the peninsula trapped here now and they’ve booked us out.’

‘Do you have a restaurant?’ Rachel asked with more hope than optimism, and was rewarded by another dubious look and another shake of the head.

‘Everyone’s closed. The Country Women’s Association are putting on food twenty-four hours a day for the firefighters in the hall over the bridge but you don’t look like a firefighter.’

Rachel swallowed. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

‘Are you OK, love?’ the woman asked. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t need one of them women’s refuge places, do you? I could call the police for you if you like.’

Great. That was all she needed. A girl had some pride but Rachel was really struggling to find it here. She took a deep breath and pulled herself together.

Maybe women’s refuges had food?

Good grief. What was she thinking?

‘Um, no. Thank you.’ She fished in her purse and found a couple of coins. There was a candy dispensing machine by the counter and the sweets looked really inviting. ‘I’ll ring a friend, but meanwhile I’ll just buy a couple of these …’

‘I’m sorry, love,’ the woman told her. ‘The machine’s broken. The technician’s due tomorrow—if he can get through the fires.’

Rachel walked outside and untied Penelope. Then she considered, trying really hard not to panic.

Panic seemed an increasingly enticing option.

She’d go back to the hospital, she decided. Hugo had said he needed her. How much? He was about to be put to the test. ‘If you need me you’ll have to house and feed me,’ she’d tell him.

‘No. Feed me first,’ she corrected herself.

And Penelope?

Maybe she couldn’t expect Hugo to take on Penelope. She’d take her back to the pavilion.

Bad idea. It had been almost an hour now since Rachel had collected Penelope. Penelope had been the last dog to leave and the showground caretakers had done their duty. At some time while Rachel had walked into town and back again, the high wire gates had been bolted closed.

The caretaker’s residence was in the centre of the grounds, well out of shouting distance.

Rachel put her head against the cyclone wire and closed her eyes. Great. Just great. The whole situation was getting farcical.

Where was this women’s refuge?

‘This has to go into the record books as the most romantic weekend a girl has ever had,’ she told Penelope, but Penelope looked at her with the sad eyes of an Afghan hound who hadn’t been fed.

‘You ate my hamburger,’ Rachel told her. ‘Don’t even think about looking at me like that.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.