About the Authors

MARION LENNOX has written over one hundred romance novels, and is published in over one hundred countries and thirty languages. Her international awards include the prestigious RITA® Award (twice!) and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for ‘a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love’. Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog, and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

FIONA MCARTHUR is an Australian midwife who lives in the country and loves to dream. Writing Medical Romance gives Fiona the scope to write about all the wonderful aspects of romance, adventure, medicine and the midwifery she feels so passionate about. When she’s not catching babies, Fiona and her husband, Ian, are off to meet new people, see new places and have wonderful adventures. Drop in and say hi at Fiona’s website: Fionamcarthurauthor.com.

Also by Marion Lennox

Saving Maddie’s Baby

A Child to Open Their Hearts

Falling for Her Wounded Hero

Reunited with Her Surgeon Prince

The Billionaire’s Christmas Baby

Finding His Wife, Finding a Son

English Lord on Her Doorstep

The Baby They Longed For

Cinderella and the Billionaire

Second Chance with Her Island Doc

Also by Fiona McArthur

Gold Coast Angels: Two Tiny Heartbeats

Christmas with Her Ex

Midwife’s Christmas Proposal

Midwife’s Mistletoe Baby

Midwife’s Marriage Miracle

The Midwives of Lighthouse Bay miniseries

A Month to Marry the Midwife

Healed by the Midwife’s Kiss

The Midwife’s Secret Child

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

Marion Lennox

The Midwife’s Secret Child

Fiona McArthur

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90209-4

RESCUED BY THE SINGLE DAD DOC & THE MIDWIFE’S SECRET CHILD

Rescued by the Single Dad Doc © 2019 Marion Lennox The Midwife’s Secret Child © 2019 Fiona McArthur

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Authors

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

Back Cover Text

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Midwife’s Secret Child

Back Cover Text

Dedication

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 THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

About the Publisher

Rescued by the Single Dad Doc

Susan Carlisle

“So you’re rescuing me?

Like you’ve rescued three kids and a dog already?”

Life has taught Dr. Rachel Tilding the hard way that she can’t afford to let her guard down—ever! Except her new boss, Dr. Tom Lavery, hasn’t read the memo. He’s known for sheltering all manner of waifs and strays, and Rachel feels uncomfortably like Tom’s latest project! She should be pushing back, but somehow Tom and his boys are starting to heal her wounded heart…

With thanks to Mary Michele,

whose kindness made this book so much easier.

This book is for Denise, who, with her wobbly mate

Molly, helps make this place home.

CHAPTER ONE

DR RACHEL TILDING enjoyed treating kids. If they couldn’t speak it was often up to Rachel to figure out what was wrong, but in general kids’ needs were uncomplicated. They didn’t intrude on her personal space. If all Rachel’s patients were kids—without parents—she might well be looking at a different career path.

As it was, her aim was to be a radiologist, interpreting results from state-of-the-art equipment and having little to do with patients at all. But the terms of her scholarship specified she had to spend her first two years after internship as a family doctor in Shallow Bay. She’d geared herself to face it.

What she hadn’t prepared herself for was living next to a house full of kids. Their noise was bad enough, plus the yips of excitement from their dog. Then, a mere two hours after she’d moved in, a ball smashed through her window, almost making her drop the carton of glassware she’d been unpacking. The ball landed in a spray of shattered glass in the kitchen sink.

Count to ten, she told herself. These are kids. Don’t yell.

She’d been telling herself that since she’d arrived. These were her new neighbours. It wasn’t their fault that she valued privacy above all else. Someone would call them in for dinner soon. They’d go to bed and she’d have the silence she craved.

But kids as such close neighbours…

Shallow Bay’s nurse-manager had sent her pictures of this little house, a pretty-as-a-picture cottage surrounded by bushland. A five-minute walk took her up to the Shallow Bay Hospital, and five minutes in the other direction took her down to the beach.

What the pictures hadn’t shown, however, was that it was one of three cottages, huddled together in the dip before the bay. Hers was the smallest. The largest was the middle one and that seemed to be filled with boys.

She wasn’t sure how many yet. The noise they were making could have denoted a small army. She’d been trying to figure how she could intervene without turning Shallow Bay’s new doctor into Dragon Lady.

Now she had no choice. A cricket ball was sitting in her kitchen sink, surrounded by a spray of glass.

But before she could react, a shock of curly red hair appeared at the shattered window. Underneath the hair were two huge green eyes, fear-filled. The window was high for a child, so he’d obviously hoisted himself up to see where his ball had landed.

The head disappeared and a hand appeared in its place. And groped into the sink. Through shattered glass.

‘No!’ She’d been standing behind packing boxes on the far side of the table. She launched herself across the kitchen, but the groping hand reached the ball before she did.

There was a yelp of pain and then hand and ball disappeared.

She hauled the back door open, raced down the steps and cut the child off before he could back away. He’d lurched back from the window and was staggering.

‘Don’t move!’ Her order contained all the authority of a doctor who’d spent her two years of internship working in emergency medicine. The child froze, staring down at his hand in horror.

Their little dog, a black and white terrier—a ball of pseudo-aggression—came tearing across the lawn and barked hysterically, as if it was Rachel who was the intruder on her own lawn.

It had…three legs?

‘Tuffy! Tuffy, back. He won’t bite. Please… Kit’s just getting our ball.’ The voice from the far side of the hedge sounded terrified. The oldest child?

They were all redheads. The two on the far side of the hedge looked about ten and six. The child under her window was maybe eight.

They all had huge green eyes. Pale skin with freckles. They all looked rigid with fear.

Maybe her voice had done that to them. Even the little dog was backing away.

Was she so scary?

Rachel had little to do with kids except as patients, but the middle child was now definitely a patient. He was still clutching the ball, but he was holding it out in front of him. A line of crimson was dripping onto the garden bed.

‘Don’t move,’ she said again, because the child was looking in panic across to his brothers—they had to be brothers—and she knew his instinct was to run. ‘I’m not angry.’ Okay, maybe she was, but this wasn’t the time to admit it. There’d be an adult somewhere, responsible for leaving this group unsupervised. They deserved a piece of her mind, not this child. One thing Rachel was very careful about—a lesson learned from the long years of an unjust childhood—was that fairness was everything.

‘You’ve cut your hand on the glass,’ she told the little boy as she reached him. She took his arm and raised it, applying pressure around the wrist. ‘You need to stay still.’

The eyes that looked up at her were huge. He looked terrified. There’d be pain. With this much blood, it had to be deep. The blood wasn’t pumping—the radial artery must surely be intact—but the gash from multiple glass shards tentacled out from wrist to palm. In a child, this amount of bleeding could well lead to collapse.

‘I’m a doctor,’ she told him, gentling her voice. ‘The glass has cut your hand, but we can fix it. Right now, though, it’s looking messy, so we need to stop it bleeding. You’ll feel better if you don’t look at it until we’ve cleaned it up. Look at your brothers, or look at the hole in my window. That’s quite a hole.’

She was manoeuvring his hand upward, edging her body to block his gaze. The ball fell to the ground as she lifted his hand high, curling his palm in slightly so the hand created its own pressure on the pierced palm. There could well be shards of glass in there but now wasn’t the time to remove them. She needed a surgery, equipment, help.

‘Can you run inside and get your mum or dad?’ she called to the two boys on the far side of the hedge. ‘Ask them to bring out a towel. Run!

‘Tell me your name,’ she asked the little boy.

She got a blank look in response. Fear.

‘He’s Christopher,’ the elder of the pair behind the hedge called. ‘But we call him Kit. Are you really a doctor?’

‘I am. Could you fetch your parents please? Now! Kit needs your help.’

‘We don’t have parents. Just a stepfather.’

Just a stepfather.

Why did that make her freeze?

The wave of nausea that swept through her was as vicious as it was dumb. Her past was just that—past—and it had no place here, now. Somehow, she managed to fight back the bile rising in her throat, to haul herself together, to become the responsible person these boys needed.

She needed a plan.

She needed a responsible adult to help her.

Her phone was inside. Where had she put it? Somewhere in the muddle of unpacked goods?

She daren’t let Kit’s arm go to find it herself. He was too big for her to pick up and carry. He was also looking increasingly pale. Had these kids been left on their own?

‘Where’s your stepfather now?’ she asked, and stupidly she heard the echoes of her dumb, visceral response to the word in her voice.

‘At work,’ the eldest boy told her.

‘Is there anyone else here?’

‘Christine’s inside, watching telly.’

‘Then fetch her,’ she ordered. ‘Fast. Tell her Kit’s hurt his hand and he’s bleeding. Tell her I need a towel and a phone. Run.’

‘Can you just put a plaster on it?’ the older boy asked. ‘We don’t want to tell Christine. She’ll tell Tom.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Marcus. And this is Henry. Please don’t tell. If we misbehave, Tom’ll make us go back to our grandparents.’

‘You haven’t misbehaved. The ball broke my window, not you,’ she told him. She’d tell him anything he liked to get help right now. ‘Marcus, this cut is too big for a plaster. Kit needs Christine. I need Christine. Run.’

He shouldn’t have left the boys with Christine. Normally Tom Lavery used his next-door neighbour, Rose, as childminder. Rose was in her seventies, huge-hearted, reliable. The boys loved her, but this morning she’d fallen and hurt her hip. It was only bruised, thank heaven, but she needed rest.

This weekend was also the annual field-day-cum-funfair at Ferndale, two hours’ drive across the mountains. For the isolated town of Shallow Bay, the Ferndale Show was huge. Practically the entire population took part, with cattle parades and judging, baking competitions, kids’ activities. As Shallow Bay emptied, Christine, Rose’s niece, had become his childminder of last resort.

‘Worrying?’ Roscoe, Shallow Bay’s hospital nurse administrator, was watching Tom from the far side of the nurses’ station. Tom was supposed to be filling in patient histories. Instead he’d turned to the window, looking down towards the cottage.

‘Go home and check,’ Roscoe said. For a big man—make that huge—Roscoe was remarkably perceptive. ‘You’ll be writing Bob up for antacids instead of antibiotics if you’re not careful.’

‘I’m careful.’ He hauled his attention back to his job. ‘Christine can cope.’

‘As long as there’s no ad for hair curlers on telly. You know she’s a dipstick,’ Roscoe said bluntly.

Roscoe’s smile was half hidden by his beard, but it didn’t hide the sympathy. ‘Go home, doc,’ he told him again. ‘I’ll ring you if I need you, and I’ll drop these charts off for you to fill in after the boys go to sleep tonight. I wish you could be taking the boys across to Ferndale, but hey, you have another doctor here on Monday. All problems solved, no?’

No, Tom thought as he snagged the next chart and started writing. It was all very well for Roscoe to say he could do these tonight, but if he fell behind in his paperwork he’d never catch up.

Another hour…

But he glanced at the window one last time. The boys were capable of anything.

For what was maybe the four thousandth time over the last two years he thought, What have I let myself in for?

How long’s for ever?

And then his attention was diverted. There was a car speeding up the track from the bay. A scarlet roadster. A two-seater.

Tom’s cottage was one of only three down that road. Few people used it except for Tom, Rose and Rose’s occasional visitors.

And the new doctor? He’d been told she’d collected the key from Reception a couple of hours back. Poppy, the junior nurse who’d given her the key, had been frustratingly vague when asked for a description. ‘Quite old, really,’ she’d said, which in Poppy’s twenty-two-year-old eyes meant anything over twenty-three. ‘And ordinary. Just, you know, dullsville when it comes to clothes. Didn’t say much, just took the key and said she’d be at work at nine on Monday. She drives a cool car, though.’

If this was it, it certainly was cool, a streamlined beauty, the kind of car Tom used to love to drive—in another life.

So this would be Rachel Tilding, the new doctor, the latest of the Lavery Scholarship recipients, here to pay her dues with two years’ service. He imagined she’d be heading to the shops to buy supplies or a takeaway meal for dinner. He should drop over tonight to say hi.

But tonight he didn’t have his normal backup of Rose, who was always ready to slip over and mind the kids whenever he needed to go out. He could scarcely go over bearing wine and casserole and say, Welcome to Shallow Bay. Plus, he was dead tired. If he had the energy to make a casserole there’d be no way it’d leave his house.

He sighed and started to turn back to the desk—but then he paused. The car had turned off the road and was heading down the hospital driveway.

He could make the driver out now. The woman seemed slight, fair-skinned, with brown curly hair tumbling to her shoulders. Leaning against her was a child.

A child with his arm raised, caught in some sort of sling. An arm which was bright crimson.

Kit!

Running in hospitals was forbidden. From training it was instilled into you. No matter the emergency, walking swiftly gets you there almost as fast, with far less likelihood of causing another emergency.

Stuff training. Dr Tom Lavery ran.

She’d collected this gorgeous little car three weeks ago and she still practically purred every time she looked at it. Two years of internship, living in hospital accommodation and being constantly tired, meant that she’d spent practically nothing of her two years’ wages. The condition of the scholarship which had funded her training meant she was now facing two years of ‘exile’ in the country. This car would be a gift to herself, she’d decided, to celebrate being a fully qualified doctor with her internship behind her. It’d also be something to remind her of the life she’d have when she could finally return to the city.

She’d driven it to Shallow Bay with a beam on her face a mile wide, blocking out the thought that she’d had to hire a man with a van to bring her possessions, as nothing bigger than a designer suitcase would fit in with her.

But now she wasn’t thinking of her car. She had a child in her passenger seat, a little boy so white she thought he was about to pass out. She’d put as much pressure as she dared on his arm, slinging it roughly upward before somehow managing to carry him to her car. Her cream leather was turning scarlet to match the paintwork. Any minute now Kit could throw up. Or, worse, lose consciousness.

Please, no. She loved this car but if she had the choice between vomit or coma…

‘Hold on, Kit,’ she muttered. The decision to get him to the hospital rather than calling for an ambulance had been instantaneous. He still had glass in his hand. The blood he’d lost was frightening and the hospital was so close…

‘I want Tom,’ he quavered.

Tom? His stepfather? That was the name the kids had used. And Christine? The overblown, overpainted woman had emerged from the house, taken one look and fled back inside, saying, ‘I’ll ring Tom.’ So much for practical help. Rachel had hauled off her own windcheater and used that as a pressure bandage and sling.

‘Tell Christine—and Tom—I’ve taken him to the hospital,’ she’d told his terrified brothers, and then she’d left. There was time for nothing else.

‘We’ll find Tom,’ she told Kit now, as he slumped against her. ‘But first we need to stop your hand bleeding. We can do this, Kit. Be brave. Isn’t it lucky I’m a doctor?’

The sight that met him as he emerged from the Emergency entrance was horrific. All he could see was blood. And one small boy.

For a moment he felt as if his legs might give way. Kit’s face, his hair, his T-shirt, were soaked with blood. The T-shirt was a treasured one, covered with meerkat cartoons. Tom couldn’t see a single meerkat now, though. All he could see was blood.

Kit.

‘Mate, you’re doctor first, stepdad second.’ It was Roscoe, placing a huge palm on his shoulder as they both headed for the car. ‘Right now, Kit needs a doctor.’

The words steadied him but only a little. He reached the car and hauled the door open.

Kit was leaning heavily against the driver. Had she hit him? A car accident? What…?

‘Lacerated hand.’ The woman’s voice cut across his nightmare, her voice as incisive, as firm as Roscoe’s. ‘From a broken window. No other injury, but severe blood loss. I suspect there’ll still be glass in there. His name’s Kit and he’s asking for Tom.’

‘Kit.’ His voice sounded as if it came from a long way away. Kit was struggling to look at him, struggling to focus. ‘T-Tom…’ he managed—and then his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness.

Kit!

It was Roscoe who took over. For those first appalling seconds—and it must only have been seconds—Tom froze, but Roscoe’s voice boomed across the entrance, calling back into the Emergency ward behind. ‘Trolley,’ he boomed. ‘IV. Blood loss, people. Move.’

And then as Barry, their elderly hospital orderly, came scuttling out with the trolley, and Jenny, their second most senior nurse, appeared with the crash cart, Tom recovered enough to scoop Kit out of the car.

Somehow Tom’s years of training kicked in. Triage. Look past the obvious. Get the facts and get them fast.

The woman had been wedged between Kit and the driver’s door. She looked almost as gory as the child. Thirtyish. Jeans. Long shirt, bloodstained. A smear of blood on her face.

‘Are you hurt yourself?’ he managed.

‘No,’ she snapped, hauling herself out of the car. ‘Just the child.’

Jenny had the crash cart beside him. With this amount of blood loss, cardiac arrest was a terrifying possibility.

‘I’m a doctor,’ the woman said. ‘Rachel Tilding. Who’s senior here?’

She was asking because he wasn’t acting like a doctor. Roscoe, Barry, Jenny all looked in control. Not him.

He made a huge effort and hauled himself back into his professional self. Terror was still there but it was on the backburner, waiting to surface when there was time.

‘IV,’ he managed, laying Kit on the trolley. The little boy’s hand had been roughly put in a sling to hold it high.

A doctor…

What had she done to Kit?

‘It’s only his hand.’ She was out of the car now, moving swiftly around to the trolley. ‘He smashed my window with a cricket ball, then reached in to try and get it.’

Only his hand…but this amount of blood?

‘Straight to Theatre?’ Roscoe demanded.

‘Yes,’ she snapped back at Roscoe. ‘I’ll help if there’s no one else. I don’t know about parents. I didn’t have time to find out. Just this Tom…’

‘I’m Tom,’ he said heavily. ‘I’m his stepfather. He’s my responsibility.’

‘Stepfather…’ She glanced at him in stupefaction. ‘What sort of a…?’ And then she collected herself. ‘No matter. Kit needs a doctor, now.’

‘I’m a doctor. Tom Lavery.’

‘What the…you’re working as a doctor and employing that…that…’

She obviously couldn’t find a word to describe Christine. Neither could he. Maybe there wasn’t one, but he and Christine were obviously grouped together. Dr Tilding’s look said Tom’s position in the hierarchy of life on earth was somewhere below pond scum.

‘Never mind,’ she snapped. ‘You can give me all the excuses in the world after we’ve seen to Kit’s hand. Let’s get him to Theatre. Now.’

CHAPTER TWO

AND THEN THINGS reassembled themselves. Sort of. This was a small country hospital but it was geared for emergencies, and many emergencies involved rapid blood loss.

Kit had lost so much that cardiac arrest was still a real possibility. Treatment of his hand—apart from stemming the bleeding—had to wait until that threat was past.

And in Rachel he had a godsend. She was an angry godsend, judgemental and furious, but she was a doctor.

Maybe he could have coped alone—maybe—but he was acting on autopilot. A part of his brain seemed to have frozen. The sight of one little boy, unconscious, a child he’d learned to love, had knocked him sideways.

It was an insidious thing, this love. It had crept up and caught him unawares, and loving came with strings. He couldn’t care for these kids—and love them—without his heart being wrenched, over and over again.

It was lurching now, sickeningly, and after that one incredulous look, that one outburst of anger, Rachel had subtly taken control.

As he went to put in the IV line his hand shook, and she took the equipment from him. ‘Get the monitors working,’ she told him. ‘I’ll take over here.’

The cardiac monitors… He needed to set them up. He did, with speed. A shaking hand could manage pads and monitors.

‘Pain relief and anaesthetic,’ she said. ‘Do you have an anaesthetist?’

‘There’s only me,’ he told her.

‘Two of us, then,’ she said curtly. ‘Or one and a half if you’re emotionally involved. But I’m trusting you have a good nursing staff.’

‘The best,’ Roscoe growled, and she nodded acknowledgement. This was no time for false modesty and she obviously accepted it.

And then Kit’s eyes flickered open again, fighting to focus. Falling on Rachel first. Terror came flooding back, and Rachel saw.

‘Hey, we found your Tom,’ she told him. ‘And here he is.’ Her anger and her judgement had obviously been set aside with the need for reassurance. She edged aside so the little boy could see him. ‘Kit, we’re going to fix your hand. The bleeding’s made you feel funny, and I know it hurts, but we’re giving you something that’ll make you feel better really fast. Tom’s just going to test your fingers. Will you do what he tells you?’

And she stepped back, turning to the instrument tray, setting the scene so Kit could only see Tom.

She was impelling him to steady. She was pushing him to do what he had to do.

He had to focus and somehow he did.

Appallingly, he was still seeing terror as well as pain in the little boy’s eyes. Legacy of his ghastly grandparents?

‘Hey, Kit, you’re here now, with me,’ he said as they rolled the trolley into Theatre. He touched the little boy’s face, willing the fear to disappear. ‘You’ve cut your hand but we’ll fix it. I know it hurts, but we’ll stop it hurting really soon.’

‘I broke… You’re not mad…?’

‘Dr Rachel tells me you broke her window,’ he managed. ‘I broke four windows when I was your age. I used to tell my mum and dad the cat did it. They didn’t believe me but they weren’t mad and neither am I. Accidents happen. Kit, can you tell me what you feel when I touch your fingers? Can you press back when I press? Here? Here?’

He was now in professional mode—sort of—but the lurch in his stomach wasn’t going away.

And the information he gained from Kit as they settled him into Theatre wasn’t helping.

He was checking for damage to the tendons that ran through the palm and attached to the finger bones. Secondly, for nerve damage, which could result in permanent loss of function or sensation. Tom was applying gentle pressure to the tips of Kit’s fingers, asking him to push back.

The responses weren’t good.

And Rachel got it. She was focusing on the IV, on getting pain relief on board, but she was listening to Kit’s quavering answers. Knowing what they meant.

‘Okay, Dr Lavery, tell me the set-up,’ she said as Tom’s testing finished. ‘Do you have anyone here who can cope with paediatric plastics? Or someone who can get here fast?’

‘No,’ he said shortly. Stemming the bleeding seemed straightforward. It looked as if the radial artery had been nicked—it must have been to cause this amount of bleeding. They could fix that. But what his examination had told them was that Kit needed a plastic surgeon or a vascular surgeon or both if he wasn’t to lose part or all of the use of that hand.

That meant evacuation. It was eight hours by road to Melbourne, ten to Sydney or Canberra. Shallow Bay wasn’t the most remote place in Australia but its position, nestled on the far south-east coast, surrounded by hundreds of miles of mountainous forests, meant that reaching skilled help could be a logistical nightmare.

‘Where?’ Rachel said, and he had to give her credit for incisiveness.

‘Sydney.’

‘You have air transfer?’

‘It’ll take medevac an hour to reach us in the chopper, but yes.’

‘Can someone organise that?’ she said to Roscoe. ‘Now?’ And then she turned back to the child she was treating and her voice gentled. ‘Kit, we’re going to get your hand bandaged now, and stop things hurting, but there’s a bit of damage deep inside that might make your fingers not as strong as they should be. We need to take you to a big hospital to get your hand mended.’

‘Tom can fix it.’ Kit’s voice quavered.

‘He can,’ she said, injecting her voice with confidence. ‘I know that. And so can I, because Tom and I are both doctors. If Tom agrees, I’ll do the first part now. But have you ever seen Tom sew something that’s ripped? Like a pair of jeans?’

‘He did once,’ Kit managed, trying gamely to sound normal. ‘Big stitches. It came apart again.’

‘Hey, how did I guess?’ she said, smiling down at him. ‘So Tom’s not very good at sewing and neither am I. Kit, there are things in your hand called tendons which make your fingers work. You’ve hurt them, so what you need is a doctor who’s really good at tiny stitches. Don’t worry, we’ll give you something that stops you feeling what we need to do. We’ll make sure nothing hurts, I promise. You’ll end up with a neat scar you’ll be able to show your friends, but a good needleworking doctor will make sure your fingers end up stronger than ever. So what that means is that we need to take you to Sydney.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘I understand that,’ Rachel said. ‘I’ve just arrived at Shallow Bay and it looks a great place. But have you ever been in a helicopter?’

‘I… No.’

‘Then what an adventure. Your friends will be so jealous. Tom, will you be going with Kit, or is there someone he needs more?’

And she looked straight at him.

So did Kit.

Is there someone he needs more?

Her eyes were challenging. Angry? He didn’t get the anger, but he couldn’t afford to focus on it now.

Kit needs his mother, he thought, and it was the belief he’d had reinforced about a thousand times in the last two years. But Claire was dead.

Kit’s father was who knew where? Steve had been Claire’s folly. The responsibility was never going to be Steve’s.

Kit’s grandparents? Claire’s parents? They’d glory in this drama. They’d use it against him and his fight for custody would start all over again.

So he had to go with Kit, but to leave Shallow Bay… To leave two more needy children…

‘There’s no one but me,’ he said, and it nearly killed him to say it.

‘We’ll manage.’ It was Roscoe, gruff, stern, decisive. ‘You need to go, Doc. And hey, we have another doc here now.’

‘But Marcus. Henry. I can’t.’

‘They can stay at home,’ Roscoe told him. ‘We’ll find someone to stay with them.’

‘Not that childminder.’ When Rachel spoke to Kit she was gentleness itself but when she faced Tom he saw judgement that he’d left the kids with such a woman. ‘She’s unfit.’

‘She’s awful,’ Kit quavered. ‘I don’t like her.’

‘It’s okay,’ Tom said, feeling helpless. He took Kit’s good hand and squeezed. ‘I’ll fix this.’ But how?

‘Their normal minder is Rose,’ Roscoe told Rachel. ‘She hurt her hip yesterday but she’s great. The kids love her. She’ll stay with them.’

‘She can’t,’ Tom said, option after option being discarded with increasing desperation. ‘Not by herself. Not with her hip, and I can’t trust Christine to help her. And with the field day at Ferndale—how many people are free this weekend?’ He sounded desperate—he knew he did—but he was torn in so many directions. Kit needed him, but so did Marcus and Henry. As a parent, he was failing on all counts.

‘We’ll find someone,’ Roscoe said, but he was starting to sound unsure. He turned to Rachel, explaining Tom’s dilemma for him. ‘The annual show at Ferndale is a huge deal and almost all the locals go. There’s an added problem, too. These kids have had a bit of a tough time in the past and they need to stay in their own beds. Farming them out’s not an option. I’d offer but my wife’s almost nine months pregnant. What if she goes into labour?’

‘You can’t do it,’ she said bluntly. She was still looking at Tom as if he was something she’d found at the back of the fridge, something that had been mouldering for months. ‘So who can these boys depend on?’

‘Me,’ Tom said bleakly.

‘Which is why we have one child with a sliced hand and two children with no carer.’

‘We’ll find someone,’ Roscoe said again, but Tom felt ill. Rachel’s disdain was obvious and he deserved it. Who could he ask, given this amount of notice?

But the expression on Rachel’s face had changed. She looked…as if she was about to step into a chasm? It was a momentary look and then her expression became one of resolution. As if a decision had been made, but the decision was scary.

‘Okay, then,’ she said briskly, as if what was about to be said needed to be said before she changed her mind. ‘Decision. If there’s no other option, I’ll accept responsibility. The boys don’t know me, but I’m dependable. I can’t imagine you’ll need to stay in Sydney for more than a couple of days.’

‘I can’t… They won’t…’

‘I’m not offering to do this on my own,’ she said, still brisk. ‘Nor should you agree if I did. There’s no way you should trust me. But if Rose of the hurt hip is otherwise okay… Would she agree to stay with the boys to give them the security they need? If she’s willing, then I’ll stay too. I can do housework, anything physical, and I can care for Rose as well as the boys. I don’t mind sleeping on the floor if I need to. I’ve had experience of living with kids. I can cope with anything they throw at me.’

‘I can’t ask that of you,’ Tom said, but she skewered him with a look that said he needed to get his act together.

‘So what are your options?’

There weren’t any.

‘Rachel, with Tom away, we’ll be needing you as a doctor,’ Roscoe said, sounding stunned. ‘I know you’re not supposed to start until Monday but there’s no one else. You know our last doc left us in the lurch. She had one of those scholarships you’re on, but bang, she got herself pregnant and her fiancée paid her way out. So there’s only Tom. And now there’s only you.’

Then his face cleared. ‘But maybe it would work. Rose isn’t disabled, just sore. She lives in the third cottage down on your bay and she’s slept at Tom’s before. There’s a spare bedroom, and I imagine you could use Tom’s bed. There’s an intercom from Tom’s living room to the nurses’ station here, so someone can always listen in if you need to be at the hospital. That works if Tom has to fix a drip or something at three in the morning. Tom works around his family. I guess you can, too.’

‘I guess I can,’ Rachel said.

‘I can’t ask…’ Tom managed, but he was cut off.

‘You have no choice.’ Once again he heard anger, but she was moving on. ‘Okay, Kit, let’s get your hand fixed up ready for your helicopter ride. Dr Lavery, I’ll need your help to stabilise things, but then you need to go home and pack.’

‘You’ve only just arrived,’ Tom said. He was feeling as if the ground beneath him was no longer solid. Who was in charge here? Not him. ‘You can’t…’

‘Dr Lavery, I have no idea yet of what you can and can’t do,’ she said with asperity. ‘But me… Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do without seeing me in operation. Do you or do you not need a childminder to stay with Rose?’

‘I… Yes.’

‘And is Rose dependable?’

‘Of course.’

‘So if I turned out to be a terrible person…would she kick me out?’

‘She would,’ Roscoe said from behind them. He was starting to smile—problem solved? ‘If she was worried I dare say she’d boss me and Lizzy to move, with or without our new baby. She’s one strong lady.’

‘And so am I,’ Rachel retorted. ‘So, Dr Lavery, if you don’t want me to stay with your boys then say so, but don’t tell me I’m not capable.’

‘I guess… I’m starting to think you’re very capable,’ Tom told her and tried to smile.

‘Thank you,’ Rachel told him, but there was no hint of a smile in return. He was still hearing anger. ‘Now, Kit, let’s get this hand fixed and show your stepdad I’m capable there as well.’

What had she promised?

Argh!

If there was one thing Rachel Tilding had learned in her twenty-eight years it was not to get involved.

Eight years ago she’d applied for the Roger Lavery Scholarship because it was the only one which offered to pay her entire way through medical school. Her education was sketchy, to say the least. She’d officially left school at fifteen. Since then she’d worked where she could, odds and sods for years, before ending up on night shift in a metal fabrication factory. She’d couch-surfed with anyone who’d put up with her, all the time saving, doing whatever she could to get the marks and the money to enter medical school. The day she’d heard she’d won the scholarship she’d been so tired she’d wept over the assembly line all night.

But then, thanks to the scholarship, things had eased. She’d been able to find somewhere permanent to live. She’d had security and a future, which was more than she’d ever dreamed of. The only cost to her was a contract at the end of her internship to work for two years in this end-of-the-earth place.

‘Two years?’ She thought of one of the other students on her med course, of his appalled reaction when she’d told him her plans. ‘Shallow Bay? A tin-pot hospital with no specialists, in the middle of the National Park, cut off by bushfires in summer, floods in winter? I’m guessing you’ll be married with babies by the end of the two years because there’ll be nothing else to do.’

‘I’m not into families.’ She’d snapped it before she could stop herself, almost a fear response.

‘You will be if you go there,’ her fellow student had said. ‘My uncle’s a county doctor, on call twenty-four-seven. His wife and kids hardly see him, but he says they’re the only thing that keeps him sane.’

A family? Keeping her sane? As if.

And now she’d offered to be part of one.

But it was only for a couple of days. She could do this. After what she’d been through, she knew she could pretty much do anything she needed.

But this was what someone else needed. Tom.

A stepfather. A man who’d left his kids with someone totally irresponsible.

So why had she made the offer? It wasn’t her fault the kid had hurt his hand. She didn’t get involved—she never had. And yet here she was, two minutes after arriving at Shallow Bay, putting her hand up to move in with a house full of kids. It was so unlike her it left her stunned.

Was it the thought of kids being left with a stepfather? After all this time, the word still made her feel sick to the stomach.

She was overreacting, she knew she was. Cinderella’s stepmother… Her own stepfather… They’d given the roles such a bad name.

One was a fairy story, she told herself, but her own…

Get over it.

Luckily she had medicine to distract her. It was a relief to move back into treating doctor mode. She was using local anaesthetic. Kit was awake and terrified, so she needed Tom to be Kit’s support person.

Roscoe had set up a screen so Kit couldn’t see her work. Tom could see over the screen but she had to block both Tom and Kit out. It was only Kit’s hand that mattered.

The anaesthetic block was cutting off sensation and Tom was keeping the little boy still. Conscious all the time of doing no more damage, she started removing slivers of glass. Left in situ, they could move during the flight and cause more damage.

There was enough damage already. He must have dragged his hand backward as he’d felt it cut. The glass had sliced from palm down to wrist and then across as he’d jerked back out of the shattered window.

She was focusing fiercely. Broken glass was appallingly difficult to clear from wounds, as its transparency made it notoriously hard to see. Roscoe was in the background, handing her what she needed, but Tom was right there. One of his hands was under Kit’s head, cradling like a pillow. The other was on Kit’s elbow, stopping it moving.

Despite her concentration on the wound, she couldn’t quite block out his presence. He was holding the little boy still but hugging him at the same time.

‘This is going to be an amazing scar,’ he was telling Kit. ‘You’ll need to make up a great story to go with it. Maybe we could get Dr Tilding to make marks that look like crocodile teeth to go with it. Then we could tell everyone that instead of staying with your grandparents last year you went croc hunting. Maybe one attacked Henry and you fought it off with your bare hands. I think it was a whopper, twenty feet long with teeth the size of my hedge-cutters. But you fought and fought and finally it held up its hands—paws?—what do crocodiles have? Anyway, your crocodile surrendered. And you told him it’d be okay as long as he said sorry and let you have a ride on his back.’

And to Rachel’s astonishment the little boy managed a weak chuckle. ‘That’s silly,’ he quavered. ‘Kids don’t ride crocodiles.’

‘I bet superheroes do,’ Tom said. ‘This scar looks like a superhero scar. Does it look like a superhero scar to you, Dr Tilding?’

She’d just fielded a sliver of glass. She held it still for a moment in her forceps, making sure her grip was secure before she tried to shift it, then transferred it to the kidney dish.

‘It’ll definitely be a superhero scar,’ she agreed. ‘You might need to buy a new T-shirt, Kit. One with Batman on the front?’

‘Batman?’ Kit said, with a brief return of spirit. With scorn to match. ‘Batman’s old.’ And then his face crumpled as he recalled another grief. ‘My meerkat T-shirt… It’s all bloody.’

‘We’ll try and fix it,’ Tom told him, but even Rachel could hear the doubt. And Roscoe grimaced behind him. To get monitors on the little boy’s chest they’d simply sliced the T-shirt away, not only to get fast access but also to check there were no other lacerations underneath. The T-shirt was now a mangled mess.

But she could fix this. Rachel’s splinter skill was internet shopping. Or, to be truthful, internet window-shopping—years of dreaming of what other kids could buy.

There’d been a great library in her neighbourhood and the librarian had been kind. She hadn’t seemed to notice just how much time Rachel spent there—or that when her books got too much for her she’d just sort of sidled to one of the computers. Patrons were supposed to pay for fifteen-minute slots, but when the library was quiet…well, Maureen was a librarian with a kind heart and she didn’t seem to notice. Sometimes Rachel had been asleep in a cubicle. Sometimes she’d been at the computer, dreaming of stuff she could never buy.

But she could buy stuff now, and memories of a weird search came back to her at just the right moment.

‘Hey, I have a solution,’ she told Kit. She was almost done. There’d still be tiny slivers in the wound but it would be up to the plastic surgeon in Sydney to retrieve them. The shards that could have done more damage were gone, and if she foraged more she risked making that damage worse.

‘A solution?’ Tom said.

‘A meerkat superhero.’

‘There’s no such thing.’

‘Of course there is. Kit, you tell him.’

‘I haven’t seen…’ Kit said doubtfully.

‘You haven’t? You’re obviously looking in the wrong places.’

Meerkats had been a bit of a thing for her during her teens; they had fascinated her, taken her out of her bleak world for a while. She still had a sneaky affection for them, and even now her internet browser seemed to find them almost by itself.

‘You must know there are online comics,’ she said. ‘I bet there are even online movies and I definitely know there are meerkat superhero T-shirts. I could order you one this very night, if you want. It’ll need to come from overseas so you might need to wait for a few weeks, but something like that would be worth waiting for, don’t you think?’

‘A meerkat superhero…?’

‘Marvel the Meerkat?’ she mused. ‘I’m thinking that’s who I saw. Maybe I have the name wrong. We’ll have to wait and see.’

‘But I broke your window,’ Kit quavered, sounding astounded.

‘So you did. So you’ll have to pay.’ She was closing, with steristrips because stitching a hand that needed further surgery was pointless. She glanced at Tom and saw the look of strain on his face. More than strain. She’d seen this reaction before, during her internship in an emergency department in Sydney. It was the reaction of parents whose foundations had been shaken after injury to their kids.

The look set back her prejudices a little. He cared?

So what was with the neglect? If he was a stepdad, where was Mum?

It wasn’t her business. Focus on Kit. She’d just told him he’d have to pay.

‘Can you fish?’ she asked the little boy, guessing what the answer would be. She’d already noticed fishing rods stacked outside the next-door garage.

‘Tom showed us how,’ Kit said, confused.

‘There you are then,’ she said decisively. ‘I can’t catch fish but I love eating them. When your hand’s better I demand three fish for payment. What’s your favourite fish to catch?’

‘Whiting,’ Kit said and then looked doubtfully at Tom. ‘Tom would have to help me.’

‘I don’t mind who helps,’ she said. ‘But I’m charging three fresh fish for my damaged window. Not all at once because I can only eat one at a time and I like them fresh. Then I’ll charge two more for the new meerkat T-shirt I’ll order tonight. Is that a deal?’

‘D-deal,’ Kit said and even managed a watery smile.

‘That’s that, then,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to unpack a few more boxes before I’m needed again.’

And she smiled at Kit, at Roscoe, but not at Tom, and then she headed out of the door.

He caught her just as she reached her car.

Her car… He saw her stop in dismay as she saw the mess, as she realised just what damage had been done. He saw her face go blank, almost as if she’d been slapped.

Back in his office he had a file on this woman. The file was in his possession not because she was a future colleague; he had it because Rachel Tilding was the recipient of the scholarship his grandfather had endowed, and as Roger Lavery’s grandson he was one of the trustees of that endowment. Every two years a scholarship was awarded to a student who wouldn’t otherwise be able to attend medical school but had shown determination and rigour to get where they were.

Rachel had won the scholarship eight years ago, when Tom’s father still headed the trustees, but his parents were now living overseas and the file was in Tom’s possession. When it was time for Rachel to take up her appointment, Tom had hauled it out and read it.

It didn’t make pretty reading. Poverty, foster homes, eventual homelessness but, throughout it all, a grinding determination to be a doctor. She hadn’t had the highest marks of the applicants but her sheer grit had made the award a no-brainer.

Now she was looking at her car as if this was a catastrophe. He watched her face crumple, her hand go to her eyes.

‘Rachel?’

She gasped and swivelled, swiping her face fiercely with the back of her hand. Her long-sleeved shirt was still blood-stained where Kit had leaned on her shoulder in the car. Her soft brown curls were tangled back behind her ears, there was a smudge of blood on her cheek and her brown eyes looked too big in her too-pale face. She looked younger than the twenty-eight years she was, he thought. Defenceless? It was a strange adjective to describe her but that was how he saw her.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, struggling to find control. ‘Go back to Kit.’

‘We’re not really at the end of the earth,’ he said gently, because something told him what was before her was more important than a messy car. ‘We might not have plastic surgeons but we do have a car dealership. Roy’s talent—aside from selling people cars they haven’t realised they need—is detailing. He can take a farm bomb that’s been lived in by farmers, pigs, dogs, whatever, and turn it into a gleaming bargain of the century. And this…’

He looked at the gorgeous scarlet lacquer, the sheer beauty of the little roadster. ‘This would be his absolute pleasure to clean. The only thing you need to fear is him putting it into his showroom window when he’s done.’

‘Really?’ She sniffed and eyed him with distrust. ‘But it’s blood. Don’t people have rules about contamination?’

‘He might charge more,’ Tom agreed. ‘But this was an accident, Rachel, caused by my stepson. My insurance will more than cover it.’ He wasn’t actually sure that it would, but there was no way he was saying that now. The responsibility was his. He’d pay a king’s ransom to get her a clean car if necessary. ‘Meanwhile, I’m heading to Sydney, thanks to you, so you can use my car.’ He motioned to the car park, to a large serviceable SUV. ‘You might even think about buying such a car for here. It’s much more sensible.’

She had herself under control again now. He saw her regroup, and then gaze at his battered SUV with dislike.

‘I might need to be a country doctor for two years,’ she said. ‘But there is nothing on earth that’d persuade me to swap my Petal for that…that…’

‘Don’t say it,’ he said urgently, and smiled. ‘That’s Moby Dick, christened by the boys, and Moby’s sensitive.’

‘Moby doesn’t look like he has a sensitive nerve in his body.’

‘Looks are deceptive.’ He hesitated. ‘But…you will drive it? Just until I get back? Rachel, I can’t tell you…’

‘I don’t want you to tell me,’ she said, the anger he’d sensed from the start resurfacing. ‘We all do what we have to do, Dr Lavery, and if that involves me driving Moby Dick…’

‘And taking responsibility for two small boys. And starting work three days early. It’s a huge ask.’

‘It’s not an ask. It’s just what is,’ she said. ‘Whatever what is needs to be faced, and there’s no use arguing. And for you… What is includes doing what you need to do for your stepsons. You’ve failed in that department already today so it’s time to do better.’

Her anger was right there, in his face. Her brown eyes were flashing. Challenging.

‘You’re judging me?’ he demanded.

‘Of course I am. You really think Christine is a reliable childminder?’

‘I had no choice.’

‘Isn’t keeping kids safe the most important choice of all?’ She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to collect herself. ‘That’s your business, however. I don’t know your circumstances. It’s not serious enough to report to the authorities…’

‘The authorities,’ he said, gobsmacked. ‘You’d go there?’

‘If I think children are seriously neglected, of course,’ she snapped. ‘Stepfather or not.’

‘Is this your background speaking?’

That silenced her. She stared at him blankly for a moment before responding. ‘What…what do you know of my background?’

‘I’m the grandson of Roger Lavery. I’m a trustee for his scholarship fund. I read your application.’

‘Then forget it,’ she snapped, the picture of outrage. ‘As my colleague, it smacks of prying, and it has no bearing on what’s happening now. Dr Lavery, I have to organise myself if I’m to stay with your boys and so do you. The evac chopper should be here soon. You have packing to do, plus explaining to Henry and Marcus what’s happening. They’re confused and upset and they’re still with the appalling Christine. So that’s your what is. They need to be reassured, Christine needs to be sacked and you need to get packed. Go do it, Dr Lavery. Ring Rose if you can, and tell her I’ll be there with my toothbrush in an hour.’

‘Rachel, I can’t tell you…’

‘Then don’t tell me,’ she said angrily. ‘And don’t you dare pry into my private business again. Just get things done.’

An hour later he was sitting in the rear of the evac chopper, wondering what on earth had happened.

How had it come to this?

Kit was asleep, courtesy of the strong painkillers he’d been given. The two paramedics on board were more than capable of taking care of Kit medically. Tom’s role was that of parent.

Parent.

The word still hung heavy.

He remembered the night Claire had asked him. ‘Please, Tom, will you marry me? I can’t think what else to do.’

What followed had been one marriage, three adoptions and Claire’s death, and his life had changed for ever. He sat in the helicopter looking down at one injured child, thinking he’d just dumped two others on a woman he hardly knew. This was a nightmare. And if Claire’s parents found out…

He raked his fingers through his hair, struggling to get his head around the logistics of this mess, and the paramedic next to him glanced at him in sympathy.

‘You’ve had a shock too, mate. We can set you up on the other stretcher if you like, give you a chance to close your eyes and regroup.’

It needed only this, to be treated as a patient.

But that was what he felt like at the moment, as if he’d been punched in the guts. He was so out of his depth.

Who was the woman in charge of his children? A fiery newcomer who’d judged him and found him wanting. A woman he’d met only hours before.

He had Roscoe in the background, he reminded himself, and he had Rose. They’d keep an eye on her.

But her anger stayed with him.

He looked down at Kit’s white face, at his limp little body. These kids had been through so much. And his lack of care had caused more pain… She’d been right to look at him with fury.

‘Lie down,’ the paramedic said again, gently, and he thought maybe he needed to.

He looked sick because that was how he felt.

What had she done, offering to mind two boys for days?

She didn’t get involved. Ever. What crazy impulse had led her to say she’d help out?

Medicine was what Rachel used to settle her and it was medicine she focused on now. She sat in Tom’s office and read through histories of the patients in the hospital. Five were elderly, recuperating from falls or waiting for home care arrangements. Three were here for rehab, transferred back from city hospitals, preparing to go home. One was a thirty-seven-weeks-pregnant mum with five kids at home. Tom had written in heavy letters—‘Bed rest until her sister arrives from Canada!’

The final history was that of a farmer with an infected leg after being kicked by a cow. According to the history, he was responding to antibiotics. There seemed nothing she couldn’t handle.

She did a round and introduced herself. Without exception, the patients were full of questions but she backed away fast. That was something else she’d been warned of with country medicine. ‘Everyone will know everything about you in two minutes.’

Tom Lavery already knew more about her than she was comfortable with. At least she could back away from patients before they got personal.

Roscoe found her as she saw the last one. ‘Everything’s arranged,’ he told her. ‘Christine’s feeling bad about what’s happened. Big of her, but she’s decided to be helpful. She’s moving her Aunt Rose in now. Rose will give everyone the hugs they need. The boys love her. If you can…your job is just to be there at the edges. Make sure Rose doesn’t start washing or scrubbing. She has osteoarthritis and her hip’s probably more painful than she’s letting on, but she loves the boys.’

‘That’s great,’ Rachel said, feeling relieved. ‘I can do whatever else needs to be done but the hugging is her department.’

She didn’t do hugging. Almost unconsciously, her fingers drifted to one of the bands of scar tissue she could still feel around her upper arms. After twenty-eight years she didn’t know how to hug. She didn’t know how to love, and she had no intention of trying.

So now what?

‘Roy Matheson’s outside, checking the damage to your car,’ Roscoe told her. ‘Tom must have phoned him. All he needs is your keys and he reckons he’ll have her good as new in no time. Here are Doc’s keys for Moby Dick. We’ll call you back if we need you. Meanwhile, you go and do what you have to do.’ He hesitated. ‘You know how grateful we all are that you’re doing this? It’s really generous.’

‘I hardly had a choice.’ She couldn’t help it; her voice sounded waspish.

‘You could have refused. We’d have found a way. This is a tight community. If you hadn’t offered we’d have muddled through somehow. No one’s left in the lurch here. We care.’

And why did that make her feel weird?

Her childhood. The loneliness.

No one’s left in the lurch here.

Enough. She gave herself a mental shake and took the proffered car keys. She needed to find… Moby Dick? She also needed to figure out the boundaries of the next few days.

For boundaries had to be set, she told herself. Boundaries were what she lived within.

She could do this.

But at the back of her mind a question was niggling. She’d wanted to ask Roscoe but her boundaries had stopped her.

These were Tom’s stepsons—what on earth was a man doing with three kids who weren’t his own?

Hadn’t he heard of boundaries?

CHAPTER THREE

THREE DAYS LATER the medevac chopper deposited Tom and a recuperating Kit back home, on the landing pad three hundred metres from Shallow Bay Hospital.

They’d arrived earlier than Tom had expected. Air transfer was available only in emergencies. Transfer home to Shallow Bay wasn’t classified as an emergency. That meant Tom had been trying to decide whether to hire a car or wait for road ambulance transfer. However, on Monday morning a scuba diver had come up too fast after a dive south of Shallow Bay. Worse, he’d gone diving alone. He was in extremis when his friends found him and he’d died before they’d found somewhere with enough mobile coverage to ring emergency services.

The coroner needed the body and the coroner was in Sydney. Thus the chopper was on its way, but there was no rush. The crew who’d taken Tom and Kit to Sydney had kept tabs on where Kit’s treatment was up to. Kit’s hand was stable, with no more need for specialist intervention. They’d been offered a ride back.

Thus they rode back in style, arriving at Shallow Bay mid-morning. Tom emerged from the chopper and lifted Kit down after him. A still shaky Kit stood by his side until Roscoe drove up to meet them.

‘Hey!’ he boomed in greeting, and Tom was aware of a wash of relief at the sight of his friend’s broad smile, at the hug Roscoe was giving Kit. ‘It’s great to see you, mate,’ he told Kit and then he straightened and grinned at Tom. ‘And you too.’ Tom’s hand was enveloped; the hold was tantamount to a hug, and Tom felt better for it. ‘It’s great to have you back.’

‘The place hasn’t fallen apart without us?’ Tom took Kit’s good hand and held on because the little boy was still shaky. His arm was a swathe of white under his sling but it wasn’t only the shock and the injury that was making him shaky, Tom thought. These kids had had their foundations shaken by their mother’s death.

‘All good,’ Roscoe was saying. ‘You’ve hardly been missed. Our Dr Rachel is a beauty.’

‘Really?’

‘Efficiency R Us,’ Roscoe said. ‘You have no idea how a ward round should be conducted until you see Our Rachel at work. She can get a full history in less than three minutes. The patients don’t know what’s hit them.’

‘You’re saying she cuts corners?’

‘I didn’t imply that at all,’ Roscoe said, swinging Kit up into his arms, giving Tom the illusion—at least for a moment—that responsibility was shared. ‘No corner dares to be cut on Dr Rachel’s watch. Now, mate,’ he said to Kit, ‘where are you up to?’

‘We’ll be keeping Kit in hospital for the next few days,’ Tom told him. ‘Until his stitches are out.’ The job the plastic surgeons had done on Kit’s hand was stunning but broken stitches could see him being sent back to Sydney. There was no way he was letting Kit near his rough-and-tumble brothers until they were out.

He’d need to spend time with him, running through the exercises the hand therapist had set. At least with Rachel here he’d have the time. To have an efficient colleague was a blessing.

But what Roscoe was saying had sown doubts. He thought of the frail, elderly patients in his hospital, their need for human contact, for reassurance, and he thought, Three minutes for a history?

‘Where’s Rachel now?’ he asked.

‘On a house call,’ Roscoe said. ‘Herbert Daly. District nurse asked if she’ll check his legs. He has three ulcers now, but the old coot won’t take care of them, nor will he come in. But Rachel’s on to it. Expect to see him in Ward One by lunchtime.’

‘She’s bossy?’

‘Just organised,’ Roscoe said. ‘You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Now, Kit, I’m betting your dad would like to take your gear home and catch up with Rose. Your brothers are both at school. How lucky are you to get this time off? Let’s get you settled into the kids’ ward. We have the best video games, plus Xavier Trentham’s in there with a broken leg. He fell out of a tree on Saturday. He’s in your class, isn’t he? Dr Rachel’s fixed his leg but she’s keeping him in hospital until the swelling goes down and she can put a proper cast on. Meanwhile, he’s aching for company. Come in and help him fight it out with Battle-Axe Warriors or whatever you kids play when we leave you alone with those game consoles. Tom will be back to see you within an hour, right, Tom?’

‘Why do I feel like I’m being organised?’ Tom said faintly and Roscoe chuckled.

‘It’s rubbing off,’ he said. ‘The Rachel effect. She’s here for two years—I can’t begin to imagine how we’ll be by the end of it.’

‘Assembly line medicine?’

‘She’s not that bad,’ Roscoe said. ‘She’s good.’

But underneath Tom thought he heard doubt.

‘Go see Rose and she’ll tell you the same,’ Roscoe said and lifted Kit into the car.

‘I’ll walk,’ Tom said, grabbing his gear. ‘It’s only five minutes. It’ll give me space to get my head organised.’

‘See, what did I tell you?’ Roscoe said and chuckled again. ‘Organisation. The Rachel effect already.’

The lovely, dependable Rose was settled on the living room window seat overlooking the bay when he arrived. He paused at the door, taking in the scene before she realised he’d returned.

This place had been his grandparents’ home, where he’d come for holidays as a kid. He’d loved it. He’d had freedom to wander. He’d learned to surf here. The locals had always made him welcome, had always treated him as a local.

But then his career had taken off and life had become frenetic, fun, city-centric. With his grandparents dead, his parents overseas, there’d been little reason to come back to Shallow Bay. It was only when he’d been landed with three grieving kids that he’d thought the only place they could be happy was here.

There’d been no other way. Decision made, he’d moved them here and tried to be content with the messy, kid-filled space his life had become.

But it wasn’t messy now. Rose was sitting with her feet up, placidly knitting. That part felt normal. The rest of it, though, wasn’t normal in the least. His usually messy house looked as if some sort of whirling dervish had swept through, but instead of creating chaos it had transformed it into… Home Beautiful?

Occasionally, during his bachelor existence, after the cleaner had been in, his city apartment had looked this tidy, but this was different. Not only was his house tidy, it seemed to have been transformed.

The furniture was arranged differently, invitingly, not wherever the kids had hauled it to get it out of the way when they were playing. Rugs were neat, vacuumed, not a wrinkle in sight. The pictures on the walls, seascapes painted by his grandmother, pictures he hadn’t even realised were out of line, were now in straight lines. A couple that had descended to be propped on the floor had been rehung.

There was more. The jumble of seashells—generations of family beachcombing left in dusty piles wherever—was now arranged on a side table, with a couple of pieces of driftwood supporting them. Instead of a jumble, the shells now looked like an eye-catching art installation. The kids’ books and puzzles were tidy but, more than that, they’d been arranged in enticing stacks. There was a jar of native bottlebrush on the sideboard, crimson, gorgeous.

Tuffy, the kids’ fox terrier, bought in desperation from a rescue shelter in those first appalling weeks after Claire’s death, had been asleep on the mat. He’d sensed Tom’s arrival now and was rising to greet him. Last week Tom had been dumb enough to give him a bone and the resulting mess had still been horrible when he’d had to leave. Now he looked brushed, washed, almost presentable.

‘Rachel’s an amazing lady.’ Rose had now realised he was there and was smiling a welcome. ‘Welcome home. She hasn’t let me do anything.’

‘So don’t do anything now,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘I’d like to go home if I can,’ she said, rising and packing away her knitting. ‘I’ll come back before the boys get home from school. Rachel and I have it organised. Tell me, how’s Kit?’

He told her and her face cleared. ‘Well, that’s wonderful. We can go back to our old arrangement then, me being on call as needed. But Rachel tells me she’s here too, if I need her. She’s very bossy about my hip. I haven’t felt so fussed over for years.’

‘She sounds…bossy.’ Tom had stooped to pat Tuffy but he was still looking around the room, still trying to figure all the differences.

‘She likes to be busy,’ Rose said, and he heard the same doubt he’d heard in Roscoe’s voice. ‘She’s kind, but she can’t sit still. Last night there was a lovely movie on the telly but she was polishing every shell while she watched it.’

‘That’s…great.’

‘And cooking. She has three casseroles and two pies in the freezer for you. I told her I usually cook for you and she said, “Not with your hip.”’

‘I’ll thank her.’

‘You do that,’ she said and then she paused. ‘Oh, here’s your car now. She must be dropping by to check on me before she goes back to the hospital. She makes me feel like I’m a patient myself.’ She paused. ‘Not that I’m not grateful, but I’ll slip out the back way and leave you two together.’ And she gathered her knitting and disappeared.

Tom Lavery was on the rug in front of the fire. He was scratching behind the ears of the misbegotten little mutt the kids called Tuffy. Tuffy was practically turning inside out with pleasure.

And for some reason the sight of this man stopped Rachel in her tracks.

She had things to do. She’d dropped by to make sure Rose was okay, and then she was due at clinic. Tom’s call to Roscoe had said he’d be back some time today. She hadn’t expected him this early.

He was tall, six two or maybe more. His dark brown hair was a bit unruly, tousled, sun-bleached at the ends. He was wearing casual chinos and a short-sleeved khaki shirt. His deep green eyes were crinkled at the edges—from the sun? As he looked up at her she thought he looked weary.

He’d have been at Kit’s bedside for most of the last few days, she thought, remembering legions of parents watching over their kids in the paediatric wards of her training days. Some hospitals provided beds for parents, but medical imperatives and the needs of scared, ill or hurting children meant sleep was hardly ever an option.

There’d be a reason this guy looked haggard.

And maybe tiredness was a constant state for him. Roscoe had filled her in on his background over the weekend, not because she’d asked—he’d just told her.

‘Tom was a surgeon in Sydney until the boys’ mother died,’ he’d told her. ‘Their dad disappeared. Tom’s all they’ve got.’

The boys were his stepsons. He’d married their mother and then she’d died, Roscoe had told her.

But how could he care so much for kids who weren’t his? It was beyond her but looking at him now she had no doubt that he did care, and he was exhausted because of it.

Roscoe’s story had made her feel more than a little guilty that she’d let her prejudice show when she’d first met him. He might be a stepdad, but stepfathers shouldn’t all be tarred by the same brush. It was just the word. Stepfather… After all these years it still made her feel ill.

‘Welcome home,’ she said now, trying for a smile. His obvious weariness seemed to be making something twist inside her. Normal sympathy for a tired and worried parent? For some reason it felt more than that, and the sensation made her unsettled.

‘How’s Kit?’ she asked, pushing aside her niggle of unease, heading back to talk medicine. Work was always safest.

‘Roscoe’s putting him into a bed in the kids’ ward,’ he told her. ‘The surgery’s gone well. Flexor tendons were damaged as well as nerves but the surgeon’s done a great job and he has every hope that there’ll be no long-term damage. If he was an only child I’d bring him home, but he and his brothers play rough. He has a protective plaster so maybe I’m being ultra-cautious, but given how far we are from help I’d prefer him to stay where he is until the stitches are out. He knows I’ll be in and out. Henry and Marcus can visit. It’s good to have him home.’

Then he gazed around the room again, slowly, as if taking it in. ‘It’s good to be home too,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your care.’

She followed his gaze, noting with satisfaction that nothing had been disturbed after her clean. ‘You’re welcome. I’m not bad at dusting and polishing.’

‘It’s not actually the dusting and polishing I’m thanking you for,’ he told her with a slightly crooked smile. ‘That’s great, but with three kids I’ve pretty much learned not to value them. It’s for starting at the hospital three days early, but mostly it’s for caring for Marcus and Henry—and for Rose too. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

‘It’s just what needed to be done.’ She shifted uncomfortably. He was thanking her for care rather than cooking and cleaning? She didn’t care, at least not in the emotional sense. She did what she had to do to keep her world functioning as it should, to keep her patients safe, to keep herself safe. She accepted responsibility when she had to, but that was as far as it went.

Caring was something that had been driven out of her from a time so long ago she could scarcely remember.

So now…she looked at Tom’s weary smile, seeing the telltale lines of strain around his eyes, and she thought it wasn’t caring to accept a little more responsibility. It was simply doing what needed to be done.

‘You look like you could do with a sleep,’ she told him. ‘Why don’t you take a nap now? Roscoe and I have things covered. There’s nothing urgent. We don’t need you.’

‘I’d like to see everyone, though,’ he said diffidently. ‘You’ve been out to see Herbert Daly?’

‘His son’s bringing him into hospital,’ she told him. ‘He should have been in days ago, but he’s stubborn. I had to insist.’

‘He likes his own space,’ Tom said neutrally. ‘But you’re right—he could do with some bed rest. What about the rest of our patients?’

‘Frances Ludeman’s still in. Her blood pressure’s still up but only mildly. It was only after her husband brought the other five kids in to visit that I saw why you wanted her to stay.’

‘She needs all the rest she can get,’ Tom said. ‘And Roscoe says Xavier Trentham’s in the kids’ ward.’

‘Fractured tibia. It’s a clean break but he fell through a hedge and there’s too much swelling to cast it yet. Like your Kit, there’s too much chaos at home for him to be safe without the cast.’

‘Chaos?’

‘Other kids.’

‘Right.’ He gave her an odd, sideways it looked like she didn’t understand. It felt strange, doing what seemed like a medical handover in his living room, but efficiency seemed to be called for. He moved on. ‘Bob’s infection from the cow kick?’

‘There’s still some necrosis. He wants to go home but I’ve said another three days.’

‘He’ll hate another three days. We can probably organise him to go home with visits from district nursing.’

‘He’ll need more than just nursing. He’ll need to be checked, by you or by me.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Why? It’s much easier to keep him in hospital.’

‘Yes, but he has problems,’ he told her. ‘Have you met his wife?’

‘I gave Lois an update yesterday. She’s accepted that he won’t be home until Thursday at soonest. He has no choice.’

‘He does have a choice. I’ll organise it.’

‘Why?’ she asked, startled. ‘You can hardly do house calls. He lives fifteen minutes out of town.’

‘I don’t mind. Lois’s stressed herself. She has high blood pressure, and she worries about a daughter living in New Zealand. I suspect they care for her financially and that’s pushing the farm income. I don’t want Lois ill.’

‘But it’s Bob who’s your patient.’

‘I need to care for them all,’ he said simply. ‘Like I need to go do a ward round now.’

She stilled. ‘I’ve already done a round. You don’t trust that I’ve looked after them?’

‘I’m not saying that.’ He was watching her as if he was trying to understand something that was puzzling him. ‘Rachel, this is a country medical practice. We don’t treat patients in isolation. Every person comes with a story around them, farms that need tending, debts, kid worries, elderly parent concerns. If you ignore them then they come back to bite you. This is your first shot at family medicine, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re only doing it because of the scholarship?’

‘I’m hugely grateful for the scholarship,’ she said, a bit awkwardly.

‘But family medicine isn’t what you want long-term?’

‘I’m pushing for radiology.’

‘Where you don’t need to look much past the image to the patient.’

‘Is that a criticism?’

‘Of course it’s not.’ He shrugged, and once again she had the impression of deep weariness. ‘Heaven knows we need good radiologists—they helped save Kit’s hand. But here it’s purely country practice, and country practice means looking out for everyone. If we leave Bob in hospital for much longer, Lois’s blood pressure will go through the roof. We send him home.’

His tone was final. Fair enough, she conceded. Tom was, after all, the senior doctor in this set-up. But to choose to do house calls when there was an alternative… She’d had to do a couple already and they made her uneasy. It felt like stepping into an intimate space she had no right to enter.

‘I’ll do the house calls,’ he told her. ‘If they worry you.’

How had he guessed? Was her face so transparent?

‘We share the work,’ she told him brusquely. ‘My contract says full-time family practice for two years. I can do it.’

‘You’ll be a better radiologist for time spent in family medicine,’ he said, still with that odd assessing look on his face. ‘Believe it or not, I believe I’m becoming a better doctor because of it. And I can still do some surgery, which is my passion.’

‘You’re joking. How much surgery can you perform here?’

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ he admitted. ‘But I do the small stuff. Ferndale has specialists, but it’s a hard drive, all curves and kangaroos. Cath Harrison’s the anaesthetist there. She comes over to Shallow Bay once a week or so, and we do a list together. Simple stuff that would be a pain for the locals to have to go to Ferndale—or Sydney—to get done. It keeps me happy.’

‘But it’s simple surgery.’ How on earth could it make him content? ‘So how can you say you’re a better doctor because of what you’re doing here?’

‘Because I’m learning to treat the whole patient,’ he told her. ‘I hope you can get what that means. But now… I’ll head over to do a ward round and then get to clinic.’

‘I’m running the clinic and there’s no necessity to do a ward round. I told you. Everyone’s sorted.’

‘So Roscoe said.’ Once again she got that wash of weariness. This man should be in bed, but he wasn’t going there. ‘I need to see everyone…for me,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not doubting your medicine.’

‘Then why aren’t you being sensible?’ She knew she was sounding stubborn, but so was he.

He took a deep breath, regrouping. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘You take clinic, as long as you ring me for any problems, but I will do a ward round.’

‘You don’t trust me.’

‘I do trust you. Your credentials are impeccable.’

‘Then what?’

‘Rachel, it’s just because I care for them as people,’ he said, sounding a bit helpless. ‘I need to see for myself how everyone’s doing, and it’s not just the medical side I’m interested in.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Which is why you’re here for two years and I’m stuck here for life,’ he said, and suddenly his voice was grim. ‘As doctors… Rachel, you and I might have belonged to the same species once upon a time, but now… Well, somehow, I’ve evolved into a different breed. Darwin might have said I’ve evolved through necessity, for survival. Your survival’s assured. You’re just marking time before you can head back to your own world. But here, Dr Tilding, I need you to pretend to evolve, just for two years. You’re useless here without caring.’

Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. That’s probably too big a statement. You obviously do care. You’re responsible and you’re generous and I’m deeply grateful. Believe me, I’m grateful for what you’ve already done. Anything else has to be an extra.’

They walked back to the hospital together, but they walked in silence. He’d offended her, Tom thought. He knew what he’d said had been clumsy, but he was too tired to get the nuances right.

So now she walked beside him and he couldn’t think where to take it. And it wasn’t just tiredness that was throwing him. Would he have accused any other doctor of not caring? After she’d spent the last three days doing just that, it seemed unfair.

There was something about her that had him off balance.

She was gorgeous. Half a head smaller than he was, she was packaged just right. Bouncy brown curls—well, he’d seen them bouncy, though she had them tied up tight now. Brown eyes, nicely spaced. A wide, generous mouth and a smattering of freckles. She was dressed conservatively—too conservatively for such a warm day, in neat black trousers and a long-sleeved shirt—but her plain clothes didn’t disguise the curves underneath.

It wasn’t the fact that she was cute—well, more than cute—that had him off balance, but he didn’t know why.

Was it the bleak notes in her scholarship application? Was it the way she’d said the word stepfather, as if the name itself conjured horror? Was it the anger he’d seen when she’d thought the boys were neglected?

Or was it the traces of fear that appeared and disappeared, as if there were things, emotions, Rachel Tilding was still hiding?

How did you get over a childhood of neglect?

Tom had had a blessed childhood. His father had left Shallow Bay early—‘I can’t stand the sight of blood—there’s no way I could have done medicine.’ He’d done law, been hugely successful, moved into politics and then into international diplomacy. His mother’s career was equally impressive. Tom’s arrival had been an accident—they’d been too busy to have children—but in the end they’d welcomed him. They were a power couple but their love for their only son had been unstinting.

As his grandparents’ love had been. Tom had had the run of embassies, of political powerhouses, and of Shallow Bay. He’d learned languages, he’d studied, he’d surfed, he’d dated gorgeous women, he’d had fun.

He’d also rescued things. Anything. Beetles lying upside down on wet paths. Unwanted kittens. Bullied kids at school.

He couldn’t bear to see hurt, even though sometimes caring caused chaos.

Like the time he’d brought a huntsman spider home, a female, laden with a huge egg sac. He’d found it at the back of the lockers at school, missing two legs, and decided to rehome it in the laundry. He’d forgotten to tell his mother—who’d found about a thousand baby spiders in her clean washing.

Like the first time he’d seen Claire, being yelled at by her father as she was dropped off at infant school.

Like the time Claire had phoned him after her diagnosis. ‘Please, Tom, help me…’

Was the same drive to fix things attracting him to Rachel? He’d always been a sucker for the needy. He knew it.

‘It’s just the way you’re made,’ he told himself. ‘It’s in your DNA. So leave it. Rachel doesn’t need you. She’s tough and she’s bright and she’ll do what it takes to get on in life. You do the same.’

It made sound sense.

So why did a niggle of doubt tell him that life was about to get more complicated?

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WEEK THAT followed was busy but not frantic—thanks to Rachel. Her efficiency might set some patients’ backs up, it might make Tom edgy, but there was no doubting that it lowered his workload.

Heather Lewis, breeder of Hereford cattle, president of the local Country Women’s Association and stander of no nonsense, met him in the car park late on Friday. He’d just returned from a house call. Heather sauntered over to meet him, a big woman, bluff, kind, bossy. Ready to gossip.

‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ she said without preamble.

‘You mean Rachel?’

‘I’ve just been to see her for my foot. Fungal infection. She gave me a script, instructions and a lecture about wearing wet boots. In and out in five minutes. That’s my kind of medicine.’

‘Hmm,’ he said doubtfully. It was the kind of medicine Heather liked, and mostly it was what people needed, but how many consultations were that easy?

‘And she’s here for two years. We need to get her involved. Does she play tennis? Ride a horse? Play mah-jong? I tried asking but she brushed me off. Fair enough, it was a medical consult after all. But what’s she interested in, Tom? How can we pull her into the community?’

‘I have no idea,’ he said faintly. ‘She seems to like keeping herself to herself.’

‘But she’s there when you need her. It was trial by fire, landing her with your boys last week. She must be a good’un. Worth prodding below the surface.’

‘I guess.’

‘And she’s single,’ Heather went on relentlessly. ‘There’s a thought, Doc. You and her… You could surely use help with those boys. You still got Kit in hospital?’

‘He’ll be home tomorrow.’

‘They’re a handful. A partner would be good. You might want to think about it.’ And Heather drove away and left him standing.

Think about what?

Rachel?

A love life?

Ha.

Even if he had the time for such things—which he didn’t—even if there was a possibility of dating when he was solely responsible for the care of three troubled kids… Rachel? An uptight, self-contained woman who’d stepped in when needed but who’d stepped away fast.

As any woman would from his situation.

But the niggle he’d felt almost a week ago was growing, and as he walked back into the hospital he allowed himself a moment to think about it. Rachel Tilding was about as far from his type of woman as it was possible to get. BK—Before Kids—he’d had a definite kind of partner. Not serious—never serious. He liked feisty, fun women who didn’t take life too seriously. Women who could give as much as they got, who demanded no promises, who didn’t cling, who were happy to step into his world and then out again as life called them in a different direction.

There didn’t seem a lot of joy in Rachel Tilding’s world. Life seemed serious. Organised.

He put the idea firmly aside, heading in to walk through the wards and say hi to everyone who’d appreciate a visit. There wasn’t much for him to do medically. Rachel had obviously done her rounds earlier. Charts had been filled in. Every need had been met.

Except talking. He talked his way round the hospital now, calming worries, explaining, listening. Just being there.

His final visit for the day was Kit. Tom had been in a few times during the day, as much as he could manage. Now he found him engrossed in a battleship conflict. His friend, Xavier, was still in the next bed. There’d been no pressure on the ward, so the decision had been made to keep them longer. They were both due to go home in the morning.

Tom got a short greeting between battles—plus a quick, one-armed hug which was a message on its own. Kit might be content for the moment, but he was still needy.

Finally he headed home. From the track he could see Rose in her favourite seat. She’d be knitting while the kids watched the telly show they always watched on Friday nights. He’d go in, say goodnight to Rose and then cook his standard Friday night fare of hamburgers.

And try not to miss Friday nights of the past. Socialising. Fun.

Suddenly he was hesitating. Rachel’s arrival really had made a difference. It was only five-thirty, far earlier than he usually finished. The ingredients for hamburgers were in the fridge and Rose would enjoy putting them together. She liked eating with the boys. It was a warm night. The beach beckoned.

He could use some me time.

Ten minutes later he’d headed back to town and bought two low-alcohol beers—he was on call. A sunset, a beer, time to reflect—it wasn’t up to the standard of Friday nights of his past, but it’d have to do.

He parked outside his cottage. Rose saw him from the window. He waved towards the beach, put his finger to his mouth in a signal for her not to tell the boys, and she waved back her acknowledgement.

Bless her, he thought. She’d guess he needed space. What would he do without her?

Life was okay, he told himself as he walked down the beach path. He had a great housekeeper. He had a colleague to share his work, to halve his call roster.

He had two low-alcohol stubbies to celebrate Friday night.

Alone.

‘Morose R Us,’ he muttered as he headed down the track. ‘Get over it.’ There wasn’t a thing he could do about his situation and self-pity would get him nowhere. He needed to be grateful that Kit was okay, that Rose was giving him space, that he had two stubbies—and he had a new colleague.

He rounded the bend that blocked the view of the bay from the track—and his new colleague was sitting on the sand in front of him.

She’d obviously been swimming. Her hair, normally tied tightly back, had come loose and was coiling wetly down her bare back. She was wearing a simple one-piece bathing suit. She looked…

Gorgeous?

She swivelled and struggled to her feet, grabbing her towel to cover herself—and all he could see was fear.

She hauled the towel up in front of her.

Not fast enough.

Every time he’d seen this woman she’d been wearing long sleeves. At work she wore formal business-type blouses, tucked into trousers or skirts. At home she wore long-sleeved T-shirts with jeans or shorts.

He thought of the first time he’d seen her, with Kit. She’d been wearing a long-sleeved shirt then. It had been covered with blood and looked truly shocking.

What he saw now, in the moment before she hauled the towel around her, seemed just as shocking.

Blotches were etched deep into the skin of her upper arms. No, not blotches. Scars. Many scars. He hardly had time to see them though, before the towel was wrapped around her, shutting them from view.

She was standing now, fear fading as she realised who he was. But she took a step back, making a clear delineation between the two of them.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, her voice shaky. ‘I shouldn’t have sat so close to the path.’

‘And I should have whistled as I walked,’ he told her, trying to drive away the panic he still sensed. ‘I usually do. It scares the Joe Blakes.’

‘Joe Blakes?’

‘What the locals call snakes. The advice is to sing as you walk, but if you heard me sing you’d know that it’d scare more than Joe Blakes.’

‘Are there snakes here?’ Her voice was still shaky but he knew it wasn’t from fear of snakes. Why was she frightened?

‘I doubt it,’ he told her, gentling his voice. ‘It pays to be careful, but we haven’t seen any in the dunes for ages. They’re more scared of us than we are of them. The boys’ noise will be keeping them at bay.’

‘Oh,’ she said neutrally, and he could see her fight to get her face under control. Her towel was drawn tight, concealing all.

Or not quite. One of the scars was just above her breast. Until now he’d put her long sleeved tops and high necklines down to her general uptightness. Now…

He’d seen scars like this. A long time ago. In paediatric ward during his training.

Abuse.

Cigarette burns.

Hell.

‘Rachel…’

‘I was just going,’ she stammered, reaching down for her bag. ‘I came down for a swim after work, to get some peace. I imagine that’s what you want, too. I’ll leave you to it.’

She was ready to bolt.

Cigarette burns.

He knew nothing about this woman apart from the fact that she had an impeccable medical record—and she’d won his grandfather’s scholarship. And there’d been foster homes.

Her scars were completely covered now, and he couldn’t ask. Maybe she hoped he hadn’t seen them.

He had to leave it like that, but he didn’t want her to bolt. There were ghosts behind this woman’s façade, and he was intrigued.

‘You know, once upon a time when I finished work on Friday nights I’d head to the pub beside the hospital,’ he told her, casually moving so he wasn’t blocking her way. So she knew she could leave if she wanted to. ‘Half the medics we worked with would be there. I can’t remember a single moment of peace but I wouldn’t have missed it for quids. Noise, laughter, a general debrief of the week’s traumas. Friends.’

He looked down at the two stubbies he was carrying and made a decision, right there and then, that the supreme sacrifice was called for.

‘So the drinks menu here might be limited,’ he told her. ‘But, in memory of all those Friday nights, I’m very happy to share. Do you drink beer?’

The fear and shock were subsiding. She had herself together. Almost. ‘I need to go home,’ she said.

‘No, I need to go home,’ he told her. ‘But not yet.’ Why did he get the feeling she wanted to run? He was sensing his way, the same way he’d approach a scared and wounded child. Or a startled kangaroo. ‘The roster says I’m on call tonight, not you,’ he said. ‘The boys are at home, but Rose is with them and they’re happy and settled. Kit’s safely in hospital. My phone’s in my pocket and I can be there in minutes if I’m called. I have a sliver of time to myself.’

‘Which is why you need peace.’

‘Which is why I need company,’ he said bluntly. ‘Of the adult variety. Of the colleague variety. Which is why I’m making the extraordinary gesture of offering you one of my precious stubbies.’

She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his mind. Then she looked down at his stubbies.

‘You brought two.’

‘And I’m offering you one. You can’t imagine how generous that makes me feel.’

Her lips twitched, just a little.

‘Beer,’ she said.

‘I know, a piña colada with a sliver of lime and a wee umbrella would be more appropriate, but the ice would have melted while I walked down here. You want to slum it with me?’ And before she could answer he plonked himself down on the sand.

She stood, looking down at him. Disconcerted? She was torn—he could sense it. Part of her wanted to leave, but it would have been a rebuff.

He set the stubbies in the sand and waited. Stay or go? He was aware, suddenly, that he was holding his breath. Hoping?

Why? She was simply a colleague, paying her dues for two years before she got on with her life.

Or…what? Was that a tiny sliver of hope? A resurrection of something he’d once taken for granted?

Like a love life.

Heather’s words came back to him. Dumb. Ridiculous. He knew it.

Still, he kind of hoped she’d stay.

‘I don’t mind a beer,’ she said tentatively, and he grimaced.

‘Lady, you’re going to have to do better than that. I carried two stubbies all the way down here. That’s a fair commitment on my part. So now I’m offering to share, but not with someone who “doesn’t mind a beer.” It has to be “I’d love a beer” or nothing.’

And suddenly she smiled. He’d seen her smile before, greeting patients, being pleasant, but her smiles had been tight, smiles to put people at ease. This one, though, was something much more. It was a wide, white smile with a chuckle behind it.

Cute.

More than cute. Gorgeous.

‘My lukewarm response was simply because you pre-empted your kind invitation with a vision of piña colada and umbrella,’ she admitted and, splendidly, she sat herself down on the sand again. But where most women—most anybody—would set the towel down and sit on it, she kept it firmly wrapped around her arms, a cover for what lay beneath.

‘Where in Shallow Bay would I get a piña colada?’ she asked, and he had to stop thinking about scars on arms and focus on what was important. Piña coladas.

‘Dougal’s pub doesn’t run to them, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘I had to twist his arm to stock low-alcohol beer. Apparently, it’s for sissies.’

‘Or doctors on call.’

‘As you say. So…beer or no beer?’

And her smile flashed out again. ‘I really would love a beer.’

That smile… He found himself grinning to match, though he wasn’t actually sure what he was grinning about. She disconcerted him and he didn’t understand that either.

So back to basics. He twisted the ring-pull and handed her a bottle, then did the same for himself. ‘Here’s to the end of your first week,’ he told her, clinking bottles. ‘May your next week be not so exciting.’

‘Apart from the first couple of hours when your son tried to stab himself to death, it hasn’t been very exciting at all,’ she told him. She took a swig of her beer and seemed to enjoy it. ‘I suspect it’s been a lot more exciting for you, and I’m so glad it’s turned out well.’

‘You and me both. And I’m incredibly grateful. I wish it could have been piña colada.’

‘I told you, I’d love a beer.’ She held up her bottle and regarded it with affection. ‘The fact that I’ve been on the beach for two hours and forgot my water bottle—and there’s no piña colada in sight—has nothing to do with it. Beer’s great.’

And there was the smile again. He liked it. A lot.

‘But wouldn’t you be more comfortable drinking your beer at home?’ she queried, and he thought, She’s made the decision to come down here—alone. It confirmed what he was learning of her. She was a woman who valued her own company, which made what she’d offered to do last weekend even more extraordinary.

‘The kids are at home,’ he said. ‘Added to that, they have a video game which requires at least three players. It involves bombs and flames and dragon babies turning into things I don’t want to think about.’

‘So…’ she said cautiously. ‘They play it a lot?’

‘Is that a judgement?’

‘Hey, I’m no judge. I’m just happy to have intact windows.’

‘Yeah,’ he said morosely. ‘You and me both. The game’s okay. Fun, even. But, right now, they can’t play because, stupidly, I bought a game that needs at least three players. I bought it so they’d be forced to include Henry, who often gets left out. Unfortunately, Kit’s now away. Rose holds up her knitting like armour whenever they approach, so I’m their only available third man. It’s a wonder they didn’t have you playing last weekend.’

‘They tried,’ she said. ‘I was busy.’

‘Is that what you said?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why doesn’t that statement work for me?’

‘You’re obviously a softie,’ she told him. ‘But if you don’t like playing with them…’

He knew what she was asking. It was the question that he asked himself more than a dozen times a day. ‘You want to know why I took them on?’

‘It’s none of my business,’ she said hastily, and he sighed and took another swig of beer and wished he’d had the forethought to buy a dozen.

‘I do like playing with them,’ he admitted. ‘Mostly. But that’s what got me into trouble in the first place.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Their mother was my best friend,’ he said simply. ‘We were mates from pre-school, right through med. school and beyond. Never lovers, though. Claire had appalling taste in men, from the time she kissed Terry Hopkins behind the shelter sheds when she was ten. Hopkins used to squash snails down girls’ dresses. Why did she not see that could only end in tears?’

‘She married a snail-squasher?’

‘She escaped Terry Hopkins but she did worse. She married a serial cheat and a bully. Claire’s parents are loaded. Her father’s something huge in the financial world. My parents are wealthy enough, but they’re nothing compared to Claire’s. Steve took one look at only-child Claire’s inheritance prospects and moved right in. But as soon as they were married he reverted to the slimeball he was. He had affair after affair, treating Claire like dirt.’

‘Which left you as a friend.’

‘I’m godfather to each of them,’ he said, trying to eke out his beer to last through a bleak story. ‘And they’re great kids. Claire and I worked in the same hospital as interns. It was easy to help her out in emergencies. I didn’t mind taking them to soccer on Saturdays, doing the occasional childminding. It was even fun.’

‘Until…’

‘Until.’ He gave up on his stubby, planting it in the sand. It was still a quarter full but maybe he’d need it at the end.

He usually hated telling this story, but he glanced at Rachel and saw only casual interest—the sort of interest a doctor might show a patient describing symptoms. She wasn’t emotionally involved. She was simply a colleague who was…asking.

Strangely, it made it easier to keep talking. Every one of his friends had reacted to his story with dismay, horror, sympathy. Rachel was asking—because she’d like to know? Or because she thought she ought to ask. The differentiation was hard to make but somehow he appreciated it.

Her detachment made the story easier to tell.

‘Claire was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy when Henry was two,’ he told her. ‘She collapsed at work. Dramatic. Awful. If she hadn’t been in a hospital when it happened she would have died but she pulled through. Just. By this time Creepy Steve was almost a thing of the past and her illness was the last straw. He never had time for the kids and when Claire fell ill, when her parents made it clear there’d be no money for him, ever, he signed over rights to access to his kids and was heard of no more.’

‘Which left Claire alone.’

‘Yeah.’ He stared into the middle distance, remembering her terror. Remembering his own fear. ‘She had irreversible pulmonary hypertension, a contraindication for a heart transplant, but a transplant did end up buying her enough time to think about the boys’ future without her. While she was ill her parents took her and the boys back into their home. She had enough time to accept the boys could never be happy with her parents as sole carers.’

‘Why not?’ Weirdly, once again she seemed detached. The way she was, he wouldn’t be surprised if she produced a clipboard from her beach bag and started taking notes.

But her detached manner helped. He found himself wanting to outline the events that had propelled him here.

‘Her parents are…overpowering,’ he told her. ‘Because we’d been friends for so long I already knew that. Claire had been pushed as a child, really pushed. Ballet, piano, violin, gym—polo, for heaven’s sake—and she was expected to be brilliant at everything. To be honest, I suspect that’s why she fell for Creepy Steve and the other creeps before him—it was a dumb attempt to rebel. I gather, after she fell ill, the relationship with her parents grew more strained. Anyway, even before she had the transplant she knew the odds—she knew she wasn’t going to be around long-term for the boys. In the end she was desperate for me to have some influence in the way they were raised—so she asked me to marry her and adopt them.’

What followed was silence. Normally friends or colleagues jumped in at that point in the story. Not Rachel. She seemed to be taking her time to think it through.

‘That was some ask,’ she said at last. ‘I can’t imagine how it made you feel.’

‘We were good friends,’ he said diffidently. ‘And it wasn’t as if marrying and settling down was my style.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘I worked, I surfed, I had fun. Family wasn’t on my radar. And we thought—Claire and I both thought—that it’d be simple enough. If by some miracle she survived long-term then we’d divorce. If she died, then her parents would do the hard yards of parenting—they saw the boys as their responsibility and had already made it clear that’s what they wanted. I’d just be around on the edges, giving them another long-term person for security, but with enough legal authority to step in if her parents pushed too hard.’

‘Still, it’s a big deal.’

‘You wouldn’t have done it?’

‘You said marrying wasn’t your style. It’s so far off my radar it’s another world. That kind of involvement—any kind of personal involvement—isn’t my scene.’

‘Really?’ He eyed her curiously and once again that sense of a clipboard between them came into his mind. ‘Yet last weekend you were there for me.’

‘There wasn’t a choice. Not that I minded. It was a finite commitment with the end in view. What you’re describing… Long-term involvement seems a given.’

‘There was no way I thought it’d interfere with my Friday nights though,’ he said with another rueful look down at his beer. ‘But look at me now.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She died,’ he said simply. ‘She tried for another transplant, which went horribly wrong—she was never going to be strong enough to deal with it and she knew it, but her parents were fighting with every means they had. When it was over the boys stayed living with them and I tried to take up where we’d left off, seeing them occasionally, taking them to soccer. Only it didn’t work. The kids got quiet. You know the rule in Emergency? Triage? A kid comes in screaming its lungs out and a kid comes in limp and silent. Which one needs attention? The limp one every time, and they were limp.’

‘So…a problem.’

‘Claire had given me custody in her will,’ he said. ‘She didn’t think I’d need it. All she’d asked is that I accept the power to override her parents if they did anything I knew she’d hate. So I kept hanging out with them, being a mate rather than a dad. But the months wore on and they kept getting quieter. I knew things weren’t right, but I couldn’t nail it.

‘And then one night I went around and they’d just brought their school reports home. School reports for kids. Henry was in infant class. You know the kind of report? Henry: A+ for finger painting, A+ for tying shoelaces. But Kit, who was two years older, had a slightly more precise report. Kit is struggling a little. B-for reading. The housekeeper let me in, and I could hear a row. I walked into the study and Claire’s dad had them lined up, waving reports in his hand and blasting Kit. Almost spitting into his face. “You let a five-year-old beat you. What are you? A pansy? You take after your no-good father. No grandchild of mine lets a five-year-old beat him, you good-for-nothing little…”’

He fell silent, remembering the sick horror as he’d realised what had to be done. By him.

Friday nights were the least of it.

‘They’d been authoritarian with Claire in her childhood,’ he said, speaking almost to himself rather than Rachel. ‘That’s why she worried, but she knew they loved her, and she thought they loved her boys. But when she died… I think their grief has left them a little unhinged. It doesn’t help that the boys all have Steve’s red hair—they look like him. I’m no psychologist but it seems there’s a part of them that can’t bear the boys to be…not Claire? I looked at them that night and saw no softness, only determination that the boys fall into line. And the things the old man said when I tried to defend them… It was almost like he was blaming the boys for her death.’

‘So you stepped in.’

‘It couldn’t continue,’ he said heavily. ‘They were determined to keep control, but I had the authority and I had them out of the house almost before they realised what I was doing. That night we sat up and watched dumb movies and ate junk food and didn’t talk about report cards once. I had a one-bedroom hospital apartment. They slept on the floor and I didn’t hear a complaint. I was then hit by a battalion of lawyers, plus Charles and Marjorie practically hounding the boys. Losing control was unthinkable. They were at the school gates, demanding the boys come home with them. They were calling me everything under the sun…’

He broke off. It was too much to recall—his struggle to explain that if they’d just back off, give the boys a bit of space, let them be kids, then things could work. His realisation that it wasn’t going to happen. The acceptance that his life had to change.

‘In the end I knew it’d never work,’ he said. ‘I started looking for another apartment, but when the old man hired a couple of thugs to collect the kids from school, thugs who were prepared to see me off with force, I just…’ He stopped, closed his eyes, then forced himself to go on. ‘I quit at the hospital. I knew this place was here. My grandparents built this house and it still belonged to me. I knew Shallow Bay could use any doctor they could get, so here we are.’

‘Safe,’ she said softly, almost a whisper.

‘Not quite safe,’ he told her. ‘Charles and Marjorie have applied for custody. Claire’s death might have left them a little unhinged, but as blood relatives they have a case and they’re powerful. They say their daughter was mentally unfit when she signed the adoption papers. I’m single, I work long hours, I need to use childminders. Regardless, my lawyers tell me they have little chance unless they can prove I’m an unfit parent. Which is why it’s important they don’t find out about Kit’s hand.’

‘That was hardly your fault.’

‘They won’t see it like that.’ He was confronting his worries now. There was something about this place, this woman…

No. It was simply that there’d been no one to talk to for so long. With Rachel… She seemed dispassionate, almost like a psychoanalyst, letting him go where he willed with no judgement. It was a weird sensation and he wasn’t sure why he was reacting to it, but the need to talk was almost overpowering.

‘Marcus is too serious,’ he told her. ‘He blames himself for Kit’s hand. He blames himself for everything. When his grandfather looked like he was about to hit Kit, Marcus shoved himself in between. ‘Hit me instead,’ he was yelling. ‘My report’s worse.’ Only of course it wasn’t, and afterwards he even asked me if he should try and fail a few tests at school to make Kit feel better.

‘Henry’s littler, less complicated, but he has nightmares. I carry a radio in my pocket. If I’m called out at night Rose listens in and so do I. It’s not great, not even totally safe, but it’s the best I can do when I’ve been on call twenty-four-seven. So Rose and I hear the minute he wakes and it’s a race to see who can get there first. Because of what I do, it’s usually Rose but he holds himself rigid, sweating, until I get there.’

He paused. Was he waiting for her to comment? She didn’t, just watched him, waiting for him to continue.

He wasn’t even sure if she was interested but… What was it with this woman?

‘And then Kit,’ he said. ‘Left alone… Well, his cut hand is the least of it. Sometimes he wants me to be there for him, but not often. Tonight he hugged me, but that’s unusual. There’s a part of him that actively tries to drive me away. It’s like he’s testing me, expecting me to leave like his parents, thinking the sooner it happens the sooner he’ll get it over with. So how do I break through that?’

Once again she didn’t answer. He finished his beer and stared at the empty bottle. Rachel gazed out over the ocean, watching the water turn a soft tangerine with the reflections of the setting sun. Somehow she seemed to be melting into herself, folding, tucking herself neatly away—to where no one could touch her? To where personal stories didn’t hurt?

‘Your parents?’ she said, almost absently, and why should he answer that? But he did.

‘Loving but absent,’ he told her. ‘Overseas. Caught up in their careers. These kids have nothing to do with them.’ And for the life of him he couldn’t keep his voice from sounding bleak.

He heard it and he flinched. He sounded needy. Him. He didn’t need anyone.

Except he did need help for the boys, and he didn’t know where to begin to ask.

The silence stretched. It seemed they were both staring into the future. Or the past?

What was her story? She wasn’t saying.

‘Kids are resilient,’ she said at last, breaking the spell. She stood up and brushed the sand from her legs. ‘You’re doing the best you can. They’ll survive.’

‘Like you survived?’

She froze at that. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Cigarette burns,’ he said neutrally. ‘Unmistakable once you’ve treated them.’

‘And none of your business.’

‘So I spill my all to you…’

‘And I don’t spill back.’ She shrugged. ‘You’ve been generous but one low-alcohol beer does not a contract make. I need to go home. I’m hungry.’

‘We have hamburgers at my place.’

A glimmer of humour returned and her lips twitched. ‘So you’re asking…what? You’ll give me a hamburger in return for me being third man in Dragon Doom or whatever?’

‘Hey, I never said…’

‘You didn’t need to. I guessed. So, no, thank you.’ The smile was still there. ‘I have home-made lasagne, which will heat while I’m in the shower. Then I have a date with a movie. So while Dragons are tempting, sorry. Bye.’

Home-made lasagne. A movie. Maybe a bottle of wine. It was like a siren’s song and it was so far out of his list of possibilities that he couldn’t even think about it.

He rose as well, aware of emptiness. Of leaving without her.

And then his phone vibrated.

He closed his eyes for a second, but this was almost inevitable, a call on Friday night. Why not?

He snagged his phone from his pocket. Unknown number. Local.

Work.

‘Dr Lavery.’

‘Doc? It’s Col Hunter here.’

His phone was set on loudspeaker—he set it every night as he left work because of the times he had to listen over the racket the kids were making. Col’s voice was deep and booming, disturbing the silence of the beach, but Tom left it on loud. After all, Rachel was a colleague.

‘How can I help you?’ Already he knew there was trouble. Underlying Col’s booming voice he could hear pain.

‘I fell over the pig,’ Col managed. ‘Got her in, got her fed, thought she had her snout in the trough and then suddenly she’s shoving her way between me and the gate, trying to get out again. It’s me ’taters she wants, Doc. Spent all bloody summer trying to get a decent crop. She’s been watching me water ’em, fertilise ’em and now she wants ’em. Dutch Creams—the best ’taters you can get—and Mavis isn’t bloody having ’em.’

‘You’ve hurt yourself.’ Cut to the chase, Col.

‘It’s me hip,’ Col said. ‘Had to crawl inside. Managed to get the sty gate shut though, so I won. Bloody pig.’

Tom almost grinned but didn’t. Col was in his eighties and had suffered osteoarthritis for years. A fall, a damaged hip…

‘Is there anyone with you?’ he asked.

‘You know Pat left me years ago,’ Col managed. ‘“The pigs or me”, she said and off she went with some life insurance fella. Kids are both in Melbourne. Doc, I can’t seem to pull meself up. Reckon I need you, mate.’

‘I reckon you do, too,’ Tom told him. ‘Your place is right up the top of Bellbird Ridge, right?’

‘You got it. I remember you coming here with your grandpa when you were a little fella.’

‘I’m coming again now,’ Tom told him. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t move until I get there.’

‘You don’t need to tell me that, Doc,’ Col said. ‘Passed out twice getting to the phone. Not risking that again. But…could you make it fast?’

‘I’ll make it fast,’ Tom said. ‘Grit your teeth, mate. I’m on my way.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

Where had that come from? She wasn’t on call. She and Tom had sat down last Monday and defined their call duties. Tonight she was off—unless for emergencies.

This was hardly an emergency—an old man falling, possibly breaking a hip. Shallow Bay had an ambulance service of sorts, a vehicle equipped with stretchers, manned by volunteers trained in first aid. Tom could easily assess the damage and call her in if he needed her.

So why was she offering?

She had no idea. Maybe it was the slump of Tom’s shoulders as he disconnected, a slump that spoke of regret.

Why, though? If he was back in Sydney she’d understand it. He’d be leaving his friends, his good time. Here, this call would mean little more than being home late for children who weren’t his, children who were already being adequately cared for.

Except he did care. That was the part she was struggling with. Taking children from their grandparents when they were being obviously mistreated—that was understandable. He’d had no choice. But she’d met Rose. She knew that lady was a carer in a million. The boys were safe.

Tom had already confessed he didn’t want to play their video game. This was the perfect excuse. So why the shoulder slump?

She didn’t understand—but neither did she understand the imperative urge to help.

‘Rachel, thanks, but I need to go now.’ Tom was gathering the empty bottles, turning towards the track.

But she’d already hauled her dress over her swimsuit. She grabbed her beach bag and headed after him.

‘I can cope,’ he said as she fell in beside him. ‘There’s no need for you to come as well.’

‘You have trained paramedics?’

‘You know we don’t, but…’

‘But you’re sure I’d be useless? Tom, I can get you home to the boys faster. I’d go by myself but I don’t know the way and risk getting lost. Plus you’ve already told him you’re coming and it sounds as if he knows you.’

‘Everyone in Shallow Bay knows me,’ he said. He hadn’t eased his stride to accommodate her but she was keeping up.

‘Because you came here as a child?’

‘The people here loved my grandparents,’ he said, talking briskly as he walked. ‘My grandpa cared for everyone. My grandmother wasn’t a doctor but she cared even more. They only had the one child, my dad, but that didn’t stop their house being stuffed to the plimsoll line with people in need, stray dogs, pot plants Grandma was looking after for people in hospital—whatever. I was supposed to have my own bedroom in the school holidays, but in the end I carved out a niche in the attic and called it mine. I told Grandma if ever I found a needy anything in there, animal, mineral or vegetable, I was heading straight back to Sydney.’

‘Did you mean it?’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

‘And now you’re right back in the chaos.’

‘As you say,’ he said briefly.

They’d reached his car, parked outside his cottage. He paused. ‘I’ll duck in and tell Rose what’s happening. But there is no need for you to come.’

‘You don’t want help?’

He gave her an odd look, as if considering. Then he nodded. ‘Of course. Two doctors are always better than one.’

‘Which is why I’m here,’ Rachel said. ‘Instead of where we’d both be happier, back in Sydney.’

‘Okay, then,’ he told her and tossed her his phone. ‘Accepted. Can you find “ambulance” in Favourites? Maggie coordinates the ambulance volunteers. Tell her we need a car up at Col Hunter’s place. Probable fracture. No lights and sirens, though, take it easy.’

‘Why not lights and sirens?’ Surely there was a need for haste.

‘Because our volunteers love lights and sirens,’ he said grimly. ‘And it’s getting dark and the roads are narrow. Once upon a time I lived and breathed adrenaline but not any more. Shallow Bay might have two doctors now, Dr Tilding, but let’s not go asking for trouble.’

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