His Runaway Nurse

by Meredith Webber

  ‘Of course not!’ The agent recovered quickly. ‘It’d be ideal for a family, although…’ strained laughter ‘…you look far too young to have a family.’

  She was lying and Majella wondered why. Did an atmosphere of unhappiness haunt the old house? Did sad and lonely ghosts walk the verandas?

  True, she’d been unhappy there, and possibly her mother had been equally unhappy as she’d grown older, to have run away as she had. But even as a child Majella had known it wasn’t the house’s fault. The house itself had been special, bright and spacious, yet full of secret nooks and shadowy corners, as if the potential for happiness was lurking there, just hidden from her sight.

  ‘As I told you on the phone, the previous owner bred dogs—working dogs—kelpies—so there are kennels and runs behind the main building.’ The agent’s spiel continued. ‘With the town growing so rapidly, a new owner could start boarding kennels, and the stables, although they’re in poor repair at the moment, could be brought back into use. There are stalls for twelve horses. Do you ride? You could keep horses and start trail rides—they’d be popular.’

  Did she look so impoverished the agent thought she’d need an income? Majella wondered. True, her pension and Jeff’s insurance money hadn’t made her wealthy, but she had enough, and this project wasn’t about making money, but making a life for herself and Grace. Especially Grace. For how could Majella bring up a strong independent daughter if she hadn’t first established her own strength and independence?

  Tremors of what she told herself was excitement, not trepidation, ran down her spine as they drove beneath the high arch that hung above the cattle grid and up the long, tree-lined drive. The agent continued to chat, pointing out different out-buildings and fenced paddocks, but Majella had stopped listening, thinking instead of other times she’d been driven beneath the spreading trees—recognising the tremor now. Definitely trepidation.

  Although today there would be no grandfather waiting at the top of the steps—her report card in one hand and his riding crop in the other—no need for trepidation…

  But unless she was seeing things, someone was standing there—a tall, rangy figure in tan moleskins and a pale blue country-style shirt.

  Grandfather’s ghost?

  ‘That track leads around the back to the garages and the dog runs.’ The agent waved her hand towards the smaller side road. ‘But I can see the executor is here—right on time—so I’ll introduce you to him then let him show you through the house. I’ll be waiting right here at the bottom of the steps, when you’re ready to see more or go back to town.’

  I’ll wait with you, Majella felt like saying, but knowing this was the first small step towards the independence she sought, she opened the car door, and, with legs stubborn with reluctance, slid out of the high-set vehicle.

  The agent was already climbing the steps, talking to the man at the top, but although Majella knew she should follow, she turned and looked back down the drive, towards the stables on the left, half-hidden by the trees. Then she swung around, knowing it couldn’t possibly be her grandfather standing at the top of the steps, but hardly prepared for the man it proved to be.

  ‘Dr Sinclair, this is Mrs Sherwood, the client who phoned about the house.’

  The agent’s introduction was succinct—so much so it echoed in Majella’s head, over and over again, blocking her ability to think, or even make sense of the situation.

  Her feet took the steps, one by one, with an achingly familiar heavy tread, until she reached the top.

  ‘I’ll take over now,’ she heard Flynn say, then she felt his hand on her elbow, guiding her, steering her off the veranda, into the front hall—away from the agent.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re sheet white. Do you need to sit down?’

  Did she look about to faint? What had happened to the strong independent woman?

  Be practical!

  ‘You’re the executor of his will?’ Though now she thought about it, she shouldn’t be surprised. Her grandfather had always thought a lot of Flynn. ‘What do executors do exactly?’

  ‘Let’s sit down.’

  There was so much concern in his voice Majella forgot about being practical and looked at him—looked properly at him—seeing not the teenage Flynn she’d kissed in the stables that evening before she’d left but a man with blue eyes—worry in those sapphire depths right now—and soft black hair, tinged with grey already, and tiny laugh lines splaying out at each temple, white against his tanned skin.

  Broad shoulders. He’d filled out since his teenage years, although he still moved with the easy grace of a horseman. Strong hands, tanned, nails neatly pared—images of Flynn…

  Something fluttered in her chest, uncertainty and something else, and she whispered his name, talking to the man she saw, not the boy she remembered, the wonder of it all echoing in the word.

  ‘Oh, Flynn!’ she repeated, lifting her hand to touch his cheek, not knowing what else to say—not knowing what to think or what to feel—not knowing anything.

  After a moment that had lasted half a lifetime she moved away from him, into the living room, towards the window embrasure—one of the pleasant nooks she’d been remembering. So much for strength and independence.

  Once seated—and away from his immediate presence—she could think again. Tell herself it was natural Grandfather had appointed Flynn as executor of his will, and that it didn’t matter one jot. The house was up for auction, and it remained a house that suited her needs. More than that, it was the house she’d felt she had to see again—perhaps even buy, live in…

  Flynn could still feel the imprint of her hand on his cheek although the touch had been softer than a feather’s brush. Could still see her eyes—not the green of cats’ eyes, or the emerald of lush grass, but the pale translucent green of streams fed by snow-melt in the mountains—a colour, yet not a colour.

  He watched her move away, sit down; saw the sunlight catch the coloured beads plaited into her hair and heard the tinkle of tiny bells embedded in the braids. A stray sunbeam touched her cheek, gilding the skin, making the sprinkle of freckles across her neat, straight nose a darker shade of gold.

  And something shifted in his heart.

  ‘Mrs Sherwood?’

  She spun to face him, making him realise he’d repeated her name aloud.

  ‘Of course you’d be married. That’s just wonderful,’ he added lamely, although it didn’t feel wonderful. But, then, he was still trying to come to terms with Majella being right here in front of him—still astonished by her presence, although he had known she was in town.

  ‘And you?’ she asked, her voice the same—slightly hesitant, as if uncertain anyone would ever want to hear her speak. ‘Are you married, Flynn?’

  No one else had ever said his name as Majella did. She breathed it softly, lifting it at the end so it always seemed a question. He stared at her—at the braids and beads, at the clear pale skin and sprinkling of freckles, at the woman’s figure clad in jeans and a simple cotton shirt, covering curves that made his body unexpectedly stir—and his pulse beat a little faster.

  She’s married.

  A twinge of anger prickled at his nerves—a weak and shadowy reminder of the hot emotion he’d felt at her departure, at her desertion of the old man. At least, that’s what he assumed it was—the twinge.

  ‘No!’ he said, too loudly, making her frown as if she’d forgotten she’d asked a question. Then her face cleared and a teasing smile curled across her lips.

  ‘You don’t still believe that marriage is a sham, do you? Something invented by people selling dreams to gullible fools—wasn’t that how you used to put it?’

  She was changing the subject, he knew, but found himself defending his youthful cynicism.

  ‘Given my father’s track record, I had a right to think that way.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No one could have taken better care of their family than you did, Flynn, so you can’t possibly bel
ieve you’d follow in your father’s footsteps.’

  ‘Who knows? But my life isn’t the issue here.’ Irritated by the reminder of his brash young self, he spoke more abruptly than he’d intended, so his question, when he asked it, seemed to echo around the room.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  She frowned again, then she stood up and came towards him.

  ‘Flynn, this is awkward, I know. I felt that at the accident last night. I wanted so much to talk to you then, but you were busy, and I had Grace in the car—Grace is my daughter—I couldn’t stay. But we were friends once, can we not meet as friends again?’

  ‘Friends? When you left without so much as a word of farewell? Oh, your grandfather explained—other friends, no doubt more important friends than a nobody in Parragulla—had returned to school early and you wanted to join them.’

  Why was he repeating the old man’s story when he now knew, from the investigator’s enquiries, that the story was a lie?

  Because, whatever the reason she’d left, he still blamed her—blamed her departure—for the old man’s first debilitating stroke?

  Or because of his own sense of hurt and betrayal?

  Surely he’d got past that.

  ‘He said that?’ Majella whispered, stricken eyes meeting his, her obvious pain banishing his questions. ‘Oh, the wicked man! I knew he wouldn’t tell the truth, but I didn’t know what tale he’d put about. I’m sorry, Flynn, but I had to go.’

  ‘Had to go?’ Flynn repeated, but she’d turned away again, returning to the seat beneath the bay window, kneeling on it this time, looking out at the rolling acres that stretched down towards the gate.

  He waited, though for what he wasn’t sure.

  An explanation?

  What would it mean after all this time?

  Why did he care?

  He watched her, seeing the way the thumb of her left hand toyed with the fine gold wedding band.

  She was married…

  That was good, surely…

  Majella stared blindly out the window, knowing she could never tell Flynn the reason why she’d left.

  He might be angry with her now, but Flynn had always had a basic decency and a strong sense of what was right. He would be horrified—devastated—if he knew what had occurred that night.

  Thoughts and eyes came slowly into focus. She saw the car at the bottom of the front steps.

  ‘The agent’s waiting for me,’ she reminded him, not turning back towards him. ‘She said there’s some clause that might put the auction in doubt. Is the house for sale?’

  ‘It’s actually yours,’ Flynn told her, his lean face wiped clean of all emotion. ‘You mentioned a daughter. The will was complicated—there were conditions—I’m sorry but I really don’t have time to discuss all of them right now. But you’ve fulfilled the main ones—being married with a family…’

  ‘Are you saying Grandfather left me the house, but only if I met some stupid conditions?’

  Majella felt anger rage through her, and though it was directed at her Grandfather, it was fierce enough to burn away the Flynn-attraction she’d been feeling.

  ‘They weren’t that stupid.’ Flynn defended the old man automatically. ‘Considering how young you were when you left, he’d naturally have been concerned about you.’

  ‘Pigs might fly!’ Majella snapped.

  ‘He changed, Majella. He had a stroke two weeks after you left, and though he recovered quite well from that one, he had several more over the years and became completely bedridden.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to feel bad?’ Majella demanded, although she did feel bad—guilt squeezing at her chest. Could he really have cared for her in his own cold way? Enough that her departure had caused a stroke?

  ‘You’re supposed to understand why he included conditions,’ Flynn said, his voice taking on the bossy tones he’d used to her through most of their childhood.

  Bossy tones she’d longed to hear when she’d fled into that lonely night so long ago.

  If only she’d had Flynn to tell her what to do, she’d thought. But that had been impossible…

  But that had been then and this was now. Strength and independence, she reminded herself, and took a deep breath.

  ‘And the conditions were?’

  He studied her for a moment, then nodded his head as if conceding something in his mind.

  ‘As I said, it seems you’ve met the most important one. Parragulla House was to be yours providing you were married and had a family or had started a family within twelve months of your grandfather’s death. The actual date of this deadline is the first of October. I’ve been searching for you since he died—ads in papers asking for you or anyone who knew you to contact me or the solicitors, then a private—’

  ‘I had to be married and have a family in order to inherit the house?’ Majella’s incredulous demand broke into what, to Flynn, had seemed a very straightforward explanation.

  ‘Well, actually the condition states you have to be in a happy and stable marriage—those were the exact terms,’ he explained.

  ‘And just who was to be the judge of the happiness and stability of my marriage?’ she asked, icily cool but once again a Majella he recognised. She’d been the most docile child he’d ever met, yet every now and then, especially if she’d felt some injustice had been done, usually to a dog, or one of the horses, she’d get angrier than anyone he’d ever known. Not a hot, yelling, tantrum-type anger, but a cold, determined anger that had conquered by its very coolness.

  He hesitated, then reminded himself he was all grown up now and able to handle anything—including icy anger.

  ‘Well, me,’ he said, and heard his hesitation—not quite all grown up.

  ‘Were you married when he appointed you to make the decision? Happily married? With your own family? Well qualified to judge happiness and stability in someone else’s marriage?’

  ‘I’ve told you I’m not married and I haven’t ever been, but for heaven’s sake, Majella, you’re making too much of this. Do you think I wouldn’t take your word you’re happy? Can’t you see your grandfather wrote the clause because he wanted you to be happy? Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘No I can’t,’ she snapped. ‘All I can see is Grandfather’s love of power. He always believed his word was law, and this condition is just his way of manipulating me from the grave. Well, I’m not bowing to his will or playing his stupid game. I assume he left orders as to what happens to the house if I don’t fulfil his ridiculous conditions.’

  ‘If you haven’t inherited it within the twelve months, it’s to be sold at auction—hence the ad that’s been running in the papers for the auction on the eighth of October—we had to give people time to know about it. If that happens, the proceeds of the auction are to go to charity,’ Flynn told her. ‘But you’re being stubbornly stupid about this, Majella. All I have to do is meet your husband, and having done that, I can’t see why the property transfers can’t go ahead.’

  ‘My husband’s dead and I’ll buy the damned house—that’s what I came here to do in the first place!’

  And on that note she stormed out of the room, across the veranda and down the steps to where the agent waited in her car.

  ‘Well, that went well!’ Flynn muttered to himself, following more slowly, wondering how such tragic information as Majella’s husband being dead could make him feel both sorry for her and, in some other way, relieved.

  Majella walked swiftly away, proud of herself for not falling apart although her insides were as shaky as Grace’s jelly moulds, and her nerves vibrated with a tension she’d never felt before.

  Tension and anger!

  The tension she could understand—just being near Flynn reminded her of her girlhood crush on him, and the foolish fantasies she’d dreamed as she’d grown up.

  The anger was less easy to explain.

  Was it anger at her Grandfather?

  Or at Flynn for agreeing to be his mouthpiece?


  Or at herself for caring?

  She hadn’t expected Grandfather to leave her the house so she knew the anger wasn’t generated by disappointment.

  She sighed, greeted the agent cheerfully enough and, as they drove away, asked how much she thought the house was worth.

  ‘Because it’s within the magic two-hour radius of Melbourne—the distance people will drive for weekend escapes—and because it’s such a pretty town, Parragulla has become very popular and prices have gone up accordingly. But I’d say if the auction reaches one and a half, the executor would be happy.’

  ‘One and a half what?’ Majella echoed weakly. This was Parragulla, a small country town.

  ‘Million,’ the agent said blithely. ‘Maybe it could go as high as two, given the buildings and the variety of uses to which the place could be put.’

  Majella leaned back against the leather upholstery of the agent’s car, and sighed again.

  At least now she understood why the agent was thinking in terms of her running a business. Anyone who bought the place would have to have a hefty income…

  Flynn watched her leave, seeing the way her hips swayed as she moved, the graceful walk, not quite a glide, but silent, as if by passing quietly through life she’d not be noticed.

  Not be noticed when the promise of her teenage beauty had blossomed with maturity? When, even with her cloud of dark hair restrained by beads and braids, she’d turn heads, male or female, wherever she went?

  He walked slowly down the steps of the house that should, by rights, have been Majella’s—without any ties or bribes.

  His car was parked around the back—near the runs the old man had built for his dogs—and as Flynn climbed into the dirty, battered vehicle an image of a young Majella popped into his head. The small, slight girl standing in one of the runs, clasping a squirming kelpie pup to her chest, smiling in delight at its soft nuzzling. Then the old man appearing, frowning, his riding crop tapping against his leg.

  ‘The dogs are not pets,’ he’d told the child, who’d blanched and slipped the pup back into its pen, then scuttled away, up the steps, disappearing into the big house she’d shared with the old man.