Outback Doctors/Outback Engagement/Outback Marriage/Outback Encounter

by Meredith Webber

  Blythe put the spoon back down in the bowl, her appetite completely gone. She thought she’d handled the astonishing conversation remarkably well, considering it was the second bout of evasive verbal action she’d had to take in one day.

  When Cal had first mentioned marriage, the juddering had started again—in fact, her heart had flopped around in her chest like a just landed fish in the bottom of a dinghy. But though she talked big about no-strings-attached sex, there was a bit of her, tucked deep inside where dreams dwelt, that knew marriage, for her, would have to be the real thing. She’d want love, and Cal certainly wasn’t offering love.

  And she’d want to have her loved one’s children, and he’d already pushed ‘family’ into the BTDT basket.

  She sighed, then looked up to find him watching her, the grey eyes narrowed as if he was trying to peer into her skull.

  ‘That was some sigh,’ he said. ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘I was thinking, if I keep eating Mrs R.’s desserts, I’ll have to book two adjacent seats on the bus when I eventually leave town. I’ll be too big to fit into one.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  BLYTHE tossed restlessly in her bed.

  She should be used to it by now! She’d been tossing around this way for ten days. Although her flippant remark about putting on weight had effectively ended Cal’s strange conversation the previous Monday, the ridiculous idea kept surfacing. Especially as he now seemed to be going out of his way to be pleasant to her. He appeared in the kitchen while she was having breakfast, ate lunch with her and had joined her in front of the television in the evenings. Even, a couple of nights, suggesting they take a walk after dinner.

  But she hadn’t fallen for that. If eating breakfast with a charming Cal Whitworth put her equilibrium in jeopardy, being out under the stars with him was like diving into a pool full of sharks!

  She knew he’d only put the ridiculous proposition to her—and was probably on this ‘be nice’ campaign—because of his determination to provide better rural medical services, so that wasn’t a worry.

  It was her own behaviour keeping her awake and tossing, night after night.

  First the judder, then the heart-wrenching exercise, then linking words like ‘love’ and ‘marriage’ in her mind and feeling excited about them. This was not the behaviour of the new-woman, sexually liberated Blythe.

  OK, so she hadn’t done much about putting her ideas into action but, then, she hadn’t really been attracted to anyone with whom she’d wish to trial them.

  Until she’d met Cal…

  No, it was useless speculating about Cal. Cal was out, both as a sexual adventure type of partner and a permanent one. The first because he was practically related, in a step kind of way, and also because she suspected she wouldn’t stay unemotionally involved—or should that be emotionally uninvolved?—and the second option was a no-go because the marriage he wanted was a different animal to the one she might eventually consider.

  But ruling Cal out of contention didn’t stop her remembering that Sunday evening’s kiss, or how it had burned against her lips, making her feel deliciously hot and cold at the same time.

  Just thinking about it made her feel hot without the cold right now, and in the end she gave up trying to sleep and walked out through the French doors onto the veranda that ran along the front and around both sides of the house, with access from all the bedrooms.

  She leant against the railing and looked up at the sky—at the myriad stars that never failed to fascinate her. She’d miss the night sky when she returned to the city. Though there’d be plenty of stars in the sky in Africa…

  Blythe shook her head. Conjuring up images of Africa no longer worked any magic. Maybe she could find another outback town—apply for a hospital position somewhere in the outback, or join a country practice…

  ‘Would you like something to help you sleep? A glass of warm milk? Mild sedative? You’ve had a couple of big days.’

  Cal’s voice was so quiet it seemed to fit right into the night, not startling her at all.

  ‘No, I’m fine, just couldn’t sleep,’ she said, turning from her contemplation of the sky to watch him approach.

  He stopped beside her, close but not touching.

  ‘You’re not using your stick,’ she said, and though she couldn’t see his face clearly, she sensed he was smiling.

  ‘No, I thought it would get in the way.’

  Then, before she had time to register the meaning of this cryptic comment, he put his hand on her shoulder and leaned forward, brushing his lips across hers so gently it might have been a fragment of the breeze that sighed softly through the bushes.

  But the breeze turned into a cyclone as he pressed closer, the kiss now demanding a response.

  Aware of his injury, but tired of fighting the attraction, Blythe slid her arm around his back and met his kiss with a fervour she couldn’t remember ever feeling before. He tasted of toothpaste, clean and cool, though the tongue that teased between her lips was hot and searching, forcing her to meet and match its exploration.

  As the intensity of the kiss deepened, Blythe felt her nipples tighten. She pressed closer, wanting to ease the tightness yet knowing it wouldn’t go away so easily. Blood throbbed through her veins, warming hidden places deep within her and making her skin tingle with desire.

  All this from a kiss?

  Her mind struggled to make sense of it, and reminded her this was not a good idea. It suggested Cal was doing this to prove his point about the attraction between them, and she should be backing off. But her body wanted to cling to Cal’s and her lips had no intention of losing contact with his.

  He’s injured, she reminded herself, but her hands knew this, avoiding where she might give pain and sliding up instead to press against the crisply cut hair, holding his head both to steady herself and to keep his mouth right where she wanted it.

  But he wasn’t playing fair, moving his lips from her mouth, pressing them against her temple, then teasing his tongue towards her ear.

  ‘No ears,’ she managed to murmur. ‘Drives me nuts.’

  ‘I’d love to drive you nuts.’

  It sounded like a threat—of the very nicest kind—or maybe a promise, but Blythe’s mind was so busy cataloguing sensations she hadn’t felt for a long time, she couldn’t waste time sorting threats from promises.

  ‘Maybe tie you to a bed with soft silk ropes and nibble on your ear until you begged for mercy.’

  His mouth was travelling south as he suggested this scenario, travelling to where the fine cotton nightdress she’d bought at Mrs Warburton’s was proving a very inadequate barrier to seeking, probing lips.

  ‘Such creamy skin—it drove me wild from the start,’ he murmured, and while Blythe bleated things about his shoulder, and this not being a very good idea, his tongue found her nipple, already rigid with excitement, and teased around it, firing heat and longing that speared down through her body to pool between her thighs.

  So what if he was nearly related, she decided. She’d handle christening-type embarrassment when it happened. The way she was feeling now, a little embarrassment would be a small price to pay…

  ‘You might not want to marry me, but would it hurt to give in to the attraction?’ His lips had found their way back to hers, and they asked the question she’d already answered in her head.

  But there was another question.

  ‘Your shoulder…’

  ‘It’s OK. It doesn’t hurt when it’s wrapped up and we’ll improvise.’

  Cal made it sound as if improvisation would be sexy and delicious fun, and more excitement heated Blythe’s skin yet brought goose-bumps out on her arms.

  Still kissing her, he manoeuvred the two of them towards his bedroom, part of the house she’d never entered.

  Or thought to…

  And improvise they did, for so long, and so thoroughly, Blythe was surprised to find herself able to function the following day.

  She’d woke
n in Cal’s bed, having eventually slept so deeply she hadn’t heard him leave it. He’d left her a note, explaining Mrs Robertson had driven him to the hospital so he could check the post-op patients.

  Which had also removed Mrs Robertson from the house so Blythe could scuttle back to her own room.

  She showered and dressed for work, then met up with the housekeeper in the kitchen.

  ‘You’re both up late today,’ Mrs R. remarked. ‘Cal was barely out of bed when I arrived.’

  ‘I think it’s all this country air.’ Blythe crossed her fingers behind her back as she said it, although this was more a fib than an outright lie.

  She fixed herself a bowl of cereal, then stirred the spoon around in it, not wanting to eat in case the anxiety gnawing at her stomach rejected the option of food.

  She carried it out to the patio, knowing she was late and should be hurrying but caught in the quicksand of morning-after doubts. Being outside didn’t alter the fact that unless she left town immediately, sooner or later she’d have to face Cal.

  Just thinking about the previous night made her skin heat, so how was she going to react to seeing him in daylight—greeting him—talking…

  Behave as if nothing had happened?

  Which was OK as long as she didn’t let her hormones loose. They’d be sure to want to do a bit of smooch-coochy touching stuff, which, any fool could tell, would not be Cal’s scene at all.

  It wasn’t really hers either, so why was she even thinking such a thing? Smoochy-coochying would probably make her more nauseous than the spoonful of cereal she’d just forced down.

  No, Cal had made it clear he was giving in to attraction when he’d first kissed her last night, and while it might have led to mutually satisfying—hell, it had been fantastic—sex, that’s all it had been.

  Perhaps she could take her cue from him. See how he behaved and follow suit.

  Yeah?

  This was a man who, in all the time she’d known him, had never shown any emotion. He would certainly do ‘cool’ far better than she could ever hope to.

  Blythe scraped the cereal into a pot plant, then had to pull leaves across the soggy flakes to cover the mess.

  A mess, that’s what this Cal situation was.

  So forget it and go to work.

  She sighed, but obeyed this sensible direction. Well, she might not have totally forgotten the problem, but she did hurry across to the surgery, where she was pleased to find the first appointment was even later than she was.

  It was a typical GP’s morning, syringing out a child’s ear, doing a postnatal check on a new mother then spending an enjoyable few minutes cooing over the six-week-old infant, checking an elderly man’s blood pressure and ordering blood tests to see if the vitamin B injections he was on were helping his anaemia—a mixed bag of patients, but all of them warmly appreciative of whatever she could do for them.

  Would marrying Cal be so bad? she found herself wondering as she took a break between patients to drink the coffee Cheryl had brought in.

  Forget Cal, phone Brisbane to see how Byron is. You haven’t checked for days!

  She did just that and was pleased to hear he was off the ventilator now, and would probably be released within days.

  Blythe was sure the coffee tasted better once she knew that. She set the empty cup aside and reached for the next file.

  Helen knocked then poked her head around the door.

  ‘Carly Anstead’s next. She’s a bad asthmatic and comes in for a new script for Ventolin. Mark’s been keeping an eye on her weight as well.’

  She seemed about to say more, but a teenager who had to be Carly was right behind her, and she waved the girl in then shut the door.

  Blythe introduced herself.

  ‘I know you must get sick of this every time you need a new prescription, but I’ve got to check you out—listen to your lungs, take your blood pressure, check your lung capacity.’

  ‘I know,’ Carly grouched ungraciously. ‘You do all this stuff but it doesn’t make me better.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Blythe was prepared to sympathise, but she was suddenly aware of undercurrents in the air between herself and her patient. Carly was displaying a wariness so strong it verged on paranoia.

  ‘And I don’t need weighing to make my asthma better,’ she snapped, confirming the vibes Blythe had been getting.

  She bent her head, reading Mark’s notes, seeing the words ‘eating disorder’ and a string of question marks after them. The recent weights were there as well, dropping steadily.

  Blythe stood up, handed Carly the peak-flow meter to measure the volume of expired air the girl could blow out.

  The result wasn’t bad, considering the asthmatic problem, and her chest sounded reasonably clear.

  Blythe talked to her about her medication—when she used the Ventolin, how often she had acute attacks that needed drugs administered through a nebuliser to ease the constriction. Carly answered easily, but when Blythe mentioned school, and how she handled attacks when she was there, the girl closed up again.

  ‘I don’t want everyone at school thinking I’m a freak,’ she snapped, when Blythe persisted.

  ‘So you don’t use your Ventolin even when you need it?’

  Carly answered with a scowl.

  ‘I know of a young person who died of an asthma attack on a school bus,’ Blythe told her. ‘Not because she was being silly, like you are when you don’t take medication, but because when she pulled her puffer out of her school bag, some kid grabbed it, just to tease her, and threw it to one of his mates, who continued the game. The bus driver didn’t realise what was happening, though he knew the kids were messing about and he yelled at them to stop. By the time anyone realised the girl was seriously ill, it was too late.’

  Blythe let the story hang in the air while she wrote out a new script for Carly.

  ‘I know sometimes, especially when you’re young, you have times when you think being dead might be better than being alive, but it really isn’t. It’s a cold, lonely place, and there’s no changing your mind once you’re there. Whereas while you’re alive, even if life seems to suck for a while, you know there’s always a chance it will get better. Maybe not straight away, but eventually.’

  She pushed the script across the desk to the young teenager.

  ‘Sometimes talking about things that are bothering you helps. I know there are some things you can’t talk about to your mother, and even to your friends, but there’s usually someone around. Doctors are good, or nurses at the hospital, or maybe a teacher you really like—even a primary teacher you liked when she taught you years ago.’

  She busied herself again, jotting notes in Carly’s file.

  ‘I’ll be here for another little while and if you don’t want to talk to me at an appointment, phone me at home—the doctor’s house number is in the phone book—and we could meet somewhere, or go for a drive.’

  She closed the file then looked up and smiled at Carly.

  ‘OK?’

  Carly nodded, and Blythe could see the tears that had filled her eyes.

  ‘Now’s OK, too,’ she said, coming around from behind her desk and kneeling beside the girl so she could put her arm around her shoulders. ‘If you want to talk now, we can.’

  Carly pressed her head against Blythe’s shoulder and sniffed.

  ‘I don’t want to be dead,’ she whimpered, then, as if ashamed of saying even that much, she moved away, standing up and hurrying from the room.

  Blythe thought about following her out, then decided that wouldn’t be a good idea. Forcing Carly to talk about her problems would be counter-productive. The girl had to be ready to share them with someone for there to be any hope of solving them.

  Helen came in again as Blythe was still staring at the door.

  ‘Kid problems all over the place,’ Helen said. ‘Cal just phoned to say his daughter Jenny is in trouble at school. His brother is flying down from the territory, and will collect Cal at th
e airport and they’ll both go on to Brisbane to see the girl.’

  ‘Jenny’s in trouble? Blythe felt her heart stutter to a standstill, then resume beating with rapid, uneven strokes. ‘She’s only a kid. What kind of trouble?’

  Helen shrugged.

  ‘No idea, but Cal’s not leaving until two. He said he’d see you at lunch.’

  At least with his mind focussed on his daughter I won’t need to worry about the ‘morning after’ scenario, Blythe told herself, but it didn’t make her feel any better. In fact, thinking about Cal worrying made her feel nauseous again. True, she hadn’t seen much of his children at the wedding, but she’d seen enough to make her realise he loved them dearly, and the way he talked about them—the way he phoned and emailed them—underlined his closeness.

  With an effort she forced her mind off Cal—for the second time today—to concentrate on work.

  ‘Is it serious, Jenny’s trouble?’

  Cal was in the kitchen, grim-faced and pale, when she walked in after surgery. A small travel bag was parked beside the back door.

  ‘Only in that she doesn’t want to stay at school, but, damn it all, she has to board. There’s really no alternative.’

  He put the plate of sandwiches Mrs Robertson had left for their lunch on the table, then rubbed his neck as if thinking about his daughter was causing physical pain.

  Though her fingers itched to touch him, Blythe resisted, concentrating on the conversation, not the memories of the previous night which just seeing him had brought back in vivid Technicolor. Accompanied by the urge for just a little smoochy-coochy stuff.

  ‘No alternative?’ she echoed. Surely there was always an alternative if one thought long and hard enough?

  ‘Well, this year she could continue School of the Air,’ Cal admitted. ‘But there’s only a few weeks of term left, so why not stay put? Then she starts high school next year, and though School of the Air caters for high school students, the supervision is much harder and Grace just isn’t prepared to take it on. Neither will she accept a new governess for Jenny, even if I pay for one.’