What followed was nasty. Dom gave her as much analgesic as he could, but short of a general anaesthetic-‘and I’m not doing that on my own’-he couldn’t stop all the pain.
There was gravel, deeply embedded. She’d felt pain as she’d walked but there hadn’t been a choice. She’d just kept on walking.
‘Any other night there’d be traffic on that road,’ he told her. ‘But it’s the Thursday before Easter. The whole town’s either left for holidays or hunkered down with visitors.’
He was trying to distract her. She lay back and tried really hard not to think about what he was doing. He was making sure not one trace of gravel remained.
‘So why aren’t you either on holidays or hunkered down with visitors?’
‘Hey, I am,’ he said, smiling suddenly. She liked it a lot when he smiled, she decided. Normally his face looked strained. Like life was hard. But when he smiled the sun came out. It made her feel…silly. No, she chided herself. That was the morphine. One man’s smile shouldn’t make her feel silly. She was a very serious person. Or she would be if he’d stop smiling.
‘One woman with a sore foot,’ he was saying. ‘One dog and three puppies. That makes visitors. Pity about the Easter buns.’
‘The Easter buns?’
‘They didn’t rise,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I’m in all sorts of trouble. But don’t you worry about me. You just think about your own worries. Crashed car. Injured foot. Bruises all over and a messed-up holiday to boot. You keep thinking about them and let me get on with my own troubles. Easter buns as flat as pancakes.’
She chuckled. The sound surprised them both. He glanced up at her and grinned and then he went back to what he was doing. Ouch. Her smile faded. She bit her lip, then decided she needed to smile again. Suddenly it seemed really important to keep smiling.
‘It’s okay not to be a martyr,’ he said gently. ‘Swear if you want.’
‘I don’t swear,’ she said with an attempt at dignity.
‘I chop things.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I have an axe,’ he said. ‘When life gets tough-when things go wrong or when Gloria Fisher comes in with her something’s-wrong-with-me-middle complaint for the fourth time in a week and she still refuses to stop wearing too-tight corsets-I go outside and chop anything that comes to hand. Luckily there’s lots of old tree stumps on this place. I keep the family in firewood year round.’
‘Venting spleen?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you like I’ll let you borrow my axe. Only not tonight.’
And then, magically, he set aside his instruments. ‘All done. Now there’s nothing else you’re not telling me about? Pain-wise?’
‘I…No.’
‘You swear?’
‘My shoulders ache from carrying Marilyn. I suspect I’ll ache for a bit but I was well strapped in when the car rolled. I really will be okay.’
‘So who do we phone to come and get you?’
She blinked. She hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Charles. Her parents. Charles’s parents. Of course she should ring them. But it was, what, three in the morning, and they were angry with her already.
‘Family?’ he asked, and she nodded. Her parents were with Charles and Charles’s parents. The whole domestic catastrophe-except the one element that was supposed to complete the whole.
The pig in the middle. A small, rebellious pig.
‘You know, if you were heading to your parents’ for Easter and don’t want to wake them-if you’re sure they won’t be worrying-you’re welcome to sleep here,’ he said gently, watching her face. ‘I don’t want to move your dog until morning anyway. The settee’s as big as a bed and the fire’s comforting.’
She thought of the alternative. Ringing Charles. Waking Charles’s parents and her parents; scaring them with the news of another accident. They’d send Charles to fetch her. He’d be kind and supportive and not offer a word of reproach until she was over her shock. And…Taking Marilyn?
Aaagh.
Dom must be reading her face. He placed a last piece of dressing on her foot and touched her lightly on her ankle. It was a feather touch of reassurance, and why it had the capacity to make her feel reassured she had no idea. But, unaccountably, it did.
‘Hey, no drama,’ he said. ‘Your settee’s practically made for you anyway. But I do need a guarantee that no one will be looking for you.’
‘Not…my family. They’ll assume I stayed in Melbourne until the morning.’ They might even assume she’d decided not to come at all, she thought ruefully. She darn near hadn’t. ‘But if those yahoos saw me go over the cliff…’
‘They may have reported it. It’s unlikely, or you’d have been found before this. I’ll ring the local police and tell them if anyone reports a crashed car I have the driver safe. Okay. All sorted. And now the driver needs to sleep.’
And before she knew it, once again she was in his arms. Was this how country doctors transported patients? The thought made her feel silly again.
‘What?’ he asked as he carried her through the silent house.
The man was percipient, she thought. She’d allowed herself a tiny smile, meant only for herself, but he’d picked up on it.
‘I’m just thinking most hospitals have trolleys.’
‘Yeah, and hospital orderlies,’ he said with wry humour. ‘And nurses and regulations about lifting and role demarcation. But orderlies are in short supply around here. So lie back, pretend to be a really light suitcase and let me do my job.’
The man was seriously efficient. He set her in an armchair for a couple of minutes, disappeared and came back with linen, pillows and blankets. She watched as he made up her bed-faster than she’d thought possible. The man had real domestic skills. Except in making Easter buns.
‘Um…doesn’t your wife cook?’ she asked, but the idea didn’t last. She almost forgot the question before it was out of her mouth. The heat of the fire, the morphine and the events of the night were catching up with her. Her words were slurring.
He smiled back at her. ‘You want to concentrate on staying awake till your bed’s made.’
She tried. But as he lifted her over onto the fresh sheets, as he drew the blankets over her, she felt her lids drooping and no amount of effort could keep them from closing.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. It seemed enormously important to say it. ‘Thank you for everything.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said in an odd, thoughtful voice. ‘It’s all my pleasure, Dr Carmody. You go to sleep and don’t worry about a thing.’
He touched her face. There it was again-this…strangeness. It was a tiny gesture and why it should seem so personal…so right…
There was no figuring it out. She was too tired to try.
‘G’nigh’…’ she whispered.
She slept.
He should start Easter buns again. It was not much after three in the morning after all.
Yeah, right. Sod the buns.
He crouched by Marilyn for a bit, watching her breathe in, breathe out.
‘You keep on doing that,’ he told her, and she opened her big eyes. She looked up at him, and amazingly her tail moved, just a fraction.
‘You’re wonderful,’ he told her. ‘Just like your mistress.’
Her tail moved again.
‘Hey, that’s enough effort,’ he told her. ‘Go to sleep.’
He watched as she did just that. She was a wreck, he thought, a disaster washed up on the jagged rocks of human cruelty. Like so many disasters. He had two of them sleeping upstairs right now.
Could he keep Marilyn as well? Could he keep three pups?
Not and keep working, he thought bleakly. But, hey, they all might find homes. Scrubbed and cared for, Marilyn might look quite…attractive?
Um…no. This dog couldn’t look attractive in a million years. No matter what the care.
Would Erin take her?
But he’d watched Erin’s face as he�
��d said she shouldn’t move the dog tonight, the inference being when she moved so would the dog. He’d seen dismay.
‘So it’s up to me again,’ he told Marilyn, but then he gave himself a mental swipe to the side of the head. ‘Hey, that’s me being despondent. There’ll be all sorts of people just aching to give you a good home. A nice brick bungalow with room to romp, a couple of dog-loving kids, balls to chase, a pile of dog food so high you can’t see the top…’
He glanced into the sitting room toward the sleeping Erin. Was she the girl to provide it?
Maybe not. But, then, he thought, still hopeful, he’d really liked what he’d seen. For now he’d indulge his very own personal philosophy. Which was to worry about tomorrow tomorrow.
Finding homes for puppies was for tomorrow. Flat Easter buns were for tomorrow. Tonight-or what was left of it-was for sleep.
And maybe for letting himself think just a little bit about what sort of woman carried an injured dog so far…
CHAPTER THREE
S HE woke and she was being watched. She opened one eye, looked sideways at the door and two small heads ducked for cover.
She closed her eyes and waited for a bit. Testing herself out. She wiggled everything, really cautiously. Various protests started up in response, but compared to the pain of last night they were minor.
Then she wiggled her left foot and thought, no, not minor.
She opened her eyes again. Once more, two heads, but this time they didn’t withdraw.
One head was bright, carrot red, really curly. The other was mousy brown, dead straight.
Five or six years old, she guessed, and then she thought they didn’t look one bit like the man who’d helped her last night.
‘Hi,’ she said, and the redhead gave a nervous smile. He was the oldest. The younger one ducked back behind the door.
‘Dom said we’re not to wake you,’ Red-head said.
Dom. Hmm.
‘Dom’s your dad?’
‘Sort of,’ Red-head said, most unsatisfactorily. ‘He’s in the kitchen making breakfast. The buns didn’t work.’ This sounded like a tragedy of epic proportions.
‘But we’ve got puppies,’ the other little boy said from the anonymity of behind the door. ‘Only Dom said we’re not allowed to wake them, either.’
‘Well, I’m awake,’ Erin said, swinging her feet off the settee. Putting her right foot cautiously to the floor. Wondering if she dared do anything with her left foot. ‘Did your dad tell you I hurt my feet last night?’
‘He said you crashed your car off the cliff and you saved the dog by carrying her for miles and miles.’ Red-head was looking at her like he might look at Superman.
‘It was nothing,’ she said modestly. And then…‘Um…if you guys got on either side of me I might be able to make it to the kitchen.’
‘You want us to help?’ Red-head said.
‘I do.’
They thought about it. Finally Red-head nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, Nathan. We gotta help. I’m Martin,’ he added.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Martin,’ she said. ‘And Nathan. Can you help me hop?’
Nathan’s head appeared again. ‘Sometimes I help my mum go to the bathroom,’ he said, sounding wise far beyond his years. ‘Do you want us to help you to the bathroom?’
He was a child in a million.
‘Yes, please,’ she said gratefully, and a minute later she had a small, living crutch at each side. She was on her way, via the bathroom, to meet the doctor’s family.
They’d be ready at lunchtime. Maybe.
What sort of father forgot to buy Easter buns? Well, okay, he hadn’t forgotten, but he had forgotten to put in an order, he hadn’t reached the shops until three and they’d been sold out. So he’d thought, no problem, he’d buy yeast and make ’em. Piece of cake.
Not quite. Not even on this, his second try. And he ought to check on Erin.
The door swung open. Erin. And boys. The kids were standing on either side of her, acting as walking sticks. She’d arranged the cashmere throw like a sarong, tucking it into itself so it hung from just above her breasts. Her curls were cascading in a tumbled mess around her shoulders.
She looked…fabulous, he thought, so suddenly that he felt a jab of what might even be described as heart pain. Or heart panic?
Two deep breaths. Professional. She was a patient. Nothing more.
He’d been over the idea of heart pain a long time ago.
‘Hey, welcome to the world of up,’ he said, and managed a smile he hoped was detached and clinically appropriate. ‘I hope you’re not weight bearing on that foot.’
‘I have two great crutches,’ she said, and smiled. ‘One called Nathan and one called Martin.’
‘Great job, boys,’ he said, and nodded, and both little boys flushed with pleasure. Which gave him another jolt. It was hard to get these kids to smile.
Dammit, why had he forgotten the buns?
‘Are they ready yet?’ Martin asked, almost as the thought entered his head.
‘Easter buns are for this afternoon,’ he said, and he knew he sounded desperate.
‘You said we could have them for breakfast,’ Nathan said. ‘The kids at school say they eat buns on Good Friday morning.’
‘I’ve been eating them all week,’ Erin chipped in, and he cast her a look that he hoped put her right back in her place. Talk about helpful…Not.
‘Dom says Easter buns are for Easter and not before,’ Martin told her. ‘Like Easter eggs. He says if the bunny sees us eat an egg before Sunday he’ll know he doesn’t have to deliver eggs to our place.’
‘So if he sees you eat a bun before this morning you won’t get any?’ Erin ventured, eyeing Dom with caution. ‘Your dad’s a stickler for rules, then.’
‘Rules are good,’ Martin said, though he sounded doubtful.
‘They are good,’ Erin agreed. ‘As long as there aren’t interruptions, like dogs having puppies and ladies crashing their car to take a man’s mind off his baking.’
‘Actually, the buns flopped before…’ Dom started, but Erin shook her head.
‘One good deed deserves another,’ she said, smiling at him from the doorway with a smile that said she knew exactly how disconcerted he was. ‘You’re starting another batch now?’
‘I started an hour ago but the instructions say it takes five hours.’
‘At least,’ she said. ‘So your buns will have to be Buns Batch Two.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Do you have self-raising flour?’
‘Um…yes.’
‘Butter?’
‘Yes.’
‘And dried fruit, of course?’
‘Yes. Look, you can’t-’
‘Do very much at all,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘Marilyn and her puppies are asleep. There’s no job for me there. I’m just hanging around at a loose end in my very fetching sarong. But my foot does hurt. So what say you give me a chair and a bowl and all the ingredients I listed-oh, and milk. I need milk. And turn your oven to as hot as you can make it. In twenty minutes I guarantee you’ll have hot cross buns for breakfast.’
They did. True to her word, twenty minutes later they were wrapping themselves round absolutely delicious hot cross buns.
Or, to be more specific, hot cross scones, Dom conceded as he lathered butter onto his third. But who was nit-picking? He surely wasn’t. Neither were the boys. As per Erin’s instructions, they’d helped rub butter into the flour and helped her cut scones from the dough. They’d painted on glaze to make crosses, using sugar and egg white. They’d stood with their noses practically pressed against the glass oven door as the scones…buns!…rose in truly spectacular fashion. And now they were lining up for their third as well.
As was Erin. She was eating like she hadn’t eaten for a week. He thought back to the retching of the night before. She was running on empty. He should have given her something…
‘I wouldn’t have been able to eat even if
you’d offered,’ she said, and his gaze jerked to meets hers.
‘How did you know I was going to say-?’
‘I could see it,’ she said, wiping a daub of melted butter from her chin. ‘You had that look my intern gets when he forgets to take some really minor part of a patient history. Like how many legs my patient has.’
‘Like…’
‘I came on duty one morning a few weeks back,’ she continued, placidly reaching for another scone. ‘According to my intern’s notes, a patient who’d come in during the night was suffering from tingling in his legs. That was all it said. The nurses had set a cradle from his hips down so I couldn’t see. I chatted to the patient for a couple of minutes, then asked if he could wriggle his toes.’
‘And?’ She had him fascinated.
‘And he’d lost both legs in a motorbike accident twenty years ago,’ she said, glowering, obviously remembering a Very Embarrassing Moment. ‘He’d come in because he was getting weird tingling in his stumps and a bit of left-sided numbness. It transpired he’d had too much to drink, gone to sleep on a hard floor, then woken and panicked. I figured it out, but not before the students who were following me on my rounds did the world’s biggest snigger.’
‘So the look I had on my face just then…’
‘Yep. It was like my intern looked when I came out of the ward and asked why a small matter like lack of legs wasn’t in the patient notes. Last night all you did was not offer me a three-course meal when I was still queasy. So you can stop beating yourself up and pass me the jam.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said faintly. ‘These are great s…buns.’
‘They are, aren’t they?’ she said smugly. ‘I taught myself from the Australian Countrywomen’s Association Cookbook, circa 1978.’
‘Your mother didn’t teach you?’
‘No,’ she said shortly, and a shadow crossed her face.
‘Um…your mother…’ he started.
‘What about my mother?’
‘Will she have hot cross buns waiting for your arrival?’
A Special Kind Of Family Page 3
