The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby. Marion Lennox
damaged goods, like it or not.
He glanced up at Maggie and saw her face and saw what he was thinking reflected straight back at him. Anger, disgust, horror—and not at the tiny twisted feet. At the moron who’d gunned the car across the bridge, so desperate to dump the baby that he’d take risks. Or she’d take risks.
‘Surely it was a guy driving that car?’ Maggie whispered.
Sexist statement or not? He let it drift as he cleaned the tiny body. The little girl was relaxed now, almost soporific, sucking gently and close to sleep. She wasn’t responding to his touch—he could do anything he liked and it was a good opportunity to do a gentle, careful examination.
Maggie was letting him touch now. She was watching as he carefully manipulated the tiny feet, gently testing. As he felt her pulse. As he checked every inch of her and then suggested they lower her into the warm water.
She’d had enough of the bottle on board now to be safe. He doubted she’d respond—as some babies did—to immersion—and it was the easiest and fastest way to get her skin clean.
‘You’re a medic,’ Maggie said, because from the way he was examining her he knew it was obvious. And he knew, instinctively, that this was one smart woman.
‘Orthopaedic surgeon.’
She nodded as if he was confirming what she’d suspected. ‘Not a lot of babies, then?’
‘Um … no.’
‘But a lot of feet?’
‘I guess,’ he agreed, and she smiled at him, an odd little smile that he kind of … liked.
Restful, he thought. She was a restful woman. And then he thought suddenly, strongly, that she was the kind of woman he’d want around in a crisis.
He was very glad she was there.
But the priority wasn’t this woman’s smile. The priority was one abandoned baby. While Maggie held the bottle—the little girl was still peacefully sucking—he scooped her gently from her arms and lowered her into the warm water.
She hardly reacted, or if she did it was simply to relax even more. This little one had been fighting for survival, he thought. Fighting and losing. Now she was fed and the filth removed. She was in a warm bath in front of Maggie’s fire and she was safe. He glanced at Maggie and saw that faint smile again, and he thought that if he was in trouble, he might think of this woman as safety.
If this baby was to be dumped, there was no better place to dump her. Maggie would take care of her. He knew it. This was not a woman who walked away from responsibility.
He glanced around at the dogs on either side of the fire. His father’s dogs. When his father had gone into hospital for the last time he’d come down and seen them. They were cattle dogs, Border collies, born and raised on the farm. The last time he’d seen them—six months before his father had died—they’d been scrawny and neglected and he’d thought of the impossibility of taking them back to the city, of giving them any sort of life there.
His father hadn’t wanted him here—he’d practically yelled at him to get out. And he’d told him the dogs were none of his business.
Despite the old man’s opposition, he’d contacted the local hospital and asked for home visits by a district nurse.
Maggie had taken his father on, and the dogs, and when his father had died she’d suggested she take this place on as well. It had solved two problems—the dogs and an empty farmhouse.
This woman was a problem-solver. She’d solve this little one’s problems, too.
The baby had fallen asleep. Maggie removed the bottle, then took over from him, expertly bathing, carefully checking every inch of the baby’s skin, wincing at the extent of the nappy rash, checking arm and leg movement, frowning at a bruise on the baby’s shoulder. A bruise at this age … Put down hard? Dropped?
Hit?
‘There are basic baby clothes at the bottom of my bag,’ she said absently, all her attention on the baby. ‘And nappies. Will you fetch them?’
He did, thinking again that no matter who the lowlife was that had cared for the baby until now, at least they’d had the sense to bring her to the right place.
He brought the clothes back as Maggie scooped the baby out of the water, towelled her dry and anointed the sores. Looked again at her feet.
‘They should be being realigned now,’ he growled, watching as Maggie fingered the tiny toes. ‘Three weeks after birth … We’re missing the opportunity when the tissue is soft and malleable. The longer we leave it, the longer the treatment period.’
‘I’ve only seen this once before,’ Maggie said. ‘And not as severe as this.’
‘It’s severe,’ he said. ‘But fixable.’
‘We have basic X-ray facilities set up at my clinic—at the church hall,’ she said tentatively. ‘We’ve brought them in so I can see the difference between greenstick fractures and fractures where I need evacuation.’
‘We don’t need X-rays tonight. This is long-haul medical treatment.’
‘I don’t want to call out emergency services unless I have to.’ Maggie was still looking worried. ‘They have their hands full evacuating people who are being inundated, and in this rain there’s no safe place for the chopper to land.’
‘There’s no urgency.’
‘Then we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,’ she said, her face clearing, and she dressed the little one so gently he thought the dressing was almost a caress in itself. The baby hardly stirred. It was like she’d fought every inch of the way to survive and now she knew she was safe. She knew she was with Maggie.
Maggie wrapped her in her soft cashmere rug—the one she’d tugged from her settee—and handed her over to Blake. He took her without thinking, then sat by the fire with the sleeping baby in his arms as Maggie cleared up the mess.
She was a restful woman, he thought again. Methodical. Calm. How many women would take a child like this and simply sort what was needed? Taking her from peril to safe in an hour?
She was a midwife, he told himself. This was what she did.
This baby was her job.
She was gathering bottles, formula, nappies. Placing them in a basket.
A basket. He’d been drifting off in the warmth but suddenly he was wide awake. What the …?
‘Are you thinking we should take her to hospital?’ he asked. ‘I’m not driving over that bridge.’
‘Neither am I,’ she said, and brought the basket back to him. ‘She looks fine—okay, not fine, neglected, underweight, but nothing so urgent to warrant the risks of crossing the river again. I think she’ll be fine with you. I’m just packing what you need.’
‘Me?’
‘You,’ she said, gently but firmly. ‘Your baby tonight.’
‘I don’t want a baby,’ he said, stunned.
‘You think I do?’
‘She was brought to you.’
‘No,’ she said, still with that same gentleness, a gentleness with a rod of inflexibility straight through the centre. ‘She was brought to you. If I didn’t think you were capable of caring then I’d step in—of course I would—and I’m here for consulting at any time. But this little one is yours.’
‘What are you talking about? You’re the midwife.’
‘It’s got nothing to do about me being a midwife,’ she said, and searched the settee until she found what she was looking for. ‘I found this when you were making the formula. It was tucked