Rescued By The Single Dad Doc / The Midwife's Secret Child. Fiona McArthur
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.