Читать книгу Her Miracle Baby - Fiona Lowe, Fiona Lowe - Страница 8

‘IS HE always late?’

‘He’s a doctor, Meg.’ The pilot gave her a wry smile.

‘Now you tell me, Tom!’ She tried to laugh but her frustration strangled it. Standing on the tarmac with icy wind whipping her, she shielded her eyes and peered into the late-afternoon, winter sun, willing the other passenger they were waiting for to appear from behind the hangar.

She wanted to get home. She’d had her fill of Melbourne, five days in the ‘Big Smoke’ was long enough. Now she couldn’t wait to get back to the farm nestled in the Australian Alps, back to her job at the bush nursing centre, and back to check on her mother.

‘There he is.’ Tom pointed and moved toward a tall man, who had a ski bag slung casually over one broad shoulder and a travel bag on the other.

An irrational irritation zipped through her at the sight of the skis. She reminded herself that not all skiers were rich and obnoxious. Not all skiers were Graeme.

She watched, with the sun blurring their features, as the two men shook hands, and Tom relieved the doctor of the travel bag.

They walked toward her. To her horror she felt herself giving the passenger the once-over. His impressive height she’d noticed immediately but now he was closer she saw his chestnut hair, streaked with blond, kicking up behind his ears. To match that dishevelled look he had a two-day stubble, which outlined firm lips. Lips that suddenly curved upwards, along with his dark brows.

Hell, she’d been caught scoping him out.

‘Meg, this is Dr Cameron,’ Tom called out over his shoulder as he walked past to stow the skis into the wing lockers and the luggage into the back of the light plane. He secured it all with a mesh safety harness.

‘Call me Will.’ The man’s deep voice wrapped around her like hot chocolate on caramel. He smiled and stuck out his hand.

His large warm hand enveloped her cooler one, his heat transferring itself to her palm. But it didn’t stop there. It wove up her arm and deep into her body. Heat and tingles. Heat and quivers.

The delicious sensations unnerved her. It was the end of a long week, she was tired and cold, so of course she’d shiver. Her body was too tired to know what it was doing and was getting all its signals wrong. ‘Pleased to meet you, Will. I’m Meg Watson.’

‘Sorry to have kept you waiting in the cold, Meg.’

She looked up into hazel-green eyes ringed by long, thick black lashes—lashes most women would have killed to have. Kind eyes. Eyes that gazed into your soul.

‘Right, you two, get on board.’ Tom called them over.

‘Guess we better do as we’re told.’ Will grinned and released her hand. ‘After you.’

Her hand suddenly felt colder than before she’d met him, and she resisted the urge to shove it into her pocket. She stepped up onto the metal disc that was the step into the light plane. Holding on to the side of the doorway, she ducked her head, hauling herself into the familiar eight-seater plane. Except today there were only two seats for passengers, the rest of the space taken up with brown boxes. She sat down and immediately buckled her seat belt.

Tom did freight and passenger runs between the high country and Melbourne, and had done so for the last thirty years. Meg had known him all her life, and when Tom had insisted on flying her home from the nursing conference, she’d been happy to accept. The flight was a lot quicker than seven hours on the bus and she was desperate to get home.

Will’s height and bulk filled the plane as he brushed past and swung into the opposite seat, his long legs seeming to concertina into the cramped space. He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘I think they design these things for people less then six feet tall.’

She ignored the fluttering sensation that skipped along her veins at his smile. ‘She’s small but sturdy.’

‘Yep, Tom loves this plane, that’s for sure.’

Long, tanned fingers dexterously snapped his seat belt into place across his lap, their actions mesmerising Meg.

‘Tom’s been flying me to Mt Hume since I was a kid.’ He gave a sharp tug to tighten the belt, and turned slightly to face her. ‘So the snow report is looking fantastic. We’re in for a great weekend with all that soft powder in the back country.’ Enthusiasm and anticipation wove through his voice.

Meg swallowed a sigh. If Will Cameron had been flying to Mt Hume since he was a kid then he’d been some rich kid. And it seemed the tradition continued—now he was a rich skiing adult. He represented the demographic Meg’s home town needed yet disliked. Laurelton depended on the money skiers brought into the town, but too often the skiers used and abused the hospitality. Used and abused the fragile alpine environment.

Used and abused the locals. Meg knew the story personally. Graeme had taught her well and had left a legacy to permanently remind her. Chlamydia’s detritus—infertility.

Meg’s smile felt tight and forced across her cheeks. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great weekend.’ She turned slightly and rummaged in her handbag for some peppermints, hoping Will would take the hint and end the conversation. Skiers belonged to a different world from her. A world she’d once tried to visit. A world in which she’d never fit. She belonged at the base of the mountain where the air wasn’t quite as rarefied.

‘You’re not skiing, then?’ Curiosity moved across his handsome face, trailing down high cheekbones and along a strong jaw.

‘No.’ She knew she was verging on rudeness but she didn’t want to talk to this man who made her heart hammer. A man from the world she vowed she’d never enter again.

‘Ah, you’re a snowboarder.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, of course, a young woman like yourself wouldn’t do anything as boring as skiing.’

His grin was infectious and she laughed. ‘It’s nothing to do with the snowboarding-ski rivalry. I live in Laurelton. I’m going home.’ Her voice softened on the last word.

He smiled knowingly. ‘A place you love. How long have you lived there?’

‘All my life, with the exception of the five years I spent in Melbourne getting enough work experience so I could return.’

He nodded. ‘I can understand why you’re keen to get back to Laurelton. I’ve always loved the town. The post office clock stands like a beacon when you round the final bend and cross the old wooden bridge.’ He laughed. ‘Of course, the wonky neon sign at Nick’s hamburger joint tends to be the night beacon. It never seems to be able to flash NICK all at once.’

Surprise rushed into Meg and she looked into his face, stunned to see an expression of fondness for her town. ‘That sign’s never worked properly.’

‘Yeah, I remember when it went up I was about fourteen. Occasionally Dad would drive up the mountain, usually to test out the latest four-wheel-drive, and I loved those trips.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘Having Dad’s undivided attention was a rarity. Anyway, we’d stop for a snack on the way. I can still taste Nick’s hamburger with the lot—pineapple, egg, beetroot…’ His voice trailed off and he licked his lips.

Her gaze riveted itself to his mouth as his tongue rolled over the apex of his top lip. Her breathing stalled. What are you doing? Sanity prevailed and she dragged her gaze away, staring out the window, thankful Tom had started the propellers.

The noise of the engines drowned out any conversation without the aid of headsets. She noticed out of the corner of her eye Will putting his headset on but she held back, leaving hers in her lap.

He was a doctor heading away for the weekend, excited and chatty. Nothing more, nothing less. Once they landed he would head further up the mountain and she would head down, back to her real life, which was a world away from his.

Will took a surreptitious look at Meg, who was winding her headset through her hands in a rolling motion. He wanted her to put the headset on over her riot of strawberry blonde curls so he could keep talking to her. Except she didn’t seem too keen to talk to him.

It wasn’t often he had to work hard to get a conversation going—usually he was the one trying to be polite but cool. Generally, just the mention of his name sparked recognition in the eyes of the person he was being introduced to, and the men pumped his hand extra hard and the women began flirting. The Cameron wealth did that to people.

But Meg Watson’s luminous baby-blue eyes hadn’t glinted at the words ‘Will Cameron’. And as for flirting, hell, she’d hardly looked at him since their introduction. But when she had it had been as if she’d shot a bolt of lightning out of her eyes, stunning him.

Suddenly this trip to the mountain had taken on a new dimension. Meeting Meg had immediately lightened his mood about this work trip. He’d hoped she might be on the mountain this week because spending time skiing with a gorgeous woman like Meg, a woman who didn’t know about him, would give him some welcome anonymity. It would make up for the rest of the week.

The week he’d spend convincing Jason Peters to commit $100,000 to St Jude’s Hospital building fund. Will sighed. Sometimes the old school tie came in handy. But it came at a cost. He knew the type of people who would be the other guests at Jason’s ski-in, ski-out apartment.

The sort of people he’d grown up surrounded by—wealthy, pampered and insular. Funny, he’d always had a better rapport with his patients, who came from all walks of life, than most of his parents’ friends and their children. But for the sake of his patients he’d use his childhood connections.

Tom’s voice came through the headset. ‘Estimated flight time is fifty minutes. The weather’s predicted to change but, based on the radar, we should get in well before that happens.’

The small plane charged down the runway, its nose rising quickly under Tom’s experienced hand. Will leaned back and relaxed. He’d done this flight four to five times a year since the age of five and he always got a kick out of the different cargos Tom carried. This time of year it was usually other skiers but today it was fresh fruit and vegetables, caviar and champagne. Someone on the mountain was throwing a party.

Meg popped a mint into her cherry-red mouth, her plump lips closing behind it. Desire flared in Will, leaving stunned surprise in its wake. Since Taylor’s betrayal six years ago he’d doggedly avoided women, although they didn’t avoid him. Just like Taylor, the women he met generally had dollar signs in their eyes. Amazing how money could produce a declaration of love.

Wealth reduced marriage to a business contract. Despite numerous women having other ideas, he had no plans to be part of any relationship.

Instead, in Cameron tradition, he threw himself into work, even though it wasn’t exactly the job of his heart. At least the Cameron wealth was being put to good use, raising money for medical facilities and research.

‘Would you like a mint?’ Meg’s melodic voice came through his headset.

He turned to find her fine tapered fingers holding a container of mints toward him.

The plane hit an air pocket. Her hand moved with the jolt, colliding with his thigh, sending waves of hot sensation down his leg and mints cascading into his lap.

She laughed, a tinkling, infectious laugh. ‘Sorry.’ In a typical ‘I can fix it’ action, she reached for the mints, her fingers lightly caressing his lap as she scooped up the sweets.

Colours exploded in his head and he breathed in deeply, reciting the monotonous eight-times table, something he hadn’t needed to do since he’d been sixteen.

‘It’s fine, really, I’ll fix it.’ He heard an unfamiliar huskiness in his voice.

Her hand paused, hovering above his lap, and then it shot back to her own. Her gasp of realisation sounded in his headset. Her cheeks burned red. ‘Sorry.’ This time embarrassment clung to the word.

She pivoted away and stared resolutely out the window, her discomposure evident. He bagged the remaining offending mints and wished he was out on the slopes, in the cold. His libido, which had been dormant for some time, needed some alpine air to cool it down.

Oh, God! Meg knew eggs could be fried on her cheeks. What had she not been thinking when she’d tried to pick up those mints?

She shook her head and kept her gaze fixed firmly out the window. Not that she could see that much as the brilliant blue sky had become overcast. The gaps between the clouds became shorter and less frequent, and a huge cumulonimbus cloud loomed ahead. Grey black, thunderous and full of snow. Must be the weather Tom had mentioned coming in.

She sat up a bit straighter and nibbled her bottom lip. She didn’t like the look of that cloud at all.

‘We’ll take a bit longer than usual because of the head wind, folks.’ Tom’s voice broke into her thoughts.

A few moments later, rain started to trickle down the windowpane, the droplets looking like fat tadpoles. A flicker of anxiety skated along her veins. She quickly reminded herself that flying in rain was safer than driving a car in it.

She glimpsed the snow line and relaxed. Pretty soon Tom would be circling to bring the plane in to land. And fifteen minutes after that she’d be home, having a hot cup of tea and checking that her mother had not overdone things while she’d been away.

Meanwhile, she gazed out at the tall, straight snow gums, their shiny dark green leaves creating a thick canopy. Thank goodness for national parks. It was hard to imagine that this whole alpine area had once been densely treed just like this, barely a space to glimpse the snow on the ground.

The airstrip abutted the national park and she heard Tom on the radio, talking to the resort’s control tower about the landing and giving their position. She could smell home.

Cold started to seep into her and she pulled on her jacket. Although she loved this little plane, there were times she felt like she was inside a tin can. The outside temperature was often reflected inside.

‘Right, folks, we’ll be there in ten minutes. We could be in for a bit more turbulence but I’ve been given clearance and we should make it in ahead of the storm. Meg, you might want to grab that sick bag.’ Tom turned and gave her a cheeky grin.

Once she’d been sick and, although it had been more to do with bad take-away chicken than a rough flight, Tom loved to tease her about it.

‘You OK?’

A thread of warmth spun inside her at the sound of Will’s smooth, deep voice. She looked up and nodded. ‘Fine. Thanks. And you?’

Argh! What was wrong with her? Now she couldn’t even sound coherent, her words coming out in a staccato beat. She focused on the rain.

Suddenly, the plane lurched violently and her seat belt pulled against her, pinning her to her seat.

Hail pounded the plane, balls of ice battering metal, the noise deafening, like bullets on a target. Fear sliced through Meg, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would bound out of her chest. Without thinking, she reached over and gripped Will’s arm.

Immediately his hand covered hers, steadying her.

‘He’s an experienced pilot.’ His hazel-green eyes, flecked with topaz, held her gaze, but his hand tightened around hers.

The smoothness of the engines suddenly sounded rough. Meg’s heart seemed to stop as dread rushed through her like white water through a gorge. You’re just imagining engine trouble. She forced her mind to think of tranquil rainforests. It will be OK.

Will’s hand tensed on hers.

Across his shoulder she saw ice forming on the window.

Ice!

Surely that was just a build-up of hail? She prayed it was. Ice on the wings wasn’t good. Planes didn’t fly well when ice weighed them down.

Engines didn’t like ice either.

She turned and focused on Tom’s back, feeling impotent. She watched his every action as if that would help them through the storm. Could he keep the carburettor warm, keep the ice at bay? Could he see the horizon? Could he see the ground?

She couldn’t see anything out her window. Nothing but grey fog.

Her heart hammered, sounding loud in her ears. The hail pounded the fuselage. All the noise combined, making her want to put her hands over her ears like a child. Her breath stalled, fear paralysing her lungs.

And then silence.

The hail had stopped. Her breath rushed out in one long swoosh. For the briefest moment she relished the peace.

It’s too quiet, the voice screamed in her head, clawing, pounding against her brain. The usually loud, rhythmic piston engines were silent.

She automatically leaned forward, watching Tom, wanting to do something, willing him to do something.

He throttled the engines back and forth, his shoulders rigid.

Meg prayed for a fuel blockage that would be easily fixed by his action.

The silence lingered like a malignant growth.

‘Bloody hail. No fuel’s getting through the carburettor.’ Tom’s voice trembled. ‘I’m sending out a mayday.’

Fear tore at Meg and she turned to Will. ‘But the hail’s stopped. I don’t understand.’

His handsome face paled but strength lingered. ‘The moisture in the air, combined with the drop in temperature, caused the ice. If the engines can’t get fuel, they can’t restart.’

‘Oh, my God.’ She knew under this fog lay the national park and her beloved gum trees. But they wouldn’t love a plane. They stood firm, strong and too close together to gently receive a plane.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at five thousand feet, heading north. Both engines failed. Do you have me on radar?’

The radio buzzed static.

‘Right.’ Tom’s voice sounded in control again. ‘Emergency drill. Tighten your seat belts. I’m turning off the fuel tap and I’m going to glide her down.’

‘But you can’t see anything!’ Terror forced the words everyone knew out of her mouth.

‘Meg, love, I don’t have any choice.’ The finality in his voice sealed her fear.

Meg wanted to run. To jump out of the plane. Anything but stay there and do nothing.

‘Put your head down on your knees, Meg.’ Will spoke quietly but his voice was laced firmly with control.

Dazed with shock, she followed his instructions, not wanting to let go of his hand, not wanting to let go of his supportive strength, but knowing she needed her hands to cradle and protect her head.

‘Let’s do it on the count of three.’ Will nodded at their clasped hands, understanding the need they both had to stay connected. Knowing they couldn’t.

She bit her lip. ‘One, two, three.’ She let go of his hand and felt the plane dropping through the sky.

‘Mayday, mayday, mayday. Duchess D.A.V. with three POB, ten miles from Laurelton at two thousand feet heading north. Both engines failed, do you have me on radar?’ The desperation and fear in Tom’s voice rang through the plane.

The shudder ripped through her as the plane hit the canopy of trees.

Glass shattered.

Timber splintered.

The crunching noise of ripping, crumpling metal screamed in her ears as her own screams stayed trapped in her throat. She was going to die.

She didn’t want to die.

The plane dived forward nose first, the weight pulling it inextricably downward to unforgiving solid ground.

An almighty boom sounded in her ears.

Everything went black.