Читать книгу The Surgeon's Doorstep Baby - Marion Lennox, Marion Lennox - Страница 8

MAGGIE fed the hens at six the next morning and she heard Ruby crying.

She sorted feed, cut and chopped a bit of green stuff and threw it into the chookpen—there’d been a fox sniffing around and she wasn’t game to let them out. She collected the eggs.

Ruby was still crying.

It wasn’t her business, she told herself. Not yet. What district nurse dropped in at this hour? She’d make a professional visit a little later. Meanwhile, she should make breakfast and head to the makeshift clinic she’d set up in the back of the local hall, to do last-minute preparations and sort equipment.

That could wait, though, she conceded. The authorities had only put the roadblock up yesterday. Everyone who’d needed anything medical had had two days’ warning. The weather forecast had been implacable. The water’s coming. Get your stock to high ground. Evacuate or get in any supplies you need because it may be a week or more before the river goes down.

The pharmacy over the river and the doctors at the Valley Hospital had worked tirelessly over the last few days, checking every small complaint, filling prescriptions to last a month. The Valley people had seen floods before. There’d be no last-minute panic.

There would, however, be no doctor on this side of the river for a while.

Except Blake. The thought was strangely comforting.

Floods often meant trauma as people did stupid things trying to save stock, trying to fix roof leaks, heaving sandbags. Knowing she had a doctor on this side of the river, even one recovering from an appendectomy, was a blessing. If he’d help.

And if she expected him to help … maybe she could help him with his baby?

She’d made it clear she wasn’t taking responsibility. That was what he wanted her to do, but even if she agreed, she couldn’t care for a newborn as well as for the medical needs of everyone on this side of the river.

So she’d been firm, which wasn’t actually like her. But firmness was her new resolve.

Right now, though, she was figuring that firm didn’t mean cruel. The guy really didn’t know anything about babies. If she had a teenage mum floundering, she’d move in to help.

Hold that thought, she decided, and she almost grinned at the thought of one hunky Blake Samford in the role of teen mum.

She’d help—even at six a.m.

So she knocked on his back door and waited. No answer. The wailing got louder.

She pushed the door tentatively inwards and went to investigate.

Blake was standing in the living room, in front of the vast, stone fireplace that was the centre of this huge, old homestead. The room was as it always was when she did her weekly check on the whole house, huge and faded and comfortable. A vast Persian rug lay on the worn, timber floor. The room was furnished with squishy leather settees, faded cushions and once opulent drapes, now badly in need of repair. The fire in the vast fireplace made it warm and homelike. The house was a grand old lady, past her prime but still graciously decorous.

Not so the guy in front of the fire. He was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else. He looked big, tanned, ripped—and not decorous at all.

Maggie was a nurse. She was used to seeing human bodies in all shapes and sizes.

She wasn’t used to seeing this one.

Tall, dark and dangerous. Where had that phrase come from? She wasn’t sure, but she knew where it was now. It was flashing in her head. Danger, danger, danger. A girl should turn round and walk right out of there.

Except he was holding a baby—all the wrong way—and his look spoke of desperation.

She put down her bucket of eggs, headed wordlessly to the kitchen to wash her hands, then came back and took the little one into her arms.

Blake practically sagged with relief.

‘You need to wrap her,’ she said, brisk and efficient because brisk and efficient seemed the way to go. ‘She’s exhausted.’

She cradled the little one tightly against her and felt an almost imperceptible relaxation. Babies seemed to respond instinctively to those who knew the ropes. To their mothers, who learned from birth how to handle them. To midwives, who’d delivered too many babies to count.

‘She’s been safely in utero for nine months,’ she told him. ‘She’s been totally confined, and now her legs and arms are all over the place. It feels weird and frightening. She can handle it if she’s relaxed, but not if she’s tired and hungry.’

‘But she won’t feed,’ he said helplessly, motioning to the bottle on the table. ‘I can’t—’

‘She’s gone past it. She needs to be settled first.’ She sat on the settee and almost disappeared. These settees must be older than Blake, she thought. Old and faded and stuffed loosely with goosedown. She’d never seen such huge settees.

In truth she was finding it hard to thinking about settees. Not with that body …

Get a grip. Settees. Baby.

Not Blake.

She set about rewrapping Ruby, bundling her tightly so those flailing little legs and arms could relax, and the baby attached to them would feel secure. But she was a midwife. Bundling babies was second nature. She had more than enough time to think about settees and baby—and Blake Samford’s body.

Which was truly awesome. Which was enough to make a girl … make a girl …

Think unwisely. Think stupid, in fact. This was her landlord—a guy who wanted to get rid of a baby.

You show one hint of weakness and you’ll have a baby on your hands, she told herself. And if you fall for this baby …

She’d fallen for two dogs. That was more than enough.

She lived in this man’s house as a tenant, and that was all. If babies came with the territory then she moved out.

This was dumb. She was thinking dramatic when the situation simply needed practical. This guy had a problem and she could help him, the same way she’d help any new parent. She’d help and then she’d leave.

Ruby was still wailing, not with the desperation of a moment ago but with an I-want-something-and-I-want-it-now wail.

She lifted the bottle and flicked a little milk on her wrist. Perfect temperature. She offered it, one little mouth opened and accepted—and suddenly the noise stopped.

The silence was magical.

She smiled. Despite very real qualms in this case, Maggie Tilden did love babies. They sucked you in.

Her mother had used that to her advantage. Maggie’s mother loved having babies, she just didn’t like caring for them.

Over to Maggie.

And that was what Blake wanted. Over to Maggie.

Do not get sucked in, she told herself desperately. Do not become emotionally involved.

Anything but that. Even looking at Blake.

At his chest. At the angry red line she could see emerging from the top of his shorts.

Appendix. Stitches. Even if the external ones had been removed, it’d take weeks for the internal ones to dissolve.

‘So no keyhole surgery for you?’ she asked, trying to make her voice casual, like this was a normal neighbourly chat. ‘You didn’t choose the right surgeon?’

‘I chose the wrong appendix,’ he said, glancing down at his bare abs. ‘Sorry. I’ll cover up.’

‘I’m not squeamish about an appendix scar,’ she told him. ‘I’m a nurse. So things were messy, huh?

‘Yes.’

‘No peritonitis?’

‘I’m on decent antibiotics.’

Her frown deepened. ‘Are you sure you’re okay to stay on this side of the river?’

‘Of course.’

But she was looking at problems she hadn’t foreseen. Problems she hadn’t thought about. ‘If there’s the least chance of infection … I assumed you’d had keyhole surgery. If I’d known …’

‘You would have ordered me to leave?’

‘I’d have advised you to leave.’

‘You’re in charge?’

‘That’s just the problem,’ she said ruefully. ‘I am. Until the water goes down there’s no way I can get anyone to medical help. There’s just me.’

‘And me.’

She nodded, grateful that he was acknowledging he could help in a crisis—having a doctor on this side was wonderful but one who’d so recently had surgery? ‘That’s fine,’ she told him. ‘Unless you’re the patient.’

‘I don’t intend to be the patient.’ He was looking down at the blissfully sucking baby with bemusement. ‘Why couldn’t I do that?’

‘You could. You can.’ She rose and handed the bundle over, bottle and all, and Blake was left standing with an armload of baby. ‘Sit,’ she told him. ‘Settle. Bond.’

‘Bond?’

‘You’re her uncle. I suspect this little one needs all the family she can get.’

‘It’s she who needs medical help,’ he said, almost savagely, and Ruby startled in his arms.

‘Sit,’ Maggie said again. ‘Settle.’

He sat. He settled, as far as a man with an armload of baby could settle.

He looked … stunning, Maggie thought. Bare chested, wearing only boxer shorts, his dark hair raked and rumpled, his five o’clock shadow a few hours past five o’clock. Yep, stunning was the word for it.

It’d be wise if she failed to be stunned. She needed to remember she was here for a postnatal visit. Maternal health nurse visiting brand-new parent …

Who happened to be her landlord.

Who happened to be a surgeon—who was telling her the baby had medical needs.

She needed to pay attention to something other than how sexy he looked, one big man, almost naked, cradling a tiny baby.

With medical needs. Get serious.

‘If you think her legs are bad enough to require immediate medical intervention I can organise helicopter evacuation,’ she said. She knelt and unwrapped the blanket from around the tiny feet and winced.

‘I can’t believe her mother rejected her because of her feet,’ she whispered, and Blake shook his head.

‘No mother rejects her baby because of crooked feet.’

‘Some fathers might. Some do. A daughter and an imperfect one at that. If the mother’s weak …’

‘Or if the mother’s on drugs …’

‘There doesn’t seem any sign of withdrawal,’ Maggie said, touching the tiny cheek, feeling the way the baby’s face was filling out already. ‘If her mother’s a drug addict, this little one will be suffering withdrawal herself.’

‘She’s three weeks old,’ Blake said. ‘She may well be over it. But if she was addicted, those first couple of weeks will have been hell. That and the talipes may well have been enough for her to be rejected.’

‘That and the knowledge that you’ve come home,’ Maggie said thoughtfully. ‘If your sister knows you’re here, and thinks you’re in a position to care for her, then she might see you as a way out.’

‘She’s not my sister.’

‘Your father is her father.’

‘I don’t even know her surname.’

‘No, but I do,’ she said smoothly. ‘She’s Wendy Runt-land, twenty-nine years old, and she lives on a farm-let six miles on the far side of the base hospital. Ruby was born on the twenty-first of last month. Wendy only stayed overnight and refused further assistance. The staff were worried. They’d organised a paediatrician to see the baby to assess her feet but Wendy discharged herself—and Ruby—before he got there.’

‘How the—?’

‘I’m a midwife employed by the Valley Health Service,’ she told him. ‘If I’m worried about babies, I can access files. I rang the hospital last night and asked for a search for a local baby born with talipes. Ruby’s the only fit. The file’s scanty. No antenatal care. First baby. Fast, hard labour with a partner present for some of the time. They were both visibly upset by the baby’s feet and there’s a note in the file that the guy was angry and abusive.

‘The next morning Wendy discharged herself and the baby against medical advice. There were no grounds to involve the police but staff did notify Social Services. The maternal health nurse has tried to make home visits but each time she’s found gates locked and dogs that didn’t allow her to go further. There’s a phone number but the phone’s been slammed down each time she’s rung. You might have more luck. You want to try while I check the bridge?’

‘What’s to check?’

He looked almost dumbfounded, she thought. Man left with abandoned baby. Surgeon way out of his comfort zone.

‘I’ve been listening to the radio and it’s still raining up north,’ she said evenly. ‘There’s a vast mass of water coming down. If the water keeps rising it might be a while before you can get her to Social Services.’

‘Social Services?’

‘Unless we can get her back to her mother—or unless you want her—I assume that’s where she’ll be placed. Either way, the decision has to be made soon. Those feet need attention now, although I assume you know that.’

‘I know it,’ he growled, and then he fell silent.

He stared down at the baby in his arms and she thought … there was something there, some link.

Family.

He’d said he didn’t have a sister. He’d said he didn’t even know her full name.

This was a guy who was an intelligent, skilled surgeon, she thought, a guy who’d know how to keep his emotions under control. But his recent surgery would have weakened him, and a sleepless night would have weakened him still more.

She had a feeling this guy didn’t let his defences down often, but they were down now. He was gazing at the child in his arms and his face said he didn’t know where to go with this.

Evacuate her? Hand her over to Social Welfare? Keep her until the river went down?

Risk attachment?

She couldn’t help him. It was his decision.

‘I’ll try and phone Wendy,’ he said at last, and she nodded and got to her feet and collected her eggs.

‘Excellent. I’ll leave some of these in your kitchen. Tell me how you go.’

‘Maggie?’

She paused. Met his gaze. Saw desperation.

‘Stay here while I ring,’ he said, and she thought maybe she could at least do that.

But as he handed back the now fed, sleeping Ruby, and she gathered her into her arms and watched Blake head for the phone, she thought … she thought …

She thought this was as far as she should go.

Babies did things to her. Her mother had used that, played on it, trapped her with it. And now …

The sight of Blake was doing things to her as well.

He was all male, one gorgeous hunk of testosterone, but it wasn’t that that was messing with her head.

It was the way he’d looked at Ruby—and the way he’d looked at her when he’d asked her to stay.

Under that strength was pure vulnerability.

Maggie had lived most of her life in this valley and she’d heard stories about this family; this man. His mother had been glamorous and aloof and cold, and she’d walked out—justifiably—when Blake had been six. His father had been a womanising brute.

Blake may come from the richest family in the district but the locals had felt sorry for him when he’d been six, and that sympathy hadn’t been lessened by anything anyone had heard since.

What sort of man was he now? Like his mother? Like his father?

She couldn’t tell. She was seeing him at his most vulnerable. He was wounded, shocked, tired and burdened by a baby he didn’t know.

Don’t judge now, she told herself. Don’t get any more involved than you already are.